Double Dealing

by Jayne Castle

  Frantically, recognizing that she simply could not get up and flee into the woods like any other respectable nymph would under such circumstances, Samantha tried to concentrate on what she knew of Gabriel Sinclair. If she was going to survive the encounter without a total loss of dignity, she had better get a firm grip on her flustered thoughts.

  The problem was that there wasn’t a great deal of information to marshal and collect in her head. From the beginning Samantha had realized she was going to have to play the opening scene by ear. The computer had contained so few personal facts on this man that she hadn’t even been able to guess his age.

  Now Samantha eyed the firmly etched brackets around the hard line of his mouth, absorbed the impact of the quiet, controlled solidity of him, and pegged the years at thirty-seven or thirty-eight. There was a restrained, shuttered look about the stranger, as if he did not allow himself to become too involved with anything or anyone around him. It would take that kind of aloof arrogance to stride through a spa room full of naked women, Samantha decided grimly. The impression was reinforced by the knife blade of a nose and the cool, watchful expression which schooled the bluntly unhandsome features.

  “What do you think, Miss Carson?” she heard herself demand with false flippancy as the intruder neared.

  “He looks in fairly good shape to me,” the therapist allowed judiciously as she concentrated on kneading her client’s right thigh.

  “Yeah, I had the same impression,” Samantha drawled wryly. Trust Miss Carson to view everyone from her own peculiarly limited viewpoint. In that moment Samantha could have used a little insightful input from the other woman, and all she got was an analysis of whether or not Gabriel Sinclair was a candidate for treatments!

  Damn it to hell! Hadn’t she seen movies in which powerful corporate heads or prominent underworld figures conducted business in the surroundings of a health club?

  Yes, she had, Samantha thought nervously. And in those films there had usually been a dead body or two lying around after the mist from the steam bath had cleared! She didn’t even have the advantage of a cover of hot steam. Instead she was going to confront Gabriel Sinclair while wearing only a towel and a massage table. Well, she would just have to strive to be as brisk and calm and as coolly professional as possible under the circumstances. So much depended on subtly gaining and keeping the upper hand with Sinclair.

  Samantha managed to summon a graciously aloof smile, hoping her inner agitation did not show in her eyes. It was tricky maintaining the serene, faintly inquiring expression while keeping her chin planted firmly on her stacked hands. Miss Carson industriously ignored the potential interruption as the man came to a halt beside the table. Her continued assault was going to make conversation as well as the gracious smile rather difficult to maintain, Samantha acknowledged ruefully.

  “From that rather cryptic little message you sent, I somehow pictured you in a gray pinstripe business suit and a pair of low-heeled pumps, Miss Maitland.” The man’s voice suited him, a low, soft drawl that held the essence of stones on a riverbed in its depths. “The towel adds a whole new twist to the picture.”

  Good God! He was so substantial-looking. The impression of solid, granite-hard immobility was unnerving. How did one get the upper hand with this type? It took a fierce effort of will for Samantha to maintain the smile. “I was led to believe that Californians appreciate a touch of novelty, Mr. Sinclair. You are Gabriel Sinclair, aren’t you?” She tried to inject a hint of admonishment into her voice. After all, he hadn’t had the good manners to properly introduce himself. But, then, someone with good manners would have backed out of this room full of naked women as soon as he’d blundered through the door!

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment. Before Samantha could continue, Miss Carson chose to take temporary charge of the situation.

  “My client is occupied at the moment, Mr. Sinclair,” she announced, turning violent on a particularly stubborn bit of cellulite. “And gentlemen are not allowed in the treatment rooms.”

  “I am a friend of Miss Fortune, the owner,” Gabriel murmured absently. His gaze was focused on the portion of Samantha’s anatomy presently under attack.

  “And that gives you the right to just march in here?” Samantha demanded coolly, annoyed as she sensed a flush rising into her face. Heaven only knew what other parts of her were also turning pink under the interested perusal she was undergoing.

