by Jayne Castle
When visitors asked Guinevere how she tolerated the long gray winters and the frequently damp summers of the Northwest, she was always a bit surprised. Sometimes she responded with statistics proving Seattle’s legendary rainfall was actually quite moderate; sometimes she made a joke about having grown webbed feet. But the truth was she rather liked the changeable weather. Normally it was invigorating.
Today, however, the rain seemed intent on complementing her strangely ambivalent mood. She watched the people in the government office building across the street and decided they all appeared to know where they were going and what they were doing. They all appeared to be motivated by a purpose, a direction, a reason for existence. Perhaps they had finally found a way to balance the federal budget. Perhaps they were scurrying around in an attempt to keep themselves in the budget. Whatever the reason, Guinevere envied them. Most days she was guided by the same sense of sureness, but not today.
The door of her office opened behind her and Guinevere turned to glance at her sister as she entered. Carla was shaking rain off her fashionable pink and gray umbrella. She looked up, eyeing Guinevere critically, her green eyes speculative. Guinevere wasn’t certain she liked the sisterly speculation but it was a great deal more pleasant than the tragic quality that had recently haunted Carla’s face. She had recovered from the bout of deep depression brought on by a love affair gone wrong. But nothing would ever completely dispel the air of feminine fragility that Carla wore like an aura. Her blond hair, classically delicate features, and gently molded body made that impossible.
Carla wrinkled her nose in an unconsciously cute movement that called attention to a small sprinkling of freckles. Men were often fascinated by those freckles. They served the function of making an otherwise too attractive woman seem warm and approachable. “For someone who’s about to leave on a three-day vacation, you’re not looking particularly thrilled with life. What’s wrong? Worried about Camelot Services?”
Guinevere shook her head. “Hardly. When I saw what you did to my files I realized the firm was in good hands. Besides, what could go wrong during a three-day weekend? You’ll be fine.”
“Is that what’s worrying you? Am I getting a little too good at running your precious business?” Carla asked the question with a teasing smile, but there was an underlying concern. “The things I do for you are the things any first-class secretary would do. You should know that. You’ve hired enough first-class secretaries and you’ve been working as one yourself this past week. I certainly don’t want the responsibility of actually owning and operating Camelot Services. I’m not cut out to be the entrepreneurial sort—takes a special breed, and I know it. Some kind of weird cross between a chronic optimist and a chronic worrier.”
“Oh, Carla, don’t be an idiot.” Guinevere grimaced wryly. “I’ve been grateful for the help and you know that too. I’m fine, really. Just trying to see if I’ve remembered everything I have to take with me. This isn’t exactly a vacation. I’m going to be working.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why one of the things you’re remembering to take with you is the Frog?”
Guinevere felt the flush in her cheeks, and it thoroughly annoyed her. “Zac is also going to be working on this trip.”
Carla grinned cheerfully as she hung up her raincoat. “Sure. Working on getting you into bed. He’s only having sporadic success, isn’t he? What’s the score add up to, four or five times at the most? You’ve got to admit, he’s tenacious. A lot of other men would have decided the game wasn’t worth it by now.”
The stain on Guinevere’s cheeks darkened. “For someone who was only recently having to see a therapist because of a failed relationship, you certainly sound casual about things now.”
Carla’s gaze softened. “Only because I know Zac is anything but casual in his feelings about you.”
Guinevere turned stiffly back to the window. “You wouldn’t be so sure of that if you’d heard the way he refused to come along on this trip to the San Juans.”
“Is that what’s wrong?” Carla demanded. “He isn’t going with you and Vandyke after all?”
Guinevere shook her head. “No, he eventually agreed to take the job. But all I got in the beginning was a long harangue about how Camelot Services was starting to appear suspiciously like a rent-a-bedmate agency.”
Carla giggled. “Oh, lord, I can just see it now. My heart goes out to the Frog. He put his foot in his mouth by jumping all over you for agreeing to accompany Vandyke, right?”
