Mad About The Man

by Stella Cameron

  An irritating twinge reminded him of the cut over his right brow. He touched it lightly and grinned again. A small price to pay for knocking Copeland on his selfish ass.

  White veins of light blossomed briefly in the early evening sky.

  Jacques glanced upward and scowled. He'd convinced himself the only reason Gaby hadn't come earlier today was because—according to his ally, Char Brown—-the work for the movie was in its final phase. But, with Char's encouragement, he'd convinced himself Gaby would arrive before the day was out.

  A far distant rumble of thunder sounded.

  If all hell broke loose with the weather she was unlikely to venture up here—particularly since it was already getting dark.

  He wouldn't want her to.

  Absentmindedly, he cranked a can from the six-pack and popped the top. A fire would be nice, only that would ruin the pining-away effect he'd accomplished… if she should just happen to make it here after all.

  The next streak of lightning raced across the sky and burst like something out of a Munster movie. Jacques dropped into his chair, pulled the beer tab all the way off and flipped it, very deliberately, onto the rug.

  Thunder shook the house.

  And there, on a low slope, shone the headlights of an approaching car.

  "Hot damn!" He swallowed some beer, shuddered and leaned forward for a better view. "There is a higher being!

  "Keep calm, Ledan. Don't blow it." The extra rumpling he gave his hair might not be necessary, but it made him feel good. "If that isn't you, Gaby, I'm coming after you myself."

  Whoever was behind those headlights was evidently in training for the Grand Prix. The beams disappeared for brief intervals, only to zip into sight again each time.

  Jacques frowned. "Damn women drivers. Menace on the roads." He felt for the buttons on his old denim shirt, only to remember they were already undone. His jeans, snug and faded from a zillion washings, rode low on his hips and showed skin at the knee.

  Nature sent a blue-white roman candle through the heavens, followed it in seconds with a bass blast that rattled windows, then hurled giant raindrops on the skylight and wall of windows.

  He lowered his eyelids and waited. Any display of eagerness could ruin a masterful production.

  Two minutes passed before Spike barked.

  Jacques took his time getting out of the chair.

  The front door bell rang—and kept right on ringing. A momentary pang of misgiving lived, but promptly died. She was leaning on the bell because she wanted in out of the rain. Out of the rain and into his arms.

  Keeping his pace leisurely took control. He reminded himself that in the afterglow of the reunion there would be some serious ground to be covered. But first things first.

  That bell needed to be changed, or disconnected. It drove a man nuts.

  Through the glass in the front door he could make out Gaby's shape. He closed his eyes for an instant and gave in to the luxury of considering Gaby's shape in detail.

  The bell ceased, to be replaced by hammering.

  An impatient woman could be a delight to behold—or hold. Jacques unlocked the door and opened it slowly, keeping one hand, the one holding the beer can, pressed to his naked belly. "Who the hell is it?" he said, slurring his words. "Can't a man get any peace in his own home?"

  The door, slamming into his shoulder, knocked him backward. His heel landed on Spike's tail and the dog yowled before flying away in a whirl of feet and flapping ears.

  "Get out of my way," Gaby said, marching past him.

  "I'm not in your way," he pointed out, but she showed no sign of having heard him. He bowed as she set off into the house. "Welcome to my humble abode, Your Majesty. Honored, I'm sure."

  He closed the door and told the air, "And that, my friends, is the way it's going to be. The lady wants war, and she shall have it. And then I shall have what I want."

  Gaby awaited him in the study. When he entered he was confronted by her back as she bent over the desk to poke among piles of used glasses, paper plates and boxes from microwavable entrees.

  "How are you, sweetheart?" he asked and sighed loudly. "How's work going for the movie?"

  "What is all this?" With a finger and thumb, she held up a chicken enchilada box—with the chicken enchilada, congealed, still inside. "And this?" Sole au gratin with peapods dangled from her other hand.

  "Haven't you used those? They're great. Four minutes on high, turn the tray and give them another three minutes and voila! Delicious."

