by Sandra Field
The launch was close enough that he could see Oliver’s stout figure at the wheel; the bow wave curved backward in two white arcs. Slowly Travis turned and walked up the slope. He had to pass Julie’s car to get to his. “Time to go down to the wharf,” he said.
She nodded and headed down the hill. Her hips swung gracefully; her narrow shoulders filled him with passionate yearning. For what? For Brent’s leftovers?
It was eighteen years since he’d laid eyes on Brent. Twice, in the early years, he’d made an effort to see his brother. But both times Brent had canceled their meeting at the last minute, and so Travis had stopped trying. Through mutual acquaintances he’d heard news over the years, mostly about Brent’s profligate spending and strings of women.
Of which Julie Renshaw was the latest.
Cursing under his breath, Travis hefted his bag from the back seat. He dumped it on the wharf a few moments later and stationed himself by the rubber tires tied to the pilings to protect Manatuck’s hull. Oliver cut the engine and with a grappling hook latched onto one of the metal rungs bolted to the wharf. Then he looked up at the tall, dark-haired man on the dock. “Master Travis? Is that really you?”
The old name took Travis aback. He said, emotion roughening his voice, “Oliver… how are you? It’s great to see you. But none of that master stuff—Travis is good enough.”
“They didn’t tell me you were coming,” Oliver said gruffly, shoving his greasy cap further back on his head. “Darned if it’s not good to see you, boy.”
Oliver was almost bald, Travis noticed, and must have gained thirty pounds in the intervening years. “They don’t know I’m coming—it’s a surprise,” he said dryly. “Isn’t that the same shirt you were wearing the day I left?”
Oliver glanced down dubiously. “Can’t be. Would have wore out by now. Looks like I spilled my dinner on it, though.”
Forgetting his tension in a surge of affection, Travis said, “Manatuck looks good.” The decks were shiny, the brass polished to a high luster, and the paintwork immaculate.
“She’s aging better than I am,” Oliver said. “Come on aboard, it’ll be like old times.”
No, it won’t, Travis thought. You can’t go back, he’d learned that the hard way. He said, indicating the woman standing silently beside him, “This is Julie Renshaw. Brent’s date.”
“Ah, yes,” Oliver said, his faded blue eyes assessing her shrewdly. “Hand her bag down, Mr. Travis, and we’ll get going. The tide’ll be turning soon, and I’d just as soon be clear of the channel.”
Julie picked up her bag. “I can manage,” she announced, and passed it down to Oliver. Then she clambered down the metal rungs and jumped lightly onto the deck. “Hi, Oliver… I’m pleased to meet you.”
Oliver grinned, baring the gap in his teeth that had been there for as long as Travis could remember, “Master Brent arrived yesterday,” he said, “Aren’t you the pretty one, now.”
Julie blushed. “Thank you.”
Travis had also descended the ladder. The deck swayed gently beneath his feet. As Oliver dropped the grappling hook, Travis pushed off; with a sweet purr of her engines, Manatuck left the dock. Julie had stationed herself against the railing, where she could see where they were headed, but also keep Travis and Oliver in view. If Oliver liked Travis, then Travis couldn’t be all bad, she thought. But there was a mystery attached to his return; the family didn’t know about it, and she’d have sworn when she’d asked Brent about any siblings, he’d said no.
It looked like her weekend was shaping up to be more interesting than she’d expected. Rather too interesting. Travis had planted his feet on the deck, the wind ruffling his thick hair; his physique, broad-shouldered and slimhipped, made her feel weak at the knees. Brent, technically the more handsome of the two men, and certainly friendlier, didn’t have that effect at all.
Not that it mattered. She wasn’t in the market for a lover, and definitely not for a husband.
The bay was choppy. She moved forward, clutching the railing, and wondered which of the islands was their destination. Fifteen minutes later, she was in no doubt. On the most rugged island in the bay, four stone turrets pierced the jagged outline of the spruce trees; Castlereigh, she thought with a quiver of inner laughter, and watched it come closer. A stone boathouse, twice the size of her parents’ bungalow, anchored a long wharf which jutted out from the island; there was also a raked sand beach, and a vast expanse of manicured lawn.
