On the Tycoon's Terms

by Sandra Field

  “No.”

  Ramon smiled at the waitress as she put his spanakopita in front of him. “So,” he said amiably, once they were alone again, “she was immune to your charm and your undoubted good looks?”

  “Yeah. Well, no. Sort of. I guess.”

  Ramon gave him a quizzical look. “One thing I’ve always admired about you is your decisiveness. Yes. No. Always you know which one to choose. Except now.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Luke said edgily. “She wasn’t one of the delegates. She was working as a waitress at the resort.”

  Ramon raised his brows. “So she was after your money? I thought you were used to that by now.”

  “She wasn’t! I swear she wasn’t.”

  “You went to bed with her?”

  Luke ate a black olive. “I feel like I’m in the dock,” he said, scowling. “No, I did not.”

  “But you wanted to. Some women say no just to keep a man interested. On the hook.”

  “She wasn’t like that.”

  “You’ve got it bad, amigo,” Ramon chuckled. “She was beautiful, yes?”

  “Oh, yeah, she was beautiful.” Luke frowned. “She reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who. And she had a thing about San Francisco, reacted like a startled deer every time it was mentioned.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Katrin.” Impulsively Luke fumbled in his gym bag, took out the envelope of prints and passed the three of Katrin across the table. Ramon took them carefully by the corners, his total attention focussed on the laughing woman on the beach. When he looked up, he was no longer smiling.

  “What’s her last name?” he asked in a clipped voice.

  “Sigurdson. What’s the matter?”

  “Sigurdson…that’s right. Although I knew her as Katrin Staines. Widow of Donald Staines. That mean anything to you?”

  Luke’s nerves tightened like overstretched wire. Katrin a widow? He said brusquely, “Not a damn thing—and I have a pretty good memory for names. What do you mean, you knew her? When? And where? And who was this Donald Staines?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this,” Ramon said. “She used to live in San Francisco. About two and a half years ago, her husband was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Luke repeated dazedly. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

  Ramon flicked the photos with his finger. “I recognized her immediately…she’s not exactly forgettable. It came out at the trial that she was of Icelandic descent, from northern Canada. I don’t forget these details, it’s part of my job.”

  “Trial?” Luke said sharply. “What trial?”

  “She had a motive. Money. A great deal of money. The prosecution made the most of that, of course. But she also had an ironclad alibi. In the end, although they did their best to suggest she hired someone to kill Donald Staines, they couldn’t make it stick. There was absolutely no record of her paying out any large sums of money in the preceding few months.”

  Luke stared at his companion, his brain whirling. “Am I dreaming?” he demanded. “Are we actually sitting here having this conversation?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Out of the blue, Luke was transported back to Askja on his last evening there. Under the birch trees, Guy had said something to Katrin that had made her sag with despair. What exactly had he said? It had had to do with a stain on her reputation.

  Her married name had been Staines.

  So that was why she’d looked so upset. And no wonder she’d reacted so strongly to any mention of San Francisco, the city where she’d lived; where her trial had taken place.

  He said at random, “I was out of the country for several months two years ago. But I must have seen a photo in the newspaper, and that’s why I had that strange feeling that I recognized her.”

  “Are you in love with her?” Ramon asked very quietly.

  “No. Of course not! But it’s a shock, nevertheless.” Trying to gather his scattered wits, Luke ploughed on. “You know, I’m listening to every word that you’re saying. Words like murder and trial and alibi. But I can’t connect them with the woman I know. I just can’t. I keep thinking there must be a mistake. Or this is some kind of sick joke.”

  “Not on my part,” Ramon said pithily.

  Luke gave him a rueful smile. “Sorry, you know I didn’t mean you. You’ve knocked me sideways, that’s all.”

  “I can see that… Why are you so sure that the Katrin you know couldn’t have murdered her husband? Who by all accounts was a very nasty piece of work.”

  Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Luke buttered a piece of crusty white bread. “She couldn’t have. The woman I met at that resort wasn’t capable of murder.” He gave a baffled laugh. “I know that’s not a rational response. But that’s the way I see it. Dammit, I know I’m right.”

  “Ah,” said Ramon. “How very interesting.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Ramon.”

  “I’m not. But I’m glad you said what you did. Rather than asking me if I thought she was guilty.”

  “Guilty of murder? Katrin? I don’t care what the prosecution said, Katrin Sigurdson couldn’t possibly have killed her husband. And to say she hired someone else to do it is laughable. There’s not an underhanded bone in that woman’s body—her honesty was one of the things that first attracted me to her. Even if I didn’t always like being at the receiving end.”

  Ramon took a healthy bite of spanakopita. His mouth full, he mumbled, “Her alibi was real. She was with friends overnight, and the murder happened in the small hours of the morning. But she most certainly had a motive, and that was what caused the most difficulty.”

  “Okay,” Luke said, tension hardening his jaw. “So now I’ll ask you the question. Do you think she did it?”

  “Nope. Never did. I have very good radar for liars, and she wasn’t anywhere near my screen. But her motive…she and Donald Staines had had a huge fight that evening. The servants heard it, and she freely admitted to it. He was a wealthy man, and—this is off the record, my friend—the scum of the earth. As well as being an unfaithful husband he was an embezzler, not to mention a highflyer in some very dubious circles.”

  Ramon paused to take a long pull at his beer. “Eat up, Luke,” he added, a smile crinkling the lines around his eyes. “I want you in better shape for our next game.”

  Luke’s heartbeat had finally settled down to normal; but his hands were cold, and he still hadn’t quite taken in that this was Katrin they were talking about. Manfully he took a mouthful of salad.

  “During the course of their disagreement, Katrin told her husband she was leaving him. That very evening. He said he’d cut her out of his will first thing the next morning if she did so. She said go right ahead, she couldn’t care less…then she left the house by taxi with the clothes she was standing up in, and went to her friends’ house. They were a highly respected couple, he was a chief attorney, she was a hospital administrator. The three of them stayed up most of the night, talking.”

  “A cast-iron alibi,” Luke said thoughtfully.

  “Indeed. In my opinion, the case was mishandled from the start. It should never have gone to trial. But it had too many of the right ingredients: money, corruption, scandal, and a beautiful woman as the defendant. When you put all that together with murder and a possible hit man, you can imagine what happened. The press had a field day.”

  Belatedly Luke’s brain was now working at top speed. “So that would explain why Katrin buried herself in Askja. There are no major newspapers there. And who would connect a waitress with Katrin Staines?”

  “Not you. Obviously.”

  Guy had. But Katrin hadn’t really cared. She’d been ready to leave Askja anyway. “What a terrible ordeal for anyone to go through,” Luke said.

  “I felt very sorry for her. She had enormous dignity and courage…both before and during the trial. But you could see it wearing her down, day by day, month by month. By the time it
was over, she was on the verge of collapse. She got her lawyers to sell the house, packed her bags and left town. I lost track of her after that. But every now and then I’d wonder what had happened to her.”

  Briefly Luke described Katrin’s situation. “She’s ready to leave Askja,” he finished. “But I can’t imagine she’d ever come back here.”

  “Not unless she had a reason to,” Ramon said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Don’t go there,” Luke said harshly.

  “Warning me off?”

  “You said it.” Then Luke grimaced. “I haven’t asked the obvious question. Did they ever find out who did murder Donald Staines?”

  “Case unsolved.” It was Ramon’s turn to frown. “And you know how I love those.”

  Luke dug into his salad. Ramon was his closest friend, but right now he needed to be by himself. Alone. So he could think. Take in all the implications of what he’d learned.

  Half an hour later, after settling on a time for their next game, the two men parted in the parking lot of the sports club.

  Luke walked toward his car, his gym bag in his hand. For the space of ten minutes he sat in the car, staring straight ahead at the brick wall.

