Lost Melody (2 page)

He ran a finger down the
page, his focus complete. Her skin tingled.
Lucky piece of paper
. What it would
feel like to have him study her with the same intensity, and oh
Lord, to have those hands explore every inch of her
body?

She licked her lips and swallowed hard
past the lump in her throat. She had never seen a sexier man. Just
watching him made things itch and ache that shouldn’t be itching
and aching—not for someone she was supposed to interview. It wasn’t
professional.

She mentally kicked herself. She had a
job to do.

She took another step into the room
and waved a quickly cooling cup of hot chocolate into his line of
vision. “Hello.”

Mr. Travis jumped to his
feet, pulling the headphones and glasses off in the same motion.
Summer green eyes framed by long lashes took stock of her in a
brisk head to toe sweep. He dropped the papers and reading glasses
to the desk. The earbuds swung on thin wires from his pocket, and
the distinct chords of “Melody” by RavensBlood filled the air. The
lump in her throat threatened to cut off her air supply, and those
earlier tingles turned to icy shivers of dread.
Memories battered at her defenses and threatened her hold on
reality. She took a step back—as if distance could lessen the
impact.

She forced the memories into the neat
little box she had assigned them and mentally shoved it into the
cellar where it belonged.

You can do
this.

The job. Willowbrook. It
was a new beginning, a chance to put the painful memories behind
her. She
would not
blow it because the man had that song on his player. Hell,
everyone on the planet had that song. It was something she had to
learn to live with.

She took a deep breath and
squared her shoulders. “I-I’m looking for Henry Travis.” She nodded
down the hallway in the direction of the front door. “I knocked
several times. Y- your neighbor said I should come on in.” Another
more welcome idea blossomed in her chest. Perhaps he wasn’t the man
she’d come to interview.
Please, God. Let
it be someone else, anyone else
. Just not a
man with the ability to make her tingle, and long to run away at
the same time. “Is Henry home?”

“Which Henry Travis are you looking
for?”

His voice, like hot chocolate with an
edge, coated the icy points of her nerve endings and brought back
that tingly feeling. Insanity. It was the only explanation. “Um, I
don’t know exactly. Is there more than one?”

“Yes. I’m Henry Travis, Jr., but
everyone calls me Hank. Henry is my dad.” The dog roused from her
stupor and stood next to him. He rubbed her head, earning the dog’s
adoration. “This is Betty Boop. She’s harmless.”

“Obviously.” She spared a glance at
the dog and returned her gaze to the man who most decidedly was not
harmless—at least not to her, not with that infernal song still
playing from the earbuds dangling from his pocket. She entertained
the idea of asking him to turn it off but doing so would only
invite questions she didn’t want to answer. “Do you live
here?”

He flashed a quirky half-smile that
weakened her knees. “This is my dad’s house. I have a farm outside
of town. The Chilcote place. Maybe you know it.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think
I do. I’m sort of new around here.” Her legs wobbled under his
scrutiny. Damn. She needed to get a grip, and fast. The way his
eyes raked her from head to toe made her conscious of the way her
silk blouse draped over her breasts, and judging by the way his
gaze lingered there, he had noticed, too. So much for the
professional appearance she’d been going for when she’d selected
her wardrobe this morning.

“What have you got there?” He nodded
toward her hands.

“Oh. I brought doughnuts and hot
chocolate.” She raised the bag as evidence.

His eyebrows shot up. “Okaaay. Why
don’t we go to the kitchen, and you can tell me why you’re
here.”

She heard his low whistle when she
turned and led the way. With each step, she silently cursed her
other wardrobe choice, a sleek cotton and spandex blend pencil
skirt that molded to her curves but allowed her hips to move when
she walked. Heavy footsteps lagged behind—far enough to get the
full effect. She placed her burden on the vintage oak kitchen table
and turned. He stopped just inside the doorway, his face unreadable
as he lounged against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his
chest and his hips cocked to one side in a casual yet wary stance.
The interview was not going well. Not at all. If she didn’t get
this back on track, she would walk out of here with nothing—and
that just wouldn’t do.

She pasted a smile on her face. “Maybe
I should start over.” She extended her right hand. “I’m Mel Harper
from the Willowbrook Gazette.”

Betty Boop ambled past her master and
sniffed the doughnut bag. She plunked her rear end down and turned
pleading eyes on the man in the doorway. Hank ignored the dog and
Mel’s outstretched hand.

“Well, Ms. Harper. I don’t do
interviews, doughnuts or no doughnuts.”

His tone cut her bravado off at the
knees. She dropped her hand to her side. “But I have an appointment
at nine-thirty to interview you about your donation to the
Willowbrook High School Band program.”

He straightened, dwarfing the kitchen
as he had the small office. Gulliver in Lilliput, and she was
definitely a Lilliputian. She gripped a chair back to steady
herself. The earbuds swung from his shirt pocket, but thankfully,
he had turned the music off. He was close enough she could smell
his aftershave—something woodsy with expensive undertones.
Sexy.

He cocked his hips to one side and
buried his left hand in the front pocket of his jeans while he
studied the pattern in the old linoleum. His right hand rubbed
along the back of his neck. She gripped the chair tighter to steady
herself and to keep from touching him.

With a long sigh, he dropped his hand.
He raised his eyes to hers and her heart did a somersault. In a
matter of minutes, his appraisal had gone from hot to arctic to a
gentle spring breeze—cool with a promise of genuine warmth. Wow!
His mood changed faster than the Texas weather.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Harper. You must be
looking for Dad. I wasn’t aware he made a donation to the band. But
I’m not surprised. It sounds like something he would do.” He held
his hand out, palm up. “He must have lost track of the time. He
eats breakfast every day down at the fire station. I’m sure he got
wrapped up in a domino game and forgot.”

