One Touch of Topaz

by Iris Johansen

  Cool moonlight vied with the warmth of the flickering flames of tall candles to cast an aura of intimate enchantment on the gleaming crystal, fine china, and white orchid centerpiece on the damask-covered table. The wild, sweet strains of Gypsy violins drifted faintly to them from the gazebo in the center of the formal garden.

  Dazzled, Samantha stopped, gazing at the scene. “Are we having a party?”

  “Dinner.” Fletch’s gaze was fixed eagerly on her face, drinking in her reaction. “I ordered the duck à l’orange from Maxim’s.”

  “I didn’t realize they had take-out service.” Her glance shifted to the gazebo. “Did you order the Gypsies too?”

  “I thought it appropriate.” He walked over to the table and pulled back her chair. “They wanted to serenade us here on the terrace, but I hate to have musicians hovering around dipping their bows in my soup, so I stuck them in the gazebo.” He frowned uncertainly. “Would you rather have them here? I could tell them to come running.”

  “No, they’re fine in the gazebo.” She sat down, trying to smother the laughter that threatened to escape. The image of Fletch snapping his fingers and the entire troupe of musicians bolting across the garden suddenly made her want to giggle like a schoolgirl. “It would probably spoil the mood.”

  Fletch nodded as he seated himself opposite her. “Do you like them?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

  “Wonderful.” She breathed in the scented air. “I had no idea you could be so romantic.”

  “I’m not romantic.” He unfolded the napkin and spread it on his lap. “I just thought you might like this. I’ve heard women have a thing for Gypsy violins and candlelight.” He vaguely waved his hand to encompass the entire scene. “And all this.”

  “We do.” She leaned back in her chair, her gaze wandering dreamily over the garden. “Or at least I do. Thank you, Fletch.”

  “You can thank me by eating your dinner,” he said gruffly. “You’re really pleased?”

  Her gaze moved from the garden to rest on Fletch’s face. Why, he actually appeared anxious. She had never seen him this unsure, and it both stirred and touched her. “You couldn’t have done anything that pleased me more.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Except pick a night when I wasn’t wearing jeans and a stained T-shirt. I would like to have dressed up for the occasion.”

  He shook his head. “It had to be tonight. I had to show you—” He broke off and reached for the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket on the cart beside the table. “You look fine. You always look great.”

  “What did you have to show me?”

  He poured the champagne into her glass. “I had to show you that it’s worth it,” he said gravely. “That no matter how much I seem to neglect you, I’ll always make up for it later. I’ll never undervalue our relationship, and I’ll never take you for granted.” He set the bottle back into the bucket. “That meeting tonight really was important, Samantha. I wouldn’t have—”

  “Wait just a minute. You arranged a deluxe meal from Maxim’s, champagne, orchids, and Gypsy violinists just to say you were sorry you were late for dinner?”

  “I suppose you think it’s a guilt trip?” A frown wrinkled his brow. “I guess in a way it is, but it’s not as if this happens all the time. It’s the first evening I haven’t been home for dinner since you moved into the château three weeks ago. We’ve spent every evening together, and I’ve tried to be home for lunch. It’s not as if I’ve been neglecting you—Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes were dancing. “I was just thinking that only you would go to these extremes to make amends for an incident most husbands wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge.”

  “But I’m not most husbands, and this isn’t most marriages. I’m not used to doing a juggling act between my business and my personal life, so I have to work harder.”

  Her smile faded. “You have been working hard at it,” she said gently. “But I wasn’t aware you were worrying like this. You shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

  “I wasn’t worrying, I was just—” He stopped, a rueful smile curving his lips. “I’m lying. I was gnawing my nails to the quick, imagining you packing your bags and bolting when I couldn’t get away from Rivera tonight.” He met her gaze. “I like what we’ve got together, Samantha. I don’t want to blow it.”

  Samantha experienced a wild surge of happiness, and she had to swallow to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. “Neither do I.”

