by Lisa Jackson
Melanie’s heart nearly dropped through the floor. She tried to step forward but couldn’t move.
He was more handsome than before, all boyishness long driven from the bladed angles and planes of his face. His expression was frozen, his thin lips tight. The nostrils of his twice-broken nose flared contemptuously at the sight of her.
In those few heart-stopping seconds Melanie felt the urge to run, get away from him as fast as she could. The once-dead atmosphere in the lodge came to life, charged and dangerous.
Gavin shifted on his crutches, his jaw sliding to the side. “Well, Mrs. Brooks,” he drawled in a cold voice that disintegrated the remnants of her foolish dreams—dreams she hadn’t even realized she’d kept until now, “just what the hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWO
Gavin ripped off his sunglasses and impaled her with his icy gaze. “Well?” he demanded, his eyes slitting dangerously. His jaw thrust forward impatiently. Undercurrents of long-dead emotions charged the air.
“I was waiting for you.”
“For me?” His mouth tightened. “Well, now, isn’t that a switch?”
The words bit.
“You know, Melanie, you were the last person I expected to run into up here.” He dug in his crutches and hobbled past her to the bar.
“I was waiting for you because—”
“I don’t want to hear it. In fact,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”
Melanie was stunned. This cold, bitter man was Gavin—the boy she’d loved so passionately. Where was the tenderness, the kindness, the laughter she remembered so vividly? “Let’s just get through this, okay?”
“What? Get through what? Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter.” He turned his attention to the dusty mirrored bar.
“Of course it matters! I’ve got a job to do—”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing on her camera case. “A job?”
“Yes—”
“Just get out.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said, ‘Get out,’ Melanie. Leave. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But you agreed—”
“Agreed?” he roared, his fist banging the bar. “Unless memory fails me, the last time we agreed to anything, I was going to Colorado and you agreed to wait for me.”
“Oh, God.” This was worse than she’d imagined. “I couldn’t—”
“And guess what? The minute I’m out of town, you left me high and dry.”
“That’s not exactly how it was,” she snapped back.
“Oh, no? Then you tell me, how was it?”
“You were in Colorado—”
“Oh, right, I left you. Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. Period. I shouldn’t have brought it up. So just go.” Swearing under his breath, he propped himself up with his crutches and scrounged around behind the oak and brass bar, searching the lower cupboards.
From her vantage point, Melanie saw his reflection in the dusty full-length mirror. He was wearing cutoff jeans, and the muscles of his thighs, covered with downy gold hair, strained as he leaned over.
“You did leave me,” she pointed out, refusing to back down.
“And you said you’d wait. Stupid me, I believed you.”
“I meant it.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said, glaring at her again. “I just didn’t put a time limit on the waiting, is that it? I assumed you meant you’d wait more than a few weeks before you eloped with someone else.”
The hackles on the back of her neck rose as he turned his attention back to the cupboard. “You don’t understand—”
“No, damn it, I don’t. I—” he hooked a thumb at his chest “—wasn’t there, was I? I didn’t have the advantage of seeing you moving in on Brooks.”
“I didn’t move in on—”
“Okay, so he moved in on you. Doesn’t matter.”
“Then what’re we arguing about?” she demanded, the heat rushing to her cheeks.
He let out his breath slowly, as if trying to control a temper that was rapidly climbing out of control. “What’re you doing here, Melanie? I thought you lived in Seattle and probably owned a Mercedes and had a couple of kids by now.”
“Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you want them to,” she said.
He glanced over the top of the bar, his brows pulled together. “Philosophy? Or real life?”
“Both,” she replied, holding up her chin. “I’m here with the Tribune.”
“The what?” he asked without much interest.
“The Tribune. You know, the local newspaper.”
“Oh, right.” He snorted, returning his attention to the contents of the bar. “So you’re a reporter these days? What’s that got to do with me?”
“I’m a photographer,” she replied quickly. “Not a reporter, but I’m supposed to take pictures of you for the interview.”
“I don’t give interviews.”
Melanie’s temper began to simmer. “But yesterday your partner said you’d talk to us—”
His head snapped up, and the look he sent her over the bar was positively furious. “Rich said what?”
“That you’d grant an interview to the Trib—”
“No way!”
“But—”
“Hey, don’t argue with me,” he bit out. “You, of all people, should understand why I don’t talk to the press. It has to do with privacy and the fact that there are some details of my life I’d rather keep to myself.”
“Why me ‘of all people?’” she flung back at him.
His lips thinned. “As I remember it, there’s still some bad blood between our families and a whole closet full of skeletons that are better left locked away.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but she wanted to. Damn the man, he still had a way of getting under her skin—even if it was only to irritate her. But he did have a point, she thought grudgingly. She didn’t want anyone dredging up their affair or the scandal concerning her mother and his father.
“I’ll make sure this is strictly professional.”
“You can guarantee that?”
“I can try.”
“Not good enough. The Tribune doesn’t have the greatest reputation around.”
“I know, but—”
“Then no interview. Period,” he growled, rattling glasses until he found a bottle, yanked it out and blew the dust from its label.
