by Amy Summers
Chris stole a glance or two at her stiff profile as they drove, but he was as quiet as she was. This was a bit of a test for him, a test he might have set up for himself if only he'd been bright enough to think of it. He knew he had grown in many ways in the last few months. Had he grown enough to be able to give Trish the comfort she deserved?
She sat quietly as they headed for the hills away from the ocean. And she didn't say a word until he'd pulled the car to a stop near a park full of tall, stately oaks.
He switched off the engine and turned toward her. "It's going to be all right, Trish," he said softly. "Everything will work out for the best—and you will survive."
Her insides felt like ashes, but she managed to smile brightly and say, "I don't know what you're talking about." Then he was reaching out and his arms were around her and his hands were in her hair. He was soothing her, giving her the sort of comfort she hadn't had since she was a child with imaginary monsters under the bed and her father had held her to keep away the bogeyman.
She relaxed against him and the tears came, great, wrenching sobs that tore at her throat and hurt her chest. His arms tightened. His voice murmured words that had no meaning, only the sound of comfort, and she clung to him, letting all her sorrow flood out in a torrent that threatened to drown her.
He looked down at her, his feelings intense but confusing. This was the first time he had ever felt such a sense of protectiveness for any woman other than his sister Michelle. It was a new feeling. He thought maybe he liked it.
Little by little her grief eased and as she began to reclaim herself, she felt embarrassed to be caught in this situation. She tried to pull away, but he knew she wasn't ready yet, and he wouldn't let her go. He stroked her hair and whispered, "Let it all out, Trish. I'm going to expect you to be strong later on, so get it all out now."
Was this the time to tell her the rest? No. Not yet. Let her get used to the changes a few at a time. Besides, he could think of no logical way to explain it all in one lump. Later was better.
Trish let it all out just as he'd urged. And when she was finished the heavy sadness was still there, but she felt cleaner, better able to deal with her feelings. She straightened and this time he let her go.
"I don't know why I'm crying. I think..." She sniffed and accepted his handkerchief. "I think it's your fault."
"My fault?" His eyes were warm. "How do you figure that?"
She was at a loss to explain but she tried anyway. "I don't know. You hypnotized me or something. I wasn't going to cry at all until you told me to."
They both knew what a load of bunk that was and when she met his eyes, she couldn't help but smile back at the grin she found there.
"Anyway, now that's over. You can take me back to my car and I'll go on about my business."
"I don't think so, Trish. I think we ought to talk it out."
Talk it out? With him? She stared at him and wondered why he would think she would be willing to talk about her darkest fears, her worst pain, with him, a stranger. And then she remembered how he'd understood what she was going through when no one in her family had noticed. How he'd cared when no one else had seemed to have the time. And she knew he was the only one she could talk to. The only one.
"When I was a little girl," she said haltingly, looking down at her fingers twisted together in her lap, "I idolized my father. He was king of the beach. People came from all up the coast to ask his advice, to look at his boards. To watch him surf. He was like a god, with bronze skin and blond hair and a devil-may-care smile. He knew everything. Could do anything. And the rest of us sort of rotated around his light. We lived for him. The whole family."
When she didn't go on, Chris said quietly, "Do you think that's the way it should have been?"
She shrugged, still not looking at him. "That didn't matter. It was the way it was. And we were happy."
He was silent for a moment but she could feel him wanting to say something. Finally he asked, "Do you think everyone was happy?"
She turned and glared at him defensively. "You mean my mother, don't you? You think she was stifled? You think her personality was overwhelmed by the strength of his?" She shook her head with vehemence. "No way. She was always a strong person. She always had her say."
He nodded, not really agreeing with her, but validating her right to her own opinion. "Go on," he said.
"I'm not saying my parents were like Ozzie Nelson or Donna Reed. My mother didn't run around in little lace aprons baking cookies and my father didn't spend his evenings giving us heart-to-heart chats. But there was a strong focus on family. There was a strength of commitment there. A solid foundation. A good life."
"You were lucky you had that. A lot of people don't."
She looked at him, her expression bleak. "But was it all a lie?" she asked him, her voice soft and trembling. "If they can give it up so easily, was there really anything there? Was I dreaming?"
He looked as though he wanted to take her in his arms again but she couldn't allow that. She didn't want to cry anymore. So she stiffened and he held off and merely said, "If it was real to you then, that's all that matters."
"Is it?" She searched his gaze, wishing she knew for sure. "Then why do I feel so hurt inside?"
He had no words for that one, and instead of speaking he raised his hand to her cheek. She covered his hand with her own, holding his warmth close to her.
"Just don't say to me, 'You're a grown woman. You have your own life. Forget your parents. They don't matter anywmore.'"
"I wouldn't say that."
"But you're thinking it." She tried to smile. "I know it's true. I know it here." She touched her forehead. "But I can't seem to learn it here." Her free hand rested over her heart.
"Tell me one thing," she went on after a moment of silence. "I have to know the truth. My mother and Bert. Are they an item?"
