CHAPTER FOUR
Brian Michaels did indeed want to do a series of articles on Ridge Lodge and he wasn’t the least bit concerned with Gavin’s desire for privacy. In fact, he had his own reasons for wanting to see Gavin’s life plastered all over the newspaper. But he kept those to himself.
“He’s a public figure, for crying out loud,” Brian said the next afternoon as he shook a cigarette from his pack. Jan and Melanie were seated on two worn plastic chairs near his desk. “And on top of that, he’s rebuilding a lodge that will turn the economy of this town around. Doel’s a fool if he expects to have a private life.”
“A man who’s made several million dollars in five years isn’t a fool,” Jan argued.
Brian ran his fingers through his hair, letting his head rest in his palm. “Look, I want to do several articles, one every other week until snow season. Front page stuff.” He glanced at Melanie. “I want to see the workers rebuilding the lodge, the furniture being moved in.
“I need photos of the lifts beginning to run, the first snowfall, that sort of thing. Then, find out about the ski school programs and add some schmaltzy stuff, you know, five-year-old kids on skis with their dads helping them.”
“Then you don’t really need anything on Doel.” she ventured.
“Wrong!” Brian was just warming to his subject. “He’s going to open that lodge with a huge celebration of some kind. I want a copy of the guest list. Find out if any of the skiers he’s competed against are invited and check to see who will be his personal date. If any of his old flames are going to show up, we have to know about it ahead of time.” He stared straight at Melanie, waving his hands for emphasis. “And I’ll want you at that grand opening with your camera. We’ll want every bit of glitz on our front page!”
Melanie’s throat went dry as Brian kept talking. “That’s not all. I want to know everything about Doel—inside out. His old man’s a drunk—why? Didn’t he do some time years ago? What happened, and where is he now?”
Evenly, Melanie replied, “I don’t see that Jim Doel’s tragedies have anything to do with the lodge reopening.”
“Like hell. The man raised Gavin alone, didn’t he? He shaped the kid. What happened to his mother? Is she still alive? Remarried? Does he have sisters or brothers or an aunt or uncle or cousin around here? You’d be surprised how easy it is to get people to talk about their famous relative. It makes them feel important, as if a little of that fame will rub off on them.”
“This series is starting to sound like something you’d find at the checkout counter,” Melanie said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re more interested in finding out any dirt there is on Doel than reporting about the lodge.”
Beside her, Jan drew her breath in sharply, but Brian didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not interested in anything of the sort. I just want to sell papers. Period.”
“No matter the standards?”
“I didn’t say that, but listen, don’t knock the tabloids. They make plenty!”
“And they’re trashy. They’re always getting sued.”
“Hey—we won’t print anything false. But we’ve got to generate interest in the lodge, interest in Doel, interest in the Tribune! You may as well know that the owners are putting pressure on us. Circulation’s down, and we’ve got to do something about it.”
“And that something is throwing Gavin Doel’s life open for public inspection?” Melanie challenged.
“You bet.” Brian took in a breath before continuing. “Look, he’s the one who decided to come back to the small town where he was raised and reopen a resort that had gone bankrupt—a resort that represents a lot to the economy of this town. I can’t help it that he’s news—in fact, I’m thrilled that he jet-setted around the world and hung out with the rich and famous. All the better for the Tribune.”
“How would you feel if it were you?”
“Listen, if I had Doel’s money and his fame and I was interested in selling lift tickets, you can bet I’d grab all the press I could get my hands on!”
“No matter what?” Melanie asked.
“No matter what! Do you have a problem with that?”
Melanie could feel her color rising. “I’d just like to think that we were working with the man rather than against him.”
“His choice. The way I see it, we’re doing him a favor.” Clasping his hands behind his head, Brian leaned back in his chair and squinted his aquamarine eyes. “So, let’s not let Doel’s sensitivity about his privacy bother us too much and get down to business. I’ll call his partner, get the go-ahead for the articles and we’ll take it from there.”
Melanie left the meeting with a sense of impending doom. Brian could whitewash his intentions all he wanted, but Gavin, when he discovered that his life was going to be thrown open and displayed for every reader of the Tribune, would be livid. And Melanie didn’t blame him. It occurred to her that she could tell him what was happening, but he’d probably lay the blame at her feet. Besides, nothing had been written yet. Maybe she could help edit the story. Crossing her fingers, she hoped Brian would have a change of heart.
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” Gavin said, eyeing his partner angrily. “You agreed to do a series of articles about the lodge.”
“Sure. Why not?” Rich shrugged, opened the small refrigerator in the office and pulled out a bottle of beer. “I thought we agreed that we could use all the publicity we could get.” He shoved the bottle across the coffee table and yanked out another.
