“Game’s over, Travis, whatever game you were playing.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sure you were,” she interrupted in a clipped voice. “You found the cat, you found the cage, and then you started shoving sharp things through the bars just so you could watch the cat scratch and howl. That makes you feel powerful, and the cat . . .” She shrugged. “Hell, who cares how the cat feels? It’s just an animal and you’re a man.”
A charged silence settled over the foyer.
Cat watched Travis’s hands change from flat against the door into fists, solid and heavy. Muscles coiled and slid beneath tanned skin, telling more clearly than words of the emotions seething in the man behind her.
Stiff-spined, she waited for him to let her go.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.”
“How?” he asked starkly, looking at his own fists.
“The same way I knew my cameras would be safe with you. In some ways we know each other frighteningly well. It makes the misjudgments all the more . . . painful.”
“Cat in a cage,” he whispered. “I would like to know who left such scars on you.”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t like knowing him at all. He isn’t a likable boy.”
Gradually Travis’s hands relaxed. He let out a long, weary curse.
For the first time Cat noticed the fine scars crisscrossing his fingers. Some of the scars were new, some were so old they had all but faded beneath the sunbrowned skin. She wondered what kind of work he did that left such spidery marks on him.
And then she wondered what kind of female had left invisible, much deeper scars on him.
“Was he really that bad?” Travis asked finally.
“My ex?”
“Is he the boy who put you in a cage and tormented you?”
Cat shrugged. “He probably wasn’t any worse than the female who soured you on half the world’s population.”
“Are you so sure it was a woman?”
“A female,” Cat corrected evenly. “And yes, I’m sure. Most people have to be taught that kind of soul-deep wariness of the opposite sex.”
“Were you?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
Cat didn’t answer, but the stiffness slowly left her spine. Her shoulders sagged. She didn’t have the strength to fight Travis and her memories, too.
With a bitter word she stopped trying to pull open the door and simply leaned her forehead against it, letting her camera bag rest on the floor. For the first time she noticed that she was standing in a spreading pool of pink-tinged water.
Travis saw it, too. He didn’t ask if he could pick her up again. He simply did.
The strap of the camera bag slipped from Cat’s fingers. Automatically she made a grab for it, but it was already beyond her reach.
“My camera gear,” she said.
“It will keep.”
“But—”
“Relax,” he interrupted, talking over her. “All I’m going to do is bandage your foot. If you want to leave afterward, I won’t get in your way.”
Cat told herself that she was probably a fool, but she believed Travis at a level of her mind too deep to deny. Despite their mutual wariness, something in him called to her. She had never felt that with a man before. Any man. Even her ex.
Especially her ex.
It made Cat wonder if there was more to the man-woman dynamic than she had managed to discover in twenty-nine years.
This time Travis set her down in a bathroom done in shades of lavender, lemon, and pale fuchsia. His brown, powerful back looked so out of place amid the pastel splendors that she couldn’t help smiling.
But when he touched her foot, the smile became a gasp.
“Hurt?” he asked mildly.
Cat gritted her teeth against an unladylike answer.
“It will get worse,” he assured her. “The sand has to be scrubbed out.” He looked up at her. “Do you want me to do it or would you be more comfortable doing it yourself?”
At first Cat didn’t answer. She simply pulled her right foot into her lap to inspect it. There was more than one cut. None was deep enough to require stitches. All the cuts began on her sole and then wrapped around to the outside of her foot, a place that was almost impossible for her to reach.
And Travis was right. There was sand in every cut. Even if she soaked the foot thoroughly, some sand would remain. It was the nature of sand and barnacle cuts to stick together.
Making a disgusted sound, Cat thrust her foot back into his hands.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Haven’t we had this conversation before, the one where I should be thanking you instead of vice versa?”
“That’s okay. We’ll just keep on doing it until we get it right.” He looked up and smiled slowly at her. “I guarantee it.”
Cat knew better than to touch that line. He was no more talking about repeating conversations than she was thinking about it.
Still smiling, Travis put warm water and disinfectant in a basin, set her foot in it, and left the bathroom. He returned almost immediately, carrying a thick, dark blue bathrobe in his hands. Without a word he wrapped it around her. Then he settled cross-legged on the floor and picked up her cut foot.
She wasn’t surprised that he was both gentle and quick as he worked over her foot. Any man who moved with his innate coordination was bound to be good with his hands.
With a minimum of pain and no wasted time, Travis cleaned Cat’s cuts, put on salve, and wrapped her foot with gauze. When he was done, he held her bandaged foot in one hand and kneaded her calf almost absently with the other. His eyes were focused on something only he could see.
She was focused on him. His hands were warm on her cool skin, his fingers strong and sure as he soothed away the cramps that had come as she tensed her muscles against pain. As she looked at him, she forgot her stinging foot. His tawny hair was alive with every possible shade of brown and gold. Light moved through his short beard and highlighted the subtle difference in the texture of his skin against hers. His fingers curved tenderly around the arch of her foot.
