CHAPTER TWO
Gavin ripped off his sunglasses and impaled her with his icy gaze. “Well?” he demanded, his eyes slitting dangerously. His jaw thrust forward impatiently. Undercurrents of long-dead emotions charged the air.
“I was waiting for you.”
“For me?” His mouth tightened. “Well, now, isn’t that a switch?”
The words bit.
“You know, Melanie, you were the last person I expected to run into up here.” He dug in his crutches and hobbled past her to the bar.
“I was waiting for you because—”
“I don’t want to hear it. In fact,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”
Melanie was stunned. This cold, bitter man was Gavin—the boy she’d loved so passionately. Where was the tenderness, the kindness, the laughter she remembered so vividly? “Let’s just get through this, okay?”
“What? Get through what? Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter.” He turned his attention to the dusty mirrored bar.
“Of course it matters! I’ve got a job to do—”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing on her camera case. “A job?”
“Yes—”
“Just get out.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said, ‘Get out,’ Melanie. Leave. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But you agreed—”
“Agreed?” he roared, his fist banging the bar. “Unless memory fails me, the last time we agreed to anything, I was going to Colorado and you agreed to wait for me.”
“Oh, God.” This was worse than she’d imagined. “I couldn’t—”
“And guess what? The minute I’m out of town, you left me high and dry.”
“That’s not exactly how it was,” she snapped back.
“Oh, no? Then you tell me, how was it?”
“You were in Colorado—”
“Oh, right, I left you. Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. Period. I shouldn’t have brought it up. So just go.” Swearing under his breath, he propped himself up with his crutches and scrounged around behind the oak and brass bar, searching the lower cupboards.
From her vantage point, Melanie saw his reflection in the dusty full-length mirror. He was wearing cutoff jeans, and the muscles of his thighs, covered with downy gold hair, strained as he leaned over.
“You did leave me,” she pointed out, refusing to back down.
“And you said you’d wait. Stupid me, I believed you.”
“I meant it.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said, glaring at her again. “I just didn’t put a time limit on the waiting, is that it? I assumed you meant you’d wait more than a few weeks before you eloped with someone else.”
The hackles on the back of her neck rose as he turned his attention back to the cupboard. “You don’t understand—”
“No, damn it, I don’t. I—” he hooked a thumb at his chest “—wasn’t there, was I? I didn’t have the advantage of seeing you moving in on Brooks.”
“I didn’t move in on—”
“Okay, so he moved in on you. Doesn’t matter.”
“Then what’re we arguing about?” she demanded, the heat rushing to her cheeks.
He let out his breath slowly, as if trying to control a temper that was rapidly climbing out of control. “What’re you doing here, Melanie? I thought you lived in Seattle and probably owned a Mercedes and had a couple of kids by now.”
“Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you want them to,” she said.
He glanced over the top of the bar, his brows pulled together. “Philosophy? Or real life?”
“Both,” she replied, holding up her chin. “I’m here with the Tribune.”
“The what?” he asked without much interest.
“The Tribune. You know, the local newspaper.”
“Oh, right.” He snorted, returning his attention to the contents of the bar. “So you’re a reporter these days? What’s that got to do with me?”
“I’m a photographer,” she replied quickly. “Not a reporter, but I’m supposed to take pictures of you for the interview.”
“I don’t give interviews.”
Melanie’s temper began to simmer. “But yesterday your partner said you’d talk to us—”
His head snapped up, and the look he sent her over the bar was positively furious. “Rich said what?”
“That you’d grant an interview to the Trib—”
“No way!”
“But—”
“Hey, don’t argue with me,” he bit out. “You, of all people, should understand why I don’t talk to the press. It has to do with privacy and the fact that there are some details of my life I’d rather keep to myself.”
“Why me ‘of all people?’” she flung back at him.
His lips thinned. “As I remember it, there’s still some bad blood between our families and a whole closet full of skeletons that are better left locked away.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but she wanted to. Damn the man, he still had a way of getting under her skin—even if it was only to irritate her. But he did have a point, she thought grudgingly. She didn’t want anyone dredging up their affair or the scandal concerning her mother and his father.
“I’ll make sure this is strictly professional.”
“You can guarantee that?”
“I can try.”
“Not good enough. The Tribune doesn’t have the greatest reputation around.”
