The Fatal Fortune

by Castle, Jayne

  “If I’d known who was coming out of the restroom,” the man said as he bent down to help her with the folder, “I’d have made certain I was standing exactly where I was. As it is, I guess I was just lucky. Hello, Guinevere Jones. It’s been a long time.”

  Guinevere’s fingers tightened convulsively around the folder as shock went through her. She raised her head and slowly got to her feet. There were several skills one learned when one ran a service-oriented business. One of them was how to smile even though you were recovering from stunned amazement. She called upon that skill now. “Hello, Rick. What a surprise. I had no idea you worked for Gage and Watson.”

  “For almost a year now,” Rick Overstreet answered easily. His golden-brown eyes moved over Guinevere with interested appraisal. “What are you doing here? A couple of years ago I had the impression you were planning to go into business for yourself.”

  Guinevere had forgotten just how intimate Rick’s glances could be. He had the unsettling ability to make a woman feel pinned like a butterfly beneath his gaze. Overstreet was forty by now, she figured, and he had definitely aged well. His body was still austerely lean and obviously in good shape. He wore his expensive business suit well. The thick, tawny-brown hair was laced with a hint of gray at the temples, giving him a sophisticated, male-in-his-prime look that complemented the straight nose, firm mouth, and strong jaw. His features were regular and well fashioned, strong and masculine, but it had always been his eyes that had attracted women. Rick Overstreet had the eyes of a big, tawny cat. He also had the morals of one, as far as Guinevere was concerned.

  “My business is doing fine,” she told him calmly. “But we’re a little busy at the moment, so I’m taking one of the field assignments. If you’ll excuse me, I should be moving along. Professional temps are never supposed to be late, you know. Nice to see you again, Rick.”

  He smiled lazily. “How about coffee later this morning?”

  “Thanks, but I’m probably going to have to work straight through,” she lied. “I understand the Gage and Watson typing pool is swamped this week. I’m here to help with the overload. How’s your wife?” Guinevere asked with cool bluntness.

  Rick’s smile disappeared, and he fished out a pack of cigarettes, the expensive French brand he had favored two years ago. “Elena died almost two years ago. Shortly after you and I stopped seeing each other, in fact.” He lit the cigarette with a small gold lighter.

  The news of Elena’s death jolted Guinevere. “I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s been two years. I don’t think about it too much anymore. She died in a car accident on her way to Portland to see her family.”

  Guinevere nodded, not knowing what to say. She had never met Elena Overstreet, hadn’t known of the woman’s existence until it was almost too late. “Well, good-bye, Rick. I really must be going.” She turned away and moved hurriedly down the hall, aware of Rick Overstreet’s golden eyes following her into a large room at the end of the corridor. The moment she was out of his sight she realized she was breathing too quickly, as if she had been running. Guinevere forced herself to take a deep, calming breath, as a businesslike, auburn-haired woman in her thirties came forward with a smile.

  “You must be Miss Jones, from the agency. Very glad to see you. I understand your typing is excellent. We were worried when we learned that Sally was ill, but Camelot Services assured us someone would be along to replace her. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about word processors, too, would you?”

  Guinevere smiled at the familiar question. “I’m reasonably familiar with the standard office models.” She glanced around and saw what brand was in use at Gage and Watson. “I think I can manage.”

  “Thank goodness. We could have used you as a typist, but frankly, you’ll be far more useful on the word processor. Come over here and meet Francine Bates. She’ll show you the ropes.”

  Francine Bates was everyone’s idea of a mother figure. Warm, slightly plump, her gray hair worn in a soft halo around her smiling features, she might have just stepped out of the kitchen with a tray of cookies and milk. Guinevere remembered vaguely that Sally Evenson had mentioned her.

  “Sit down, and I’ll show you what we’re doing,” Francine invited cheerfully. “Don’t worry, Lisa,” she added to the typing pool supervisor. “I’ll have her up and running in no time. Do you want her to start on the Copperfield report?”

