disappeared as quietly as he’d come.
The way to assure that kind of dedication and loyalty was to find somebody down on his luck then give him a second chance. Stephen prided himself that many of the employees at Allistair Roses fell into that category.
He lifted his cup. “To the Allistairs and another perfect evening.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lily flinch. Thanks to his grandfather’s tutelage, he knew how to turn the full force of the Allistair charm on her. “Darling, in spite of our current trying circumstances, our love for each other will keep us strong and always moving forward. Now, tell me how the renovation of our home is coming along.”
She visibly relaxed as she talked about colors and curtains, new lamps and throw pillows. Now. He could enjoy his quiet evening. He could sit by the fire and fortify himself with the rich dark chocolate so he could face the real work ahead. His blue cultivar. The Margaret.
While he dreamed of how he’d use the Allistair formula to produce a rose that would rock the horticultural world, he could even agree to Lily’s suggestion that he spend more time doing things with Annabelle. Actually, it was a good idea. It would be an excellent way to keep tabs on the nosy teenager. There was too much at stake to let a fifteen-year-old ruin everything.
When the chimes of the grandfather clock signaled they’d been in the library exactly an hour, Clive stood and said good night. Lily, now accustomed to their ritual, hugged his grandfather then walked into Stephen’s embrace. Their kiss was perfect, just the right amount of affection without moving into the dangerous territory of passion.
Stephen had no intention of taking the risk of getting her pregnant before the wedding. He would have no stain on his son. No busybodies counting backward and speculating that Lily had been pregnant before the wedding. No evil trolls remembering how she’d once been pregnant out of wedlock and questioning whether Stephen was really the father of this child.
No. His son would be properly born, hopefully nine months to the day after their wedding. An Allistair through and through. A strong, handsome boy who would learn the Allistair lessons well and follow in the giant footsteps of Clive.
He broke off the kiss, and Lily leaned her head against his chest. He stroked her hair--like the finest silk, like fire and sunlight--and a deep excitement filled him.
He could hardy wait. He escorted her to the staircase.
“Goodnight, darling. Sleep well.”
He watched until she was at the top of the stairs and headed toward her bedroom in the west wing. Then he made his way through the ballroom, past the conservatory, and down the hallway that led to the master suite and his home office in the first floor of the east wing.
Lily’s bedroom suite was at the far end of the hallway. Just past the stairwell, she paused in front of Annabelle’s room and eased open the door. Her daughter was curled in a wad under the covers, both hands tucked under her flushed cheeks, already sleeping.
“Poor baby.”
She tiptoed inside and placed her hand on Annabelle’s forehead. A mother, always looking for signs of trouble. Her daughter was warm but moist. No fever there. Just exhaustion after a day’s frantic search for her best friend.
Lily said a silent prayer for the well-being of both her girls then closed the door softly and hurried on. Cee Cee’s door was still ajar, her bed still empty.
Yes. She thought of the girl as her other daughter.
She couldn’t bear to think of her out there, no telling where. The world was a scary place, especially of late, filled with the monsters of Lily’s own long-ago nightmares.
Something drew her inside where she flipped on the light switch and opened Cee Cee’s closet door. Her pink track suit and track shoes were missing. Lily tried to imagine her putting on her track suit to meet her birthmother, thinking that if anybody saw her, the clothes would give the impression she was jogging instead of sneaking away.
But there was Cee Cee’s backpack, sitting on a shelf beside the riding boots Lily had given her last Christmas. Her wallet and all her IDs were inside.
Lily rifled through the closet once more and even through all the drawers in the French provincial chest beside her bed. Everything was neatly folded, undisturbed, and no other clothing appeared to be missing. Why would she go off for even a