Dawn in Eclipse Bay

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  She crossed the room, gripped the handle and tried to open the slider. It stuck. Just as it had been sticking for the past two months. She took a firmer grasp, braced herself and forced it open.

  The slider resisted for a few seconds and then reluctantly moved in its track. She stood back and surveyed the interior of her closet. The clothes on the hangers seemed to be in the same order they had been in when she had packed. The stack of plastic sweater boxes on the shelf looked untouched.

  This was ridiculous. She was allowing her imagination to get carried away.

  She reached for the handle of the slider again, intending to close the door. She went cold when she saw the smear on the mirrored glass at the far end next to the metal frame.

  She allowed her hand to hover over the smear. It was right where the heel of a palm would rest if one were to take hold of the frame at the far end in an attempt to force the slider closed. But the mark was a little higher than one she would have left if she had grasped the frame.

  Right about where a man or a woman a couple of inches taller than herself might put his or her palm.

  She stepped back quickly.

  Someone had been in this room.

  Take deep breaths. Think about logical possibilities.

  Burglary.

  She whirled around, examining the scene once more. Nothing appeared to be missing.

  She rushed back out into the living room and threw open the doors of the cabinet that housed her entertainment electronics. The expensive equipment was still safely stowed in place on the shelves.

  She went cautiously down the hall to the small second bedroom that she used as a study. Halting in the doorway, she studied the interior. The most valuable item in this room was the art glass vase her parents had given her for her birthday last year. It glowed orange and red on the shelf near her desk.

  She was definitely overreacting here. Maybe she was on edge because of the tension of dealing with Gabe.

  More deep breaths. Other logical possibilities.

  The cleaning people.

  She had canceled the weekly appointments until further notice. But there could have been a mix-up about the dates. The cleaners had a key. Perhaps they had come in last Friday on the usual day.

  It made sense. One of them might have tried to close the closet door. But surely a professional housecleaner would have wiped off the smear on the mirror?

  Then again, perhaps the cleaner had been in a hurry and hadn’t noticed the smudge.

  The light winked on the phone, snapping her out of her reverie. Belatedly it occurred to her that she hadn’t checked her messages during the time she had been away in Eclipse Bay. She pulled herself out of the doorway, crossed to the desk and punched in the code.

  There had been two calls. Both had been received the night before last between ten and eleven o’clock. In each instance the caller had stayed on the line long enough for the beep to sound. But no one had left a message.

  A shiver went through her. She listened to the long silence before the hangup and fancied she could hear the unknown caller breathing.

  Logical possibilities.

  Two wrong numbers in a row. People rarely left messages when they dialed a wrong number.

  This was crazy. She needed to get a grip and fast.

  She grabbed the phone and dialed the number of the agency that cleaned regularly. The answer to her question came immediately.

  “Yes, we sent the crew in last Friday,” the secretary said apologetically. “Sorry about the mix-up. We’ll give you a free cleaning when you restart the service.”

  “No, that’s all right. I just wanted to know if you had been into the apartment, that’s all.”

  She put the phone down and waited for her heart to stop pounding. It took a while.

  She did the little black dress bit for the dinner. The darkened hotel banquet room was filled to capacity with members of both the business and academic worlds. She sat at the head table, next to the wife of the guest of honor, and listened, fascinated, to Gabe’s introductory remarks. She had known this event was important to him but she had not been prepared for the deep and very genuine warmth of his words.

  “. . . Like so many of you here tonight, I, too, was profoundly influenced by Dr. Montoya . . .”

  He stood easily in front of the crowd, hands braced on either side of the podium frame, speaking without notes.

  “. . . I will never forget that memorable day in my senior year when Dr. Montoya called me into his office to discuss my first five-year plan, a plan which, in all modesty, I can only describe as visionary . . .”

  Laughter interrupted him for a moment.

  “. . . ‘Gabe,’ Dr. Montoya said, ‘with this plan, I sincerely doubt that you could attract enough venture capital to put up a lemonade stand . . .’ ”

  The audience roared. Beneath the cover of applause, Dolores Montoya, a lively woman with silver-and-black hair, leaned over to whisper in Lillian’s ear.

  “Thank goodness the committee chose Gabe to make the introduction. At this kind of event half the crowd is usually dozing by the time the guest of honor gets to the podium. At least he’s keeping them awake.”

  Lillian did not avert her attention off Gabe. “Trust me, he won’t let anyone fall asleep. This is important to him. I hadn’t realized just how important until now.”

  “My husband has told me more than once that Gabe was the most determined student he ever had in the classroom,” Delores told her.

  At the podium, Gabe continued his remarks.

  “. . . I’m happy to say that I finally got my lemonade stand up and running . . .”

  This understatement was greeted by more chuckles from the crowd. Likening Madison Commercial to a lemonade stand was somewhat on a par with comparing a rowboat to a nuclear submarine, Lillian thought.

