"I didn't say you were."
"Please could we talk?" His voice became softer.
"About what?"
He spun her toward him. "About this foolishness! What happened since the last time we were together? I thought we were really getting somewhere."
"You thought you'd snowed me onto your side, you mean." She raised her chin and glared into his eyes—blue eyes turned almost black by frustration. "Admit it. You thought winning over the dumb little lady from the hat factory would be a cinch. Well, you were wrong. Now. Get out of my way."
"Gaby, I never thought any such thing. What I intend for you and me has nothing to do with what you do or what I do. We're going to have something special. You know that as well as I do."
His sharp cheekbones accentuated the lean lines of his face, the face of a hunter, a man who went after and got what he wanted.
"I think you'd better tell me what it is we're supposed to be going to have," Gaby said.
"You're being difficult." He pulled her close until she had to tip back her head to look at him. "We're going to be lovers."
Before she could stop herself, Gaby gasped. "Don't say things like that." She looked around. "Not here."
"We're both over twenty-one. What we choose to do with our personal lives is our own affair."
"Don't use that word!"
He smiled and slid his arm all the way around her. "Affair? It does have… an intimate ring. I rather like it, myself. We're going to make long, wonderful, sexy love, Gaby. You and I are going to be addicted to the things we do together. I promise you that, and I don't promise anything I don't intend to carry out."
"Let me go," she said between gritted teeth. "Or I'll scream."
Jacques's response was to sweep off her hat and layer her against his muscular chest until she knew he would feel every tingling millimeter of her breasts through the orange silk blouse she wore. She felt her own flesh, its quickening, in a searing flash all the way to her knees.
"Gaby, Gaby." His fingertips moved lightly up and down her back. "I've been waiting for you a long time."
The fight seeped out of Gaby. She rested her forehead on his chest, at the opening of his khaki shirt where dark hair curled, and closed her eyes.
"It's like that for you, too, isn't it?" Jacques stroked her hair.
Gaby struggled against the desire to wrap her arms around him. "I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. You wear me out. I'm tired of arguing." She actually felt her body grow heavier. If he weren't holding her she'd be inclined to sit down right where she was.
"We don't have to argue. We have better things to do—like getting to know each other."
Like giving him a chance to lull her away from gathering signatures. "I'm going to go now, Jacques," she said carefully, planting her free hand in the middle of his chest and pushing herself away. "And I don't want you to interfere with what I'm doing again." His scent—clean, male skin and something very faintly woodsy—lingered.
"You don't want me to get out of Goldstrike."
"I…" She wanted to stay exactly where she'd just been—wrapped in his strong arms, against his solid chest, with her face nestled close enough to taste him if she felt like it. "We're going to fight you, Jacques."
"You don't sound convincing."
Camilla Roberts's face flashed before Gaby. "You're very good at turning women into slaves, aren't you?"
He laughed and fanned her face with her black straw hat. "What would make you say a thing like that?"
"Yesterday I had the dubious pleasure of meeting a true Jacques Ledan fan."
"One of many," he said, still chuckling.
"She said you were a visionary. The very word you used to try and flatter poor Nigel into your corner."
Jacques's smile slid. "Who are we talking about?"
"We're talking about the woman you were probably with last night. The one you must have tucked away somewhere while you kept bothering me on the phone."
Complete confusion settled on his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Does the name Camilla Roberts ring a bell? She talked about you with pure diamond-studded stars in her eyes. She just knew you intended to offer her a piece of the action at the spa! This is all unbelievable."
"Gaby—"
"No. Don't try to explain or gloss any of this over." How could she, even for a second, forget what this man wanted from Goldstrike—and from her. ''You can't use me, Jacques."
She cut around him and set off purposefully for Hacienda Heaven. When Jacques didn't follow she fought the temptation to look back. She didn't want him. She didn't.
