Spike heaved a huge sigh. A mutt with gray fur, skinny legs and a tail like a battle flag, the dog's most endearing quality was an unerring ability to judge her master's moods… and adopt them.
Jacques opened the door as the silver Porsche swung into a circular courtyard built at the center of the buildings comprising La Place.
The car shot around the fountains with Bart's customary reckless style and slid to a halt. The passenger door opened to reveal Rita, dressed for a Saturday afternoon in a basic black jumpsuit.
"Boy, are you going to hate this," she said, an expression of deep gloom on her face.
Bart arrived beside her before she could stand up. "We made an agreement, sweetheart," he said, gallantly offering a hand. "I do the subject lead-in and you clean up as necessary. Right?"
She ignored his hand and emerged to stand in front of Jacques. "Right. But, boy, are you going to hate this, Jacques."
"Great," he said, standing back to let her pass. "I can hardly wait."
Bart slapped Jacques on the back, shot him a sympathetic grimace and followed Rita into the house. Whining softly, Spike fell in at Jacques's heel. Rita marched directly into the sun room and settled herself in a swinging rattan chair suspended from a crossbeam. "Why is that animal moaning?" she asked, eyeing the culprit with disdain.
Jacques stooped and Spike vaulted into his arms. "She's very sensitive—like me."
"Let's get this over with," Rita said to Bart, studying apparently perfect fingernails. "The sooner he knows, the sooner we'll know just how much damage we'll need to patch up."
"You promised you'd let me do this, sweetheart."
Jacques looked from Bart to Rita, expecting her to tell her supposed rival to cut out the "sweethearts" and quit telling her what to do.
"Sorry, Bart," Rita said with a smile. "I won't say another word."
"Sorry, Bart," Jacques murmured under his breath. Why should he expect to understand anything about the people he paid a fortune to work for him?
"Napoleon Paradise made contact."
"When?" Jacques kicked the door shut behind him, his attention riveted on Bart. "How?"
"This morning. By fax."
"Why the hell didn't you tell me on the phone?"
"Because—" Rita started to explain.
"Rita!" Bart cut her off. "He's coming. That's all that matters."
A deep edge of excitement sent Jacques pacing beside lush green and flowering plants that lined the almost totally glass room. "When will he be here?"
"Sometime next week. They'll contact us with final instructions. You know how it is with Napoleon."
"The man's crazy," Rita said dispassionately.
"He's also brilliant," Jacques reminded her. "He's the one man who can design a theme park the whole world will clamor to visit. If he wants to come here in some sort of hermetically sealed pod—in the dead of night—with a platoon of armed guards, so be it."
"Bart, tell him."
"Okay, Rita. Let me do this my own way and in my own time."
Jacques stopped pacing. "Tell me what? Is there going to be some glitch with this? You know how much we've got riding on the park."
Bart had remained standing. Now he approached Jacques, appeared about to say something, but went to examine a particularly lush hanging fern instead. "How do you stand being all alone in this place?"
"I like my own company." Not strictly true—at least not at the moment.
"No one with a home this size goes without live-in staff."
"I go without because I prefer it that way. All the help I need, I get. What did you come here to tell me?"
Bart continued to examine plants while Rita swung.
Jacques waited until he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Let's have it, Bart. Now."
"Nice fern."
"Bart."
"Yeah, well. Okay. Ever heard of a guy by the name of Michael Copeland?"
Jacques furrowed his brow. "Does he work for Napoleon?"
"Forget Napoleon," Rita snapped, stilling her chair by applying a toe to the ground. "Napoleon's coming. We don't know exactly when as yet. You'll know as soon as we do. Just get on with it, Bart."
"Copeland's a theatrical costume designer. Works primarily in the movies now."
"Copeland." Jacques shook his head. "Copeland… yes, yes. Oscar for best costumes about three years ago?"
"That's the guy," Bart said.
"He's Gaby McGregor's husband," Rita added, intent now on the leaden sky that crowded down on the sun room's glass roof.