Skillfully Oliver steered the launch to nudge the dock; Travis jumped ashore and fastened the lines. Then he reached down a hand to Julie. His face was inscrutable; his eyes didn’t meet hers.
He lifted her to the dock as easily as if she were a child. Oliver slung their bags up. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Travis. Right glad you’re back where you belong.”
Although Travis had no idea where he belonged, he was almost sure it wasn’t here. “Thanks, Oliver,” he said, and picked up the two bags. “Let’s go,” he said to Julie.
He was striding up a long wooden stairway as though pursued by the hounds of hell. She jogged after him, past a thicket of rhododendrons and azaleas, followed by an enormous formal rose garden that would have graced the grounds of Versailles but was definitely out of place here. Then they rounded a copse of birch trees and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Well,” she said inadequately.
For a moment Travis stopped, too. “It does kind of take your breath away, doesn’t it?” he said wryly.
An array of crenellations, archways, porticos and buttresses was crowned by the four soaring turrets she’d seen from the launch. There was even a partial moat.
She said faintly, “It’s certainly imposing.”
“It’s a godawful monument to the triumph of money and egotism over taste,” Travis said succinctly. “And you’ve only seen the outside.”
“You mean there’s more?”
“All that the almighty dollar can buy.”
He looked fractionally less tense, Julie was glad to see. Although why his emotional state should matter to her, she didn’t have a clue. He hadn’t exactly been friendly to her; she’d better keep that in mind. “Is there a front door?” she asked. “Shouldn’t I be mounted on a snow-white charger?”
“A suit of armor’s not a bad idea,” he said with a touch of grimness. “Follow me.”
A massive bell pull dangled by twin doors that were ornately spiked with wrought iron. Travis pulled the bell and pushed one door open. An aged butler was crossing the entrance hall. “Master Travis,” he said, clutching his tailored black jacket in the vicinity of his heart. “Oh, Master Travis… how wonderful to see you, sir. It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Bertram,” Travis said, shaking the old man’s hand. “Thought I’d surprise the family. How’s your family, by the way?”
“Very well indeed. Peg will be so happy to know you’re here. Cocktails are being served in the drawing room, sir. Shall I announce you?”
“Why don’t you do that? This is Julie Renshaw, Brent’s date.”
Bertram gave her a courtly nod. In a procession of three they marched past a bloodthirsty display of medieval weapons, then down an imposing corridor checkered with portraits; not one of the painted faces, Julie noticed, looked at all happy to be hanging on the walls of Castlereigh. Travis didn’t look very happy to be here, either.
As Bertram ushered them through a wide doorway, Travis took her by the hand. His fingers were cold; not for anything would she have let go of them. Bertram quavered, “Miss Julie Renshaw and Mr. Travis Strathem.”
Three people were seated on overstuffed leather chesterfields in a room that dwarfed them with its dimensions. Quantities of marble and velvet, and carpets as big as playing fields were Julie’s first impressions; her second the reaction of each of the three people to Travis’s presence.
Brent leaped to his feet, turning to face the door. Hatred, raw and implacable, scored his face. He looked so unlike his usual handsome, carefree self that the hair r
ose on the back of Julie’s neck. The older man, who must be Charles Strathem, looked terrified out of his wits; while the woman, impeccably dressed in linen and pearls, projected a well-bred mixture of dismay and distaste. Brent’s stepmother, Julie decided, and watched as polite masks replaced all these initial, instinctive reactions.
Then Brent walked over to her, the lamplight shining in his golden hair, his perfect teeth stretched in a smile she would have sworn was genuine. She hadn’t imagined the hatred, though. She knew she hadn’t. “Julie!” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “How lovely you look.” Before she could duck, he kissed her hard and thoroughly on the mouth.
Squirming free of Brent, suppressing the instinct to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, she sputtered, “Hello, Brent. Sorry I’m late. But luckily Travis and I were able to get the launch together.”