Hacienda Heaven was separated from the road by a cracked parking lot fronted by a brick wall. A planting strip sported dusty plastic cacti alternated with molded pink flamingoes on poles. Gaby reached the door of what had, during late mining days, been the site of a Chinese joss house. Barney's neon Hablamos Español sign flashed in double-time.
"Do they?" a male voice asked softly.
Gaby jumped and stepped back onto Jacques's feet. "Do they what?" she almost shrieked.
He nodded to the sign. "Speak Spanish."
"Yes… no. At least, I don't think so." She pushed the door.
"Thirsty?"
"I beg your pardon?"
This time he indicated Barney's other sign, this one hand-painted on a window amid a smattering of unlikely renditions of sombreros and large flowers. "Little early for some of the no cerveza, isn't it?"
"If I was a drinking woman, Jacques Ledan, I'd be more than ready for a cold drink, or two, of beer or anything else." She shoved the door once more. It didn't budge.
"The place is closed."
"Observant of you."
"I could have told you the guy who owns the place isn't in."
Gaby nanowed her eyes. "How?" She started back the way she'd come.
"He drives a beaten-up green van." Jacques fell into an easy lope beside her. "You ought to watch that temper of yours. Gets in the way of optimum performance. One old, green van drove away while you were steaming up to the door. You'd have seen it if you hadn't been giving in to unfounded anger."
"I'm not angry."
"You're angry because you're jealous. Giving in to jealousy makes you feel out of control—which you are in this case—and you're a very controlling personality."
They passed Nigel's store and reached Caleb's place on the corner of Main Street. "So far you haven't made any points with me this morning, Jacques. In fact, you've lost some."
"You're jealous because you want me, and you're afraid Camilla Roberts has beaten you to it."
Gaby rounded on him, opened her mouth, then closed it again firmly and turned left toward her workroom. The man was bored. Nothing more. Of course an argument could be made that if he truly believed he needed her on his side, he wouldn't try to alienate her. But then, he might think this pseudo-smitten act would be enough to flatter a dumb little hick hat maker into infatuated submission. On the other hand, he was powerful enough not to have to run around doing his own dirty work.
"I've known Camilla a long time."
"Lucky you."
"Please, Gaby. Listen to me. She is absolutely nothing to me and never was. A hanger-on at parties I've given—that's it."
"I'll bet you give lots of parties and I don't see you as a man who's ever without a gaggle of what you call hangers-on. I'm going to work now. The war is still on."
He stopped and turned up his palms. "Okay, have it your way. See you later."
Frowning, Gaby watched him stroll away before walking slowly to the courtyard behind the workroom.
Char, working alone on one of the pieces for Going to the Dogs, greeted Gaby with a cheerful, "Hiya, toots."
"That is one very strange man," Gaby said. "First he follows me all over town while I tell him to get lost. Then he just gives up and walks off."
"The romance blossoms," Char said, tacking ostrich plumes to a chartreuse felt tricorn.
Gaby ig
nored the comment. "Why would he suddenly decide not to fight anymore?"
"You just said you told him to get lost."
"Yes, but…" Gaby put down the clipboard. She didn't want him to stay, but she didn't want him to go. "Good grief, was that the shop bell?"
"Certainly was." The plumes were deep blue and turquoise dusted with silver. "Any idea who it might be before nine on a weekday morning?"
"You go."
"Impossible. We don't have any time to waste on this project and I seem to be the only one working on it."
From the shop came a whistled version of "Some where Over the Rainbow."
"Char," Gaby whispered hoarsely. "It's him. Take it from me—he won't go away unless you go and tell him to."
"Nothing doing." Char smiled sweetly. "Tell him yourself. I'll send help if you don't come back in, oh, an hour?"
"This isn't funny," Gaby wailed.
The shop bell rang again. Then silence.
"He's gone," Gaby said. Why wasn't she relieved? The bell sounded once more.
Char set down the hat. "What—"
And again the tinny noise trilled. "Maybe the door isn't properly shut," Gaby said.
