Holding the Dream Page 0,94

I don't like looking stupid."

"Okay, we're right on schedule," Margo announced as she hurried back in. With one hand she supported her belly and tried to ignore the fact that the baby seemed determined to settle directly on her bladder. She tilted her head, took a long, narrowed-eyed study of her creation, and nodded. "Good, really good. Now a few finishing touches."

"Oh, listen."

"Oh, Mommy, do I have to wear that exquisite jeweled collar?" Margo whined as she lifted it from the box. "Oh, please, not those gorgeous earrings too."

Kate rolled her eyes as Margo decorated her. "Can you imagine what she's going to do to that kid? The minute it pops out she's going to have it swaddled in Armani and accessorized."

"Ungrateful brat." Margo took a purse atomizer out of her pocket and spritzed before Kate could evade.

"You know I hate that."

"Why else would I do it? Turn around and - drum roll, please." With a flourish, Margo tugged the draping off the mirror.

"Holy shit." Her mouth agape, Kate stared at the reflection. There was enough of Kate to recognize, she thought, dazed. But where had those exotic eyes come from, and that unquestionably erotic mouth? The figure, an actual figure, draped in shimmering bronze that made all that exposed skin seem polished.

She cleared her throat, turned, turned again. "I look good," she managed.

"A grilled cheese sandwich looks good," Margo corrected. "Baby, you look dangerous."

"I kind of do." Kate grinned and watched that siren's mouth move smugly. "Damn, I hope Byron gets here. Wait till he gets a load of me."

He was doing his best to get there. The trip to L.A. had been inconvenient but necessary. Under normal circumstances, he would have arranged to make a full swing of it, spot-checking the hotels and resorts in Santa Barbara, San Diego, San Francisco. It was important, he knew, for the staff at every Templeton hotel to feel that personal connection with the home base.

Josh handled the factories, the vineyards and orchards, the plants, and continued to spot-check the international branches. But California was Byron's responsibility. He never took responsibility lightly.

And there were still ruffled feathers to be smoothed from Peter Ridgeway's reign, which by all accounts had been as cold as it had been efficient.

He knew what was expected of him - the personal touch that Templeton was founded and thrived on. The memory for names and faces and details.

Even as he jetted back, Byron dictated a raft of memos to his assistant, fired off countless faxes, and completed one final meeting via air phone.

Now he was home, and late, but he'd anticipated that. With the finesse of long habit, he quickly fastened the studs on his tuxedo shirt. Maybe he should call Kate at the shop and tell her he was on his way. A glance at his watch told him the reception was into its second hour. She'd be busy.

Would she miss him?

He wanted her to. He wanted to imagine her looking toward the door whenever it opened. And hoping. He wanted her to be thinking of him, wishing he were there so they could share some comment or observation about the other guests. The way couples always did.

He looked forward to seeing that speculation in her eyes when she studied him. That look of hers that so clearly said, What are you doing here, De Witt? What's going on between us? And why?

She would continually march along looking for the practical answer, the rational one. And he would cruise on the emotional.

It made, he decided as he adjusted his black tie, for a good mix.

He was willing to wait for her to come to the same conclusion. At least for a little while. She needed to resolve this crisis, put the whole ugly business behind her. He intended to help her. And he could wait for that before looking toward the future.

When the phone beside the bed rang, he considered letting the machine take it. Family or work, he supposed, and either of those could do without him for a couple of hours. Then again, Suellen was expecting her first grandchild, and...

"Hell." He snapped up the phone. "De Witt."

He listened, questioned, verified. And with a grim smile on his face, hung up. It appeared he had a stop to make before the party.

Kusack was still at his desk. It was his wife's bridge night and her turn to host the evening. He preferred the sloppy meatball sandwich and lukewarm cream soda at his desk to the tiny