Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances)

by Gina Ardito

  Lyn read for more than two hours. And in that time, she reconnected with the man under the angel wings. The man who'd awakened her from a decades-long self-imposed exile. Even better, she discovered a reporter who genuinely cared about his subject, whether it was a jockey without health insurance injured in a horse race or the son of a famous athlete trying to crawl out from his father's shadow.

  Even his one-on-one interview with a once-famous sports star turned heroin addict and convicted felon portrayed a pitiable man tortured by personal demons. There was no judgment, no chastisement. Just the bare facts about an athlete who'd stumbled and now spent his days reflecting on his former glory while repaying his debt to society.

  Every one of Doug's articles featured heart, grit, and the truth behind the not-always-so-glamorous lives of his subjects. He didn't sensationalize his stories, didn't manipulate those he interviewed to make them look foolish or portray them in a bad light. This was the man she'd come to know, the man she'd fallen for. His words reached through the computer to mend the cracks in her heart.

  Was it possible she'd misjudged him? That he hadn't simply romanced her for a story? How could she know for sure?

  One last article remained, All Heroes Great and Small. But the date. The date terrified Lyn. Because this article was printed in The Sportsman's online e-zine-surprise!-yesterday. Her index finger tapped aimlessly on the corner of the mouse.

  Oh, God. Did she really want to see this?

  Yes.

  On a sharp intake of breath, she began to read.

  Giles Markham sat poised on the brink of mega-stardom. With a Heisman Trophy on his mantel and a Sugar Bowl win on his resume, he had a bevy of teams ready to launch his professional football career. But Giles chose a different route. At the age of twenty-two, he enlisted in the U.S. Army. After basic training, he hit the ground in some of the fiercest battlegrounds in Iraq....

  The article continued, recounting in graphic detail Doug's arrival in Markham's unit, the hardships he and the unit faced, and finally, the fatal Humvee accident.

  Lyn's stomach clenched as she read the next few sentences: the laughter seconds before the explosion, the Humvee's tumble, and the silent blackness Doug experienced. Knowing him so well, she sensed the pain he must have felt as he told of waking up in a foreign hospital, surrounded by strangers, hooked up to machines that beeped and blinked and terrified him. She burst into tears again; this time she wept for Doug, not because of him.

  ... If not for some very dedicated people, that might have been the end of my story-and my life. But I was lucky. Without my knowledge, or even my cooperation, family and friends enrolled me in Ski-Hab, a program for disabled soldiers. There, I met a host of new heroes....

  Although he used no names, Doug managed to clearly convey the personalities of each of his classmates, the members of the therapy team, and Kerri-Sue through colorful narrative and affectionate nicknames like Lance Corporal Bride-to-Be and PFC Future Lawyer. He even included a full rundown on the founder's past military and rehabilitation history, then concluded with the town's desire to give back to their first Gulf War hero. He overlooked no one. Well, almost no one.

  In fact, one person remained conspicuously absent from his detailed article. Her.

  Of course, her cynical brain reminded her, he might have simply edited out all details that referenced her after what had happened at Richie's house. A cold wetness hit her elbow, and she flinched, then looked down at Ginger's warm brown eyes.

  "You're thinking I'm selling him short, aren't you?" She scratched Ginger behind the ears. The dog, naturally, said nothing, but she lay her chin on Lyn's lap. "I don't suppose you know what my next move should be, do you?"

  Ginger didn't utter a sound.

  On a sigh, Lyn stood. "God, I'm losing my mind." The clock on the far wall glowed 6:58 P.m. Time for her daily press monitoring. The seven o'clock gossip shows were about to start.

  She dragged herself away from the computer and turned back to Ginger. "You coming?"

  The dog, now lying on the terra-cotta tile floor, placed her head on her front paws.

  "Okay," Lyn said. "Your loss."

  She picked up the remote control, turned on the television, then flipped to the channel she needed. A popular muckraker popped on the screen in full HDTV. Once she settled on the couch, she managed to sit through twenty minutes of airhead journalism and inane commercials with no tense moments. Thank God. The furor was dying down. Soon she could go home.

