The Diplomat's Pregnant Bride

by Merline Lovelace

  “Not including the grandson at Rikers.”

  She made a face. “Keep your fingers crossed he doesn’t break out! I have visions of NYPD crashing through the doors just when we parade the cake.”

  “You parade cakes?”

  “Sometimes. And in this instance, we’ll do it very carefully! We’re talking fifteen layers replicating the Cape Hatteras lighthouse that stands on the spot where our honorees got engaged.”

  She thumbed her iPhone and showed Jack an image of the iconic black-and-white striped lighthouse still guarding the shores of North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

  “We’re doing an actual working model. The caterer and I had several sticky sessions before we figured out how to bury the battery pack in the cake base and power up the strobe light at the top without melting all his pretty sugar frosting into a black-and-white blob.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  And not just with the ingenuity and creativity she obviously brought to her new job. Enthusiasm sparkled in her blue eyes, and the vibrancy that had first snared his interest bubbled to the surface again.

  “Hopefully, our clients will be impressed, too. We’re decorating the entire venue in an Outer Banks theme. All sand, seashells and old boats, with enough fishnet and colorful buoys to supply the Atlantic fleet.”

  Unbidden and unwanted, a comparison surfaced between the woman beside him and the woman he’d loved with every atom of his being. The vivid images of Catherine were starting to fade, though, despite Jack’s every effort to hang on to them. He had to dig deep to remember the sound of her laughter. Strain to hear an echo of her chuckle. She’d been so socially and politically involved. So serious about the issues that mattered to her. She had fun, certainly, but she hadn’t regarded life as a frothy adventure the way Gina seemed to. Nor would she have rebounded so quickly from the emotional wringer of Switzerland.

  As his companion continued her lighthearted description of tonight’s event, Jack’s memories of his wife retreated to the shadows once again. Even the shadows got blasted away when he and Gina exited the elevators onto the third floor of the Tremayne Group’s midtown venue.

  They could be on the Outer Banks, right at the edge of the Atlantic. Bemused, Jack took in the rolling sand dunes, the upended rowboat, the electronic waves splashing across a wall studded with LED lights.

  “Wow. Is this all your doing?” he asked Gina.

  “Not hardly. Mostly my boss, Samuel, and…uh-oh! There’s Samuel now. He’s with our big boss. ’Scuse me a minute. I’d better find out what’s up.”

  Jack recognized the diminutive woman with the salt-and-pepper corkscrew curls at first look. Nicole Tremayne hadn’t changed much in the past eight years. One of the underlings in her Boston operation had handled most of the planning for Jack’s wedding to Catherine, but Nicole had approved the final plans herself and flown up from New York to personally oversee the lavish affair.

  He saw the moment she recognized him, too. The casual glance she threw his way suddenly sharpened into a narrow-eyed stare. Frowning, she exchanged a few words with Gina, then crossed the floor.

  “John Harris Mason.” She thrust out a hand. “I should have made the connection when Gina demanded to know if Jack Mason had contacted me.”

  “I hope you told her no. She almost bit off my head when I offered to call and put in a word for her.”

  “She did? Interesting.”

  Chin cocked, Tremayne studied him through bird-bright eyes. She wasn’t so crass as to come out and ask if he were the father of Gina’s baby but Jack could see the speculation rife in her face.

  “I was sorry to hear about your wife,” she said after a moment.

  “Thank you.”

  God, what a useless response. But Jack had uttered it so many times now that the words didn’t taste quite as bitter in his mouth.

  “Are you still in Boston?” she asked.

  “No, I’m with the State Department now. Right now I’m assigned to D.C.”

  “Hmm.” She tapped a bloodred nail against her chin. “Good to know.”

  With that enigmatic comment she excused herself and returned to her underlings. Gina rushed over a few moments later.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. We’ll have to postpone the tour. I’ve got to take care of an ice-sculpture crisis.”

  “No problem. Just let me know if tomorrow evening’s a go for the duchess.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  The following evening was not only a go, but the duchess’s acceptance also came with an invitation for drinks at the Dakota prior to dinner.

  Jack spent all that day at the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau established after 9/11. While coordination between federal, state and local agencies had increased exponentially since that horrific day, there was always room for improvement. The NYPD agents were particularly interested in Jack’s recent up-close-and-personal encounter with a rabidly anti-U.S. terrorist cell in Mali. They soaked up every detail of the terrorists’ weaponry and tactics and poured over the backgrounds of two Americans recently ID’d as part of the group. Since the parents of one of the expatriates lived in Brooklyn, NYPD was justifiably worried that the son might try to slip back into the country.

  Jack in turn received in-depth briefings on the Counterterrorism Bureau’s Lower Manhattan Security Initiative. Designed to protect the nation’s financial capital, the LMSI combined increased police presence and the latest surveillance technology with a public-private partnership. Individuals from both government and the business world manned LMSI’s operations center to detect and neutralize potential threats. Jack left grimly hopeful that this unique public-private cooperative effort would prove a model for other high-risk targets.