  He went still. “You mean that? You think it’s working?”

  “Fletch, we have terrific sex, and we enjoy all the other times together too. Why shouldn’t I think it’s working?”

  “How do I know what you’re thinking? You never tell me.” He gestured impatiently to keep her from speaking. “Oh, I know you like what I do to you in bed, but that’s not enough for me. I want more. I want to know you….” He trailed off, and she saw his hand clench into a fist on the table. “You don’t seem very worried about me neglecting you. Maybe you’d prefer that I don’t come home to dinner every evening.”

  She burst out laughing. “First you’re worried that I will mind, and now you’re worried that I won’t. You’re not being very reasonable.”

  “I don’t feel reasonable. Do you want me to come home to dinner or not?”

  Her smile vanished as she gazed at him. He was serious. She reached out to cover his clenched fist with her hand. “I want you to come home and be with me as much as you’re able to,” she said softly. “However, I’m trying to be very mature and sensible about this. I know you love your work, as I love mine, and I realize there’ll be times when we can’t be together.”

  “But you were disappointed when I didn’t come home tonight?”

  She had to hide another smile. He was like a small boy pleading for reassurance of his importance in the scheme of things. “Very disappointed,” she told him solemnly.

  His rare smile lit his harsh features with warmth. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

  Tenderness flowed through her. “See that you do. Next time I’ll be very fierce with you if you’re even one minute late.”

  His hand turned over to capture hers. “I’ll remember.” His clasp tightened. “It really is working, isn’t it, Samantha?”

  She gazed at Fletch in the moonlight, loving him. Little boy, ruthless aggressor, passionate lover—he was all these things and more. So much more. Sometimes it was actually painful to restrain herself from telling him all he meant to her, and this was one of those moments.

  But soon she would be able to tell him. They were growing closer all the time, and his reaction tonight filled her with hope as well as joy. Any day now he would say the words she yearned to hear. Any day now …

  “How could it not work?” she said lightly. “When you ply a woman with Gypsy violins and dinner from Maxim’s?”

  There was something very satisfying about gardening, Samantha thought contentedly as she planted the last fragile slip the gardener had reluctantly relinquished from his jealous charge. In a way it gave her a creative fulfillment similar to the one she experienced when sculpting, yet was far more relaxing. The pressure of total control and responsibility was absent here. Plants required sun and rain and nutrients to—

  “Lord, you’re solemn, Topaz. Have you just buried your pet parakeet or something?”

  She glanced up to see Skip grinning down at her and made a face at him. “I’m thinking deep thoughts. You ought to try it sometime.”

  He shuddered theatrically. “The mere idea appalls me. I prefer to coast along on the surface of life. I’ve always found it to be a much smoother ride. Why are you groveling in the dirt? I couldn’t believe it when I couldn’t find you in your studio.”

  “I don’t work all the time.” And she hadn’t felt like detracting from the night before by involving herself in her work. She had wanted to savor all the nuances of what had happened on that moonlit terrace. Savor, and perhaps daydream a little about what could
be just beyond the horizon. “I thought I’d take a break today.”

  “So you immediately proceed to labor in the garden instead of your studio. I feel it my duty to give you a few instructions in the fine art of taking a break. I’m a world-class expert at it.”

  She laughed. “Maybe you should start with Fletch first; he’s a much more advanced case. Is that why you were looking for me?”

  “Nope, there’s someone to see you, Topaz. He’s waiting in the study.”

  Samantha took off her gardening gloves and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the sleeve of her blouse. “To see me? I don’t know anyone in Paris except the students at school, and the château is too far for one of them to just casually drop in. It’s probably someone trying to hit up Fletch Bronson’s wife for a donation. Why don’t you tend to it, Skip?”

  He shook his head. “I think you’d better see him. It’s an old friend of yours, and he’s come a long way.”

  “An old friend?” Her eyes lit with excitement. “Who is it?”

  “Ricardo Lazaro. I just picked him up at the airport.”