“I know, but—”
“Then no interview. Period,” he growled, rattling glasses until he found a bottle, yanked it out and blew the dust from its label.
“Let’s start over.”
He didn’t move, but his gaze drilled into hers. “Start over,” he repeated. “I wish I could. I would’ve done a whole lotta things differently.”
A lump jammed her throat. Her voice, when she found it, was soft. “I—uh, that’s not what I meant. I think we should start the interview over.”
“Like hell!” Wincing as he straightened his leg, he rained a drop-dead glance her direction.
Her temper flared. “Look, Gavin, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here!”
“Then leave!” He cleaned the bottom of a short glass with the tail of his shirt, then uncapped the bottle.
“I have a job to do.”
“Oh, yeah. Pictures for the Trib. I forgot.” He poured three fingers of whiskey into the glass and tossed back the entire drink, grimacing as the liquor hit the back of his throat.
“A little early, don’t ya—”
“I don’t need any advice,” he cut in. “Especially from you.” A sardonic smile twisted his lips, and he leaned across the bar, holding the bottle in one hand. “Excuse my manners,” he bit out, obviously intending to bait her. “Would you like to join me?”
Melanie narrowed her eyes, rising to the challenge. Why not? She’d taken all the flak she intended to, so she’d beat him at his own game. “Sure. And make it a double.”
A spark of humor flashed in his tawny eyes. “The lady wants a double.” He twisted off the cap. “You never did anything halfway, did ya, Mel? All or nothing.”
“That’s me,” she mocked, but her pulse jumped as he looked her way again, and she remembered him as he had been—younger, more boyish, his hard edges not yet formed. He’d always been striking and arrogant and fiercely competitive, but there had been a gentle side to him. A loving side that she’d never quite forgotten. Now it seemed that tenderness was well hidden under layers of cynicism.
She felt a stab of guilt. How could their wonderful love have turned so bitter?
Forcing a smile, she fought the urge to whisper that she was sorry. Instead she took the glass he offered and sipped the fiery liquor. “Ah . . .” she said, remembering the words her grandfather had used when tasting expensive Scotch, “smooth.”
“Right . . . smooth,” he challenged, his eyes glinting again. “Good ol’ rotgut whiskey. I’ll give you a clue, Melanie, it’s not smooth. In fact it burns like a son of a bitch.”
He was right. The whiskey seared a trail down her throat. She pushed her glass aside and met his gaze squarely. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Then that must be the way it is,” she replied smartly, wishing he wasn’t so damned handsome. If only she didn’t notice the way his dark lashes ringed his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the dark hair of his forearms. “Now that we’ve gotten past going for each other’s jugular—maybe we can quit sniping at each other long enough to get down to business.”
“Which is?”
“The interview. And pictures for it.”
His mouth tightened, and he shoved a wayward lock of blond hair from his eyes before taking another long, slow sip from his glass.
Several seconds ticked by, and he didn’t move a muscle. The subject of the interview was obviously closed.
“Right. Well, I tried.” With the tips of her fingers Melanie nudged her business card across the bar. “In case you change your mind. And when Jan gets here, would you tell her I went back to the office?”
“Who’s Jan?”
“The reporter. The one from the Tribune who planned to write a stunning article about your lodge. As I pointed out earlier, I’m just the photographer and I don’t care whether you want to be photographed or not. But Jan might see things differently. She’s under the false impression that you agreed to an interview.”
“She’s wrong.”
“You can tell her.” She started for the door and said sarcastically over her shoulder, “Thanks for the drink.”
Shoving his crutches forward, Gavin hobbled around the bar and placed himself squarely in her path to the door. “What’re you really doing here?” he asked.
A surge of anger swept through her. “You think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know.” His lips twisted cynically. “But then, you’ve had a lot of practice, haven’t you?”
That did it! She slung her bag over her shoulder. “For your information, I don’t want to be here. If I could, I’d be anywhere on God’s green earth rather than here with you!” She spun, but quick as a striking snake his hand shot out, steely fingers curled over her wrist and he whirled her back to face him.
“Before you leave,” he said so quietly she could barely hear him, “just answer one question.”
Melanie’s heart thumped, and her wrist, where his fingers wrapped possessively over her pulse, throbbed. Her throat was suddenly dry. “Shoot.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“I don’t have a husband anymore.”