Cat longed to photograph him, the fluid lines and blunt strength, the sleek light and masculine shadow. He was as compelling to her as the great black ship had been.
“What are you thinking?” Travis asked quietly
“I want to photograph you.”
His eyes widened, revealing brilliant tourmaline depths. He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Will you always surprise me?”
“Depends on what your preconceptions are, doesn’t it?”
His smile faded. “I hereby abandon all my preconceptions about the opposite sex. And you, Cat, will you abandon yours?”
“I don’t have any where men are concerned. Only boys. I’ve never known a man.”
Except you, she thought. Are you what you seem, Travis? A man, not a boy?
Travis was as baffling as he was compelling to her. She had just met him, she had always known him, she didn’t know what to do with him, and she didn’t want him to go away.
Cat waited while he studied her in turn, visibly weighing her words against his previous experiences, deciding whether to take her the same way the sailing ship had taken the night—openly, with nothing held back.
“May I call you Cat?”
“Haven’t you always?” she asked lightly.
He rubbed his beard along her bare calf. She was smooth, resilient, smelling of salt and a faint perfume that was essentially woman. He would have brushed his lips over her, tasted her, but he had seen the flashes of wariness and confusion in her eyes. He understood them.
They were very like his own feelings.
“Yes, I think I’ve always called you Cat,” Travis said, gently releasing her foot. “That will make our dinner plans a lot easier.”
“What plans?”
“I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“Thanks,�
�� she said, bending over to look at the neat bandage, “but I don’t think my foot is up to a night on the town.”
“Then I’ll bring some dinner in. What do you want?”
“How does salad, rolls, and swordfish sound?”
Travis made a growling sound of enthusiasm, but it was the bare nape of Cat’s neck that he was looking at.
“Which Laguna restaurant does take-out fish?” he asked.
“Chez Cat,” Cat said dryly, straightening up. “But I insist that customers eat with the chef.”
He smiled and wished he could nibble on her nape a little. Sort of an appetizer.
“How about if I cook?” he asked.
“You haven’t been here long enough to know your way around your cousin’s kitchen.”
Travis couldn’t argue that. Linda had enough bells and whistles in her kitchen for a fire station. After one look at the stainless steel, matte black, and fuchsia appliances, he had started exploring the local restaurants.
“You sure you want to cook?” he asked, standing up and setting Cat on her feet. “I know some really good places to eat.”
“I won’t poison you,” she said, heading for the front door, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She stopped long enough to pick up her camera gear. He was behind her. Right behind her. If she turned around, she would be in his arms. She forced herself not to turn around. Instead, she reached for the door handle.
A large, male hand beat her to it. Unlike some big men, there was nothing slow about Travis. She hadn’t turned around, but she was still halfway to being in his arms.
“Who has the best local swordfish?” he asked.
“The seafood market at Dana Point marina. Kind of pricey, but—”
Cat’s breath broke. For an instant it had felt as though her bare nape was being caressed by a silky brush.
Travis’s mustache. She was certain of it.
“Good is always pricey,” he said. “Always worth it, too. Want to come and help me pick it out and watch me while I cook?”
When Cat looked over her shoulder, she found herself staring into a pair of sultry blue-green eyes. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what Travis was thinking about.
She was thinking about it, too.
I must be nuts, she told herself wildly.
Herself shot back, If this is nuts, I’ll take it.
“I like to cook,” Cat said.
She turned back to look at the door. She didn’t trust herself to look at Travis any longer without doing something really stupid, like finding out if he tasted as appealing as he looked.
The thought of being the sexual aggressor startled Cat. Her ex had made it brutally clear that men wanted that role. Aggressive women left men cold.
“Sure?” Travis asked.
She wondered if he was talking about her thoughts or about leaving or about cooking dinner, but she knew better than to ask. She cleared her throat of the huskiness that had gathered after the silky caress of his mustache against her neck.
“Very sure,” Cat said briskly. “I’ve got some things to do before dinner. Why don’t you and the swordfish show up at my door in about two hours?”
“One hour.”
The certainty that Travis was as reluctant to see her leave as she was to go made Cat feel almost light-headed with a combination of pleasure and relief. Whatever was happening, she wasn’t alone.
“Ninety minutes,” she said.
“You drive a hard bargain. Eighty minutes it is.”
“But I said—” Cat began.
The door handle clicked beneath Travis’s left hand. The front door nudged against her breasts. The fingertips of his right hand traced the line of her throat and collarbone. With a reluctance that had Cat holding her breath, he stopped short of touching the curves that showed so clearly beneath her wet halter.
“Run while you can, Cat. With every breath you take, this pirate is becoming less willing to let you go.”
FOUR
EVEN AFTER Cat shut her own door behind her, she still felt as though Travis was watching her with elemental hunger in his eyes, a hunger she couldn’t help sharing.
Too soon, she told herself. Way too soon. I’ve never done a quickie with a stranger. I’m too old to start now.
Besides, I have more brains than that.
Don’t I?
