by Helen Conrad
Carrie hesitated. She’d come here to get info, not to reveal it. But considering that Mickey was one of her favorite people in the world, she supposed she could make an exception. “Okay. Yes. He was at that party at the Maxwells’ I went to.”
“No kidding? Lucky you. I’d heard he was sort of a recluse since he got here. Hiding out from the paparazzi, I thought.”
Right, Carrie thought to herself. Which seems to be why everyone is making stuff up about him. I hope.
“He was there, big as life.”
“Well… “ Mickey leaned closer, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, here’s the deal. There are all kinds of Carringtons in this town, cousins galore. But right now we’re focusing on the three Carrington brothers. Reid is oldest. Then Matt. And Grant is the baby, even though, from what I hear, his wild living is taking its toll.”
Carrie’s first impulse was to defend Grant. From what she’d seen, he might look tired and in pain, but the underlying structure was sound and pretty spectacular. But she stopped herself. She wasn’t here to prop him up. She wanted the facts.
“They say he came back to Destiny Bay to recover from a terrible accident he had last year. Things haven’t been healing right or something. So he came home and rented the old Aston place. But his timing is a bit strange, because he didn’t show up until both his brothers were out of town.”
“That’s why I haven’t seen either of them around?”
Mickey nodded. “Reid just got married to Jenny Thornton. Do you remember her?”
Carrie shook her head, frowning. “The name sounds familiar, but… .”
“How about Janet Cardona?”
“Oh sure. She and I were on swim team together in high school.”
“She and Matt Carrington are about to tie the knot themselves. They’re in Hawaii on a business trip. He has some hotels there he has to keep an eye on.” She shrugged. “So here’s Grant, home again, and no one to welcome him.”
“How about their parents?”
“Nope. They spend most of their time in Florida these days. For a family that used to be so close, it’s sort of tragic. I mean, you’d think the brothers could at least be friends. You know?”
Carrie bit her lip, frowning. “From the way you say that, I get the feeling you think there’s more to this than… “
“You bet. There’s been bad blood between the brothers in that family for years. You’ll notice, Grant didn’t make it back in time for Reid’s wedding.”
She nodded. “But tell me about Grant. I know he’s supposed to be one of those people who get their picture in the tabloids all the time. But I don’t pay any attention to that stuff.” She winced and asked what she really wanted to know. “Is he really such a bad boy?”
The bell on the door rang, indicating someone was coming in, and Mickey rose, but not before leaning forward and whispering, “Yes!” Then she looked toward the newcomer and it seemed to Carrie that she colored slightly and looked suddenly almost shy.
“Oh, hi Tag,” she said.
Carrie spun on her seat and faced the man as well. “Tag,” she said, smiling. “I remember you. You used to stock shelves part time at my father’s store in the old days.” She’d been about thirteen and he’d been sixteen and she’d had a huge crush on him for about five days.
“Hey Carrie,” he stuck out his large hand and grinned as he shook hers. “How’s it going?”
She smiled at his handsome face, liking him instantly, then suddenly realized something.
“Tag, you’re a Carrington too. Aren’t you?”
He nodded. “From the black sheep wing. Reid and Matt are my cousins.”
“And Grant?”
His smile faded. “I guess we’d have to include Grant, sure.”
Mickey’s three-year-old daughter Meggie had caught sight of Tag by now and she came barreling out of the kitchen area to throw herself into his arms. There was noise and happiness and hugging going on, and Carrie decided to slip out. She was late as it was, and she had a lot to think over.
And that included the mystery of Grant Carrington. Mickey said he was bad. And she could see why that might be his reputation. But maybe all he needed…
She stopped herself in horror. “Oh no. I can’t be falling into the ancient ‘all he needs is a good woman’s love’ syndrome, can I? That does it. No more thinking about him. And that’s final!”
The next day, she was having lunch in a fern-filled restaurant on Main Street with a group of old friends. The subject of conversation was once again stuck on Grant Carrington.
“I think he’s wonderful,” gushed Sharon, who’d been Carrie’s best friend in elementary school. “He looks just like a movie star.”
“He’s disgusting,” Mari replied contemptuously. Mari had been prom queen in the old days, but now she considered herself the town’s leading feminist. “What kind of man spends his entire life smashing ears and chasing women?”
“Oh, honestly, Mari, what do you know?” Gail interrupted, her freckled face earnest. She was married now, with four children. “He’s got more sex appeal in his little finger than most other men in town. Him and his brothers, too. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve actually talked to him recently. Which is more than you can say.”
“I wouldn’t want to meet him.”
Sharon sighed. “I saw him on the pier the other day. Bob Bisby introduced me. I could have just died when he kissed my hand. He’s got these Continental manners. ...”
“I know what you mean,” Gail chimed in. “I could have just passed out when I looked into those blue eyes. ...”
Mari snorted. “Let’s face it. The man has a Casanova complex. And you know what that means.”
Gail frowned. “No. What?”
“It means he keeps trying out new women because he’s never really satisfied sexually.”
Sharon and Gail both groaned in protest.
Mari continued despite the groans. “The man thinks he can score with every woman he sees. That kind of man is as passé as mullets and bell bottoms.”
