What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG)

by CJ Roberts

  Travis dragged his bare feet over the warm redwood decking, grumbling audibly all the way to the grill. “You said you were going to cook the dinners.” He directed his disgruntled voice to Casey’s figure that was moving around in the kitchen. “I’m lousy at this. I hate barbecuing. I don’t want to hear any complaints when the chicken is burned and crusted and black.”

  With hands on slim hips, Travis eyed the large grill morosely. He pushed up the heavy cast iron hood, turned the dial that let the tanked gas flow into the lines, then carefully struck a match to the twin burners. “I’d like to take a shower too.” He yelled, tossing the box of matches onto the grill’s side shelf. “I’m the one who’s recuperating and needs rest.”

  Travis picked up long wooden handled cooking tongs and clicked the stainless steel ends noisily together. “We could have had sandwiches. I am not fussy. I –” He stopped shouting when a pair of bare feet caught his peripheral gaze. He turned and let his tawny gaze travel up the sleek legs, over pleated black shorts and a white cotton T-shirt with a string of colorful parrots across the bust line to focus on the tears streaming down Casey’s face.

  He stared. She was sniffling heavily, her breath coming in short, jerky gulps. Liquid green eyes were red and swollen with tears that continuously dribbled down her cheeks. Travis dropped the barbecue tongs and swallowed guiltily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I was only teasing.” He ran a large hand self-consciously around the back of his neck. “Listen, I don’t mind helping out. I told you that this morning.”

  She blinked and another cascade of tears rained down her face. He looked so serious and so upset that it was hard for her to maintain her pretense of misery. Her lips twitched. “Onion tears,” she announced, then her mouth broke into a wide, unrepentant grin.

  “Why you little stinker!” He shook her shoulders roughly.

  “Careful,” she lifted the food ladened tray she was carrying. “You don’t want to make me drop the dinner you’re going to barbecue.” Casey smiled into his face. He kept staring at her. She shivered when Travis’s fingernail delicately followed the moist trail from the inner corner of her eye, down the side of her straight nose, over the soft, rounded contours of her face to settle into the dimple that peeped in her right cheek.

  He lifted his hand, letting his finger transfer the salty taste of her tears into his mouth. “Where’s your other dimple?” His voice was low and husky.

  “I sit on it.” She winked, then gave a self-conscious laugh and pushed the tray against his chest. “Here, you better get dinner started. The chicken cook’s best on lower heat, keep turning and basting every fifteen minutes. The veggies are in this aluminum foil packet. Pop those on the top grill. And the grill fork tells when the chicken is done. See the temperature thingy.” She left the preparations in his capable hands, then turned and walked back into the villa.

  Casey directed the pulsating needles of warm water from the shower massager over the stiff, tired muscles on her back and shoulders. She sighed in exultant relaxation under the invigorating cascade as she ran the gold bar of bath soap over her slippery body. Twisting her torso and arching her slender back, her green gaze settled on the deep indentation in her left buttock. It was really a shame Mother Nature hadn’t seen fit to place both her dimples in the same set of cheeks. Travis would never see the pair.

  Travis! Casey shook the water off her face and blinked rapidly. She hadn’t thought about him all day. Travis Craig! Her subconscious echoed his name in an ever-increasing, distressing refrain. She turned off the shower, opened the glass doors, and wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel. Casey sat down hard on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping under a sudden invisible weight.

  Travis Craig! Just this morning, before she found him asleep in the other bedroom, she had been extolling the joys of solitude. Now she had a twenty-four-hour-a-day companion! Instead of nights of peaceful, quiet contemplation, now she would have to be witty and charming and entertaining.

  Travis Craig! His rugged face would be staring at her across the dinner table every night. His tall, powerful body would be swimming in her private bay and growing bronze on the sugary sands of her private beach.

  Travis Craig! He’d be in and out of the villa all day, slamming doors, opening cabinets, asking where things were. She’d never get any writing done! She’d have to be placid and unoffending no matter what he said or did. She’d have to be agreeable and pleasant and well groomed even at breakfast!