  He rushed back to his hotel and had his driver wait while he hurried upstairs to change his shirt and eliminate his five-o’clock shadow. A half hour later he identified himself to a uniformed doorman at the castlelike Dakota. The security at the famed apartment complex had stepped up considerably after one of its most famous tenants, John Lennon, was gunned down just steps away from the entrance years ago. Jack had no problem providing identification, being closely scrutinized and waiting patiently while the doorman called upstairs.

  “The duchess is expecting you, sir. You know the apartment number?”

  “I do.”

  “Very good.” He keyed a remote to unlock the inner door. “The elevators are to your left.”

  A dark-haired, generously endowed woman Jack remembered from the wedding reception answered the doorbell. She wore a polite expression but he sensed disapproval lurking just below the surface.

  “Hola. I am Maria, housekeeper to la duquesa and auntie to Sarah and Gina.”

  Auntie, huh? That explained the disapproval. She obviously considered him solely responsible for the failure of the box of condoms he and Gina had gone through during their sexual extravaganza.

  “Good evening, Maria. I saw you at Sarah’s wedding but didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Jack Mason.”

  “Sí, I know. Please come with me. La duquesa waits for you in the salon.”

  He followed her down a hall tiled in pale pink Carrara marble. The delicate scent of orange blossoms wafted from a Waterford crystal bowl set on a rococo side table. The elegant accessories gave no hint of how close the duchess had come to financial disaster. Jack picked up faint traces of it, however, when Maria showed him into the high-ceilinged salon.

  The room’s inlaid parquet floor was a work of art but cried for a hand-knotted Turkish carpet to soften its hard surface. Likewise, the watered silk wallpaper showed several barely discernible lighter rectangles where paintings must have once hung. The furniture was a skillful blend of fine antiques and modern comfort, though, and the floor-to-ceiling windows curtained in pale blue velvet gave glorious views of
Central Park. Those swift impressions faded into insignificance when Jack spotted the woman sitting ramrod-straight in a leather-backed armchair, her cane within easy reach. Thin and frail though she was, Charlotte St. Sebastian nevertheless dominated the salon with her regal air.

  “Good evening, Jack.”

  She held out a veined hand. He shook it gently and remembered her suggestion at the wedding that he use her name instead of her title.

  “Good evening, Charlotte.”

  “Gina called a few moments ago. She’s been detained at work but should be here shortly.”

  She waved him to the chair beside hers and smiled a request at Maria. “Would you bring in the appetizer tray before you leave?”

  When the housekeeper bustled out, the duchess gestured to a side table holding a dew-streaked bucket and an impressive array of crystal decanters.

  “May I offer you an aperitif?”

  “You may.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to serve yourself. The wine is a particularly fine French white, although some people find the Aligoté grape a bit too light for their tastes. Or…”

  She lifted the tiny liqueur glass sitting on the table next to her and swirled its amber liquid.

  “You may want to try žuta osa. It’s produced in the mountains that at one time were part of the Duchy of Karlenburgh.”

  The bland comment didn’t fool Jack for a second. He’d responded to too many toasts by foreign dignitaries and downed too many potent local brews to trust this one. He poured a glass of wine instead.

  Maria returned with a silver tray containing a selection of cheeses, olives and prosciutto ham slices wrapped around pale green melon slices. She placed the tray on a massive marble-topped coffee table within easy reach of the duchess and her guest.

  “Thank you.” Charlotte gave her a smile composed of equal parts gratitude and affection. “You’d better leave now. You don’t want to miss your bus.”

  “I’ll take a later one.”

  Her quick glance in Jack’s direction said she wasn’t about to leave her friend and employer in his clutches. The duchess didn’t miss the suspicion in her dark eyes.

  “We’re fine,” she assured the woman. “Go ahead and catch your bus.”

  Maria looked as though she wanted to dig in her heels but yielded to her employer’s wishes. The kitchen door swished shut behind her. Several moments later, her heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.

  “Actually,” Jack said when he resumed his seat beside the duchess, “I’m glad we have some time alone.”

  “Indeed?”

  “As you know, Gina and I didn’t spend all that much time together before our lives became so inextricably linked.”

  “I am aware of that fact.”

  Deciding he’d be wise to ignore the pained expression on Charlotte’s face, Jack pressed ahead. “I’m just beginning to appreciate the woman behind your granddaughter’s dazzlingly beautiful exterior. I’m hoping you’ll help me add to that portrait by telling me a little more about her.”

  One aristocratic brow lifted. “Surely you don’t expect me to provide ammunition for your campaign to convince Gina to marry you?”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m hoping you’ll provide.”

  “Well!” The brow shot up another notch. “For a career diplomat, you’re very frank.”

  “I’ve found being frank works better than tiptoeing around tough issues.”

  “And that’s how you categorize my granddaughter?” the duchess said haughtily. “A tough issue?”

  “Ha!” Jack didn’t bother to disguise his feelings. “Tough doesn’t even begin to describe her. To put it bluntly, your granddaughter is the toughest, stubbornest, most irritating issue I’ve ever dealt with.”

  Oh, hell. The frozen look on his hostess’s face said clearer than words that he’d overshot his mark. He was just about to apologize profusely when the facade cracked and the duchess broke into somewhat less than regal snorts of laughter.

