by Lisa Jackson
“Absolutely!” Jan took a sip of her coffee, but over the rim her eyes were bright, eager.
Haltingly, Melanie explained that she and Gavin had dated in high school, glossing over how deep her emotions had run. “And so, when he went to train for the Olympics, we lost touch and I married Neil.”
Jan shook her head. “You chose Neil Brooks over Gavin Doel?” she asked incredulously. “No offense, Mel, but there’s just no comparison.”
“Well, that’s what happened.”
“And nothing else?”
“Nothing,” Melanie lied easily. “But what I told you is strictly off the record, right?”
“Absolutely.” Jan looked positively stricken. “Besides, no one’s going to care whom he dated in high school.”
Jan slid a look at her watch and frowned. “I gotta run,” she said, “but I’ll see you tomorrow. When will the photos of the lodge be ready?”
“I’ll have them on your desk first thing in the morning.”
“You’re a doll. Thanks.” With a wave, Jan bustled out of the building.
Melanie spent the next few hours going over the photographs she’d taken at the lodge, toying with the colors and contrast. The shots from the chair were spectacular, vistas of the rugged Cascade Mountains. A few pictures of the workers, too, showed the manpower needed to give the lodge its new look. But the photographs that took her breath away were the close-ups of Gavin that she changed to black-and-white.
His features seemed more chiseled and angular—as earthy and formidable as the mountains he challenged, his eyes more deeply set, his expression innately sexy and masculine. And though she’d seen little evidence of humor in the time she’d spent with him, the photographs belied his harshness by exposing the tiny beginnings of laugh lines near his mouth and tiny crinkles near the corners of his eyes. She wondered vaguely who had been lucky enough to make him laugh.
She noted the best shots, stuffed them in an envelope and left the packet in Jan’s in-basket. By the time she was finished, most of the staff had left. Walking into the fading sunlight, she took the time to lock the door behind her, then noticed the cool evening breeze that chilled her bare arms.
The mountain nights had begun to grow cold.
She stopped at the grocery store on the way home and finally turned into her drive a little after seven. The sky was dusky with the coming twilight, shadows stretched across the dry grass of her yard, and a truck she didn’t recognize was parked near the garage. Gavin sat behind the wheel.
She stood on the brakes. The Volkswagen screeched to a stop.
Surely he wasn’t here.
But as she stared at the truck, her heart slammed into overdrive. Gavin stretched slowly from the cab. Now what? she wondered, her throat suddenly dry as she forced herself to appear calm and steeled herself for the upcoming confrontation. It had to be about Rich’s offer.
Wearing faded jeans, a black T-shirt, a beat-up leather jacket and scruffy running shoes, he reminded her of the boy she’d once known, the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. No designer labels or fancy ski clothes stated the fact that he was a downhill legend.
Deciding that the best defense was a quick offense, she juggled purse, groceries and camera case as she climbed out of the Volkswagen. “Don’t tell me,” she said, shoving the car door closed with her hip and forcing a dazzling smile on slightly frozen lips. “You’ve come racing over here to congratulate me on my new job at the resort.”
His jaw slid to the side, and he shoved his sunglasses onto his head. “Not exactly.”
She lifted a disdainful eyebrow. “And I thought you’d be thrilled!”
“Rich handles that end of the business,”
“Does he? So you didn’t come over here to tell me that I’m relieved of my newfound duties?”
“I considered it,” he admitted with maddening calm.
“Look, Gavin, let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I’m not going to get into a power struggle with you. If you want me to do the job, fine. If not, believe me, I won’t starve. So you don’t have to feel guilty. If you want someone else to do the work, just say so.”
“Rich seems set on you.”
“And you?”
Brackets pinched the corners of his mouth, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen your work. At least, not for a few years.”
She ignored that little jab and marched across the side yard to the back door. She kept her back rigid, pretended that she didn’t care in the least that he’d shown up at her doorstep. Over her shoulder she called, “Well, if you’re interested, come inside. But if you’re just here to give me a bad time, then you may as well leave. I’m not in the mood.”
Shifting the groceries and camera case, she unlocked the back door. Sassafras, barking and growling, snapping teeth bared, hurtled through. He didn’t even pause for a pet but headed straight for Gavin.
“Don’t worry,” she called to Gavin over her shoulder, “he’s all bark—no bite.”
But Gavin didn’t appear the least bit concerned about Sassafras’s exposed fangs or throaty warnings. He flashed a quick glance at the dog and commanded, “Stop!”
Sassafras skidded on the dry grass but the hairs on the back of his neck rose threateningly.
“That’s better,” Gavin said, slowly following Melanie up the steps. “Damned leg,” he grumbled, pausing in the doorway.
“Come on in,” Melanie invited. “I don’t bite, either—at least, not usually.” She placed the bag on the counter. “Just give me a minute to get things organized.” She kicked her shoes into a corner near the table and stuffed a few sacks of vegetables and a package of meat into the refrigerator.
