Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,23
consulting her lawyer. Her mother always seemed to have a handle on every situation, no matter how difficult. Furthermore, she remembered she’d promised to attend a hospital fundraiser sponsored by her mother’s committee.
A smile tipping her lips, she swung around once more. Yes, there was definitely something to be said for the simple little black dress.
“What do you think, Jack?” She addressed her mother’s standard poodle where he lounged on her bed. Myra had objected to having the dog trimmed into any traditional poodle fashion. He had a full coat of pure white. If he hadn’t been kept in shape by proper diet and exercise, he might have looked like a large cotton ball. As it was, he was slim and trim, a prime example of his breed. At Allison’s words, he bolted alert and gave a sharp bark.
“You approve? Good. First male opinion of the evening.”
She adjusted one of the spaghetti straps over her bare shoulder, patted the artistic tangle of curls that had taken Gino, her hair stylist, two hours to concoct, and wished Heath could see her now. He’d be at a definite disadvantage in his bush pants and plaid shirt. Lord, she hated that man. She couldn’t wait for her father’s lawyer to obliterate that will. She’d send him packing so fast it would make his head spin, Snowy River hat and all. She’d tried to begin discussions of the situation with her parents on her arrival, but she’d barely had time to outline the conditions of the will when her mother insisted it was time to get ready for the benefit.
“We’ll discuss it in the morning, honey,” she’d said.
“Allison, are your ready? Your father and I have to leave soon.”
Her mother’s voice from downstairs brought her back to the moment.
“Coming,” she called, checking her pearl earrings and realizing how well they set off her creamy complexion. She snatched up a black evening jacket and handbag from her bed and hurried downstairs, Jack at her heels.
“Wow, Mom, you look terrific.” Allison’s tone reflected the sincerity of her admiration when she saw her mother in a floor-length, long-sleeved gown of electric blue, her golden hair elegantly drawn into an upswept style.
“Doesn’t she?” Allison’s six-foot-tall father, looking the epitome of sophistication in his excellently tailored tuxedo, chestnut hair touched with gray at the temples, beamed down on his wife. “She’ll have every man at this barn dance grabbing their checkbook and giving to those sick kids till it hurts. Her daughter doesn’t look too shabby, either.”
He turned his attention to Allison and grinned broadly, cowboy roots showing through the veneer of big city surgeon.
“That’s enough flattery, you two.” Myra smiled at the pair. “Allison, I am pleased you agreed to attend this fundraiser with us. We don’t spend nearly enough time together as a family.”
Oh, God, Mom, don’t you start on the family neglect bit. It’s bad enough I have Gramps’ version of the last original woodsman on my back.
The doorbell rang. Jack gave a sharp bark.
“Who can that be?” Cameron Armstrong frowned as he turned to answer it. “We’ve got to get going.”
“I made it.” Paul Bradley’s voice gave Allison a start. “Hi, Cam, Myra.”
Dressed in a tux, blond hair bright from salon care, he stepped into the foyer and flashed a smile lined with perfectly bonded white teeth and accentuated by what Allison knew, in Canada, in May, on an indoorsy investment banker, had to be a salon-induced tan.
“Made it?” Allison felt she’d missed a beat. A chafe of annoyance washed over her.
“Come on, Al. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten. I told you I’d take you to your mother’s fundraiser if I could get away. And here I am.”
Jack muttered a deep-throated growl.
“Stay away from me, you furball,” he ordered the dog. “This is a new tux. I don’t want it despoiled with your sheddings.”
He crossed the entrance hallway to kiss Allison lightly on the lips.
“He’s a poodle.” She ignored his attempt to draw her into something intimate and shrugged away. “Poodles don’t shed.”
Her words brought a quick response. “I’m not into animals. Can’t abide their filthy ways.”
“Well, we’re delighted you’ve come,” Myra, always the gracious hostess, interjected. “You two can do me a favor. I’ll be grateful if you will pick up another case of Champagne at the Lakeside Liquor Store. I don’t have time. I have to be at the club to greet the guests. You can take a shortcut through the lane that runs along the greenbelt behind Lakeside Drive. The road isn’t paved,