Carrie didn’t join the discussion. She drummed her fingernails on the table, glancing out through the huge glass front of the restaurant and into the street.
Grant Carrington, Grant Carrington, Grant Carrington—why couldn’t they drop it? The entire female population of the town was buzzing with speculation and rumors about him. Everyone had her own opinion.
Was he the latest wonder to come down the pike or only an embittered celebrity who’d come slinking into town to hide from the world? Was he the sexiest man alive or had that last accident broken and jaded him? The theories were endless, and she was getting sick of them all. She couldn’t even have a quiet lunch with old friends without the subject coming up.
The voices at the table faded away, as her gaze lingered on a silver-blue sports car parked across the street, in front of the florist. Something about that car ...
Grant Carrington stepped out of the florist shop, and she almost gasped aloud, as though she’d conjured him up just by thinking about him. He was so sleek, so vibrant. She felt a trembling response to the sight of him and bit her lip to hide it.
And once again, she noticed his limp. The man was in pain. There was no denying that. Every professional instinct in her rose in protest, and her impulse was to go to him, to do something.
But she stifled it. Mr. Carrington was a big boy—and a rich one, too, if the rumors were accurate. If he needed therapy, he should be able to provide it for himself. She stayed right where she was, watching him walk to the sports car, forgetting all about the women at her table who were talking on, oblivious to the fact that the man they were discussing was only a few feet away.
Suddenly he looked up, right into Carrie’s dark eyes. The vaguely tinted glass seemed to melt away. Carrie held her breath, but she held her gaze steady as well. There was potential for almost anything in his face—anger, amusement, passion.
She waited, wondering. At last there w
as a tug at the corner of his mouth, as though a smile were attempting to break through. Despite all her best intentions, an answering smile curved her lips before she had time to think. And then he was scowling, turning away, sliding into the flashy sports car. The engine roared to life, and he was off down the street and out of sight.
“They say he stays holed up in that big old house by the beach almost all the time.”
Dimly she was aware that Gail was still talking.
“Hiding out, no doubt.” Mari sniffed. “Trying to run away from what he is, from what he’s been.”
Carrie stared at the corner around which he’d just disappeared. He’d recognized her. She was sure of that. Recognized her and wanted to blot her out just as badly as she wanted to blot him from her mind. Was it because of what had happened in the wine cellar? Did he regret it?
No, she decided silently. What he’d done had been merely a ploy to get her to keep quiet about Eleanor Ashland. She’d been in his way and he’d removed her. If he thought of her at all, it was as an annoying obstacle to the smooth running of his daily affairs.
She grinned with bitter sarcasm at her own play on words. Affairs—that was what men like that had. Not even love affairs. Just affairs. And then they went around destroying the peace of mind of anyone in their way.
Forget you, Grant Carrington, she thought. Who needs you?
And she turned back to the others with fierce determination. “Did any of you see the new Jason Sloan movie?” she asked, sunnily indifferent to the current flow of conversation. “I thought he was terrific. Didn’t you?”
Grant Carrington lay on his back on the ground, gasping for breath. His hard body was naked except for Lycra briefs, and right now he glistened with sweat.
“One more time,” he told himself grimly. The grooves alongside his mouth were deep and strained with pain. “Just one more time.”
Slowly, excruciatingly, he raised his injured leg to the mechanical exerciser he’d rigged up for just this purpose. Forcing his foot into the stirrup, he began again, letting the machine force the flex in his ankle, in his knee. The knee bent. And then it was time for him to use his leg with force, to push it back. Gritting his teeth, he summoned all his will and went beyond pain, beyond endurance, beyond what he could stand.
He grunted with fierce effort as his foot slipped out of the stirrup, falling back to the sun-baked ground where he lay panting. But he’d managed to move it. He’d felt something course through his leg that he hadn’t felt for a long time. A small gain, but compared to the failure the doctors had predicted, it was a triumph to him.
He lay still for a moment, then pushed himself upright. He made his way across the workout area and into the pool enclosure, sinking gratefully into the cool water, letting his body float for a moment before striking out with a strong freestyle. He swam laps for half an hour, using only the good leg, then pulled himself up out of the pool with his strong arms, vaulting to sit along the side with his feet still in the water.
He’d been aware that he had company for the last ten minutes, but he hadn’t bothered to look up and see who it was. Now he turned and faced the tall, curvaceous woman who stood watching, her body set in a flattering, if blatant, pose.
“Trisha Blake,” he noted without enthusiasm. His blue eyes flickered over her generously formed body. She was wearing the bottom of a string bikini, leaving very little of her lower anatomy to the imagination. On top she’d dispensed with the halter. Instead she wore a lacy, see-through bolero pool jacket held together with only two buttons, set low between her large breasts. There wasn’t another thing beneath but naked flesh. Grant didn’t miss that fact, and he almost groaned aloud.
“What brings you all the way up here?”
The hazel eyes beamed, and the scarlet mouth pushed out in a sulking pout.
“Why, you, of course. It’s been so long. I had to come out and see how you were doing—if you needed some company.” Her smile was provocative. “I mean, the accident and everything ... are you okay or what?” .