  The idea, however, didn't thrill her the way it should. What did she have to go home to? A nice business, a gossipy neighbor, a few ski runs in the winter.

  Alone. Always alone.

  She cast a glance at Ginger. She'd miss her new friend. Maybe, when she finally did go home, she'd look into a greyhound rescue of her own. She'd have to do the research first, make sure the idea was feasible in a bed-and-breakfast. How would a greyhound react to a steady stream of strangers?

  "And finally, tonight," the show's blond, vapid host said, "from the `Where in the World Are the Raine Girls?' file, we caught up with April and Dr. Jeff in Manhattan, shopping for the perfect wedding venue...."

  The gossip show cut away from the studio to breezy city streets where April snuggled against Jeff and answered questions shouted out from passersby. A gaggle of microphones bounced near her face, but she never lost her step or faltered. The whole scene was ludicrous. April drew the crowds, reeled them in with romantic looks and lots of giggles.

  To keep them far away from where Lyn hid here in this house.

  Thank you, April.

  Always the brave one, her older sister. Unlike Lyn, who huddled here like a scared rabbit. Or a coward.

  What had happened to Brooklyn Raine? Where was the woman who'd conquered mountains all over the world? Had she really become so timid?

  April's advice ran through her head once again. You don't just take a chance when you play Monopoly, kiddo.

  And you couldn't find love in games of solitaire either.

  Suddenly, Lyn knew exactly what she wanted. She just had to find the courage to take the chance.

  Early the next morning, Lyn sat in the kitchen, a cup of coffee to her left and a bowl of rough-cut oatmeal on her right. For about the hundredth time so far, her focus strayed to the numerals glowing orange on the stainless steel microwave. Not quite seven o'clock. Still too early to call Brenda. She tapped a teaspoon against her cup. Tink-tink-tink.

  Ginger, curled into a canine comma against the bank of cabinets, jerked up her head.

  "Sorry," Lyn whispered to the greyhound. "Go back to sleep. It's too early to be awake yet."

  But, of course, Ginger didn't speak English. All she knew was that the human was up and she was up. Therefore, it must be time for a walk. She unfolded her long legs and stood, then trotted to the utility closet. One glance at Lyn, then a glance at the closed door before she sat and waited. Another glance. More waiting.

  Lyn resisted for a full five minutes before the dog's soulful pleading eyes finally proved too much. "Well." She gave an exaggerated sigh and rose slowly to her feet. "It's not like I can call Brenda yet, anyway. Let's do it, girl."

  As if the dog understood, she leaped to her feet, grin wide and long pink tongue lolling. Lyn strode to the closet to grab the leash. While Ginger pranced around her, she slipped into her coat. With the leash clamped on the dog's collar, they exited the house.

  Dawn tinged the gray eastern sky with ribbons of mauve. Morning temperatures, barely above freezing, made puffy clouds from her breath as Ginger led her in a gallop around the neighborhood. She used the solitude to jump-start her brain and review her plan. So many variables, so many things that could go wrong. Adrenaline dripped into her veins, tingling her skin and energizing her mind. She'd make this work, cover every angle, face the challenge, take the chance.

  When they returned to the townhouse, Lyn hung up her coat and stowed the leash, then strode into the kitchen. And paused in front of the microwave.
The clock glowed 8:58 A.M. Really? They'd been gone for an hour? Apparently, she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts, she'd completely lost track of time.

  The upside? She could now call Brenda. After fixing a fresh cup of coffee for caffeinated fortitude, she picked up the cell phone, found Brenda in the contacts list-not too difficult since she was the only number listed-and hit the green PHONE button to connect her call. Two rings went by.

  "Thank you for calling Rainey-Day-Wife. How can I make your burden easier today?"

  Easier? Hardly. Lyn's burden was about to become Herculean. "Brenda? It's Lyn. Brooklyn. April's sister?" God, she sounded like a moron.

  "Lyn? Everything okay?"

