by Lisa Jackson
So he was stuck. “Hell,” he ground out. He didn’t want to think about Carlie. Not now. Not ever. He’d planned on avoiding her the rest of his life. That woman was trouble. No two ways about it. Beautiful, headstrong, kick-you-in-the-gut trouble.
Telling himself that she probably had more sense than to show up at Nadine’s wedding, he finished his beer. Certainly she wouldn’t want to cause all the old speculation again. Or would she? Carlie Surrett had been a woman drawn to the spotlight, a woman the camera loved, a woman whose brush with celebrity, though fleeting, had been real.
Frowning, he slipped a small pair of binoculars from his pocket and held them to his eyes. Monroe Manor loomed larger than before. With snow clinging to the eaves, the three-storied Cape Cod looked like something from Currier and Ives.
Charming, he thought with a sardonic sneer. Well, he hoped his mule-headed sister knew what she was getting into by saying “I do” to the likes of Monroe.
Give it up, Powell! He’s marrying her and she’s happy. As for seeing Carlie again, you can handle it. Couldn’t be much worse than what you went through in the action you saw in the Middle East. Or could it?
Ben allowed himself a grim smile. He’d willingly return to combat rather than stare into Carlie’s erotic blue eyes ever again.
Through the magnification of the binoculars, his gaze skimmed the banks of the lake, past frozen, empty docks, ancient sequoia trees, stumps and rocks to land on the shoreline by the old church camp. He saw a movement, a flash of deep blue and he adjusted the glasses.
His heart nearly stopped. His muscles tightened as she came into focus: a long-legged, beautiful woman staring across the water. Her black hair was braided loosely and coiled around the back of her head, but a few strands whipped across a face that was branded in his memory forever. She looked as if she could grace the cover of a fashion magazine in her long black coat, thrown open to reveal a gauzy blue dress that skimmed her ankles and offered a view of her elegant throat.
His fingers tightened over the binoculars as she turned, staring straight at him, her cornflower blue eyes as warm as a June day, her cheeks pink from the cold, her full lips glossy and turned pensively down at the corners. Drawing in a frozen breath, Ben waited for a wave of disgust to sweep through his blood, but instead of revulsion he felt a pang of regret for all the could-have-beens that would never be.
“Fool,” he ground out, though he kept the field glasses to his eyes.
Model slender, she stood in heels, her long coat billowing in the breeze. She shivered and tightened the belt as snow melted against her cheeks and turned to jewellike drops in her ebony hair.
“Great.” He forced the binoculars from his eyes. No doubt about it. From her getup it was obvious that she was going to the wedding. So much for hoping she had the brains or common decency to decline.
So, whether he liked it or not, he’d have to face her within the hour in front of a hundred guests. His stomach knotted at the thought of his father and how the old man would react to seeing Carlie Surrett, the woman who, in George Powell’s rather prejudiced estimation, had brought nothing but agony and disgrace to the family, the woman he blamed for the death of his first-born son.
There would be a scene and Nadine’s wedding would be ruined. “Damn,” Ben swore at the world in general. He knew what had to be done. It meant facing her alone. Dealing with the infamous Ms. Surrett would be best accomplished without a crowd of wedding guests peering over his shoulder and whispering behind his back.
It wasn’t that he wanted to see her alone, he half convinced himself; he had no choice.
Jaw set, he stalked back to his battle-scarred pickup and climbed inside. Throwing the rig into reverse, he told himself that he was just going to talk to her and set her straight on a few things before they squared off at the wedding.
He owed it to his father. He owed it to Kevin. And most importantly, he owed it to himself.
* * *
CRAZY. THAT’S WHAT SHE WAS. Certifiably nuts! Showing up at Nadine Powell Warne’s wedding to Hayden Monroe would be more than asking for trouble; she’d be begging for it!
Carlie shivered, rubbing her arms as she followed the snow-encrusted path that rimmed the rocky banks of the lake. Snowflakes caught in her lashes and her braid was loosening. She should just go to the wedding and get it over with or turn tail and run. Instead, she was out here, in the middle of nowhere, second-guessing herself.
