by Lisa Jackson
“What happened?” Constance asked, biting on her lower lip nervously.
“Ask Brian.”
“You’re leaving?”
“For good.”
“But . . .” Constance glanced quickly to Brian’s glassed-in office. “I’ll call you.”
“Do that.”
As she headed through the front doors, Melanie ran into Jan and couldn’t help saying, “I don’t think Barbara Walters has too much to worry about.”
“What?”
“Your story, Jan. It’s garbage.”
“You’re the one who was holding out,” Jan reminded her. “You knew a lot about Doel and then you took the damned files—”
“Wouldn’t you, if you were in my shoes?” With that Melanie swung outside, not feeling the cold wind as it blew from the east.
* * *
“I told you that girl was trouble!” Jim Doel flung a copy of the Tribune onto the empty bench in the weight room.
“What girl?” Gavin, working on strengthening his thigh muscles, let the weights drop with a clang.
“You know which one.” Jim’s face was rigid, his mouth a firm, uncompromising line.
“You must be talking about Melanie.”
“That’s right.”
Grabbing a towel, Gavin wiped the sweat from his face and ignored the churning in his gut. “What happened?”
“See for yourself!” Jim growled, motioning toward the newspaper.
The headline nearly jumped off the front page. “Son of a . . .” He bit off the oath as he saw that the article was written by Jan Freemont. “How do you know Melanie’s involved?”
“She works for that rag, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, but she already told me that Brian Michaels was up to something. I doubt that she would tip me off, then be a part of it.”
“Why not? That way she looks innocent.”
“She is innocent,” he retorted vehemently, wanting to believe his own words, instantly defending her.
“If you ask me, you’ve got it all wrong. If she works for the paper, she’s part of the problem.” Jim sank onto the empty bench, lifted his wool cap and scratched his head. “I know you’ve always been soft when it comes to Melanie,” he said quietly, “but it seems to me she causes you nothing but grief.”
If you only knew, Gavin thought, reading the article and slowly seething. Though no concrete evidence was given, the story suggested that Ridge Lodge would close soon after it opened, leaving its investors, and anyone foolish enough to pay in advance for lift tickets and lodging, high and dry.
Gavin stripped the towel from his neck. “This is probably my fault,” he admitted.
“Your fault?”
“For not playing the game.”
“What game?”
“Years ago I met Brian Michaels. He was a reporter with the paper in Colorado. He wanted dirt on the ski team and then personal stuff on me and my teammates. I not only told him to get lost, I called the paper he worked for and complained. So did my coach. Michaels lost his job.”
“And you think he’d hold a grudge?”
A corner of Gavin’s lip lifted cynically. “I don’t think he’d chase me down to get back at me, but since it’s convenient, I’d bet he can’t resist a chance to get even.”
“And so he’s payin’ you back?”
“Not for long,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t about to take all the bad publicity lying down. Rich was a lawyer; he could deal with the legalities of libel. As for Michaels, he intended to talk to the owners of the paper.
But first he had to deal with Melanie.
Leaving his father sitting on the bench, Gavin walked through the shower, then threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater and a battered pair of running shoes. On his way out of the lodge, he spied the manager and left some quick instructions.
He couldn’t wait to hear Melanie’s side of the story.
Newspaper tucked under his arm, he shouldered open the door of the lodge. A blast of cold mountain air swirled in. Outside, dusk was settling around the mountain, shading the snow-covered landscape in shades of lavender and blue. He barely noticed.
As he climbed into his truck, Gavin told himself that Melanie wasn’t involved in this—she wouldn’t have used him for a story. But he couldn’t ignore the seeds of doubt his father had planted.
After all, hadn’t she lied to him, kept the secret of their child from him? If there really had been a pregnancy. His lips pursed in a grim line as he shoved the truck into gear and accelerated. The pickup lurched forward. She wouldn’t have lied about the baby. There was no reason. No, he decided, his jaw clamped, her story was genuine—at least to a point. He still wasn’t convinced that she’d kept the secret for altruistic purposes. No, she probably wanted to snag rich Neil Brooks all along.
Or had the baby been Neil’s? Was there a chance she’d been sleeping with Neil at the same time she was seeing him? That made more sense. Neil would much rather claim his own child than a bastard of Gavin’s.
“Stop it,” he ground out, his fingers tight on the wheel.
His chest constricted, but he forced his thoughts back eight years to the hayloft where they had met, to the moonlight that had streamed through the window to cast her black hair in a silver sheen, to the look of sweet, vulnerable innocence that had lingered in her eyes.
No, he couldn’t believe that she had lain with him one night and the next with Neil Brooks. No matter what had happened between them, he wouldn’t believe that she was that emotionally cold and calculating. “Get over it,” he growled at himself as he cranked the wheel. The truck skidded around the corner, then straightened.
