"He called yesterday afternoon, just before you got to the office."
Richard was tight-lipped and unamused. "How did he know you were in town?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, but I assume he was lurking around, saw me, found a pay phone and called. Richard, I know what you must be thinking, and you're wrong. J.B. called that one time, and that's it. We haven't been in touch on any kind of regular basis. I don't know where he is. I'm just as confused and angry about all this as you are—well, almost. I didn't tell you he called because…" There was no way of getting around the truth. "Because he asked me not to. He didn't think it wise."
His eyes bored through her. "He was right."
She leaned back in the swivel chair. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her hair dangling. She remembered, almost as if the scene had taken place in another century, that Richard had said he would like to see her hair down. Was that why she hadn't bothered with her various bands, twists and combs this morning? Not that this mattered. She could have dyed her hair pink and gotten a Mohawk cut, and she doubted Richard would have noticed. The interest of yesterday and the day before was gone. She felt not one tiny spark flying from his direction. What had happened to the talk of romance and lovemaking?
J.B. Weaver had happened, that was what. J.B., deceit, filial duty and a fake necklace. Obviously Richard had the willpower—or the indifference—to put aside the longings he had proclaimed yesterday. Sheridan didn't. Now that he was here, close, she was anything but indifferent. While Richard was angry and uninterested, she was melting before his eyes. What had possessed her to insist he leave her alone while J.B. Weaver was on the loose? She wasn't sure she liked honorable men.
"You're not being fair," she told him.
"That, my dear, is like the pot calling the kettle black." There was nothing courtly about his tone; he was the same quietly furious individual who had tracked her down at United Commercial, suspicious and unforgiving.
Sheridan pushed her chair back. "You could be more understanding, you know."
"And you could be more honest." He turned, not making a sound, and snatched open the door. Sheridan was relieved to see that display of anger, however controlled. He glared over his shoulder at her, but she didn't flinch. "We're back to basics, dear heart. I'm no longer willing to give your father the benefit of the doubt. I want him, and I want a full explanation."
"Richard, for heaven's sake—"
He walked out.
She leaped up and banged the chair under the desk. "I could wrestle you to the floor and make you listen, you know!"
He kept walking.
"Don't get me mad, St. Charles!"
The outer door opened and closed. Hard.
Sheridan picked up a cigar box and threw it. "Men!"
Lucille was whistling innocently over her typewriter when Sheridan stomped through her office and opened the front window, nearly ripping it out of its tracks. Richard was putting the same effort into opening the door of his Porsche.
"If you leave, I'll just have to follow you!" she yelled.
Without so much as glancing up at her, he got into the car, started it and drove off. Sheridan let out a string of very J.B. Weaver-like language and grabbed her bag.
"Well, Sher, I see you've finally met your match," Lucille said, dabbing correction fluid.
"Lucille," Sheridan said, "go home."
There was no way a rented compact was going to keep up with a Porsche. After losing Richard in the traffic at Fisherman's Wharf, Sheridan gave up, parked and decided she had to outwit him. Or at least try. The man had a temper after all. She didn't find that terrifying, but comforting, even exhilarating. He was human. She liked to be able to have out an argument with someone.
"If I were Richard St. Charles and I were in the foulest of foul moods, where would I go?" she asked herself.
I would want to be alone, she thought, and far away from anyone who could worsen my mood—or perhaps even improve it. I would want to enjoy my bad temper to the fullest. I would…
"His yacht."
This time she found a public parking place and walked over to the yacht club, but arrived too late. Richard had already gone out, not in his yacht, but in his smaller boat. He would want to get away quickly, with lots of speed, she decided. Damn him for being so… so…
Sheridan sighed, breaking off the thought. How could she blame him for being angry? In his shoes she would have probably pitched him out the window for such a lie. Clearly the thing to do was to find J.B., convince him he needed her active support and get him to give her a full explanation. Depending on what J.B. had to say for himself, she would then tell, or not tell, Richard everything.
