But he sure wasn’t walking away from this chance to be with her, to get closer.
He’d ordered a light, tapas-style dinner to eat while lounging in recliners in the shallow end—Alaskan crab tacos, fresh tortilla chips and a fruit salsa, trying to keep her health issues in mind. Stepping out on the enclosed balcony, he heard acoustic classics piped in softly through the sound system.
Isabeau glanced over her shoulder, the creamy flesh drawing him closer. “Trystan, hello. Thank you for this restful evening. This is lovely.” She gestured toward the shoreline and mountain view. “No matter how long I’m here, I just can’t get over the beauty of Alaska.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased.” And he owed his sister a huge thanks for her suggestions.
She lifted a taco from the silver platter by the pool, held it over a napkin and took a bite, savoring it. “And this is definitely better than a funnel cake.”
Kneeling beside her, he thumbed the corner of her mouth. “This is most definitely a better way to spend the day with you.”
“I’m wearing a swimsuit.” She raised an eyebrow and took another bite of the taco.
Yes, he knew, but he didn’t see the need to point out he’d been waiting for her. “I fully expected you would. I’m wearing swim trunks, as well.”
“Thank you. Maybe it seems silly given we’ve...” She trailed off, nibbling at the last of her food.
“Not silly at all.” He pulled off the hotel robe and sat on the edge of the other lounger in the shallow end. They were here together. He was making progress with her again.
“It’s only that I think we need to keep things simple until we know where we stand in a few weeks.” She ate the last bite of her crab taco and set aside the napkin on the tiny table.
“Understood.” The thought that she might be carrying his child sent a protective surge through him again. Each time he considered their future, the feeling grew stronger.
“Your eyes don’t say you’re backing off.” She reached for her sparkling water with lemon.
“I hope my eyes say that I hear you.” He forced himself to relax, resting his elbows on his knees. “My mother—Jeannie—taught me to be respectful to women, so I won’t push anything you don’t want. But my father also taught me to pursue what I want.”
“I would love to hear more about him. I only know what’s in the business reports about Charles Mikkelson.”
Trystan saw wariness in her eyes, so he settled on sharing a bit of his past to put her at ease. “My father—my adopted dad—loved competing in the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. Every year, our family gathered to cheer him on. Even when I was only their cousin, they would invite me.”
Apparently his words were working to soothe her because she turned to face him, dipping her toes into the water. “Have you ever joined the race?”
“I tagged along with him the year before he died. I wish I hadn’t waited so long.” He averted his eyes, looking out at the harbor full of boats, the sun still shining in a long Alaskan summer day.
“I can tell how much you miss him.”
He glanced back at her. “I do. He shouldn’t have died so young. He was healthy, active, got his checkups. But he was a workaholic and the stress killed him.” He missed Charles Mikkelson every day, the man who’d been the only real father he’d ever known.
“How can you be sure it was stress?”
“I know it in my gut. That makes it tough for me to root for this merger. It’s going to put my whole family in the middle of power plays at an even higher level.”
“Perhaps the collective effort of working together will distribute the work.” She angled toward him, her feet brushing against his.
“Doubtful, but something to hope for.” He stroked the arch of her foot with his toe.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t pull away. “Tell me more about the race and the family gatherings.”
“The Iditarod is named for the trail, and the race can take anywhere from eight to eleven days depending on the weather conditions.”
“I’ve lived here for two years and I find it inconceivable to think of eleven days in the elements.” She stroked her fingers through the frothing waters.
“That’s our Alaska.” His gaze gravitated to the mountain view. His home. “The trail was used by Inuits hundreds of years before the Russian fur traders came in around the 1800s. Coal miners and other traders used it too. The race is an important part of our culture, even more so now that snowmobiles have all but made dog sledding extinct.”
“What about the dogs? Isn’t it...um...” She looked at Paige sleeping on the floor by the pool, then back at him, her blue eyes concerned.
“There are groups that feel the race is cruel to the dogs, but the commission responded to those criticisms with stricter monitoring and punishments for those who don’t care properly for their dogs. There’s debate, and I can’t speak to everyone. But I know my father’s dogs were a part of our family life. Dad would lose a race before harming his dogs. If a pup didn’t show joy for the run, then that pup wasn’t a sled dog.” He nodded toward Paige. “The same way she was screened for the right job for her.”
Isabeau nodded slowly, pensively. “I’ve heard it said that the moment a dog opens its eyes, he or she is searching for a purpose, a job, whether that be as a house pet or service dog.”
“Or search and rescue or agility... Yes, that’s the way I see it. I have a purpose too, and it’s not to head a company. I’m made to run the ranch, to commune with the land.” But he was also honor bound to protect his siblings and their stake in their father’s legacy.
It’s what Charles would have wanted him to do.
“The turmoil of this merger, the way they need you to help—it won’t last forever.”
“I know that.”
“But you also can’t exclude yourself from all family events just because you don’t like crowds or the spotlight. You’re lucky to have so many people who love you and care about you.”