  “That would be great,” Lisa Malcolm said. “It’s due on Friday.” She smiled and went off to organize the early morning chaos at the other end of the room.

  “I appreciate the help,” Guinevere said, tucking her shoulder bag into her desk drawer as she sat down in front of the word processor.

  “No problem. You’re from the same agency little Sally Evenson was from, aren’t you? I recognize the jacket.”

  “That’s right. Sally had to take the rest of the week off. I’m filling in for her.”

  Francine nodded. “Sally’s a sweet thing, a sensitive young woman. I’ve enjoyed working with her for the past few weeks. I hope she’s all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Just a slight cold.”

  Francine clucked sympathetically as she arranged papers on Guinevere’s desk. “Such a frail little thing. Probably doesn’t take much to make her ill. I told her she wasn’t eating properly. Lord knows what she does eat. Probably just fast food. I’ve thought about taking her over to my sister’s place on the coast for a few days. My sister’s a great cook. She could put a little meat on Sally’s bones. Well, back to business, here’s what the big rush is all about,” she went on, pointing to the papers she had placed on the desk. “This report is due on Friday. Of course, management didn’t get it to us until the last minute, and there have been changes almost every day. I don’t know how they expect us to do a final version by Friday, when they’re probably still going to be making revisions on Thursday night. But I guess that’s management for you.”

  “Yes,” Guinevere agreed feelingly, “that’s management.”

  The work occupied Guinevere throughout the morning. During that time she met the other people who worked in the office, all of whom were women. She was invited to accompany Francine Bates and a few of the others on coffee break in the building cafeteria and accepted the invitation with alacrity. She wanted to become part of the group as quickly as possible, not only because it was company policy for a Camelot Services employee to be friendly, but because it would be the fastest way to make contact with Madame Zoltana.

  The conversation at coffee break covered everything from troublesome teenagers to the new fall styles showing up in the local department stores. Guinevere listened and participated while she sipped her coffee, but she was disappointed when no one mentioned Madame Zoltana. That was the thing about undercover investigations, she decided. You had to have patience. Hadn’t Zac always told her that? Unfortunately, patience was not one of her virtues.

  Guinevere glanced at her watch as she thought of Zac. She was due to meet him for lunch. She had vowed she wouldn’t ask him for any more advice, but she decided to change her mind. Perhaps he could suggest some method of bringing up the subject of Madame Zoltana without arousing suspicion. She’d probably have to listen to another lecture on not getting involved, but it would be worth it if she got some useful pointers.

  * * *

  Zac left his office a few minutes before noon and strolled down to Second Avenue to pick up Guinevere for lunch. He was pleased with the way plans were going for his big move up. The movers had promised to arrive on the specified day, and the new furniture was already in a warehouse, waiting to be delivered. As far as Zac could see, there were no real glitches on the horizon in the moving department, but he knew that some were bound to develop. It was a law of nature.

  The real problem was getting Guinevere to send him some secretarial candidates. He was beginning to think he’d ma
de a mistake, asking her to handle the initial interviews. At the time it had seemed reasonable enough. After all, she was the expert at hiring secretaries, and she had a whole stable of them to draw on. But so far he hadn’t been presented with a single live choice, and it was beginning to worry Zac. What was the holdup? He wanted the secretary to move into the new office suite on the same day that the furniture was installed. Zac liked things neat and tidy.

  The August sun was heating the city to a mellow seventy-eight degrees. As he neared the high-rise where Guinevere was working, he removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Perhaps it would be a good day to eat at one of the restaurants in the Pike Place Market. Zac considered the matter closely as he approached the revolving doors of the building. He was hungry. Through narrowed eyes he spotted a blue blazer among a crowd of people stepping out of an elevator, as he walked into the cool lobby.

