Bridal Trap Read online

  Bridal Trap

  By

  Rena McKay

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  "We Are Legally Married!"

  "Not a real marriage," she replied coldly.

  His lips twisted. "Don't you have what nice, sensible girls always want? The license, the ceremony, the ring on your finger?"

  Robyn gasped at the implication that she was somehow bought and paid for. She struggled to free herself from his grip.

  "I don't understand this," he said. "I know that you're not exactly indifferent to me." As if to prove it, he trailed tantalizing fingertips across her lips and she trembled beneath his touch. "Right now I can feel you struggling not to respond."

  It was true. It took every ounce of her strength to hold her body rigid and unyielding, to resist that overpowering temptation to melt against him.

  RENA McKAY is an American writer currently living in the far West. The settings for her well-focused novels reflect her love for her native country and add extra dimension to her sensitive and finely drawn characters.

  Dear Reader:

  Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing venture. We will be presenting the very finest writers of contemporary romantic fiction as well as outstanding new talent in this field. It is our hope that our stories, our heroes and our heroines will give you, the reader, all you want from romantic fiction.

  Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books and I invite you to write to us at the address below.

  So, enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!

  Karen Solem

  Editor-in-Chief

  Silhouette Books

  P.O. Box 769

  New York, N.Y. 10019

  Copyright © 1980 by Rena McKay

  ISBN 0-671-57036-6

  First Silhouette printing October, 1980

  Chapter One

  Robyn Christopher clutched the brim of the old rain hat with both hands, pulling it down to protect her ears from the driving rain. She ducked under the leaky gutter that edged the old-fashioned front porch and turned to look at the storm that was churning the usually serene little bay into a surging, pounding cauldron.

  Not a boat moved on those waters. Not a car moved on Main Street either, she noted. The only movement was a faded "Welcome to Caverna Bay" banner flapping in the wind. At least half the businesses were closed on this stormy Monday, several of them for the entire season, their owners fleeing to some sunny retreat in the southern part of the state or Arizona or Mexico.

  Not Robyn. The storm made her feel buoyant, alive. This was the time of year she loved best, after the summer tourists had gone, after the snobbish residents on the south side of the bay boarded up their fancy summer homes and went away. Not that she disliked the tourists, she assured herself. After all, her very livelihood depended upon them. But it was nice when they were gone and the little northern California coastal resort town could be itself again. Robyn felt as if it were her town now, a thought, she knew, that would probably appall some of the real old-timers who considered her few years here a mere spit in the wind.

  Robyn slapped the rain hat against her yellow sucker and shook her soft brown hair free. She sniffed the fresh, clean scent of the rainswept air appreciatively before turning to knock on the weather-beaten door.

  "Are you in there, Mrs. Barrone?" she called, pushing the door open a few inches without waiting for an answer.

  "I was going dancing but my new shoes didn't arrive from Paris so I had to cancel," Mrs. Barrone answered tartly from her chair set close to the new stove.

  Robyn laughed, pleased that her elderly friend was in such good spirits. Not that Mrs. Barrone ever complained, of course, but sometimes the pain of her ever present arthritis took the tartness from her tongue. Robyn slipped out of the shapeless yellow slicker, revealing a slim figure in jeans and ribbed, cranberry-red sweater.

  "What can I do for you today?" Robyn questioned briskly, deliberately ignoring the open scrapbook spread on Mrs. Barrone's lap. "Do you need anything from the store?"

  "I don't think so, dear. I put a stew on to simmer a bit earlier. You might move the English ivy over closer to the window. It's looking a bit peaked," Mrs. Barrone said absently. "But don't bother with that now. I have some wonderful news!"

  "Oh? Did your grandson win another award or something?" Robyn couldn't keep the faintly caustic bite out of her voice. She moved the asparagus fern away from the window to make room for the English ivy. Mrs. Barrone loved plants, but her small, dark house had little window space and she was forever rotating the pots to assure each plant a share of light.