  “. . . in large part because of what I learned from Dr. Montoya. But looking back, I can see that it wasn’t just his nuts-and-bolts advice on how to survive market downturns and nervous investors that I took with me when I left his classroom.” Gabe paused for a beat. “He gave me something much deeper and more important. He gave me a sense of perspective . . .”

  The crowd listened intently.

  “. . . Dr. Montoya gave me an understanding not only of how business works in a free country but of what we who make our living in business owe to our communities and our nation. He showed me the connections that bind us. He gave me a deep and lasting appreciation of what it takes to maintain the freedoms and the spirit that allows us to succeed. He taught me that none of us can make it in a vacuum. And for those teachings, I will always be grateful. I give you now, Dr. Roberto Montoya.”

  The gathering erupted once again as Dr. Montoya walked to the podium. This time the applause was led by Gabe. It metamorphosed into a standing ovation. Lillian got to her feet and clapped along with everyone else.

  No wonder Dr. Montoya was important to Gabe, she thought. This was how a kid from a family that could not provide any successful male role models became one of the most successful men in the Northwest. He found himself someone who could teach him how to get ahead and he had paid attention.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be crying.” Dolores handed her a tissue.

  “Thanks.” Lillian hastily blotted her tears, grateful that the lights were all focused on the podium.

  The applause died away and the members of the audience took their seats again. The spotlight focused on Roberto Montoya. Gabe made his way back through the shadows to the chair beside Lillian. She felt his attention rest briefly on her profile and sensed his curiosity. She hoped he hadn’t seen her dabbing at her eyes with the tissue.

  He started to lean toward her, as if about to ask her what was wrong. Fortunately his attention was distracted a moment by Dr. Montoya, who had just launched into his own remarks.

  “Before I get to the boring parts,” Dr. Montoya said, “there is something I would like to clarify. I taught Gabriel Madison many thin
gs, but there is one thing I did not teach him.” He paused to look toward the head table. “I did not teach him how to dress. That, he learned all on his own.”

  There was a startled silence and then the crowd howled with delight.

  “Oh, hell,” Gabe muttered, sounding both resigned and amused.

  Dr. Montoya turned back to the audience. “Five years ago when I approached Gabe to try to talk him into participating in a program that would place college seniors in local businesses during their final semesters, he said—and I recall his exact words very clearly—he said, what the hell do you expect me to teach a bunch of kids about business that you can’t teach them?”

  There was a short pause. Montoya leaned into the microphone.

  “ ‘Teach ’em how to dress for success,’ I said.”

  When the fresh wave of laughter had faded Montoya continued. “He took me seriously. Every semester when I send him the current crop of business students, he takes them to meet his tailor. What’s more, he quietly picks up the tab for those who can’t afford that first all-important business suit. Tonight, some of his protégés have prepared a small surprise to thank him for what he taught them.”

  The spotlight shifted abruptly to the far end of the stage. Two young men and a woman stood there. All three were dressed in identical steel-gray business suits, charcoal-gray shirts, and black-and-silver striped ties. All three had their hair combed straight back from their foreheads. Three sets of silver-and-onyx cuff links glinted in the light. Three stainless-steel watches glinted on three wrists.

  The Gabe Madison clone on the right carried a box wrapped and tied in silver foil and black ribbon.

  They walked forward in lockstep.

  The audience broke out in another wave of laughter and applause.

  Gabe dropped his face into his hands. “I will never live this down.”

  The young woman in the Gabe suit assumed control of the microphone. “We all owe Mr. Madison a debt of gratitude for the opportunities he provided to us during our semester at Madison Commercial. Most of us came from backgrounds where the unwritten rules of the business world were unknown. He taught us the secret codes. Gave us self-confidence. Opened doors. And, yes, he introduced us to his tailor and offered us some advice on how to dress.”

  One of the young men took charge of the microphone. “Tonight we would like to show our gratitude to Mr. Madison by giving him a helping hand with a concept that he has never fully grasped . . .”

  The clone holding the silver foil box removed the lid with a flourish. The young woman reached inside and removed a scruffy-looking tee shirt, faded blue jeans, and a pair of well-worn running shoes.

  “. . . The concept of casual Fridays,” the clone at the microphone concluded.

  The banquet room exploded once again in laughter and applause. Gabe rose and walked back to the podium to accept his gift. He flashed a full laughing smile at the three clones.

  It struck Lillian in that moment that Gabe looked like a man at the top of his game—a man who enjoyed the respect of his friends and rivals alike, a man who was comfortable with his own power in the business world, cool and utterly in control.

  He sure didn’t look like a man who was going through a bad case of burnout.

  chapter 11

  An hour later Gabe bundled her into the Jag and made to close the passenger door. Impulse struck. She gave into it without examining the decision.

  “Would you mind if we stopped at my studio on the way back to the apartment?” she said. “I forgot a few things this afternoon when I went there.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  He closed the door, circled the car and paused long enough to remove his jacket. He put it down in the darkness of the backseat and got in behind the wheel. She gave him directions but she had the feeling that he already knew where he was going. He drove smoothly out of the parking garage and turned the corner.

  A short time later he stopped at the curb in front of the brick building in which she rented studio space.

