Ruthless

  “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 wi
th 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 inter
est 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.