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The Treasure Man
“It was another kind of dream.”
The worst kind, he could have added, but didn’t. It was a nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Chloe lay awake long after Ben had gone back to sleep. Not for the first time, she sensed that he had deeper, sadder memories than he wanted to reveal.
To be honest, she was glad he hadn’t told her about them. Once he let her in on what was bothering him, she’d feel duty-bound to make things right. And at this point in her life, that wasn’t supposed to be an option. She was trying her hardest to focus on herself, never mind that she’d taken on the responsibility for her niece. That was turning out to be easier than she’d expected.
Ben was another story. She was planning to stay uninvolved in his problems, whatever they were, and no matter how sympathetic she might be.
That didn’t mean she didn’t care—far from it. Ben was far more important to her now than she could have thought possible when she’d first arrived at the Frangipani Inn.
The key was to keep things in perspective. Wasn’t it?
Dear Reader,
This is Chloe’s book.
Chloe Timberlake appeared briefly as my heroine’s best friend in my last book, Breakfast with Santa. I didn’t intend for her to remain in my consciousness after I finished writing the book. After all, she was a minor character, named after one of my favorite cats.
But sometimes writers create characters who just won’t let go. Chloe was at a juncture in her life; she was on the brink of leaving her hometown of Farish, Texas, to strike out on a new venture. I kept wondering what would happen to her. And besides, she was alone, and she seemed too nice not to have someone special in her life.
Fortunately, I found exactly the right guy for her. Ben Derrick is someone she knew long ago—a man who, as it turns out, appreciates Chloe’s quirky qualities. He’s suffered great tragedy in the past and has finally managed to start putting his life back together. Enter (ta-dah!) Chloe.
Their love story illustrates that sometimes you have to wait a long time to find true love, but that the greatest riches of all are the treasures of the heart. Enjoy!
Love,
Pamela Browning
P.S. Please visit my Web site at www.pamelabrowning.com.
The Treasure Man
Pamela Browning
For the Florida hurricane victims of 2004, and for those who came to the rescue…thank you.
Books by Pamela Browning
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
854—BABY CHRISTMAS
874—COWBOY WITH A SECRET
907—PREGNANT AND INCOGNITO
922—RANCHER'S DOUBLE DILEMMA
982—COWBOY ENCHANTMENT
994—BABY ENCHANTMENT
1039—HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE
1070—THE MOMMY WISH
1091—BREAKFAST WITH SANTA
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Afterward, Ben couldn’t recall when he first smelled smoke. He had a vague memory of a whiff of it as he left Ashley in her seat at the front of the auditorium, but it was intermission at the Chico Chico concert, and a lot of people had gone out for a cigarette. If he’d noticed it then, he would have thought it was people smoking.
A long line of concertgoers wended their way through the lobby to the refreshment stand, and he hoped there would be some root beer left by the time he reached the counter. Root beer was his thirteen-year-old daughter’s favorite drink, and since it was her birthday, he didn’t want to substitute cola or 7-Up or whatever else might be left. Still, he hung back, figuring it was more important for the kids attending the show to buy their drinks and hurry back to their seats; he could always slip into place beside Ashley after the performance resumed.
And then he saw it—a huge black billow of smoke rushing toward him down the aisle. Simultaneously, someone in the theater yelled, “Fire!” A woman screamed over the cacophony of voices, and people started to pour into the lobby.
Ben knew this was bad trouble. With the acrid odor of smoke stinging his nostrils, the crackle of flames in his ears, he fought his way past the first wave of panic-stricken concertgoers.
“Daddy! Daddy! Help!”
It was his daughter’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere. People pushed past him, running, screaming, crying. He tried to forge a path through the crowd, but there was no space. He noted with alarm that flames were now licking at the stage curtains, and the ceiling was ablaze.
Someone struck Ben a glancing blow on his forehead, but he kept pushing. It was like swimming against a fierce current, something he’d done many times in his work as a diver. Despite his anguish, he was driven away from Ashley, not toward her.
