Lost Melody (3 page)

She couldn’t imagine what kind of
article she could write about a farmer, but she genuinely liked
Henry and didn’t want to disappoint him. “I don’t know,” she
hedged.

“Trust me, Ms. Harper. Meet me there
around six. It’s the place out on Route 544. The one with the black
bird wings painted on the barn.”

She knew the place. She’d wondered
about the giant black wings but decided it was just coincidence and
better left alone.

He waited for her answer, expectation
written all over his expressive face. She really didn’t want to go,
but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings either.

“Well, if you think it will be all
right.” Her body warmed at the memory of the sexy denim-clad Hank
Travis. She could make a dinner out of him, but as tasty as he
appeared on the outside, she had no doubt he was pure vinegar on
the inside.

“Oh, he won’t mind. I bring friends
out all the time,” he said.

Agreeing to dinner at Hank’s house was
so not a good idea, but she couldn’t bring herself to say no to his
father—not with him standing there with a hopeful expression on his
face.

“Well, okay, but I have to turn in the
article before I can go, so I’d better get a move on.”

“Run along, then.” He held the screen
door for her. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

She climbed into her Jeep and pulled
away from the curb. She had often wondered about her sanity but
there was no doubt. She was insane. Completely bonkers to let Henry
talk her into dinner at his son’s house.

Chapter Two

Hank leaned back in his desk chair. A
stack of invoices awaited his attention but images of Mel Harper
eclipsed everything. She had stepped into his line of sight and
somehow lodged herself into his consciousness, refusing to go
away.

He could still see her rose-petal lips
telling him she was new in town. Even though he had been on tour
for most of the last six months, the information had not been news.
He had lived in Willowbrook his entire life. If Mel Harper had been
here for long, he would have remembered her. Just like he would
never forget the first moment he saw her.

He had been so absorbed in the song he
was listening to and trying to concentrate on his dad’s tax
returns, he hadn’t noticed her at first. Something had caught his
eye, and he’d glanced up. There she’d stood in the doorway,
clutching a greasy bag in a white knuckled grip while she balanced
two paper hot-cups in her other hand. Large, sky-blue eyes framed
by long lashes had taken his measure, and he’d gladly returned the
favor.

At that point, if she had turned out
to be a stalker he wouldn’t have cared. Talk about visions coming
to life. She was the subject of every wet dream he’d ever
had—small, perky, and sexy as hell with those curves of hers.
Dressed in her stylish business attire, a lurid fantasy involving a
secretary, a desk, and a fair amount of sexual harassment had
instantly popped into his head.

He’d managed to shake the fantasy out
of his head, but he couldn’t shake her image. The fact she was a
reporter didn’t seem to matter much to his body even though a small
portion of his brain still urged caution where the species was
concerned. What would it hurt to indulge his libido a little bit?
It wasn’t like he was going to see her again anytime soon.
Willowbrook was small, but he didn’t spend much time in town when
he was at home, and few people came to the farm. Avoiding her would
be easy enough.

He closed his eyes and let the image
take shape in his mind.

She couldn’t have been more than
five-foot-two, petite, but not fragile. Her dark hair fell in soft
waves over her shoulders, and her skin reminded him of warm milk,
creamy and smooth.

At first, he’d thought she had to be a
fan—perhaps a crazy one. Being the drummer for the rock band
BlackWing, he’d had his share of pushy fans. It wouldn’t have been
the first time one had tracked him down, but he’d never had one
walk right in without invitation and bring breakfast, too. Crazy
fan or not, she’d been about the sexiest thing he had ever seen.
His hormones had snapped to attention faster than he could get his
feet under him. When she’d turned and he’d seen her ass and the way
the rose-colored fabric molded itself to her curves as she walked….
Well, there’d been no stopping the fantasies at that
point.

Then she’d introduced herself, and his
desire had hit a brick wall. Worse than a fan. Worse even than a
stalker.

The wet dream was a
reporter.

The revelation should have killed his
interest, and it had for a few minutes. He shouldn’t be thinking
about her, not in any way, shape, or form. But here he sat trying
to concentrate on work, and there she was, front and center in his
thoughts. Sexy. She sure as hell didn’t shop locally. Those were
big city clothes—understated, sophisticated, classy. And either she
didn’t know who he was or she was a very good actress as well as a
reporter.

He acknowledged the improbability, but
with reporters, you never knew. Some would go to any length to get
a story. He needed to steer clear of her, avoid further contact,
keep temptation at arm’s length. He had plenty to do. Enough to
keep him busy and far away from town for the next few months. He
didn’t have to see her. He didn’t have to talk to her.

He wrestled his runaway libido under
control and turned his attention to the blinking light on his
message machine. He listened to two messages from his publicist,
one from his agent, and one from his father indicating he would
bring a friend along for dinner. The last and most important
message was from Sir Jonathan Youngblood in London.

He mentally calculated the time
difference between Texas and London. The RavensBlood cover album
held top priority, so he made the overseas call. He left yet
another voice mail for Sir Jonathan. Frustrated with his lack of
success, he traded his office for a soundproof rehearsal
room.

Hours later, he noticed the yellow
light on the control panel next to the door blinking, signaling he
had company. He glanced at his watch. Damn. Hopefully, his dad
already had the steaks on. His stomach sent up its own audible
signal. He’d done it again, lost himself in the music, and
forgotten about everything else. Oh well. It wasn’t the first time,
and it wouldn’t be the last either.

He shut off the equipment, stretched
stiff muscles, and urged Betty Boop to her feet. As he stepped from
the barn, the smell of mesquite and grilling beef greeted him. He
locked the pedestrian door and stretched again.

