The Great Baby Caper (5 page)

***

Moments later, down on Royal Street, Mark proudly escorted Courtney past trendy antiques shops and posh hotels. He
could not believe his own good fortune, that this beautiful woman now walked
beside him, that he would have an evening alone with her. Somehow he’d managed
to snatch victory form the jaws of defeat.

Before they’d left her room, she’d
slipped into the bathroom, changing into jeans, loafers, a knit top and a light
blazer. He highly approved of her choices of attire, which made her appear much
warmer and more feminine than she had in her stuffy suit. Watching the fading
sun glint in her lovely, wheat-blond hair, he caught her glancing at him covertly.
“Something on your mind, my dear?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “What
happened to your glasses?”

He tapped his breast pocket.
“They’re in my jacket.”

“But you were wearing them
earlier.”

“I sometimes do for reading.”

“Ah—so you were reading the menu
at the bar?”

He broke into a sheepish grin.
“Very well. I wore them deliberately, hoping the specs might make me appear
more genteel.”

“I see. So you were out to con
me?”

“You think I’ve not genteel?” he
countered innocently.

Ignoring that, she demanded, “And
what is your real name? It can’t be Wiggleshaft.”

Mark laughed. “You’re right, that
was but another ploy. Actually, my first name is Mark, but my surname is
Billingham, not Wiggleshaft—though there is a Wiggleshaft or two on our family
tree.”

She shot him a chiding look.
“Admit it—you used ‘Wiggleshaft’ just to rattle me.”

He pretended a look of horror.
“Me? Attempt to rattle a lovely lady such as yourself? Never.”

“Come on, ’fess up.”

He chuckled. “Very well. It was
rather fun watching you squirm.”

“Thanks loads.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So you’re Mark Billingham, then.”

“In the flesh.”

She frowned. “Wait a minute. I can
see how you got the ‘Billingham’ from your grandfather, but what happened to
the ‘Bootle’?”

He chuckled. “As a young man, my
dad had a falling out with my grandfather, so he had his last name legally
changed to ‘Billingham’ as a sort of rebellion.”

“Wow, what a fierce revolt,”
Courtney commented drolly.

“Truth to tell, I think Dad
changed it more because of all the ribbing he took at Cambridge for the ‘Bootle.’”

“No doubt. Where are your parents
now?”

His features tightened in sadness.
“Passed away, I’m afraid. They perished ten years ago in a ferry accident near Thailand.”

At once she felt keen sympathy for
him. “How awful.”

“Those are the sorts of risks
taken by world travelers, I’m afraid.”

“So your grandfather must be—”

“Like a second father to me?” he
supplied.

She nodded.

“He is, indeed.”

She touched his arm. “Mark, I am
really sorry.”

Pleasantly surprised, he asked,
“Why?”

“Well, that you lost your parents.
And also for the way I’ve . . .”

Intrigued, he pressed, “You’ve
what?”

She gave a sigh. “It’s true that
I’m furious at your grandfather, and not particularly thrilled that you were in
on his little charade. But I’ve said such terrible things about him, thinking
only of my own situation, not realizing how important he must be in your life.”

Touched by her words, Mark smiled
wryly. “Thank you, Courtney. And never fear. Grandfather may be dear to me, but
let me assure you that I’m hardly blind to his faults.”

“Tell me about it. Like trying to
order our marriage by corporate decree.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, when
you said your family had picked out a young lady for you, were you referring
to—”

“Grandfather and his matchmaking?”
he supplied. “Yes. He picked you, all right, though I never dreamed he’d try to
serve you up on the spot like fast food.”

Courtney had to chuckle there.

He winked. “Of course, we could
always defy the old chap and have a torrid affair.”

Courtney’s mouth dropped open.

“Courtney, I’m ribbing you.”

“Right,” she agreed with a nervous
little laugh.

But as he took her arm and guided
her around a corner, Mark wondered if he really was. He couldn’t remember when
he’d had more fun with a woman. Courtney was clever, brash, and outspoken, very
American, but also feminine, vulnerable, and appealing. Irate though she was,
she had agreed to see him for the evening, demonstrating a grace that he
admired. And it must have taken a great deal of humility for her to admit that,
while she remained furious at his grandfather, she recognized how important the
old boy must be in his life. If only M. Billingham Bootle possessed one iota of
the sensitivity and thoughtfulness of this woman whom he had trampled on
without conscience. Well, Mark intended to remedy that, to make things up to
Courtney in every way.