Desperately, he shouted her name, choking on the smoke. “Ashley! Daddy’s coming!”
He fell to his knees, struggled and stood, was bowled over again.
“Out of the way, man! The place is burning!” A man tried to help him to his feet but was swept into the melee.
Ben accidentally tripped a woman, but together they managed to regain their footing. Her progress toward the door left a small hole in the sea of people, and he pressed toward Ashley. He had to make sure she was safe, had to reach his daughter.
The heat of the blaze scorched his face, seared his lungs. Glowing sparks swirled in the air above his head—a surreal dance performed amid chaos and destruction. An usher’s shirt was on fire, and he screamed as he tore at the blackened fabric. Through a gap in the crowd, Ben saw that the seats where he had left Ashley only minutes ago were engulfed in flames.
Eyes streaming with tears, he crawled over several fallen bodies and managed to grab on to a theater seat so that he wouldn’t be carried backward. Now the smoke was so thick that he could see nothing through the tunnel of fire ahead, and it hurt too much to breathe. He went down again but clung to the seat to pull himself to his feet. His gut wrenched with the certain knowledge that he was losing strength.
A father’s main job was to protect his child, and he hadn’t been able to do that. As the blackness all around began to blot out his consciousness, Ben prayed that Ashley had found a way out of the building. They had been sitting near an emergency exit, so perhaps she had kept her head and escaped. He held that hope in his heart as he slid slowly to the floor, the roar of the flames echoing inside his head until he heard…nothing.
Chapter One
Chloe Timberlake knew that she had truly reached the end of her long journey to Sanluca, Florida, when the earthy scent of the Everglades muck gave way to the fragrance of the Atlantic Ocean wafting on the breeze. She leaned her head out the car window and let go an exuberant whoop that was heard by no one except perhaps a few tree frogs chirring in the scrub oaks overarching the road. And her cat, of course.
“Come on out, Butch,” she said. “We’re a long way from Farish, Texas. The Frangipani Inn is straight ahead.” She nudged open the tattered carpetbag where the big orange tomcat liked to sleep when traveling.
Butch poked his head out and twitched his whiskers. No litter box for him; Butch was toilet trained and hadn’t forgiven her for that last grungy rest stop on the Glades Highway. He looked down his nose at her before indulging in an indolent stretch, then sniffed appreciatively at the brine and seaweed.
When the car emerged from the shelter of the trees, Chloe turned off at 1200 Beach Road, the shell-rock driveway crunching under the old blue Volvo’s tires. Ahead of them, her father’s family home was surrounded by an encroaching tangle of vegetation, growing thick and lush now, in late May. Nearby, a boardwalk led down to the beach.
“I wonder whose Jeep that is,” Chloe mused as the headlights swung past a decrepit vehicle, its pockmarked sides spattered with mud. As she braked to a stop under a gumbo-limbo tree at the rear of the inn, a lithe shape detached itself from the side of the building and moved toward her. Chloe was wary; the inn, her cousin Gwynne had assured her, was unoccupied.
The shape morphed into a man and, still suspicious, Chloe rammed the car into Reverse for a quick getaway. His presence rattled her, even though Sanluca’s crime rate ranked so low it wasn’t even on the charts. Yet why was this fellow, who was now sauntering toward her car, lurking in the shadows of the Frangipani Inn?
He stepped within the circle of headlights, and with a jolt, she recognized him. She hadn’t seen Ben Derrick in years, not since that summer when she was sixteen; but she would have known him anywhere. He’d been unrepentantly handsome and sexy as sin, though he’d never seemed to realize it. Now he was barefoot—ill-advised considering the incidence of sandspurs in the native scrub. Baggy shorts rode low on his hips, and his hair—dark, generously sun-streaked and needing cutting—was tousled by the breeze from the ocean. He looked scruffy and nondescript, and he was sixteen years older than when she’d last seen him, but he was still Ben Derrick. And still a heartbreaker, no doubt.
He squinted into the glare. “Gwynne?” he said.