"The wind could be catching it," Char added, but made no move to check. The bell rang again, and again. She held up her fingers and counted silently. "Would that be in or out?"
Gaby screwed up her eyes. "In or out?"
"If it isn't the wind. There can't be that many customers lined up in the shop."
Another ring.
"You have to go," Gaby said.
"It could be a kid just opening and closing the door for the hell of it."
"Hello!" A familiar male voice echoed along the passageway from the shop. "Gaby? You forgot something."
She pressed her hands to her middle and whispered, "I'm going to have to face him, aren't I?"
Char picked up an ostrich feather and nodded. "The sooner the better."
With a final glare in her assistant's direction, Gaby marched from the workroom and into the shop… and stopped.
"You forgot your hat," Jacques said, holding it out.
Gaby glanced briefly at him, then she stared at an amazing display of roses in crystal vases that caught sunlight through the windows. "Where did those come from?" Prisms of colored light flashed from the crystal.
"I brought them."
Dozens and dozens of red roses with frosty white centers. "Why?"
"Take your hat. Hats look very good on you. Have I told you that?"
"No," she said shortly, taking the black straw and tossing it onto a head form. "Thanks."
A scuffing noise heralded Char's appearance. "I need to step out and—" She stopped in midsentence and her mouth remained open. "Wow. Are we opening a florist's shop?"
"They're a gift for Gaby," Jacques said. "You must be Char. Mae mentioned you."
"She did?" Char came farther into the shop and appeared even more entranced by Jacques than the roses. "Mae's a great little girl. I never had kids, but if I had I'd have wanted them to be just like her."
"Bright," Jacques said, bestowing a dazzling smile—the kind of bone-to-jelly smile only he could bestow—upon Char. "And a pretty thing, too. Like her mother."
Gaby swallowed and willed away any blush that might be marshaling forces. She failed. Her face throbbed.
"Yes," Char said and sat on the black cane chair. "Gaby is beautiful, isn't she? Everyone thinks so. I never met a red-blooded man who could look at Gaby and not want… well, we both know what I mean."
"We certainly do," Jacques agreed, turning his attention to Gaby. The smile softened, became lazy, sensual. "Gaby already knows what I want."
This was too much. "Why did you bring all these?" She swept a hand in the direction of the roses. "Why? I thought you were angry with me."
"I ordered the roses before you decided to make a career out of disagreeing with me."
Gaby snorted. "Naturally. You wouldn't buy roses for someone who didn't agree with you, would you?"
"You bet I wouldn't." His mouth tightened into a tough line.
"You're the kind of man who brings roses home to his wife when he wants something."
"Does that have a particular meaning?" he asked, so sweetly she smarted.
"You know what I mean."
"Tell me."
"Sex," Char announced. "She means that some men bring incentives—"
"Char!" Gaby turned her back on both of them.
A scuffling followed. "Well," Char said. "If you don't need me for a while… See you shortly."
Gaby listened to Char's departing footsteps with something like dread. The silence that closed in felt electrically sharp.
Jacques cleared his throat. "I want you to have the roses, Gaby."
"I'm sorry you wasted your money."
"Couldn't we try to start over?"
She faced him.
"Let's put all the hard feelings behind us," he said. "I think I know what's bothering you and I've already thought of a way to put it right."
When he looked like that: sincere, intensely concerned and good-looking enough to melt the soles of her feet, Gaby couldn't hold on to her irritation. "What do you think is bothering me?" He understood, actually comprehended that she was hesitant to let go with him because—
"You're ambitious in your way," Jacques said. "It's been wrong of me to assume that because you're in business in a very small way and in a place like Goldstrike, you don't want to be successful." Disappointment outweighed frustration—almost. Jacques crossed his arms. "If I'd been paying enough attention I'd have realized that your competitiveness is one of the things that attracts me to you. You're a strong woman."
She had no idea where this was heading.
