Larger than Life (10 page)

Travis looked at that ugliness calmly, feeling
only pain that she’d been hurt that way. He held her towel, reaching to wrap it around her as she halted before him, and the defensive uncertainty in her brilliant eyes wrenched at him. He enfolded her in his arms instinctively, one hand stroking the long wet hair as he held her warmly.

“A diamond is beautiful, flawed or not,” he said huskily. “And a beautiful woman is no less lovely for a tiny scar.”

“It isn’t tiny,” she whispered, the damp mat of hair on his chest brushing her cheek and making her skin tingle pleasantly. She felt a sudden peculiar warmth, as though a fire had flared outward from him and was just near enough for her to feel the heat.

He lifted her chin gently. “To me it is. There’s so much of you, Saber. So much beauty, so much talent. And, I think—so much courage. What does a scar matter? I love you.”

A lonely, needing part of Saber wanted to believe him. But he didn’t really know her, and who could love the unknown? Silently, she stepped away from him, using the towel to dry off before
shrugging into the robe he held for her. She belted the robe and slid her feet into the thongs as he donned his own robe and shoes, and they made their way from the pool and along the path to their cottage.

W
HEN SABER CAME
back into the living room after showering, she found that Travis had completed his own shower and had dressed in pajama bottoms and a light robe. If he noticed she was wearing a short cotton sleepshirt that left the scar exposed, he made no comment, merely asked if she wanted a glass of wine.

“Is there any? I didn’t know.” Saber curled up in the armchair.

“I had the main house send a couple of bottles,”
he said, handing her a glass of ruby liquid before sitting down across from her. Casually, he added, “You brought a swimsuit along. When did you plan to swim?”

She smiled a little. “Very early or very late. When no one else was around.”

Deliberately, he gazed at the scar, now quite visible just below the hem of the sleepshirt. There was a lamp on a table by her chair, and the golden light clearly detailed the jagged mark. Travis wasn’t by any means a medical man, but he knew that wound had been left to heal on its own; it had not been stitched. He looked up to see her watching him warily. Solemnly, he said, “I still love you.”

Saber smiled in spite of herself, lifting her glass in a tiny toast.

“You’re supposed to say you love me, too,” he said sternly.

Back on balance, Saber quoted lightly, “‘Do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.’ Shakespeare.”

“The point’s debatable,” he said thoughtfully.

“What point?”

“Whether vows made in wine
are
false. Speaking for myself, I keep a clear and honest head until the bitter end.”

“You never wake up the morning after the night before with regrets?”

“Never.”

“No regrets?” she persisted, amused. “Never even a pained memory of wearing lampshades or teaching the boss’s daughter how to tango?”

“I come from an old and honored family,” he told her firmly, “and we learned way back to hold our wine well. I could drink the Russian army under the table and still speak a coherent sentence.”

Saber wasn’t about to confess that wine made
her
reckless to the point of insanity. She glanced at her half-empty glass and made a mental note to be careful; if he kept his head while she lost hers … “Like my father,” she murmured without thinking.

“He had a cast-iron stomach, too, huh?”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

Travis dismissed the subject. “Well, anyway, we were talking about false vows.”

“Were we?”

“I was,” he admitted. “I think you were trying to avoid talking about them.”

“I brought it up.”

“And dropped it in my lap hoping I’d back off. Which, if I were a gentleman, I’d do. Gentlemen never have any fun.”

Saber giggled at his disgusted tone.

“However,” he added, “since I’m no gentleman, I don’t have to let it worry me.
Are
you falser than vows made—whenever?”

“False to the marrow,” she said lightly. “You shouldn’t believe a word I say.”

“Then I won’t believe,” he murmured, “that you’re false to the marrow.”

Saber gave him another tiny salute with her glass, then set it to one side. “I’m going to bed.” She got to her feet. “It’s been a long and strange day.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said mildly.

She was surprised by an urge to reach out and touch him as she walked around the couch. Surprised and a bit unnerved, because she wasn’t a physically demonstrative woman. He
pulled
at her
like a magnet. And it wasn’t because he was more handsome than any man had a right to be; it was that damned elusive
something.
Thinking about that, she had reached her bedroom door when Travis’s voice halted her.