  “This won’t take long,” she said.

  “There’s no rush.”

  He got out of the car and opened her door for her. She walked beside him to the secured entrance. He waited while she punched in the code.

  They went up the stairs to the second-floor loft in silence. When she inserted her key into the lock she realized that her pulse was beating a little too quickly. A sense of anticipation mingled with unease quickened her breathing.

  Why had she brought him here? she wondered. Where had the urge come from? What was the point of showing him the studio tonight? He was a businessman with no use for arty types.

  She opened the door and groped for the switches on the wall to the right. She flipped two of the six, turning on some of the lights but not all, leaving large sections of the loft in shadow.

  Gabe surveyed the interior.

  “So this is where you work.” His voice was completely uninflected.

  “Yes.” She watched him prowl slowly forward, examining the canvases propped against the walls. “This is where I paint.”

  He stopped in front of a picture of her great-aunt Isabel. It showed her seated in a wicker chair in the solarium at Dreamscape, looking out to sea.

  Gabe looked at the painting for a long time.

  “I remember seeing that expression on Isabel’s face sometimes,” he said finally. Absently he loosened the knot in his tie and opened the collar of his shirt. He did not take his gaze off the picture. “As if she were looking at something only she could see.”

  Lillian crossed to the large worktable at the far end of the room, propped one hip on the edge and picked up a sketchpad and a pencil. “Everyone has that look from time to time. Probably because we all see something a little different when we look out at the world.”

  “Maybe.”

  He removed the silver-and-onyx cuff links and slid them into the pocket of his trousers. Again, his movements were casual and unself-conscious; the easy actions of a man relaxing after a formal evening.

  He moved on to the next picture, rolling up the sleeves of the charcoal-gray shirt as he crossed the space, exposing the dark hair on the back of his arms.

  She watched him for a moment. He looked rakish and extremely sexy with his tie undone and his shirt open at the throat. But what compelled her was the way he looked at her paintings. There was an intensity in him that told her that he made a visceral connection with the images she had created. He might not like the arty type but he responded to art. Unwillingly.

  She began to draw, compelled by the shadows in her subject.

  “You meant everything you said about Dr. Montoya tonight, didn’t you?” she asked, not looking up from her work.

  “He was the closest thing I had to a mentor.” Gabe studied a picture of an old man sitting on a bench in the park. “I was a kid from a small town. I didn’t know how to handle myself. Didn’t know what was appropriate. I had no polish. No sophistication. No connections. I knew where I wanted to go but I didn’t know how to get there. He gave me a lot of the tools I needed to build Madison Commercial.”

  “Now you repay him by allowing him to send some of his students into Madison Commercial every year.”

  “The company gets something out of it, too. The students bring a lot of energy and enthusiasm with them. And we get first crack at some bright new talent.”

  “Really? I’ve heard my father talk about what a nuisance student interns are for a busy company. They can be a real pain.”

  “Not everyone is cut out to work in a corporation.”

  Her pencil stilled for an instant. “Me, for instance.”

  He nodded. “You, for instance. And apparently your sister and brother, too. You’ve all got strong, independent, entrepreneurial streaks. You’re all ambitious and you’re all talented but you don’t play well with others. At least not in a business setting.”

  “And you think you’re so very different? Give me a break. Tell me something, Gabe,
if you were only a vice-president instead of the owner, president, and CEO of Madison Commercial, would you still be on the company payroll?”

  There was a short pause.

  “No,” he said. Flat and final.

  “You said that not everyone is cut out to work in a large corporation.” She moved the pencil swiftly, adding shadows. “But not everyone is cut out to run one, either. You were born for it, weren’t you?”

  He pulled his attention away from a canvas and looked at her down the length of the studio. “Born for it? That’s a new one. Most people would say I was born to self-destruct before the age of thirty.”

  “You’ve got the natural talent for leadership and command that it takes to organize people and resources to achieve an objective.” She hunched one shoulder a little, concentrating on the angle of his jaw. Going for the darkness behind his eyes. “In your own way, you’re an artist. You can make folks see your objective, make them want to get there with you. No wonder you were able to get that initial funding you needed for Madison Commercial. You probably walked into some venture capitalist’s office and painted him a glowing picture of how much money he would make if he backed you.”

  Gabe did not move. “Talking her out of the venture capital funds I needed wasn’t the hard part.”

  She glanced up sharply, her curiosity pricked by his words.

  “Her?” she repeated carefully.

  “Your great-aunt Isabel is the one who advanced me the cash I needed to get Madison Commercial up and running.”

  She almost fell from her perch on the worktable.

  “You’re kidding.” She held the point of the pencil in the air, poised above the paper. “Isabel backed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She never said a word about it to any of us.”

  He shrugged. “That was the way she wanted it.”

  She contemplated that news.

  “Amazing,” she said at last. “Everyone knew that it was her dream to end the Harte-Madison feud. Hannah figures that’s the reason she left Dreamscape equally to her and your brother in the will. But why would she back you financially? What would that have to do with ending the old quarrel?”