Where the hell is Jan? Melanie thought as she grew more uncomfortable the longer her interaction with Gavin continued.
His eyes narrowed as if he expected everything she said to be a lie. She turned back to the door, but he wouldn’t release her. “So what happened to good ol’ Neil?”
She swallowed hard. “We’re divorced.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Regret? “I guess I should say I’m sorry.”
“No need to lie.”
His face softened slightly. “Believe it or not, Melanie, I only wanted the best for you,” he said suddenly. “I just didn’t think Neil Brooks could make you happy.”
“I guess it’s a moot point now.”
“Is it?” Again the pressure on her arm, the spark in his eyes.
Nervously she licked her lips, and his attention was drawn for a second to her mouth.
His jaw worked, and he said softly, “You know, Melanie, I think it would be best if you didn’t come back.”
“I only came here because of my job.”
“Oh?” he said, eyebrows lifting, the fingers on the inside of her wrist pressing slightly against her bare skin. “So you weren’t curious about me?”
“Not in the least.”
“And you didn’t think because you rid yourself of your husband that we could pick up where we left off?” His voice had grown husky, his pupils dilating in the darkened lodge.
“That would be crazy,” But her heart was pumping madly, slamming against her ribs, and she could barely concentrate on the conversation as his fingers moved on her inner wrist.
“Probably—”
The huge double doors were flung open, and Jan, her briefcase swinging at her side, strode into the lobby. “So here you are! God, I’ve had a terrible time getting here—” She took one look at Gavin and Melanie, and her train of thought seemed to evaporate.
Self-consciously, Melanie yanked her arm away from Gavin.
“Well,” Jan said, as if walking in on an intimate scene between one of her co-workers and an internationally famous skier were an everyday occurrence, “I see you’ve already started.”
“Not quite,” Melanie replied, but Jan plunged on, walking up to Gavin and flashing her businesslike smile.
“I’m Jan Freemont. With the Taylor’s Crossing Tribune.” She flicked a confused glance at Melanie, “But I suppose you already guessed.”
“I assumed.”
Jan dug into her heavy canvas bag. She withdrew a card and handed it to him. “So, you’ve already met Melanie.”
Gavin’s mouth quirked. “Years ago.”
“Oh?” Jan’s brows lifted in interest, and Melanie could have throttled Gavin right then and there.
Instead, she managed a cool smile. “Gavin and I both grew up around here,” she explained, hoping that would end this turn in the conversation. She was probably wrong. Jan wasn’t one to let the subject drop. Her reporter instincts were probably going crazy already.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jan apologized. “I had trouble with my car again.”
“I don’t think it matters,” Melanie said.
Jan was busy extracting a recorder and pad of paper.
Melanie threw Gavin a look that dared him to disagree as she said, “Mr. Doel and I were just discussing the interview.”
“Mmm?” Jan asked, searching through her large black shoulder bag.
“There isn’t going to be one,” Gavin said.
Melanie lifted a shoulder. “Apparently he didn’t know about it.”
“I didn’t,” Gavin clarified.
Melanie charged on. “And he’s not interested in going through with it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jan asked.
“’Fraid not,” Gavin drawled.
“But I spoke with your partner, Mr.—” she flipped open the note pad “—Johanson. He said you’d be glad to talk to us.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Gavin seemed faintly amused. “Well, he was wrong.”
Oh, this is just wonderful, Melanie thought, wishing she could disappear. She’d known this session would be a disaster, but neither Brian Michaels, the Trib’s editor-in-chief, nor Jan, the paper’s phenom reporter, had listened to her. Jan saw herself as a new Barbara Walters and Brian was hoping he could turn the Tribune into the Washington Post. Never mind that the Tribune was a small newspaper in central Oregon with a steadily declining readership.
Jan wasn’t about to be thwarted. She explained about her phone call to Gavin’s partner. She also went into an animated dissertation about how she wanted to write a “local boy does good then returns home” type of story.
Gavin wasn’t buying it. He listened to all her arguments, but his hard expression didn’t alter and his gaze drilled into her. “If you want information on the lodge, you’ll have to get it from Rich,” he finally said.
“But our readers will want to know all about you and your injury—”
“My personal life is off limits,” Gavin muttered, and Melanie felt a tremor of relief.