Grant stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. Was that real concern he saw glittering in her hazel eyes, he wondered cynically, or just another acting job? But then he chastised himself.
What was he thinking of? She’d never been that good an actress. The compassion must be real.
“I’m okay,” he said curtly as she walked over to stand close. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Oh,” she said in a rush of a breath as she looked down. “Your leg!” She’d glanced at the bad one, her face reacting to the sight of the awful scars. Wincing, she quickly came around to the other side, kicked off her sandals, and plopped down beside him, feet dangling into the water.
Grant noted her reaction. Girls like Trisha didn’t like to see the ugly truth, he told himself. They liked to pretend that everything was beautiful—that they would never grow old, that they would be stars someday.
Trisha Blake, perennial starlet. She was just one of many who’d tumbled in and out of his life in recent years. Funny. There hadn’t been nearly as many in the months since the accident.
“That’s some bait you’re setting out, Trisha,” he told her sardonically, eyeing her skimpy see-through outfit. “What are you planning to catch?”
“Why, honey”—she gave him a seductive smile— “I was just thinking about the old days, about how good we used to be together. And I thought, why not go out and give old Grant a visit? See if we can revisit some old memories together.” She ran her fingers softly down the top of his thigh, tickling the hair, tantalizing his nerve endings.
Curiously unmoved, he watched her hand. His smile was bitter. “You’d better hang on to those memories, Trisha,” he told her roughly. “That’s all we’re ever going to have.”
Her palm flattened, making small, lazy circles. “Aw, come on,” she whispered coaxingly, moving her shoulder against his. “You remember how much fun we used to have.”
His annoyance melted into pity as he looked at her. She had a beautiful face. What made her think that she needed to cover every inch of it with that thick makeup? Insecurity, he told himself. An insecurity similar to that which made him force his leg to do things it probably shouldn’t.
His mind suddenly saw another face, the girl he’d kissed in the wine cellar, and as he thought of her, he felt himself relax. Now there was a fresh, clean, open face. The kind of face he thought had gone out of style.
He glanced at the woman beside him. Had Trisha looked that fresh when she’d first come here from whatever tiny hole in the wall she’d come from— before she’d begun celebrity chasing, hanging around the racetracks, hoping that some of the fleeting fame would rub off on her?
Probably. And look at her now. He looked away toward the hills, his eyes narrowed against the sun.
“Come on, honey,” Trisha was murmuring. “You remember, don’t you?” Arching her back, she leaned close, rubbing up against him like a sleek cat.
Grant gazed at her curiously, examining the full figure; the long, supple legs, the flat stomach. There’d been a time when he wouldn’t have passed up an invitation like this for anything.
But right now he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Sorry,” he said softly. “You’re going to have to go somewhere else for your fun and games.”
She drew her hand away from his leg, shocked.
“Then it’s true,” she breathed, eyes wide. Jumping up, she began to back away, as though the condition were catching. “I heard that you injured more than your leg, but I couldn’t believe it.” She stopped, genuine anguish on her painted face. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
Suddenly he felt as tired as an old man. “Don’t be. Just get on out of here, Trisha.”
“It’s really true, then?” she said, prodding further. “You can’t ... I mean—“
Annoyance flashed in his blue eyes. “You can believe what you want to believe,” he said curtly. “Just don’t tell it to the tabl
oids this time, okay?”
She stopped short, her dark hair swinging. “Oh, are you still mad about that? I didn’t really tell that reporter much, just what it was like to date the sexiest race-car driver on the circuit. I mean, he wanted to know if you were as daring in bed as you were on the track, and I—“
“I read the article, Trisha. I didn’t like having my private activities spread out for everyone in the supermarket to read.”
She looked surprised. “I said you were good, didn’t I?” she demanded.
He stared at her genuine outrage, and suddenly he was laughing. He threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Yes, you did, darling. But since I won’t be needing the PR any longer . . .”
Trisha could take yelling and cursing and even dish throwing, but she could not take being laughed at. She didn’t realize that Grant was laughing at something larger than she was. As far as she was concerned, she’d had enough abuse for one day. Men didn’t turn down her advances, no matter what the cause.
She turned, tossing her head, for the exit. “Goodbye, Grant Carrington,” she called back angrily. “I won’t be coming to call on you anymore.”
“That’s just as well,” he murmured to himself as she strode across the lawn and out toward the parking area.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his face hard with his hands, as though he could rub away all his troubles. He was sick to death of women like Trisha, sick to death of men like himself.
After all, who was he to be so high and mighty with the poor woman? She’d used him, sure, but he’d used her too. Her and all the other starlets and socialites and track followers who’d come his way in the last ten years.
And where were they all today? Interesting how few of them were paying any attention to him now that he was out of the action. His so-called friends had melted away like a late spring snowfall. He wasn’t important any longer. Maybe he ought to thank Trisha for at least remembering that he existed.
He thought of the girl in the wine cellar, thought of her spontaneous joy in life, her wide-eyed candor. He’d enjoyed kissing her, but he almost wished he hadn’t done it. She was so bright, so beautiful—so clean. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to touch her, to sully that lovely innocence.