“Something like that.” Guinevere sighed.
“Then he finally realized you were offering him a vacation fling with you, and had to backtrack like mad. Must have been painful for him.”
“It wasn’t exactly pleasant for me either. I thought he’d jump at the chance to go with me,” Guinevere said wistfully. “Instead all I got was a lecture, until he finally realized he shouldn’t turn down the job. Zac doesn’t have any major consulting projects scheduled until January. Apparently he decided he could use the work. How do you think I feel, knowing he’s only coming along for business reasons?”
“If you think that, you’re not bright enough to be running Camelot Services.”
Guinevere glanced up, eyes narrowed. “Well, how would you interpret it?”
Carla sat down behind Guinevere’s desk. “Simple. His initial reaction was sheer jealousy. It was only after he’d calmed down a bit that he realized you were offering him a weekend fling.”
“I am not offering him a weekend fling, Carla!”
“Then you can’t blame him for going with you purely for business reasons, can you?”
Guinevere groaned and leaned her forehead against the cold glass. “It must have been a lot easier in the old days. Back when a woman could simply ask a man if his intentions were honorable.”
“Men lied in the old days as easily as they lie today.” Carla’s voice was laced with memories of her own recent experience. “Besides, the definition of ‘honorable’ has changed. It used to mean marriage. Is that what you want?”
“I’ve only known him a few weeks!” Guinevere said with barely suppressed desperation. “Of course I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to marry anyone. You know that. I’ve got my hands full putting this business on its feet and I’ve gotten very used to my independence. I like being my own boss, Carla, both in business and in my private life.”
“Okay, so you don’t want marriage. What do you want?”
“Damn it, I don’t know. I just know I don’t like this foggy, undefined kind of relationship. I’m a businesswoman. I like things clear-cut, rational, comprehensible. He’s a businessman. I thought he’d want the same clarity in his personal life.”
Carla’s mouth curved gently as she studied her sister. “What would make your relationship with Zac clear-cut, defined, and rational?”
“I wish I knew.” Guinevere thought about the question. What did she want from Zac? “I just wish I knew.” She straightened away from the window, forcing a determined smile. “And on that note, I guess I’d better go home and pack. Vandyke wants to leave first thing in the morning.”
“You’re really concerned about him, aren’t you?” Carla asked shrewdly. “Not good to get emotionally involved with a client, Gwen. No wonder Zac was annoyed when you announced you were running off to the San Juans with Vandyke.”
“I’m not emotionally involved,” Guinevere said bluntly. “Not in the way Zac first thought. But yes, I am worried. You would be too, if you saw Vandyke. He’s tense and nervous, constantly drinking coffee and making little notes to himself. This proposal is a big one for his company. On top of that he’s got problems with his wife.”
“Have you met her?”
“No. But I’ve answered the phone every time she’s called. And she calls him every day. I can’t figure it out. She sounds so lonely, so unhappy. Vandyke sounds t
he same way when he finishes his conversations with her. But if they’re both lonely and depressed being apart, why on earth are they apart? Mrs. Vandyke seems pleasant enough, but what can you tell on the phone? At any rate, I figured if Vandyke could at least stop worrying so much about somebody trying to steal his proposal documents, he might be able to relax sufficiently to make a good presentation to Washburn this weekend.”
“Zac is supposed to guard the documents?”
“That’s what I suggested to Mr. Vandyke.” Guinevere went to collect her coat and shoulder bag. “He wasn’t too keen on the idea at first, but I gave him a really brilliant presentation of my own.”
Carla glanced up warily. “How brilliant?”
“Well, I convinced him that Zac was the best private security to come along since James Bond. I painted quite a glowing picture of the intrepid man of action. Vandyke finally seemed to think it would be a good idea if he hired Zac.”
“Does Zac know about your little sales job?”