In the distance, through the pines, the city lights of Taylor’s Crossing winked in the darkness. It would take twenty minutes to get to Melanie’s house. He only hoped that she was home—and alone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Melanie finished touching up some photographs in her studio, responded to a couple voicemails and tentatively planned two portrait shoots for the next couple of days. Since she was officially out of a job, she needed all the work she could get—and that included working at Ridge Lodge. With Gavin.
She dialed the resort’s number and was told by a foreman that Gavin and Rich were out.
“Terrific!” she muttered, wondering about their reaction to the article as she fixed herself a meager dinner made from leftover chicken, vegetables and gravy. “Use your imagination, Mel,” she told herself as she rolled premixed pie dough and laid it over the top of a casserole dish. Gavin would be furious—and hell-bent to avenge the article. “Well this is going to be fun,” she muttered sarcastically, switching on the radio and adjusting the volume. The disk jockey reported that another storm was about to hit the central Oregon Cascades. More snow for the lodge, she thought. At least some news was positive.
Sassafras, hoping for a morsel of chicken, stood at attention near the stove. “Later,” she promised, then eyed her creation. “We’ll both have some—to celebrate.”
Though not working for the Tribune created a score of financial problems, she felt a sense of relief.
Shoving the dish of chicken potpie into the oven, she winked at the old dog. “Tonight, we dine like kings,” she announced, then wrinkled her nose. “Well, not really kings, maybe more like dukes or squires or ... well, peasants would probably be more appropriate. But we’re celebrating nonetheless.”
To prove her point, she pulled out the bottle of champagne she’d had in the refrigerator since her birthday and popped the cork. She found a glass high in the cupboard over the stove.
“Here’s to freedom,” she said, pouring the champagne. It frothed over the side of the glass, and she laughed. “I guess I won’t get a job pouring drinks down at the Peg and Platter, hmm?”
Sassafras whined and lowered his head between his paws, still staring up at her with wide brown eyes as the doorbell pealed.
With a loud growl, the dog leaped to his feet and raced, toenails cl
icking on the old hardwood floor, to the front door. Melanie set her glass on the counter and followed.
Through the narrow window near the front door, she saw Gavin, collar turned against the wind, blond hair dark and wet, snow on the shoulders of his leather jacket, jaw set and stern.
A newspaper was folded neatly under his arm. Today’s edition of the Tribune.
“Give me strength,” she whispered prayerfully as she unlocked the door and swung it open.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, shaking the paper in front of her nose.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she tossed back at him, the hackles on the back of her neck instantly rising.
He strode in without an invitation. “Whose smear job is this?”
Melanie closed the door behind him and braced herself. “Brian Michaels’s.”
“And what did you have to do with it?”
“Nothing.”
His sensual lips compressed. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I didn’t see the front page until this morning.”
“Helluva way to bring tourists into town.” He flung the newspaper onto a nearby table.
“Did you come over here to accuse me of something?” Melanie asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Because if you did, let’s get down to it.”
“What would I accuse you of?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like you think I was part of some conspiracy.”
“No, I don’t believe that,” he said quietly, though he was still angry. White lines bracketed his mouth, and his jaw was clenched so hard a muscle worked beneath his cheek.
“Oh, so this is just a social call,” she said, unable to resist baiting him.
“I just want to know what’s going on. You work for the paper—”
“Worked. As in past tense.”
His eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
She motioned to the newspaper. “That happened and ... well, it’s probably going to get worse.”
“How?”
“Brian’s not about to let up. Come on into the kitchen. I’ve got something in the oven and I’ve got to keep my eye on it.” He followed her through the hallway by the stairs. The scent of stewing chicken and warm spices wafted through the air. “Join me?” she asked, holding onto the neck of the champagne bottle.
He lifted a shoulder.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She poured his glass and handed it to him. “I’m celebrating.”
Lifting an eyebrow, he took a sip from his glass. “Celebrating what?”
“My emancipation. I quit the Tribune.”
He frowned. “You said things would get worse.”
“They will. Brian found out that we dated in high school, Gavin. He plans to use it. He even asked me to get close to you again, get you to confide in me.”
“Great guy, your boss.”
“Ex-boss,” she reminded him. “That’s when I quit.”
“How much does he know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“The baby?”
His words sliced through the air like a sharp knife. “I don’t think so,” she replied, shivering.
“Who does?”
Shaking her head, she frowned. “My dad did and Uncle Bart and Aunt Lila.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “And of course Neil and the doctor.”
“No one else?”
“I don’t think so.” Drawing in a shuddering breath she opened her eyes again and, grateful for something to do with her hands, lifted the glass to her lips. “I lost the baby before I’d started to show—before Neil or I had said anything to our friends.”
Gavin’s nostrils flared. “And you didn’t mention it to your ‘friend’ Jan?”
“Of course not!” Melanie replied guiltily. She knew now that she should never have confided anything to Jan. “I told her we dated so she’d stop asking questions. I didn’t think it would backfire.” She finished her drink in one gulp.
“When reporters can’t find news, they create it.”