Of course. He’d always preferred her cousin, teasing her, joking with her and ignoring Chloe. When Ben had disappeared late in that summer of her sixteenth year, Chloe had been devastated. She’d been shy in those days, had never done anything to draw attention to herself, had been content to hang out in Gwynne’s shadow. She’d never told anyone that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Ben Derrick.
Chloe rested a restraining hand on Butch’s head so that he wouldn’t take it into his fool head to make a grand leap from the car. “I’m Chloe Timberlake,” she said over the stutter of the Volvo’s engine. “Gwynne’s my cousin.” She didn’t add, You remember—I was the redheaded, flat-chested girl who hung on your every word, who followed you around like a lovesick fool for two whole months. And you couldn’t have cared less.
Ben leaned down and peered in the window, studying her. “You’re Chloe?” His voice was a rumble in his chest.
“Right,” Chloe said. “I was here one summer a long time ago. Actually, I visited a lot of summers, but we only ran into each other that year.” He’d worked as a diver for Sea Search, Inc., the local marine salvage company whose search for sunken treasure had been the subject of many National Geographic television programs.
“I boarded here sometimes when Gwynne and her mom ran the place as a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I remember.” Oh, yes. He’d been a charismatic character in those days, tall and tanned and utterly charming.
If Ben recognized her, he gave no sign. “I’ve just rolled into town and was counting on Gwynne and Tayloe’s having a room for me.”
“You didn’t call first?”
“I got a recorded message about the number not being in service at this time.”
“That’s because the Frangipani Inn is no longer a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” For someone who needed a place to sleep for the night, he delivered the line with a bit too much nonchalance. He slapped absently at a whining mosquito. “Where have Gwynne and Tayloe gone?”
“Gwynne’s off finishing her master’s degree in speech pathology, and my aunt Tayloe remarried last year and lives in Mexico with her husband. I’m here to work for the summer. I design jewelry.”
This was the season for thunderstorms riding in on warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, and over the sound of her voice, Chloe detected a rumble of thunder in the distance. Tonight’s predicted stormy weather was fast closing in.
“I don’t suppose you’d rent me a room anyway,” he said.
The crash of the breakers on the other side of the dunes filled the silence. She gazed up at the clouds scudding past the turret of the inn for a long moment before answering. “I’m not planning to run the house as a B and B.”
Chloe felt the first spatter of rain. As she raised the window and cut the Volvo’s engine, the scene went dark, and all she could see was the white stripes of Ben’s shirt a few feet away.
“C’mon, Butch,” Chloe said. She grabbed the cat and her backpack. Fortunately, the clouds from the oncoming storm had not yet obscured the moon, and as she slid out of the car she was able to get a good look at Ben Derrick. His eyes were murky in the darkness, and she couldn’t recall their color. Strange, since she’d thought she’d never forget anything about him. Were they blue? Gray? She had no idea.
“Can I help you with that?” He reached for her pack, but she sidestepped quickly and whipped it out of his reach.
“No, I’ll handle it. Thanks.”
“I’d better check out the house with you this first time,” Ben said gruffly.
“I don’t think so,” Chloe retorted. She turned, wondering what it would take to make this guy get in his Jeep and go. Couldn’t he take a hint?
“The reason I suggested going in with you,” Ben said with great patience, “is that if the house has been vacant, no telling what’s inside.”
Chloe was mindful of Gwynne’s stated reasons for offering to let her live in the sea-worn old mansion. She’d mentioned concerns about vagrants, beach bums, kids partying inside and no one detecting their presence until much harm had been done. Maybe it would be a good idea to let Ben check out the place.
“Let’s hurry. It’s beginning to rain,” Chloe said tersely. She started along the winding sandy path to the house as huge raindrops began to fall. The wind kicked up, and the air took on a sudden chill as rain sluiced down in great torrents, drenching them both.
They ran past thrashing clumps of sea oats and salt grass. When she reached the haven of the porch, Chloe set Butch down. The cat, spooked by the change in weather, shook himself and immediately bounded into the bushes below.
“Butch! Get back here!” She could barely make herself heard over the wind and rain.