  “You do know,” she responded some moments later, “that Gina says exactly the same thing about you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  Still chuckling, she lifted her glass and tossed back the remainder of the amber liquid.

  “Shall I pour you another?” Jack asked.

  “Thank you, no. My doctor insists I limit myself to one a day. He’s a fussy old woman, but he’s kept me alive this long so I suppose I can’t complain. Now, what do you want to know about Gina?”

  Feeling as though he’d managed to negotiate a particularly dangerous minefield, Jack relaxed. “Whatever you feel comfortable sharing. Maybe you could start when she was a child. What kind of mischief did she get into?”

  “Good heavens! What kind didn’t she get into?” A fond smile lit the duchess’s clouded blue eyes. “I remember one incident in particular. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time. Maria had taken her and Sarah to the park. Gina wandered off and threw us all into a state of complete panic. The police were searching for her when she showed up several hours later with a lice-infested bag-lady in tow. She’d found the woman asleep under a bush and simply couldn’t leave her on the cold, hard ground. I believe the woman stayed with us for almost a week before Gina was satisfied with the arrangements we worked out for her.”

  Charlotte’s wry tale added another piece to the mosaic that was Gina St. Sebastian. Jack was trying to assemble the varied and very different sections into a coherent whole when the front door slammed.

  “It’s me, Grandmama. Is Jack here yet?”

  The question was accompanied by the thud of something heavy hitting the table in the hall. Wincing, the duchess called out an answer.

  “He is. We’re in the salon.”

  With a kick in his pulse, Jack rose to greet her. His welcoming smile faltered and came close to falling off his face when she waltzed into the salon.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Eugenia!” the duchess gasped. “Your hair!”

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Gina patted her ruler-straight, bright purple locks and shot her grandmother a mischievous grin. “We’re doing a manga-themed birthday party tomorrow afternoon. I’m Yuu Nomiya.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea who manga or Yuu are, but I sincerely hope that color isn’t permanent.”

  “It’ll come out after a few washings.” With that blithe assurance, she gave Jack an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. We haven’t missed our dinner reservation, have we?”

  “We’ve plenty of time.” He struggled to keep his eyes on her face and off the neon purple framing it. “Would you like something to drink? I’m doing the honors.”

  “God, yes!”

  She dropped onto the sofa in an untidy sprawl and caught the suddenly disapproving expressions on the two faces turned in her direction.

  “What? Oh! I don’t want anything alcoholic. Just tonic, with lots of ice.”

  Jack delivered the tonic and listened while Gina tried to explain the concept of Japanese manga comics to her grandmother. In the process, she devoured most of the contents of the appetizer tray.

  To her credit, the duchess appeared genuinely curious about the phenomenon now taking the world by storm. Or perhaps she just displayed an interest for her granddaughter’s sake. Whatever the reason, she asked a series of very intelligent questions. Gina answered them with enthusiasm…at first. Gradually, her answers grew shorter and more muddled. At the same time she slipped lower against the sofa cushions. When her lids drooped and she lost her train of thought in midsentence, the duchess sighed.

  “Eugenia, my darling. You’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

  The order fell on deaf ears. Her granddaughter was out like a light.

  “I warned her,
” Charlotte said with affectionate exasperation. “The first few months especially sap a woman’s strength.”

  “Dr. Martinson said the same thing.”

  “We’ll have to forego dinner, Jack. She needs to rest.”

  “Of course.”

  When the duchess grasped her cane and aimed the tip at her sleeping granddaughter, he pushed out of his chair.

  “Don’t wake her.”

  Bending, he eased her into his arms. She muttered something unintelligible and snuggled against his chest. The scent and the feel of her tantalized Jack’s senses. His throat tightening, he growled out a request for directions.

  “Which way is her bedroom?”

  Six

  Gina was having the best dream. She was cradled in strong arms, held against a warm, hard chest. She felt so safe, so secure. So treasured. Like something precious and fragile, which even in her dream she knew she wasn’t. Savoring the sensation of being sheltered and protected, she ignored a pesky pressure low in her belly and nuzzled her nose into something soft and squeezy.

  The soft and squeezy, her hazy mind determined a moment later, was her pillow. And that irritating pressure was her bladder demanding relief. She pried up an eyelid and made out the dim outlines of her bedroom. The faint glow of the night-light always left on showed she was tucked under the satin throw she normally kept folded at the foot of the bed. She was also fully dressed.

  Grunting, she got an elbow under her and sat up. Her slept-in clothes felt scratchy and twisted and tight. Long strands of purple hair fell across her eyes. She brushed them back and tossed aside the throw. Still groggy, she made her way to the bathroom. Once back in the bedroom she shed her clothes and slid into bed, between the sheets this time.

  Sleep tugged at her. She drifted toward it on the vague remnants of her dream. Those strong arms… That steady pulse of a heartbeat under her cheek…

  “Jack?”

  She sat up again, suddenly and fully awake, and flipped onto her other hip. The covers on the other side of the bed lay smooth and flat. Intense and totally absurd disappointment made her scrunch her face in disgust.