Endless Texas sky, azure blue in the
late afternoon light, was a welcome sight. No matter how hectic his
life got he always had this to come back to. The farm, and the
acres of planted fields, grounded him. He loved the rambling old
farmhouse he’d inherited from his maternal grandparents. The house
was solidly rooted in family history, and the farm predictable in
its seasonal routines. Solid and predictable were good things as
far as he was concerned. But above all else, Willowbrook was where
he lived his life. It was home.

He paused, inhaling the warm, humid
air. The smell of turned earth and cut grass was as familiar and
comforting as his worn jeans. He surveyed the expanse of young
cotton plants growing in the fertile black soil, and peace settled
over him. The weight of the world could be on his shoulders and a
stroll through these fields would make it all go away. His
grandfather had taught him the value of a good long walk to
organize his thoughts and calm his soul.

After his mother died, he’d worn a new
path through the fields, watering the plants with his tears as he
went. Some might think farm life was isolating, but he knew better.
In the fields, he felt part of something big, bigger than he could
fathom.

The land comforted, but he longed for
another kind of comfort—the kind that came from sharing his life
with another. He would never leave the farm, but he hoped to one
day find someone who loved it as much as he did, maybe have some
kids he could pass the farm down to, but until that happened, he’d
continue on his present path. He had the best of two worlds, and
there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

His stomach growled again, urging him
to follow his nose to the source of the heavenly smell. He headed
toward the patio and grill beneath the ancient oak tree, hoping his
dad and whomever he’d brought with him had saved him a Lone
Star.

Henry waved a greasy spatula at him in
greeting. “It’s about time you got out here. We’ve been waiting for
you. The steaks are almost done.”

Thanks to the girth of the old oak,
supposedly planted by his great-grandfather over one hundred years
ago, he couldn’t see the ‘we’ his dad spoke of. He rounded the tree
and stopped cold in his tracks. He caught a glimpse of leg and his
blood pressure skyrocketed as. The guest wasn’t one of his dad’s
domino playing buddies. That leg belonged to a female. A young,
shapely female. One who painted her toenails candy-apple
red.

No. He wouldn’t do this to
me. Not my own father.
Hank licked his dry
lips and closed the distance. What had she told his father in order
to finagle an invitation to dinner? It must have been good to get
him to go along with it.
Dad knows how I
feel about reporters
.

He stalked past his father. Mel Harper
occupied his favorite lawn chair. She stood as he approached.
Holding a sweating glass of white wine in one hand, she tucked the
fingers of her free hand in the pocket of her shorts. Lord help him
if he thought she’d looked good in her fancy business clothes. That
was nothing compared to how shorts and a tank top showed off her
curves. He’d never get her out of his mind. Not after tonight. A
bead of perspiration clung to her hairline and his fingers itched
to sweep it away for her. Better yet, if he put his lips
there…

“It’s good to see you again, Hank,”
she said with an innocent smile that didn’t fool him one
bit.

What remained of his good mood
vanished faster than biscuits at a church supper. “What are you
doing here?”

Her smile disappeared. A flash of
anger crossed her face, and as quickly as it appeared was replaced
by a cold mask of civility.

“Your father invited me.” Fury backed
her clipped words. “But I made a mistake in accepting his
invitation.” She stood toe to toe with him, a petite Amazon. “If
you’ll step aside, I’ll be on my way.”

He held his ground, trying his best to
ignore her scent—roses with a hint of something earthy. Her breasts
rose and fell beneath the scoop neck of her top. He shifted his
stance, straightening, anything to put distance between them
without seeming to back down. “Why are you here?” he
repeated.

Her gaze met his boldly. “I told you,
I was invited.” Her voice matched his in cordiality. She stepped
around him, set her wineglass on the picnic table, and retrieved
her purse. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she turned to his
dad.

“Thanks for the invitation, Mr.
Travis, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.” She stretched to her toes
and placed a kiss on Henry’s cheek.

“Stay, please?” his dad
implored.

She spoke to his dad as if they were
old friends saying goodbye after a tea party. “I’d better go. I
appreciate the invitation, but coming out here wasn’t such a good
idea.” She patted his arm. “Let’s have dinner in town one day soon.
My treat.”

She turned back to Hank. “It was nice
to see you again, Mr. Travis.” Her voice had more ice than a Blue
Norther.

Betty Boop raised her head from her
grassy pillow, saw Mel walking across the lawn, and like the
kiss-up she was, took out after her. Henry watched their progress
across the lawn and around the corner of the house. When they were
out of sight, he shifted his gaze to his son.

Damn
. Hank had seen the expression before. When he’d been a kid,
he would have given anything for an old-fashioned spanking instead
of receiving that look from his dad.

He caved under the disapproval in his
father’s eyes. Before Henry could lay into him about his manners,
his long legs strode after her. “Ms. Harper,” he called as he
rounded the corner of the house. “Wait.”

He caught up to her just as she was
about to get in her Jeep. Guaranteed, she was made of better steel
than her car door, but she used it as a shield,
nonetheless.

“What do you want?” she
asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to catch
his breath.

She glared at him through the open
window frame. It wouldn’t be easy to convince her to stay, not
after he’d acted like such an ass.

“Look, Dad invited you, and anyone he
invites is welcome in my home. It works both ways between us.
Please accept my apology and stay for dinner.” Betty Boop nudged
his hand with her wet nose. He glanced down, rubbed her head to
placate her, and shifted his attention back to the woman who made
his blood boil—in every way possible. “If you don’t stay, Dad will
probably take a hickory switch to me.”

He flashed her a smile that usually
made the groupies scream but for some reason had no effect at all
on Mel Harper. Her gaze continued to drill through his skull with
laser precision.