  "He's coming here." Mrs. Barrone's voice quivered with excitement. "Trevor is coming here!"

  Robyn stopped short, the ivy pot in her hands. "What makes you think so?" she asked dubiously.

  Mrs. Barrone waved a sheet of paper with her veined hand. "Because I have a letter right here that says he's coming."

  Robyn set the pot on the window sill, squeezing it in between the curly coleus and a prickly cactus. "Does he say when?" she asked. The tendrils of a hanging purple velvet plant caught in her hair and she carefully untangled them.

  Mrs. Barrone inspected the typewritten sheet again. "No, not exactly," she admitted. "Just as soon as he can get away for a few days."

  Robyn hesitated, trying to think what to say that would prepare Mrs. Barrone for disappointment without letting her down too abruptly.

  Mrs. Barrone noted the hesitation and glanced at Robyn sharply. "You don't think he'll come, do you?"

  "I'm sure he'd like to come," Robyn said evasively. "But he's a very busy man. There must be meetings with producers and directors and publishers and all that sort of thing." To say nothing of escorting voluptuous young starlets around, she added scornfully to herself, remembering a Hollywood gossip column clipping Mrs. Barrone had found.

  Mrs. Barrone sighed in exasperation. "You don't like him, do you? Would you like to read his letter?"

  "No, thank you." Robyn perched on the edge of the sagging sofa across from Mrs. Barrone's rocking chair. She had no doubt that Trevor Barrone's letter was as fascinating as his best-selling book had been. He probably wrote the letter with the thought in mind that someday it would be auctioned off at some fabulous price, as the letters of the famous often were, she thought cynically. She started to protest to Mrs. Barrone that she couldn't really dislike the man when she didn't even know him, but she closed her mouth. She didn't know Trevor Barrone and she did dislike him. She tried to change the subject.

  "I think I'll go down to the beach tomorrow. After this storm there should be lots of good stuff washed in. Did I tell you Larry brought me orders for two dozen of my driftwood mobiles from a gift shop down south?"

  Mrs. Barrone's attention refused to be diverted. After a murmured, "That's nice, dear," she added, "but I can't see why you dislike him so much. Sometimes you act as if he had done something to you personally."

  In a way, he had, Robyn thought. He had neglected and ignored this dear old lady whom Robyn loved almost as if she were her own grandmother. And now he was setting Mrs. Barrone up for further disappointment, telling her he would come to visit as soon as he could get away for a few days when he never really intended to come at all. Grudgingly Robyn had to admit Trevor Barrone hadn't completely ignored his grandmother the last year or so. It was the money he sent that had paid for the new stove that kept the littl
e house cozy and comfortable. The oversized color television set was a gift from him too, but if he had bothered to get acquainted with his grandmother he would have known that a nice little portable set would have been much more suitable than the big, awkward console model. It seemed to take up half the tiny living room.

  Finally Robyn said carefully, "I just don't think he's treated you right."

  "He sends money—"

  "Money isn't everything!"

  "As you pointed out, he's a very busy man," Mrs. Barrone said. Her voice, as usual when she spoke about her grandson, was completely without criticism or condemnation for all the years he had ignored her. "And after all the terrible experiences he went through in Africa, I'm sure he deserves a little pleasure in life."

  Terrible experiences indeed, Robyn sniffed to herself. He'd made a mint writing about them and they were probably more fiction than truth anyway. And if the real life Mia looked anything like the movie screen Mia, his "terrible experiences" had not been without their rewards.

  "Oh my, I got so excited about Trevor's letter that I almost forgot something almost as important," Mrs. Barrone said, feeling around in the folds of her lap robe. "I have a new picture!"

  "Trevor sent you a picture?" Robyn asked in surprise.

  "No, no. Mabel brought it over. She reads all those movie magazines, you know. Buys them secondhand in Eureka. She brought this over just this morning." Mrs. Barrone thrust the clipping at Robyn.

