by Jayne Castle
The man rose to his full height. He must have been at least six one. Maybe six two, she decided. And he could have stepped out of an adventure film. More particularly, a film featuring a dashing, raffish, danger-loving pilot with plenty of “the right stuff.” He was even wearing a genuine beat-up leather flight jacket complete with a scruffy fur-lined collar. His khaki pants were tucked into worn, scuffed boots and there was a wide leather belt around his lean waist. As she watched he very coolly stripped off his leather gloves and extended a hand to her. It was a picturesque gesture.
“The name’s Cassidy,” he drawled, blue eyes running over her in slow appraisal. He appeared to be in his mid forties, but his dark brown hair was still full and had just the right touch of shagginess. His face was as lean and hard as the rest of him.
Entranced, Guinevere put out her hand and immediately felt the strength of his grip. “Cassidy,” she repeated. Even the name sounded perfect. “My name is Guinevere. Guinevere Jones.”
“I wish to hell my name was Lancelot.” His eyes ceased their perusal and he met her gaze, grinning. “Lancelot was the one who finally got Guinevere, wasn’t he? My history’s a little rusty.”
Zac’s fingers were definitely digging into Guinevere’s shoulder now. She moved slightly, trying to encourage him to loosen his grip, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It wasn’t history. Just a story,” he responded to the other man’s comment. “Nobody ever gets the facts right in those old stories.”
Cassidy switched his gaze to Zac. He shrugged good-naturedly and held out his hand again. “I get the picture. Don’t worry; I know private property when it’s marked.”
“I’m glad. Zachariah Justis.” He accepted the other man’s hand, ignoring Guinevere’s gathering irritation. The handshake was polite but short. Neither man seemed anxious to prolong the civilities. “You fly the San Juans?”
“I do a little charter work.”
Zac nodded toward the bobbing plane. “The One Eighty-five is yours?”
“Yup.” Cassidy smiled in bland satisfaction. “Me and that Cessna have been through a lot together. But I don’t think she’s any more used to this cold weather than I am. Guess we haven’t gotten acclimated.”
“Where were you before you came here?” Guinevere asked interestedly. She would speak to Zac later about his rudeness, she decided.
“Worked the South Pacific,” Cassidy said. “Sight-seeing trips for tourists, a little mail, some cargo. You name it. Thought it was time for a change, so I threw some darts at a map and came up with the San Juans. Soon as I got a taste of that cold dark water I began to have doubts.”
“It’s cold, all right,” Guinevere agreed. “Hypothermia is a real problem around here in boating accidents. During winter a person can’t last long in the water.”
Cassidy sighed. “Back where I come from a man could swim from one island to another as far as those out there and feel like he was in a bathtub the whole way.” He indicated the handful of mist-shrouded islets in the distance. “But around here a pilot’s got to carry all kinds of survival gear just in case he does something dumb and winds up in the water.”
“Hey, don’t go into a long lecture on the perils of flying the San Juans, Cassidy,” Toby Springer interrupted with a laugh. “I’m down here to see about arranging some tours for Mr. Washburn’s guests. Gwen and Zac here are two of your potential passengers. Be careful, you’ll scare them off.”
Cassidy grinned engagingly, his eyes dancing over Guinevere. “Well now, I surely wouldn’t want to risk that. Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Jones. I’ll keep you nice and warm during the whole flight.”
“Gwen doesn’t like flying in small planes,” Zac said smoothly, conveniently forgetting his earlier comments regarding her lacking spirit of adventure.
Cassidy looked crestfallen. “Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to scare you off, Miss Jones. Safe as houses up there. That old Cessna practically knows how to fly herself by now.”
“A cheerful thought. Just the same, I think I’ll do my touring by boat or on foot. Zac’s right. I’m not big on dinky little planes.”
“Dinky!” Cassidy was theatrically offended. “That One Eighty-five is a real workhorse. She can carry six passengers, or a whole mess of cargo.”
Guinevere laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult the plane. Have you been a charter pilot for long?”
“Since I got out of the army. A long time, Miss Jones. More time than I want to add up.” He stepped around her to where he’d coiled the rope, and as he moved Guinevere saw he had a distinct limp. She just knew there would be a good story behind that limp. Old war injury? Plane wreck? Enraged husband? “Hope you change your mind about flying with me, Gwen,” Cassidy went on easily as he bent down to collect the rope. “I’d sure love to show you the sights.”
“I’ll bet,” Zac muttered. “Come on, Gwen, it’s getting late,” he added more loudly. “I promised Vandyke I’d be back by four.” He nodded crisply at Cassidy and Springer. “We’ll see you later.”
“Right,” Springer agreed. “Probably in the bar. Good-bye, Miss—uh, Jones.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Springer.” She didn’t have a chance to do more than nod briefly at Cassidy. Zac was already hauling her back along the plank dock. “Zac, what’s the rush? It’s only three thirty.”
“Somehow,” Zac observed caustically, “I get the feeling the entire world is conspiring against me.”
“Sounds like a clear case of paranoia.”
“All I know is, this trip isn’t turning out to be what I expected.”
“You have to be flexible, Zac.”
