Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (15 page)

Her eyes grew wide, or at least wider, considering her current
dazed condition. "What did she do? She didn't hurt you, did
she?"

Every time Lyn showed some minor concern for him, he
had more trouble connecting her to the Coyote on the mountain. "She never hurt me. She lectured, she took away things
like comic books and television time, but she never laid a hand
on me."

"What about your father?" she asked.

"Out of the picture before my second birthday. Went to the
store for milk one day and never came back."

"I'm sorry."

He shook off the sympathy. "Don't be. My formidable mom
more than made up for the lack of a dad." And Lyn had just
handed him the perfect segue. "How about you?"

"How about me what?"

"Your parents."

She turned her gaze toward the fire before answering, "Oh,
you know. They're just normal parents, I guess."

"Lucky you," he remarked, but he watched her reaction
closely.

She grimaced, a brief moment of pain across her features,
then the return to placidity. "Yup. That's me."

Change the subject, keep her off-balance. "How long have
you lived here?"

"A little over ten years now, I guess," she replied. "You
should have seen this place back then. It was originally a hunting lodge."

"With all that entailed, I assume? Something like a caveman's home away from home?"

"You assume correctly. Indoor plumbing, thank God, but I
don't think any room had been thoroughly cleaned since the
place was built. Cobwebs everywhere, dust six inches thick, and
I don't even want to remember the condition of the bathrooms."

She grimaced, from pain or the memory of what this inn
used to be, he didn't know. He opted to believe the latter.

The grandfather clock on the outskirts of the room chimed
once, and Doug's attention veered to the time displayed on the
golden face with its laughing moon. Ten-thirty. The night was
slipping away. How had that happened? He stared at the tea
cart, the empty plates and drained mugs. Two hours had flown
by in the blink of an eye. Time to knuckle under and get some
real info out of the pretty innkeeper.

"It's a nice town," he remarked. "From what I've seen so
far, anyway. Did you grow up near here originally?"

"No, I came from"-she yawned-"somewhere else."

A guarded response. Push forward or hang back? Oh, who
was he kidding? He'd never been a hang back kinda guy. "Yeah?
I went there once on vacation."

She offered a tight-lipped smile, and he pushed again. "So
did `somewhere else' have a name?"

Before she could answer, the front door swung open and
slammed against the wall. On that thunderous sound, a pair of
heavily layered demons rushed inside, shouting accusations
about what he surmised was a broken pair of earbuds.

"There's no sound at all coming from the right side," a female complained as she swung the thin white wires in her
gloved hand. "And they both worked fine before you got your
grubby hands on them."

"I didn't break them," her pint-sized male companion retorted. "I didn't even use them. You probably stepped on them
in the car, and now you want to blame me."

On Doug's right, Lyn sighed heavily. "And they're back."

"That's enough," another feminine voice said from the open
front door. "Take off your coats and boots and put them in the
closet. Then go upstairs. Quietly. Don't wake Aunt Lyn."

"It's okay, April," Lyn called. "I'm awake. We're in the
parlor." As if in reply to Doug's unspoken question, she offered
an apologetic smile and whispered, "My sister and her family
are here for the week. Normally, the kids aren't such monsters,
but I'm guessing a full day of togetherness took its toll."

In other words, reinforcements had arrived. Interview over
for tonight. He rose. "I should probably go. Would you mind
calling me a cab? Meanwhile, I'll get the kitchen whipped into
shape so Gerta doesn't fillet me for your guests tomorrow."

He turned the tea cart around to more easily push it into the
kitchen but was nearly bowled over by a woman racing into
the parlor.

"Lyn? What are you doing up at this hour?"

The woman wore a bright turquoise ski jacket, unzipped to
reveal a thick sweater in a softer powder blue shade, and dark
denim jeans. She'd apparently paused long enough to remove
her shoes because she slipped inside on stocking feet. Well,
sort of stockings, anyway. They were more like gloves for feet,
with each toe in its own separate compartment and each compartment a different color. His gaze took in the wearer of
these bizarre but childish socks. She was petite, even smaller than Lyn. A pixie really, with reddish-brown flyaway hair, and
glossy brown eyes like a teddy bear's. She looked nothing like
Lyn, and yet, he could easily peg them as sisters. Their speech
patterns, postures, and take-control attitudes all indicated some
shared DNA.