“Saber?”

She turned to find him gazing into his glass, expressionless. “Yes?”

“Those missing months.” His voice was neutral. “Did they have anything to do with a man?”

Saber hesitated only a moment. “Not the way you mean. Good night, Travis.”

“Good night, Saber.” He heard her door close softly. Not the way he meant? Not a lover, then; it was what he meant and they both knew it. But a man had somehow been involved, he thought. Remembering a phone caller she’d refused to identify and weary remarks about “proving” herself to an unidentified “him,” Travis stirred restlessly.

Who was he? A part of Saber’s past, unquestionably. But what part? Did he belong to the child or the woman? Was he completely of the past or a troubling part of the present?

Not a lover … but somehow a rival?

Travis felt as if he were deep in a maze without a key. He had the odd feeling, too, that Saber was willing now to tell him about her past. Willing, but somehow unable. As if it were not her secret alone.

Swearing softly, Travis rose and carried both glasses to the kitchen before heading for his bed. He’d gotten involved with Saber in the first place because of questions. Now, with his heart involved, he found the questions getting tougher all the time.

If only he could find a few answers.

Travis woke just after dawn, unable to go back to sleep. He knew by now that Saber usually slept until around nine A.M.—or at least remained in her room until then. To avoid having to find excuses for not swimming with him, he realized now. He enjoyed swimming early in the morning and, restless, he decided to make use of the pool.

The graveled paths were deserted, the silence broken only by the chattering of birds as he made
his way to the pool. Alone, he swam for a good hour or more before climbing out to make himself comfortable on one of the lounges. He pulled sunglasses from the pocket of his robe and donned them as the early sunlight glinted harshly off the blue-tinted water. Then he relaxed and blanked his mind, listening to the birds.

It was sometime later when two men came down the path from the main house. The first man to reach the pool was middle-aged, lean, and curiously anonymous; his was a stolid, unremarkable face. He seemed barely to notice Travis, but Travis nonetheless felt he had been weighed and measured in an instant and was now under keen, though inconspicuous, observation.

It puzzled him, but when the second man reached the pool, he understood. The first man was a bodyguard of sorts, because the second man, Travis recognized instantly, was Matt Preston.

Since Travis was interested in larger-than-life personalities, he had heard of the man. Preston was easily one of the richest men in the world; he’d inherited a worldwide conglomerate upon reaching
his twenty-first birthday and had spent the past thirty years or so adding steadily to his empire. He was “into” everything: real estate, shipping, manufacturing, electronics, oil, gold, diamonds. He had a fleet of ships the U.S. Navy envied, owned one commercial airline outright and had stock in most of the others, owned property all over the world, and was on a first-name basis with every world-mover of the past few decades.

Uncannily successful in business, his personal history was filled with tragedy. His firstborn son had been kidnapped as an infant, involving law enforcement agencies in a desperate search that had made headlines for months until the child had been found brutally slain; the kidnappers had never been caught. Preston’s frail young wife had been shattered, her health nearly destroyed. A second child had been stillborn, and Amy Preston had died giving birth to her third child, a son.

It was said that Matt Preston had been very nearly mad at that point in his life. Cloaking the birth of his son in secrecy, he had refused even to let the public know the name of the child. Using
every bit of the considerable influence he had, he made certain that his son could never be a target for kidnappers. No photographs were released, and the boy’s nurse shared her duties with a tremendous security staff. During the years that followed, while public curiosity was still strong, not a single fact leaked out about the Preston boy.

Travis had tried to trace the child at one point a few years back but had found absolutely nothing. Even the exact date of birth had been buried too deeply to be found. Those closest to Preston, friends and employees, were incredibly loyal and amazingly silent.

Now, watching the lean man as he discarded his robe and dove into the pool, Travis found himself wondering about Matt Preston’s son. Where was he now? He was beyond school age and presumably led a life of some sort—but what kind of life? Preston had never remarried, throwing himself into his financial empire to the exclusion of all else. Did he even see his son?