  His lunch with Ramon had cleared up so many unanswered questions, things he hadn’t understood about Katrin. He now knew why she lived in a remote village, worked at a job that in no way fulfilled her potential, and was wary of wealthy men. She had very good reasons; furthermore, after an ordeal that must have tested her to the limits, she’d had the sense to retreat and lick her wounds.

  He couldn’t bear to think of her going through a protracted trial conducted in full gaze of the press and the public. Living day after day with flashbulbs bursting in her face, the prosecution ascribing to her things she would never have contemplated, the ceaseless and remorseless prying into her private life; add to that the terror she must have felt that justice might miscarry and she be held responsible for something she hadn’t done…

  He banged his palm on the steering wheel. No wonder she’d looked so utterly despairing when Guy had confronted her that night.

  Wishing he could take on Ramon in the tennis court right now and get rid of some of his pent-up energy, Luke looked around him. The fog had lifted; the car was starting to warm up. So what was he going to do? Go back to work?

  He had no reason not to. Perhaps now that he knew Katrin’s secret, he could forget about her. For hadn’t that tantalizing air of mystery been one of the things that had drawn him to her? That, along with all the contradictions that had now been so neatly explained.

  Where would she go when she left Askja? Return to the States? Stay in Canada? And how would she earn her living?

  Hadn’t she inherited her husband’s money? But if so, why was she working as a waitress?

  His jaw set, Luke put the key in the ignition. None of these questions was any of his concern. The resort in Askja and his brief sojourn there were history. Over and done with. Along with the woman who had caused him, briefly, to forget all his hard-won control.

  Luke turned left out of the parking lot, toward the distant spire of the Transamerica Pyramid, the city’s tallest building and a notable landmark. Once he got there, he must phone Andreas in Greece.

  That was the final piece of unfinished business from the mining conference at the Askja resort.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOUR days later, Luke was on a flight to Manitoba.

  He’d made a phone call before he left, to book his room at the resort. Very casually he’d said, near the end of the conversation, “I’d like a table in the dining room with the same waitress I had before… I believe her name was Katrin.” And then waited, with a dry mouth, to be told she no longer worked there.

  “No problem at all, sir. We’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  It was seven-thirty that evening by the time Luke climbed out of his rental car at the resort. He took a deep breath of the cool air. He could smell the lake. The trees rustled companionably behind him. He felt simultaneously very tired and totally wired.

  He was here. In only a few minutes, he’d see Katrin again.

  Beyond that, he couldn’t go. He didn’t know why he was here, or what he was going to say to her; nor did he have any idea how she’d react to his presence.

  He wanted to make love to her. That much hadn’t changed.

  Grabbing his overnight bag, he walked to the lobby, checked in and went to his suite. He took a quick shower and dressed in casual cotton trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, combing his hair into some kind of order. He should have gotten a hair cut, he thought absently. His heart was racing, as though he’d been jogging. He felt about as suave as a twelve-year-old.

  In the lobby, he grabbed the daily paper; he needed something to do with his hands. Or somewhere to hide his face. He’d never thought of himself as a coward.

  What was he doing here?

  He’d come on impulse, after that equally impulsive visit to the library in San Francisco yesterday afternoon, where he’d read the reports of the trial. Or had he come because he couldn’t forget Katrin, no matter what he did?

  He’d tried. For two whole days, after his lunch with Ramon, he’d pushed any thoughts of her out of his mind as soon as they surfaced.

  Forty-eight hours. It didn’t seem like much.

  On Saturday night he’d even had dinner with a tall brunette, an architect from Sausalito. A move that had proved equally ineffective.

  Taking a deep breath, Luke walked into the dining room. Olaf, the maître d’, said politely, “Good evening, sir. Let me show you to your table.”

  Luke was given a table by the window, which gave him a view of the wharf and of a daysailer bobbing gently in the breeze, its red sail furled. He buried his nose in the wine list.