In the meantime lovely Courtney
Kelly was his for one glorious evening, and he intended to relish every second.

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Courtney eyed Mark covertly over
the edge of her menu. He’d put on his glasses again, and, scowling at the menu,
he appeared even more intelligent and refined.

An hour ago, she’d been furious
with him. Now she was feeling all too charmed by him. He was handsome and
sympathetic, with a wonderful sense of humor. Logic argued that she should have
nothing to do with him, that he might well be cut from the same black cloth as
was his crafty grandfather, but her heart suspected otherwise. Besides, she had
just endured a major upset in her life, one that really wasn’t Mark’s fault but
that of his grandfather. She could use some cheering up.

And she did feel buoyed at the
moment. Mark had ordered them frozen daiquiris, and several sips had already
loosened her blood. Their surroundings couldn’t have been more elegant or
romantic. The cozy Creole restaurant was softly lit and tastefully decorated
with brass ceiling fans and green plants. The mouth-watering aromas of succulent
foods filled the air. Their linen-draped table was positioned next to a sheer
glass wall looking out on a charming courtyard with sparkling fountain, ferns,
and blooming flowers.

“It’s so lovely here,” she
murmured.

“Indeed it is.”

Courtney glanced at Mark to see he
was staring straight at her, and felt herself blushing. This man was too much
of a babe for her own good. She countered with small talk. “Have you decided
what you want for dinner?”

He closed his menu and removed his
glasses. “Actually, I’m not that familiar with New Orleans cuisine.”

“I am,” she responded confidently.
“My roommate in college lived here. I spent some holidays and a summer here,
even took a few courses at Loyola.”

“Ah, so you’re the expert, then.
I’ll bow to you.”

She perused her menu. “I’d suggest
we have it all—bouillabaisse, oysters Bienville, shrimp creole, crawfish
etouffee . . .”

“Goodness, I shall be your
culinary slave,” he teased, snapping his fingers toward the passing waiter.

Moments later as they nibbled on
the excellent oysters, Courtney remarked, “So, Mark. Tell me more about your
background.”

He pulled a face. “Not the usual
tedious drivel.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You
are from another continent, you know. I doubt I’ll find details of your life
boring.”

“Very well, don’t say I didn’t
warn you.” Taking a sip of his drink, he murmured, “I grew up in London, in one of those moldly old mansions in Mayfair.”

“Born with a silver spoon in your
mouth, eh?” she teased.

He nodded wryly. “The Bootles hail
from a long line of titled aristocracy. My dad acquired quite an impressive
trust once he came of age, and married well when he was in his mid-twenties.
Unfortunately, shortly after my birth, he and my grandfather had their falling
out.”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned that. What
was the rift about, if I may ask?”

 He sighed. “Actually, it was
over my grandfather’s desire to have my dad join the family business, Bootle’s Baby Bower.”

“You’re kidding me!” she
exclaimed.

“No.”

“Then let me guess: M. Billingham saw
your father as his heir apparent, and your father had other ideas?”

“Precisely, though their
relationship was a bit more complicated than that. Grandfather always was
something of a maverick, you see. As I’ve mentioned, we hail from noble stock,
but there are a few heretics among our forebears. One was my great-grandfather,
who married a commoner—a firebrand of an Irishwoman, no less—a circumstance
that the rest of my family was only too eager to sweep under the proverbial
rug.”

“Do you have something against the
Irish?” she challenged.

“Of course not,” he hastily
reassured her. “And don’t think I’ve not noted the ‘Kelly,’ as well as those
green Irish eyes of yours.”

Courtney smiled. “My Irish blood
comes from my father’s side. My mother is actually of German lineage.”

“Ah—and quite a nice combination
that makes for you, if I do say so, Ms. Kelly.”

“Thank you,” she murmured
demurely.

“At any rate, it is his
great-grandmother’s Galway blood that ofttimes seems to run in my grandfather’s
veins.”

“I have always wondered where M.
Billingham got his audacious streak.”

