Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  He cocked his hips to one side and buried his left hand in the front pocket of his jeans while he studied the pattern in the old linoleum. His right hand rubbed along the back of his neck. She gripped the chair tighter to steady herself and to keep from touching him.

  With a long sigh, he dropped his hand. He raised his eyes to hers and her heart did a somersault. In a matter of minutes, his appraisal had gone from hot to arctic to a gentle spring breeze—cool with a promise of genuine warmth. Wow! His mood changed faster than the Texas weather.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Harper. You must be looking for Dad. I wasn’t aware he made a donation to the band. But I’m not surprised. It sounds like something he would do.” He held his hand out, palm up. “He must have lost track of the time. He eats breakfast every day down at the fire station. I’m sure he got wrapped up in a domino game and forgot.”

  As if on cue, the screen door slammed and a smaller, older version of Hank Travis stormed the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I forgot the time.”

  She liked the newcomer instantly. Beneath heavy eyebrows, his blue eyes twinkled with merriment and spunk. Smile lines bracketed his mouth identical to his son’s. Yes, this was the solid block from which the younger man had been carved. Time had smoothed the rough edges on one but had a ways to go with the other.

  She glanced at Hank. He flashed another smile and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “I told you so.” Clearly, he loved his father, quirks and all. Her heart softened toward him just a little.

  “Chester tried to pull a fast one and got caught,” the older man continued, “so we started the game over.” He extended a hand lined with age.

  She shook his hand. “Mel Harper. I just met Hank.” A look passed between father and son.

  “I hope he wasn’t rude,” Henry said, absently petting the dog who had wandered over, tail wagging, for some attention. “He doesn’t care too much for reporters.”

  If that wasn’t the understatement of the century, she didn’t know what was, but she was a professional. Kill them with kindness was her motto. “No, sir. He’s been quite the gentleman.” She dared Hank to deny it. There it was again, a quick, shared glance between them filled with unspoken communication. “I brought doughnuts and hot chocolate. Would you like some?”

  “Why, thanks! That was mighty thoughtful of you.” Henry took a plate from the cupboard and emptied the bag onto it, exclaiming over the pastries as if she’d brought French delicacies.

  “Son, why don’t you heat her hot chocolate in the microwave? You can have my cup. I’m a coffee man myself,” he said apologetically, “and I’m already over my limit for the morning.” He took a paper napkin from the holder and selected a glazed doughnut from the plate. “But I never turn down a doughnut.” He took a generous bite and tore off a smaller piece. He tossed it up. Betty Boop made an athletic leap and caught the treat in mid-air. Encouraged by her success, she plopped at his feet.

  The older man pulled out a chair for Mel and settled himself across from her. Hank placed a warmed cup at her elbow and excused himself. She watched him go. Mood swings and lack of social skills aside, the man had it going on. Threadbare denim had never looked as good as it did hugging his slim hips, firm ass, and long legs. She forced her mind back to the reason she was here.

  “I’m afraid I got off to a bad start with your son. I hope I didn’t overstep by coming here.”

  “No, no, don’t mind him. He’s always short with reporters. He’ll come around,” he said. “Now…about the interview.”

  “Why? I mean, what does he have against reporters?”

  “Oh, nothing. He had a bad experience a few years ago. Don’t think anything of it.”

  “Well, okay.” She was more than a little curious, but she had a deadline to meet. Though she couldn’t blame him for that particular dislike, she had her own reasons to dislike certain members of her profession, Hank Travis and his problems were none of her business. She pulled a mini-recorder from her purse and set it on the table between them. “Do you mind if I record our interview?”

  “That’s fine as long as I don’t have to listen to myself on it. Does anyone like the way they sound on a recording?”

  Her gut clenched. She forced a smile to her face. “I suppose some do. But you’re right, most people don’t recognize their own voices on a recording.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I sure don’t. Nope, I’m always surprised at the way I sound.” He waved his hand at the recorder. “Go ahead. Turn it on.”

  She pressed the record button. “I understand you’re making a large donation to the Willowbrook High School Band. Can you tell me what motivated you?”

  “Sure. They need new instruments and uniforms.” He laughed, deep and rich. “I can see what you’re thinking, young lady. Don’t be worrying I’m giving my life savings away to a bunch of ungrateful teenagers. I’m doing all right, and they need the money more than I do. They’ve been doing car washes and selling candy bars all year and they’ve hardly made a dent in the bill, so I thought I would help them out. They’re a good bunch of kids, and I have a soft spot where the band is concerned.”

  He paused, his eyes focused on something only he could see. He drew himself up. “Anyway, every time there’s a budget cut, it hits the music program first. I don’t think its right, so I help them out every now and then.”

  “But Mr. Travis, twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  He looked her square in the eye. “I can afford it.”

  She backed off. “Well, then. Okay. You say you have a soft spot for the band. Why?”

  His face softened, and a gentle smile curved his lips. “The band and the music program were good to my boy, Hank, and his mother, Gloria. My late wife taught music at the high school for twenty years before she passed on.”

