Bridal Trap

by Rena McKay

  He braked and called to Robyn. "Hey, what're you doing out on foot on a day like this?"

  Robyn approached the car. The back seat was full of framed paintings stacked together like so much cord-wood.

  "I like storms. Don't you know that by now?" Robyn said lightly.

  Larry groaned and twisted his pleasant, freckled features into a grimace. "If you didn't look like a yellow angel in that crazy outfit, I'd come right out and say that was a dumb statement." He carelessly tossed a box of redwood pieces with forest scenes painted on them into the back seat and made room for Robyn. "C'mon, let's go down to Mama-Jo's and have a steak. I have to drive back down to 'Frisco tonight. I have an early appointment to unload some of this junk on a dealer there tomorrow."

  "You shouldn't talk about your work that way," Robyn protested. "Just because you paint in quantity doesn't mean it isn't worthwhile. I'll bet your paintings have brought pleasure to more people than those of some big name artists."

  "Don't you ever get tired of looking on the bright side of things?" he asked, grinning. "Sometimes I think your middle name must be Pollyanna."

  Robyn flicked a wet sleeve at him, spraying him with rainwater through the open window. He ducked and laughed. Theirs was a comfortable, easygoing relationship. Larry had finally quit asking her to marry him, though he still got a look in his eyes that bothered her sometimes. He painted for a living, and though his name was unknown and he'd never had a gallery showing in his life, he made a comfortable living supplying inexpensive seascapes and redwood scenes to tourist-oriented shops such as her own. He deprecated his own work and talent, but Robyn thought he was better than he gave himself credit for being.

  Now he patted the seat again. "What do you say?"

  Robyn shook her head. "Not tonight. I just turned down some of Mrs. Barrone's good stew so a steak can't tempt me either."

  Larry sighed. "Still doing your good deed for the day I see, looking after the little old ladies of the world. Sometimes I think you really are too good to be true. But maybe that's why I love you."

  He said the words lightly, but Robyn quickly changed the subject. "Mrs. Barrone had a letter from her grandson. She's all excited because he says he's coming to see her."

  "The great author, Trevor Barrone himself? Right here in little old Caverna Bay? When?"

  "He didn't say. I don't think he'll come at all myself, but…" She shrugged.

  Larry gave her a long, thoughtful look. "You watch out for him if he does show up, you hear? If his pictures do him justice, he's a handsome rascal."

  Robyn wrinkled her pert nose. "Ugh."

  Larry laughed, then turned sober. "I really mean it, Robyn. You're sweet and naive—"

  "You make me sound about ten years old!"

  He ignored that. "And a whole lot prettier than you have any idea you are." Then he laughed again and put the car in gear. "But you'll probably be safe if you just keep that old yellow slicker on when he's around."

  Robyn blew him a kiss and waved as he pulled away. "See you in a few days," she called. "I'll have the mobiles ready for your next trip down."

  She went inside and fixed a grilled cheese sandwich and hot chocolate for supper. She put some good tapes on the stereo and settled down in her little workroom to work on the mobiles, her practiced eye selecting just the right bits and pieces of driftwood to make a pleasing, balanced construction.

  Her mind kept drifting back to Trevor Barrone. Would he really show up here in Caverna Bay? Unexpectedly the thought sent a little shiver through Robyn. She scoffed at it. He was handsome, of course. Almost too handsome, she decided critically. She had never been all that impressed with good looks anyway. Her experience had been that they were usually accompanied by an inflated ego. And there had certainly been nothing humble or modest about Trevor Barrone's description in the book of himself or the events in which he took part.

  Of course the book was good, she had to admit grudgingly. She had taken Mrs. Barrone to Eureka to see the movie when it played there. That had proved a trifle embarrassing, since the movie was R-rated because of the violence and some sexy scenes. But Mrs. Barrone had never so much as blinked an eye or uttered a word of criticism. Robyn had liked the book a lot better than the movie. There really was a lot more to it than the sex and violence the movie had emphasized. But by the time he wrote the movie script Trevor had no doubt realized where the real money lay, Robyn thought cynically.