  "Yeah." For the next three seconds or so. After that, well, the jury was out. She swallowed her fear and plowed on. "I've been thinking, and I know this is last minute. I hope it's okay. But..." The words came out in a rush. "Iwanttogohome."

  Brenda sucked in a breath sharp enough to pierce Lyn's eardrum. "Oh, sweetie, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I mean, April's doing a great job of keeping the press occupied, but the reporters are still hanging around outside your inn. You show up now-"

  "I show up now, and they're going to have to deal with me." The words came out strong and sure. You go, girl. "Bren, I know April told you to take care of me and, honestly, I'm grateful. But it's time for me to stop hiding. From the press, from life." From love. But she kept that last one to herself. "The only thing that worries me is that I know this totally screws you up with Ginger, and I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," Brenda replied with a chuckle. "Ginger's regular caregiver will be thrilled to have her back. But are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Looks like I owe your sister ten bucks."

  Lyn traced a finger in the gray-swirled pattern of the marble tabletop. "What do you mean?"

  "She said love would wake you up. She's right, isn't she? You're in love?"

  A thrill raced through her blood. Love. Was it love? This fuzzy, upside-down feeling? The reason her thoughts flew to Doug a thousand times a day? The eagerness to see him, touch him, to simply be near him? "Yes."

  "Hooray! Go get him, Lynnie. You deserve your happiness. But be careful. Keep the cell phone with you. Same rules apply there as they do here. If you need anything, call. Even from miles away, I've been known to work a miracle or two in my time."

  Maybe. But this miracle, Lyn had to achieve on her own.

  Lyn drove up the long, winding driveway that led to Snowed Inn. Butterflies danced in her stomach, only partly due to the proliferation of news vans parked along the side of the road. She counted two local, two national, and one cable entertainment network among the chaos. Another reason for her flutters came from a more pleasant source, the rush of the unknown. She'd faced down a lot of challengers in her day, but today she intended to slay the beast and win her prince. If he'd let her.

  She pulled into the parking area and turned off the engine. The minute she stepped out of the car, the horde surged forward. Lights flashed and microphones popped up in her face from every angle.

  "Brooklyn! Where've you been?"

  "Brooklyn, is it true you're having an affair with Ace Riordan?"

  "Did you and April have a fight? Is that why she left so suddenly?"

  "Just a few words, Brooklyn, please? For the fans?"

  She ignored them all, holding her arm out straight to keep them a fair distance away as she sped to her front porch. Reaching the door with the cranberry wreath, she quickly turned the handle. Nothing happened.

  Locked. And she had no keys with her.

  "You could try knocking," a man in the crowd suggested. "But no one's answered in days."

  Guffaws of laughter erupted from the throng while heat scalded Lyn's cheeks. Okay, don't panic. On a sharp intake of breath, she fisted her hand, prepared to knock.

  The door slipped open a sliver, and Mrs. Bascomb's eyeball appeared. "Lyn. Thank God. Hurry. Get inside before these vultures start squawking."

  "They're already squawking." Lyn slipped inside through the miniscule crack Mrs. Bascomb had opened, then quickly shut and locked the door again. Pausing by the small round table with the pot of African violets, she removed her gloves.

  Home. She breathed in the scents of cinnamon and cider, a hint of wood smoke. Each bit of familiarity strengthened her resolve, helped assure her of victory. She could do this.

  "Thank goodness that nice Brenda called me to say you were on your way home. I've been watching for you for hours now. Where did you go? And why are you back so soon?"

  "Later," Lyn said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Right now, I have to make a phone call."

  "Yes, but before you do-"

  "Later," Lyn repeated, slapping her leather gloves on the tabletop with force. "This is important."

  "But you should know-"

  One fierce look and Mrs. Bascomb backed down. Thank God. Because Lyn was fired up enough to incinerate.

  Without removing her coat or hat, she sped straight to the phone in the sitting room and punched in the number for information. Anxiety kept her hopping, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. When the operator gave her the option, she chose to splurge on the extra twenty-five cents to have the call connected for her automatically, rather than risk misdealing thanks to her jittery nerves.