  She instantly regretted her earlier skepticism.

  Familiar footsteps sounded behind her. “Dad? Sorry to interrupt,” Hank said. Shivers ran along her spine when she heard the smooth voice. “I made some notes for you on those papers. I’m going out to the farm. Are you coming for dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah. How’s six o’clock?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you at six.” Hank snapped his fingers, and Betty Boop stretched and followed her master as he left without so much as a goodbye.

  Rude. She asked a few more questions, thanked Henry for his generous donation and his time, and rose to leave. He followed her to the front door. “You should ask Hank a few questions, too.”

  She didn’t want to bring up how inhospitable his son had been, but she couldn’t forget the sudden bolt of desire she’d felt when she first saw him. Personally, she wanted to do a lot more than ask him questions, but professionally he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her again.

  “I don’t think it would be such a good idea. I’m a reporter, remember? Besides, I only have until this afternoon to finish the article for tomorrow’s edition.”

  His face fell like a kicked puppy. She scrambled to think of something she could do or say to put a smile back on his face. Then, like his son, his mood abruptly shifted. He snapped his fingers. “Hey! Why don’t you come out to the farm with me this evening for dinner? You might get a second article if you play your cards right.”

  She couldn’t imagine what kind of article she could write about a farmer, but she genuinely liked Henry and didn’t want to disappoint him. “I don’t know,” she hedged.

  “Trust me, Ms. Harper. Meet me there around six. It’s the place out on Route 544. The one with the black bird wings painted on the barn.”

  She knew the place. She’d wondered about the giant black wings but decided it was just coincidence and better left alone.

  He waited for her answer, expectation written all over his expressive face. She really didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings either.

  “Well, if you think it will be all right.” Her body warmed at the memory of the sexy denim-clad Hank Travis. She could make a dinner ou
t of him, but as tasty as he appeared on the outside, she had no doubt he was pure vinegar on the inside.

  “Oh, he won’t mind. I bring friends out all the time,” he said.

  Agreeing to dinner at Hank’s house was so not a good idea, but she couldn’t bring herself to say no to his father—not with him standing there with a hopeful expression on his face.

  “Well, okay, but I have to turn in the article before I can go, so I’d better get a move on.”

  “Run along, then.” He held the screen door for her. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  She climbed into her Jeep and pulled away from the curb. She had often wondered about her sanity but there was no doubt. She was insane. Completely bonkers to let Henry talk her into dinner at his son’s house.

  Chapter Two

  Hank leaned back in his desk chair. A stack of invoices awaited his attention but images of Mel Harper eclipsed everything. She had stepped into his line of sight and somehow lodged herself into his consciousness, refusing to go away.

  He could still see her rose-petal lips telling him she was new in town. Even though he had been on tour for most of the last six months, the information had not been news. He had lived in Willowbrook his entire life. If Mel Harper had been here for long, he would have remembered her. Just like he would never forget the first moment he saw her.

  He had been so absorbed in the song he was listening to and trying to concentrate on his dad’s tax returns, he hadn’t noticed her at first. Something had caught his eye, and he’d glanced up. There she’d stood in the doorway, clutching a greasy bag in a white knuckled grip while she balanced two paper hot-cups in her other hand. Large, sky-blue eyes framed by long lashes had taken his measure, and he’d gladly returned the favor.

  At that point, if she had turned out to be a stalker he wouldn’t have cared. Talk about visions coming to life. She was the subject of every wet dream he’d ever had—small, perky, and sexy as hell with those curves of hers. Dressed in her stylish business attire, a lurid fantasy involving a secretary, a desk, and a fair amount of sexual harassment had instantly popped into his head.

  He’d managed to shake the fantasy out of his head, but he couldn’t shake her image. The fact she was a reporter didn’t seem to matter much to his body even though a small portion of his brain still urged caution where the species was concerned. What would it hurt to indulge his libido a little bit? It wasn’t like he was going to see her again anytime soon. Willowbrook was small, but he didn’t spend much time in town when he was at home, and few people came to the farm. Avoiding her would be easy enough.

  He closed his eyes and let the image take shape in his mind.

  She couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two, petite, but not fragile. Her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her skin reminded him of warm milk, creamy and smooth.

  At first, he’d thought she had to be a fan—perhaps a crazy one. Being the drummer for the rock band BlackWing, he’d had his share of pushy fans. It wouldn’t have been the first time one had tracked him down, but he’d never had one walk right in without invitation and bring breakfast, too. Crazy fan or not, she’d been about the sexiest thing he had ever seen. His hormones had snapped to attention faster than he could get his feet under him. When she’d turned and he’d seen her ass and the way the rose-colored fabric molded itself to her curves as she walked…. Well, there’d been no stopping the fantasies at that point.

  Then she’d introduced herself, and his desire had hit a brick wall. Worse than a fan. Worse even than a stalker.

  The wet dream was a reporter.

  The revelation should have killed his interest, and it had for a few minutes. He shouldn’t be thinking about her, not in any way, shape, or form. But here he sat trying to concentrate on work, and there she was, front and center in his thoughts. Sexy. She sure as hell didn’t shop locally. Those were big city clothes—understated, sophisticated, classy. And either she didn’t know who he was or she was a very good actress as well as a reporter.

