Читать книгу Talk To Me - Jan Freed - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

TRAVIS UNLOCKED the boat-shed door, slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine. Built straddling the end of a fiftyfoot pier, the structure sheltered eight boat slips—four on each side of the “dock”—and a large workbench and tool cabinet against the far wall.

The single large window might’ve provided adequate light minus the layer of grunge coating the lakeside glass. One more chore he never got around to starting. Putting out fires claimed most of his time.

Turning his Evinrude cap backward, he headed for the latest sorry piece of junk to go up in flames: a nine-horsepower outboard motor on one of his four aluminum skiffs. At the last slip on his left, he stepped down from the dock into the boat.

The day before, a lawyer and his ten-year-old son had stalled out in this skiff at about noon. When Travis had returned at three from fishing the lake’s northern points, he’d had an uneasy feeling that the two were in trouble. At four, he’d set out in search of the pair and found them at six—hungry and panicked—far down the isolated southern shore.

That was one customer who wouldn’t help the camp’s reputation any. The fact he was a lawyer really helped. Sheesh. All Travis needed was a screwy lawsuit to make his life complete.

Shaking his head in disgust, he set the throttle on neutral, pumped the primer and yanked the starter cord. Water bubbled and boiled. The engine smoked, sputtered and spit.

And Travis spewed out a stream of curses.

Only last spring, he’d overhauled each skiff’s ancient outboard, plus his tournament Skeeter’s 150-horsepower Yamaha. Yet all five motors had malfunctioned periodically throughout the busy summer. This current mechanical failure sounded like a compression problem.

Perfect. More lost rental income. More time spent wielding tools instead of a fishing rod.

He cut the engine, resentment spreading through him like the oily foam above the stilled propeller.

Bass Busters Fishing Camp was supposed to have freed him to do what he loved most, not trap him into a life of indentured servitude. He hadn’t spent years studying bass behavior and how it related to a lake’s structure and cover only to piddle away the prime of his life on tedious greasemonkey jobs.

Damn, but he was tired of jerking around with repairs! Tired of exhaust fumes, creosote and latent mildew filling his lungs. Tired of this ramshackle tin-roofed boat shed blocking wide Texas skies and cool lake breezes.

Lately if he wasn’t in here sweating, he was outside on the campgrounds sweating even more. Hell, he’d had to withdraw from the Sam Rayburn tournament last month when Cabin Three’s septic tank backed up. Talk about stinky luck!

Snorting a laugh, Travis wiped his brow with the hem of his cropped-sleeved sweatshirt. All his grand plans for this place had wound up in the toilet. Oh, he’d developed a customer base for the camp, all right. But not the substructure to service it. Traveling to tournaments and guiding clients left little time to do more than crisis management.

Kara had predicted as much nine years ago....

Travis lowered his sweatshirt.

Her again. The real reason for his foul mood and discontent. He’d slept lousy since seeing Kara last week, and not at all since helping take inventory at Malloy Sporting Goods store the night before.

Enlisting Nancy for the chore as well, he’d let the fishing camp take care of itself. Cameron had left his ad agency clients in Austin to join them. Seth had trusted his veterinary practice in Wagner to an assistant and driven in. And Jake, who worked full-time with their dad in the store, had tormented them all with bad jokes and ceaseless clowning. The usual routine.

Taking inventory had become a sacred annual tradition. The one guaranteed night of the year all the Malloy men were under one roof.

Bending to rummage in the toolbox at his feet, Travis admitted he’d been a tad touchy to begin with. Then the inevitable happened. Despite threats of bodily harm, Jake had described Kara and Travis’s TV debut to Cameron, who’d squealed to Seth, who’d snitched to Dad, who’d blabbed to Nancy.

His brothers, to a man, had been smitten with Kara and opposed to the divorce. They would’ve interfered at the separation stage if Travis hadn’t said a line had been drawn, and it was up to her to step over to his side. He’d vowed, dead serious, never to forgive the Malloy who approached Kara. Even Jake had believed him.

But last night, the brothers had decided fate had given Travis a second chance to correct his bonehead mistake.

Only his father, who’d never remarried in the twenty years since Kathryn Malloy’s death, had advised Travis to keep his distance from Kara and leave the past buried. Divorce was almost like having a spouse die, after all.

Frowning, he shook off the thought, lifted a wrench from his toolbox and turned to the problem at hand.