  Robyn woke the next morning disappointed to hear water gurgling down the drainspout outside her bedroom window. She liked the storm but she had been looking forward to going down to the beach this morning and picking up a fresh supply of interesting bits of driftwood. She loved the beach after a storm, loved stepping onto a virgin strip of freshly deposited sand. She always had the breathless feeling that maybe this time she was going to find something marvelous, an antique Oriental vase, perhaps. Maybe, deep down in some child-fantasy part of her, even a chest of Spanish gold. Of course, what she had found so far were just oddly shaped pieces of driftwood or maybe an unusual shell, but a few times there had been Japanese glass floats. And whatever she found, of course, eventually made its way into some article for the curio shop. Several times she had won awards for her creative constructions at various Beachcomber Festival exhibits.

  Now she spent the morning working in a rather desultory fashion, going frequently to the window to check the state of the weather. By ten o'clock the rain had stopped and by noon the clouds were definitely breaking up. After lunch she slipped a hooded jacket over her jeans and T-shirt and headed for the trail that led over the slope separating the little town from the open Pacific. Tourists flocked to the beach on the bay but few of them even knew about this other beach. It was a series of beaches actually, the little crescents of sand separated by rocky ridges running out into the water. One in particular Robyn had always considered "her" beach. She felt the best driftwood always washed in there.

  She crested the slope and paused to rest, disappointed to see that although the ocean had been generous with its deposit of fresh driftwood, most of it was in chunks and logs far too large to be useful to her. Some were still floating in the rough water, others rolling along the beach with the crash of the waves. She started down the steep trail anyway. The wind was still brisk but the sun, though a bit weak, had come out.

  She was about halfway down the trail when she became aware of a disturbance out in the water. As she drew closer she could see that it was a seagull in some sort of difficulty and evidently weakening rapidly. Finally, walking along the edge of the surf, she got close enough to see what the problem was. Somehow the seagull had gotten entangled in some old fishing line. The poor thing was flopping helplessly, feet and one wing enmeshed. Part of the line was tangled in a half-submerged stump that wallowed with each movement of the water, dragging the terrified bird under.

  Robyn paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. She knew the dangerous unpredictability of any large object in the moving water, knew a wave could toss logs around as if they were toothpicks. The stump looked like a tentacled monster there in the surf, rising and falling as if it were alive. She shuddered to think what would happen if a wave rolled that monster over on her as she tried to free the bird. And yet she couldn't just leave the bird there, tangled and helpless…

  Quickly she jerked off her shoes and kicked them toward the silvered driftwood already lining the beach. She tossed her jacket after them, knowing she was going to need something dry to put on afterward. Determinedly she waded toward the rolling stump, feeling the pull of the water as it sucked the fine gravel from beneath her toes. The seagull flopped pathetically. The water surged back in, flooding around Robyn's thighs, then her waist. She fought down a feeling of panic as it drained away again, pulling at her.

  She was almost at the stump now. She could see where the fishing line was wound around one of those tentacled roots. All she had to do was pull it free and then she could take the bird to a safe place on shore an
d untangle it there.

  Another wave attacked her. She reached for the stump to steady herself but it rolled and weaved, sending her stumbling to keep out of its path. A wave rolled over her, drenching her from head to foot. The wind was blowing even harder than she had realized. She heard a cry, almost a human cry she thought for a moment, but then she decided it must be the terrified seagull.

  She tried again. This time she got a hand on the fishing line but the root on which it was caught was on the far side of the stump. She yanked on the line, felt it bite into the smooth flesh of her hands, but it wouldn't break. The seagull floundered helplessly. Frantically Robyn tried to work her way around to the other side of the rolling stump. Then what she had dreaded happened. An oversized wave lifted the huge stump as if it were a toy.