“But you’re a celebrity,” Jan cooed, trying desperately to win him over. “You have fans who are interested—”
“Then they can read all about it in some cheap rag at the checkout counter of their local market. It might not be true, but it’s guaranteed to be sensational.”
“Now, wait a minute.” Jan wasn’t about to take this lying down. “Reopening Ridge Lodge is a big story around here! People will be interested and it’s great publicity for you—”
“I don’t want publicity,” he said, glancing icily at Melanie. “I think I’ve had enough.” He hobbled to the door. “If you want to do an article on the lodge reopening, that’s fine with me, but I want my name kept out of it as much as possible.”
Jan’s smile was frozen. “But doesn’t that defeat the point? It’s your name that’s going to bring people here, Mr. Doel. Your face in the paper that will make people interested. You’re an international skier. You’ve endorsed everything from skis to lip balm. Your face will guarantee public interest, and that’s what you need to reopen the lodge successfully.” She gestured expansively to the inside of the resort. “I know I can convince my editor to do a series of articles about the lodge that will keep public interest up. I’ll also freelance stories to ski magazines that are distributed everywhere in the country, so by the time the snow hits and the season is here, you’re guaranteed cars in the parking lot, skiers on the runs and people in the bar.”
Melanie expected Gavin to say “Bully for you” or something along those lines, but he kept silent.
Jan pressed her point home. “My guess is you need all the publicity you can get.”
“I’ve given you my answer. Rich’ll be back here this afternoon. Since he’s the one who agreed to this damned interview in the first place, you can talk to him.”
He shoved his crutches in front of him and moved awkwardly through the front door.
“That man is something else!” Jan whispered, letting out her breath. “You know, he almost acts like he’s got something to hide.”
“Constance said he doesn’t talk to the press,” Melanie reminded her.
“Yeah, but she didn’t say why.” Jan’s lips thinned as she turned to Melanie. “And what was going on between you two when I first got here? You looked like you were deciding whether to kill each other or make love.”
Melanie’s stomach tightened. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Nope. And you didn’t tell me that you knew him.”
Lifting a shoulder, Melanie replied, “It didn’t seem important.”
Jan’s expression clouded with suspicion. “Baloney! That’s like saying storm warnings aren’t important when you’re heading out to sea in a small boat.”
Slinging the strap of her camera bag over her shoulder, Melanie said, “Look, I’ve got another shoot in twenty minutes, so I’m not going to waste my time here.”
“But you’ll fill me in later?”
“Sure,” Melanie replied, wondering just how much she could tell Jan about Gavin as she shoved open the door and stepped into the warm mountain air.
Across the parking lot, near the equipment shed, she spied Gavin leaning hard on his crutches, talking to a man in an orange pickup. A sign on the pickup’s door read Gamble Construction.
The two men were engrossed in conversation. Gavin’s reflective aviator glasses were back in place, and the late morning sunlight glinted in his hair. His cast-covered leg looked awkward on his toned, athletic body
Melanie wondered if the rumors were true that his career was over.
He didn’t glance her way as she unlocked her car, and she didn’t bother trying to get his attention. The less she had to do with him, the better.
* * *
Gavin watched the little car speed out of the lot and felt the tension between his shoulder blades relax. He hadn’t counted on seeing Melanie again. What was she doing back in Taylor’s Crossing, working at that rag of a paper? And why had she and Neil split? Maybe Brooks wasn’t making enough money for her now.
But would she give up the good life of luxury to work on a small-time newspaper? Nope, it didn’t make sense.
“. . . so the crew will be here at the beginning of the week, and I think we can make up for some of the time lost by the strike,” Seth Gamble, owner of Gamble Construction, was saying as he leaned out the window of his pickup. Gavin forced his attention back to the conversation.
“Good. I’ll see you then.” Gavin thumped the dusty hood of the truck with his hand, and Seth, grinning, rammed the pickup into gear and took off.
Shoving the damned crutches under his arms, Gavin started back for the lodge and found Jan whatever-her-name-was, the blond reporter, sweeping toward him. Her expression had turned hard, and he was reminded why he didn’t trust reporters. They didn’t give a damn about the subject—just that they got the story.
“Mr. Doel!” she said, striding up to him and trying her best to appear hard-edged and tough. “My editor expects a story on the lodge—the story we were promised.”