  In spite of her disdain for the man, Robyn couldn't help being curious. Reluctantly she reached across the worn rug for the clipping.

  The photo had been taken from a low angle, obviously concentrating more on the curves of the young woman than on the man almost in shadow behind her. But enough of him was visible to show darkly handsome features, flashing smile and neatly trimmed beard. Stereotype of the successful young author, Robyn thought disdainfully. Both Trevor and the girl were wearing evening clothes, and she was hanging on to his arm for dear life. Robyn's gaze dropped to the legend below the photograph. It was written in typically breathless, movie mag style.

  "Hot young star Deborah Hart steps out with best-selling author Trevor Barrone after shedding hubby No. 2. Will the dashing young adventurer be Hart-breaker No. 3?"

  Robyn grimaced, uncertain whether she was most disgusted by the over-exposed curves of the actress, Trevor Barrone's movie star smile, or the ridiculous writing. She handed the clipping back. Mrs. Barrone looked at her expectantly.

  "He's very handsome," Robyn finally said reluctantly.

  "His father was too. And his grandfather as well," Mrs. Barrone said, smiling with fond memory. Then she sighed. "But the Barrone men have always had a wild streak. I just hope Trevor finds himself some nice, sensible young lady and settles down soon."

  Glancing again at the clipping in Mrs. Barrone's hand, Robyn somehow doubted that Trevor Barrone was ever going to have much interest in some "nice, sensible young lady." His taste obviously ran more in the direction of lush curves and seductive eyes than sensible character.

  "I can't help feeling Tim would be alive today if that—that woman hadn't led him astray," Mrs. Barrone murmured.

  It was the only subject on which the elderly woman ever showed any bitterness. Her generous attitude toward her grandson's treatment of her, and her resigned attitude toward the "wild streak" in the Barrone men in general, did not extend to Trevor's mother. Robyn knew the story well.

  Mrs. Barrone and her husband had come to Caverna Bay from Oklahoma soon after their marriage. Bill Barrone had logged in the redwood forests for years until an accident crippled him. Then he ran a gas station in town. They had only the one son, Tim. Tim went off to college, much to the wonder and pride of his parents, but there he fell in love with a young woman from well-to-do, southern California parents. She, in Mrs. Barrone's old-fashioned words, led Tim "astray." She liked action, excitement and money. Tim killed himself trying to keep her happy, according to Mrs. Barrone. Robyn wasn't sure that was exactly accurate, but it was true that Tim Barrone had died in some sort of yachting accident in the Caribbean, with rumors of wild parties and drug use.

  Up until that time, Robyn gathered, the young wife's bad features had been at least partially redeemed by the fact that she had produced a grandson, Trevor. He often spent entire summers with his grandparents here in Caverna Bay while his parents flew off to France or Spain. All that ended when Tim died. His young widow quickly remarried and that was practically the last Mrs. Barrone ever heard of her grandson.

  Until about three years ago when Trevor Barrone suddenly became front-page news. He had turned up in Johannesburg, South Africa, with a harrowing tale of an almost incredible escape through the jungles of some small African country in the throes of revolution. He had been in the country on some sort of geological mineral survey but the revolutionaries had accused him of spying and imprisoned him in an underground cell with a death sentence hanging over his head. With the aid of a missionary's daughter he had somehow escaped, defying crocodiles, snakes, unfriendly natives and tropical disease.

  The rest was "history," as the tabloids liked to say. Trevor wrote a book about his experiences. It became a best seller, picked up awards and won praise from both critics and public. The movies had snapped it up, of course. The film was an even bigger success than the book. There was already talk of an Academy Award nomination.

  Actually, at first Robyn was doubtful that the Trevor Barrone of the newspaper stories was really Mrs. Barrone's grandson, but Mrs. Barrone herself never had any doubt. She religiously saved every word she could find about him, every clipping, every advertisement for the book or movie. They were all part of her scrapbook. A year or so ago, unknown to Robyn, she had written to him and actually received a reply, confirming that he really was her grandson. Since then the money and occasional extravagantly unsuitable gifts had arrived.