For seconds Jacques stared at Rita. "Her ex-husband, you mean," he said finally. "She's divorced."
"Uh-huh," Bart said. "Divorced for seven years. One daughter, Mae, seven years old. Seems Mr. Copeland wasn't keen on the white picket fence and nursery routine. The marriage fell apart while Gaby was pregnant."
Jacques turned away. "Creep," he said through his teeth. What kind of man abandoned his wife while she was expecting his child?
"Evidently that was the opinion of most people who knew them. Apparently Gaby defends Copeland. Says he never wanted kids and she knew it."
"How do you know all this?"
"Her assistant—Char Brown—was in when we stopped by earlier," Rita said. "Evidently she's the surrogate grandma figure to the kid. I asked a couple of leading questions about her boss and got what has to be the party line—Gaby doesn't blame her ex for what happened."
"That doesn't alter a damn thing and you know it A man who is a man doesn't walk away from a pregnant wife."
An awkward silence followed, broken by the sound of Bart clearing his throat.
"Copeland's still a big shot in L.A., isn't he?" Jacques ventured.
"He sure is," Rita said. "Have you heard of a movie musical called Going to the Dogs?"
''Hasn't everyone? It's supposedly going to be next year's big box-office hit. Is Copeland doing the costumes?"
After a missed beat, Bart said, "Yes."
"God," Jacques said. "And while he rolls in glory and bucks, his wife and daughter grub along in a backwater trying to make ends meet on the proceeds from a hat factory!"
"Jacques—"
"No wonder she didn't fall over herself to accept my offer yesterday—"
"Jacques—"
"She must have seen me as another man on the make," Jacques said, interrupting Bart. "Poor little thing. I stood there making grandiose offers about her becoming the exclusive concession outlet for GFTG souvenirs. She was probably remembering her schmuck of an ex-husband standing at the altar and promising to share everything he had with her, then walking away when she needed him most."
"What do promises at the altar have to do with any of this?" Rita asked, leaning forward.
Jacques spread his hands. "Well… it's subtle. You've got to be able to make the leap and see it through her eyes. I'm going to go and apologize."
"For what?" Bart stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You aren't responsible for Copeland's behavior."
"I'm responsible for not making the effort to find out more about Gaby."
"And how."
He looked sharply at Rita. "What does that mean?"
"Poor little Gaby isn't poor little Gaby."
"Explain that."
Frowning with concentration, she wound the chains that supported her chair around and around.
"Rita?"
"I'm not surprised she's hesitant to explain," Bart said. "If anyone should have known, it's Rita."
"Me?" She lifted her toe from the floor and spun wildly.
Bart grabbed the spiraling chair and jerked the whole contraption to a halt "You." He tipped her to stand in front of him. "Jacques and I don't wear hats."
"Neither do I!"
"You're a woman."
"So?"
"So, women know about those things. You blew it, Rita."
"Hey, hey." Insinuating himself between them, Jacques crossed his arms. "Never mind who should have told what. Just tell me what all this is abo
ut—now—with no more side trips."
Rita and Bart looked at each other with raised brows.
"Gaby is the Gaby," Bart said at last. "You know, the hat Gaby? Milliner to anyone who is anyone. A few first ladies, the odd dozen or so female ambassadors or ambassadors' wives, those nothing little people at the Academy Awards I think we mentioned—and on, and on."
Jacques slowly put Spike down. "That's not possible."
"That's what we thought," Rita said. "It was Camilla Roberts—by the way, she's still holed up in my trailer. I don't know how much longer I can put her off from coming up here to find you—but Camilla made the connection between Gaby and the Gaby."
"For God's sake stop calling her the Gaby." A deep, burning agitation made itself felt. "She runs a… hat…" The agitation caught fire. "Finish your story. Now!"
Amazingly, Bart put what appeared to be a protective arm around Rita's shoulders. "This isn't any more our fault than yours."
"I pay you to make sure I know everything about everyone who might be important to me. Get on with it."
"We're trying to." Rita shrugged free of Bart's arm. "Gaby McGregor is and has been for some time, a world-famous milliner. Seven years ago, after her divorce—for reasons we haven't quite determined—she decided to run her business from Goldstrike.
