The Sinister Touch

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Have you noticed,” Zac asked in an odd voice, “how many small children there are around these days? Whatever happened to all those women who said they were going to have careers instead of babies?”

  Guinevere tried to stifle a small grin. “I’m still keeping the faith.”

  Zac pulled his stunned gaze back to hers. “It’s the biological clock syndrome, you know.”

  “Biological clock?”

  “It’s running out for women your age,” he explained in that same odd voice.

  Guinevere’s grin disappeared. “Zac, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Babies,” he said grimly. “My God, even Elizabeth Gallinger is talking about babies.”

  “Elizabeth Gallinger! Zac, what in the world were you doing talking to Elizabeth Gallinger about babies?”

  But Zac was staring sadly at the clam shells strewn across his trousers. “I have the feeling this suit will never be the same.”

  Chapter Two

  As usual disaster had struck when he’d tried to exert a little masculine authority over Gwen. Zac glanced down at the clean shirt and slacks he’d changed into at home before returning to his small office downtown. It was going to cost a fortune to have the other suit cleaned. If he hadn’t known better, he would have easily believed that Gwen had summoned up the small demon child at the appropriate moment just to cut off his lecture on that damned artist.

  There was more trouble involved here than just a clam-stained suit, Zac thought morosely as he opened a file labeled GALLINGER. Gwen had a knack for taking other people’s problems too seriously. People liked her, and they tended to confide in her. Hardly anyone willingly confided in him, Zac realized. Not unless he had the potential confidant by the throat or pinned against a wall or standing in front of a gun. Must be something in his personality that people failed to find sympathetic.

  Now here was Gwen discussing pentagrams, slashed canvases, and naked artists over lunch. Zac just knew that combination spelled trouble. He had been right to instruct Gwen to steer clear of it. But, as usual, she had dug in her heels and resisted. He hadn’t accomplished much at lunch, and Zac was well aware of the fact. Hell, he hadn’t even arranged to see Gwen this evening. After the disaster with the clams she’d excused herself to hurry back to her First Avenue office. Zac had been left to deal with clam-juice-stained trousers on his own.

  Clam juice he could handle. He hadn’t wanted to spend another evening alone, however. It had been a long week, and he’d seen very little of the woman with whom he was supposedly having an affair. Zac frowned at the notes he’d made on Gallinger Industries’ security situation and wondered why labeling his relationship with Gwen as an affair hadn’t made as much difference as he’d expected. Somehow, being the methodical, detail-oriented man he was, he’d assumed that putting a label on the situation would define it and cut out all the uncertainties and ambiguities. It hadn’t.

  What exactly had he expected? Zac wondered. That she’d move in with him? He hadn’t actually brought up the subject of living together because he’d had no encouragement. Gwen had shown absolutely no interest in giving up her apartment, and she certainly hadn’t invited him to move into hers. It was true he managed to spend more nights in her bed lately than he had before they’d officially agreed they were involved in an affair, but Zac still had a strong sense of uncertainty about Gwen’s feelings toward him. She had never told him she loved him. He was afraid to make the assumption. Some assumptions could destroy a man.

  A few weeks ago when they had returned from the island jaunt that had nearly gotten them both killed, Zac had gotten Gwen to admit that their relationship definitely had evolved into something more than a dating arrangement. At the time he had assumed the admission would settle everything between them. Instead it had only opened up more questions.

  For a while there at lunch he had gotten the impression that Gwen might be a bit jealous, and in a way it had given him hope. It wasn’t that he wanted her to feel insecure or hurt, but it would have been nice to know she cared enough to get jealous.

  That was juvenile, Zac told himself irritably. That sort of thing was for kids, not for adults.

  Adults. Gwen was thirty years old, and he was thirty-six. They were both very definitely adults. For women that meant a ticking biological clock, just as Elizabeth had mentioned the other day.

