Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir(19)
Oh, Eleanor would love that, Vanessa thought with derision. She’d be thrilled with another grandchild, especially another male grandchild to carry on the Keller name. But that grandchild’s mother was another story—and Marc’s mother would only truly be happy with Vanessa out of the picture.
“And what if I don’t agree? To any of it.”
One dark brow winged upward. “Then I’ll be forced to threaten, I suppose. But is that really the direction you want to go? I’ve been pretty amicable about this entire situation so far, even though I think we both know I have more than enough reason to be furious over it.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, he tipped his head to the side, looking much calmer than she felt.
“If you want me to be furious and toss around ugly threats you know I can follow through on, that’s fine, just say the word. But if you’d rather act like two mature adults determined to create the best environment possible for their child, then I suggest you go along with my plans.”
“Do I have a choice?” she grumbled, understanding better than ever the adage about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Marc’s smile was equal parts cocky and confident. “You had the choice of whether or not to tell me you were pregnant in the first place, and you decided not to, so…not really. The ball is in my court now.”
Six
The ball was most definitely in Marc’s court—along with everything else. But then, she’d known that the minute he’d walked up the stairs to the bakery’s second-floor apartment and discovered he had a son, hadn’t she? Her only option now was to play nice and hope he would continue to do the same.
Marc’s hand was on her elbow as they left the restaurant, guiding her along the carpeted passage toward the lobby. Old fishing nets and decorative life preservers lined the walls and she suddenly realized how odd the decor must seem to outsiders.
Those who were familiar with Summerville never gave it a second thought, but anyone coming into town for the first time must wonder at the hotel’s name and decor without a significant body of water nearby to back them up. Especially since the hotel’s dining room didn’t even particularly specialize in seafood dishes.
“Come upstairs with me,” he murmured suddenly just above her ear.
Tearing her gaze from a large plastic swordfish caught in one of the nets, she flashed Marc a startled, disbelieving look, only to have him chuckle at her reaction.
“That isn’t a proposition,” he assured her, then waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated attempt at flirtation. “Although I wouldn’t be opposed to a bit of after-dinner seduction.”
At the lobby, he steered her to the left, away from the hotel’s main entrance and in the direction of the wide, Gone with the Wind-esque stairwell that led to the guest rooms.
“I have something to show you,” he continued as they slowly climbed the stairs, her heels digging into the thick carpeting, faded in places from years of wear.
“Now that sounds like a proposition. Or maybe a bad pickup line,” she told him.
He slanted her a grin, digging into his pocket for the key to his room. Not a key card, but an honest to goodness key, complete with a giant plastic fob in the shape of a lighthouse.
“You know me better than that. I didn’t need cheesy pickup lines with you the first time around, I don’t need them now.”
No, he hadn’t. He’d been much too charming and suave to hit on her the way ninety percent of guys did back then. Which was only one of the things that had made him more appealing, made him stand out from the pack.
When they reached his door, he unlocked it, then stepped back to let her pass into the room ahead of him. She’d visited the Harbor Inn before, of course, but had never actually been in one of the guest rooms, so for a second she stood just inside the door, taking in her surroundings.
Even if the large brass plaque on the front of the building hadn’t identified the hotel as a historical landmark, she would have known it was old simply from the interior. The elaborately carved woodworking, the barely preserved wallpaper and the antique fixtures all would have tipped her off. Certain things had been updated, of course, to keep the hotel functional and modern enough that guests would be comfortable, but a lot had been left or restored to maintain as much of the original furnishings and adornments as possible.
Marc’s room was blissfully lacking in the oceanside motif. Instead, the walls boasted tiny pink roses on yellowing wallpaper, and both the single window and four-poster bed were covered in white eyelet lace. Very old-fashioned and grandmotherly.
It was almost funny to see tall, dark, modern businessman Marc standing in the middle of all the extremely formal, nineteenth century finery. He looked completely out of place, like a zebra in the dolphin enclosure at the zoo.
But looking out of place and being out of place were two different things, and Marc didn’t seem to feel the least bit out of place. Closing the door behind them, he shrugged out of his charcoal suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a burgundy brocade wing chair on his way to the brass-plated desk against the far wall.
While he lifted the lid of his laptop and hit the button to boot up the computer, Vanessa stood back and enjoyed the view. Shallow of her, she was sure. Not to mention inconsistent, considering how vehemently she protested—to herself and anyone else who would listen—that the divorce had been a blessing and she was over him. Completely and totally over him. Being his ex-wife didn’t keep her from being a living, breathing, red-blooded woman, however. And every one of the red-blooded cells in her body appreciated the sight of a healthy, well-built man like Marc walking away.