Or for his only daughter. Travis already knew that Jenessa wouldn't be on Manatuck for her father's birthday.
The launch was close enough that he could see Oliver's stout figure at the wheel; the bow wave curved backward in two white arcs. Slowly Travis turned and walked up the slope. He had to pass Julie's car to get to his. "Time to go down to the wharf," he said.
She nodded and headed down the hill. Her hips swung gracefully; her narrow shoulders filled him with passionate yearning. For what? For Brent's leftovers?
It was eighteen years since he'd laid eyes on Brent. Twice, in the early years, he'd made an effort to see his brother. But both times Brent had canceled their meeting at the last minute, and so Travis had stopped trying. Through mutual acquaintances he'd heard news over the years, mostly about Brent's profligate spending and strings of women.
Of which Julie Renshaw was the latest.
Cursing under his breath, Travis hefted his bag from the back seat. He dumped it on the wharf a few moments later and stationed himself by the rubber tires tied to the pilings to protect Manatuck's hull. Oliver cut the engine and with a grappling hook latched onto one of the metal rungs bolted to the wharf. Then he looked up at the tall, dark-haired man on the dock. "Master Travis? Is that really you?"
The old name took Travis aback. He said, emotion roughening his voice, "Oliver … how are you? It's great to see you. But none of that master stuff-Travis is good enough."
"They didn't tell me you were coming," Oliver said gruffly, shoving his greasy cap further back on his head. "Darned if it's not good to see you, boy."
Oliver was almost bald, Travis noticed, and must have gained thirty pounds in the intervening years. "They don't know I'm coming-it's a surprise," he said dryly. "Isn't that the same shirt you were wearing the day I left?"
Oliver glanced down dubiously. "Can't be. Would have wore out by now. Looks like I spilled my dinner on it, though."
Forgetting his tension in a surge of affection, Travis said, "Manatuck looks good." The decks were shiny, the brass polished to a high luster, and the paintwork immaculate.
"She's aging better than I am," Oliver said. "Come on aboard, it'll be like old times."
No, it won't, Travis thought. You can't go back, he'd learned that the hard way. He said, indicating the woman standing silently beside him, "This is Julie Renshaw. Brent's date."
"Ah, yes," Oliver said, his faded blue eyes assessing her shrewdly. "Hand her bag down, Mr. Travis, and we'll get going. The tide'll be turning soon, and I'd just as soon be clear of the channel."
Julie picked up her bag. "I can manage," she announced, and passed it down to Oliver. Then she clambered down the metal rungs and jumped lightly onto the deck. "Hi, Oliver … I'm pleased to meet you."
Oliver grinned, baring the gap in his teeth that had been there for as long as Travis could remember, "Master Brent arrived yesterday," he said, "Aren't you the pretty one, now."
Julie blushed. "Thank you."
Travis had also descended the ladder. The deck swayed gently beneath his feet. As Oliver dropped the grappling hook, Travis pushed off; with a sweet purr of her engines, Manatuck left the dock. Julie had stationed herself against the railing, where she could see where they were headed, but also keep Travis and Oliver in view. If Oliver liked Travis, then Travis couldn't be all bad, she thought. But there was a mystery attached to his return; the family didn't know about it, and she'd have sworn when she'd asked Brent about any siblings, he'd said no.
It looked like her weekend was shaping up to be more interesting than she'd expected. Rather too interesting. Travis had planted his feet on the deck, the wind ruffling his thick hair; his physique, broad-shouldered and slimhipped, made her feel weak at the knees. Brent, technically the more handsome of the two men, and certainly friendlier, didn't have that effect at all.
Not that it mattered. She wasn't in the market for a lover, and definitely not for a husband.
The bay was choppy. She moved forward, clutching the railing, and wondered which of the islands was their destination. Fifteen minutes later, she was in no doubt. On the most rugged island in the bay, four stone turrets pierced the jagged outline of the spruce trees; Castlereigh, she thought with a quiver of inner laughter, and watched it come closer. A stone boathouse, twice the size of her parents' bungalow, anchored a long wharf which jutted out from the island; there was also a raked sand beach, and a vast expanse of manicured lawn.
Skillfully Oliver steered the launch to nudge the dock; Travis jumped ashore and fastened the lines. Then he reached down a hand to Julie. His face was inscrutable; his eyes didn't meet hers.
He lifted her to the dock as easily as if she were a child. Oliver slung their bags up. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Travis. Right glad you're back where you belong."
Although Travis had no idea where he belonged, he was almost sure it wasn't here. "Thanks, Oliver," he said, and picked up the two bags. "Let's go," he said to Julie.
He was striding up a long wooden stairway as though pursued by the hounds of hell. She jogged after him, past a thicket of rhododendrons and azaleas, followed by an enormous formal rose garden that would have graced the grounds of Versailles but was definitely out of place here. Then they rounded a copse of birch trees and she stopped dead in her tracks. "Well," she said inadequately.
For a moment Travis stopped, too. "It does kind of take your breath away, doesn't it?" he said wryly.
An array of crenellations, archways, porticos and buttresses was crowned by the four soaring turrets she'd seen from the launch. There was even a partial moat.
She said faintly, "It's certainly imposing."
"It's a godawful monument to the triumph of money and egotism over taste," Travis said succinctly. "And you've only seen the outside."
"You mean there's more?"
"All that the almighty dollar can buy."
He looked fractionally less tense, Julie was glad to see. Although why his emotional state should matter to her, she didn't have a clue. He hadn't exactly been friendly to her; she'd better keep that in mind. "Is there a front door?" she asked. "Shouldn't I be mounted on a snow-white charger?"
"A suit of armor's not a bad idea," he said with a touch of grimness. "Follow me."
A massive bell pull dangled by twin doors that were ornately spiked with wrought iron. Travis pulled the bell and pushed one door open. An aged butler was crossing the entrance hall. "Master Travis," he said, clutching his tailored black jacket in the vicinity of his heart. "Oh, Master Travis … how wonderful to see you, sir. It's been a long time."
"Hello, Bertram," Travis said, shaking the old man's hand. "Thought I'd surprise the family. How's your family, by the way?"
"Very well indeed. Peg will be so happy to know you're here. Cocktails are being served in the drawing room, sir. Shall I announce you?"
"Why don't you do that? This is Julie Renshaw, Brent's date."
Bertram gave her a courtly nod. In a procession of three they marched past a bloodthirsty display of medieval weapons, then down an imposing corridor checkered with portraits; not one of the painted faces, Julie noticed, looked at all happy to be hanging on the walls of Castlereigh. Travis didn't look very happy to be here, either.
As Bertram ushered them through a wide doorway, Travis took her by the hand. His fingers were cold; not for anything would she have let go of them. Bertram quavered, "Miss Julie Renshaw and Mr. Travis Strathem."
Three people were seated on overstuffed leather chesterfields in a room that dwarfed them with its dimensions. Quantities of marble and velvet, and carpets as big as playing fields were Julie's first impressions; her second the reaction of each of the three people to Travis's presence.
Brent leaped to his feet, turning to face the door. Hatred, raw and implacable, scored his face. He looked so unlike his usual handsome, carefree self that the hair rose on the back of Julie's neck. The older man, who must be Charles Strathem, looked terrified out of his wits; while the woman, impeccably dressed in linen and pearls, projected a well-bred mixture of dismay and distaste. Brent's stepmother, Julie decided, and watched as polite masks replaced all these initial, instinctive reactions.