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24
Hay Adams Hotel
FRIDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
The tension headache behind Molly’s left ear magically disappeared when her father, Mason Lord, appeared at their suite at three o’clock that afternoon. She’d called him yesterday to tell him what had happened at Kennedy Center, and he’d told her they should come to the compound, but he hadn’t told her he’d come to Washington.
She didn’t say a word, simply walked to him, put her arms around his chest, and hugged him close. He pulled her in, hugged her back. She breathed in the subtle lemon scent he wore that always reminded her of the hills covered with lemon trees in Positano on the Amalfi Coast, their subtle scent in the very air you breathed. She looked up at him and simply knew he would do everything in his power to guard Emma. “Dad, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. We still don’t know who tried to take Emma and they tried again this morning. A police officer was hurt. Ramsey and I agree the best place to keep Emma safe is with you in Oak Park.”
He gently set her away from him, studied her face. “You look tired, Molly, upset and worried. That’s why I’m here, so I can take you all home with me. We’ll figure it out, Molly.”
Mason turned then and smiled at a young woman who stood off to his side. “Molly, this is my wife, Elizabeth Beatrice. Actually, we were on our last honeymoon stop in Paris when you called.” His voice sounded possessive, and something else—he sounded proud. Her misogynist father sounded proud, of a woman? She was his wife? He’d said nothing about her when she’d called him the previous night.
“My dear, this is my daughter, Molly Hunt.”
For a moment, Molly couldn’t take it in. She felt like she’d been tossed on a stage in the middle of a bizarre play and didn’t know her lines. How had this happened? Well, why not? If his new wife could overlook her new husband being a big-time crook, she’d be marrying a dashing, wealthy, and handsome man. Evidently, Elizabeth Beatrice and her family had been willing to do just that, that is, if they even knew. “Hello,” Molly said. “Ah, welcome to the family.”
Elizabeth Beatrice stepped forward, shook Molly’s hand. “Hello, Molly. I’m so pleased to meet you. Your father has talked so much about you. He showed me your magazine photographs, even gave my father and mother a copy of your book of photographs of the Amalfi Coast. He said you were doing a second book. I can’t wait to see it.”
Her father had bragged about her? Given her book to his new in-laws? Molly felt light-headed. She had to be in an alternate universe. It was true her father had slowly changed in the last six years but had this young woman sent him over the finish line? Her father was proud of both her and his daughter? Whatever, it was amazing and really quite wonderful.
“And, of course, Mason much admires Judge Hunt”—Elizabeth’s dark eyes twinkled just a bit—“and his incredible Emma. He doesn’t stop bragging about the twins. I’m sorry we’re rather travel worn, but we just flew in from Paris as Mason said, and your father wanted to see you immediately. I’m so sorry there are problems, but your father is here now.” She sounded like she believed utterly her new husband could solve anything thrown his way.
“Thank you.” Molly couldn’t help it, she blurted out, “You’re English.”
Elizabeth Beatrice nodded. Mason said, “Her father is Viscount Bellamy of Grace Hall in Hampshire. She just took a first in economics at Oxford.” Again, the pride rang out.
Molly couldn’t help staring at the young woman with her handfuls of beautiful curling black hair falling to her shoulders, framing her exquisite face. Her equally dark eyes, behind large black-framed glasses, held a good deal of intelligence, and, if Molly wasn’t mistaken, humor. Naturally, she had an English peaches-and-cream complexion. Molly took Elizabeth Beatrice’s smooth white hand in hers and smiled at the gorgeous young woman, at least ten years her junior, now her stepmother. She felt laughter bubble up. Would her father always surprise her? It was a good thing both she and Ramsey had learned to take things in stride whenever they involved her father. An English bride fresh from university who wore glasses. She flashed an instant back to his second wife, Eve, even more physically perfect than his third. Eve herself had remarried last year. What was his name? Rich Doulos, yes, that was it, scion of a wealthy family in South Florida. Rule Shaker had a son-in-law again, probably as shady as he was. Molly’s head was still spinning. She shook her head at herself, and stepped back. “I’m sorry to keep you in the hall. Please, come in.” She held the door open and waved them in, still absorbing the astounding fact this woman was now her father’s wife. As Molly watched her new stepmother walk into the suite on her husband’s arm, steady on her four-inch Louboutins, she’d be willing to bet this exquisite, assured young woman with the amazing name hadn’t married her father for his money. There seemed to be more to her than that, and more between them.
Her father had given her no warning he was going to marry a third time. She doubted he ever told anyone much of anything unless he chose to. Molly prayed he’d been careful this time, after his near-death experience with his second wife, Eve. Would he revert to his misogynist ways in six months or a year, show Elizabeth off as his prized possession as he had Eve? Delight in other men’s envy? Maybe the envy part, but Elizabeth Beatrice, a possession? No, not possible.
Molly remembered clearly how he’d treated her, his own daughter, with his own special blend of contempt and indifference when she was growing up, because she was a girl and of no use to him, until six years ago, when she’d saved his life and he’d had to accept she’d seen threats to him he hadn’t. She’d marveled at how he’d changed since then, slowly at first, from the cold indifferent king who’d treated her like his subject to a father who kissed her cheek, smiled at her, even hugged her now and then. He’d slapped Ramsey on the back and gifted him Cuban cigars when she’d birthed the twin boys. Ever since then he’d come to San Francisco every few months, and they in turn had visited him on holidays, once even on Valentine’s Day. He’d come because he loved Emma and maybe her, too. And certainly the twins.
“Mama! Who’s here?”
“Trail mix? Someone brought trail mix? It’s Grandpa!”
The twins were on him in an instant, lifting their arms at exactly the same time, now talking a mile a minute to each other in twin talk. Mason Lord laughed, scooped both of them up in his arms, and hugged them. “You both smell like chocolate,” he said, sniffing one, then the other. “And now you want trail mix?”
As they continued to babble, incomprehensibly to all except Emma and their parents, Mason looked over their heads at Emma, who stood back smiling at him. “Hello, Emma,” he said. “Come meet Elizabeth Beatrice.” Again, a smile lit his very handsome austere face. He laughed, shook his head. “She’s your step-grandmother.”
Elizabeth Beatrice looked shocked for a moment, then she shoved up her glasses and she, too, laughed.
Cal, his arms locked around his grandfather’s neck, called out, “Emmy, it’s Grandpa and a strange lady. Grandpa, did you bring us a present?”
Gage reared back against his arm. “You always give us presents.”
Cal said, bouncing, “What’s in those big bags on the floor beside the lady?”
Gage said, “For us?”
“Presents? You expected me to bring you presents? You think what’s in that bag is for you? It’s not your birthdays and it’s not Christmas.”
The twins’ eyes stayed fastened on the two big bags. “It’s nearly April and that’s Easter.”
Mason turned to his wife. “These are the twins, Cal and Gage. Boys, pay attention now, this is my wife.”
Cal and Gage gave Elizabeth Beatrice a cursory look, their attention still on the two bags at their step-grandmother’s feet. “Hi, ma’am. Can we have our presents?”