  “Frankly, I didn’t ask.” Gabriel smiled down at her, a small, faintly amused smile that increased Samantha’s feeling of unease. “I just came looking and here you were.”

  “I see,” she retorted repressively. “Do you make a habit of staging such grand entrances for every business appointment?”

  “As you said, Californians are fond of novelty.”

  Samantha eyed him warily. She mustn’t let him think he had intimidated her with his unexpected appearance. She had enough instinctive business sense to know the value of holding her own, especially when dealing with a successful businessman. Such males were natural competitors, natural hunters. They survived precisely because they knew how to zero in on weaknesses in their opponents. The one thing she must not do was appear weak. On the other hand, she didn’t want to alienate him, either. His cooperation was all that stood between success and failure for her. A delicate situation.

  The worst part of the whole thing, Samantha thought irritably, was that he had succeeded in his obvious attempt to catch her off-balance. “A robe,” she muttered, “my kingdom for a bathrobe. Miss Carson, would you kindly fetch that robe you took from me earlier?”

  “We are far from finished for the day, madam!” Miss Carson protested, redoubling her efforts.

  “I think I’m finished for the rest of my life! Miss Carson, please do as I ask. I have a business appointment with this gentleman.” Samantha tried to infuse her voice with authority. Damn hard to do from her position on the massage table, she discovered. She was vividly conscious of Gabriel Sinclair’s silent amusement.

  “Tell him to come back later. You are here at the spa for physical reconstruction, not business!”

  “My God, I don’t believe this,” Samantha gritted. “I feel as though I’ve been trapped in Dr. Frankenstein’s spare parts room.”

  “Would you like me to draw up a chair so that we can talk here while you are being, er, reconstructed?” Gabriel asked very politely.

  His smooth taunt was too much. Damned if he was going to stand there and silently laugh at her predicament. Forcing a cool, challenging smile, Samantha lifted her head just far enough to meet his assessing eyes. “I really don’t think I can concentrate on business while this person is intent on working me over as if I were a particularly tough cut of meat. Why don’t you be an angel, Gabriel, and make Miss Carson go away? Show me you wield a little clout here in California!”

  Samantha felt the sudden hesitation in him and felt a rush of satisfaction. Excellent. She had succeeded in taking him back a bit with her taunting request. It was time she regained the initiative Sinclair had stolen by approaching her in the manner he had chosen.

  But Sinclair, to give him credit, recovered immediately. With a polished gesture he peeled off the expensive, lightweight jacket he was wearing and held it out with a flourish. “I s-s-shall be happy to do my best, Miss Maitland.”

  Samantha’s tortoiseshell eyes widened at the solution he was offering even as her attention was momentarily caught by the unexpected stutter in Gabriel’s voice as he hit the “sh” sound. Sidetracked by it she had to refocus on the offer of the jacket.

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s either this or walk out of here wearing that little towel. Your Miss Carson doesn’t look as if she’s going to back down.”

  Indeed, Miss Carson was viewing the entire proceedings with a baleful eye. “Miss Maitland can’t leave yet! We have only begun to properly cleanse the pores and rejuvenate the muscle tone.”

  Gabriel cocked a dar
k brow inquiringly at Samantha. “Take your pick. Miss Carson or me.”

  “The devil or the deep blue sea,” Samantha complained. Miss Carson unloosed a decidedly savage attack on the left hip, and Samantha made her decision. Extending a hand, she snatched at the proffered jacket. Only to have it held just out of reach. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Maitland,” Gabriel insisted for too gently. His eyes gleamed, and Samantha noticed for the first time that they were a deeply gold shade of hazel. The kind of eyes that could reflect any emotion or an absolute lack of same. She couldn’t begin to read anything beyond flickering male amusement in them now.

  But she knew when she had been backed into a corner. Thoroughly annoyed and not a little embarrassed, Samantha recognized that the only way out of the untenable situation in which she found herself was bold action. She would not let him win this ridiculous confrontation.