“Not usually,” Melanie replied, noticing that Gavin’s glass had been drained. She poured them each another glass and asked, “So why does Brian have it in for you?”
“You think he does?”
She nodded. “Don’t you?”
“Probably. I met him a long time ago in Colorado. He started sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, and I complained. He was fired shortly thereafter.”
“He never mentioned it,” Melanie said thoughtfully. “When your name was first linked with the lodge, Brian was pretty interested, but I don’t think it was because he wanted to dig up some scandal. At least, I hope not.” She sipped from her glass again and stared over the rim at Gavin.
He was tense, his features hard, the muscles beneath his shirt bunched, but his gaze, when it touched her, was warm and seductive. His tawny eyes were as they had always been, erotic and knowing.
Her mouth grew dry, and she quickly finished her second glass of champagne.
He stood near the windows of the nook, one shoulder resting on the doorframe, large fingers wrapped around the slim stem of his fragile champagne flute.
The soft noises in the house filled the room—the slow tick of the clock in the front hall, the steady rumble of the furnace, the muted strains of a love song from the radio, a creak of ancient timbers and the old collie’s whispering breath as he slept under the table.
“So what’re we going to do about this?” he finally said, his eyes searching her face.
“About what?”
“Us.”
That single word caused her heart to start thumping. “I don’t know if there is an ‘us.’ I’m not sure there ever was.”
“Sure there was,” he said easily, finishing his champagne and setting the empty glass on the counter.
“It was a long time ago.”
“What about last week, when you were up at the lodge?”
Yes. What about those precious hours we spent together? “As I remember, it didn’t end well.”
“You shocked me.” He let out a long, slow breath, but his gaze never wavered. “If I’d known about the baby . . .”
“What would you have done?”
“Come home.”
Her heart wrenched. “But that would have been no good,” she whispered, her words difficult. “You didn’t stay for me. You couldn’t come back for a baby. You would’ve felt trapped.” She saw the denial in his lips and held up a palm. “You would have, Gavin. Someday, sometime. You would have wondered, ‘what if?’”
“And you weren’t willing to gamble that I would decide it didn’t matter?”
“No.”
He crossed the room slowly, his gaze moving deliberately from her eyes to her lips. “You didn’t give me enough credit, Mel.”
“I just wanted you to be happy—”
Wrapping strong arms around her waist, he drew her against him. “Happiness is elusive,” he whispered before he kissed her, his lips molding over hers. He smelled of snowflakes and tasted of champagne.
Knowing she shouldn’t give in, Melanie closed her eyes and leaned against him, content to feel his hands splayed possessively against her back. She welcomed the feel of his tongue as it slid easily between her teeth, his hard body pressed so intimately to hers. His thighs moved, pinning her legs to his. Her pulse leaped, and her heart thundered.
When at last he lifted his head, his eyes were glazed. He touched her wet lips with one finger, tracing her pout, his gaze searching hers. “I thought that if I ever saw you again, it wouldn’t matter,” he confessed. “I told myself that I was over you, that you’d been a boyhood fascination, nothing more.” Disgust filtered through his words. “Obviously I was wrong.”
The timer on the stove buzzed so loudly Melanie jumped.
“What’s that?” Gavin asked.
“Dinner.”
“It’ll wait.” In a quick motion, he turned off the stove and the buzzer.
Noticing the coat rack near the back door, he tossed a long winter coat in her direction, grabbed her hand and tugged, pulling her outside.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” she said, laughing as he led her down the back steps and through the snow. “I’m not dressed for this.”
“Don’t worry about your clothes,” he said, sliding a hard look over his shoulder.
“Gavin . . . ?”
He didn’t answer but just tugged on her arm, leading her across the yard. The sky had turned black, in stark contrast to the white earth. Snow covered tree branches, roofs, eaves and ground, drifting against the fence and piling onto the stack of wood near the barn.
The barn.
The air was suddenly trapped in her lungs.
With a tingling sense of deja vu, she knew where he was taking her. Her throat went dry, and time seemed to spin backward.
He tugged on the handle of the door, and it slid to the side on rusted rollers, creaking and groaning. Inside, the dark interior smelled of dust and old hay. There were no more cattle or horses, and the barn itself was in sad need of repair.
Melanie balked. Her breath fogged. “You’re not seriously thinking of—”
“Let’s go,” he insisted, leaving the barn door open, letting in a pale stream of illumination from the security lamp near the garage and the silvery reflection of the snow.
He paused at the bottom of the ladder to the hayloft, and Melanie stopped, yanking her hand from his. “They say you can never go back, Gavin.”
“I’m not going back.”
“This might not be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It’s been eight years for a reason.”
His arms surrounded her, and his mouth closed over hers. Memories rushed through her mind, yet they paled to the here and now, to the rough feel of his jacket against her cheek, the smell of his cologne mingling with the dust, the warmth of his hand pressing hard against the small of her back. She’d been kidding herself, she realized, when she’d made love to him before and thought she could remain emotionally detached.