  Guinevere didn’t notice him immediately. She was talking to a man who had exited the elevator beside her. Zac watched the two of them cross the wide slate lobby floor, and something tightened inside him. Guinevere was smiling, but there was something unnatural about her normally warm, charming smile. Zac frowned at the way the man’s tawny head was bent toward her. He got the impression Guinevere’s companion was trying to talk her into something. Probably lunch.

  Impelled by a distinctly primitive need to stake his claim in front of the other man, Zac went forward purposefully. “Hi, Gwen. Ready for lunch?” His voice was a low-pitched, gravelly sound that was meant to catch the attention of both parties. It did.

  Guinevere’s reaction startled Zac. She turned her head at once, something akin to relief in her eyes. Then she was hurrying toward him, her high heels clicking on the slate floor. “Oh, there you are, Zac. I’m ready.” The smile was as full of relief as her eyes, and she did something she almost never did in public. She came to a halt in front of him, stood on her toes, and kissed him.

  Zac recovered almost instantly from the shock and took her arm with possessive force. He was intensely aware of the tawny-haired man watching them. Zac glanced back casually as he guided Guinevere toward the door, and his gaze collided with that of the watching man. Zac decided he didn’t like him at all. Coolly he turned his back on him and ushered Guinevere through the revolving doors.

  “Who was that?” he asked without preamble as they reached the sidewalk.

  “Nobody important. Just someone who works for Gage and Watson,” Guinevere said quickly. “Where are we going?”

  “How about down to the market?” Was she brushing off his question because she had no interest in the man who had stepped out of the elevator with her, or because she didn’t want to discuss him?

  “That sounds fine. I feel like pasta today.”

  “You always feel like pasta,” he reminded her indulgently.

  So they ate pasta in a trendy little café, and afterward they wandered back through the vegetable stalls that lined the cobbled street of the Pike Place Market. Guinevere bought two plump peaches for dessert and sliced them with a plastic knife. It was tricky eating the juicy fruit on the sidewalk, but there was something pleasantly romantic about the business, too, Zac decided. Lately he had been more and more aware of the feeling of being one half of a couple. It was the first time in his life he had felt like this. Guinevere Jones was occasionally infuriating, frequently charming, often recklessly impulsive, but above all, she was his. She belonged to him now, Zac reminded himself complacently. She was in love with him. And he was in love with her.

  This business of being in love was still new to both of them, Zac realized. They were both learning the parameters of the commitment, discovering its depths, being careful not to rush through the fascinating discoveries they were making. Maybe this was the reward for waiting and falling in love in your thirties instead of at eighteen. You were more aware of the subtler aspects of the whole process. On the other hand, Zac decided, subtlety wasn’t always such a great thing. It left small questions unanswered.

  But there were certain straightforward questions that could still be asked. Zac finished his peach and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “What time are you serving dinner tonight?”

  Guinevere made a face. “Oh, Zac, you’re so romantic.”

  He grinned. “You’re going to owe me a lot of dinners for the next few weeks. I intend to get something in exchange for all the Free Enterprise Security cash you’re spending on the party.”

  ***

  Trina Hood was still in the office when Guinevere returned to Camelot Services after work that day. Trina looked up with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as her boss came through the door. “I think I’ve found her, Gwen.”

  “Found who?” Guinevere went to her desk to sort through the messages.

  “The new secretary for your friend Zac.”

  Guinevere’s head came up quickly. “You did?”

  “Uh-huh. And she’s perfect, Gwen. You aren’t going to be able to find fault with her, the way you have with all the others. If Zac knew how many secretarial candidates you’ve turned down on his behalf, he’d explode.”

  Guinevere frowned thoughtfully, sitting down. “Now, Trina, you know I’m only trying to be careful. Zac will probably be a difficult employer. He can be short-tempered, dictatorial, and difficult. No one knows that better than I. It will take a very calm, mature person to work in his office.”