Minutes later he cocked his head as car doors slammed. The dentists booked for Cabin Two? Whoever was here, Nancy would have to show them around. In one smooth movement, Travis hoisted the detached motor from the boat onto the dock.

Uh-oh.

Ver-ry gingerly, he clambered up himself, then knuckled the shooting pain in his lower back. Defending his I-Am-Sibling-King title in the store’s home gym section had taken its toll. A small price to pay for keeping his brothers humble.

The sound of footsteps killed his smirk. Someone was heading up the wood-plank pier. Fast. He turned, his senses on high alert. The door twenty feet away burst open.

Nancy Royce jogged inside, dressed in jeans and a Tweety Bird T-shirt, her dark ponytail swaying. Despite looking more like a college coed than a woman twelve years his senior, she commanded his full respect and attention. Hiring her after Larry died had been the smartest business move he’d ever made.

“You have visitors,” she announced as she neared, her gaze sweeping his thong sandals, cutoff jeans and cropped sweatshirt critically.

She stopped close enough for him to read anxious excitement in her gray eyes. “I can try and stall them while you go shower and change—and scrape that stubble off your face. Put on the cologne I gave you for Christmas.”

His skin prickled in warning. A second pair of feet now walked the pier.

“Oh, Lord, she didn’t wait,” Nancy blurted, confirming his premonition. “Brace yourself, Travis. Kara wants to talk to you.”

His pulse leaped first, his gaze second, landing on the silhouette framed in the doorway.

Staring at the maturation of youthful promise walking toward him, Travis found himself searching for something—anything—that didn’t please him.

No luck in her form-fitting black pants and turtleneck. His gaze lifted desperately. She’d twisted up and clipped her hair with a tortoiseshell gizmo, the style flattering her high cheekbones, wide-set eyes and long aristocratic nose.

He liked her hair better down.

She’d applied dramatic cherry-red lipstick to her kiss-me mouth, the color emphasizing her pale smooth complexion and small stubborn chin.

He liked her lips better naked.

She’d lost the air of demure innocence he’d first admired and then protected at a rowdy fraternity party. This older Kara appeared worldly and confident. In charge of herself and her surroundings. Able to handle a tipsy football player or any other man who dared try to intimidate her or stand in her way.

He liked her better helpless and grateful.

A sudden image of Kara surrounded by macho jerks slapped his conscience.

Okay, not helpless. But the new assertiveness he’d noticed last week wasn’t...ladylike. Yeah, that’s what had been bugging him. The old Kara never would’ve “dissed her man” in private, much less on national television.

Earth to Malloy, an inner voice jeered. You’re not her man anymore.

Nancy smiled a welcome as Kara stopped.

Her spicy floral perfume wafted onward—a fragrance that had lingered longest in the deep folds of her abandoned robe. He’d sniffed the silk like it was glue until he’d finally had to burn the thing to break his sick addiction.

Kara reached out and squeezed Nancy’s forearm briefly. “I’m glad to see your head’s still intact. Thanks for braving the lion in his den.”

Nancy chuckled. “No problem.”

Travis felt oafish, dirty and snarling mean. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

Kara met his gaze, her expression cooling rapidly.

Once upon a time those uptilted eyes, the impenetrable green of a quiet pond, had been the proverbial window to her soul. Now Travis was forced to guess her thoughts. Another change he didn’t like.

“Hello, Travis. Could I speak to you a minute?”

He’d waited twelve friggin’ months after she’d left him to hear that question. And then it had been to announce she wanted a divorce.“I’m kinda busy right now. Why don’t you check back with me in, say, another eight years or so?”

“Tra-vis,” Nancy admonished.

“Hey, I’m not the one out of line here, Nancy. She should’ve called first and made an appointment. Even this ‘godforsaken frontier settlement’ has a phone.” From the heightened color in Kara’s cheeks, his dart had hit bull’s-eye.

Funny, how little satisfaction he felt.

Unable to meet either woman’s gaze, he leaned down, grasped the outboard motor and swung it up to his chest. Sharp pain stabbed his lower back. Hissing in a breath, he turned and headed grimly for the workbench.

“Want me to bring you more Ben-Gay?” Nancy asked, her tone deceptively sweet.

He stiffened and paused, then continued forward without answering.

Kara picked up the dropped ball. “Why does he need Ben-Gay?”

“He and his brothers helped John with inventory last night.”

“Ahhh.” Obviously she remembered the annual competition. “Who won?”

