Bridal Trap Page 4

  "And sex," she murmured.

  Unexpectedly he laughed. "Unfortunately I didn't have as much control over the movie script as I would have liked. Some of the people I dealt with in the movie world could make a cookbook about yogurt seem sexy." The laughter died abruptly as he eyed her with those intense blue eyes and his voice was almost brutal when he added, "But I'm not trying to say I was some kind of saint either. It was another world," he finished abruptly. "As I said, I'd rather forget it. You make these?" His tanned hand touched one of the airy driftwood creations.

  Robyn looked up, startled at the sudden change of subject. But from the scowl on his face she suddenly realized he really would rather not talk about those events from the past. She found the realization disconcerting. She had suspected he was the kind of man who delighted in going over the gory details again and again, glorying over his own heroics.

  "Yes. I make them mostly out of things I find on the beach," she said, uncertain whether or not he was really interested.

  "And the seascapes?"

  "A friend of mine paints those. He does some redwood scenes on black velvet that are quite striking and very popular."

  "Boyfriend?" he asked unexpectedly.

  "No." She hesitated. "Just a friend."

  He wandered around again, still restless, as if he found the small shop too confining. Intuitively, Robyn knew he had some specific reason for coming here and she wondered why it was taking him so long to get around to it.

  "How long have you lived here?" he asked.

  "About four years. My aunt owned the shop when I came. She died last year and left it to me."

  He lightly fingered a display of handmade agate earrings on the counter. "And what brought you here in the first place? It seems a little on the dull side for a pretty young girl."

  Pretty young girl. He made her sound like a child in rompers. "It's not dull during the summer season," she said defensively. "And besides, I like the quiet beaches and the redwoods and the storms. I'm afraid I wouldn't care for the kind of life you're accustomed to."

  He allowed himself a trace of a smile. "You didn't answer my question."

  "I came after I finished high school, intending to work for my aunt just for a summer season," she answered briefly. "She fell ill and I—I didn't feel I could leave her."

  "So now you're looking after my grandmother. And rescuing seagulls in distress." His voice sounded mocking.

  "I'm sorry if you find that amusing or boring," Robyn said stiffly. "Actually, Mrs. Barrone has done a great deal for me too. She's been all the family I've had the past year."

  He was standing by the window again. She studied him out of the corner of her eye as she unnecessarily rearranged some of Larry's miniature redwood paintings. He looked suave and sophisticated standing there, and yet that aura of raw strength and almost primitive masculinity was just beneath the surface.

  But his voice was politely civilized when he said, "Parents?"

  She looked at him blankly, realizing she had lost the thread of the conversation.

  "You said my grandmother was your only family," he prompted. "What about your parents?"

  "They were killed in an auto accident shortly after I came here to Caverna Bay."

  "I'm sorry." He sounded sympathetic and she remembered that he had lost his father too, and at a much earlier age than she had. Quickly she quashed an unwanted twinge of sympathy.

  "Mr. Barrone—," she began crisply.

  "Call me Trev," he suggested with the trace of a smile. "Considering that we're practically family."

  Robyn thought she detected a note of irony in his voice and she ignored the suggestion. "Mr. Barrone, I don't think you came over here just to inquire about my knee. And you've made it plain you don't care to discuss your book. So why have you come?"

  "Actually—" He broke off and hesitated. "Actually, I came to ask a favor of you."

  Obviously, asking favors did not come easily to Trev Barrone, considering how long it had taken him to get around to it. A muscle under the thin scar jerked spasmodically. No doubt he considered having to ask for help a weakness, Robyn thought wryly. A tart comment rose to her lips but she bit it back, curious about what he could possibly want of her. She waited, her expression guarded.

  "As you know," he began, "my plan is to take my grandmother back to Palm Springs with me."

  Robyn nodded.

  "She doesn't want to go." He sounded slightly indignant. Almost angrily he added, "I would appreciate it if you would try to talk some sense into her. She respects your opinion. I think she would listen to you."

