by Amy Summers
Mentally, she shook herself. So what now? She glanced about the room wondering what to do next.
He watched her with interest, continuing to spoon the ice cream in at the same time.
"You here to check me out?" he asked suddenly.
"What?" She looked back at him and pulled her bag nervously to her chest. "What do you mean?"
That grin was back. The man actually had dimples. "Your sister was here earlier. And now you." He dug into the cardboard container and came up with a large chunk of brickle. "Are there any more of you coming by later?" The brickle popped into his mouth. "I'd like to think that I'd passed muster with the full set."
Trish watched his enjoyment of the ice cream, thinking some ice cream manufacturer ought to grab this guy for television commercials. Despite the tension between the two of them, he was enjoying his snack with open relish that seemed completely candid. That sort of joy could be contagious.
She took a deep breath to keep from letting down her shaky defenses. Suzi was absolutely right. This man was sexy. Their mother was lonely and confused and hurting... a prime target for this sort of sexy. Trish wished she could deny it, wished she could close her eyes and make it go away. She felt shaky, scared and hollow. Chris Dawson was enough to make any woman think twice. How was her father going to compete with this? And how was she going to get the man out of her mother's life?
"I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice was hardening now. She was getting more sure of her purpose.
He looked up at her again and grinned.
"I don't mind. Check me out all you want. My life's an open book." His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Why don't you sit down?" he suggested. "You're making me nervous, standing over me like that."
Nervous! Resentment shot through her. He looked as relaxed as a cat on a hearth. She was the one who was uncertain here, and he knew it very well.
"I don't believe anything would make you nervous," she muttered. But she sank gingerly to the edge of the couch, sitting as far from him as she could get, thinking of things that were making her quiver, wondering vaguely if he would be offended if she asked him to button his shirt.
Probably. And it would broadcast just how shaky her position was. She abandoned the idea and tried to think of a subtle way to pump him for information. Questions such as, "How long have you known my mother?" or "Have you been in Destiny Bay long?" came to mind, but before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Don't you have a job to go to?"
He put down the spoon and the empty ice cream container. "I'm sort of between jobs right now," he admitted, and his expression was suddenly guarded. "I left my last job and I'm looking forward to starting something new I've got lined up."
Something new? Suzi's description popped into her mind, along with the words they'd bandied about. Gigolo. Could he possibly mean... ? She knew there were men who did this sort of thing for a living, latching on to older, wealthy women, giving them attention and a ready escort in return for a salary. Trish felt all the blood drain out of her face. It couldn't be. Could it? Was he really some kind of gigolo? Was her mother really so lonely she'd had to turn to this?
She closed her eyes for just a second, steadying herself, then looked back at him. Actually, she had to hand it to him. If that were his business, he was certainly attractive enough for it. His eyes had a knowing look, as though he knew what you were thinking just a half second before you knew it yourself. He looked strong, yet lazy, like a huge jungle animal, all leashed power behind sleepy eyes. There was something about that tousled hair that made you want to reach out and...
Stop it! she ordered herself silently, straightening her shoulders and bracing herself. This was ridiculous. She was here to figure out what to do about this man, not fall under his spell. Besides, at the same time she was studying him, it was obvious he was doing the same to her, and she couldn't help but be curious as to what he thought he saw.
She knew her copper-tipped hair was disheveled despite its neat, short cut, that her makeup had been worn away by now, revealing the freckles scattered across her nose, that her navy blue and white-trimmed, square-cut sailor dress was hopelessly gauche, that her soft leather navy flats looked much too sensible for one with his flamboyant tastes.
If he had flamboyant tastes. But she was pretty sure he must have. Look at his line of work. Maybe.
She tried to read what he was thinking from the expression in his eyes, but all she saw there was slightly ironic humor. Then it came to her--the man was laughing at her! She went as prickly as a startled cat. How dare he!
"Do you have any idea when she'll be back?" she asked him stiffly.
He shook his head. "She left right after breakfast and she didn't tell me where she was going."
"I see."
Right after breakfast! Trish's hands were clenched into fists, the nails biting flesh. A wave of nausea swept over her. How could he state things like that so calmly? Her green eyes sent daggers. "I hope she fixed you something nutritious."
A half smile softened his face. "Actually, I fixed breakfast. A ham omelet. My specialty."
The man even cooked! "Who could ask for anything more," she muttered to herself in anguish.
"What was that?" He'd caught the thread of the emotion, but not the words.
"Oh, nothing." She moved restlessly on the couch, at a loss as to what she was supposed to do. "Nothing at all."
He was apparently catching every nuance now, fully aware of her unease and her confusion. And obviously resenting it somewhat.
"So what do you do?" he asked her, his dark eyes narrowing as though to prevent her from reading any more in his gaze. "Besides keeping tabs on your mother's life."
Yes, he knew what she was thinking, what she was upset about. Her chin rose and she met his gaze squarely. "You think this is nosy? You should see what happens if you decide to try to date my sister.”
“Ah hah. Warning noted and filed away for future reference.”