“As I said, you can talk to my partner.”
“Is he here?”
“No,” Gavin admitted.
“When do you expect him?”
“I don’t know. This afternoon, probably.”
“Then it looks like we’re left with you for the time being if we want to make next week’s edition.” When Gavin didn’t reply, she said, “I’m sorry if we inconvenienced you, Mr. Doel, but what’s going on here—” she made a sweeping gesture to the lodge “—is big news. And so, unfortunately, are you. You can’t expect the Tribune to ignore it, nor, I would think, would you want it ignored.”
She stood waiting, cool green eyes staring up at him, firm jaw set, and he couldn’t fault her logic. Besides, he wanted to get rid of her. “All right,” he finally agreed. “When Rich gets back. Tomorrow. He and I will tell you all about our plans for the resort, but I want my private life kept out of it.”
“But not your professional life,” Jan said quickly. “People will need to know why you’re involved. Some people, believe it or not, might not be familiar with your name.”
“My professional life is a matter of record.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.” She offered her hand, shook his and marched to a red sports car, which coughed and sputtered before sparking to life and tearing through the dusty lot.
“Now you’ve done it, Doel,” he muttered. Inviting the reporter back was probably a mistake. No doubt Melanie would accompany her. His fingers tightened over the handholds on his crutches. Seeing Melanie again wasn’t in his plans. Just the sight of her brought back memories he’d rather forget forever, and touching her—good God, why had he done such a foolish thing? Just the feel of her skin made his blood race.
Leveling an oath at himself, he plunged the tips of his crutches into the pavement and headed back for the lodge, intending to throttle Rich Johanson when he showed up. They’d had an agreement: Rich would handle all the publicity, the legal work and financial information; Gavin would supervise the reconstruction of the lodge and the runs. Gavin had made it clear from the onset that he wasn’t going to have a passel of nosy reporters poking around, digging into his personal life.
He hadn’t lied to Melanie when he’d mentioned skeletons in the closet. There were just too damned many. Unfortunately, Melanie knew about a lot of them. Her family and his could provide enough scandal to keep the gossip mill in Taylor’s Crossing busy for years.
Gavin opened the door to the lodge. There on the bar was the bottle of whiskey. And two glasses—his and Melanie’s.
Just what in the hell was she doing back in town?
* * *
Melanie, finished her afternoon shoot, headed back to the Tribune’s office. Almost serendipitously, Jan pulled into the parking lot as Melanie was climbing out of her car, and in a second, Jan was upon her. “Let me handle Brian,” Jan expelled as a greeting, following Melanie through the office’s door.
“Good to see you again, too,” Melanie responded with a hint of humor in her voice. “He’s not going to be thrilled about losing the interview.”
Jan flashed her a grin and winked. “All is not yet lost.”
Melanie stopped short. “What?”
“I think I’ve convinced the arrogant Mr. Doel to see things our way.”
Melanie couldn’t believe her ears. Gavin had been adamant. “How’d you do that?”
“Well, I did have to make a few concessions.”
“I bet.”
Constance, a worried expression crowding her features, was scanning the society and gossip columns of other papers. Looking up, she waved two fingers at Melanie, beckoning her over.
Jan made a beeline for the editor’s office, but Melanie paused at Constance’s desk.
“How’d it go?” Constance asked, once Melanie was in earshot.
“Not so good. You were right. Doel refused.”
“Privacy is that man’s middle name. So you got nothing?”
“Not so much as one shot,” Melanie said, tapping her camera bag, “but Jan’s convinced that he’s changed his mind.”
“I hope so.” Constance’s wide mouth pinched at the corners. “Brian’s on a real tear. Geri called in and said she wanted to extend her vacation by a couple of days—and he told her not to bother coming back.”
Geri was Melanie’s backup—the only other photographer for the Tribune. Suddenly Melanie felt cold inside. “You mean—”
“I mean she’s gone, kaput, outta here!” Constance sliced a finger theatrically across her throat.
“But why?”
“I don’t know, but my guess is he’s getting pressure from the owners of the paper.” Her voice lowered. “We all know that sales haven’t been so hot lately. Brian’s counting on the interest in Ridge Resort to drum up business.”
“Oh, great,” Melanie said with a sigh. “In that case I’d better go help bail Jan out when she drops the bomb that we came up empty today.”