Hurriedly Cat showered, chose some casual slacks and a hunter green blouse, rebraided her hair, and went down to her office on the lowest floor. There were messages waiting on the answering machine. She hit the play button and started jotting down notes for tomorrow’s work.
The first voice brought a smile to her face. She was always glad to hear from Rodney Harrington.
“Hi, Fire-and-Ice. Hope you and the poet octopus are doing better.”
Cat grimaced. At the moment Blake Ashcroft was one of her least favorite people. The guy gave the idea of lecher new dimensions. But he sold well and he wanted photographs to go with his lush words. A lot of photographs.
She wasn’t in a position to be picky about the number of hands her clients had.
“Remember the Danvers book I talked to you about last year? I have a publisher’s name on the dotted line as of today. I’ll finalize a few things with Danvers and then get back to you. Ciao.”
Cat blinked, trying to remember what Harrington was talking about. She and her “green angel” discussed so many projects, and she was lousy at remembering names. Frowning, she ransacked what passed for her memory. All she came up with was a vague mention of someone Harrington had nicknamed In-the-Wind Danvers or Hell-On-Women Danvers, depending on the occasion. He built ships, or something like that.
For a few moments Cat wondered how she would make a shipbuilding facility look fascinating on film. Then she shrugged. If Harrington got the job for her, she would figure out something.
After Rodney Harrington, the rest of the calls were routine: slides ready to be picked up, a camera body that had been repaired, someone selling aluminum siding, a gallery wanting to know when she would be bringing some more work by, someone selling windows, and the bank telling her that there hadn’t been any mistake, her balance was dismal.
She deleted the messages and went through the mail, sorting everything into three piles: To Be Paid; To Be Billed; Trash. The To Be Billed pile was depressingly small. If Energistics, Inc., didn’t come through with her check in the next few weeks, money would get really tight.
Cat thought about calling Harrington to see if he had any paying jobs other than the Danvers book in her future, but decided not to. She was too tired to think about taking on new work, even though she really needed the money.
Energistics will pay me soon. It’s been six months, for God’s sake. They agreed that I had done my work well and their payment is due.
Overdue, actually. They should pay me interest.
When Cat finished the mail, she eyed the pile of small film boxes that were heaped in a basket. Each box held thirty-six color slides that needed to be edited, indexed, duplicated, and then sent to the photo banks that represented her.
Usually she was eager to edit the results of her photo shoots. If she wasn’t eager, all she had to do was think about a simple fact: she couldn’t make any money on slides that were hidden in boxes.
Even so, tonight the thought of editing lacked any appeal. All she really wanted to look at was Travis.
I wonder what his last name is. And why was he so sure I knew it?
The slides boxes had no answers for her.
Cat glanced at her watch. Time was moving like a square wheel. Twenty-two minutes to go.
“I should have taken his first offer—one hour,” she muttered as she headed for the kitchen. “Then I’d only have two more minutes to go.”
Before she got to the kitchen, there was a knocking on her back door. She laughed aloud, pleased that Travis was as impatient as she was and not afraid to show it. Quickly she crossed the kitchen.
�
�Fish delivery?” she asked, smiling as she opened the door.
Cat’s smile slipped when she looked up at Travis. No man had ever attracted her more than he did at this moment. He was freshly showered, wearing a navy T-shirt and white cotton beach slacks. His tawny hair gleamed like skeins of rough silk.
She wanted to stand and simply enjoy the way his eyes transformed light into jeweled tones of blue and green. She wanted to run her fingertips over his beard and the subtle swells of muscle beneath his shirt.
But most of all she wanted to grab her camera and capture him forever, an image of sensuality to warm the cold center of her nights.
“Are you sure you want to cook?” Travis asked, looking at Cat’s odd, intent expression.
“What? Oh, yes. I told you. I really like to cook.”
“I knew we were a great match.”
She blinked.
“I really like to eat,” he explained, handing over two swordfish steaks wrapped in white paper.
Smiling, Cat took the package from his hand. As she did, she noticed again his long, tanned fingers and their hair-fine scars. She wondered if it would be rude to ask how he had acquired them.
Then she thought about her own, hidden scars, and kept her mouth shut. There was rude and then there was painful. She didn’t want to add to whatever past pain had made Travis so wary of women.
“Have a seat somewhere,” Cat said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
There was a big bay window at the end of the kitchen overlooking the water. The deep shelf of the window was filled with a pile of local shells. Travis ran his fingers through them, but his eyes followed Cat as she worked over the charcoal brazier outside and then came back to the open kitchen.
Her hair shimmered and blazed beneath the overhead lights, making all other colors look lifeless. Her dark green shirt was tucked into a pair of sand-colored slacks. Though loose, the slacks couldn’t conceal the curves and subtle, essentially female swing of her hips. The white bandage on her foot made her skin look like honey.
Despite the sore foot, she moved with a grace and economy that was pleasing to watch. She pulled various fresh vegetables out of the refrigerator, washed them, and began slicing them with a big chef’s knife.
To the Ends of the Earth Page 5
