"I do not love Clint McPherson," Brandy told herself
tersely.
She had been repeating the phrase like a mantra since
she'd left Kingsway, her father's home in Southampton on
Long Island.
She was now driving, alone, on an unfamiliar road that
twisted and wound around the shores of Lake of the Woods,
a body of water so enormous that it was shared by two
Canadian provinces and the state of Minnesota.
Finding one small cabin on it was beginning to look like
an impossible task.
A cabin that belonged to none other than Clint McPherson.
Of course, she could say she hadn't been able to find it
or him. End of mission. Who would really expect her to
find a place on a map dotted with names like Minaki and
Keewatin and Kenora? People who were under the illusion
English was spoken in Canada should just have a look at
this map!
What are you afraid of? an unwanted voice within her asked.
Brandgwen King had spent the majority of her life proving
she was afraid of absolutely nothing, so the question
irked. She was not afraid of Clint McPherson, or in love
with him either! So, she'd had a girlhood crush on the man
once. Big deal. It meant nothing. At twenty-six, she was
all grown up now. The pain of how he had scorned her was
long gone.
The point should be moot. The man in her life was Jason
Morehead, her long time companion in adventure. Recently
things had turned romantic, then unromantic, and now Jason
was avidly begging her hand in marriage.
Why not marry him? He was wealthy, he was awesomely good-
looking, he shared her taste for all things fast and
furious.
"I don't love him," she said vehemently, and knew she was
talking about Clint, even though she had been thinking of
Jason, whom she was pretty sure she didn't love either.
With pure frustration, Brandy pounded on the steering
wheel of the red Ferrari she was driving.
Her father had arranged for her to have a car through a
dealership connection in Winnipeg, Manitoba, where her
flight from New York had landed several hours ago. She had
been given the keys, told to use the car for as long as
she needed it, no charge. It was a fact of life, in her
circles, that the more money you had, the less you needed
it.
Of course, that nice man had probably thought the tomboy
princess was going to be photographed in and around town
in his car, not heading into some godforsaken wilderness.
"Love Clint McPherson?" she said out loud, with a derisive
snort. "More like hate him."
How had she gotten back to that when she'd been thinking,
with determination, about the nice man who had lent her
the nice car?
She sighed, annoyed with herself, and then surrendered.
Hate? That seemed a bit strong for a man she had not seen
for nearly seven years, not since he'd totally spoiled her
nineteenth birthday party.
"Indifferent," she decided, and then announced it out
loud, putting down her window and calling it to the giant
fir trees that lined the road. "I am indifferent to Clint
McPherson."
It rang of a lie. She knew it. The trees probably knew it,
too. She put her window back up, took a twist in the road
a trifle too quickly and slowed marginally.
How could her father have asked this of her? And why had
she said yes?
She thought back to her meeting with her father, and the
frown of concentration deepened on her face.
He had seemed old.
Of course, he was old. He'd always been old, even when she
was young!
But he had never seemed old.
She was coming to see Clint because her father had asked
her to. And maybe because she needed time to sort through
all the implications of Jason's unexpected announcement of
his deep and undying love.
It was that simple. She had not agreed to this trip
because she harbored some secret wish to see Clint again.
She had come because her father asked things of her so
rarely. He didn't know it, but if he ever said to her that
he wished she would not do some of the things that she
did โ like jumping out of airplanes or, more recently, off
cliffs, buildings and bridges โ then she would stop, just
like that, no questions asked.
But he never asked.
Now he had asked something. He was old, yes, but beloved
to her. The truth was Brandy would do anything for him,
this gentle man who had loved her, and her sisters, so
unconditionally, forever.
She thought back on the conversation she'd had with him.
She had been distracted by the heat in the room, the fire
blazing, so his request had really caught her up the side
of the head.
"Brandy," he'd said. "I need a favor. Clint โ"
Her heart had done that traitorous flip-flop at the sound
of his name.
" โ has not recovered from Rebecca's death." Rebecca, the
woman Clint McPherson had married, was a woman who had
been everything Brandy was not. Because Rebecca was a
lawyer for Jake's company, Brandy had known her slightly,
well enough to know she was composed, classy, refined. Her
hair was of the tameable variety, her makeup never ran and
her clothing never rumpled.