This was all Rachelle’s fault. Her best friend had insisted that Carlie put the past to rest and accept Nadine’s olive branch to bridge the gap between the two families. But it wasn’t Nadine who worried Carlie. Nadine was happy, content with her life, ready to forgive and forget; that much was evident by the fact that she was marrying Hayden Monroe, a sworn enemy of the Powell family.
But Ben was a different matter. A different matter entirely. Carlie’s heart squeezed a little when she thought of him, but she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. She’d see him today, try and be pleasant and that would be the end of it.
An icy blast of wind ripped through the thick wool of her coat and she shivered. The sounds of muffled traffic on the road winding around the perimeter of the lake reached her ears, and for a second she thought she heard the sound of a truck’s engine much closer than it should have been, as if someone else had seen the open gates to the old church camp and pulled into the long-abandoned property. Silly. She was alone.
Her satin heels slid on the icy ground and she decided she should turn around, climb into her worn-out Jeep Cherokee and drive to Nadine’s wedding where she belonged.
Ha! What a joke! Where she belonged! That was the problem. She didn’t know where she belonged. It certainly wasn’t in the town of Gold Creek, California, where she’d been born and raised, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that she didn’t really belong at Nadine’s wedding where she’d have to see Ben again.
Her heart tripped a little and she bit down on her lip as she shoved aside a frozen cobweb dangling from a low-hanging pine branch. In her mind, she’d played the scene of meeting him again over and over again, silly fantasies of a love long dead. If it had ever existed at all.
A thorn caught on the sleeve of her coat as she walked along a curtain of cedar and spruce trees rimming the shore. She paused, extracting the barb.
On the day of Rachelle’s wedding the lake had been blue and serene, the mirrorlike surface reflecting the mountains that spired above the timberline. But this afternoon, with the winter wind ripping through the ridge of peaks to the north, the gray water was whipped to an angry froth, whitecaps rising and falling above murky depths. Tiny particles of ice had begun to form in the water that lapped along the rocky banks and the low-lying clouds were a thick mist, the same mist that was a part of the old Native American legend.
The sight of the chilly water brought back memories. Some happy, others painful, all tracing back to her youth. It had been on these very shores where Carlie had first been kissed, where she’d tasted her first sip of wine, where she’d given away her virginity... She’d been young, naive, believing that she could someday change the world, trusting in true love and never once thinking that tragedy, shame and scandal could touch her.
Fool! Drawing in a cold breath, she remembered running away from the small town of Gold Creek with its narrow minds and wagging tongues. The comfort and security of her home had crumbled, turned to hostility and pain, and all the joy she’d felt growing up in this small community had disappeared. So she’d left and put time and distance between herself and the pain, tried to forget that she’d ever heard of the Powell brothers.
She’d run as fast and far as possible, to the bright lights and dazzle of Manhattan—to the noise, the bustle, the glitter—always hoping that she would leave the heartache and humiliation of this small Californian town behind her. Unfortunately the past had always been nipping at her heels. Dogging her. In New York. In Paris. In Alaska. The dark shadow of Kevin’s death clung to her tena
ciously, never far away, never to be lost, always clutching at her subconscious.
An icy blast of wind cut like a knife, and she shivered. If she’d learned anything in the past ten years it was that she could depend upon no one but herself and that she’d damned well better hold her head high.
A twig snapped. Carlie spun, quickly searching the undergrowth. Probably just an animal, but she couldn’t stop the goose bumps from rising on her arms. She stared into the thickets of brush and trees, but saw no one. Skeletal berry vines clawed along the ground; oak trees, naked in winter, reached gnarled branches up to the steely sky; and overhead, a hawk circled in the falling snow, but no one appeared from the shadows of the trees.