“What about you?” He settled back onto the lounger, some of the deep tension seeping from him—tension that had started with this business merger. “Are you living your dream? What if you couldn’t live in a city, building celebrities?”
She set aside her glass of sparkling water, shifting uncomfortably. He seemed to have a touched a nerve, but had no idea how.
She started to stand, the V of her emerald swimsuit offering a tantalizing view of her breasts. “I may have reached my limit in the pool.”
He touched her arm lightly, concerned by the skittishness in her eyes. While he wanted her, he absolutely needed her to feel the same. “You’re safe with me. I mean it. Nothing happens unless you’re on board too.”
After a second’s hesitation, she settled back into the tub. “That’s important to know... Paige doesn’t just alert to diabetes. She also alerts to my anxiety and helps me during an attack.”
He didn’t want to assume and guess wrong. “Could you explain what you mean?”
“In addition to diabetes, I have generalized anxiety disorder.” She met his gaze defensively. “In certain situations, I have panic attacks. She has quite a few tasks she can perform, but a couple of examples... Paige uses pressure therapy to alert and soothe me. If I come home and am afraid someone could be lurking inside, she can clear the house, checking every room.”
She rushed on, that defensive brace to her shoulders only strengthening. “Some people confuse service dogs and emotional support animals. An emotional support animal is an untrained pet that provides comfort. He or she can’t be denied access to rental property if there’s a doctor’s note, but the pet can’t go into restaurants and such. A service dog is a highly trained animal, performing specific tasks and granted public access but expected to behave. I know I’m babbling, but so many people just don’t know the difference. And there’s still a lot of educa
tion needed regarding service dogs for PTSD and anxiety.”
“It’s okay, Isabeau. You don’t need to explain or justify to me. You’re impressive and so is Paige.” As much as he’d wanted to learn more about her tonight, he hated hearing that she grappled with worries that might get in the way of her happiness. Many pieces of things she’d said before came together in his mind, finally making sense. “You mentioned that you prefer to be behind the camera.”
“That’s a part of it, yes.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said and meant it. He wished he’d known earlier so he could have moved forward more carefully. Not that it stopped him from wanting her.
“Take the pity out of your eyes. I have health issues, but I’m not made of eggshells and I’m taking care of myself. This is my life. I’m a survivor and I’m pleased with the life I’ve built. Paige enables me to experience that life to the fullest.”
He stayed quiet, knowing better than to push her further, but her revelation certainly roused more questions for him.
“You’re curious about the cause of my panic attacks.”
“That’s your business to share if you wish.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your sensitivity on the subject—and the fact you don’t have a horrified expression on your face means a lot to me.”
“I’m glad I passed your test.” He found himself looking toward Paige, grateful to know the full extent of the dog’s purpose.
She laughed slightly. “I didn’t think of it as a test, but I guess maybe it was, subconsciously.”
She turned to face him and continued, “The anxiety attacks started young, with those times we were homeless. There were some hairy situations in shelters and even with some of my mom’s boyfriends. And then—” she swallowed hard before pressing ahead “—I had a boyfriend in college who didn’t like it when I told him we were through. He stalked me afterward, even after restraining orders and jail time.”
Paige whimpered, then inched over to rest her head on the side of the spa tub in a sign of comfort Trystan now fully recognized. The realization of what she’d gone through sucker punched him.
Ah hell. He wished he’d known Isabeau then, that he could have somehow been there to protect her. “That’s the reason you moved to Alaska.”
“Yes. Even though I feel safer here, the jumpiness and the fears that spiral into anxiety still linger.” She draped a hand over the side of the spa tub and stroked her dog’s head. “Paige senses when those panic attacks are coming on. She does things like pressure therapy against my leg to alert and relax me. In a situation where I’m feeling crowded, smothered even, by crowds, I may give her the ‘space’ command. She’ll walk a circle around me, which keeps people back. In a restaurant, I’ll tell her to ‘watch my six.’ She faces the other way, watching behind me and lets me know if anyone is approaching me.”
“That’s really amazing.” The connection between her and her dog had never appeared stronger to him than right now.
“She is my lifeline in so many ways.”
“I never would have guessed she was doing double duty.”
“That’s the whole idea, that she inconspicuously does her job and hopefully catches an issue before it becomes a major incident. If possible.”
He couldn’t miss the trust it took for her to reveal the deeper truth behind her dog. “I appreciate your sharing this with me.”
“You keep talking about wanting a relationship of some sort.” She paused, staring down at her fingers as they combed through the shallow water. “And I need for you to understand things are very complicated with me.”
He stayed right where he was, but locked his gaze with hers. “I hear you. And I’m not deterred.”
Somehow that look felt as intimate as any kiss. Something had changed between them, something he hadn’t anticipated and wasn’t completely sure he understood—
His cell phone chimed from across the room and Isabeau startled.
He shook his head, damning the device. “Ignore it.”
“You should—”
The ringing stopped.
“See,” he said, “no chime for a message. Must not have been important.”
The ringing started again.