  Zac gazed thoughtfully across his desk. There was a glass wall opposite him, but the view was somewhat limited. It revealed only the corridor between his office and the glass-walled office on the other side of the hall. The rest of the tiny office consisted of bare walls and a small storage cabinet. Piled on top of the cabinet were the new genuine simulated-leather binders he’d ordered from the office stationery supply house down the street. Each binder was engraved with FREE ENTERPRISE SECURITY, INC. Zac thought they looked quite impressive. He would use them for presenting final reports to clients. Other than the new binders there wasn’t much else to look at except the top of his desk. But he didn’t notice the scenic limitations as he considered the matter of biological clocks.

  Perhaps Gwen wasn’t able to commit herself completely to him because she was starting to fret about the matter of babies. All around the nation women who had postponed babies for careers were reportedly starting to panic. There had been an article on that subject in the Wall Street Journal just the other day. Maybe, deep down, even unconsciously, Gwen, too, was getting ready to hit the panic button and decide that she wanted a baby, after all. If that happened, would she see him as good father material?

  Probably not. He didn’t even look like good father material to himself. It didn’t take much imagination to see how a would-be mother might view him. If Gwen was getting restless because she had decided she wanted a baby, she might easily have written him off as a long-term commitment in favor of some guy who wanted sons and heirs.

  On the other hand, if he was wrong and he brought up the subject of having a child, Gwen might panic for the opposite reason. She might decide that he was about to make an unreasonable demand on her. It was a decidedly tricky situation.

  Zac tapped a pencil on his desktop and wondered how a simple, straightforward affair could get so complicated. The phone rang before he could come to any conclusions. With a sense of gratitude for the interruption he lifted the receiver.

  “Free Enterprise Security, this is Zac Justis.”

  “Mr. Justis, this is Sarah, Miss Gallinger’s secretary.”

  Zac straightened in his chair. The Gallinger account was the biggest one he’d gotten so far. He paid great attention when someone from the company called. “Yes, Sarah, what can I do for you?” He should have a secretary of his own, Zac thought worriedly. It probably didn’t make a good impression on a high-level secretary from another company when she called and got right through to the head of the firm. Image. As Gwen kept telling him, you had to have a good image.

  “I have a message from Miss Gallinger. She would be pleased if you would attend the cocktail party she’s giving tomorrow evening. She apologizes for the short notice but assures you that she’d love to have you come. Will it be convenient?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Zac floundered. He hated cocktail parties, but business was business. “May I bring a guest?” Gwen could handle things like this.

  “Certainly. I’ll tell Miss Gallinger to expect a party of two. That’s eight o’clock tomorrow evening. You have the address?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Justis. I see you have an appointment with Miss Gallinger this afternooon at five?”

  Zac winced. Another evening shot to hell. “It’s on my calendar.”

  “Fine,” Sarah said smoothly. “Good-bye, Mr. Justis.”

  Zac hung up the phone and went back to thinking dark thoughts about babies and biological clocks.

  ***

>   “Babies!” Guinevere glowered at her sister, who was sitting at a small desk in the corner. “He’s been discussing babies with Queen Elizabeth. The nerve of the man. He’s supposed to be having an affair with me, and he’s talking babies and biological clocks with Elizabeth Gallinger.”

  Carla flipped a handful of precision-cut blond hair back behind her ear and smiled serenely. Her beautiful gray-green eyes scanned her sister’s grim expression. “You can’t deny that the clock is ticking, Gwen. Elizabeth Gallinger’s only a couple years older than you. It’s ticking for her, too. Lots of women are starting to worry, you know. They’re hitting thirty or thirty-five, and panic is setting in.”

  “The thought of a panicked Elizabeth Gallinger boggles the mind,” Guinevere said dryly. “She’s beautiful, rich, and powerful. What on earth does she have to panic about? If she wants a baby, I’m sure there are plenty of well-bred studs around who will be glad to marry into the Gallinger millions.”

  “Perhaps she’s not looking for a husband,” Carla said thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s only interested in having the baby. A lot of successful women are considering single parenting these days.”