  The silence seemed to go on for several minutes, but it was probably mere seconds before the phone clicked and the ringing began.

  She barely allowed the receptionist to utter the complex's name before she blurted, "Douglas Sawyer's room, please."

  "One moment, please," the receptionist intoned, then clicked her to the annoying music on hold. An updated version of "Quando, Quando, Quando." Tell me, when will you be mine? How fitting.

  "Lyn." Like a mosquito in the dark, Mrs. Bascomb buzzed around her again. "I think you should know-"

  Oh, for heaven's sake. She turned her back on the old woman. Rude, but so was Mrs. Bascomb's continued interruptions. She needed no distractions right now. Not when she was about to take this giant leap of faith.

  With a click, the receptionist came back on the phone. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but Mr. Sawyer checked out a few days ago."

  "Oh." Excitement drained from her in a flood. She sank to the floor, her back braced against the wall to keep from crumpling in a heap. "My mistake. Thank you."

  Oh, God. Too late. She'd missed him. Desolation swept over her. Folding her stilljacketed arms over her head, she curled into a ball. Okay, deep breaths, Lyn. This isn't the end of the race; it's just a mogul field. You can regroup. You'll call Ace. Get Doug's number. You can still make this work.

  "Lyn?" His voice reached through her protective shell, and she jerked up to see him kneeling beside her, those marvelous eyes shining with concern. "You okay?"

  "Doug?" She blinked. It couldn't be. People didn't just magically appear because you wished them to. But he was real. He really was here. She struggled to rise, her legs shaking too violently to complete the effort.

  Until Doug reached a hand to help. His right hand, she noted. Joy overwhelmed her, and she flung her arms around his neck. The thick padding of her ski jacket prevented the closeness she craved, but other concerns took priority at the moment. "What are you doing here?"

  He shrugged as he released her. "I had to check out of the condo at Andiron."

  "Because of what I said at Richie's?" Guilt warmed her cheeks, and she cast her gaze to the floor. "Oh, God, Doug. I'm sorry. I couldn't be more sorry."

  "Don't be. You were right."

  Her jaw dropped. "I was?"

  "Yeah. Look, why don't you take off your coat and hat? Eleanor can get us some hot cider and cookies-she says you like that in the afternoon. The cider's a bit sweet for me, but if it makes you happy, I'm willing to drink cider. The cookies are pretty good though. Gerta made gingersnaps yesterday. I haven't had those since I was a kid. It's no wonder your inn is so popular. A person could get spoiled by your staff."

&nb
sp; Her head spun while she tried to keep up with his rambling. Finally, she grabbed him by the arms. "Doug, slow down. I'm still trying to get used to the idea you're in my inn."

  "If you'd let me get a word in," Mrs. Bascomb harrumphed from the doorway, "I would have told you he's been staying here since you took off."

  She veered her attention from Doug to Mrs. Bascomb and then back to Doug. "You have?"

  Another shrug. "Take off your coat, and we'll sit in the parlor like civilized people and talk. Okay?"

  "Okay." After pulling her wool cap off her head, she unzipped her jacket. Rather than waste time and risk losing contact with Doug, she quickly peeled off her outer garments and tossed them onto the Queen Anne chair near the phone. "All set."

  Taking Doug's hand, she pulled him into the parlor at a near run.

  He laughed. "Easy, Lyn, slow down. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not willing to take that chance."

  "Oh?" He stopped and looked down at her, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "And what brought about this change?"

  "Later." To prompt him to continue, she perched in the love seat near the fireplace and patted the empty cushion beside her. "You go first. How did you wind up here?"

  Following her lead, he sat. "Well, like I said, I couldn't stay at the Andiron since I was no longer participating in Ski-Hab. But I had an article to write."

  She held up a hand. "About that-"

  "Later." He took her fingers, squeezed, then dropped their linked hands between them. "I'm first, remember? So, anyway, I needed to continue research for my article. And all my research was best done here, where the main characters lived. After I checked out of the Andiron, I asked my cab driver for the name of the best inn in town. He brought me to Snowed Inn, of course."