“We did,” Gavin said, trying to tamp down the restless feeling in his gut. “And I thought you were going to hang around and handle them. Instead you bailed out on me.”
“I already apologized. Besides, I had to be at the courthouse—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Gavin said grumpily. “I guess I’m just suspicious of reporters.”
“They’re not all out for blood.”
“No—just big stories.” He twisted off the cap of the bottle and took a long swallow.
“So?”
“I’ve been burned before.”
“The Tribune isn’t exactly a national tabloid. It’s just a little local paper with ties to the Portland Daily. And those ties—” he held up his beer to make his point “—are exactly what we need right now. We have to stir up public awareness and interest in Ridge Resort from Seattle all the way to L.A.”
Gavin scowled. There was a chance that Rich was right, of course, but in Gavin’s opinion, it was a slim chance at best. In the course of his career, he’d dealt with more than his share of reporters and photographers, but he’d never had to deal with Melanie before.
He took another long swallow and shoved all thoughts of Melanie aside. She’d showed her true colors long ago, and it was just too damned bad that he’d had the bad luck to run into her again.
“So when’s the next session?” he asked Rich.
“Next week. They want some pictures of the crew working on the lodge.”
He clenched his teeth. “So they’re sending up a photographer.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Chest tightening, he asked slowly, “Which one?”
“As far as 1 know they only have one.”
“I think we should have our own photos taken.”
Rich’s brows shot up. “Why?”
“We’ll get what we want. No surprises.”
“You’re the one who wants to stay within budget, remember?” Rich shook his head. “Relax a little and enjoy the free publicity, will ya? This is the best thing that’s happened to us so far.”
“I doubt it,” Gavin growled, feeling suddenly as if he couldn’t breathe. Swearing, he reached for his crutches and struggled to his feet. Only one more day of these wretched tools—then, at least, he wouldn’t feel like an invalid. Shoving the padded supports under his arms, he moved with surprising agility to the door.
“You know,” Rich’s voice taunted from behind, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were all worked up over some woman.”
“Well, you don’t know better, do you?” Gavin flung over his shoulder, and Rich laughed. Balancing on his good foot, Gavin unlocked the back door and hobbled onto the deck.
Rays of afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, and the warm air touched the back of his neck where beads of sweat had collected. His hands were slippery on the grips of his crutches and his heart pumped at the thought of coming face-to-face with Melanie again. Melanie. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed her gorgeous, lying Jezebel face from his mind.
* * *
Melanie spent the rest of the afternoon going through the pictures she’d taken at Ridge Resort. Most of the shots were of the lodge itself, but a few of the photographs were of Gavin, his jaw hard and set, his mouth tight, his eyes intense as he studiously avoided looking at the camera.
“These are perfect,” Jan said, pointing to the most provocative shot of the bunch—a profile of Gavin, his hair falling over his face, his features taut, his mouth a thin, sexy line above a thrusting jaw. “Can you blow this one up?”
“Don’t you think a shot of the lodge would be better?”
Jan tapped her finger to the side of her mouth and shook her head. “Nope—at least not for the female readers.”
“And the male?”
Jan chewed on her lower lip, and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I think even they would be interested in seeing what the enigmatic Mr. Doel looks like up close.”
“Maybe we should use an overview of the lodge and a smaller inset of Gavin.”
“Maybe,” Jan said, but the pucker between her brows didn’t go away, and Melanie realized she’d already made up her mind. “Or we could do it the other way around—a large profile of the man behind the lodge and a smaller shot of the resort itself.”
“This isn’t People magazine,” Melanie pointed out. “The focus of the story is on the lodge, right?”
“Oh, come on, we’ll have plenty of pictures of the construction. Let’s focus on Doel. He’s the public interest.”
“He’ll have a fit,” Melanie predicted.
Jan smiled. “And won’t that be interesting?”
“Interesting? In the same way hurricanes and earthquakes are ‘interesting.’”
Jan eyed Melanie thoughtfully. “Just how well did you know Gavin? The truth, now.”
“I met him a few times.”
“So why’re you so defensive about him?”
Melanie toyed with the idea of confiding in Jan, but the phone shrilled and Molly, the receptionist, flagged Jan down.
“It’s that call you’ve been waiting for from the mayor’s office,” Molly whispered loudly.
“I’ve got it,” she said, before turning back to Melanie. “Has anyone ever told you you worry too much?”
“Not for a while.”
“Well, you do. Everything’s going to work out. For us and for Doel and his resort.”
I hope you’re right, Melanie thought, but couldn’t shake the feeling that the Tribune and everyone on its staff were asking for trouble.
Hours later, she drove home and was greeted at the back door by a thoroughly dusty and burr-covered Sassafras.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said, wedging herself through the door, effectively blocking Sassafras’s dodge from the porch into the kitchen. She left her camera case and purse in the kitchen, changed into her faded jeans and an old T-shirt, then squeezed through the door to the porch.