The woman strode past Doug and aimed straight for the
chair where Lyn sat huddled in her fluffy pink robe. Once she
reached her sister's side, she crouched. "Are you okay? What
happened?"

Lyn waved a dismissive hand. "I took a tumble on the slopes.
Pulled my hamstring. No biggie. I'll be fine in a couple of
weeks."

"It's my fault," Doug said. "I dared her to race me"

On a gasp, the woman swerved to face him, lost her balance,
and fell on her bottom. Slowly, she rose, rubbing a hand over
her disgraced posterior. "And you are ... ?"

"Exaggerating," Lyn answered with an emphatic head shake.
"April, this is Doug Sawyer. Doug, my sister, April."

"Nice to meet you." Quickly, he thrust out his left hand.

"Same here" April blinked several times, and then clasped
his left hand in hers.

Doug had learned early the best way to head off the embarrassed reactions from those unaware of his prosthetic hand was
to beat them to the awkward.

"April?" A man's voice came from the foyer.

"In the parlor, Jeff," April called back.

Within seconds, they were joined by a dark-haired man
who'd not only removed his shoes but his coat as well. He too
wore a sweater and jeans-in coordinating shades of gray and
black, respectively. His socks, however, were normal lightweight
ski socks. With all five toes on each foot sharing the same
woolen compartment. Thank God. Doug didn't think he'd be
able to keep his mouth shut after seeing a man in multicolored, multitoed socks.

Once again, Lyn made the introductions, but this time, Jeff
beat Doug to the handshake stage, and Doug was forced to use
his prosthesis. If Jeff noticed anything bizarre about the false hand, he made no visible reaction. Which meant he was either
oblivious or super-polite. Either way, Doug exhaled a sigh of
relief.

With the pleasantries out of the way, the room grew silent
and strained. The only sounds came from the Mozart concerto
playing subtly in the background and the tick of the pendulum
in the grandfather clock.

Finally, Doug ventured into the stillness. "I should see about
these dishes."

April's gaze swept the contents of the tea cart, then swerved
to Lyn. "Did we come back at a bad time?"

"Of course not," Lyn replied. "Doug was with me when I fell.
And knowing I'd spent the evening in the emergency room, he
brought me a late dinner."

Both April and Jeff swerved their attention to Doug. Recognition tickled Doug's memory. Something about them, the
way they stood, Jeff with his hand possessively placed on April's
shoulder, seemed so familiar. Where had he seen these two
before?

Nope. Not a clue. For now, he shook off the wispy images.

"I've overstayed my welcome, anyway," he said, "and your
sister was too polite to throw me out."

"Not true," Lyn said. "Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly the
most scintillating companion tonight. I'm surprised I didn't put
him to sleep."

Now Doug shook his head. "Not possible. But for tonight, our
date has come to an end. I wanted to ask you-no pressure,
mind you-but since you won't be able to ski for a few weeks,
maybe you'll drop by the Ski-Hab area Friday afternoon? Say ...
after four? We could try for something more closely resembling
a real date? Where I take you out to a nice restaurant? For a better meal than soup and a sandwich? If you're feeling well enough,
that is."

Lyn hesitated. "I don't-"

"She'll be there," April jumped in. "I'll drive her to the
mountain myself."

Doug didn't know how he'd managed to win over the sister so quickly, but he wasn't about to question his luck. "Great. So if
you'll excuse me, I'm off to the kitchen to clean up the mess, and
then I'll hit the road."

"April, do me a favor?" Lyn pointed at Doug and the cart.
"Could you help him with the dishes? You know where
everything goes."

God, no. He'd rather fumble alone, thankyouverymuch.
"Don't be silly. I have everything under control."

"But ... with your arm ... I mean, the prosthesis..."

Instantly two pairs of eyes veered to stare at his right arm.
Great. Thanks for bringing my infirmity to their attention, Lyn.
All the more reason to avoid an audience in the kitchen. Last
thing he needed was someone gawking at how the cripple managed to wash dishes.

"I've had hundreds of hours of occupational therapy," he insisted, "which included dishwashing and general housekeeping.
You just take care of the cab, and I'll take care of the kitchen.
Deal?"