  Gwen was stricken by a horrifying thought. “You don’t think she’s decided Zac is good genetic material, do you?”

  “How would I know?” Carla wrinkled her freckled nose. It was the freckles that softened the exquisite beauty of her features and turned her into an approachable female. “I don’t travel in Elizabeth Gallinger’s circles.”

  “Neither do I. But Zac has been traveling in those circles a lot for the past couple of weeks.” Guinevere’s mouth tightened just as the front door opened. She instantly composed her face into a polite, businesslike smile. Then she saw who the caller was, and pleased surprise lightened her smile. “Mason. What on earth are you doing here? Carla, this is Mason Adair, the artist who lives across the street from me. Mason, my sister, Carla.”

  “I’ve heard all about your, er, towel,” Carla murmured, gray-green eyes full of sudden humor.

  “I’m sorry I can’t say the same about yours.”

  Mason and Carla exchanged in-depth glances, and Guinevere blinked, sensing something new in the atmosphere. She ignored the feeling and motioned Mason to a chair. Men frequently reacted this way around Carla.

  “What can I do for you? Have the police turned up anything concerning your slashed canvas?”

  Mason yanked his eyes away from Carla and dropped into the nearest seat. “Nah, not a thing. I doubt that they will, either. That’s not why I’m here. I came to invite you and”—he glanced at Carla again—“your sister to my showing tonight. It’s occurred to me that there’s a very good chance virtually no one will come, and with you there I’d at least have someone to talk to while the gallery owner chews her fingernails.”

  Guinevere smiled. “Are you really concerned that no one will attend?”

  “It’s happened before to artists. The other possibility is that people will show up, but they’ll hate my work.”

  Carla tilted her head. “Those are the two chief possibilities?”

  Mason groaned. “Who knows? I just thought I’d try to make sure a couple of friendly faces are there tonight. Don’t worry, you won’t be obligated to buy a painting.”

  Guinevere glanced at her sister. “What about it, Carla? Want to come with me?”

  “Sure. Sounds like fun. We can all stand around and sip champagne and make snide remarks about Mason’s paintings.”

  Mason glared at her. “You’ve never seen my stuff. How do you know you’re going to want to make snide remarks?”

  “Intuition. What time are we supposed to arrive?”

  He shrugged. “Sometime around eight.”

  Guinevere looked at him keenly. “You’re really concerned about this showing, aren’t you?”

  “It’s important to me. If it goes well, it could be a very nice break. A good start for my career.”

  “And if it goes badly?” Carla inquired.

  “Then I go back to snitching free crackers at salad bars so I’ll have enough money to buy paints and pay for the studio.” Mason grinned at her. “Either that or I find myself a wealthy lady patron of the arts.”

  Carla assumed an expression of horrified shock. “Sell your body for money to buy paints?”

  “Anything for the sake of my art,” Mason intoned. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Have you ever modeled?”

  “Nope. And from the sounds of things you don’t have enough to pay me what I’d charge if I did decide to take up the career.”

  “One must be prepared to make certain sacrifices for the arts, Miss Jones.”

  Guinevere watched the byplay closely. There was nothing surprising about Mason’s immediate interest in Carla. Most men who met Carla for the first time were immediately interested. But there was something about the way her sister was responding that was a little different from usual. The sparkle in Carla’s eyes was genuine, and the expression in Mason’s gaze was very honest and very male. The evening ahead should prove interesting.

  ***

  Mason’s worst fears concerning his first gallery showing were not realized. Guinevere and Carla arrived at the Midnight Light art gallery to find that a healthy crowd had already descended on the small, discreet establishment.

  “It’s the free champagne and canapés,” Mason explained as he met them at the door and ushered them inside. “Theresa, the owner, really went all out for me in that regard. Food really brings in the locals. Unfortunately, most of them are fellow artists, who are, by nature, freeloaders, not potential buyers. Still, it makes for a crowd.”