Brandy's chestnut locks, on the other hand, had a will of
their own. Her style depended largely on humidity,
direction of the wind and other forces beyond her control.
Even when she tried to tame her masses of wavy hair, a few
tresses always defiantly sprang free, giving her an impish
look that went well with the nickname tomboy princess the
press had given her long ago, and that she had never
managed to outgrow.
Added to that, she had never learned the subtleties of
proper makeup application, despite her younger sister
Chelsea's many efforts to show her.
And clothing? She relied heavily on many-pocketed cargo
pants and T-shirts. To Chelsea's horror, sweats were her
sister's favorite fashion statement.
Brandy knew her lack of fashion acumen was a
disappointment to the American public who had long ago
made Jake King's motherless daughters into their
princesses. At least she had not opted out of the role
entirely, like her sister Jessie. No, Brandy tried never
to disappoint in the fast-living department. Not parties
or drugs, no, just lots of rich-kid fun: big engines, fast
horses, white water. She had discovered the love of her
life when she was sixteen and had sky-dived for the first
time. The new thrill was BASE jumping.
Her lack of ability to make a stunning personal fashion
statement was part of the reason she had not attended
Clint's wedding, though she had been invited, of course.
Clint was like family, her father's right-hand man since
Brandy had been fourteen.
Younger, and so much more dynamic than the rest of that
inner circle, Clint had fairly bristled with a kind of
dangerous energy that had made her skin tingle.
"Back when I was young and hopelessly naive," she told
herself, taking a curve much too quickly. Clint would not
make her skin tingle, now.
Good grief, no. She hung out with Jason Morehead, People
magazine's number-two pick as the world's sexiest and most
eligible bachelor.
Still, Brandy had made sure she was a world away the day
Clint McPherson had spoiled her fondest fantasy by
marrying someone else. She had sent a lavish gift โ a
complete set of antique silverware โ if she recalled. On
the day Clint had said, "I do," Brandy had been paddling
frantically through the foaming, freezing waters in the
Five Finger Rapids section of the Yukon River.
And for the birth of Clint and Rebecca's daughter โ the
same. An exquisite, expensive gift โ a handmade bassinet
from Italy โ but Brandy had been a no-show at the
christening party. She'd been arrested for jumping off the
New River Gorge Bridge in Virginia for the utterly
ridiculous reason that it wasn't "Bridge Day," the only
day of the year that BASE jumping was legal off the 876-
foot height.
And then, shockingly, only days after the christening,
Rebecca had died. Brandy had known, because of Clint's
longstanding relationship with her family, that she'd had
to go to the funeral. But somehow she had ended up atAngel
Falls inVenezuela instead. She'd sent a card and an
extravagant, tasteful, subdued spray of white roses.
"It's been more than a year," her father had said,
sadly. "He does some work from home, but he's become
reclusive. He stays at that cabin in Canada, with a baby,
and when I talk to him he seems so detached, unnaturally
cool, as if nothing touches him."
Brandy had listened to her father, and thought, a bit
cynically, that there was nothing new about Clint being
detached or unnaturally cool. But her heart insisted on
hearing the words her father didn't say. Clint had loved
Rebecca so much that he planned to mourn forever.
"Brandy, I want you to go to him."
It was probably been the heat in the room, but for a
moment she actually thought she was going to faint.
"What?" she stammered.
"You were always the one who could make him laugh. Go and
make Clint laugh again."
"I don't recall making him laugh," she said stiffly. "I
recall making him very, very angry on several occasions."
"Precisely," her father said with satisfaction.
"Sorry?"
"Brandy, you make him feel strongly. Go there. Make him
laugh, or make him angry, but make him feel something."
The room was silent for a long time while she pondered
what he was asking of her. She gave him the only possible
answer.
"I can't," she said softly. "Really. I can't."
Then her father did something he had never done before.
He covered her hand with his, and she felt the tremble in
it. His eyes locked on hers, and she saw the weariness
there and the pleading. Then he whispered, "Please."
She stared at him and heard his desperation, heard that he
was begging her to do this thing for him.
She felt the shock of it, knew the depth of his love for
the man who had stood so loyally at his side for so long,
and knew she could not refuse her father this request,
even if it threatened the most secret places within her,
even if she knew it was absurd to put herself in this
position.
She was not going to be able to rescue Clint.
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