She felt him watching her, but she didn’t even glance in his direction. She pretended not to be aware that he was in the room, managing a fake calm expression that she hoped countered her jackhammering heart and suddenly sweating palms. Now that he was in the house, what was she going to do with him? The house seemed suddenly small, more intimate than ever before.
The fact that he was in her house, alone with her, brought back too many reminders of the past. The rooms felt hot and suffocating, though she expected the temperature couldn’t be more than sixty-five degrees.
“Come on, my studio’s down the hall,” she said, opening the door for Sassafras. Cool mountain air streamed in with the old dog as he eyed Gavin warily, growling and dropping onto his favorite spot beneath the kitchen table. “See, he likes you already,” Melanie quipped, suppressing a smile at Sassafras’s low growl.
“I’d hate to think how he reacts to someone he doesn’t like.”
“Just about the same.” Melanie led Gavin to the front of the house and down a short corridor to her studio. He didn’t remark on the changes in the house, but maybe he didn’t remember. He’d been over only a few times while they’d dated and he hadn’t stayed long because of her father’s hostility.
As she opened the studio door, Gavin caught her wrist. “I didn’t come here to see your work,” he said, spinning her around so that she was only inches from him, her upturned face nearly colliding with his chest.
“But I thought—”
“That was just a ruse.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving slowly up and down in his throat. Melanie forced her eyes to his. “I came here because I wanted to lay out the ground rules, talk some things out.”
“What ‘things’?” His hand was still wrapped around her wrist, his fingertips hot against the inside of her arm. No doubt he could feel her thundering pulse. The small, dark hallway felt close. It was all she could do to pull her arm from his grasp.
“I just want you to know that I don’t want any trouble.”
“And you think I’ll give it to you?”
“I think that rag you work for might.”
She bristled. “The Tribune—”
“We’ve been over this before,” he said, cutting her off as she found the doorknob and backed into the studio. She needed some breathing room. With a fli
ck of her wrist she snapped on the overhead light. “I have a feeling that reporter friend of yours would print anything if she thought it would get her a byline.”
“Not true.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t seem convinced. Glancing quickly around the studio, he slung his injured leg over a corner of her desk. “But she gets pretty personal.”
“You don’t have to worry about Jan,” Melanie said, instantly defensive. “I told her a little of our history.”
“You did what?” he thundered, gold eyes suddenly ice-cold.
“It’s all off the record.”
“You trust her?”
“Of course I trust her. We work together and she’s my friend.”
He snorted. “I suppose you trust Michaels, too.”
“Yeah,” she replied indignantly.
Gavin muttered something unintelligible. “He hasn’t been your boss for long has he?”
“No,” she conceded. “The paper changed hands about a year ago. Brian was hired to take charge.”
“From where?”
“Chicago, I think. He’s worked in publishing for years. Before Chicago, there was a paper in Atlanta.”
“Right. Never planted his feet down for long, has he? And I wouldn’t think Taylor’s Crossing, Oregon is the next natural step up on the ladder of success. Atlanta, Chicago, Taylor’s Crossing? Doesn’t seem likely, does it?”
“What’re you trying to say, Gavin?” she asked, bristling at the unspoken innuendos.
“I’ve met Michaels before. He was a reporter in Vail. I didn’t like him then and I don’t trust him now.”
Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “You are the most suspicious person I know. You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“I wonder why,” he said quietly, his features drawn.
Her heart stopped. “So you’re blaming me?”
“No, Melanie, I’m blaming myself,” he replied, his words cutting sharply. “I was young and foolish when I met you—naive. But you taught me how stupid it is to have blind trust. It’s a lesson I needed to learn. It’s gotten me through some tough times.”
“So you’re here to thank me, is that it?” she tossed out, though she was dying inside.
“I’m here to make sure that you and I see eye to eye. I want our past to remain buried, and for that to happen, you’d better quit talking to Jan or anyone else at the Tribune.”
“Is that so?”
“For both our sakes as well as my father’s. No matter what happens, I want Dad’s name kept out of the paper.”
Melanie bit her lower lip. “I don’t know if that’s possible.” “Well, use your influence.”
“I will, of course I will, but I’m only the photographer.”
“And the bottom line is Brian Michaels doesn’t give a damn whose life he turns inside out.” He stood then, towering over her, his eyes blazing. “My father’s paid for what happened over and over again. We all have. There is no reason to dredge it all up again.”
“I agree. I just don’t know what I can do.”
Gavin sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Dad’s moving back to Taylor’s Crossing and I want to see to it that he can start fresh.”
“I doubt anyone’ll be interested.”
“Aren’t you naive! You just don’t know what kind of an industry you work for, do you?”
“We report the news—”
“And the gossip and the speculation—anything as long as it sells papers!”
“I’m not going to stand here and argue about it with you,” she retorted, wishing she felt a little more conviction. “If you’re finished—”
“Not quite. Now that we understand each other—”
“I don’t think we ever did.”
“Doesn’t matter. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. If you have any questions while you’re working up at the lodge, you can ask Rich.”
“And if he’s not there?”
“Then I’ll help you.”