Mark nodded. “My grandfather
always has had an abrasive nature and an aggressive personality that was
totally at odds with that of my father, who was your typical, stiff-lipped
Englishman. Disposition-wise, Dad favored my grandmother Enid, may God rest her
soul. So, after Grandfather and Dad parted ways, Dad had our name legally
changed and ventured forth on his own, establishing Billingham’s, a
London-based clothier with the finest upscale casual wear for the high-flier.”

Courtney snapped her fingers.
“Billingham’s—don’t they have an outlet here in the States?”

 “Yes, but only one, in New York on Madison Avenue.”

“You know, I think I visited it
once when I was in Manhattan. Quite a handsome store.”

“Thank you. We have a dozen
outlets in the U.K., and two more in the works.”

“Impressive. Your father must have
become quite a success, though he didn’t venture far, going from clothing for
yuppie babies to attire for their parents.”

Mark grinned. “Precisely. As I
said, the typical, no-nonsense Englishman.”

She sipped her drink. “So tell me,
Mark Billingham, do you take after your staid, conservative father, or your
devil-may-care grandfather?”

Mischief gleamed in his eyes.
“Perhaps I’m a mixture of both?”

“Nothing like a direct answer,”
she quipped. “And your mother?”

His features darkened with regret
and pain. “Quite the society queen, leaving me and my two younger sisters to
the tender mercies of our nannies. The three of us endured the typical, uppercrust
English childhood.”

“I’m sorry. But what of your
grandparents? Did you see M. Billingham at all?”

“Oh, certainly we saw Grandmother
and Grandfather on birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing. My parents and
Grandmother were far too socially conscious not to keep up appearances. Things
were strained between Dad and Grandfather, of course, but really not much more
awkward than the typical reserve practiced by so many British families.
However, before too many years passed, Grandmother died, and Grandfather
decided to start afresh overseas by expanding his baby products company to
America—that good old Irish pioneering spirit, I suppose. As you’re aware, he
established himself here with great success, and now there are only two
Bootle’s Baby Bower stores left in the U.K.” He paused. “As for me, it was prep
school at Cheam, followed by Eton, then in due course I finished up my MBA at Cambridge.”

“That’s some achievement.”

“Only what was expected, my dear.
Then somewhere along the way . . . It was my sophomore year at Cambridge, while I was working toward my undergraduate degree. My sisters were at boarding
school in Switzerland, and my parents had gone on a world tour with friends.
That’s when we learned of the ferry accident off the coast of Thailand. They went down, along with Lord and Lady Wickingham.”

She touched his hand. “I’m so
sorry.”

He braved a smile. “Grandfather
was wonderful then, flying straightaway to Thailand to take charge of
everything—the recovery of the bodies and their transport home, all the
arrangements. He dispatched one of his most trusted executives to London to manage my father’s holdings until I came of age and ability. He also insisted my
sisters and I go on holiday for the remainder of the school term and come stay
with him in America. That spring we spent in Denver was quite wonderful, a
healing time that all of us very much needed. But the girls and I got our noses
back to the grindstone soon enough, returning to our various schools in London. After that, we spent holidays and summers with Grandfather in Denver. Indeed, he
wanted the three of us to settle with him there, and seek American
citizenship.”

“With you joining Bootle’s Baby Bower?” she suggested rather cynically. “Perhaps an attempt to rewrite
history?”

“Indeed, but I felt obligated to
take on my father’s ventures instead.”

“Of course you would have,” she
agreed sympathetically. “And I imagine you also adopted your dad’s policy of
keeping his and your grandfather’s business enterprises separate?”

Mark offered her an amused salute.
“You’re a smart girl, Courtney.”

“Well, I did wonder earlier why M.
Billingham never brought you around BBB. Now I know.”

“Yes, I suppose I did honor family
tradition there. And besides, by the time I finished my education, both my
younger sisters were engaged to chaps in London. So I took the helm at
Billingham’s. I signed on at a propitious time, too, when Internet sales were
coming into vogue. I established our online store early and did it right, as
well as starting up one of the largest online pharmacies in the U.K. I also bought up a few failed e-businesses—music, electronics, fine jewelry—and
reorganized them into successes.”

“Gracious—so you’ve become quite
an achiever in your own right.”