  Robyn was uncertain whether his anger was directed at his grandmother's stubbornness or at Robyn herself because he had been forced to come to her for help.

  "Perhaps if you showed her a picture of the new house—," Robyn began.

  "Don't be facetious," he growled. "I realize you expressed a certain—lack of enthusiasm for my plan to move her, but I'm sure if you consider the advantages, you will realize it really is best for her."

  "Has she said why she doesn't want to go?" Robyn asked finally.

  Trev shrugged. "She says she's lived here most of her life and likes it. She says she's too old to move to some strange place."

  "I'm sure making such a drastic change could be difficult for an older person," Robyn murmured.

  "Will you talk to her?" he asked.

  "But if she really doesn't want to go—," Robyn began slowly.

  "Good Lord, look at the advantages," he said, sounding exasperated. "The hot, dry climate will be better for her than all this damp cold. I can be sure she'll receive any medical care she needs. She'll have the best of food, a nice place to live, everything she hasn't had all these years. She can raise all the damn plants she wants."

  "She could keep her little place here and just come to visit you now and then."

  He looked at her, the chiseled lips suddenly hardening. "Be honest with yourself," he said harshly. "Are you really thinking about what is best for her?"

  "Of course I am," Robyn retorted heatedly. "She has her friends here…"

  Her voice trailed off under his probing gaze. Was she, she wondered uncomfortably, really thinking about what was best for Mrs. Barrone? Or was she letting her unwillingness to help Trevor Barrone in his arrogant decision blind her to the very real advantages of the plan?

  As he pointed out, Mrs. Barrone would undoubtedly have the best of care, and the climate might indeed be beneficial. Robyn usually looked in on Mrs. Barrone twice a week during the busy summer season and at least every other day during the winter. But Mrs. Barrone could easily fall sick or injured and lie there helpless and unattended until it was too late. Yet Robyn knew how she would feel if someone tried to yank her away from the home she had always known, even if the move would be best for her. But perhaps, Robyn thought guiltily, she was being a little selfish because she would miss the dear old lady so much.

  "It would take a lot of the burden off you," Trev pointed out. "Surely a pretty girl like you has better things to do than look after someone else's garrulous old grandmother."

  "I have never considered my friendship with Mrs. Barrone a burden!" Robyn gasped indignantly. "And if your opinion of her is a 'garrulous old grandmother,' it is no wonder she doesn't want to go with you!"

  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Trev said, his voice gruffly apologetic. "I just want what is best for her."

  "Maybe you should give more consideration to what she wants then," Robyn snapped.

  "What she seems to want most," Trev said grimly, "is to see me safely married and settled down with some nice, sensible girl in some nice, sensible house. No doubt with nice, sensible children and a dog to match." He sounded thoroughly exasperated now.

  "And you, I take it, have no intention of settling down with any nice, sensible girl," Robyn remarked.

  But behind the tartness she was stifling laughter. She could just imagine Mrs. Barrone wagging a finger at him and urging him to settle
down with some nice, sensible—interpret that plain—girl. And Trev Barrone's frustration with his grandmother's attitude was obvious. He just might have met his match in his grandmother, Robyn thought with a certain degree of satisfaction.

  "You think it's funny, don't you?" he growled, almost glowering at her. When she managed a noncommittal shrug, his lips finally twitched in amusement too. "Well, I suppose it is in a way."

  "Not really," Robyn finally managed to say, curbing her inward laughter. "She really does love you, you know, and she's just concerned and worried about you."

  "I'm concerned about her too, but I'll pick my own wife, thank you."

  Robyn wondered briefly if that meant he had already chosen one of the shapely starlets, but she did not pursue the subject. All that was really important was what was best for Mrs. Barrone. It was no concern of Robyn's whom, or even if, Trevor Barrone ever married.

  "You will talk to her then?" Trev prodded again.

  Robyn busied herself straightening jewelry inside the glass case. "I'll think about it," she said noncommittally.