  Something hit her and flung her aside. But it wasn't the stump. Water washed over her and she came up choking and gasping as the stump rolled harmlessly on by her. She wiped her eyes, feeling the sting of salt. The water sloshed around her and she struggled to rise, but she had twisted her left knee when she fell and it wouldn't respond.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't you know you could get killed trying a fool stunt like that? Didn't you hear me yell at you?"

  Robyn brushed a tangle of hair away from her face and stared up at the man, realizing it was he who had flung her out of the path of the wave-tossed stump. Another wave sent her floundering in the sand and he towered over her.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered in a blue windbreaker, denim levis molded to lean thighs. Thick, dark hair, wrap-around sunglasses, thin scar running along chiseled jawline, lips twisted in anger or disgust. Rivulets of water slid down the smooth nylon windbreaker. He evidently hadn't had time to take off his boots and they were soaked too. Robyn eyed him warily, oddly shaken, with the strange feeling that his harsh action in flinging her to safety could just as easily turn to hostile violence in different circumstances. There was a powerful, primitive vitality about him, a raw maleness that was disturbing in its intensity.

  "Th—thank you," Robyn finally managed to say. "I didn't realize the surf was so heavy."

  "You'd better get out of the water."

  A floating branch jabbed Robyn in the ribs and he strode over and helped her roughly to her feet. She blinked back tears of pain as the sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through her twisted knee.

  "Are you all right?" he asked sharply.

  "Yes, I'm fine. The seagull—" She looked around. The oversized wave had thrust the stump far enough up on the sand that it was stuck. The bird was safe from the water now but still trapped and struggling feebly.

  His gaze followed hers. "You mean you risked your life to save a damn seagull?"

  Robyn hobbled toward the bird, favoring her injured leg. She knelt down, trying to untangle the snarled fishline, but by now her hands were too numb and stiff to do more than fumble with it uselessly.

  He squatted beside her, watched for a moment, and then silently took over the job. She watched as he deftly unwound the tangled line from the seagull's feet, competently if not too patiently, cradling the bird under his arm while he worked. Finally only the wing remained caught. Robyn stared at it in dismay as she realized this portion of line was still attached to the stump.

  "We need a knife!" she said. She knew the line wouldn't break. She had tried.

  He didn't say anything. He wrapped the line around both hands, stretching it taut between them. Robyn watched as the fishline tightened and then cut cruelly into the tanned hands. His face showed no reaction and the pressure never faltered. She winced as the line cut deeper—and then snapped.

  Quickly he unwound the line from the bird's wing and set the creature free. It wobbled off unsteadily but with all parts evidently still in working order. He tossed the fishline at her.

  "Next time you'd better just accept the fact that nature is cruel or you'll wind up as badly off as the bird," he advised.

  "Getting caught in fishline isn't 'nature,'" she retorted. "That's man's doing." She tucked the line in her pocket to discard at home so it couldn't endanger some other innocent creature.

  He took the wrap-around sunglasses off and wiped them with a handkerchief. His eyes, Robyn noted, were an almost startling shade of deep, intense blue. Uneasily she watched him, feeling a vague sense of recognition. Yet he certainly wasn't a local. And she would have definitely remembered if he had done no more than wander casually into her gift shop.

  "Tourists don't usually find this beach," she commented.

  "That is exactly what I was thinking," he agreed.

  He gave her an impersonal look of appraisal and Robyn was uncomfortably aware of her wet, shabby clothes, sand-covered feet, and hair plastered wetly to her head. Then, as his gaze dropped, she was even more uncomfortably aware of the wet T-shirt clinging to her breasts like a second skin. He replaced the concealing sunglasses, a gesture that struck Robyn as rather Hollywoodish since clouds had blotted out the sun again. She hobbled over to her old canvas shoes and sat on a log to put them on. She was chilled and shivering by the time she finally found her jacket where the wind had tossed it among the driftwood. She tried not to favor the injured knee, aware of the man's gaze on her and feeling his scorn for the way she had injured herself in concern over a mere bird. He disdainfully ignored his own dripping clothes and soaked boots.