Sassafras whined loudly, scratching at the door.
Melanie plopped onto a small stool. “So, tell me, where’ve you been?” She laughed, reaching for an old currycomb and ignoring his protests as she combed out his fur. He tried to wriggle free and even clamped his mouth around her wrist when she tugged at a particularly stubborn burr. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” she said, tossing down the currycomb. She brushed the dog hair from her jeans and held open the door. “Now, Mr. Sassafras, you may enter,” she teased.
The old collie dashed inside before she could change her mind, and she followed him. She changed clothes again, throwing on a clean skirt and a cotton sweater before returning to the kitchen. She barely had poured herself a glass of iced tea when the doorbell pealed and Sassafras began to bark loudly.
Glancing at her watch, Melanie groaned inwardly at the thought of the next hour and the Anderson children she was supposed to photograph—four of the most rambunctious kids she’d ever met.
Sassafras growled, then settled in his favorite spot under the kitchen table,
“Coming!” Melanie called, hurrying through the cool rooms of the old log house.
Cynthia Anderson and children were huddled on the wide front porch when Melanie opened the door. In matching red crew-neck sweaters and khaki slacks, the wheat-blond boys, ages two through eleven, dashed past Melanie, down the hall and through wide double doors to her studio.
“Boys! Wait!” Casting Melanie an apologetic look, Cynthia Anderson took off after her brood.
By the time Melanie reached the studio, the boys were already jockeying for position around the single wicker chair Melanie used for inside portraits.
“Maybe we should have this picture taken outdoors,” Cynthia suggested as Melanie tried to arrange the siblings—oldest with the youngest on his lap, two middle children standing on either side.
Melanie straightened the two-year-old’s sweater, then glanced over her shoulder. “If you want exterior shots, we’ll have to schedule another appointment. Right now there’s not enough light.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “No way. They’re finally back in the swing of school and soccer practice is just about every night. I barely got them together to come today. Believe me, it’s now or never.”
Melanie was relieved. Though she loved children, one session with these four was all she could handle. “Okay. Sean, you hold Tim on your knee.”
“And turn his face to the right,” their mother insisted. “He fell yesterday and he’s got a black eye. . . .” She rattled on, talking nonstop about the boys as Melanie worked with them. For the next hour Melanie positioned and repositioned the children, adjusted the light, changed lenses and cameras and took as many pictures as she could before all four boys started squirming and pushing and shoving.
“Brian kicked me!” Randy cried, fist curled to retaliate.
“Did not!” Brian replied indignantly. “It was Sean!” Sean was smothering a sly smile, and Melanie wished she could have caught the act on film.
“Boys, stop that!” Cynthia said. “Sean—you and Brian quit it right now! Ms. Walker is trying to take your picture. The least you could do is behave!”
“I think that’ll do it,” Melanie said, snapping the final shot.
“Good!” Sean, the oldest, pushed Tim from his lap. “I’m outta here!” He took off down the hall with his brothers following close behind.
“Thanks a bunch,” Cynthia said, hastily writing a check for the sitting fee and handing it to Melanie. She shoved her wallet back into her handbag. “You know, I just heard today that Gavin Doel’s back in town.”
Melanie managed a smile she didn’t feel. “Yeah.”
“Well, I, for one, am glad someone’s doing something with Ridge Resort. This town’s been dead ever since it closed.”
That much was true. But Melanie wasn’t sure that Gavin could bring it back to life.
“Mom!” Outside a horn blared.
“Got to run,” Cynthia said, starting for the door. “The natives are restless!”
Later, after uploading the photos and touching up some of the red-eye, making the Anderson boys look less devilish, Melanie soaked in a hot bath, poured herself a cup of tea and relaxed on the couch with a couple of cookies. Sassafras curled on the braided rug at her feet, his ears pricked forward, his eyes on her, hoping for a morsel.
Smiling, she offered the dog a corner of one cookie and he swallowed it without chewing. “You’re just a glutton,” she teased, and he lifted a paw, scratching her knee for more. “These aren’t exactly on your diet.” But she let him snatch the remainder of the final cookie from her palm. “Let’s not tell the vet—he wouldn’t understand.”
She picked up the paperback spy thriller she’d been reading for the past week but couldn’t concentrate on the intricate plot. Her mind kept wandering. To Gavin.
“Forget him,” she chastised herself. “He’s obviously forgotten you.” Frowning, she tossed down the book, grabbed the remote control and snapped on the television.
A local newscaster, a young dark-haired woman with intelligent blue eyes, was smiling into the camera. “. . . and good news for central Oregon,” she said. “All those rumors proved true. Gavin Doel and his partner, Rich Johanson, made a public announcement that they plan to reopen Ridge Resort on Mount Prosperity in time for the winter ski season. Our reporter was at Ridge Resort this afternoon.”