  Carla, dressed in a sweep of crinkled peach-colored cotton belted at the waist with a black sash, glanced around the room with a critical eye. “Anyone from the press here yet?”

  Mason looked startled. “The press? Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure who Theresa invited. The press doesn’t usually pay much attention to this sort of thing, not unless the artist is really important.”

  “The press will turn out for free food, too,” Carla informed him. “But you have to get the word to them. Remind me to talk to the gallery owner later and see just who she contacted.”

  Guinevere grinned at Mason. “My sister has a talent for organizing.”

  “Oh.” Mason nodded vaguely, taking Carla’s arm. “Well, come on over and get some of the freebies before they’re all gone.” He looked around a little nervously. “I never thought this many people would show up.”

  Guinevere followed her sister and Mason to the champagne table, scanning the collection of paintings hung on the stark white walls. It was the first time she’d had a really good look at his work. Her previous viewings had been across the distance that separated her apartment from his studio. She had always liked the colors in his pictures, though. Through her kitchen window she’d seen canvases done in warm, vivid hues that appealed to her. But up close she realized that his work was subtly complex, the kind of painting that rewarded detailed study.

  There was an abstract quality to Mason’s work, but the pictures were powerful and surprisingly comprehensible. Some, such as the painting of one of the Pioneer Square missions on a cold wintry day, contained a definite social commentary. The line of men waiting for free shelter and a free meal was strangely affecting, even though Guinevere saw such lines every evening as she walked home from the office.

  But other canvases were devoted to the integral play of light and color, drawing the eye with disarming ease. Guinevere liked them and found herself stepping closer to one that was predominantly yellow in an effort to read the tiny price tag.

  “A thousand dollars!” She gasped. “Mason, if you sell a few of these, you won’t have to eat free crackers for a couple of months.”

  Mason turned his head to glance at the canvas behind her. “I know,”
he said, not without a certain hopeful satisfaction.

  “I’m glad to see the gallery owner had the sense to put decent prices on the paintings,” Carla murmured as she accepted her glass of champagne. “It’s important to keep the values high right from the start.”

  Guinevere looked at her. “I had no idea you were such an authority on the sale of art.”

  “I’m not. It’s just common sense. Show me some of the other paintings, Mason.” Carla smiled brilliantly, and Mason took her arm with a kind of stunned enthusiasm.

  Guinevere found herself standing alone by the champagne table. She picked up a cracker that had a piece of smoked salmon stuck into a dab of cream cheese and wondered what Zac was doing. He’d told her earlier that he had another of his late-afternoon meetings scheduled with Elizabeth Gallinger. Perhaps they were even now discussing babies.

  For the first time Guinevere wondered just how much appeal the subject would have for Zac. He’d never expressed any interest in a family life, but maybe the prospect looked more appealing to him than she’d realized. After all, he was thirty-six years old, and he’d spent a lot of time knocking around the world. Maybe he’d suddenly realized he’d missed having a family. His past had been violent at times and strangely rootless. She knew his coworkers in the international security firm for which he’d once worked had called him the Glacier because of the slow but painstakingly thorough way he went about doing a job. The nickname Glacier, she had decided, could also have referred to the coldly lethal capacity he had for dealing with certain kinds of situations. Guinevere had twice seen Zac when he was on the hunt. It was a chilling vision.

  But babies? Diapers? Day care? Strollers? Guinevere couldn’t imagine Zac suddenly becoming fascinated with fatherhood. Unless, of course, the potential mother was the main draw. Guinevere chewed her lower lip and thought about Elizabeth Gallinger.

  When she was sick of the thought of Queen Elizabeth, she picked up her champagne glass and went to study a painting of Elliott Bay at sunset. Telling herself she would not let her imagination run wild on the subject of Zac and babies, Guinevere concentrated on wishing she’d had the sense to wear something artsy such as Carla had worn. As it was, Guinevere was very aware of the fact that she was the only one in the room wearing a skirted suit and proper pumps.