He grimaced. "What do you think?"
It had been obvious. She nodded slowly. "So my father is totally out in the cold. And to add insult to injury, they're going out of their way to produce a product that will directly compete with his." She took a deep breath. "I don't understand. How can they be so cruel?"
His long body moved uncomfortably in the seat. "It's not exactly like that."
"Well, what would you call it? They've taken what he has always been famous for and they're trying to go him one better. What have they done, taken his mailing lists, his specs, his suppliers, his customers—everything he's built all his life? Is this some kind of sick revenge?"
He shook his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. "It's not like that."
Her hands were shaking as she brushed hair back out of her eyes. "Then tell me what it's like."
He hesitated. Without a response from him she rushed on. "I feel like this is some kind of fight and I'm going to have to take my father's side because... because he doesn't have anyone else on his side and it's not fair. And I don't want to take his side, because I love my mother…" Her voice broke and she looked away.
He was silent for a moment, waiting for her to collect her emotions. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe it would be best if she went through everything now, all in one day, and got it over with. He turned to her and said quietly, "If you feel that way, I think there's something we should do."
She swallowed the lump in her throat and said huskily, "What?"
"I think we should go see your father. Right now."
She turned back and stared at him. "Are you sure you'll be welcome there?"
He nodded, his gaze guarded. "I've met your father. In fact, he and I have gotten to know each other pretty well over the last few weeks."
That surprised her. But so what? Just about everything was surprising her today. "And?"
Chris looked uncomfortable. "He's all right, Trish. He knows what's going on and he's making adjustments accordingly."
"I don't understand."
"If you know your father at all, you know he loves the old-fashioned, classic boards. He's b
een making the newer, jazzier styles for years, just like everyone else, but he doesn't have his heart in it."
"So you're saying he doesn't care if Bert and Mom compete with the short boards, as long as they stay away from his beloved long boards?"
Chris nodded, but Trish remained unconvinced. "I don't know. I find that hard to believe."
"Let's go then. I'll let him tell you himself."
She didn't say anything as Chris started the car and drove it back down out of the hills toward her father's place of business. Instead she went over the revelations of the day and she worried.
What, exactly, should she do? It was all very well to plan to stand by her father and fight for his rights, but she knew enough by now to see what would happen. She could go to her father, tell him how the others were plotting against him, pledge herself to fight at his side— and watch him give her the frown that told her she was beginning to annoy him. Then she'd watch him turn away and go on with his work as though she weren't there. That was what he always did. Hadn't she learned that lesson yet?
If there was to be a fight she would be the only soldier. And for what? To keep her finger in the dike? To try to preserve a crumbling drip castle that was determined to return to beach sand?
She turned and looked at Chris, studied his granite profile, the long, dark eyelashes, the full lips, the straight nose. His hands on the wheel looked strong and competent, the fingers long and tapered, the nails short and neat.
"What do you do when you're upset about something?" she asked him suddenly. "What do you do to help you forget it?"
He glanced at her in surprise. "Me? I don't know." He thought for a moment. "Go skiing, when I'm near snow. Take myself as far away from people as possible and ski until my legs give out."
She nodded slowly. It was the wrong time of year for skiing. But there were other options. "I don't want to go to my father's," she told him impulsively. "Let's go surfing instead."
It was his turn to look surprised. "Do you surf?"
She smiled. "Of course I surf. I'm Tam Carrington's daughter. I was shooting the curl before I could read."
He stopped at a red light and turned to look at her.
"I'd love to see you out on a board," he said, shaking his head with a glint of appreciative amusement in his eyes. "I'd love to see you hanging on for dear life.”
"Then let's go," she urged, her eyes shining. It seemed something she had to do now that she'd thought of it. And the only person in the world she could imagine doing it with was the man sitting right beside her. "Let's make a day of it. Can you get away for the rest of the afternoon? Let's go and surf our heads off and forget everything else."
He was looking at her intently, studying her, and her enthusiasm began to ebb. He didn't want to go surfing. He'd already gone earlier that morning. Besides, he surely had things to do, places to go. And other people to do things with. He'd already spent more than enough of his time trying to help her. How could she expect any more from him?
The light changed and the car took off and still he hadn't said anything. It was beginning to be embarrassing. She fidgeted in her seat and tried to think of a graceful way to withdraw her invitation. He was pulling up to the parking lot of her apartment building. Well, that proved it. He had been awfully nice, taking her out and comforting her, bucking her up to face the world again. He was probably sick of her by now and just trying to think of a way to tell her so without hurting her feelings.
"Well, say," she said with false cheer as he came to a stop at the curb. "We really should go surfing together sometime. But I'm tired and I'm sure you are, too. So let's take a raincheck on it for today…."
His fingers had curled around her chin before she realized what was happening. She gazed up at him, lost in his smoky dark eyes, rocked by his nearness as he leaned toward her.
"Oh, no you don't, Trish Carrington," he said, his voice low and rich. "You promised me surfing. I want to see you in your bikini. I want to see you with sand in your hair." He grinned. "I want to see if you can surf better than I can."