The screen changed to footage of Gavin, reflective aviator sunglasses perched on his tanned face, crutches tucked under his arms, standing behind a hefty, steely-haired man whom Melanie assumed was Rich Johanson.
The camera focused on Gavin’s features, and Melanie’s throat constricted. His face was lean, nearly haggard, partially hidden by the oversized sunglasses. Thin, sensual lips, frozen in an expression of indifference, accentuated his strong, square jaw.
His light brown hair was nearly blond, streaked by days spent bareheaded in the sun. His angled face was as rugged as the slopes he tackled so effortlessly, and there was a reserve to him evident even on the television screen.
Whereas Richard Johanson was dressed in a business suit and couldn’t quit answering questions posed by the media, Gavin seemed bored and remote, as if he wanted only for the whole damn thing to be over with.
The screen flickered again, and the image changed to a steep mountain slope in France. A brightly dressed crowd gathered at the bottom of a ski run, and one woman, red-haired and gorgeous international model Aimee LaRoux, glanced at the camera before training her gaze up the hill.
The camera angle changed. Melanie’s lungs constricted as another camera singled out a downhill racer. She’d seen this footage over and over again. Her throat went dry as Gavin, tucked low, streaked down the mountain. Seconds passed before one ski caught, flipping him high into the air. Skis and poles exploded. Gavin, in a bone-shattering fall, spun like a ragdoll end over end down the icy slope.
Melanie’s heart went cold, and she snapped the television off. Her hands trembled so badly she stuffed them into the pockets of her terry robe. She didn’t need to be reminded of the accident that may have cost Gavin his career—the accident that had fatefully thrown him back to Taylor’s Crossing—the accident that had shoved him back into her life.
No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t back in her life. She wouldn’t let him! Not even if he wanted back in, which, of course, he didn’t.
Let’s just keep our distance she thought to herself, as if by thinking it she could convince herself.
* * *
Gavin rotated his foot, wincing as the muscles stretched. His leg was pale, thinner than the other and not much to look at. Several scars around his knee and ankle gave evidence to the wonders of medical science, though, according to his doctor, he still had weeks of physical therapy before he could hope to step into a pair of skis.
“Give it time,” he told himself as he struggled into his favorite jeans and stood tentatively, placing only part of his weight on the injured leg. “Easy does it.” He saw the cane sitting near his bed and ignored it, taking a few tentative steps around the small suite he’d claimed as his.
Located near the office on the first floor of the lodge, the suite boasted worn furniture he’d found in the basement, a small refrigerator, an oven, a fireplace and two closets. He had private access outside to a small deck. He’d added a microwave and coffee maker.
“All the comforts of home,” he said with a sarcastic smile as he steadied himself by placing his hands on the bureau. He’d never been one for carrying around extra baggage, never stayed in one place long enough to collect furniture, paintings or memorabilia. Aside from a few special awards, medals and trophies, he didn’t keep much, was always ready to move on. Until now, moving along had been easy. But that was before the accident.
And what now?
Settle down? He made a sound of disgust. He’d given up those dreams long ago, when Melanie had showed him the value of love. His finger curled around the edge of the bureau top, and when he glanced in the mirror, he scowled at his half-dressed reflection.
He remembered all too vividly falling in love with Melanie, as if the years of trying to forget her had only etched her more deeply into his mind. Their affair had been short and passionate and filled with dreams that had turned out to be one-sided. Oh, he’d been good enough to experiment with, make love to, whisper meaningless promises to, but as his old man had predicted, in the end she’d decided he wasn’t good enough for her. She’d married a wealthy boy from a socially prominent family rather than gamble on a ski bum.
“All for the best,” he grumbled, reaching for a T-shirt he’d tossed over the back of a nearby chair and sliding his arms through the cotton sleeves. Just below the knee his leg began to throb, and he sucked in a breath between his teeth. Tucking the shirt into the waistband of his jeans, his wayward mind wandered back to Melanie.
She’d given him some very valuable lessons, though he doubted she realized that she was the single reason he’d become so self-reliant. Her betrayal had taught him and taught him well. Never would he depend upon anyone but himself, and as for women—well, he’d had a few affairs. They hadn’t lasted and he didn’t care, though it bothered him a little that he’d gained a reputation as a womanizer in some of the tabloids. The rumors of his sizzling one-night-stands stemmed more from the overly active imaginations of the press than anything else.
He slid into beat-up Nikes and, with the aid of the cane, walked carefully to the office, where he expected to find Rich.
Instead, rounding the corner and shouldering open the door, he ran smack-dab into the one person he wanted out of his life.
But there she was, in beautiful 3-D. Melanie Walker Brooks.