Just your imagination, she told herself. Just because you’re back at Whitefire Lake and caught up in memories you should have buried a long time ago. She turned, intent on hurrying back to the open area of the campground where she’d parked the Jeep. Her gaze landed squarely on the one man she had hoped to avoid.
Ben Powell.
A very real ghost of the past appeared on the shores of the lake. It was fitting, she supposed, and ironic. She tried not to gasp and managed what she hoped would appear a confident smile.
Dressed in his crisp military uniform, Ben Powell wasn’t a man to fear, just as certainly as he wasn’t a man to love. But he was definitely as hard and cruelly handsome as the pictures she’d tried not to conjure up in her mind for a long, long time.
His sensual lips were compressed into a firm, uncompromising line, and his face, honed by years in the army, was angular and stern; not a single trace of his boyish features—the features she’d held dear in her heart—remained. Eyes, beneath flat dark brows, snapped with unrestrained hostility, and Carlie wondered how in the world she’d ever thought she’d been in love with him. Where was the kindness, the humor that had been such an integral part of the boy she’d once secretly hoped to marry?
He stood ramrod straight, his dress uniform starched, his cap square on his head, and he glared at her with undisguised hatred.
“All dressed up and no place to go?” he asked, his voice as sharp as the bite of the wind.
So much for pleasantries.
“I could say the same about you.” Her gaze drifted from his shoulders to his spit-and-polished shoes.
His chest was still broad, his waist trim, his hips as lean as ever. He hadn’t even had the decency to start to bald. His hair was as thick and coffee brown as it had been all those years ago and his eyes, hazel, shot with silver, could cut right to her soul.
“I don’t suppose you came here to escort me to the wedding?” she asked, deciding to give as much as she got.
He snorted.
“I didn’t think so.” She rolled back the cuff of her coat and glanced at her watch. “We probably should get going. We’re already late.”
“I can’t believe you were invited.”
Echoes from the past rippled through her mind as an old memory surfaced and she thought of the first night she’d been with him. She swallowed hard and kept her mind on the present. She didn’t think for a minute that Nadine wouldn’t have told him her name was on the guest list. No doubt Ben’s sister had warned him. So what was his game? “Believe it, Ben. I don’t show up where I’m not wanted.”
“That’s not the way I remember it.”
She felt the color drain from her face, but she inched her chin up a notch, refusing to give him an inkling that she remembered with crystal clarity the party she’d crashed, just to be with him. “Look, you don’t have to pretend to like me—”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Then we’re even,” she lied, her pride ruling her tongue.
His lips tightened at the corners.
“Now all we have to do is endure your sister’s wedding. We don’t have to speak, touch or so much as look at each other. Then, after the reception, you can go your way and I’ll go mine.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and seemed to wrestle with something on his mind. “I just didn’t happen to show up here,” he said. “I was at Nadine’s dock and I saw you through field glasses.” The stubborn set of his jaw didn’t alter. “You’re right, I knew you were invited to the wedding, but I thought I should warn you.”
“About what?”
He stared at her long enough that she was certain he’d studied every pore on her face.
“My dad won’t appreciate your being there.”
“Your dad didn’t invite me.”
“You’re not wanted, Carlie.”
That stung, but she wasn’t a virgin in the pain department. “Not by you maybe, but—”
“Not by me ever.”
The old wounds opened, but she wouldn’t give Ben the satisfaction of knowing he still had the ability to hurt her. She shook her head and sighed. “I was hoping that it wouldn’t be like this between us.”
“It couldn’t be any different.”
“Why?”
“Because Kevin’s dead, damn it. Don’t you remember?”
“Every day of my life.” She swallowed back that old, painful lump that filled her throat when she thought of Ben’s older brother. “But—” she forced the words over her suddenly thick tongue “—nothing I can say or do will bring him back. We have to let it rest. Both of us.”
He looked as if he planned to disagree. Shadows darkened his clear eyes and he quickly glanced away, past her, to the mountains rising in the distance. Seconds drummed by, punctuated by the silence that stretched between them. A tic throbbed near his temple and his jaw was clenched so hard, she wondered if his teeth were being ground into his gums. “I don’t think we should talk about this,” he said at length, but his voice was less harsh; the accusations in his eyes had faded.