"The contract to make baseball caps must be a big deal to you. I should be able to put myself in your place and see how big. Will you forgive me on that one?"
Gaby couldn't form a single word.
Jacques nodded and bowed his head. "I knew you were the kind of woman who didn't bear grudges. The point is—and I see it now—that you don't like the idea of doing the preliminary work, then watching it taken out of your hands when the demand gets really big. Am I right?"
"A man of vision," she said, very softly.
For an instant he appeared baffled. Then he grinned. "Subtle. That's something else I like—your sense of humor. Anyway, I've worked it all out. It must be as obvious to you as it is to me that you won't be able to handle the mass production past a certain stage. Am I right?"
Fascinated, Gaby nodded slowly.
"Right. But that isn't going to matter because there's a way for you to go right on getting a good, big piece of the action."
"And everyone wants a piece of your action," Gaby said, almost to herself. Camilla Roberts's face flashed again. "That must get quite tiresome."
Jacques shrugged. "That's business."
Which, by extension, meant that she was just business—with the added possibility of a few fringe benefits for Jacques Ledan.
"Don't give any of this another thought. I'm going to take care of you. Can you guess how?"
Gaby shook her head.
"You're going to become the exclusive outlet for Go for the Gold in Goldstrike souvenirs. Right here in this little shop." Enthusiasm radiated from his broad gesture. "Gaby, not one GFTG rain poncho, GFTG stuffed animal, coloring book or T-shirt… .and certainly not one baseball cap will ever be sold that doesn't come from Gaby's little shop!"
She shook her head again, very, very slowly. "You're kidding."
"I knew this was the answer." He pulled a rose from its vase and handed it to Gaby. "Here's to a great partnership. We're going to paint that logo right on your window—Go for the Gold in Goldstrike. Official Souvenir Outlet."
Gaby remembered to breathe again. "And there'll be a rainbow, of course," she croaked.
"That's the girl! The biggest rainbow you ever saw."
10
Far below, on the road winding throug
h the hills toward La Place, a brief flash of light pierced the gray afternoon.
Slouched in his favorite chair near the study windows, Jacques let his newspaper fall to the floor. A heavy sky pressed down upon the hilltops as far as he could see, yet a break in the cloud had allowed sunlight to catch a car windshield.
"You aren't going to believe this," Bart had told him on the phone, sounding excited. "Stay put until I get there."
Jacques had no doubt it was Bart's Porsche that approached. The road ended at La Place and no one, else was expected. The prospect of a dose of Stanly enthusiasm sent Jacques's already sagging mood earthward.
There were times when a man deserved to be alone with his depression.
Gaby had told him to go to hell. "There's the door," had been her exact words.
And he'd been so reasonable.
And she'd thrown his understanding and generosity in his face… with no explanation.
He got up and stood close to the glass. The study, cantilevered from the back of the main house, overhung a steep hillside cloaked with blue oaks.
Gaby would like this house—maybe even more than he did. "Black Jacques" had been the nickname of his twenties, and the notion that he was silent, dark and complicated hung on in some quarters. No one really knew him, damn it. Sure he could be difficult, but at some levels he was traditional, conservative even. Gaby McGregor could never, under any circumstances, be described as traditional or conservative.
That's why she'd like La Place more than he did— if he could ever get her here. This house deserved a woman who appreciated the spectacularly unusual.
Gaby and the word spectacular fitted together perfectly.
What the hell did she want from him?
He confronted the issue he'd been skirting: what did he want from her?
Loud barking from the other side of the house meant his dog had heard the distant approach of an engine.
Jacques buttoned his trailing denim shirt and set off through corridors lined with blond paneling all the way to vaulted ceilings.
Spike—all fifteen pounds of her—took one look at Jacques and subsided into a doleful, dark-eyed heap on the floor by the front door.
"That's the girl," Jacques said. "We understand each other perfectly, don't we?"
Mad About The Man Page 9