by Jayne Castle
Two years ago she’d had another opportunity to obtain a solid level of financial security for her struggling young business. Victor Thorndyke had died, and she had been left a sizeable sum in the will. And once again pride had prevented her from taking the money. Pride and, she freely admitted, the sheer unadulterated pleasure of seeing the stunned shock on the faces of the legitimate Thorndykes the day she had regally declined to accept the money in the lawyer’s office. The brash, arrogant gesture of refusal had been worth it. She would never forget that scene and neither, she suspected, would the Thorndykes. That Grand Gesture had been worth every cent it had cost.
Samantha had finished with scrimping almost a year later when Business Intelligence, Incorporated, had finally achieved critical mass in terms of having enough clients to begin attracting other subscribers in satisfying numbers. She now had the kind of income which allowed her such interesting indulgences as a week at a spa. But, she told herself as she defiantly faced the desk clerk, she hadn’t reached the level of financial casualness where she was willing to kiss a chunk of cash good-bye. Not when said chunk had purchased nothing in return.
“But, Miss Maitland,” the musclebound desk clerk persisted with hauteur, “surely you understand that the week’s package rate was nonrefundable?”
“I certainly did not!” Samantha lied, grimly aware that the travel agent had made some mention of the fact and also aware that she hadn’t paid any attention to the agent as visions of conducting business in the manner of the executive elite had danced through her head. She had planned to deal with her financial angel from the depths of a lounge chair beside a crystal swimming pool, a margarita in hand. Samantha now realized that she had confused the realities of spa life with cruise ship living. Next time she would try a luxury liner. In the meantime she had to make some effort to retrieve the money she was about to lose.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s the case, Miss Maitland,” the overly healthy ex-surfer-turned-weight-lifter announced flatly. The young man was far too large and robust to be a clerk, Samantha decided privately. He would have been better suited to a job as an orderly in a mental institution. “Your travel agent guaranteed a week’s stay when she booked the room and I…”
“Originally I planned on staying a week, but something’s come up. I have business to attend to, and it can’t be done here.” Samantha tried a reasoning sort of smile.
“You’re quite free to leave” was the cold retort, “although I must warn you that once you’ve gone off the Plan, even if it’s only for a meal off the premises, we can no longer promise you the full benefits of the regimen.”
“You don’t seem to understand! I’m not just sneaking off campus for dinner, I’m checking out permanently! I’ve had it with all this good, clean living, is that clear?” She knew she was beginning to sound agitated, but she couldn’t help it. Already the clock was nearing seven, and the last thing she wanted to be was late to Gabriel Sinclair’s. “I want to go back to potato chips and wine and a nice walk now and then for exercise!” If this torture chamber is a sample of what you Californians do for fun, she thought to herself, you’re going to count me out of the running in the fast lane.
“No one is stopping you from walking out the front door!” The clerk, too, was clearly losing patience.
“Not without my refund!”
“There are no refunds on the plan you chose. Especially not after we made such an effort to accommodate your agent’s request!”
“Don’t blame my travel agent for this. It’s not her fault!” Samantha gritted furiously. “I want to speak to the manager,” she forced herself to add more sedately, chin lifting with as much arrogance as she could command.
“The manager is at dinner with the other guests,” the oversized beachboy announced vengefully. He looked very pleased at being able to thwart her.
“Surely he can leave his alfalfa sprouts long enough to attend to this little matter?”
“Perhaps in the morning,” the clerk conceded dismissingly.
“Perhaps right now!” Samantha interrupted forcefully, only to find herself interrupted in turn by a low, quiet male voice behind her.
“What seems to be the trouble here, Jon?”
The clerk and Samantha both turned in surprise to see a balding, middle-aged man in a somewhat rumpled dark suit entering the plant-lined foyer. He was not more than a couple inches taller than her own five feet four inches, and what remained of his graying hair had once been midnight black. There was more than a hint of a comfortable paunch beneath the outline of the suit, and the heaviness was repeated in the man’s face. Dark eyes studied her from beneath heavy lids, eyes filled with a pleasant, old-world gallantry. He looked, thought Samantha, like someone’s grandfather.