He thought he was so clever.
“Just what sort of future do you have in mind?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Save the third degree for someone who deserves it.” That eyebrow tilted upward again. "What exactly is it that you're doing here?"
His tone was light, almost bantering, as though he were teasing her. But she had the distinct impression that he was more serious than he pretended.
"Visiting," she said defensively. "What's wrong with a daughter visiting her mother?"
"Not a thing." He settled back into the corner of the couch and watched her, a wry smile wavering on his lips, though his eyes were darkening dangerously. "It's touching, actually. I love these close family relationships. Heartwarming stuff."
The edge of sarcasm was all too clear and it fired her anger. "I'm so glad you approve," she retorted in kind. "Your opinion is so important to me."
Her words were spoken in a tone meant to supply a sting and he reacted instinctively, reaching out to take hold of her shoulder with one large hand, while he said, "I'm important to your mother. And that's all that counts."
They stared at one another for a long moment, tension quivering in the air. She didn't pull away from his hand. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it threatened her. Instead she lifted her freckled nose at a challenging angle and glared right back at him.
He seemed to be searching for something in her eyes, and was half surprised when he found it. A bemused smile began to soften his face, and suddenly he threw back his shaggy head and laughed aloud, and his hand gave her shoulder a caressing pat before it left her altogether.
Watching him, the stream of sunlight from the open window sparkling gold in his dark eyes, shooting gold through his thick hair, washing gold across his tan skin, she felt every instinct for self-preservation coming alert. He was as smooth as aged cognac, as seductive as...
Seductive? Had she really thought that word? That only made her glare all the harder.
"Whoa, wait a
minute," he was saying softly, looking at her again. Smiling, he leaned back against the pillows and put his arm behind her on the back of the couch. "Let's start over, okay? I think we're heading down a path whose only logical destination is nothing short of nuclear war. What do you say we back up and try for another road out of here?"
Seductive. Yes, that was the word, all right. Those sleepy bedroom eyes and that hard brown naked chest.
She hesitated and he leaned closer, hooking a finger in the cuff of her short sleeve.
"It's obvious that you don't like me being here in your mother's place," he said, studying her reaction. "But I’m harmless as a kitten. Honest. I have no hidden schemes lurking in my heart.”
She turned her shoulder so that the sleeve slipped from his grasp. His fingers brushed her arm as she turned and she had to steel herself to keep from looking at them.
"Is there a logical explanation as to what you’re doing here?" she asked, and hope flared. What if there was? What if this could all be wished away! "I'd be interested in hearing it."
He opened his hand, stared at its emptiness, then pulled it back. His eyes were dark, clouded, and she couldn't tell if she'd offended him the way she'd jerked away from him. Maybe she had. She wasn't sure why that made her a tiny bit sorry, but the fact that it did made her all the more wary of him.
"The truth is," he was saying, "your mother very kindly allowed me to come in and sleep on her couch when my apartment downstairs was flooded. Bad pipes. It'll be a few days before they can get the place back in living condition." He smiled disarmingly. "So you see, it's all very innocent. I’m not trying to….”
He hesitated and she waited, holding her breath. Was he going to come right out and say it? “I’m not trying to seduce your mother.” Did he dare say it?
No, it seemed he wouldn’t go there.
“We’re just friends,” he said with a shrug.
She let her breath out. He couldn’t say it, could he? And maybe he didn’t mean it anyway. She only wished she could believe that. But so far, he hadn't been very convincing.
"You met in the laundry room, I suppose." She hadn't meant it to be insulting, but somehow her tone didn't come out quite the way she'd intended.
He hesitated and something darkened his gaze for just a moment. "No...no, actually we met at Mammoth."
Well, there it was. The truth at last. All hope of a good explanation died with that admission. Why had they let their mother go on that ski trip to Mammoth all alone? They should have realized how vulnerable she would be to this sort of temptation. Ski instructors were notorious ladies' men. It was like a singles bar on ice up there.
"I see," she said, drawing in a shuddering breath. Her heart was aching.
"No." His attempt at a smile was beginning to fray around the edges. "No, I don't think you do see. Your mother has been very kind to me. She's a very generous woman."
"Sure, she's always been generous, up to a point. Actually, she was never one to take in strays before."
"Strays?" He repeated it slowly. All humor drained from his eyes. She'd finally gone too far. "Is that what I look like to you?"
Trish swallowed hard, wishing she could recall the word. She'd hurt his feelings. Well, let his feelings be hurt. He deserved it.
But when she looked into his dark eyes, she felt a rush of remorse. He was taking this far more seriously than she'd intended. She wanted to jab at him with some pin pricks, but she didn't want to insult him. All she wanted was for him to vanish, to disappear from her mother's life, so that things could get back to normal.
"Are you accusing me of seducing your mother?" he asked her bluntly.
Her mouth was dry and she couldn't answer.
"So what, Trish," he said softly, insinuatingly. "What if I am? What if your mother and I are having a mad, passionate affair right here. What possible business is it of yours?"
Her heart was beating very fast, and still no words would come.