"By the way, as we speak, Ms. McGregor is under contract to her ex-husband to produce the hats that will be worn in Going to the Dogs. All the characters will wear hats."
A nerve twitched beside Jacques's left eye. "I see," he said softly. He unzipped and unsnapped his jeans, shoved his shirt inside, rezipped and resnapped. "Very, very funny. I hope she's had lots of fun, because now it's going to be my turn."
"Jacques." Rita caught his forearm. "None of us gave the woman a chance to say who she was."
"And she didn't bother to enlighten us," Jacques said. "She's at her house, did you say?"
"No. Losers' Ridge."
He paused on his way to the door. "What the hell is she doing at Losers' Ridge?"
"Char Brown said Gaby borrows a horse and rides there pretty frequently. The kid's in Los Angeles with Copeland for a week."
Jacques didn't bother to question why the supposed reluctant father would want his daughter with him. "Get back to town and make sure everything's set for Napoleon Paradise." He strode from the room.
"What are you going to do?" Rita asked, trotting in his wake.
"Take a trip to Losers' Ridge," he told her. "Gaby McGregor's about to learn a lesson."
11
Jacques Ledan wasn't the type of man who forgave and forgot.
But since their encounters were likely to be of the briefest kind in future, there was almost zero chance that she'd ever know exactly how angry he might be at her rejection of him yesterday.
"Exclusive concession."
Gaby settled her rump more comfortably into the grassy dip she'd selected, drew up her knees and concentrated on staying mad at Mr. Ledan.
Arrogant SOB.
The good of Goldstrike was his mission and the reason for his being? He knew nothing about the town or the people who lived there. True, things had gotten tough, but the fix wouldn't be found in throwing away everything treasured and planting some hateful, plastic project in its place.
No one had ever kissed her as Jacques had.
They were beings from different planets, destined to disagree on anything and everything.
His every touch made her nerves stand up and beg for more.
A relationship built on the purely physical was doomed.
Hell, she wanted more of that kind of doom!
Clouds moved slowly, heavily, parting almost rhythmically to allow the sun's escape in brilliant shafts that warmed Gaby's back through her checked cotton shirt. Blinding white fog, subtly shaded with blue gray, filled the valley below Losers' Ridge the way a fickle burden of dry ice vapor might nuzzle a giant punch bowl. Gaby wrapped her arms around her legs. No one who hadn't seen this would believe that a northern California valley could look like a soft, visibly shifting glacier.
Vi, the docile old roan Gaby borrowed from time to time, whinnied softly. "Steady, girl," Gaby called without turning around. Vi belonged to one of the women who sometimes helped in the workroom.
The roan snorted, and rocks skittered from beneath her hoofs. "What's with you, Vi?"
Gaby looked over her shoulder directly into a shaft of sunshine. She squinted, and drew in a quick breath.
"Who—?" She bit off the question. The identity of the man astride a silver Arabian wasn't in doubt. Shading her eyes, Gaby watched Jacques.
And, silently, he watched her.
The Arabian was magnificent: big, slender and one hundred percent unpredictable power.
So was the man.
Flipping the reins, Jacques shifted in the saddle and walked his mount a few steps downhill.
Still he didn't speak.
The sun faded and she dropped her hand. He wore a denim shirt—mostly open—and faded jeans that strained over long, strongly muscled legs. His brown boots were scuffed, his hair mussed… and his eyes were pure, dark blue ice.
"Hi." She swallowed and drew in her bottom lip.
The horse danced a little closer.
Jacques didn't smile, didn't respond. He hunched his wide shoulders and rested a wrist on the horn. Wind flirted with the animal's mane and flattened the man's shirt to his chest. Beneath the shirt, dark hair curled over tanned skin. She'd known he was a big man. But he'd never looked this big… or this angry.
Gaby felt her own temper thin. "Hello, Jacques. Off your beaten track, aren't you?"
