Free Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) by Kathleen O`Brien

had his car keys hooked through his index finger. So much for her expensive private detective who had assured her that Lincoln never left the house before noon.
    â€œAllison? My God. Allison? ”
    It was actually quite gratifying. His mouth seemed frozen in the half-open position. Why hadn’t she ever noticed the fishlike quality of those full lips?
    â€œAllison?” It seemed to be the only word he could speak. She could almost see the wheels of his brain spinning helplessly, trying to find traction.
    He backed up subtly, gripping the door with white, flattened fingertips as if he had to fight the urge to slam it and run. She almost laughed. What did he think? That she had a little pistol in her purse and planned to shoot off his privates?
    Did he really not know her any better than that?
    But she couldn’t just savor the moment. The only humiliation her script called for right now was her own.
    She glanced at his tennis bag, which was on the floor next to the door. “Have I caught you at a bad time? I’m sorry I didn’t call first, but I was—” She broke off and tried to look flustered. “I guess I was afraid you would tell me not to come.”
    His fingers relaxed a little. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I mean, what…? After everything… Why have you come?”
    â€œI had to. I had to see you. I have to talk to you.”
    Even before she finished the sentence, he was already shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m sorry about what happened, Allison. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But—”
    â€œNo,” she broke in, keeping her eyes wide and innocent. “Honestly, I’m not angry.”
    He frowned. “All right. Hurt, then. Or betrayed. Whatever word you want to use, I understand how you must feel. But what’s done is done, Allison, and there’s no—”
    She put out her hand and touched his arm. “Lincoln, please. You don’t understand. I’ve come all this way. Won’t you let me in, so that I can explain?”
    â€œThere’s nothing to say. Look, it’s over, and really it’s for the best. It wouldn’t have worked out between us. Besides, you’re right—this isn’t a good time.” He twisted his wrist to look at his watch. It had the added effect of releasing her grasp. “I’m expected somewhere in twenty minutes.”
    â€œI won’t take more than ten.”
    Still he hesitated. She felt her blood rising, and she had to fight down her fury. But really, it was unbelievable that he’d dare to take such a dismissive attitude. He’d adored her. Loved her laugh, her eyes, her fingers. One Sunday morning in Cape Cod, after their first night together, he’d spent half an hour listing the charms of her left kneecap.
    Now she was getting all the respect of a door-to-door magazine salesman who wouldn’t take a hint.
    She realized she was even more disgusted withherself than with him. He had fraud written all over his face. How could she ever have believed anything he said?
    â€œTen minutes,” she repeated, banking her anger. “It’s not too much to ask, is it? After that, if you still want me to leave, I will. But I’m hoping you won’t. You see, I really do understand why you didn’t show up at the wedding. And I know how to make it right.”
    Finally, she’d reached him. She saw the flicker of cautious interest behind his blue eyes. “What do you mean? Why do you think I didn’t show up at the wedding?”
    Okay, this was the moment. She needed an Oscar-caliber performance. Too much, and he’d smell the trap. Too little, and he’d never bite at all.
    â€œBecause I insulted you. I see that now. I betrayed you, by asking you to sign the prenup.” She blinked, hoping it would imply that her eyes were burning. “I know how it