"No deal." Lyn folded her arms over the wide lapels of her
fuzzy robe. "You're at a disadvantage, not knowing where Gerta
keeps everything."

"Lyn has a point," her sister announced. "Gerta's a tyrant
about her kitchen. I'll just come along to make sure everything's
in the right spot. Trust me. If you don't place the saltshaker at
the proper angle with the pepper shaker, of Gert will skin you
alive."

"Surrender, Doug," Jeff said with a grin. "You can't win
against these two."

Before Doug could form any additional argument, April took
the tea cart by the handle. "Come on. It won't take long." Once
he'd followed her out of the parlor and toward the kitchen, she
craned her neck to add sotto voce, "Date, huh? And a follow-up
on Friday? How'd you manage that?"

When Doug stepped into his slopeside condo an hour later, Ace
Riordan's head popped up over the back of the sofa. "Where
have you been?" Every sharp word sliced the air.

"Gee whiz, Mom, you didn't have to wait up for me." He
unzipped his jacket and opened the closet door.

Ace's icy glare could turn the condo into the Arctic Circle.
"And you're not answering my question. Where were you?"

He offered the kid a smug grin. "I had a date."

Blue eyes narrowed to cobra slits. "With whom?"

"The proprietor of a certain bed-and-breakfast." While Ace
swallowed that horse pill, Doug hung his jacket in the closet.

"You didn't."

He leaned out, the picture of innocence. "Didn't what?"

"Dude." Ace slammed a fist into the sofa's top. "I told you to
leave Lyn alone."

"Since when do I take orders from you?" Doug headed for
the kitchen, where the package from Jake lay waiting on the
counter, silently beckoning to him.

"Since I pulled a lot of strings to get you into the Ski-Hab
program. Now you're gonna screw up everything by pursuing
a story no one cares about except you."

"Oh, I don't know about that." He found a steak knife in the
kitchen drawer and carefully split the packing tape along the
top of the box. "I spoke to Jake Hardwick, and he agrees with
me that this could be the story of the year."

"So you'll ruin a woman's life for `the story of the year.'
Great."

"Lighten up, Ace. You know me better than that. Since
when have I ever ruined anyone's life? I've already told you.
I'll make her look like the patron saint of amputees."

Ace unfolded his body from the couch and clucked his
tongue. "Wow. You still don't get it, do you? It doesn't matter
that you're not one of those hacks from some gossip rag. For
Lyn, no publicity is good publicity. All she wants is to be left
alone. Why can't you respect that?"

"Because it's stupid." He flipped open the flaps.

"Says you."

Doug pointed a finger in Ace's direction. "Good comeback.
You got me there. But guess what? You haven't changed my
mind."

He pulled out the sleek black laptop and wireless device sitting inside. Time to power up this sucker. He wanted to start
recording his perceptions and the details of today's events while
they were still fresh in his mind.

"Oh, now I get it," Ace retorted. "You didn't just lose your
arm in that Humvee accident. You lost your soul too."

Doug looked up from his new box of toys and offered a joyless grin. "I'm a reporter, Ace. We have no souls."

"You did. Before Iraq. The Doug Sawyer I used to know
wouldn't sell out like this."

"I'm not selling out. I'm writing a great story about a great
woman. It'll put this little mountain and Ski-Hab on the public's radar. Let everyone know about what goes on here, which
in turn could mean lots of donations to keep the program running. What's so horrible about that?"

"Because it's not what she wants. It's her life, her story. Don't
you think she should be the one to decide whether or not you
share it with the world?"

With the laptop plugged in and the Wi-Fi signal strong,
Doug pecked the name Brooklyn Raine into the search engine. A list containing dozens of pages of information popped
up. He started with images: Brooklyn on the medal podium at
the Olympics, on a Disney castle float with Marc Cheviot at
her side, on a cereal box. All familiar to his memory, but very
different from the woman who ran Snowed Inn. The last image he found was taken outdoors, where she stood beneath a
heavy black awning. The caption read, "Brooklyn Raine leaving the funeral of her father and coach, Alan Raine." The
headline above the corresponding article screamed, DADDY'S
GIRL NO MORE.