  She could only hope that his business acumen for exceeded his limited ability at gallantry. Grabbing for the towel across her buttocks, Samantha sat up quickly, holding it in front of her, and then came lightly down off the table in a hasty rush. The least he could have done, she thought seethingly, was look away as she slipped into the jacket. But of course, being a man intent on establishing dominance in the small power struggle being waged, Sinclair didn’t bother to glance away.

  “I wouldn’t look so pleased with myself,” she advised sweetly as she wrapped the too-large jacket around her body. “The inside of this coat is never going to be the same.”

  “I doubt that I s-s-shall mind having the essence of your perfume clinging to the inside of my jacket,” he mocked, studying the way the garment fell to her thighs.

  “It isn’t the essence of my perfume you’re going to be stuck with,” she assured him with grim cheer. “It’s the sticky remains of Miss Carson’s cleansing gel!”

  Satisfied at having had the last word, Samantha spun around on her bare heel and strode regally out of the steamy, tiled room. The dark satyr followed silently in her wake. Miss Carson watched them both depart with a distinctly dissatisfied expression. Since when was business more important than fitness?

  Disdaining to acknowledge the curious glances of several people who were checking into the spa, Samantha sailed through the serene Japanese garden atmosphere of the lobby. She was all too conscious of the man pacing behind her and of what he must be thinking as he trailed her bare-legged figure down the tiled hallway.

  Gabriel must have had a fairly good notion of what she was thinking also because as she came to a halt in front of her room he murmured gently. “Perhaps you s-should have thought twice about requesting my assistance back there in the spa, Miss Maitland. Summoning angels can be as uncertain a business as summoning demons. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I shall try to remember that in the future,” she retorted briskly, taking the key which had been attached to her wrist with a band and inserting it forcefully into her lock. “Do you behave like this regularly, Mr. Sinclair?” She pushed open the door and stalked into the room.

  “No.”

  The brusqueness of the admission surprised her. Turning to glance at him, Samantha suddenly realized that he was telling the truth. Gabriel Sinclair was not at all accustomed to impulsive action on his own part.

  The realization helped restore her own sense of humor as well as giving her a feeling of being back in control. She was extremely grateful for both.

  “The problem in this instance,” he went on thoughtfully as he stepped into the room, “is that I find myself responding to a deliberately baited hook. I don’t care for such devices, Miss Maitland.”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “My note?”

  “Your cryptic note,” he clarified coolly.

  “You don’t appreciate a hint of a puzzle?” she dared, stifling a tiny smile. After all, whatever he thought of her provocative note, it had the merit of having been effective, He had sought her out at the spa as she had hoped he would.

  “Let’s get something clear between us,” Gabriel drawled, taking a chair beside the window which overlooked a small patio garden. “I don’t like puzzles. I don’t like unknown quantities. I don’t like deliberately dangled lures.”

  “How very unadventurous of you.” But her tone was light, not mocking. If he thought she was genuinely laughing at him, he might simply turn around and leave and then she would be in one heck of a mess. “I shall try to remember that in the future. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll put on something a little more, uh, businesslike.” She glanced down in disgust at his jacket wrapped around her body and started for the dressing room.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Maitland?” he asked quietly behind her. “Afraid I might mistake you for an interesting little puzzle in that outfit?”

  Samantha paused momentarily in the doorway of the dressing room before shutting the door behind her. “Not at all, Mr. Sinclair. The very opposite, in fact! Thanks to the way you introduced yourself there isn’t anything left of me which might still be an unknown quantity. You got an eyeful, didn’t you?” The door closed with a bit more force than she had planned.

  At once she went limp with reaction, sagging momentarily back against the closed door and shutting her eyes while drawing a long, steadying breath. It was difficult to tell if her weakened condition was due to Miss Carson or from the shock of having Gabriel Sinclair materialize in that spa room. A little of both, probably. Good lord. What had she gotten herself into?