  Then, as though a magnet had drawn his attention, he looked up. Katrin was crossing the dining room, carrying a loaded tray, her attention on the table nearest his. He noticed immediately that she was no longer wearing her ugly plastic glasses; her hair was in a loose and very becoming knot on the back of her head, a few strands curling on her nape. Then he saw how pale and tired she looked. Dispirited, he thought slowly. Sad. What could be wrong?

  Just before she put the tray down, she glanced over at his table. For a moment frozen in time, she stood like a statue, staring right at him as if he were a ghost. The color fled from her cheeks. The tray tilted sideways; the loaded plates slid gently and inexorably toward the edge.

  She suddenly realized what was happening and shifted her grip in a valiant effort to straighten the tray. But she was too late. One after another, four platefuls of roast beef with all the trimmings inscribed graceful arcs in the air and landed on the carpet, the food with an uncouth squelch, the plates with a loud clatter. A Yorkshire pudding rolled under the table, coming to rest by a guest’s sandal. The broccoli, Luke noticed, was the same shade as the carpet.

  There was a moment of dead silence. If Katrin’s cheeks a moment ago had been white as paper, they were now as red as the sails on her boat. She put the empty tray down on the dumbwaiter and looked helplessly at the congealed mass of gravy and rare roast beef at her feet. It was quite clear that she had no idea what to do next.

  Luke stood up. Into the silence he said, “You didn’t hurt your wrist?”

  His voice sounded like it was coming from another man, one who had nothing to do with him. Discovering that his one urge was to pick her up, carry her bodily out of the room and put her on the first plane to San Francisco, he added without any tact whatsoever, “You don’t look so hot…what’s the matter?”

  “What are you doing here?” Katrin croaked.

  She’d asked the one question to which, basically, he didn’t have an answer. As he sought for words, Olaf arrived on the scene with two waiters in tow, equipped with brooms, cloths and a pail of soapy water.

  “Our apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Olaf said smoothly to the four people whose roast beef was on the floor rather than on the tab
le, and who had been listening in fascinated silence to the exchange between Katrin and Luke. “Your meals will be replaced as quickly as possible,” he went on, “and they will be, of course, compliments of the chef.” Subtly his voice changed. “Katrin, perhaps you could take the plates back to the kitchen and reorder immediately…Katrin?”

  She gave Luke a hunted look, then bent to pick up the plates. Plunking them on the empty tray, she almost ran across the dining room. As throughout the room the hum of conversation resumed, Olaf and his crew cleaned up the mess with remarkable efficiency. Then Olaf walked over to Luke’s table. “Perhaps I could take your order, sir?”

  Luke hadn’t even looked at the menu. “Soup of the day and whatever fresh fish you have,” he said.

  “Wine, sir?”

  “Perrier, thanks.” He needed all his wits about him if he was going to talk to Katrin tonight. He should have phoned her yesterday evening and told her he was coming. But deep down he’d been afraid that if he did so, she’d vanish.

  Very soon one of the waiters brought the second round of roast beef, passing a plate to each of the four guests. Then Katrin came out of the kitchen carrying Luke’s soup. She walked straight toward him. With a quiver of inner laughter, Luke could tell that she’d progressed from shock and embarrassment to rage. All her movements jerky, like a wind-up toy, she put a basket of rolls on his table and the bowl of soup. Spinach soup, by the look of it. He’d never liked spinach.

  He supposed it served him right. He said, trying not to sound overly familiar, and as a result sounding indifferent, “I’m sorry I startled you.”

  Between her teeth, she gritted, “Why are you here?”

  “To see you,” Luke said.

  Her lashes flickered. Once again her cheeks paled, until they matched the white linen cloth on his table. She whispered, “You know. About Donald. Don’t you?”

  “You didn’t do it,” Luke said, putting all the force he could behind his words. “You were totally innocent. I knew that the moment I heard about it.”

  “I inherited all his money,” she said flatly.