“The way I remember it, you don’t think we should talk about anything!”
“Fair enough.”
“Good. Because we—or at least I—have a wedding to attend.” The brisk air crackled between them and he didn’t reply. Again, the silence was deafening and it was all she could do to stand her ground under his hard, uncompromising gaze. “Are you always this rude,” she asked impulsively, “or did the army teach you how to be a jerk?”
“You just seem to bring out the best in me.”
“I don’t remember handing you an invitation to bulldoze your way over here and insult me. This time, Ben, you’re doing the crashing.” She turned, intent on leaving him, but he moved quickly, reaching out, his hand clamping firmly over her elbow. He spun her back to face him with such force that his cap fell into the snow. For a breathless second she remembered him as he had been: impetuous, young, bold, sought after by most of the girls who had attended Tyler High. And she, Carlie Surrett, had been flattered that she’d caught his attention—even if she’d had to chase him a little to get it.
His gaze settled on her mouth. The breeze seemed to die and they were alone. Two people, man and woman, lost in a swirl of snowflakes and icy air. In the span of a heartbeat she thought he might kiss her, and her lips felt suddenly dry. How could she even let one single memory of the love they once shared into her heart? It had all been so long ago.
“I’m surprised you’re back,” he said roughly, his eyes narrowing, his warm breath fogging in the cool air. “I heard you were married.”
Her spine stiffened slightly. “For a while.”
“Didn’t last?” He raised a dubious black eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Irreconcilable differences,” she said, ignoring the little bit of pain that still remained when she thought about her short-lived marriage. “I believed in monogamy. He thought it was a drag.”
Ben’s skepticism was etched on his face, but she told herself she didn’t care. What Ben Powell thought of her didn’t matter. Squaring her shoulders, she was determined to change the subject. “What about you, Ben? What’re you doing back in Gold Creek? Unless things have changed, there’s no army base for hundreds of miles.”
“I’m through with the mil
itary.”
She eyed the buttons of his uniform, the medals decorating his chest. “Doesn’t look that way.”
“The wedding was news to me when I got back to town. Didn’t have anything to wear. The trunk with my tux hasn’t arrived yet.”
So he still had a sense of humor—cynical though it was. And his eyes, angry and smoldering, were staring at her with an intensity that caused the chilly air to be trapped in her lungs.
She had to remind herself that she wasn’t going to fall for his sex appeal again. Not now. Not ever. Quickly she yanked her arm from his. “We’ll be late.”
“You shouldn’t go, Carlie. Not after what happened.”
She felt like dying. All the old pain and shame ripped fresh holes in her heart.
“My old man, if he sees you...” Ben’s brows drew together.
“He’ll get over it,” she said, though she didn’t know if she was up to facing the censure and accusations in George Powell’s eyes. “This is Nadine’s day. If we’re smart, none of us will do anything to spoil it.”
Backing up, she nearly stumbled, then turned and strode briskly back to her vehicle. She could feel him watching her as she climbed into the Cherokee, twisted on the ignition and pumped the gas. The engine turned over and in a plume of blue exhaust, she drove away from the little campground by the lake, away from the ghosts of the old legend and away from Ben Powell, a man she’d loved with all of her naive heart and a man who had all but destroyed her.
Had it really been eleven years? A decade of carrying around a load of guilt she should have unstrapped long ago? She switched on the defroster, clearing the suddenly misty windshield.
“Forget him,” she told herself angrily. He was wrong for her then, even more wrong for her now. Not that she wanted him—or any man for that matter. It had taken a while, but she’d grown up to be her own independent woman.
She wiped at the fog the old defroster couldn’t make disappear. Her fingers came away from the windshield wet and cold. Forgetting Ben Powell was easier said than done. She’d already spent so many years trying and had obviously failed. Why else would she care what he thought of her?