  “But what’s Ricardo doing here in France?” She hurriedly got to her feet. “The last I heard from him he was still in Barbados.”

  “When was that?”

  “A few weeks after I arrived here in Paris from Damon’s Reef.” Samantha started quickly down the path toward the terrace. “Why didn’t he let me know he was coming?”

  “He probably didn’t know himself.” Skip fell into step with her. “Fletch didn’t decide he needed him until last night, after his meeting with Rivera. He told me to arrange to have him flown in double quick.”

  “Need him? Why should Fletch need Ricardo to help with one of his business deals?”

  “I have no idea. I just do what the man says. Maybe you should ask Lazaro.”

  “I will.” She hesitated as she reached the French doors. She was hot and sweaty, and her blue-jean shorts were less than clean. Oh, well, Ricardo had seen her looking a great deal worse over the years, and she couldn’t wait to see him. “You said he’s in the study?”

  Skip nodded. “I had orders to bring him to Fletch’s office in town, but Lazaro insisted I bring him to see you first. Don’t keep him too long, okay? Fletch isn’t going to like having his arrangements shot down.” He dropped into a cushioned lounge chair, pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes, and lazily stretched his legs out before him. “I believe I’ll sit here and catch a few rays. Call me when you finish.”

  Samantha nodded absently as she entered the house.

  Ricardo looked wonderfully fit, magnificently good-looking, and so elegant in his biscuit-colored business suit that she was momentarily intimidated. Then he smiled and she felt immediately at ease. Ricardo would never change. Perhaps on the surface there would be alterations, but he would still remain what he had always been; a friend who was closer than any brother could be.

  His dark face was suddenly illuminated by a flashing white smile. “Querida, I hoped for better things of the grand Mrs. Bronson. Here I was expecting to see you in a Dior dress and fine Italian shoes, and what do I find? Bare feet, blue-jean shorts, and dirty knees. You’re a great disappointment to me.” He held out his arms. “But I will make the great sacrifice and hug you, anyway.”

  She flew across the room and hurled herself into his arms. “Ricardo.” Her arms tightened around him. “You’re well? Your wound?”

  “I’m completely well.” His lips brushed her forehead. “And you, Samantha?”

  “Getting fat.” She drew back to look into his face. “And very happy to see you. Have you seen Paco?”

  He nodded. “He’s still in Bridgetown waiting for me to get back with the final word from Bronson.”

  Her brow knitted in bewilderment. “What word?”

  Richardo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

  “Evidently I don’t. What is there to know?”

  He shrugged. “I thought he would have told you. But perhaps not. He’s a difficult man to try to anticipate.”

  “Ricardo, what on earth are you talking about? And why did Fletch have you flown here from Barbados without telling me?”

  “The Rivera faction is giving him problems. He thought I might be able to tip the balance his way.” He pulled a face. “He says he needs my image. I think he means to promote me.”

  “Ricardo.” She released her breath with exasperation. “Tell me, blast it. What’s happening?”

  “The revolution,” he said simply. “The same lyrics but a different melody, brilliantly orchestrated by one Fletcher Bronson.”

  “What?” she asked faintly. Her knees felt suddenly weak, and she took a step back to half lean, half sit against the Sheraton desk. “The revolution is over. We were beaten.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Ricardo’s ebony eyes were suddenly glowing in his bronze face. “Until Bronson contacted me when I was in the hospital in Barbados. I couldn’t believe it. It was a miracle.”

  “Fletch is very good at performing miracles,” she murmured. “But this one would have to be on a grand scale.”

  “I don’t think he knows how to operate on any other level,” Ricardo said dryly. “He informed me that I had bungled the entire revolution, but he thought he could put it right if I placed myself in his hands.”

  “That sounds like Fletch. Are you going to do it?”