“Really, Trystan,” she said, rising from the pool lounger, the sight of her curves in a sleek emerald one-piece ramping up his pulse. “You should get it.”
She tugged on the fluffy robe and he surrendered.
For now.
He hefted himself from the water, grabbing a towel on the way to his phone. He snatched his cell from the patio table and saw his brother Chuck’s number.
“Yeah,” Trystan barked. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry to call so late, but there’s been an accident at one of our pipeline construction sites.”
“Damn.” Trystan said under his breath, tucking the phone between his chin and shoulder as he wrapped the towel around his waist. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Minor injuries, all being treated,” Chuck assured him, but his voice was heavy with foreboding. “Protestors are already flocking to the area, along with the press. We need this assessed and handled. I know this isn’t what you signed on for when you stepped up to help this month. If you need me—”
“No, I’ve got it. You’re where you need to be.”
“Thanks, brother. I don’t want the Steeles thinking we can’t hold up our end of things and elbowing us out.”
“Understood. I’m on my way.” On his way into what could be a media hell storm. “Fill me in on the details.”
As he listened, he gestured to Isabeau and wrote on a notepad for her to read.
Get ready to leave. Accident with the pipeline. Media/Protesters gathering. Will need your help.
* * *
Trystan needed her help.
Those simple written words had seared themselves into Isabeau’s brain as she packed and then, once the weather had cleared in the morning, flew with him to the pipeline accident, the plane landing on a nearby stretch of water. Maybe she was feeling vulnerable after all they’d shared in the Jacuzzi.
But she couldn’t deny the swell of pride that he’d acknowledged what she had to offer.
She’d never been to a pipeline construction site before, and it surprised her to see just how remote the facility was. So remote they’d jumped in the small plane to get here and Trystan had landed on a stretch of bare earth alongside the work site. Unlike the journey to Trystan’s ranch, the flight toward damage control had been a blur of snowcapped mountains and evergreen trees. During the flight, she’d gone over some media ground rules for this scenario. While this particular event was out of her wheelhouse, Isabeau knew how to craft and spin a narrative. They would frame the story and put out all associated media fires.
He was a couple of yards away, gesturing toward the ring of trucks around the site while the foreman made notes. It was difficult to hear over the protestors shouting and blasting music, just past the trucks. They congregated near their bus and a couple of tents to protect them from the elements. Clearly, they were geared up to stick around.
Thankfully, no oil had actually spilled. Isabeau sent up a small prayer of thanks for that. Still, the gathering news media lingered outside the chain-link fence. Their cameras looked unnatural against the skinny pine trees reaching skyward.
Protestors armed with signs gathered, starting rhythmic chants. “Hey, hey. Oh, oh. These pipelines have got to go. Hey, hey. Oh, oh...”
Surveying the crowd, she guessed there were about seventy-five protestors and half a dozen news crews. Not too bad, but serious enough to warrant alarm.
Trystan had jumped right in, speaking, navigating the concerns of both conservation activist Delaney Steele and the pipeline construction workers. Though he’d vowed this wasn’t his element, Isabeau couldn’t help but notice how smoothly he directed c
omments and offered strategies. In some ways, the chaos here echoed and complemented the chaos of a ranch. Perhaps that was why he’d been asked to step up. Same skill set, different beast.
The ever-eccentric and brilliant Royce Miller appeared from behind Isabeau, flanked by his fiancée, Naomi, the official lawyer of the Alaska Oil Barons empire. Even from her spot on the sidelines, Isabeau registered the determination in Naomi’s eyes as she assessed the situation, her hands resting on her pregnant stomach.
Royce’s work boots crunching on gravel as he joined Trystan and the foreman. As the research engineer brought on for ensuring safer pipelines, Royce’s presence here was critical. After all, as she understood things, it was his innovative design that had kept the oil from spilling over in this accident. That piece of information would come in handy when fielding media questions. The company had ceased activity on the pipeline as soon as the malfunction occurred. Another snippet of data that would help defuse this situation.
Naomi stopped alongside Isabeau, hugging her long sweater around her as the wind whipped through the work site. “How’s it going with prepping Trystan?”
Isabeau angled her head closer to be heard over the whistling wind, but her eyes stayed on the tall, commanding presence of Trystan bringing a well-known, friendly reporter into his discussion with Royce and the foreman. Good call. “I think you’ve all underestimated him. I’m honestly not sure he needs my help other than picking out clothes for special events, which you could have paid someone far less to do.”
Naomi laughed in a quick burst of disbelief. “Are we talking about the same man? The guy who hides out when there’s any event with a guest list in the double digits?” Tapping her temple in faux concentration, she exclaimed with a slight edge, “Oh wait, that would be my fiancé.”
Isabeau nodded, still focused on Trystan. Magnetic charm pulled her in, seemed to make her feet ache to take even just one step toward him. “My point is that Trystan handles himself well with the press. He’s in his element talking about issues pertaining to the land—like now. So the preservation fund-raiser capitalizes on his skill set.”
The Love Child Page 9
