Raising the Stakes

“Just making conversation,” he said with a quick smile.

“Yes, I like kids. Why shouldn’t I?”

Gray’s eyes met hers. Here it was, the information he’d been looking for, information that might explain why he kept seeing the defensive tilt of Nora Lincoln’s jaw, the sadness in her eyes, in her granddaughter.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

He wanted to call the words back but it was too late. She stared at him, eyes wide and, to his shock, suddenly filled with what could only be fear. Then her face went blank. Carefully she blotted her mouth with her napkin, put down the glass and stood up.

“It’s getting late,” she said politely. “Thank you for the wine.”

“Dawn.” He rose, too. “Wait a minute—”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

He cursed, dug his wallet from his pocket fast, pulled out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table but by the time he reach

ed the door, she was gone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARY ELIZABETH O’CONNELL had reached a decision.

She was tired of being treated as if she were made of glass, tired of taking an occasional stroll through her very own hotel while keeping one eye out for a son who clearly was afraid she was going to swoon on the spot like a maiden in a Victorian melodrama. Mostly she was tired of playing the role of a woman who had managed to avoid death by the skin of her teeth, even though it was more true than not.

Mary frowned into the mirror. She’d come close, very close, to meeting her Maker. Right after her heart attack and the surgery that followed, she’d sometimes thought it might not have been so awful if she had. It was a blasphemous thought, she knew, and completely unlike her. When her doctor realized what she’d been thinking, he’d assured her she was only suffering a normal bout of postsurgery depression, but Mary hadn’t been so sure he was right.

The thing of it was, she’d missed Ruarch something fierce in the years since his passing. She loved her children, her hotel, her casino and her employees, but not even all that could fill the hole left in her life by the loss of her handsome, pigheaded, impossible, wonderful husband.

There was a dot of lipstick on a front tooth. Mary leaned closer and rubbed it away with a tissue. That was better. So was her new hair do. She’d ignored the stylist’s suggestion about coloring it; her hair was white and white it would stay. But she was pleased with the short length, and the way the soft waves fell back from her temples. In the old days she’d worn her hair long, for Ruarch. Whenever she grew irritated by the time it took to wash and dry and braid all its heavy length, and she’d threaten to cut it off, he’d smile and take her in his arms.

“I love your hair as it is,” he’d say in that rough burr that could always turn her strongest resolve to butter. “Leave it alone, mavourneen.”

Despite the doctor’s assurances, her depression had continued. She’d learned to cover its signs and live with it. And then, a few weeks ago, she’d awakened one morning and known it was time to come to grips with the realization that Ruarch was gone. The finality of the admission was a wound sharp as one made by a knife, but with it came a kind of bittersweet peace. As she’d settled back against the pillows, she’d felt a weight lift from her soul. Her beloved husband was gone but she was still here, thanks to her children, her doctors, her God and, yes, thanks to her own feisty determination that had apparently not failed her, even in the depths of her despair.

It was time to move on.

Mary put down the tissue, gave herself one last look and liked what she saw almost as much as she liked what she felt. She was back, and everyone would have to get used to that.

A tap sounded at the bedroom door and it eased open. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, Jenny?” Mary said. “What is it?”

“Mr. Coyle is here. I’ve shown him into the sitting room.”

“Ah. Fine. Thank you. Ask if he’s had his breakfast or if he’d like some coffee or tea, would you, and tell him I’ll be right there?”

Mary took a last look at her reflection. She didn’t look a day over fifty. Well, not a day over sixty, she thought, and smiled, and wondered, out of the clear blue, how old was Dan Coyle? She knew so little about him, only that he’d lived all his life in New York until he’d come to work here, that he was a widower…

And that he was a very nice-looking man.

The unexpected thought put a pink bloom in her cheeks. She felt it heat her skin as she made her way through the penthouse apartment.

Dan was seated in a chair that was too small for him. When she refurnished the room after Ruarch’s passing, she’d chosen French Provincial velvet chairs and sofas. Keir always had to sit down gingerly. Now, she saw that Dan had to do the same thing.

Perhaps it was time to refurnish again.

“Duchess.” Dan rose to his feet and took the hand she extended to him. He held it lightly, as he always did, just a quick press of the fingers before letting it go, and smiled. “You look different.”