Travis jerked the motor upright between clamps and began tightening the vise.

“That depends entirely on who you ask. Each brother says he did. But my money’s on Jake.”

The motor’s casing cracked ominously. Travis loosened the clamps a fraction.

“You’re probably right,” Kara murmured. “I couldn’t help noticing how much he’s filled out since I last saw him. He’s as big as Travis now. And of course, he is six years younger.”

“True.”

Travis whirled around and stalked forward, ready to defend his title.

Feminine laughter, the indulgent kind that made a man feel eight years old, penetrated his outrage. Heat burned slowly up his neck.

Nancy pat-patted his arm. “I was only teasing, sweetie. But now that the ice is broken, I’ll just leave you two alone.” She headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Mr. Hadley and I will be in the office if you need us.”

Hadley? The name clicked as she ducked outside. Travis turned to Kara and folded his arms.

Her gaze skittered across his chest. “The place hasn’t changed a bit since I left,” she murmured.

His ego flinched. He watched her turn in a slow lazy circle, scanning the shed’s interior as if absorbing every detail.

She was remembering his promise to build a larger boat shed in “about three years, four years tops.” She was remembering his similar promise to build new guest cabins to replace the ones outside. She was remembering his big talk of building a 150-foot fishing pier next to the boat ramp.

Her lashes suddenly fluttered, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, her hand lifted to her throat. Following her transfixed stare to his fifteen-year-old Skeeter bass rig, he stopped breathing.

She was remembering the first time they’d made love.

His body stirred. He catapulted back to the night she’d appeared in his boat shed, chaste but eager, sweetly passionate, obliterating his noble plan to court her slowly, as a true lady deserved. God help him, he’d taken her virginity atop a cushioned bait well, then continued her education during the following weeks. They’d been crazy in love—or so he’d thought. One month after meeting her, he’d made her his wife.

One year after that, he’d followed his nose to a charred rack of lamb, shriveled green beans, crusty baked potatoes and lopsided chocolate cake. He’d eyed the tablecloth, wilted flowers, and short stubs of tall tapered candles. He’d known she was gone, and he’d almost thrown up.

Travis yanked his thoughts into the present. “I’ve got work to do, Kara. What’s on your mind?”

Her startled glance and deepening blush confirmed she hadn’t been admiring the boat’s sleek lines. Damn, why couldn’t she have stayed in his past?

He lowered his brows. “If you drove out here with Hadley to talk about some cockamamie TV talk show, you wasted your time. I already told him I wouldn’t do it.”

“I’m—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I’m aware of that. But you’ve got to admit that the money he’s offering is quite generous.”

“I don’t need his money,” Travis lied.

“Frankly, Travis, I do. Or rather, Taylor Fine Foundations does. The store is in trouble.”

Store? As in singular? He hid his shock behind a veneer of sarcasm. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Her eyes frosted. “You never did.”

“That’s bull and you know it! But if you’re saying I cared more about Bass Busters Fishing Camp...damn right I did. This place was my livelihood, our future children’s security.”

The children they’d both wanted and specified. A brown-eyed boy with dark hair for her. A green-eyed girl with fair hair for him. So clichéd it was laughable. Only he didn’t feel like laughing.

For a hideous horrifying instant, his nose stung.

Her expression thawed. “And Taylor Fine Foundations was my legacy,” she said quietly. “Something of value I could pass on to our children.”

Welcoming the insult to his pride, he braced his hands on his hips. “I could sell this property tomorrow for a half-million dollars, easy. That’s right,” he addressed the surprise in her eyes with vindicated satisfaction. “You should’ve trusted me that lakefront real estate value would go through the roof one day.”

“I never doubted you, Travis.”

Ignoring that whopper, he slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Yep, the fish you threw back could’ve made you rich. If only you’d known.”

Not that he would ever sell a square inch of his land while he drew breath.

But she didn’t know that.

A delicate brow arched. “You’d never sell this land. I’d have to wait until your flaming funeral pyre floated off into the sunset before I saw a penny.”

As kids, he and his brothers had made a secret blood vow to give each other proper Viking funerals when they croaked. “How’d you...?”

She leveled a “get real” look.

“Jake,” he muttered darkly.

“Besides—” she folded her arms beneath her breasts “—I didn’t marry or divorce you for money. Half this property was legally mine. Don’t think my lawyer didn’t advise me to take it, either. Or that I wouldn’t have won if you’d fought me on it.”