Guinevere shrugged into her coat. “Naturally, I didn’t tell him in detail what I said to convince Vandyke,” she said lightly. Discretion was the better part of valor in this instance. Zac would have been furious if he’d found out what a swashbuckling image he now had in Vandyke’s eyes. “But Zac seems happy enough with the idea of the job now.”
“Have Zac and Vandyke met?”
“Yesterday, in Vandyke’s office.” Guinevere paused, remembering the meeting. It had gone fairly well. Vandyke had asked Zac several questions about his past work and had seemed satisfied with the answers. Alone with Guinevere, Zac had been downright casual about the job, but he’d managed to put on a politely concerned front in Vandyke’s presence. He’d agreed to go along in the role of Vandyke’s personal assistant.
“Well, sounds as though it should be an interesting weekend,” Carla decided. “Have fun. I’ll see you Tuesday morning. Maybe by then you’ll have achieved clarity, rationality, and a sense of definition in your relationship with the Frog.”
“Why does that sound like a contradiction in terms?” Guinevere asked as she went out the door.
***
Saturday afternoon Guinevere again stood at a window watching an endless rain. But, she reflected, this time she at least had the advantage of standing in a luxurious hotel room, and the view was of tiny mist-shrouded islands dotting a stormy sea rather than clock-watching government office workers. The dozens of green islands off the coast of Washington that made up the San Juans comprised an exotic bit of Northwest paradise. The ferry system serviced the larger islands, such as the one on which the resort was located, but most of the smaller islets were accessible only by private boat or seaplane. Many were tiny and uninhabited. It was even possible to own your very own island. Guinevere smiled briefly at the thought. Her very own island. Now that was class. Almost as good as having one’s own executive washroom.
The phone beside the bed rang. She gave a small start and went to answer it.
“Are you unpacked?” Zac asked without any preliminaries. His temper had been a bit unpredictable since their arrival that morning, and after he’d discovered he’d been given a room next to Vandyke and that Guinevere’s room was several doors down the hall, he’d begun to show signs of grave uncertainty.
“Just finished. Vandyke said he wouldn’t need me until after this afternoon’s meeting with Washburn. How about you?”
“I finally convinced him that the documents were safe enough with him during the meeting.” Zac sounded distinctly irritable. “Hell, I thought he was going to make me accompany him right into the sessions with Washburn. I told him I’d be standing by to collect the documents at four o’clock, when the meeting is scheduled to end. When I pointed out that not much could happen as long as he was closeted in the hotel conference room he reluctantly agreed. The guy really is a nervous wreck, isn’t he? I wonder if Vandyke Development is in some sort of financial trouble.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only worked for him a week. But I agree the poor man’s on the verge of a severe anxiety attack.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s his problem, I guess. I’m not licensed to prescribe tranquilizers. What do you say you and I get out of here for a couple of hours. We can take a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“Unless you can think of another way to take a walk today.”
Guinevere held the phone away from her ear for a moment, glaring at the receiver. “I’ll take a walk with you if you’ll promise to remain civil,” she said into it again. “You’ve been acting like a frustrated buffalo ever since we arrived.”
“Frustrated may be the key word. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. Somebody must have worked hard to find you a room as far away from mine as possible. It couldn’t have happened by sheer luck.”
The phone clicked in Guinevere’s ear. Slowly she hung up, thinking about Zac’s mood. He definitely sounded annoyed because the Vandyke travel department hadn’t put her in a room next to his. Well, perhaps it was better this way. She hadn’t intended these three days to be a sexy vacation fling. She envisioned instead a series of intense meaningful discussions. After all, she wanted to clarify the relationship.
Zac showed up four and a half minutes later. He had a waterproof windbreaker on over a heather-colored wool sweater and casual slacks. His eyes were the same color as the rain, Guinevere realized in faint surprise as she opened the door.
“Be ready in a second.” She reached for her rakish red trench coat, belting it on over her pleated khaki pants and green pullover sweater.