As if on cue, the screen door slammed
and a smaller, older version of Hank Travis stormed the kitchen.
“I’m sorry. I forgot the time.”

She liked the newcomer instantly.
Beneath heavy eyebrows, his blue eyes twinkled with merriment and
spunk. Smile lines bracketed his mouth identical to his son’s. Yes,
this was the solid block from which the younger man had been
carved. Time had smoothed the rough edges on one but had a ways to
go with the other.

She glanced at Hank. He flashed
another smile and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “I told you so.”
Clearly, he loved his father, quirks and all. Her heart softened
toward him just a little.

“Chester tried to pull a fast one and
got caught,” the older man continued, “so we started the game
over.” He extended a hand lined with age.

She shook his hand. “Mel Harper. I
just met Hank.” A look passed between father and son.

“I hope he wasn’t rude,” Henry said,
absently petting the dog who had wandered over, tail wagging, for
some attention. “He doesn’t care too much for
reporters.”

If that wasn’t the understatement of
the century, she didn’t know what was, but she was a professional.
Kill them with kindness was her motto. “No, sir. He’s been quite
the gentleman.” She dared Hank to deny it. There it was again, a
quick, shared glance between them filled with unspoken
communication. “I brought doughnuts and hot chocolate. Would you
like some?”

“Why, thanks! That was mighty
thoughtful of you.” Henry took a plate from the cupboard and
emptied the bag onto it, exclaiming over the pastries as if she’d
brought French delicacies.

“Son, why don’t you heat her hot
chocolate in the microwave? You can have my cup. I’m a coffee man
myself,” he said apologetically, “and I’m already over my limit for
the morning.” He took a paper napkin from the holder and selected a
glazed doughnut from the plate. “But I never turn down a doughnut.”
He took a generous bite and tore off a smaller piece. He tossed it
up. Betty Boop made an athletic leap and caught the treat in
mid-air. Encouraged by her success, she plopped at his
feet.

The older man pulled out a chair for
Mel and settled himself across from her. Hank placed a warmed cup
at her elbow and excused himself. She watched him go. Mood swings
and lack of social skills aside, the man had it going on.
Threadbare denim had never looked as good as it did hugging his
slim hips, firm ass, and long legs. She forced her mind back to the
reason she was here.

“I’m afraid I got off to a bad start
with your son. I hope I didn’t overstep by coming here.”

“No, no, don’t mind him. He’s always
short with reporters. He’ll come around,” he said. “Now…about the
interview.”

“Why? I mean, what does he have
against reporters?”

“Oh, nothing. He had a bad experience
a few years ago. Don’t think anything of it.”

“Well, okay.” She was more than a
little curious, but she had a deadline to meet. Though she couldn’t
blame him for that particular dislike, she had her own reasons to
dislike certain members of her profession, Hank Travis and his
problems were none of her business. She pulled a mini-recorder from
her purse and set it on the table between them. “Do you mind if I
record our interview?”

“That’s fine as long as I don’t have
to listen to myself on it. Does anyone like the way they sound on a
recording?”

Her gut clenched. She forced a smile
to her face. “I suppose some do. But you’re right, most people
don’t recognize their own voices on a recording.”

He rubbed his chin. “I sure don’t.
Nope, I’m always surprised at the way I sound.” He waved his hand
at the recorder. “Go ahead. Turn it on.”

She pressed the record button. “I
understand you’re making a large donation to the Willowbrook High
School Band. Can you tell me what motivated you?”

“Sure. They need new instruments and
uniforms.” He laughed, deep and rich. “I can see what you’re
thinking, young lady. Don’t be worrying I’m giving my life savings
away to a bunch of ungrateful teenagers. I’m doing all right, and
they need the money more than I do. They’ve been doing car washes
and selling candy bars all year and they’ve hardly made a dent in
the bill, so I thought I would help them out. They’re a good bunch
of kids, and I have a soft spot where the band is
concerned.”

He paused, his eyes focused on
something only he could see. He drew himself up. “Anyway, every
time there’s a budget cut, it hits the music program first. I don’t
think its right, so I help them out every now and then.”

“But Mr. Travis, twenty-five thousand
dollars is a lot of money.”

He looked her square in the eye. “I
can afford it.”

She backed off. “Well, then. Okay. You
say you have a soft spot for the band. Why?”

His face softened, and a gentle smile
curved his lips. “The band and the music program were good to my
boy, Hank, and his mother, Gloria. My late wife taught music at the
high school for twenty years before she passed on.”

She instantly regretted her earlier
skepticism.

Familiar footsteps sounded behind her.
“Dad? Sorry to interrupt,” Hank said. Shivers ran along her spine
when she heard the smooth voice. “I made some notes for you on
those papers. I’m going out to the farm. Are you coming for dinner
tonight?”

“Yeah. How’s six o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you at six.” Hank
snapped his fingers, and Betty Boop stretched and followed her
master as he left without so much as a goodbye.

Rude.
She asked a few more questions, thanked Henry for his generous
donation and his time, and rose to leave. He followed her to the
front door. “You should ask Hank a few questions, too.”

She didn’t want to bring up how
inhospitable his son had been, but she couldn’t forget the sudden
bolt of desire she’d felt when she first saw him. Personally, she
wanted to do a lot more than ask him questions, but professionally
he’d made it clear he didn’t want to see her again.

“I don’t think it would be such a good
idea. I’m a reporter, remember? Besides, I only have until this
afternoon to finish the article for tomorrow’s edition.”

His face fell like a kicked puppy. She
scrambled to think of something she could do or say to put a smile
back on his face. Then, like his son, his mood abruptly shifted. He
snapped his fingers. “Hey! Why don’t you come out to the farm with
me this evening for dinner? You might get a second article if you
play your cards right.”