Every inch of her was alive with anticipation and joy. "I... I haven't been surfing for at least six years," she said somewhat inanely, staring up into his limitless gaze.
"Howie says it's like riding a bike," he reminded her.
She laughed. "And Howie knows just about everything there is to know about surfing," she agreed.
For just a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. His eyes softened, deepened. But then his fingers pulled away from her chin and he drew back. She wasn't sure why he'd done that and she wished she had a clue. But it really didn't matter. They were going to spend the day together. Her heart was beating a strong rhythm of excitement in her chest.
"Go on in and get ready," he told her. "I'll go home and get my board and pick you up in half an hour."
With mixed feelings, she watched him drive away. She'd taken a few licks today. She'd been forced to swallow things she hadn't wanted to face. It should be a time of reflection for her, a time to think things through and make adjustments in her life plan. Instead she was heading for the beach with the sexiest man she'd ever met.
"Oh, Trish, you old hedonist, you," she said aloud. And suddenly she was grinning. Why not grab for a bit of gusto? Everybody else seemed to be doing it. Why should she hold herself back? She would go with Chris and she would damn well enjoy herself.
Chapter 12
Chris sat astride his board, his legs in the water, and watched Trish sail toward shore. She was riding a wave as though she had wings, her feet as solid on the board as though she were standing on a sidewalk, her head back, her face transformed. She surfed like an angel. It gave him a glowing feeling just to watch her.
It hadn't been easy to find a beach where surfing was allowed in the afternoon—especially when another requirement was that the waves be uncrowded with other surfers. But Trish had known of a little cove down near the Air Force Base and they had headed that way. They had to park just off the highway and hike back a mile, then climb down through jagged rocks and broken railroad ties, walk another hundred yards, then scale a cliff. But it was worth it. The cove had soft, white sand and nice, crisp surf and best of all, they had it all to themselves.
They caught wave after wave and finally dragged their boards up on the sand and collapsed on the blanket Trish had put down when they'd first arrived, panting and laughing and enjoying the warm late afternoon sun on their backs. And then they drowsed.
The sound of the surf pounded like nature's heart beat. As his tired muscles began to recover, Chris found himself lying very still watching the woman next to him through half-shut eyes, his mind hovering between dreams and consciousness, his body responding to her presence.
Her hair was drying, turning almost golden as it began to ruffle in the ocean breeze. Her creamy skin was faintly freckled and slightly reddened on her shoulders from the sun. The two-piece suit she wore was hardly a bikini but it was skimpy enough, revealing beautifully-shaped hipbones and a back as smooth as silk. Her face was peaceful, her lashes making long shadows across her cheeks. She was lovely.
Two impulses were at war within him as he came fully awake and studied her. The first was easy to understand. There was a current raging through his body, sending a signal he knew well.
"Take her," it said. "She's there for you. She wants you as much as you want her. All you have to do is reach out and run your hand along the curve of her back. She'll be purring like a kitten in no time. She'll be all yours."
In the past he wouldn't have thought twice about a signal like that. In fact he wouldn't have thought at all, but followed it and taken advantage of where it led. But something different was going on this time. Another impulse was getting in the way. It was an urge he didn't understand, an urge that confused him. He knew he'd felt it before, or something very like it, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was.
"Hi." Her eyes were open, suddenly, and she was smiling at him.
&nbs
p; "Hi."
Their faces were close, close enough to see the specks of gold in.her green eyes, close enough to see the tiny flecks of sand on her earlobe. He felt an odd sort of connection with her that went beyond attraction. He wanted to touch her and yet he held it back, relishing the anticipation, like saving dessert for last.
"That was fun," she said. "I'd forgotten how much I love to surf."
They smiled again, and it was almost too intimate. Suddenly he had to look away, so he half rose and shaded his eyes, looking out at the surf, the white sand beach, the rocky point.
"You know what?" he told her playfully. "This place makes me kind of nervous."
She half rose, too, trying to see what he was looking at. "Why?" She looked up and down the beach, then turned back to grin at him teasingly. "Because you don't have your usual adoring multitudes around you?"
"No. It's not that." He frowned and nodded out toward the sea. "Don't you notice something about this beach? Doesn't it remind you of something?"
She looked again and shook her head. "No. Should it?"
He raised one eyebrow with dramatic significance. "Think Japanese monster movies. Think Gamera and Godzilla emerging from the sea."
She looked again and laughed. "You're right. They always come out on beaches like this." She pretended to shiver. "Too bad we don't have any world-famous scientists along. We're surely doomed."
"Don't worry." He reached out and curled her into the safety of his arm, pulling her close, enjoying the feel of her sun-warmed shoulders, the scent of her sunbaked hair. "I'll protect you."
"My hero." She looked up and smiled and he kissed her, very softly, very tenderly. And then he drew back and examined her face for a long, long time, as though he were trying to find some clue as to why she had the spell over him that she seemed to have.