  Well, there was no time to stand around worrying about the unorthodox way her business with Sinclair had begun. He was here in response to her note, and that could only be a hopeful sign.

  Staggering a little, Samantha straightened away from the door and reached for the first thing that looked easy to slip into. She really was feeling quite limp, and the thought of struggling with tight jeans or a lot of buttons was simply too much. Miss Carson had a lot to answer for with her clients!

  Dropping the jacket, Samantha pulled the cotton knit crew-neck dress over her head. It was a bright summer white, California white, she had decided when she’d purchased it in Seattle, and it was banded at hem and sleeve with bright stripes of turquoise. Bracing herself with one palm against the marble counter framing the sink, Samantha lifted her other hand to slip off the headband and the pins that held the tight bun.

  The curve of shining brown hair swung down around her shoulders, and Samantha couldn’t restrain another groan, this time one of relief. The severity of the required hairstyle had been slowly contributing to a headache. The new result wasn’t as businesslike as she might have wished, but after all, this was California.

  “And after what that man has seen of the rest of you,” she lectured herself in the mirror, “he’s not likely to be too impressed by a somewhat belated attempt to make yourself look as though you just walked in off Wall Street.” The thought made her grimace, and she wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses. The whole matter had gotten off to a horribly ridiculous start. It was going to take all of her energy and skill to get things back on course.

  And Gabriel Sinclair did not appear to be a man who was easily pushed onto a desired course.

  Squelching a small sigh of regret over the way she had loused up the deal thus far, Samantha opened the dressing room door and walked barefoot into the sitting area of her small suite. Sinclair was seated at the round table in front of the window, just as she had left him. But now he was sipping tea from a delicate china cup as he gazed out into the private little garden. Samantha’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Where did you get the tea?” she demanded, coming forward to take the opposite seat.

  “I ordered it sent to the room while you were getting dressed. You looked as if you might need something reviving, and I think tea is about all that’s allowed in the way of stimulants around here.” To Samantha’s surprise he set down his own cup and poured her one, handing it to her with grave politeness.

  “Thank you,” she murmured,
unaccustomed to men who knew how to pour tea. “My mother would love you,” she added unthinkingly.

  Gabriel’s hazel eyes lifted quickly, something close to humor moving in their depths. “Your mother?”

  “Umm.” Samantha took a long, satisfying sip from her cup and settled deeply into the chair, bare legs stretched out in front of her. “My mother is a woman who appreciates men who don’t have role problems. She’s one of those who read Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex in the original French.”

  “An early feminist?” Gabriel seemed mildly curious.

  “An early everything.” Samantha smiled reminiscently. “An early beatnik, an early environmentalist, an early antinuclear power type, an early women’s rights person. You name it.”

  “A natural revolutionary?” Gabriel asked dryly.

  “A natural independent,” Samantha corrected him. “She could never become a true revolutionary because, although she loves causes, she also likes people. Real revolutionaries have to be willing to sacrifice people to a cause.”

  “I see. A humanist, not an urban guerrilla.” Gabriel nodded, as if finally satisfied at having pegged the unknown woman.

  Samantha shrugged. “You may be right.” Humanist would be a good term to describe Vera Maitland, Samantha thought. “She’d probably like that.” Did Sinclair have to label everything and everyone? He’d said himself he disliked unknown quantities. Perhaps it was his instinctive way of maintaining control over situations. But he must be something of a fanatic about summing up people and stuffing them into their proper niches if he went so far as to categorize a woman he was never likely to meet! What a neat, analytical, methodical sort of mind he must have, Samantha thought in silent amusement.

  She sincerely hoped she could resist the temptation to occasionally provoke him. People with neat, methodical, pedantic sorts of minds did not appreciate being baited, she knew from experience. It was a pity that they made such irresistible targets to people like herself who preferred to move through life at a much more hectic pace, relying on intuition as much, if not more, than analysis.