He twitched the rein and, with the slightest pressure from his knees, urged the Arabian on. "You really don't have any way of knowing what is or isn't my beaten track." He looked directly down upon Gaby. She shrugged, but her heart beat faster.
"I rode in these hills when I was a boy."
Annoyance straightened her back. "Really?" He truly thought that having visited the area all his life, as a spoiled rich kid, gave him deep understanding of the dynamics here.
"This isn't about me," he said.
"This?"
He edged even closer until she had to tip her head to see his face. "Does Mae like visiting her father?''
Now her stomach made an entire loop. "Yes, she does. How did you know that's where she was?"
"Why don't you blame Michael Copeland for leaving you while you were pregnant?"
If he'd punched her, she couldn't have felt more shocked.
"Mmm." His smile—tight, thin—driving those fascinating vertical grooves into his cheeks, didn't warm his eyes. "Did you really think I'd never find out who you are?"
Gaby bent forward and rubbed her brow. "You know who I am."
"What?"
She looked at him again. "You know who I am."
"I do now."
"You did before. Jacques—" scrambling, she got to her feet "—I guess I can understand you feeling a bit irritated. You aren't used to surprises. Jacques Ledan controls his world, doesn't he?"
"Jacques Ledan doesn't play stupid games with people he cares about."
"Neither…" The next breath she took stayed in her throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget it. You deliberately misled me."
"No." She burned under his gaze. "At least, not at first."
"You didn't need to do so at all, lady. I was straight with you."
"Why should you care?" she snapped. "All that mattered to you was getting what you want. You sashayed in here and told us all what we were going to do. Did you ever, even once, actually ask me if I wanted to make your damn baseball caps? Did you?"
"You're being unreasonable."
"Because I'm telling it like it is? Give me a break." Grabbing at his mount's bridle, she glared up at Jacques. "First you sent in your trained animals, then you showed in person with the big guns to tell me exactly what prizes you intended to shower upon me."
"And in betwee
n, you and I discovered something else about ourselves," he said in a soft, still voice that cut to Gaby's core. "Don't forget that. You sure as hell didn't fight me too hard."
"Okay, I admit that." Denying the truth wouldn't change it. "But I also admit I made a mistake in responding to you." Even though she ached to touch him again, to feel him touch her.
"You deliberately misled me."
"You tried to use me. First as some sort of cheap labor. Then as a direct line to the people of Goldstrike."
"I never tried to use you. God, but you must have laughed up your sleeve at me."
Gaby grasped his calf. "Why would I laugh at you? I didn't ask you to come here. None of us did." Beneath her fingers, his leg was steel hard.
"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy making an ass of me."
"I didn't make you that."
"In other words you think that's what I am, anyway." His leg flexed. "Damn it. I've made men pay for doing a whole lot less to me."
She crossed her arms and blinked at sudden, completely foreign tears. "I don't know why you're shouting at me—and threatening me."
"I never shout."
"All right. But you're used to getting your own way and you hate it that this time it's not going to happen."
He moved so quickly, Gaby had no time to react. Leaning from the saddle, Jacques shot an arm around her waist and hoisted her into the air.
"Stop it!" Kicking only made him tighten his grip. "Put me down!"
His laugh chilled her… and excited her. ''You don't want me to stop, sweetheart. Oh, no. I've just decided what it was I came out here to do,"
"Put me down!" Gaby screamed.
Jacques's response was to shift back and swing her to sit in front of him. "You know you don't want me to put you down," he said against her neck. "Up to now, the game has been yours, hasn't it? You've played with me and enjoyed every second. Now it's my turn to call the shots."
Her heart leapt. "I will not be manhandled." A wild wriggle only served to slide her bottom firmly between his legs. "I'm expected at home."
"I don't think so. Mae's with her daddy and you're out riding for the day." With one arm wrapped firmly around her, Jacques used his free hand—and the thighs that pressed Gaby's—to guide his horse back to Vi's side. He gathered the roan's rein. "There's a whole lot of this day left. We're not going to waste any of it. Git, Snake."
Mad About The Man Page 10