“Ah yes… my long-lost brother,” Brent said. “A surprise birthday present, Travis. Is that what you are?”
His hazel eyes were entirely unamused; he was balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. Travis said easily, “Yes, I thought I’d surprise you all.”
“How gratifying to have had such instant success,” Brent said smoothly. “Be sure and tell Dad he hasn’t aged,” he added, swinging around to include Charles in his brilliant smile.
Why had it never struck her before how aggressive that smile was? Julie wondered. Or was she simply seeing for the first time what lay beneath the charm? She hadn’t liked being kissed by him. Hadn’t liked it at all. By kissing her, Brent had been getting at Travis, she’d swear to it; in that sense, it had been nothing to do with her.
Charles Strathem stepped forward. He was a tall man with iron-grey hair rigidly combed across his scalp, his chin stubborn rather than strong; he was wearing a tailored business suit. If he had been frightened earlier, he now had himself firmly under control. Making no effort to hug his son, or even shake his hand, he looked Travis up and down. “You’ll just have time to change for dinner.”
“I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks first,” Travis said calmly, yet with a note in his voice that caused his father’s eyes to drop.
“Fine,” Charles said. “Help yourself. But kindly say hello to your stepmother.”
“Corinne,” Travis said, crossing the room with that economical grace Julie had noticed earlier. He bent and brushed her perfectly made-up cheek with his lips. “You look very well.”
“Thank you, Travis,” she said coolly, without reciprocating his gesture. “Get your drink and I’ll ring for Bertram to set another place for dinner.”
Brent pulled Julie forward. “Dad, Corinne, this is Julie Renshaw. Julie, my father Charles Strathem, and my stepmother, Corinne Strathem.”
Julie shook hands, murmured the usual inanities, and was offered an array of drinks. She chose vodka and orange, and heard herself chatting on about the boat trip and the rose garden. Corinne offered her a tour of the garden in the morning, then Charles led her to the far wall to show her an oil painting of Manatuck’s predecessor. Travis said nothing.
Half an hour later, having been shown to her room, Julie closed the door and leaned back against the panels. She had fifteen minutes until dinner. Her sole desire was to run down the slope and beg Oliver to take her back to the mainland. Pronto.
What on earth had Travis done to make his return so little a cause for rejoicing? While Oliver and Bertram had been genuinely pleased to see him, his family was acting as if a viper had dropped into their midst. No one had welcomed him, or asked him how he was. Or why he was back.
The other glaringly obvious question was why he’d left. Why, when, and how.
She could always ask. Right, she thought ironically. A sure way to commit social suicide.
Her bag had been unpacked, and her clothes pressed and hung in a cavernous walk-in cupboard. Quickly Julie showered and changed into white silk pants with a long tunic, jade earrings that she’d bought at a bazaar in Tanzania dangling from her lobes, and jade-green sandals on her feet. Makeup, a quick brush through her hair and she was ready. It was going to be a long evening.
As she walked down the hallway toward the magnificent curved staircase, another door opened. Travis said, “Wait, Julie, we’ll go down together. Otherwise you’ll get lost.” She turned. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a thin-striped shirt and silk tie; but his hair was still unruly, and his eyes remained that burning and unrevealing blue. Her heart quickened. Had she called him attractive? What a wishy-washy word for a man who exuded such a powerful combination of intelligence, willpower and animal grace. A man who pulled her toward him with every breath he took.
Which certainly made him unique. Normally she was immune to sexy, charismatic men. Avoided them like the plague.
He stopped a foot away from her, giving her a leisurely survey. “Very elegant—less is always more, isn’t it? Something neither Charles nor Corinne has ever learned.”
“I’m to take that as a compliment?”
“Don’t fish, Julie.”
“How else am I to find out what you’re thinking?”
“You can take it as read that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Her jaw dropped inelegantly. “Me?”
“Come on—you’ve looked in the mirror.”
“My mouth is too wide and my nose is off-center.”
“Only slightly. I never did have much use for perfection.” Deliberately he reached out and ran his finger across the curve of her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, where it lingered for a moment. “I’ve been wanting to do that since we met,” he said thickly.