  “I already have. Why do you think I’m here? Fletcher says that a revolution, like everything else, takes two things: money and clout. For the past five months he’s been wheeling and dealing on both sides of the Atlantic to acquire enormous reserves of both. According to him, all I have to supply is my humble self as the figurehead and he’ll do the rest.” He slowly shook his head. “Your husband is quite a man, querida.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her head was whirling. Why had Fletch done this? And why hadn’t he told her?

  “Did he tell you why—” She stopped. Ricardo was shaking his head. “Nothing?”

  “I thought you might have converted him to the cause.” He shrugged. “That refinery he owns on St. Pierre certainly wouldn’t be worth all this effort.”

  “I’ve never discussed St. Pierre with him.”

  “Then I’m as much in the dark as you are.” Ricardo frowned. “And I don’t like to be uncertain of the motives of a man like Fletcher Bronson. There’s too much at stake. Can I trust him, Samantha?”

  “Yes,” she answered unequivocally.

  His face cleared and he smiled gently. “That’s good. I’m glad you have such faith in him. I was very worried when you wrote me about your marriage. I thought you’d rushed into it too quickly after leaving St. Pierre. So many things could have driven you to him. Fear, exhaustion, uncertainty about the future …” He took a step forward and touched her cheek with his index finger. “But there is love, querida?”

  “There is love,” she answered softly. “So much love.”

  “Ah, now I feel better.” He kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose. “About my friend and about my revolution. You have always had impeccable judgment in men, or you would not hold me in such affection.” He stepped back. “And now I’d better have the good Mr. Brennen take me back to Paris to see your husband. One mustn’t irritate one’s benefactors.” He grinned impishly. “You see how wonderfully diplomatic I’m becoming? Bronson would be proud of his figurehead.”

  “Knowing you, it won’t last. But I’ll be proud of you whether you’re diplomatic or not. You have a meeting with Rivera today?”

  He shook his head. “Not until tomorrow. I was just paying a courtesy call to Bronson before going to my hotel.”

  “Hotel? But you’ll stay here, of course.”

  He shook his head. “I’m staying at the InterContinental. Bronson says that will be more convenient for the meeting with Rivera.”

  “Perhaps it would be more practical,” she said doubtfully. “But I still wish …” Her face brightened. “Well, if I can’t have you here,
I’ll steal you away for a little while now. You can see Fletch later. I want to show you my atelier and introduce you to Monsieur Dalbert, my teacher. Then we’ll see a few sights together. Stay here, I’ll be right back, as soon as I shower and change.” She turned toward the door. “Ring if you’d like a drink.”

  “Samantha, I should really go to your husband’s office first.”

  She hesitated as she opened the door. He was probably right. Fletch was never pleased about having his plans disrupted, but she wanted this time with Ricardo. Not only because she cared about him but also because he would be a bulwark to keep her from thinking about this secrecy of Fletch’s. She would be a nervous wreck if she had to wait until Fletch came home that evening to get to the bottom of this business. She looked over her shoulder at Ricardo. “I’ll tell Skip to call him and tell him I’ve kidnapped you.” Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, I won’t endanger your revolution. What could a few hours matter?”

  He shook his head with an indulgent smile. “None, I suppose. I hope you’re planning on taking me somewhere outrageously expensive, as befits your consequence. I’ll enjoy watching our little Topaz play the grande dame.”

  She made a face. “If it will amuse you, I’ll try. Though I have an idea I’ll make an awful fool of myself. There are more pitfalls on this terrain than there were in the rain forests, Ricardo.”

  “And you’ll learn to avoid them just as you did the ones on St. Pierre.” He smiled. “Fletcher Bronson is an excellent guide.”

  Her face lit with tenderness. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, he is.” She turned. “I promise I won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

  The door closed softly behind her.

  TEN

  THE FRONT DOOR slammed with an explosive crash. “Skip!”

  Skip flinched and braced himself before rising from the easy chair and moving reluctantly toward the door leading to the foyer. He might as well get it over with, he thought gloomily. He had been expecting Fletch since he had heard the phone disconnect over an hour ago. It would do no good to try to avoid the confrontation. “Here, Fletch.”