  Trev gave her a curt nod, obviously none too pleased with her attitude. He strode out of the small shop, the little bell jangling more than usual from the way he closed the door with ill concealed annoyance. She watched him slide into the Ferrari and slam the door shut. It was obvious, she thought wryly, that Trevor Barrone was not accustomed to getting an "I'll think about it" sort of answer from any request he made to a female. Of course, if he had made a request of some other kind…

  Robyn jerked her mind away from that oddly tantalizing thought. Trev had called her "pretty" at least twice, but both times with that mocking inflection that somehow made the word sound disparaging rather than complimentary. "Pretty" wasn't enough for him, of course. It was in the same class as "nice" and "sensible." What he liked, she thought grimly, was a voluptuous, lush sort of beauty. And yet she knew she wasn't the only one who had felt that electric jolt when he caught her there on the beach…

  Well, he would be out of her life in a few days anyway, she thought firmly. Actually, her mind was already made up about persuading Mrs. Barrone to make the move. At Mrs. Barrone's age, the primary concern must be the availability of prompt, competent medical attention. In addition she would have good food and care and security. Even if Trev didn't pay as much attention to her as he should, Mrs. Barrone was bound to see more of him than she ever would here. Robyn was fairly confident she could persuade Mrs. Barrone to go.

  But Robyn perversely decided she wasn't going to talk to Mrs. Barrone for a few days yet. Let Trev stew for a while. He expected every woman he encountered to jump at his every wish and she had no intention of being that accommodating.

  She determinedly waited four full days before starting up the steep street toward Mrs. Barrone's house. It was after dark and another storm had blown in. Wind and rain whipped around Robyn's slim figure, but she wasn't wearing the shapeless yellow slicker and floppy rain hat this time. She had told herself as she slipped into a trim, belted jacket and flatteringly fashionable boots that she was dressing more attractively only because she really ought, as a young businesswoman, to pay more attention to her appearance. But deep down she knew that wasn't the real reason.

  She felt vaguely let down when she realized the sleek Ferrari was not parked outside the little house. Perhaps Trev had taken his grandmother out to dinner again. No, the television set was on and there was a glimmer of light from inside.

  She tapped on the door and called, "Are you in there, Mrs. Barrone?" She pushed the door open without waiting for an answer, as was her usual habit.

  She gasped unbelievingly. A fallen lamp lay on its side, the angled light throwing garish shadows across the room. The television picture rolled, completely out of focus, as the voices chattered on. Wind and rain blew through the shattered window.

  And Mrs. Barrone, her frail body almost lost in the tangled debris of overturned chair, broken pots and tangled plants, lay face down on the floor.

  Chapter Three

  Robyn rushed to the motionless figure, heart thudding with fear and apprehension. The frail hand felt cold and Robyn's own slim hands trembled as she searched for a pulse. Was it there? No—yes, maybe just the very weakest thread of life. Robyn yanked a shabby blanket off the even shabbier sofa and tucked it around Mrs. Barrone's limp body, shuddering at the unnatural twist of her right leg.

  Rain whipped through the shattered window but that would have to wait. Robyn searched frantically for the phone, following the trailing cord until she found the phone near the fallen lamp, not more than a few feet from Mrs. Barrone's outstretched hand.

  The emergency numbers were taped right to the receiver. Robyn had put them there herself. A lot of good they had done, she thought bitterly. She dialed, waited impatiently, willing someone to answer. Caverna Bay had neither doctor nor hospital, only a combination volunteer fire department and one-vehicle ambulance service. She kept her eyes fastened on the slight figure under the blanket, so motionless, so lifeless.

  Finally the man on duty answered, his manner changing instantly as he realized the call wasn't just a social suggestion that the guys get together at the firehouse and play cards. Robyn knew it would take the ambulance several minutes to reach the house even though the station was only a few blocks away. She ran back to Mrs. Barrone and added another blanket to keep her warm. The stove was going full blast, but it was no match for the chill, wet air blowing through the window. Robyn found more blankets in the bedroom and stuffed them in the gaping hole, shutting off at least some of the draft.