  "How would you know? You haven't eaten them."

  He shook his head. "I know. I just haven't been hungry lately."

  Gaby dropped the boxes and surveyed the room. Then she looked at Jacques, really looked at him for the first time since she arrived. "This place is a mess. Uneaten food everywhere. Garbage on the floor. What's happened to your staff?"

  "Didn't feel like seeing anyone if it wasn't you." He avoided her eyes.

  "I asked you about the staff," she said, only slightly less abruptly.

  "They're on leave until I call them back."

  "How stupid. Sulking away up here because you aren't getting your own way in everything like you usually do."

  "Gaby—"

  "Are you ill?" she asked sharply.

  "I guess not." He gave a gallic shrug. "Not really. Not in the conventional sense. I—"

  "Either you are or you aren't. You look like hell. Have you seen a doctor?"

  "No," he said. She didn't exactly sound deeply sympathetic.

  "When was the last time you shaved?"

  "I don't remember. Yesterday. Maybe the day before. Or the day before that."

  With every second the storm gathered force. Rain burst on the windows like smashed crystals fired from a giant slingshot.

  Gaby stood before the dramatic backdrop, a small defiant creature in black silk with wet droplets glittering in her unbound hair.

  "Can I get you something?" he asked. "Coffee? Cognac?"

  "When did you eat?"

  He indicated the discarded cartons on his desk. "I have tried. Sometimes you're not in the mood."

  She pulled her hair forward over one shoulder and braided it rapidly. "You and I are going to talk. First I'll shovel some of this garbage out before they send in the health department. Then you're going to eat something. Then—when I'm sure you're concentrating on every word I say—we'll get things one hundred percent straight between us, Jacques."

  "What's not straight?" He knew a moment's uncertainty.

  "From my point of view, nothing. From yours, just about everything, I'd say. Give me that grocery sack, the one on its side with the bottles and cans failing out."

  Feeling vaguely annoyed, he did as she asked. The bag was double. She pulled one from the other and proceeded, very efficiently, to sweep away the debris he'd so artfully assembled.

  Jacques watched and felt every muscle in his body grow taut—in time with his resolve. As she worked, the night grew wilder. Soon any thought she might have of delivering a verbal salvo and leaving would be out of the question.

  "I've missed you, Gaby," he told her. God, was that ever true.

  "Don't say that," she said, continuing to gather newspapers into a pile. "Don't say or do anything to make this harder than it already is."

  "Or easier?" he suggested tentatively. "Are you afraid that if I help you calm down, you won't be able to resist me anymore?"

  Her head shot up. "What do you mean by that? I hate to disappoint you, Jacques, but I can live without… without…"

  "Can you, Gaby? Do you want to?"

  She swung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I'm not being drawn into this kind of conversation." With the heap of papers in one arm and a bag of garbage balanced on a hip, she headed for the corridor. "Clean yourself up. Then come to the kitchen." Jacques followed at her heels, ignoring the furious glares she aimed at him.

  "Do you have any idea what you look like?" she asked when she'd disposed of the garbage. "U
nshaven, disheveled and probably unwashed."

  "I always wash."

  "Those jeans are falling apart."

  "I know. They're comfortable." He rubbed his bare middle.

  "At least you could do up your shirt."

  "You do it up." He approached until he'd backed her against the sink. "I haven't been myself lately. Small tasks seem beyond me."

  He saw her swallow and pass a quick glance from the center of his chest to the low waist of his jeans— and below. "Gaby, let's not waste time arguing," he said softly, bringing his mouth closer to hers. "We do other things so much better."

  "No!" Pushing past him, she stood in the middle of the room. "I was going to try to do this in a civilized way, but that's impossible with you."

  "Do what, Gaby?" This was definitely not going as planned.

  "Tell you that although you've snowed everyone else in Goldstrike, you haven't fooled me. I may have to fight you alone, but I will fight. What you're doing to our town is wrong."

  "And you want to talk about that? Negotiate?"