He rose from the couch and stood over her, his shirt hanging free, his hands on his hips. "Your mother and I are friends," he said, his voice quiet but barely concealing his anger. "It's none of your business what that includes. If you can't handle that, I'd say you're the one who's got a problem. Don't try to lay it on me. Okay?"
Trish stared back at him. "My problem isn't really with you at all," she said softly at last. “Don’t you get that?”
She rose, carefully avoiding him, and started for the door. "Please tell my mother that I stopped by." She turned and looked back. The storm in his dark eyes was compelling. She felt a strong urge to do something, say something, to calm it. But what could she do? Shrugging helplessly, she added, "I'll call her later."
And then she was out the door and hurrying toward the stairs.
The man was real, the man was threatening. Her insides were jello. It felt very much as though the structure she'd built her life on was in danger of crumbling away. Chris Dawson was a dream of a man. And he was living with her mother!
She supposed she wasn't being very modern about all this. People split up every day, each going on to new partners. But "people" could do whatever they wanted, her parents were different. She needed them together. Their union formed the rock her life was built on. If they split up for good, her world would crumble, all control gone. Why couldn't anyone else see that?
She had to make them see before it was too late.
Anger flashed through her. Where the hell was her father while all this was going on? He should be taking care of his woman. It was time she paid a visit to dear old Dad. Maybe she could shake him up, make him take some action.
Chapter 3
The sound of the heavy door closing reverberated through the apartment. Chris waited until the sound died down, then shook his head with a rueful grin. He shouldn't have done that. It had been a childish reaction. Junior high all the way. But he wasn't used to having women look at him with contempt in their eyes, and that was exactly what he'd seen in Trish's level green gaze. He winced. He hadn't liked it.
Rising, he turned off the television, then picked up the empty ice cream carton and other debris and carried it all to the kitchen. The spoon and half-empty beer bottle went into the sink, the ice cream carton in the trash, and then he stared out the window at the blue-gray ocean, his hands clenched over the rim of the sink.
Trish Carrington—just a young woman unable to deal with the fact that her parents were pulling away from each other. He could have been kinder to her. But then, she hadn’t been exactly gentle with him, had she?
Maybe she was right. What was he doing here anyway? Maybe he should have stayed in Mammoth where he belonged, gliding down the slopes, living for the snow and sunshine. Maybe this whole effort to turn over a new leaf was doomed before it began—a major waste of time.
He flexed his wide shoulders and sighed aloud. What the hell. He was here now. He might as well see this thing through. After all, he'd given his word to Laura, and his word was the one thing he didn't play around with.
Turning back to the kitchen, he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. He turned on the flame, watching it leap up around the bottom of the pot. That was the way life should be, leaping up, eagerness, catching hold of experience with both hands. It hadn't been that way for him for some time now. The women, the good times—it all was beginning to blur.
"You're growing up, Chris," his sister Michelle had told him just the other day when he'd attempted to articulate some of these feelings to her. "Finally!"
Growing up. He shook his head and glanced at his reflection against the black glass of the oven. Same old Chris as far as he could see. Same old Chris.
He heard the front door opening and his first thought was that Trish had come back. Adrenaline began to surge until he heard the sound of the newcomer's voice.
"Chris? You here?"
It was Laura. He felt a certain tension drain away, letting his shoulders relax. Laura Carrington was a nice person. No adrenaline needed.
/>
"Hi," he said, emerging from the kitchen to find Trish's mother dropping packages on the floor beside the couch. "Been shopping?"
"That I have." She looked up with a bright smile, an older version of her daughter's. "I got some things I knew you needed. Some handkerchiefs. A light wind-breaker."
The tension came back with her words. There was a tenuous ambivalence to his situation here, something that needed to be resolved. She was a wealthy woman. And who was he? Nobody. A ski instructor. The implications were obvious, and he didn't like them.
"I can get my own things," he said gruffly.
She looked up quickly, her eyes registering surprise at his tone. "Of course you can. But I was out. And I needed to shop." She smiled, trying to coax his good humor back. "After all, I consider this therapy. Pure therapy. I needed to do something to lift my spirits and get myself in the mood for this covert operation of ours, and shopping did it."
He hesitated, accurately reading her abundant goodwill. Give her a break, he told himself scornfully. She's been nothing but great to you. She didn’t deserve this defensive attitude. He shrugged apologetically.
"Sorry, Laura. I didn't mean to snap at you. But I want to pay for my own things." He reached into his wallet and extracted a bill, placing it on the table. The kettle's whistle went off at a convenient moment. "I'll get us some tea."
He was back in a moment, carrying two earthenware mugs filled with the steaming herbal brew. He handed one to her, then joined her on the couch.
She took the mug, cupping it in her hands, and studied him for a long moment.
"Why the long face?" she asked at last. "You're the one who's usually trying to perk me up."
He sank back into the corner of the couch and gave her a half grin. "What is it? Are you turning telepathic on me? Reading my mind?"
She laughed. "I've been a mother for so many years, it just comes naturally."