  Then she looked around slowly. It wasn't difficult to figure out what had happened. Mrs. Barrone had climbed on a chair and attempted to move one of the hanging plants. The pot had been too heavy for her, or she had simply slipped, sending the pot smashing through the window and crashing to the floor herself, dragging more pots with her.

  It's all my fault, Robyn thought remorsefully, with an agonizing rush of guilt. She always moved the plants around for Mrs. Barrone. But since Robyn was avoiding her, Mrs. Barrone had obviously tried to do it herself. All because I was being stubborn, Robyn berated herself, determined I was going to show Trev I wouldn't jump at his every request like—

  Her thoughts broke off abruptly. She had been so shocked and frightened finding Mrs. Barrone like this that she hadn't even thought about Trev. But now that she was thinking about him, just where was he anyway? Where was the mighty best-selling author with all his alleged concern for his grandmother?

  Robyn marched angrily toward the other small bedroom to see if his things were still there, not caring if he objected to the invasion of privacy. If he had simply picked up and abandoned—

  Robyn's thoughts were interrupted by the wail of the ambulance siren and she changed direction and raced for the door. She held it open as the two men carried a stretcher inside. They nodded recognition at Robyn.

  "What happened?"

  It seemed easier not to go into involved explanations. "I don't know," Robyn said crisply. "I found her like this. I don't know how long she's been here."

  The man knelt, felt Mrs. Barrone's wrist, then her thin throat. He nodded. "She's alive. But just barely."

  An almost inaudible sigh escaped Mrs. Barrone's colorless lips as the men slipped her slight body onto the stretcher, but her eyes did not open. Robyn made the abrupt decision that she would ride in the ambulance. It would take too long to run home and get her own car. She didn't even think how she would get back after they reached the small community hospital at Redwood Valley.

  The men sat up front and Robyn rode in back with Mrs. Barrone, holding tight to her hand although she knew the elderly woman was aware of nothing. The ride seemed endless, and Robyn found herself shivering in spite of the warmth of the vehicle and her own jacket. She tucked the blankets more closely around Mrs. Barrone's thin shoulders. There was a gash on her forehead, dried blood around it. How long had she lain there? Oh Lord, how long?

  Robyn ber
ated herself, thinking it was all her fault. If only she hadn't been so stubborn, hadn't let her dislike of Trevor Barrone keep her away from his grandmother. Mrs. Barrone depended on her, needed her. She should have come to Mrs. Barrone as soon as Trev had asked her to. Mrs. Barrone could right now be on her way to a marvelous new home in Palm Springs instead of lying here like this. And where, where was Trev? Had he simply abandoned his plan to move his grandmother, shrugged his shoulders at her stubbornness and walked away?

  No, that wasn't like Trev, Robyn thought. Not that she was completely convinced of his great concern for his grandmother, but he was far too arrogant and determined simply to give in to an elderly woman's stubbornness. So what had happened? Important call from a big publisher or producer? Or some more personal request from one of the overdeveloped starlets? Whatever it was, Robyn decided grimly that she intended to give him a piece of her mind, and in something less than ladylike terms.

  The ambulance pulled into the emergency entrance of the small, one-story hospital. Robyn hovered alongside as the stretcher was carried inside. A nurse rose quickly from behind a cluttered desk and a moment later a doctor appeared. Robyn followed him down the hallway, telling him what she knew, realizing she was almost babbling but somehow unable to stop. Here, in the bright lights, Mrs. Barrone looked even worse, her complexion gray, the features gaunt, the cut on her head a garish line.

  Outside another brilliantly lit room the doctor stopped Robyn, gently but firmly telling her the nurse at the desk would need to get some information from her. Robyn obediently went back to the desk and automatically answered questions. Patient's name? Rose Barrone. Address? 120 Mill Street, Caverna Bay.

  Yes, Mrs. Barrone was covered under Medicare. No, Robyn wasn't a relative, just a friend. She gave Trev's name as next of kin. And where could Trevor Barrone be reached?