  Travis Craig! A perfect stranger had singlehandedly ruined her entire vacation. Now her tranquil nights would become like the cocktail parties she had always hated, full of inane, boring chit-chat and false condescending attitudes.

  Her heart began to pound frantically in her chest and the sound reverberated in her head. This was what she had run away from. Her mouth went dry and her muscles tensed. Her fingernails scratched her arm until the skin was red and bumpy. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” Her voice an unusually high, strained squeak.

  Clammy palms rubbed the strain from the back of her neck. Defiantly, she took a firm grip on her frantic, chaotic thoughts. Remember, you are no longer a helpless, vulnerable victim. This is not a life-or-death situation. This is just two people eating dinner, relaxing and talking about anything that comes to mind. Or, even, not talking. You can always come back to the quiet of your bedroom and make notes.

  She inhaled two deep, steadying breaths. The situation wasn’t so bad when put into proper perspective. Travis could speak for himself. After all, the poor man had lots of problems – he was unemployed and recovering from a serious illness. Despite that, he seemed warm and friendly, a person worth knowing and cultivating as a friend. Mike knew and liked him or he would never had issued an invitation to use the villa and meet Matt. An unaccustomed glow spread over Casey’s skin. She found that she was curious about Travis. He could prove to be an interesting diversion. He certainly knew how to edit.

  Casey sighed and lifted her head. Her eyes were caught by the sight of her reflection in the mirror over the massive hand-carved wooden dresser. Here she was worrying about making some god-awful social blunder or some silly faux pas. Hadn’t she just spent the better part of a week trying to undo all the guilt? Hadn’t she been trying to learn to like and trust her feelings without being embarrassed by them?

  Hesitantly, she smiled at her image, feeling her poise and self-assurance flood back into her veins. She was here to enjoy herself, and if Travis Craig didn’t like the real Casey Reynolds, he could just stay in his room. Her smile broadened. She felt better. She wasn’t perfect, but she was gaining in self-confidence.

  Her green gaze shifted to the open louver doors of the bedroom closet. She wondered whether Travis was one of those men who hated women in pants and liked them in feminine skirts and dresses. Her thoughts skidded to a halt. Damn, I’m doing it again. Worrying about pleasing someone else. I don’t care what he might like. I’m going to wear what I damn well feel like wearing. What I’m the most comfortable wearing.

  Casey let the towel fall to the carpet and put on fresh underwear. Then she took a crisp, white sleeveless V-necked blouse from a wooden hanger and slipped it on. She chose aqua and green leaf-printed culottes that flowed gracefully around her knees and slid her feet into leather huaraches.

  Settling herself on the chair at the dresser, she looked at her limited collection of makeup. She had never worn a lot of cosmetics and wasn’t about to change for Travis. She darkened her pale lashes with black mascara, brushed on peach blusher to highlight her cheeks, and coated her full lips in a rich copper gloss. She replaced her normal gold button post earrings with the hammered silver hoops she’d bought in the village.

  Reaching up, she released the pulled-up brown hair from its thick braid and brushed it into a cascade of soft, flowing curls that reached her shoulders. Critically she faced herself in the mirror. She was not a beauty, but she was attractive. More importantly, she felt comfortable and natural and totally h
erself. An hour later, when she left the security of her bedroom, she felt ready to handle any situation.

  Mexico and nature worked in harmony to provide a stunning Pacific sunset for her first dinner with Travis. The sky was an extravaganza of mauves, crimsons, and gold’s, dotted with the easily distinguishable silhouettes of pelicans heading home to the nearby cliffs.

  The glass-topped patio table had been perfectly set. Sitting in the middle of the pristine white china and polished silverware was a platter of golden chicken and crisp vegetables, a tossed salad, and a plate of grilled garlic toast. Goblets filled with lemonade shimmered in the iridescent light from citronella candles.

  Travis was standing at the wooden railing, gazing out at the bay. He looked cool and refreshed in close-fitting white denims and a navy knit shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. The dark coils of his hair were still wet from a shower and the tangy smell of his aftershave blended with the fragrant night-blooming jasmine that grew around the deck.