  Trina was trying to stifle a broad grin. “By calm, you mean placid, and by mature, you mean someone over fifty, right? You can’t kid me, Guinevere Jones. You’ve turned down every potential candidate for a week, because each one has been cute and under thirty.”

  “Zac doesn’t need an ex-cheerleader in his office,” Guinevere informed her loftily.

  “He needs someone who can type and answer phones. Ninety percent of the people you’ve interviewed could probably have handled the job, Gwen.” Trina held up a hand. “But don’t worry, I understand, even if Zac wouldn’t. This time you don’t have to fret. Evelyn Pemberton is exactly what you want for Zac. She’s fifty-three, well-groomed, intelligent, well-mannered, and poised. She’s also happily married, with grandchildren.”

  “How’s her typing?”

  Trina pretended to look surprised. “I didn’t know that was as important as the fact that she’s not likely to seduce Zac.”

  Guinevere laughed ruefully. “Have I been so obvious?”

  “Just a tad, but I won’t tell. Evelyn Pemberton types seventy-five words a minute. Flawlessly. I tested her on your machine.”

  “Okay, Trina. Set up an appointment with her for me.” Guinevere leaned forward to study her calendar. “How about on my lunch hour tomorrow?”

  “I already have,” Trina informed her blandly. “I made one for her with Zac for the day after tomorrow.”

  “You’re that sure?”

  “I’m positive this is the one you’ve been looking for, Gwen. Take my word for it. But you know, you’ve been worrying needlessly about putting temptation in Zac’s office. I’ve seen the way that man looks at you. He’s got a one-track mind, and that applies to his love life, as well as everything else. You’re the only woman on the track.”

  Guinevere sighed. “I just want to make sure it stays that way.”

  ***

  That night after dinner Guinevere told Zac she thought his opening for a secretary was about to be filled. It gave her a marvelously self-righteous feeling to be able to say that Trina Hood had found the likely candidate. This way Zac couldn’t accuse her of being too picky. Curled up beside him on the black leather couch in her brightly colored apartment, Guinevere sipped a small glass of brandy and told him about Evelyn Pemberton.

  “Trina said she sounds perfect. Types seventy-five words a minute and is very poised. I’m going to meet her tomorrow. If everything clicks, I’ll send her over for you to interview the next day. H
ow’s that?”

  Zac cradled her against his shoulder, his fingertips resting lightly over the small curve of her breast. “It’s about time. What took you so long? You’ve got dozens of secretaries, who probably all want to go to work full time for a great employer like me.”

  “I wanted someone very special for you, Zac,” she told him sweetly.

  “I’ll bet. A nice, robust, grandmotherly type, right? Has it taken you this long to find someone gray-haired and over fifty?”

  Guinevere blinked. “Now, Zac . . .”

  He grinned and pulled her closer. “It’s all right. I understand completely. Besides, I’ve always had a thing for older women.”

  “Zachariah Justis!”

  He tightened his grip as she indignantly tried to pull away. “Calm down. You didn’t have to worry, you know. It wears me out just keeping up with you. I wouldn’t have the energy to make it with my secretary even if she looked like a Playboy centerfold.”

  “Hah. That’s what they all say.”

  To Guinevere’s surprise, Zac took the remark seriously. “Who all says that? The guy who got off the elevator with you, maybe? I could see him having an affair with his secretary, while his wife waits at home. He looks the type.”

  In spite of Zac’s enveloping warmth, a tiny shiver went through Guinevere. She suppressed it almost at once, but she was afraid Zac might have sensed it. “I was making a generalization,” she said with a deliberate smile.

  “Who is he?”

  “The man on the elevator with me? His name is Rick Overstreet. I told you, he works at Gage and Watson. Want some more brandy?”

  “No.”

  Zac hesitated, and Guinevere held her breath, afraid he was going to ask more questions. But his strong, blunt fingers slipped inside the collar of her blouse instead.

  “No,” Zac repeated, his voice darkening, as he began to unbutton the blouse. “What I really want at the moment is you.”