She left her camera at her desk, then marched to Brian’s office and knocked softly on the door.
“It’s open!” Brian barked angrily.
Melanie slipped into the room as Jan coughed nervously. She was seated in a chair near the desk, notebook open, pencil ready. “I was just explaining that getting an interview with Gavin Doel was tantamount to gaining an audience with God himself.”
Melanie took a chair and nodded, swallowing a smile. “She’s right.”
“But somehow,” Brian said, “she’s managed to change his mind.”
“Not somehow—I used my exceptional powers of persuasion,” Jan remarked. “We’re going back up there tomorrow. You know what they say about the mountain and Muhammad.”
“He really agreed?” Melanie asked, dumfounded.
“Of course he did,” Brian said with a sneer. He rubbed his chin with his hand. “No matter what else he is, Doel’s no fool. And he can’t snake his way out of this one. I’ve already devoted half the front page for the story.”
Melanie couldn’t believe it. What had made Gavin change his mind? And why was Brian so edgy?
“There is a catch,” Jan explained.
Brian’s lips turned down at the corners.
“Doel only wants his name used professionally. He doesn’t want any part of his private life included.”
Brian snorted. “That’s impossible.”
“But that’s the deal,” Jan insisted.
“Can’t we hedge a little?”
Melanie shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not? As long as everything we print is true, he can’t sue us,” Brian argued. “And the way I see it, publicity will only help Ridge Lodge, of which he owns a large percent”
Melanie squirmed. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind—she and Brian had locked horns more often than not, but when it came to Gavin, her emotions were still tangled in the past. “Gavin Doel won’t take kindly to us digging through his private life. And I think we should keep good relations with him—at least as long as he owns and runs the resort.”
Jan scribbled a note to herself. “Don’t worry about it, Melanie, I’ll handle the interview. Just get me some shots of the lodge, a few of the ski runs and the mountain and some close-ups of Doel.”
Brian tugged at his tie. “I’m counting on this article, men,” he said, and Melanie laughed a little. Ever since she and the rest of the female staff had objected to being called girls, Brian had responded by referring to all reporters, photographers, secretaries and receptionists as men, female or male.
Melanie noticed the lines of worry etching Brian’s forehead and the pinch of his lips. His complexion was pale, and she wondered, not for the first time, if he were ill. A bottle of antacids sat on the corner of his desk, next to his coffee cup and a crumpled hamburger wrapper.
Brian’s phone jangled, and he reached for it. “Okay, that’s everything. Let’s get on it,” he said, lifting the receiver as he dismissed them.
“I want to talk to you,” Jan whispered to Melanie as they walked back to the newsroom.
Here it comes, Melanie thought, but fortunately Constance waved Jan to her desk and Melanie escaped an inquisition on Gavin, at least for the time being.
She spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through the prints she’d taken of the fair the day before, picking out the shots of children riding the roller coaster and eating cotton candy. She worked on the shots of Uncle Bart’s colt, as well, choosing a photograph of Big Money standing calmly by Bart for the next edition. She sorted through the shots again, found one she thought Bart would like and placed it in an envelope. She’d enlarge it later.
When she could no longer put off digging up pictures of Gavin, she set about looking through the files, sorting through old pictures and archived editions, rereading all about Gavin Doel. The photographs brought back memories of Gavin as a young man so full of life and expectation.
His skiing had been remarkable, gaining him a berth on the Olympic team and taking him on a road to fame and fortune. He’d been tough, fearless, and had attacked the most severe runs with a vengeance. His natural grace and balance had been God-given, but his fierce determination and pride had pushed him, driven him, to become the best.
Melanie stared wistfully at the photographs, noting the hard angle of his jaw and the blaze of competitive fire in his eyes before each race—and his smile of satisfaction after a win.
The most recent photographs were of Gavin losing that blissful God-given balance, tumbling on an icy mountainside and finally being carried off in a stretcher, his skin taut over his nose and cheekbones, his mouth pulled in a grimace of pain.
“Oh, Gavin,” she whispered, overcome by old feelings of love. “What happened to us?”
Hearing herself, she pulled away from her desk and closed her mind to any of the long-dead emotions that had torn her apart ever since she’d heard he’d returned to Ridge Lodge. “Don’t be a fool.”