  Now Mrs. Barrone flipped fondly through the scrap-book. It started with a handful of photographs taken during the summers Trevor visited, snapshots showing a dark-haired boy, vaguely arrogant looking even at the age of seven or eight, Robyn thought. From there the scrapbook skipped to the first newspaper pictures from Johannesburg, a rather blurred photograph showing a gaunt young man with a ragged beard and tattered clothing. There were more clippings, then the dust jacket from his book. The photograph on it showed just the head and shoulders, the beard neater but the handsome face still unsmilingly arrogant. And now there was this latest picture of a well dressed, sophisticated young man enjoying all the fruits of his success.

  Robyn stood up. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do?"

  "You can hand me the roll of tape over there on the television so I can fasten this clipping in the scrap-book," Mrs. Barrone suggested. She smiled. "Won't Trevor be surprised when he sees my scrapbook?"

  Robyn bit her lip. "Mrs. Barrone, please—you mustn't be disappointed if—"

  "He's coming," Mrs. Barrone said firmly. "Even when Trevor was only six years old, he never broke a promise. I could always count on him."

  But six-year-olds didn't have a taste for fame and bright lights and voluptuous blondes, Robyn thought wryly. Aloud she said, "How old is Trevor now?"

  Mrs. Barrone didn't have to calculate. "Thirty-one," she said promptly. "His birthday was in August. I remember a little birthday party I had for him one year, he was four years old…" Mrs. Barrone was off again on her favorite subject.

  Usually Robyn didn't mind listening, knowing how dear the subject was to the elderly woman's heart, but this afternoon Robyn found the conversation uncomfortably grating. Damn Trevor Barrone, she thought suddenly, angrily. If he didn't show up after telling his grandmother he was coming, she personally was going to write or call and give him a piece of her mind.

  "… like you."

  In her anger Robyn had missed what Mrs. Barrone was saying. She apologized.

  "I was just saying that I hope when Trevor finally settles down and marries that it is to someone just like you," Mr
s. Barrone said. She reached out a veined hand and squeezed Robyn's firm, tanned one. "I don't know what I'd have done without you these last few years. Your aunt was so good to me before she died and then you took up right where she left off. You're just like a granddaughter to me."

  Robyn laughed and hugged the thin shoulders. "I need a grandmother just as much as you need a granddaughter, so it all works out even."

  "And it's time you thought about marrying too," Mrs. Barrone chided, sharp blue eyes suddenly inspecting Robyn closely. "Why, when I was your age I was married and a mother already. What about you and that Larry fellow?"

  Robyn shrugged. "We're just friends. I'm in no hurry."

  Mrs. Barrone frowned disapprovingly but did not pursue the subject. "Will you stay and have some stew with me?" she invited.

  Ordinarily Robyn would have stayed, perhaps mixing up some baking powder biscuits to go with the stew, but today she declined. Mrs. Barrone undoubtedly would want to keep on talking about her grandson, and Robyn was afraid if she heard much more she would come out with what she really thought of the man, that he was totally self-centered, completely materialistic, and obviously a woman chaser to boot. And, as far as Robyn was concerned, good looks and what the tabloids called a "charismatic personality" could never make up for those flaws.

  "I'll run over after I get back from the beach tomorrow," Robyn promised.

  She checked the simmering stew and added a little water before slipping into the oversized yellow slicker, a fisherman's discard, again. She tucked her long hair up under the floppy rain hat and waved to Mrs. Barrone from the front door.

  It was one steep block down to the main street, then two blocks over to Robyn's little gift and curio shop. She went around back to her small but comfortable living quarters. Two children, oblivious to the storm, were playing in the park of giant redwoods nearby, clambering over the huge redwood stump with the walkway cut through it. Larry McAllister's car was just pulling into Robyn's narrow driveway.