  Casey smiled to herself. It seemed her fears about Travis being a nuisance were unfounded. It was obvious that he was going to pull his weight. “Everything looks delicious.”

  Travis surveyed her. He could feel his body harden at her sensual appearance. He watched her pull out a chair and look at him. Rocking back on the heels of his sandals he continued to stare at her. “Why didn’t you tell me just who you are?”

  Casey looked at him for a brief moment, then let her gaze drop to the meal spread out before her. A mask slid over her previously relaxed features. She helped herself to a succulent chicken leg. With deliberate slowness, she licked the tangy barbecue sauce from her fingertips. “And who am I?” She reached for the spinach salad, ignoring the scraping sounds of his chair.

  “You are a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. I’ve just been reading some of your articles and your very distinguished credentials in that pile of old issues of the Annex that I found on the bookshelf.”

  She shook out her linen napkin and placed it carefully across her knees, then raised fiery, defiant green eyes to glare at him. “Does that make me a more acceptable roommate? Are you going to get a vicarious thrill telling your cronies that you spent your vacation shacking up with such a distinguished person? Shall I autograph that chicken leg for you?” Her voice was dripping with acidic sarcasm and growing steadily louder under an inner, boiling rage.

  “Now let’s see –” Casey leaned against the wrought iron back of her chair, smiled menacingly, and held up her hand, letting her fingers tick off each phrase, “—you want to know why I didn’t personally track down Osama Bin Laden? Why I didn’t write about the Columbine massacre or the Virginia Tech shootings? Why I didn’t file the report about the Twin Towers, or Hurricane Katrina or the earthquake in Haiti?

  “And even after all these years, my favorite, why I didn’t expose Watergate. Christ, I wasn’t even born yet! The worst part of that is no one credits Woodward and Bernstein. Since the movie, everyone asks me if I know Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman!”

  Travis’s large hand snaked out and closed around Casey’s slender wrist, effectively stopping her verbal tirade. “I wasn’t making a critical value judgment. I was giving you a compliment.” He looked at her impassive features and sighed. “But that’s what you get, isn’t it?”

  Casey nodded. Her eyes shifted from his face to the clean, trimmed nails on his fingers that were still locked around her wrist. “No one asks what I got the prize for; they only know it wasn’t for something that made national headlines. Then, things go from bad to worse.”

  At his puzzled expression, she explained. “They associate me with my father, and assume, incorrectly, that I’m a walking sports encyclopedia. I even had one man grab my hand, just to shake the hand that shook the hand of Babe Ruth.” Casey swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. “Babe Ruth, he died before my father was born!”

  She took a deep breath, then continued. “Do you know what the very first thing out of everyone’s mouth is?” Travis shook his head. “It’s some clever little witticism like: how’s the air up there!” Casey grinned suddenly then relaxed. “Say, any time you’d like to jump in with a comment, please just interrupt my monologue.”

  Travis leaned back and laughed. It was a deep, rich sound that echoed into the quiet night before drifting off on the warm evening breeze.

  “You can let go of my wrist, now, I wasn’t going to dump the salad over you. Oh, and just to further enhance your knowledge, I was a finalist for the Pulitzer three times and no, the award is nothing like the million plus you get for a Nobel.”

  His lips curved in amusement. He released her hand and began to load his plate with food. “I imagine you’re getting to be an old hand at dealing with such insensitive clods.”

  “I am in great demand at parties, local fund-raisers, and testimonials – rather like a museum oddity from Ripley’s. But those nonsensical little soirees make me very uncomfortable.”

  Travis looked at her speculatively. “I’d think you’d be a natural, after having gone to all those sports banquets with your father.”

  She looked at him then down at her plate. “I…I was never invited.”

  “What?” The mushroom feel off his fork as he stared at her bowed head.