  He acknowledged the improbability, but with reporters, you never knew. Some would go to any length to get a story. He needed to steer clear of her, avoid further contact, keep temptation at arm’s length. He had plenty to do. Enough to keep him busy and far away from town for the next few months. He didn’t have to see her. He didn’t have to talk to her.

  He wrestled his runaway libido under control and turned his attention to the blinking light on his message machine. He listened to two messages from his publicist, one from his agent, and one from his father indicating he would bring a friend along for dinner. The last and most important message was from Sir Jonathan Youngblood in London.

  He mentally calculated the time difference between Texas and London. The RavensBlood cover album held top priority, so he made the overseas call. He left yet another voice mail for Sir Jonathan. Frustrated with his lack of success, he traded his office for a soundproof rehearsal room.

  Hours later, he noticed the yellow light on the control panel next to the door blinking, signaling he had company. He glanced at his watch. Damn. Hopefully, his dad already had the steaks on. His stomach sent up its own audible signal. He’d done it again, lost himself in the music, and forgotten about everything else. Oh well. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last either.

  He shut off the equipment, stretched stiff muscles, and urged Betty Boop to her feet. As he stepped from the barn, the smell of mesquite and grilling beef greeted him. He locked the pedestrian door and stretched again.

  Endless Texas sky, azure blue in the late afternoon light, was a welcome sight. No matter how hectic his life got he always had this to come back to. The farm, and the acres of planted fields, grounded him. He loved the rambling old farmhouse he’d inherited from his maternal grandparents. The house was solidly rooted in family history, and the farm predictable in its seasonal routines. Solid and predictable were good things as far as he was concerned. But above all else, Willowbrook was where he lived his life. It was home.

  He paused, inhaling the warm, humid air. The smell of turned earth and cut grass was as familiar and comforting as his worn jeans. He surveyed the expanse of young cotton plants growing in the fertile black soil, and peace settled over him. The weight of the world could be on his shoulders and a stroll through these fields would make it all go away. His grandfather had taught him the value of a good long walk to organize his thoughts and calm his soul.

  After his mother died, he’d worn a new path through the fields, watering the plants with his tears as he went. Some might think farm life was isolating, but he knew better. In the fields, he felt part of something big, bigger than he could fathom.

  The land comforted, but he longed for another kind of comfort—the kind that came from sharing his life with another. He would never leave the farm, but he hoped to one day find someone who loved it as much as he did, maybe have some kids he could pass the farm down to, but until that happened, he’d continue on his present path. He had the best of two worlds, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

  His stomach growled again, urging him to follow his nose to the source of the heavenly smell. He headed toward the patio and grill beneath the ancient oak tree, hoping his dad and whomever he’d brought with him had saved him a Lone Star.

  Henry waved a greasy spatula at him in greeting. “It’s about time you got out here. We’ve been waiting for you. The steaks are almost done.”

  Thanks to the girth of the old oak, supposedly planted by his great-grandfather over one hundred years ago, he couldn’t see the ‘we’ his dad spoke of. He rounded the tree and stopped cold in his tracks. He caught a glimpse of leg and his blood pressure skyrocketed as. The guest wasn’t one of his dad’s domino playing buddies. That leg belonged to a female. A young, shapely female. One who painted her toenails candy-apple red.

  No. He wouldn’t do this to me. Not my own father. Hank licked his dry lips and closed the distance. What had she told his father in order
to finagle an invitation to dinner? It must have been good to get him to go along with it. Dad knows how I feel about reporters.

  He stalked past his father. Mel Harper occupied his favorite lawn chair. She stood as he approached. Holding a sweating glass of white wine in one hand, she tucked the fingers of her free hand in the pocket of her shorts. Lord help him if he thought she’d looked good in her fancy business clothes. That was nothing compared to how shorts and a tank top showed off her curves. He’d never get her out of his mind. Not after tonight. A bead of perspiration clung to her hairline and his fingers itched to sweep it away for her. Better yet, if he put his lips there…

  “It’s good to see you again, Hank,” she said with an innocent smile that didn’t fool him one bit.

  What remained of his good mood vanished faster than biscuits at a church supper. “What are you doing here?”

  Her smile disappeared. A flash of anger crossed her face, and as quickly as it appeared was replaced by a cold mask of civility.

  “Your father invited me.” Fury backed her clipped words. “But I made a mistake in accepting his invitation.” She stood toe to toe with him, a petite Amazon. “If you’ll step aside, I’ll be on my way.”

  He held his ground, trying his best to ignore her scent—roses with a hint of something earthy. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the scoop neck of her top. He shifted his stance, straightening, anything to put distance between them without seeming to back down. “Why are you here?” he repeated.

  Her gaze met his boldly. “I told you, I was invited.” Her voice matched his in cordiality. She stepped around him, set her wineglass on the picnic table, and retrieved her purse. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she turned to his dad.