Of course the cat didn’t. Chloe wasn’t concerned that Butch would try a disappearing act, since he knew who his food came from, but she wished he hadn’t left her alone with Ben.
Who conveniently produced a flashlight from his pocket and beamed it on the rusty old lock. Chloe, clumsy in her haste, fumbled with the key, inserted it and swung the door open on a cavernous front hall.
A flock of dust bunnies scattered in the fresh gusts admitted through the open door as something dark scurried toward the nether regions of the house. Chloe groped for the light switch and flipped it. The lone bulb remaining in the overhead fixture flared and died.
“I’ll turn on a lamp,” Chloe said, wiping her face with her forearm before dropping her backpack on the hall settee. As she spoke, Ben trained the flashlight on the parlor to her right.
The house had been in her father’s family since the early part of the century, and she and her older sister, Naomi, had spent many glorious summer vacations in the big Victorian mansion when she was growing up. A year ago when she’d last visited, the Frangipani Inn hadn’t been in this state of disrepair. The furniture, layered with white covers, loomed eerily as she felt her way into the parlor’s depths, where she knocked into a table, caught herself before keeling over and managed to turn on the light over the piano. It cast the shrouded shapes into gloomy shadows.
Dust was everywhere, and cobwebs trailed spookily from the high ceiling. The windows were coated with a thick coat of salt spray, and the air smelled musty. As she stood taking in all the decrepitude of a place that she remembered as bright, light and uplifting, Ben said, “Things deteriorate rapidly near the ocean. The place has been unoccupied for how long?”
“Almost a year,” Chloe told him, her voice echoing because of the high ceiling. In order to see what was what, she shoved aside white muslin to reveal a wicker chair that belonged on the porch. One of its wooden rockers was split, and she tugged the cover back over it. As she did so, something scrambled frantically across her toes, something warm and furry with quick little feet.
At the same time, a flash of lightning and an earsplitting clap of thunder rent the silence. Chloe screamed and would have bolted if Ben hadn’t caught her and held her steady.
“Easy,” he said. “That was only a field mouse.” His arms were hard-muscled and strong, she noticed through her panic. His heart beat steadily beneath his damp shirt, and his wet skin was slick beneath her fingers.
“I h-hate mice,” she stammered.
He released her, and she saw that his eyes were a deep, velvety brown. He smelled of sun and salt, of the sea and sand, bringing back memories of that summer so long ago.
“There are bound to be one or two mice in here,” he said, the voice of reason.
She recovered enough to scoff at that. “One or two? Ha! They breed,” she said. She stalked toward the door. “I can’t live with mice. I’m leaving.”
Ben cocked a head toward one of the windows, which was rattling in its frame due to the energetic pummeling of the elements. “It’s raining hard now, and there’s lightning. Besides, there’s nowhere else to go.”
“Where is that cat when I need him?” she muttered. She threw the door open. “Butch? Butch!” Rain blew in her face; it tasted of salt. There was no sign of a big orange cat, no glimmer of his white bib under the shelter of the rubbery round leaves of the sea grapes.
Ben walked up behind her. “I saw him run under the house. He’ll have a grand old time there chasing the mice and palmetto bugs.”
“Palmetto bugs?”
“The state insect of Florida. See, there’s one on the curtain.” He pointed at a huge cockroachlike bug in the library on the other side of the foyer. It was an ugly dark brown, almost two inches long and waving curious feelers in their direction.
Chloe shuddered. She’d rather eat roadkill than bunk near that creature. “I’ll sleep in the car. I’ll—”
“No need to do any such thing. I’ll run over to the other part of the house and get the bug spray.” He started toward the kitchen.
Since she had no intention of being left alone with the palmetto bug, Chloe wasn’t far behind. “Okay, but what about the mice?” She was seriously questioning her recent and possibly foolhardy choice to start a new life in this place.
“I’ll take care of them, don’t worry.”
“Humanely, I hope.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Oh, of course. I’ll invite them to leave in a pleasant voice, and I’ll reassure them it’s not them, it’s me. I’ll say that I hope we can still be friends, and even throw them a farewell party if you’d like.”
