Jan Freed - Talk To Me

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.