“Good evening, Mr. Fortune,” the desk clerk said in an astonishingly deferential tone. “Is Miss Fortune expecting you? I’ll have her paged immediately.”
The newcomer inclined his head, waving off the clerk’s offer. “That’s quite all right, Jon. I know where to find her.” Turning back to Samantha, he repeated his question. “What seems to be the trouble, Miss… ?”
“Maitland. Samantha Maitland,” Samantha said quickly.
“It’s kind of you to offer to help, but I’m afraid this is between myself and the spa’s management. A slight misunderstanding about billing procedures,” she explained dryly.
But the desk clerk was not nearly so inhibited about dragging the innocent bystander into the fray. “Miss Maitland, sir, is one of our guests. She, uh, wishes to check out ahead of schedule, and as I’m sure your sister has probably explained, our policy requires a nonrefundable fee.”
“All guests eventually check out, Jon,” Fortune pointed out very mildly, smiling gently at Samantha. “Does it really matter whether or not they leave ahead of schedule? Perhaps a slight change in policy could be made in this instance?”
“Thank you very much for seeing my side of this, Mr. Fortune…” Samantha began quickly.
“Emil, my dear. Call me Emil.”
“Yes, well, Emil, thank you for your interest in the matter, but you needn’t get involved. It’s not your problem. I just hope your sister doesn’t have the same problem when she checks out!” she added darkly.
“My sister owns this place. She makes the policies,” Emil Fortune explained kindly.
“Oh.” Nonplussed, Samantha stared at him.
“I gather you have not enjoyed your stay here?” Emil Fortune inquired gravely.
“I am starving to death and sore all over, to be perfectly blunt.” Samantha could not resist the opportunity of listing her complaints in front of the desk clerk. “Your sister has built a very impressive business here, Mr. Fortune—but frankly, it’s beyond me why anyone would pay good money for this sort of thing!”
“To each his own,” Emil Fortune intoned, but his eyes were smiling.
“I suppose,” Samantha agreed. “I came to California to attend to some business, and I thought I would be able to do it while staying here, but that’s proven to be quite impossible.”
“I see,” Fortune nodded. “Are you certain you wish to leave tonight, though, Miss Maitland? We’re quite a distance from Santa Barbara and the nearest motel.”
“I don’t mind driving at night,” she assured him. “I’m having dinner with my business acquaintance this evening, and I’m sure he’ll be able to direct me to a good motel.”
“You are doing business with someone nearby?” the middle-aged man inquired.
“Yes, a Mr. Sinclair. He lives a couple of miles up the coast, and I’m sure he’s expecting me. I was due at seven.” Damn, she hadn’t meant to drop Gabriel’s name into this mess. Strange how this unassuming little man had her chatting quite freely. But it was getting late. “I really must be on my way. If a refund is impossible this evening,” she added with a severe look at the clerk, “then you can count on seeing me again in the morning! Perhaps your manager will see fit to look into the matter.”
; “I don’t see why things can’t be settled tonight,” Fortune murmured softly. “I’m sure my sister would not want a guest of the spa to be prevented from taking care of their business affairs properly. What do you think, Jon?”
“Uh, no, sir, I’m sure she wouldn’t.”
“Well, why don’t you see if you can’t figure out some sort of way around this little glitch?” Fortune suggested calmly.
To Samantha’s surprise and relief Jon moved awkwardly behind the desk, no longer the overconfident, supercilious clerk. “Yes, well, if you really think Miss Fortune wouldn’t mind…. “
“I’m sure my sister will agree with me. In any event, I shall tell her it was all my fault and you’ll be off the hook,” Fortune said smoothly. He turned to Samantha as Jon began rummaging through the papers on his desk. “And I also don’t think we should keep Miss Maitland from her dinner engagement any longer. Gabe will be wondering where you are, Miss Maitland. He’s a very precise sort of man, and he doesn’t have all that many dinner guests. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for ruining the evening for him.”