With sunglasses hiding his interest, Travis studied Preston. A tall man, lean and hard-muscled, he
had thick silver hair and rapier-keen blue eyes. His face was an expressionless mask, but filled with character and almost unlined. He looked the hard man his life had made him, but Travis knew he supported countless charities and was known to possess an almost compulsive interest in the welfare of children; rumor had it that the only thing holding the power to enrage him was neglect or abuse of a child—any child.

Travis was pulled from thought as Cory approached the pool, stunning in a black bikini that turned the heads of all three men. Even the bodyguard, Travis noted with suppressed amusement, allowed his mouth to fall open briefly.

“Oh, damn,” Cory said, surveying her guests with disfavor, “I thought the pool would be deserted this early.”

Travis, closest to her, pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peered at her. “Are you planning to
swim
in that?” he asked politely.

She lifted an eyebrow. “It’s anchored more securely than it appears to be.

“It’d have to be to swim in,” he agreed.

Matt Preston pulled himself up the ladder and accepted the towel his bodyguard tossed to him. “Morning, Cory,” he greeted, the icy eyes warming and a smile curving his mouth.

“Matt.” She nodded to the bodyguard. “Hi, Alex.”

“Good morning, Cory.” The bodyguard’s voice was deep and even.

“Have you three met?” Without waiting for an answer, she cheerfully introduced the men before tossing her towel aside and stepping down into the shallow end of the pool. The men made polite noises at each other, then the bodyguard went back to his book as Matt sat down in a lounge beside Travis.

In spite of his expressionless face, Matt Preston turned out to be a very charming man. He seemed very much at ease, asking Travis about several of his books that he’d obviously read. They talked while Cory swam energetically in the pool, both turning their attention to her as she climbed out and grabbed her towel.

Sinking down in the third lounge chair, Cory
smiled at both men. “Matt, I told Mark you’d gotten in late last night. He went off to paint the dawn or something.”

Matt’s face softened. “I’m glad he’s here.”

Suddenly alert. Travis watched the older man covertly. Was
that
it? Could the vague, artistic Mark possibly be Matt Preston’s son? Had Matt Preston continued to protect his son as an adult when it became obvious he was totally unsuited for the business world? Difficult, he thought, to find a resemblance between Matt’s hard face and Mark’s amiable features—but they both had blue eyes, and Mark was the right age ….

Then Travis’s thoughts were yanked from the artist when Matt spoke again. His face had gone expressionless, eyes hooded as he gazed at Cory.

“Did you tell Saber I was here?” he asked quietly.

“Uh—no.” Cory shot a quick, uncomfortable look at Travis. “I haven’t seen her this morning.”

Matt gave an odd, twisted smile but said nothing.

Travis gazed steadily at Cory, who refused to
meet his eyes. He felt suspended thoughts crashing in his mind. Matt Preston—and Saber? No. No, she’d said … Then he remembered Saber had denied only that a lover had been involved in the months missing from her life. But there was still the man she had to prove something to, the man for whom her success meant too much.

Numbly, Travis knew that Saber was not a woman who would accept a rich lover or husband as her due; she would strive to stand on equal terms with a man. Granted, she would never be as rich as Matt Preston, but she could very well be as successful. And Preston …

Travis tried to look at the man objectively. Handsome, distinguished, incredibly wealthy—and not much past fifty. He could have any woman he wanted. And if he wanted Saber? Was he waiting patiently for her to prove she didn’t need the riches he offered—before laying them at her feet?

Travis barely heard the older man excuse himself before going over to talk to his bodyguard. But he watched the graceful, athletic stride, tearing his
brooding gaze away only when Cory claimed his attention.

“Travis?”

He turned his head to find her watching him with sympathy in her green eyes. “Travis, trust Saber,” she said softly.

“I want to.” He heard the rough emotion in his voice and didn’t try to hide it. “But she won’t tell me anything. How can I accept her past as unimportant when she won’t trust me enough to confide in me?”