He gave a shrug. “I make out
nicely.”

Courtney was about to comment,
only to pause when the waiter came by, depositing their main courses. Seeing
Mark watching her expectantly, she picked up her fork.

Following her lead, he tasted a
bit of shrimp. “Mmmmm,” he murmured ecstatically, “This—um—what do you call
it?”

“Shrimp Creole.”

He nodded. “Well, it’s excellent.
I commend your ordering skills, miss.”

“Trying to butter me up, are you?”
she asked.

He deliberately took a slice of
steamy bread from the basket, buttered it, and handed it to her. “Definitely.”

She tasted the excellent bread and
chuckled.

“Now that you’ve endured my
background,” he remarked, “tell me more about yourself.”

“I’m afraid my upbringing’s not
nearly so interesting,” she admitted. “I come from the typical, middle-class
American family. I grew up in west Denver, where my dad owns a residential
air-conditioning company. My mother was a bit unusual in that she stayed at
home—but who can blame her with five children? As I’ve already mentioned I have
three older sisters and one younger brother. I pretty much followed the path of
my sisters—dancing lessons, Girl Scouts, cheerleader—that is, until I graduated
from high school. At that point, my older sisters had jobs, followed soon after
by marriage. By contrast, I broke the high school quarterback’s heart and went
on to college.”

He winked at her solemnly. “You do
strike me as a heartbreaker, Courtney.”

To cover the unaccountable blush
heating her cheeks, she coughed and forged on. “I got my BBA from the University of Colorado and won a scholarship to Harvard Business School for my master’s.”

“My kind of woman,” he muttered.
“Now you’re making me feel like an utter pedestrian.”

“Sure I am,” she mocked. “To
continue, my first couple of jobs were stepping stones, until I landed the
position as junior executive in charge of products at Bootle’s Baby Bower. From
there . . .” Voice fading, she narrowed her gaze. “Well, you know the rest.”

“You’re now on the verge of
becoming the new CEO.”

She shot him an admonishing look.
“Mark, I just quit.”

He held up a hand. “Peace,
Courtney. We’ll get to that later.”

“Mark, there’s nothing to get to—”

“
Peace
,” he reiterated
firmly. “All right?”

“Okay,” she conceded grudgingly.
As a tense silence descended, she added, “You know, much as I do resent them at
times, I must say I don’t know what I would have done without my parents. What
I mean is—I’m really sorry you lost yours.”

“I know you are,” he replied
quietly. “Although British families tend not to be as closely knit as those
typically American ones, I do miss my folks, as I know my sisters do. They
compensated by quickly forming families of their own. In my case, I went from
being a dedicated student to becoming a diehard workaholic.”

“Ah, so you have a fault after
all,” she teased.

“And it seems we have something in
common.”

She lifted her drink. “Touché.
I’ll admit that I’m quite dedicated to my career—or I was.”

“You will be again,” he responded
smoothly. “In fact, your devotion to work is one aspect that attracted me to
you.”

Pleasantly surprised, Courtney asked,
“Really? Why?”

“Well, with all my various
enterprises and responsibilities, I may never have a great deal of time for a
family. Most women I’ve dated have not been particularly understanding there.”

“Ah. So you’re seeking that
perfect corporate wife?”

His mouth quirked devilishly.
“What makes you think I want to marry?”

She rolled her eyes. “Remember the
scavenger hunt earlier this evening?”

He chuckled. “Again, Courtney, the
instant marriage part was strictly my grandfather’s idea.”

“Right.
Strictly
. Then
you’re just the debonair Englishman playing the field. You’ve no plans to
marry, ever?”

From the way Mark suddenly shifted
in his chair, he was definitely squirming. “I didn’t say that. I would hope
that even with us, perhaps eventually there might be . . . well,
possibilities.”

She couldn’t resist a smile; he
could be the artful dodger when he wanted to. “Yes, the prospect does come up
eventually in most people’s lives.”

He met her eye. “Actually,
whomever I marry, she will have to be—well, very understanding of my
unconventional lifestyle.”

“Unconventional?” She leaned
closer. “Do you have girlfriends in every port, Mark, or are there aspects to
your lifestyle—you know, weird, kinky stuff—that you’re keeping in the closet?”