Warm color flooded her cheeks. “Come off it. You wanted the wharf to yourself when we met,” she retorted. “Which, after that scene in the drawing room, I can fully understand. So please don’t pretend you were overcome by the sight of me.”
“You need to know two things about me. I don’t pretend. And I’m capable of holding more than one emotion at once.”
Wasn’t she the same? If fury and lust could be called emotions, she was certainly swamped by both right now. Not that she was going to tell him that. She said lamely, “We’re going to be late for dinner. Punishable by confinement in the dungeon.”
“In irons.” Travis held out his arm. “Let’s go.”
It was a challenge. He was daring her, Brent’s date, to walk into the dining room on his arm. “Don’t use me to get at your younger brother,” she flared.
“Don’t drag me down to his level.”
He was saying, indirectly, that he wanted to take her arm for his own sake. Subduing a treacherous thrill of pleasure, she said, “Does anyone ever win an argument with you?”
He said dryly, “I have a feeling you could.”
“I wish I shared that feeling,” she said, and slid her fingers through the crook of his elbow, searingly aware of the taut muscles of his forearm under the expensive cloth. “Why are you here, Travis?” she blurted.
He said flatly, “It’s time I made peace with my father. His sixtieth birthday seemed as good a time as any to start.”
She looked straight up at him. “If peace is what you want, wouldn’t you have been better to let him know you were coming? He looked scared out of his wits when he saw you.”
“So you noticed that as well.” Travis frowned. “Anger I’d have understood. But not fear.”
“What if he doesn’t want to make peace with you?”
“Then I’ll just have to find a way to make it happen, won’t I? And don’t ask why I left, because I won’t tell you.”
“Well, that’s straightforward enough.” She gave him an impish grin. “This conversation will, I’m sure, be the only red one of the whole evening.”
“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
She blinked, swallowing hard. “Scream for help? Haul you into the nearest bedroom? How do I know?”
“Then we’d better postpone it until we have the time to find out,” Travis said, and set off down the corridor as
imperturbably as if they’d been discussing the weather.
Julie scurried along beside him, her head buzzing with questions, her body, regrettably, aching with a hunger that had nothing to do with dinner. When would she ever learn to keep a guard on her tongue?
How could she have said that about hauling him into the nearest bedroom? She’d never hauled a man into a bedroom in her life; and she wasn’t going to start with Travis Strathem.
CHAPTER THREE
Dinner was an interminable, exquisitely prepared meal during which Brent flirted with Julie unrelentingly, Corinne talked at great length about gardens of the eighteenth century, and Charles and Travis said very little. Julie did learn two things. Travis was a doctor, and he’d left home eighteen years ago.
It didn’t seem like much for the better part of two long hours, every minute of which seethed with the undercurrents of things unsaid. Just like home, Julie thought with a touch of panic. When had her parents ever voiced an honest emotion or spoken out of a genuine need? Never. Excruciating politeness was the way they operated, too, just like the Strathems. And it was from that deadly politeness that she herself had run away from home at the age of seventeen and a half.
By ten o’clock Julie had the beginnings of a headache, which she used as the excuse to beg off after-dinner drinks on the stone patio that led from the dining room. As Brent accompanied her to the dining-room doorway, she managed to turn her head so that his good-night kiss hit her cheek rather than her mouth. His fingers digging into her arm with punitive strength, he said in a voice laden with innuendo, “Sleep well, darling.”
“Thank you… good night, everyone.”
She almost ran up the stairs to her room. Once inside, after a moment’s thought, she locked the door, using the heavy brass key. Brent hadn’t liked her entering the dining room arm in arm with Travis. Brent might possibly be planning a middle-of-the-night revenge. Well, she’d foiled that, she thought smugly, and stripped off her clothes.
Accepting Brent’s invitation for the weekend hadn’t been the smartest move of her life. But she’d had two fun-filled dates with him, the first a seafood dinner followed by a movie, the other sailing with two other couples in the bay; so it had seemed safe enough to come to Manatuck. It might well have been safe if only Travis hadn’t shown up.