Where to begin… She was going to have to think and act like a private investigator.
As she started up the brick walkway back out to the street, a familiar voice hollered behind her, "Hey, kid, wait up!"
She whirled. "J.B.!"
He was lanky, gray-haired and rumpled, with his daughter's blue eyes, the same man she had loved and respected all her life. He flashed his cheerful smile and flung an arm around her shoulders. "Good to see you, kid. It's been too damned long. You're looking terrific."
"Thanks, so are you. J.B., what's going on around here? What are you doing? Richard—"
"Whoa, one thing at a time. I just lied my way onto St. Charles's yacht and had a look around."
Sheridan groaned. "What on earth for? J.B.—"
"The man's loaded, Sher."
"I know."
"He makes D'Amours look like a pauper."
"I checked into all that, J.B. Tell me something I don't know."
J.B. glanced sideways down at her. "So you lost him, huh?"
She wasn't sure she liked his probing look. "Be glad I did. If he were here with me, he'd probably wring your scrawny neck, and I wouldn't blame him!"
J.B. rubbed said neck—it wasn't scrawny—with the palm of his hand. For a man in his mid-fifties he was in remarkable condition. He wore baggy jeans, sneakers and a rumpled cotton shirt, and his hair would have defeated any comb he owned. Nevertheless, he radiated all the skill and confidence of the man who had raised a daughter and worked in a sometimes dangerous, sometimes dull profession. She hugged him, glad she was his daughter.
They sat on a bench overlooking the bay. J.B. busied himself retying his sneakers, not looking at his only child. "Sher, Swifty told me you're on my tail. Get off it, okay? I don't want you and St. Charles involved in the nitty-gritty of this business, okay? I know you've got a hundred and one questions you want to ask me. Just believe me, I don't have the answers."
"J.B., I can help."
"Not on this one. If I hadn't seen St. Charles with my own two eyes and didn't know what I'd be getting you into, I'd tell you to take him back to Boston with you. But forget that. The two of you together—nothing but fireworks."
Sheridan sighed. "What were you doing on his boat, Pop?"
"Looking for that damned necklace!"
"What! But why? It's barely worth five hundred dollars, as you well know. I can't believe you had the gall to bet it in the first place."
"All water over the dam, Sher. The man should be more careful with his money."
"Well, don't come crying to me when he catches up with you. J.B., where did you get the necklace? And what were you doing playing poker with D'Amours in the first place? You're not in his league. You don't even like him."
J.B. grinned. "Hey, you're sounding like my old Sher again."
"Out of necessity. J.B., you can't keep sneaking around. You—My God, if Richard had caught you on his yacht! You were going to steal the necklace?"
"Sure, it's not worth anything, like you said."
"Why?"
"'Cause it's a fake."
"J.B., be serious. I mean why do you want to steal it?"
"Listen, kid, this business is getting not only complicated, but dangerous. I don't know half of what I can guess, and I don't have proof for any of it, but I'm damned
well going to get some. You're not helping me by letting St. Charles run loose. Will you please keep him the hell out of this? He could end up getting hurt, you know. Now I can't sit out here in the open and yak all day. Go find your St. Charles and—"
"He's not my St. Charles," she muttered.
"A slip of the tongue. Damned if I need a man like that in the family."
"Not to worry, J.B. You aren't going to ask me to steal the necklace?"
"Sher! Would I ask you to betray a trust? I'm wounded, wounded to the quick."
She scowled. "Give me a break, J.B."
"Look, just keep track of St. Charles for a few days, that's all."
Sheridan was spared answering by two men in tight- fitting knit shirts who rounded the corner of the yacht club. One man was very light, the other very dark. J.B. saw them, paled and leaped to his feet. "Fend 'em off, kid, I gotta get the hell out of here."
"Who are they? D'Amours's men? Richard's—"
J.B. was gone at a gallop.