  "There's nothing to negotiate about in the areas that concern me. I'm going to stop you, Jacques. That's what I came up here to tell you."

  "And I thought you might have come to give us a chance to talk about our future."

  She frowned. "Future?"

  "Yes, future. The time you and I are going to spend together. Lots of time. We could start right now."

  "By having sex?" She laughed, but her voice wobbled and her hands, before she pushed them into the pockets of her dress, trembled. "And that's what you mean by our future, isn't it? Sex together whenever you decide you need a diversion?"

  Women were the most infuriating creatures. "You know that's not all I want from you."

  "Yes, I do. I know you also want me to stop opposing your plans for the area. You're afraid that I might still have enough influence around here to make things difficult for you. And you don't like it if one tiny thing doesn't go according to plan."

  He stared at her. Could she really have judged him that wrongly? Could he have failed to give her a clearer picture of his feelings?

  "Look, we might as well get this over with and go our separate ways," Gaby said, a suspicion of a sheen in her eyes. "I admit I may have been wrong to be so completely unyielding about everything you've proposed."

  "Thanks."

  "Don't be sarcastic. I'm trying to deal with this as pleasantly as possible."

  "Thanks.''

  "Oh, you're impossible. All men are impossible."

  "If you want to make me mad, lump me together with that caricature you were dumb enough to marry."

  He knew his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

  "At least Michael has the guts to say what he thinks when he thinks it. He doesn't wait in alleys and jump people when they don't expect it, just because his pride's been a bit dented."

  Jacques snorted. "I didn't jump him. I confronted him in broad daylight. He took the first swing. All I did was defend myself. He came off worse. Too bad from his point of view,"

  "If you thought he was off base in what he said about me at Sis's, why didn't you say so right then? You might have done me some good."

  He planted his fists on his hips. "I'll never understand women. If it hadn't been for you, I would have had it out with him in the diner. I was afraid of embarrassing you."

  For the first time since she'd arrived, Jacques saw her determination waver. Not for long. "I came to clear everything up between us, Jacques. When I walk back out that door, you'll know exactly what's been on my mind these past few days."

  "This sounds promising." All but the walking out bit.

  "Good." She began to pace about the kitchen. "Why don't we go and get comfortable somewhere?"

  "Here's fine. I don't want to take too much time over this."

  "Of course not." He knew, with the strength of will for which he was famous in some circles, that he would not allow this woman to leave him tonight.

  Wind moaned in the firs close to the house, and branches scraped the roof.

  "I've been wrong to be so unyielding about everything."

  He relaxed so abruptly he almost sighed. "I knew you'd see it my way in time."

  The look she gave him was confusing: a mixture of exasperation and something he couldn't decipher—unless it was anger.

  "As I was saying, I shouldn't have given the immediate thumbs-down on everything you proposed. There's a lot of good here and there in the plans. Goldstrike will be better off—as long as you're not allowed to go too far." Her eyes fixed on his. "But the trouble is that you are trying to go too far and that's that."

  He raised his chin and looked down at her. "And only your opinion counts. Only what you think can possibly be correct, is that right?"

  "I am right."

  "Naturally." His teeth came together hard. "How could I have been so foolish as to think I didn't have to get your approval at every stage?"

  She pulled her purse forward, opened it and removed an envelope. "This is yours."

  When he wouldn't take it, she threw the packet on the table.

  "Changing the title back into your name won't be a problem. Unfortunately the dozens of flowers you've bombarded me with in the past few days were too difficult to transport up here."

  "You don't like flowers?"

  "I love them." Again she didn't look away quickly enough to hide the glimmer of tears. "But not as weapons against me."

  Jacques frowned. "Gaby, I don't understand you."

  "You're impossible," she said.

  "And you're off the wall. The most unconventional woman I've ever met."

  "You're criticizing me."