“But, don’t go chasing after you, is that what you’re telling me?” she mocked, simmering fury starting to boil deep inside her.
“I just think it’s better if you and I keep our distance.”
“Don’t worry, Gavin,” she remarked, her voice edged in cynicism. “Your virtue is safe with me.”
He flushed from the back of his neck. “Don’t push me, Melanie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she threw back at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Gavin.”
His gaze shifted to her mouth. “Well, maybe you should be,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Why?”
He swallowed hard. His expression tightened in his attempt at self-control. “Because, damn it, even though I know it’s crazy, even though I tell myself this’ll never work, I just can’t help . . . Oh, to hell with it.”
His arms surrounded her, and his lips covered hers.
Surprised, Melanie gasped, and his tongue slipped easily between her teeth, tasting and exploring.
She knew she should push him aside, shove with all her might, and she tried—dear Lord, she tried—but as her hands came up against his chest they seemed powerless, and all she could do was close her eyes and remember, in painful detail, the other kisses they’d shared. He still tasted the same, felt as strong and passionate as before.
Her lips softened, and she kissed him back. All the lies and the accusations died away. She was lost in the smell and feel of him, in the power of his embrace, the thundering beat of her heart.
Slowly, his tongue stopped its wonderful exploration, and a low groan escaped from him. “Melanie . . .” he whispered against her hair, his arms strong bands holding her close.
“Why?”
She tried to find her voice, but words failed her.
Slowly he released her, stepping backward and shoving shaking fingers through his hair. She watched as he visibly strained for control.
“Gavin, I think we should talk.”
“We’ve said everything that has to be said,” he replied. “This isn’t going to work, you know.”
“We’ll make it work.”
His gaze slid to her lips again, and she swallowed with difficulty. “No.”
“I need to explain about Neil,” she said.
His features hardened. “You don’t have to explain about anything, Melanie. Let’s just forget this ever happened.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Well, try,” he said, turning on his heel and striding out the door.
She didn’t move for a full minute, and only after she heard his pickup spark to life, tires squeal and gravel spray, did she sag against the door.
The next few weeks promised to be hell.
* * *
“Jesus Christ!” Gavin pounded on the steering wheel with his fist. What had gotten into him? He’d kissed her! Kissed her—and she’d responded. Suddenly, in those few moments, time and space had disappeared, and Gavin was left with the naked truth that she wasn’t out of his blood.
He cranked on the wheel and gunned the accelerator as he left the city lights behind and his truck started climbing the dark road leading to the mountain.
He couldn’t hide from her. Not now. As a photographer for the resort, she’d be at the lodge more often than not. And then what? Would he kiss her again? Seduce her next time? Delicious possibilities filled his mind, and he remembered how the curve of her spine fit so neatly against his abdomen, or the way her breasts, young and firm, had nestled so softly into his hands, or how her hips had brushed eagerly against his in the dim light of the hayloft.
“Stop it!” he commanded, as if he could will her image out of his mind. He flicked on the radio and tried to concentrate on the weather report. Temperatures were due to drop in the area, a weatherman reported, but Gavin’s lips curved cynically. He decided that in the next month or two, his temperature would probably be soaring. All because of Melanie.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ridge
Lodge and Gavin were plastered over the front page of the Tribune. There were several pictures of the resort, including a panoramic shot Melanie had taken from the lift, showing the lodge sprawling at the base of the runs, and there was one photograph of Gavin—a thoughtful pose that showed off his hard-edged profile as he talked with the reporter.
He didn’t like the picture. It showed too much of his personality and captured the fact that he felt uncomfortable and suspicious while being interviewed. Melanie obviously had a photographer’s knack for making a two dimensional picture show character and depth.
“Damn her,” he muttered, forcing his eyes to the story. Bold headlines proclaimed: DOEL TO REOPEN RIDGE RESORT. The byline credited Jan Freemont with the story.
Gavin’s jaw clenched as he scanned the columns. But the article was straightforward, and aside from mentioning the fact that Gavin had grown up around Taylor’s Crossing, his personal life wasn’t included. His skiing awards and professional life were touched on, but the focus of the article was the resort.
So maybe Brian Michaels was playing by the rules this time. Perhaps the Tribune was a local newspaper that wasn’t interested in trashing everyone’s personal life.
Gavin didn’t believe it for a minute. He’d met Michaels before. The man’s instincts usually centered on gossip and speculation. Unless Michaels had mellowed or developed some sense of conscience.
“No way,” Gavin told himself as Rich, several newspapers tucked under his arm, a wide grin stretched across his jaw, strode into the office.
He dropped the papers onto Gavin’s desk. “Looks like you were worried for nothing,” he said, thumping a finger on the front page.
“We’ll see.”
“I told you, this is the best source of free publicity, and the story’s been picked up by the Portland Daily as well as several papers in Washington, Idaho and northern California.”
“If you say so,” Gavin said, unable to concede the fact that he was wrong.
“And now the Tribune is doing a series on the resort with a final full-page article scheduled for the grand opening. What could be better?”