“Trench coats are supposed to be khaki,” Zac noted.
“You’re such a traditionalist.”
“At least you’ve found something else to wear besides sneakers.” Zac eyed her fashionable rain boots.
“So glad you approve,” she retorted coolly as she walked out the door with him.
Zac hesitated and then took her arm. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Guinevere heard the sincerity beneath the rough apology. “Perhaps Vandyke’s tension is rubbing off on you,” she suggested.
“Nope. That’s not it at all.”
“I see.”
“Let’s take the car into the village. We can walk around there. Maybe have a cup of coffee and look at the marina.”
“Okay.” Relieved that he wasn’t going to launch an in-depth discussion concerning the reasons for his short temper, Guinevere allowed Zac to guide her out into the parking lot. He and Vandyke had each brought their own cars on the ferry. Vandyke’s was a new Mercedes. Guinevere had come with Zac in his three-year-old Buick.
The small village, crammed with tourists during the summer, was quiet on a rainy winter weekend. It was easy to find a parking space near the marina and even easier to get a cup of coffee at a nearby café. Guinevere sensed Zac relaxing a little as the time passed.
“This is more what I had in mind,” he announced as they left the café.
“Really?” Guinevere glanced up at him with a tentative smile. “Could have fooled me. I thought you were opposed to this trip.”
His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Only until I started thinking of the possibilities.” He started to say something else and then halted, glancing at a man who was opening a car door across the street. “Isn’t that Springer?”
Guinevere peered through the rain at the young man dressed in slacks and a suede jacket. “I think so. I only met him once this morning after we arrived. He’s Washburn’s assistant, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. Guess they decided they didn’t need any extras at the first meeting. Looks like he’s headed for the marina. Maybe he’s got a boat.”
Ambling along in Toby Springer’s wake, Guinevere and Zac watched the man make his way past the rows of boats tied up in the marina. He was headed toward an old tin boatho
use at the far end of the wharf. A single-engine seaplane bobbed on floats in the water next to the boathouse. Near the plane another man was crouched down over a twist of rope on the dock.
He must have said something to Washburn’s assistant, because in the next moment Springer turned and saw Zac and Guinevere. He waved invitingly.
“I’m not interested in a ride in that silly little plane,” Guinevere hissed to Zac as he started forward purposefully.
“You’ll love it.”
“Not a chance.”
“Come on, Gwen, where’s your spirit of adventure?”
“It hasn’t recovered from the StarrTech case. It may never recover.”
Zac wasn’t paying any attention. He was busy greeting Washburn’s assistant. “I see you escaped for the afternoon too. I was afraid for a while there that I’d have to sit in on the meeting.”
Springer laughed, nodding politely at Guinevere. He was a clean-cut man in his mid thirties with well-styled hair, designer clothes, and a sense of his own future worth. But he was also very charming. “I know what you mean. When Washburn told me we were getting three days in the San Juans I knew there were going to be a few catches. How are you, Miss Smith?”
“Jones,” Guinevere corrected automatically. “I’m fine. Zac and I decided to sneak off for a tour of the town. I just love islands in winter.”
“Personally,” growled a soft masculine voice behind her, “I prefer other islands in winter. Islands with plenty of sun and sandy beaches. This sure as hell isn’t my idea of paradise,” Laconic, laid back, slightly world-weary and coolly cynical, the voice contained a hint of a Southern drawl. “A man who got himself stranded on one of these little uninhabited rocks in winter would probably wake up dead.”
Guinevere turned. Although Zac was merely glancing back over his shoulder in response to the new voice, his fingers tightened a bit on her upper arm as he eyed the speaker. The man who had been crouched over the coils of rope was getting slowly to his feet. Guinevere watched him rise, admiring the perfection of a legend brought to life. A slow smile lit her eyes. It wasn’t every day a woman got to see this sort of thing in the flesh.