“Let’s start over.”
He didn’t move, but his gaze drilled into hers. “Start over,” he repeated. “I wish I could. I would’ve done a whole lotta things differently.”
A lump jammed her throat. Her voice, when she found it, was soft. “I—uh, that’s not what I meant. I think we should start the interview over.”
“Like hell!” Wincing as he straightened his leg, he rained a drop-dead glance her direction.
Her temper flared. “Look, Gavin, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here!”
“Then leave!” He cleaned the bottom of a short glass with the tail of his shirt, then uncapped the bottle.
“I have a job to do.”
“Oh, yeah. Pictures for the Trib. I forgot.” He poured three fingers of whiskey into the glass and tossed back the entire drink, grimacing as the liquor hit the back of his throat.
“A little early, don’t ya—”
“I don’t need any advice,” he cut in. “Especially from you.” A sardonic smile twisted his lips, and he leaned across the bar, holding the bottle in one hand. “Excuse my manners,” he bit out, obviously intending to bait her. “Would you like to join me?”
Melanie narrowed her eyes, rising to the challenge. Why not? She’d taken all the flak she intended to, so she’d beat him at his own game. “Sure. And make it a double.”
A spark of humor flashed in his tawny eyes. “The lady wants a double.” He twisted off the cap. “You never did anything halfway, did ya, Mel? All or nothing.”
“That’s
me,” she mocked, but her pulse jumped as he looked her way again, and she remembered him as he had been—younger, more boyish, his hard edges not yet formed. He’d always been striking and arrogant and fiercely competitive, but there had been a gentle side to him. A loving side that she’d never quite forgotten. Now it seemed that tenderness was well hidden under layers of cynicism.
She felt a stab of guilt. How could their wonderful love have turned so bitter?
Forcing a smile, she fought the urge to whisper that she was sorry. Instead she took the glass he offered and sipped the fiery liquor. “Ah . . .” she said, remembering the words her grandfather had used when tasting expensive Scotch, “smooth.”
“Right . . . smooth,” he challenged, his eyes glinting again. “Good ol’ rotgut whiskey. I’ll give you a clue, Melanie, it’s not smooth. In fact it burns like a son of a bitch.”
He was right. The whiskey seared a trail down her throat. She pushed her glass aside and met his gaze squarely. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Then that must be the way it is,” she replied smartly, wishing he wasn’t so damned handsome. If only she didn’t notice the way his dark lashes ringed his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the dark hair of his forearms. “Now that we’ve gotten past going for each other’s jugular—maybe we can quit sniping at each other long enough to get down to business.”
“Which is?”
“The interview. And pictures for it.”
His mouth tightened, and he shoved a wayward lock of blond hair from his eyes before taking another long, slow sip from his glass.
Several seconds ticked by, and he didn’t move a muscle. The subject of the interview was obviously closed.
“Right. Well, I tried.” With the tips of her fingers Melanie nudged her business card across the bar. “In case you change your mind. And when Jan gets here, would you tell her I went back to the office?”
“Who’s Jan?”
“The reporter. The one from the Tribune who planned to write a stunning article about your lodge. As I pointed out earlier, I’m just the photographer and I don’t care whether you want to be photographed or not. But Jan might see things differently. She’s under the false impression that you agreed to an interview.”
“She’s wrong.”
“You can tell her.” She started for the door and said sarcastically over her shoulder, “Thanks for the drink.”
Shoving his crutches forward, Gavin hobbled around the bar and placed himself squarely in her path to the door. “What’re you really doing here?” he asked.
A surge of anger swept through her. “You think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know.” His lips twisted cynically. “But then, you’ve had a lot of practice, haven’t you?”
That did it! She slung her bag over her shoulder. “For your information, I don’t want to be here. If I could, I’d be anywhere on God’s green earth rather than here with you!” She spun, but quick as a striking snake his hand shot out, steely fingers curled over her wrist and he whirled her back to face him.
“Before you leave,” he said so quietly she could barely hear him, “just answer one question.”
Melanie’s heart thumped, and her wrist, where his fingers wrapped possessively over her pulse, throbbed. Her throat was suddenly dry. “Shoot.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“I don’t have a husband anymore.”
Where the hell is Jan? Melanie thought as she grew more uncomfortable the longer her interaction with Gavin continued.
His eyes narrowed as if he expected everything she said to be a lie. She turned back to the door, but he wouldn’t release her. “So what happened to good ol’ Neil?”
She swallowed hard. “We’re divorced.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Regret? “I guess I should say I’m sorry.”
“No need to lie.”
His face softened slightly. “Believe it or not, Melanie, I only wanted the best for you,” he said suddenly. “I just didn’t think Neil Brooks could make you happy.”
“I guess it’s a moot point now.”
“Is it?” Again the pressure on her arm, the spark in his eyes.
Nervously she licked her lips, and his attention was drawn for a second to her mouth.
His jaw worked, and he said softly, “You know, Melanie, I think it would be best if you didn’t come back.”