  Casey shifted her eyes to focus on the knife in her right hand, amazed how it could be so plainly visible when she could feel its serrated edge twisting into her heart. She cleared her throat. “Well…it would have been better, publicity-wise, if Cameron Reynolds, sportscaster extraordinaire, could have brought his six foot one, basketball-playing son to those award dinners – not his six-foot one, gawky daughter.” She went quiet, wondering why she made that painful admission to a virtual stranger; but, sometimes, it was easier to talk and rationalize personal problems with strangers, they were so uninvolved.

  “And what were you doing during your transition from gawky to graceful and gorgeous?” He watched her toy with her salad.

  She smiled at him, fluttering her dark lashes with mock affectation. “Why I was learning to be perfect. The type of person no one would ever be ashamed of. I was sophisticated yet down-to-earth; I was competent and organized, yet not too assertive; I was helpful and kind yet not condescending. I was all things to all people I was very popular on one level and very lonely on another.

  “It took me a long time to understand my father. He was all about himself. The proverbial: me, myself, and I. Three was already a crowd for him, so I wasn’t invited in. Trust me, it’s very difficult to realize you are just an afterthought.”

  “And, you were building a fine rage deep inside of you.”

  She eyed him interestedly. “From the tone of your voice, I’d say you’ve been there.”

  Travis inclined his head, then gave a harsh laugh. “Over the years you develop a knack for determining what other people expect of you and you pretend to be just what they want. You create illusions, impress others, and lose touch with yourself. You’re like a martyr waiting for the payoff that never comes.”

  “It’s a miserable situation.” She paused to take a long swallow of the lemonade. “You sacrifice your self-respect, you live cautiously in established patterns, and somehow never feel fulfilled – no matter how many or what type of prizes you receive. I wouldn’t have thought academia was that – vicious?” She watched his expression change.

  “Oh, it is, you’re damned if you make tenure and publish. Then you’re equally damned if you don’t.” He hesitated a moment, before asking: “Well, your father must have been impressed when you won the Pulitzer.”

  “He died just before the announcement.” She shook off the memory and lifted her glass in a toast. “You only go around once in this life.”

  Travis laughed, picked up his glass, and clicked it against Casey’s. “So, you’ve run away from all the trivial little habits in your life and are now starting over.”

  She frowned at his statement. “I’m not sure I’m running away. I’ve just decided to stop being
insignificant. No more false fronts, no more masks. I know it’s a tiresome line, but I’m getting in touch with the real me.”

  Travis pushed his plate aside and let his gaze travel over the glowing, soft contours of her face. “And what is the real you?”

  “Hmm, you’re the first person who’s ever asked that.” She turned sideways in her chair, stretched her long legs out, and hooked her ankles on the wooden deck railing. The loose folds of the culotte slid back to reveal a slender length of lightly tanned thigh. “Well, Dr. Freud –” she tossed him a grin, “if we are going to play a truth game, I insist you participate, too.”

  “Why not.” Travis slid sideways in his chair to anchor his long legs next to hers. “Where shall we start…how about…favorite movie?”

  “That’s an easy one. Casablanca. I know, oldie but damn I’ve watched it a zillion times. Love the old Hitchcock suspense ones. Black and white movies seem to have more drama with the use of shadows and music. I love the Indiana Jones series; James Bond, but not the new guy, the older ones. I’m probably the only person who hasn’t seen Avatar or even Titanic, hey, I know how that one ends.”

  He laughed. “Well, I have seen Avatar, fabulous and Titanic, even though I knew how it ended. Can watch Star Wars and Star Trek over and over, plus all the Bond films and actors. Love all that movie magic, hate all those drunken frat boy movies, but I seem to be the only one. And since I grew up reading comic books, love that my favorite super heroes are on screen.”

  “Music?”

  “Jazz…Brubeck, Coltrane, and Hancock. I can listen to Alicia Keys for hours. Sometimes, I’ll plug into classical for relaxation. And, of course the Beatles.

  She gave an exaggerated shake. “I’m classic Rock. The soundtrack of Dirty Dancing is my favorite and Elvis singing a ballad turns me into a puddle.”