Ruthless

  “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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Melanie, who had been waiting impatiently in the office of Ridge Resort, reached for the doorknob, only to have the door thrown open in her face. Startled, she drew back just as Gavin, walking with the aid of a cane, pulled up short. A flicker of surprise lighted his eyes, and he drew in a quick breath.

  Muttering ungraciously, he glanced rapidly around the room. “You’re here—again?” he demanded.

  “Didn’t you miss me?” she said, beaming a smile.

  His mouth pinched at the corners, and a vein throbbed at his temple. She expected an insult, but he only asked, “Where’s Rich?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you waiting for him?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “He told me to meet him here.”

  “When?”

  “Today at eleven.”

  Gavin cast an irritated glance down at his watch, and Melanie had to smother another smile at his obvious frustration. He plowed rigid fingers through his hair, though the rebellious golden strands fell forward again, covering the creases marring his forehead. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. But, according to my editor, Brian Michaels, the article on Ridge Lodge has been expanded to a series.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Brian talked to Rich and sent me up here for more pictures. I was supposed to meet with your partner, that’s all. It’s no big mystery.”

  “So now you’re my problem.”

  “I’m no one’s problem, Gavin,” she replied, surprised at how easily his name rolled off her tongue and how quickly she could be drawn into an argument with him. “And I suspect whatever problems you do have are of your own making.”

  “Not all of ’em.” Gavin shifted, and his face, beneath his tan, blanched. Instinctively she glanced down at his leg, and he leaned against the doorframe for support, effectively blocking all chance of escape. Not that she wanted to, she reminded herself. She could deal with Gavin one-on-one if need be.

  “Didn’t you get enough pictures the other day?”

  “Not quite. But don’t worry, I’ll try not to get in the way.”

  He pressed his lips together.

  “So why’re you so camera shy?” she asked bluntly. “You’ve been photographed all over the world. But now, when you can use the publicity, you’re backpedaling.”

  “Maybe I don’t like yellow journalism.”

  “But the Tribune—”

  “Peddles sleaze.”

  “No way!” she sputtered. “It’s a small local paper—”

  “With big ambitions. Oh, yeah, the Trib, isn’t that what you call it—” at her nod he continued “—is subtle and wraps all its smut in a cozy, folksy format.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but she was still nervous with the memory of her last meeting with Brian and Jan.

  “Is it?” Gavin asked, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve dealt with Brian Michaels before.”

  Melanie caught her breath. “You have?”

  “That’s right.”

  This was news. Brian had never mentioned knowing Gavin. “When?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Years ago. In Colorado.”

  She wanted to know more, but the conversation was getting too intense. Gavin was bound to blow up any second. She started through the door, but Gavin thrust out an arm, stopping her before she crossed the threshold. “What were you doing in here?”

  “Rich said to meet him in the office. He wants to discuss some other work, I think. Anyway, that’s what Brian said.”

  “What other work???
?

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He frowned, the lines around his mouth tightening. “So when he wasn’t here, what did you do?”

  Melanie’s heart began to pound. What did he think? “I waited.”

  “And while you were waiting?” he prodded.

  Suddenly she understood. He thought she’d been snooping! She could see it in his eyes.

  “While I was waiting, which has been all of eight or nine minutes, I sat in that chair—” she hooked a thumb at an over-stuffed chair near the window “—and thought about the shots I’ll need.” Lifting her chin an inch, she said, “Oh, and I did snoop around a little—dug through your things, hoping to come up with some trashy dirt I can use in the paper and maybe sell to the tabloids for a few bucks—”

  “I didn’t accuse you of—”

  “Bullshit, Gavin!” she cut in, unable to stop herself. “For your information, I didn’t poke around your desk. I came here to take pictures and talk with your partner. I’m sorry to disappoint you but I don’t have any devious plans!”

  Gavin, using a cane for support, made his way past her and eyed the top of his desk. He frowned. “I bet your friend would have searched the room, if given the opportunity.”

  “My friend?”

  “The reporter—what’s her name? Jane?”

  “Jan.”

  “I didn’t like her.”

  “You don’t like much, do you?”

  He looked up sharply, and a golden flame leapt in his eyes. “Oh, I like some things,” he admitted, his voice low.

  “What? Just what is it you like these days?”

  “I like expensive Scotch, steep mountains and women who don’t ask a lot of questions.”

  “Dumb and beautiful, right?”

  “Right,” he said with a sarcastic smile. “It just keeps everything so much simpler.”

  “And that way you don’t have to deal with a real woman, a person with a mind of her own, someone who might not deify you because you’re some macho athletic jock!”