“Why, thank you,” Samantha managed, very grateful for the miracle the man had worked on the musclebound Jon. “I certainly appreciate your help, Mr. Fortune. I do hope your sister won’t be upset…. “
“Leave that to me. My sister is a businesswoman. She’ll understand.” The smile in the dark eyes gleamed more brightly. “I have the feeling Gabe will feed you far better than the chef here. Gabe is a marvelous cook, believe me. I’ve had the pleasure of dining with him on a couple of occasions.”
“You’re a friend of his?” Samantha peered at Fortune narrowly through the lenses of her glasses, wondering what sort of friendship her angel had with this pleasantly rumpled little man.
“We’ve done business together,” Emil Fortune explained easily. “And, yes, I probably come as close to being his friend as anyone could be. In turn, he is perhaps the nearest thing to a friend that I have known. Neither of us, I’m afraid, has an abundance of acquaintances with whom we feel, shall we say, comfortable? But, then, how many close friends does anyone ever have?” he continued philosophically.
Samantha smiled. “I’ll say hello to him for you,” she offered, glancing at Jon, who was still bent over a sheet of paper, scribbling furiously.
“Please do,” Fortune returned seriously. “Tell him I’m glad to see he is expanding his circle of associates to include a young woman who has sense enough not to pay good money to have her body abused.”
Samantha laughed. “Actually,” she confided, “it looked rather appealing in the article I read. But I seem to lack the stamina for it.” She broke of as Jon finished his calculations and handed her the voucher marked for a full refund. “Why, thank you very much,” she said stiffly, startled at receiving the entire amount back. She snatched the paper from him and stuffed it into her purse before he could change his mind. Then she reached down to lift her suitcase.
“I’ll take care of that for you,” the man named Fortune said, reaching for the expensive yellow leather case before she could grasp it. Without a word he followed as she smiled and hurried toward the parking lot where her rental car waited.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” Samantha said quickly as she opened the trunk of the sporty little compact and allowed Fortune to put the suitcase inside. Actually she felt a little guilty at having let him carry the case. He wasn’t all that much larger than she was! “I’ll give your best to Mr. Sinclair.”
“He already knows what he can expect from me,” Fortune smiled comfortably, “but say hello to him anyway. And be nice to him, will you, Miss Maitland? He needs an interesting woman like you in his life. Perhaps you could jolt him out of his humdrum routine a bit, hmmm?”
Samantha looked up sharply, frowning at the hopeful tone in Fortune’s voice. “Mr. Sinclair and I are business associates, nothing more,” she told him frostily through the open window.
“And have a little patience with him, too,” Fortune advised, just as if she hadn’t spoken. “He tends to do things in his own slow but sure way, but they do get done. He is a very thorough man.” Fortune nodded complacently. I think you’re going to be very good for him, Miss Maitland. Shake him up a little.” Before she had time to clarify the situation once more, he said, “Goodbye and drive carefully. You have the directions?”
“He gave them to me this afternoon,” Samantha said vaguely, longing to be on her way. She was late and she had the feeling Gabriel Sinclair wouldn’t appreciate tardiness.
In great detail, no doubt,” Fortune chuckled. “A very thorough man, as I said.”
Samantha allowed herself a small laugh as she started the engine. “I got a detailed drawing of every bend in the road and every possible landmark between here and his house!”
She just hoped she could remember a few of the details on that elaborate map Gabriel had drawn for her earlier in the afternoon because after taking a quick glance at it, she’d automatically tossed it on the dresser top and forgotten it there. How lost could one get when there was only one road between the spa and his home?
With a last glance in her rearview mirror at the comfortable form of Emil Fortune, she guided the little car out of the parking lot and onto the narrow highway which hugged the coast. Leaving the spa behind her had all the uplifting exhilaration of a prison escape. What a nice little man that Mr. Fortune was. She was really very grateful for his assistance with that bull of a desk clerk.