Stuffing the pictures she thought would be most useful into an envelope, she returned the rest of the documents. While sliding Gavin’s file into its proper slot she noticed the other slim file marked Doel, James.
Melanie’s mouth went dry as she pulled Jim Doel’s file from its slot and looked inside. She cringed at the first photograph of Gavin’s father. Jim’s eyes seemed vacant and haunted. His hands were shackled by handcuffs, and he was escorted by two policemen. In the background a frightened boy of twelve, his blond hair mussed, his pale eyes wide with fear, watched in horror. Restrained by a matronly social worker, Gavin was reaching around her, trying to get to his father as Jim was led to the waiting police car.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Her throat grew hot, and she pitied Gavin—an emotion he would abhor.
Chewing on her lower lip, she slipped the photograph from the file and tucked it quickly into her purse. No, that wasn’t good enough. Jan or Brian would just dig deeper. Stomach knotted, she pulled the entire file from the drawer then took anything damaging from Gavin’s file as well. There was no reason for Brian or anyone else from the Tribune to lay open Jim Doel’s life and persecute him again. Nor, she thought, did she want to be reminded of her mother’s death. She’d just take the file home and keep it locked away until all the interest in Gavin Doel faded.
She slammed the drawer quickly, and for the first time since returning to Taylor’s Crossing two years before, Melanie wondered if coming home had been a mistake.
* * *
Gavin rammed his crutches into a corner of his office and glared at his partner. “A reporter and photographer from the Tribune were here today,” he said. “Seems you gave them the okay for an interview.”
Rich shoved a beefy hand through his graying hair and sighed loudly. Tall and heavyset, he looked more like a retired guard for a professional football team than an attorney. “Don’t tell me, you threw them out.”
“You could have had the decency to let me know about it.”
“Yeah. But I thought we agreed that we should start publicity as soon as possible.”
“Not with personal interviews!”
Rich was irritated. “For God’s sake, what’ve you got to hide?”
Gavin’s jaw began to ache, and only then did he realize he’d clenched it. “I just don’t want this to turn into a three-ring circus.”
“Four rings would be better,” Rich said, dropping into a chair. “The more interest and excitement we can generate, the better for everyone.”
Gavin snorted. Ever since seeing Melanie again, he’d felt restless and caged and he’d been out of sorts. “Look, I’m all for publicity about the resort. But that’s as far as it goes. I like my privacy.”
“Then you chose the wrong profession.” Rich stuffed his hands in his pockets and jangled his keys nervously. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think public interest in you is healthy.”
“Meaning?” Gavin asked suspiciously.
“Meaning that people aren’t really all that interested in your professional life. Hell, the Olympics were eons ago. And only a few dyed-in-the-wool fans will care about the ski clinics you developed.” His pale blue eyes lighted, and he wagged a finger at Gavin. “But the fact that you jetted all over the continent, skiing with famous celebrities, dating gorgeous women, partying with glamorous Hollywood types—now that will get their attention!”
“The wrong kind.”
“Any kind will help.”
Gavin scowled. “The tabloids made more of it than there was,” he said slowly.
“Doesn’t matter. The public sees you as an athletic playboy—a guy who plays with the rich and beds the beautiful.”
Gavin grimaced. “The public would be disappointed if it knew the truth.”
“Let’s not allow that to happen,” Rich suggested slyly. “What does it hurt to keep the myth alive?”
“Just my reputation.”
Rich chuckled as he crossed the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Don’t you know most men would kill for a reputation like yours?”
“Then they’re fools,” Gavin grumbled, hobbling over to the window and staring at the windswept slopes of the mountain rising high behind the lodge. Without snow, the ragged slopes of Mount Prosperity seemed empty and barren.
He thought of Melanie, and his frown deepened. No doubt she’d be back tomorrow, along with that pushy reporter. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to see her again.
“Just one more session,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Rich asked.
“Nothing,” Gavin replied. “I was just thinking about the interview tomorrow.”
“What about it?” Rich blew across his coffee cup.
“I can’t wait for it to be over,” he declared vehemently. Maybe then he could close his mind to Melanie. Even now, eight years later, her betrayal burned painfully in his gut. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d send someone else. But more likely he’d have to face her again and find some way of being civil. He doubted he was up to it.