“I only came here because of my job.”
“Oh?” he said, eyebrows lifting, the fingers on the inside of her wrist pressing slightly against her bare skin. “So you weren’t curious about me?”
“Not in the least.”
“And you didn’t think because you rid yourself of your husband that we could pick up where we left off?” His voice had grown husky, his pupils dilating in the darkened lodge.
“That would be crazy,” But her heart was pumping madly, slamming against her ribs, and she could barely concentrate on the conversation as his fingers moved on her inner wrist.
“Probably—”
The huge double doors were flung open, and Jan, her briefcase swinging at her side, strode into the lobby. “So here you are! God, I’ve had a terrible time getting here—” She took one look at Gavin and Melanie, and her train of thought seemed to evaporate.
Self-consciously, Melanie yanked her arm away from Gavin.
“Well,” Jan said, as if walking in on an intimate scene between one of her co-workers and an internationally famous skier were an everyday occurrence, “I see you’ve already started.”
“Not quite,” Melanie replied, but Jan plunged on, walking up to Gavin and flashing her businesslike smile.
“I’m Jan Freemont. With the Taylor’s Crossing Tribune.” She flicked a confused glance at Melanie, “But I suppose you already guessed.”
“I assumed.”
Jan dug into her heavy canvas bag. She withdrew a card and handed it to him. “So, you’ve already met Melanie.”
Gavin’s mouth quirked. “Years ago.”
“Oh?” Jan’s brows lifted in interest, and Melanie could have throttled Gavin right then and there.
Instead, she managed a cool smile. “Gavin and I both grew up around here,” she explained, hoping that would end this turn in the conversation. She was probably wrong. Jan wasn’t one to let the subject drop. Her reporter instincts were probably going crazy already.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jan apologized. “I had trouble with my car again.”
“I don’t think it matters,” Melanie said.
Jan was busy extracting a recorder and pad of paper.
Melanie threw Gavin a look that dared him to disagree as she said, “Mr. Doel and I were just discussing the interview.”
“Mmm?” Jan asked, searching through her large black shoulder bag.
“There isn’t going to be one,” Gavin said.
Melanie lifted a shoulder. “Apparently he didn’t know about it.”
“I didn’t,” Gavin clarified.
Melanie charged on. “And he’s not interested in going through with it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jan asked.
“’Fraid not,” Gavin drawled.
“But I spoke with your partner, Mr.—” she flipped open the note pad “—Johanson. He said you’d be glad to talk to us.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Gavin seemed faintly amused. “Well, he was wrong.”
Oh, this is just wonderful, Melanie thought, wishing she could disappear. She’d known this session would be a disaster, but neither Brian Michaels, the Trib’s editor-in-chief, nor Jan, the paper’s phenom reporter, had listened to her. Jan saw herself as a new Barbara Walters and Brian was hoping he could turn the Tribune into the Washington Post. Never mind that the Tribune was a small newspaper in central Oregon with a steadily declining readership.
Jan wasn’t about to be thwarted. She explained about her phone call to Gavin’s partner. She also went into an animated dissertation about how she wanted to write a “local
boy does good then returns home” type of story.
Gavin wasn’t buying it. He listened to all her arguments, but his hard expression didn’t alter and his gaze drilled into her. “If you want information on the lodge, you’ll have to get it from Rich,” he finally said.
“But our readers will want to know all about you and your injury—”
“My personal life is off limits,” Gavin muttered, and Melanie felt a tremor of relief.
“But you’re a celebrity,” Jan cooed, trying desperately to win him over. “You have fans who are interested—”
“Then they can read all about it in some cheap rag at the checkout counter of their local market. It might not be true, but it’s guaranteed to be sensational.”
“Now, wait a minute.” Jan wasn’t about to take this lying down. “Reopening Ridge Lodge is a big story around here! People will be interested and it’s great publicity for you—”
“I don’t want publicity,” he said, glancing icily at Melanie. “I think I’ve had enough.” He hobbled to the door. “If you want to do an article on the lodge reopening, that’s fine with me, but I want my name kept out of it as much as possible.”
Jan’s smile was frozen. “But doesn’t that defeat the point? It’s your name that’s going to bring people here, Mr. Doel. Your face in the paper that will make people interested. You’re an international skier. You’ve endorsed everything from skis to lip balm. Your face will guarantee public interest, and that’s what you need to reopen the lodge successfully.” She gestured expansively to the inside of the resort. “I know I can convince my editor to do a series of articles about the lodge that will keep public interest up. I’ll also freelance stories to ski magazines that are distributed everywhere in the country, so by the time the snow hits and the season is here, you’re guaranteed cars in the parking lot, skiers on the runs and people in the bar.”
Melanie expected Gavin to say “Bully for you” or something along those lines, but he kept silent.
Jan pressed her point home. “My guess is you need all the publicity you can get.”
“I’ve given you my answer. Rich’ll be back here this afternoon. Since he’s the one who agreed to this damned interview in the first place, you can talk to him.”
He shoved his crutches in front of him and moved awkwardly through the front door.