The two men started after him. Sheridan debated letting them have him but, after all, he was her father. She jumped into their path, and naturally they tried to push her aside, which was a mistake. Employing both karate and judo moves, not to mention quick thinking, she hurled the light one into a bed of pansies and delivered a snap kick to the dark one. He crumpled at her feet.
From the water a deep, gravelly voice yelled, "Sheridan, what the hell are you doing? Damn it, he's got a gun!"
Expecting as much, she was already spinning around. The blonde was on his feet, fumbling for his gun. With a slicing kick she sent the gun skidding into the water.
The two thugs swore, gathered themselves up and retreated.
Richard was out of his skiff and bounding over to her.
"Damn," Sheridan breathed, "I haven't done that in ages. Wish I'd done some stretching this morning."
"Feel good?" he asked silkily.
She flipped her hair up, then let it drop, meeting his gaze. "Worked up a sweat, that's about it."
"Your eyes are gleaming, Sher."
His were half closed, no longer angry, studying her with a mysterious, captivating smile. "Exertion does that to me." She stood on her tiptoes, looking beyond him. "I should go after them."
"They're long gone by now."
So, she hoped, was her father. "I take it they're not yours?"
He smiled. "Still don't trust me, Sheridan? No, they're not mine. I fight my own battles, legally and without violence. I don't employ thugs."
She tilted her chin at him. "I believe you."
"Then we're making progress. They weren't random thugs, were they?"
"No, I don't think so." They were standing close. Richard smelled of hard physical work and the sea; perspiration glistened on his forehead. He was obstinate, but she didn't want to lie to him. "I'm pretty sure they were after J.B."
"J.B.," he repeated.
"Yes. He was here."
"I know, I saw him. I watched you two having your little tete-a-tete, and I watched him run." His voice was low, deadly. "He's good at running, isn't he?"
"He knew I could handle the situation. They were after him, not me. And I didn't see you leaping to my rescue, Mr. St. Charles."
He surprised her by laughing, not a reserved chuckle, but a head-thrown-back, from-the-gut laugh. It set the hair on the back of her neck on end and started an ache swelling inside her, one that wasn't remotely connected to her ulcer. It was the sort of laugh that would haunt a woman's dreams forever.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I debated warning those two sods what they'd gotten themselves into. You're one lovely and dangerous woman, Sheridan Weaver… and looking less and less like a financial analyst every hour."
She pursed her lips. "Aren't you supposed to be mad at me?"
"I am mad at you." He spoke in his sandpapery voice, rough, but with the ability to smooth, finish, glide. "I'm furious, in fact. Let's go aboard my yacht, have lunch and talk."
"But J.B.…"
"Long gone, Sher."
"I should make sure he got away, at least."
"I have a feeling J.B. always gets away."
She frowned, a lock of hair dropping forward. "Do you have an answer for everything?"
"No, not everything. For instance, I don't know why I can't stop thinking about you." The corners of his mouth turned upward in something resembling a smile, and his eyes softened. "I think the prospect of being alone with me on my boat makes you more nervous than decking those two goons did."
"That's not true," she said, not convincing even herself.
"Then let's go."
"Must you always be so matter-of-fact? Why don't you just argue with me! Say, 'Sheridan, it is true, damn it, and here's why.' Why do you always have to call my bluff? You're always so damned direct! 'Then let's go'— what's that supposed to mean? You can drive a person crazy, you know. It's a wonder D'Amours and J.B. didn't clean you out at that poker game! You have no finesse whatsoever. You—What are you shaking your head about?"
"How one moment you can be the ultracompetent, ultracool Sheridan Weaver and the next sound like a complete lunatic. Oh, but I apologize for my lack of finesse, of course." He was very close to her and finally lifted one finger, just grazing her chin; the ache inside her swelled almost beyond control. He gave her a dark smile. "I have finesse, darlin', where and when it counts."
She sprang two steps backward. "That's it, no way am I getting on any boat with you."
"Coward."
"I am not a coward! I've just weighed the pros and cons and going out to your yacht comes up short."