  "Good God." He made a grab for her and missed as she dodged out of his way. "This is pointless. Why can't—"

  "You've got it! Pointless! And you can't buy me, Jacques." With that, she produced a set of car keys. "Having that car delivered this morning was your biggest mistake—your final mistake. If I wanted a car, I'd buy one. Maybe not a convertible Jag, but who needs one. Money isn't something I'm short of."

  His temper frayed to breaking point. "But you're short of the things that really matter, Gaby."

  She shook her head. "This is getting us nowhere. Keep your building. And keep your fancy car. Go back where you belong—with the rich and smooth—and leave us alone."

  "Just like that? I thought you said much of what I'm doing here is worthwhile."

  "I did. And it is. But you can do all of that without ever having to lay eyes on me—" breath sobbed in her throat "—and without my having to see you. But I'll fight you on the rest, Jacques. I promise you that. If it takes every penny I've got and every ounce of energy, I'm going to stop that damn theme park from being built here. And the spa. And the high-rise hotel with the shuttles to Tahoe. I'm going to stop you. Period."

  He caught the keys she threw at him.

  "Goodbye, Jacques. There's a lot about you I like—" her mouth worked "—a lot. Goodbye."

  "No. Not goodbye," he stated flatly. "Never goodbye."

  "I'm going home."

  He looked at the keys in his hand. "Really. How?"

  She looked momentarily nonplussed. "Um… you'll drive me, of course."

  Jacques tossed the keys on the table. "Like hell I will."

  "This is the last thing I'll ask of you."

  "As far as I can remember you've never asked for anything before. But the answer's no."

  "You've got to." The alarm in her eyes troubled Jacques, but what happened tomorrow and the next day—and for the rest of tonight—hinged on how he managed this little crisis.

  "I don't have to do anything, Gaby. I'm going to light a fire in the study and pour us some brandy. It's wild out there. Too dangerous for anyone to be driving those mountain roads."

  "I'm going home."

  "No, you're not. You're going to talk things through with me. Then, when the storm passes over… then, we'll see."

  "Jacques!"


  He walked out of the kitchen and back to the study. She was headstrong, but he was about to show her he could be stronger when necessary.

  The lights flickered twice while he piled wood into the fireplace. Jacques smiled. He could think of worse things than being marooned in a dark, very comfortable house with Gaby McGregor.

  Flames shot up the chimney and he sat on his heels. The door slid open, but Spike rather than Gaby appeared, and came to lie close to the hearth. "Smart girl," he said, patting her. "You know when to take advantage of a good thing."

  He pulled a chair close and sat down to outwait Gaby.

  When the lights went out completely, he was still waiting.

  More minutes passed. And more.

  "Damn." Rather than come to him, she'd stand on her own in a dark kitchen. She had to be the most stubborn female he'd ever encountered… and the most desirable.

  He negotiated his way to find her by instinct.

  The wind wailed now, and rain beat each skylight as he walked beneath. At least the thunder had passed over.

  As he entered the kitchen, cold air hit his face.

  "What the hell…?" Jacques stood still and peered around and while he did, the door to the outside batted back and forth under the onslaught of the weather. He only hesitated a moment. "Damn fool woman." Despite the danger, she'd decided to make the return drive in the middle of the kind of storm any idiot would avoid.

  Running, registering his lack of shoes but knowing every second counted, he dashed outside and around to the entrance courtyard.

  The Jaguar stood where she'd left it.

  Jacques, his shirt already plastered to his body, searched in all directions.

  She'd set off, in driving rain and ripping wind, to walk home!

  He couldn't go after her barefoot.

  The minutes it took to return for the keys to the Jag and to pull on shoes were too long. By the time he started the powerful engine and drove from the courtyard, peering through the drenched windshield, his heart felt lodged in his throat. It would be possible to trip and fall from the edge of this road in daylight. At night, in blinding rain, it might be harder not to fall.

  Crawling, ducking and straining to catch any movement, he steered around one bend after another. She couldn't have gone far.

  The nose of the Jag straightened out of a curve and the headlights picked up something pale. Jacques set his teeth in a furious grimace. Then he heard a growling sound.