The decision to check out of the spa had been made almost as soon as Gabriel had left that afternoon. Hiding in her room when she was supposed to join the other inmates in a lengthy jog along the beach, Samantha had come to the conclusion that there was no point torturing herself further. She had achieved contact with Sinclair, which had been her main goal all along.
Taking her time, she had dressed for dinner and packed her suitcase. The outfit she had chosen had been purchased in Seattle. It was a dashing black velvet tuxedo-style jacket and pants complete with a pleated white shirt with tiny, upstanding wing collar and a small black velvet tie. The close-fitting stylish parody of the traditional male evening dress was both tailored and chicly feminine. With her hair coiled neatly into a curving knot at the nape of her neck, Samantha felt suitably attired for an evening of business with her angel.
She grinned to herself as she realized that she was applying the term “angel” more and more to Gabriel Sinclair. Was that because, subconsciously, managing an angel seemed potentially easier than managing a high-powered business barracuda?
The grin faded as she recognized the truth behind that thought. She had certainly not succeeded in managing Drew Buchanan very well! He had sent her life into a tailspin from which it had taken a long time to recover. Revenge was the last link in that recovery. No, managing a cold-blooded bastard like Buchanan was a dangerous business at best. But angels, especially plodding angels, should be a much easier proposition.
Samantha found the nearly hidden drive which led off the main road toward the sea after two or three attempts and a certain amount of backtracking. She really should have brought that damn map, she decided. Half an hour late, she noticed, glancing at her watch as she parked the car in the curving drive of the secluded beachfront home.
Her expression tightened determinedly as she pressed the small bell outside the huge, intricate wrought iron gate which guarded a courtyard paved in pale stone. It wasn’t her fault she was late!
The main door to the house opened and her host emerged. Gabriel was wearing a conservatively striped, long-sleeved shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of dark, well-tailored slacks that seemed to emphasize the solid masculinity of his frame. The burnished leather of his shoes and the refined gleam of a gold and stainless steel watch on one strong wrist were quiet evidence of Sinclair’s abilities as a venture capitalist. As was the beachfront home, Samantha reminded herself silently. Property along the California coast cost an angel’s salary: Gold and stardust.
In addition to the conservative clothing, Gabriel was also wearing a very forbidding expression, she realized, one which brought the excuses immediately to her lips.
“I’m very sorry to be so late,” she plunged in chattily, using her most dazzling smile. “There was a little trouble at the front desk of the spa when I told them I was checking out. If it hadn’t been for the nicest little man, a friend of yours, I believe, I’d still be arguing with that ridiculous desk clerk. I do hope I didn’t spoil your dinner plans? I’m starving!” She tried anxiously to make the smile a very ingratiating one.
Dark lashes lowered to partially conceal the hazel gaze as Gabriel slowly opened the gate. Samantha noted his whitened knuckles against the iron filigree. She studied the rather grim expression on his face and decided that her excuses were being considered very seriously, as if there was some question about whether or not they would be accepted.
“You checked out of the spa?” Gabriel finally asked, apparently zeroing in on the most important piece of information she had given him.
“I had to. Self-preservation,” she explained with great feeling as she stepped through the gate. “I’ve decided I’ll find a motel somewhere along the coast highway after dinner,” she confided easily. Behind her the heavy gate was swung shut and locked. The solid, rather final sound of the iron setting into place sent a strange shaft of unease through her, and she swung around.
“Something wrong?” Gabriel inquired as he politely took her arm and walked her toward the door.
“No, nothing,” she assured him, her mind leaping from the sound of the closing gate to a sudden awareness of the tension in him as he took her arm. Was he really this upset because she was half an hour late? “Believe me, I’m normally a very prompt sort of person,” she assured him quickly. “As I said, the scene at the front desk held me up. If it hadn’t been for your sweet friend, Mr. Fortune…”
“Emil Fortune helped you settle things with the desk clerk?” The surprise in his tone was obvious.
“Yes, he was there to see his sister who owns the place. The desk clerk was very obliging once Mr. Fortune took a hand in the matter.”