“Please,” she warned, “don’t make light of this.” She wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“I thought maybe kindness to rodents ran in your family. Tayloe used to trap live mice and release them in the thickets, which I warned her was silly, since they—and their loved ones—would only come back for a return engagement, but that was the way she wanted it.”
“You know where to find the mousetraps?”
“They’re in the hall leading to the caretakers’ annex.”
They went along turning on lights until they came to the kitchen, Chloe doing her best to unstick her wet blouse from her skin along the way. Someone had broken a window in the back door and had evidently camped out there, abandoning dirty dishes and silverware in the sink, which was dripping a steady stream of rusty water.
“Here we are,” Ben said, throwing back the bolt to the door of the annex, where a small apartment was built down close to the dunes. “Bug spray. And traps.”
“Could you deal with the palmetto bug first? He creeps me out big-time.”
While Ben was rummaging in the hallway, Chloe gave up on her wet blouse and resigned herself to its present see-through state until she could find a dry towel. She ventured a cautious peek into the pantry, which turned up nothing more than an unopened jar of pickles and several warm cans of cola. “I have food in the car, a bag of canned goods and a cooler,” she called to Ben. “I could offer you something to eat in exchange for your trouble.”
“It’s okay,” he said on his way back through the kitchen. “I’ll be satisfied with a glass of water.” He avoided looking at her—which, considering the transparency of her wet clothes, she appreciated.
She followed him. “The water softener isn’t hooked up, so we won’t want to drink the water yet. I brought a bottle of wine in my backpack. It’s a really good Estancia pinot grigio.”
“No, thanks. And if you don’t want to witness instant death, I suggest you leave the palmetto bug to me.”
Since bug killing held no interest as a spectator sport, Chloe decided to locate a dry towel. The staircase was dusty, the white paint on the banister chipped, and upstairs the bedrooms, like the parlor below, were swathed in white muslin.
The linen closet was located on the landing, and although the towels smelled musty, they suited her purpose. As she towel-dried her hair, she wandered around, reacquainting herself with the second floor.
Her aunt had assigned each bedroom a name. The master suite was Sea Oats and decorated in golden tones. The room that had always been Chloe’s was the turret room, Moonglow, and after she’d removed the dust covers and piled them in the hall, it appeared exactly as it had every year. She opened the windows an inch or so, enough to admit fresh air but not much rain.
Nostalgia swept over her as she took in the curved walls, the pretty blue-painted bureau, ornate wicker headboard and dotted-swiss curtains. She and Naomi had enjoyed many good times here with Gwynne—reading under the covers at night after Tayloe had told them to go to sleep, racing down the wide staircase in a flurry of anticipation when Zephyr the Turtle Lady tossed seashells against their windows early in the morning and invited them down the beach to inspect the newest turtle nest. Being in this room made her feel like a little girl again. Considering that she was over thirty and more worldly wise than she would have liked, that was a good thing.
“Chloe?”
Leaving the towel draped across her shoulders, she poked her head out the door, and saw Ben standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“The palmetto bug is history,” Ben reported.
“Good. Now maybe I should squirt some of that stuff around my room.”
“I’ll be glad to spray the rest of the house. Then I’ll set out the mousetraps.”
“We don’t have anything to bait them with,” she said, coming out to the landing. “Unless mice are into dill pickles.”
“I’m prepared to donate the cheese crackers in my pocket. That should work.” He pulled out a package and opened it.
Chloe descended the staircase. “Not so fast. We might have to eat those ourselves.”
“Are you hungry?”
“A little.” Self-consciously, she ran her fingers through her hair, hoping it wasn’t standing up in spikes.
Ben handed her a cracker. “That’s to tide you over until I can run out to your car and bring in the food.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Hey,” he said. “I can’t stand to watch a woman starve. No big deal.” He brushed past her up the stairs, carrying the can of insecticide, and she heard him humming tunelessly to himself as he went from room to room, anointing each one in turn.