"Fine." There was no sign he was losing patience. "We'll sit here and talk."
"We won't, either. I'm starving."
"I have crabmeat salad and croissants aboard, wine, fresh raspberries."
"You're a stubborn man, Richard St. Charles… but how can I turn down fresh raspberries? Will you promise you won't pitch me overboard when I tell you about J.B.?"
A grin lit up his eyes, loosened the stiffness of his jaw. "I never try anything at which I have no prospect whatsoever of succeeding."
"Except playing poker with my father. Then you promise?"
"I promise not to even try to pitch you overboard."
They had a look around the club's lot and the street, saw no sign of J.B. or the thugs and headed out to the yacht. It wasn't until Sheridan was climbing out of the launch, Richard's hands lightly on her waist, that she realized a man like him would be a stickler about his words. He had promised not to throw her overboard.
That was all he had promised.
6
They sat in stark white canvas chairs on the deck and looked out across the churning blue waters of the bay to the San Francisco skyline. Richard had brought up two tall glasses of ice tea. They drank in silence, neither knowing where to begin.
Finally Richard said quietly, evenly, "The next time I'm angry with you, I promise I won't stomp off. It's not my style. I apologize."
"I hope never to see you quite that angry again."
"Oh, you will. We're both too strong-minded and passionate not to get furious with each other once in a while. It will happen, and it should."
He seemed to be taking in not only today, but tomorrow as well, and next month, next year. Their entire lives. Sitting there in the sun, drinking tea with him, she could see it herself: a lifetime of arguments, adventures, lovemaking.
She kicked out her legs suddenly, locking her knees to help steel herself against the onslaught of inappropriate and hopeless feelings. Yes, it was possible that Richard St. Charles was the man for the former Sheridan Weaver, P.I. That Sheridan had always dreamed of a man who would be adventurous, spirited and honest and handsome and rich and gravel-voiced. Why not? In those days she had dared to dream anything.
Not anymore. Through long hours of study, through self-denial and self-discipline, she had put order and stability into her life. Never before had she had a reliable schedule, a reliable paycheck, a
reliable way of life. In Boston, working at U.C., she did.
That ordered life had been blown to bits by the man slouched so languidly, so damned insolently, in the chair beside her. He was a threat to the woman she had become. This she would have to remember.
"Then you're sorry you got so mad about J.B.'s hiring me to keep an eye on you?" she asked.
"I didn't say that. I said I was sorry I'd stomped out on you during the heat of the moment."
She didn't know what to say. "I see."
"I don't like dishonesty."
"I wasn't dishonest!"
"Then what were you?"
She considered that for a moment. "Caught between a rock and a hard place. I still am."
"Are you afraid of telling me the truth, Sheridan? I can't believe you're so insecure as to resort to deceit. You don't have to be less than you are, Sheridan. That insults me. Being everything you are—" he smiled suddenly, sitting back, "—intrigues me."
"That's refreshing," she said, trying to suppress a purely physical reaction to him. "I scare the hell out of a lot of men."
"Only the weak ones."
"And you're not weak."
His smile grew reflective, even more enigmatic. "No, I don't think so. Sheridan, I don't think you tried to spare me or lie to me. Not really. I doubt that you've ever been less than straight with someone… unless you felt you had to be. Caring about others, like your father, is one thing. Tearing yourself apart to accomplish that isn't good. It's self-destructive and deceitful. And that's not the way I picture Sheridan Weaver. You're impulsive, occasionally reckless and cocky as hell, but you're not self-destructive."
He sipped his ice tea, holding his glass lightly between his fingertips, and looked at her. She said nothing, amazed. This was the most she had heard him say at one time, and none of it made sense. She wasn't selfdestructive, to be sure, but neither was she impulsive or reckless. And cocky as hell? Her? Certainly not.
"Just last week the vice-president in charge of my department called me a capable, prudent and businesslike financial analyst."
"I'm sure you are, but that has nothing to do with you personally."
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