  "Can you make it back up the trail?" he asked.

  "Yes, I think so."

  There was a questioning tilt to his head, obvious in spite of the concealing sunglasses. She was perched on a log and made no move to start up the trail.

  "I think I'll just sit here awhile and—and enjoy the scenery," Robyn said lamely. It was obviously a ridiculous statement since she was wet from head to toe, cold and shivering, and a light drizzle had started again. But somehow she didn't want to walk up the trail with him. She folded her arms, preparing to stay right there until he left, no matter how foolish she might look to him.

  He shrugged, obviously not concerned if she chose to sit there cold and wet. But instead of starting up the trail himself he headed for the rocky point stretching out into the water.

  "Where are you going?" she asked, puzzled.

  "There's a cave carved in the rocks by the water on the other side of this point."

  Robyn stared at him. "How did you know that?"

  "I used to play there when I was a boy. Buried a treasure there one time. Four marbles and a pocket knife and a package of gum. Maybe I'll see if it's still there."

  It was hard to imagine this rugged, arrogant man as a boy, dreamily burying boyish treasure in the sand. Suddenly a wave of apprehension washed over her. Dark hair, rugged build, scar on the jaw. She remembered a scene from a movie, a flashing knife in the hands of a prison guard…

  "Who—who are you?" she faltered.

  He pulled the sunglasses off again, his glance somehow mocking as he looked back at her. "Is this your private beach that you can demand identification?"

  "No, of course not, I just wondered—"

  "I'm Trev Barrone."

  Chapter Two

  Trev Barrone.

  The name echoed in Robyn's mind and she stared at him, mentally comparing the man standing before her now with the pictures she had seen. Yes, it was Trevor Barrone, no doubt about that. She probably would have recognized him, she decided, except that in all the photographs he had been bearded and now he was clean-shaven. And the sunglasses, of course, had, concealed his eyes with their unmistakable arrogance. Nor had the photographs revealed the incredible intensity of their blue coloring.

  He raised a dark eyebrow. "The name seems familiar to you."

  She refused to acknowledge that she had read his book, seen the movie, followed his name in the newspapers, if not with the devoted admiration of his grandmother, at least with curiosity. She tossed a windblown strand of hair out of her eyes. "Mrs. Barrone is a good friend of mine. She often speaks of you. She said you were coming, but—" Robyn broke off. Her
own opinion had been that Trevor Barrone would never show up, and obviously that was wrong because here he was before her. A little lamely she finished, "I just wasn't expecting you this soon. How long do you plan to stay?"

  He turned his back to the wind, hunching his broad shoulders slightly. "I'm not sure yet. I need a few days of rest and relaxation. There are some places I want to see again, such as the old cave over there." He jerked his head toward the rocky ridge.

  Guiltily Robyn realized that it was on account of her that he was standing there soaking wet. She was shivering but the only concession he made to wind and cold was that slight hunching of the shoulders. "I'm sorry you got wet helping me," Robyn apologized. "I really do appreciate the help. And I'm sure the seagull is even more appreciative."

  "I took you to be a tourist who didn't know any better than to go wading around where you might get hurt. If you live here, you certainly should have known better." His voice was contemptuous in an impersonal sort of way.

  Robyn was a little taken aback by his superior attitude. "I couldn't just let the poor bird suffer—"

  He suddenly looked at her more closely, and Robyn was all too aware of how she must compare with the glamorous starlets he liked. She wore no makeup and the wind had dried the salt water on her face and tossed her hair in wild disarray.

  "You wouldn't be the helpful little Robyn my grandmother is always talking about, would you?" he asked suddenly.

  Helpful little Robyn. Furiously she realized he was ridiculing her. The slight softening she had felt toward him for actually showing up to visit his grandmother vanished. She drew herself up to her full height, which she realized with annoyance was not particularly impressive, since she still had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "I am Robyn Christopher," she stated icily.

  "Then it appears that I am in your debt for being so helpful to my grandmother in so many ways," he stated with a polite nod of his head.