But all Zac seemed intent on flexing at the moment was a little muscle. Guinevere found herself back at the Buick before she had a chance to catch her breath. Turning to glance once more toward the marina she saw Springer in deep conversation with the man called Cassidy.
***
It was during dinner, which she and Zac shared with Edward Vandyke at his insistence, that Guinevere learned she was not alone in her dislike of small planes. Vandyke fully concurred with her feelings.
In the week she had known him Guinevere had come to like the slightly balding, slightly paunchy, earnest, hardworking Vandyke. She knew there was intelligence and ambition beneath the sincere manner, as well as a willingness to work hard for his objectives, and she admired that. As she sat across from him at the dinner table she wondered what was causing the anxiety she sensed eating him. It seemed out of proportion to the business he was here to negotiate with Sheldon Washburn.
Washburn, a thin well-dressed man in his fifties, and his assistant Toby Springer were seated on the other side of the dining room. The two other businessmen and their assistants who were there to make presentations to Washburn were also eating. Everyone had been quite civilized over cocktails earlier, Guinevere reflected in amusement. You’d never know from looking at them that there was so much money on the line, she thought.
“I know exactly how you feel, Miss Jones,” Vandyke said in response to her comment about seeing the small plane in the marina. “I did some charter work myself in my wild and misspent youth. It would suit me perfectly never to get near anything smaller than a Seven Twenty-seven again in my life.”
Zac prodded his red snapper. “You did some flying?”
Vandyke nodded. “At the time it seemed very adventurous and it certainly made for some great cocktail stories over the years. But to tell you the truth, most of what I remember is the unpleasant aspects. Running a shoestring charter service is no picnic. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It provided me with the stake I needed to start Vandyke Development.”
“Did you operate alone?” Guinevere asked.
Vandyke concentrated on his salad. “No. I had a partner for a while. There was an accident, and he was killed. It was one of the things that made me decide I’d pushed my
own luck far enough. I was sick of flying around, under, and through tropical storms; landing on dirt roads, or in places where there weren’t any roads at all; trying to collect for deliveries from people who could have cared less about their credit ratings. And then Gannon got himself killed. . . .” Vandyke paused for a long moment, his dark eyes distant and full of fleeting pain.
Empathic as usual, Guinevere immediately wished she hadn’t asked the question. Zac, however, seemed oblivious of Vandyke’s unhappiness. Tearing off a chunk of sourdough bread, he asked, “Tropical storms? Where did you do your flying?”
“The Caribbean. What about you, Zac? Has your varied background included a bit of flying?”
Zac shrugged. “Some. Not much. It was a long time ago.”
“Ever yearn to go back to it?”
“Nope. I feel the same way you do. For me the old adage applied: hours of boredom broken by moments of stark terror. Basically I’m a quiet businessman at heart. I prefer to—ouch!” He glowered at Guinevere, who had just kicked him under the table.
Guinevere smiled sweetly at Vandyke, who was looking curiously at Zac. “Zac tries to downplay his more adventurous activities. He’s always pretending that everything he does professionally is just business as usual. Actually, some of his tales make your blood run cold. But you have to get him fairly drunk before you get the truth.”
Vandyke managed a small chuckle. “I see. I’m not surprised. I suppose most men who have lived action-oriented lives like yours, Zac, become very casual about the risks they take.”
“Until they get kicked under the table,” Zac muttered.
“Well, I, for one, am very glad I took Miss Jones’s advice and hired you to come with us this weekend. I shall sleep a lot better knowing you’re nearby in case of need.” Vandyke paused. “Do you carry a gun, Zac?” he asked in a low tone.
Guinevere jumped in to answer before Zac ruined the image she had so carefully created. “Of course he carries a gun, Mr. Vandyke. But he prefers not to mention it at the dinner table.”
“I understand.”
“I’m glad somebody does,” Zac observed.
***
Later, after joining the others for a nightcap in the lounge, Zac decided he’d done his social duty. The first day of his long weekend with Guinevere was almost over, and thus far it had offered such highlights as an aging macho pilot in a Goodwill flight jacket who had made a pass at Gwen, dinner with a man who had a hard time hiding his personal anxiety beneath a layer of business charm, the discovery that Guinevere’s room was quite a ways down the hall from his own, and a bad choice of wine at dinner. The last had been Vandyke’s fault, but since the older man was picking up the tab it had seemed crass to complain. Zac had kept his mouth shut and gone back to tequila as soon as dinner was over. You were always safe with tequila.
A roaring fire burned on the huge hearth in the resort lounge. The businessmen who had gathered at the hotel were well into a late-night drinking siege, and Guinevere was beginning to look pleasantly sleepy. It was definitely time to go back to the room. Zac reached out to touch her hand.
“Let’s go, honey. It’s late, and you’re half asleep.”
“Okay,” she agreed easily enough. Smothering a small yawn, she obediently got to her feet and said a polite good night to Vandyke, who glanced up and then rose.
“You two are going to your rooms?” he murmured, looking directly at Zac.
“That was the plan.” Zac arched one brow inquiringly. “Any objections?”
“No, no, of course not. I just wondered . . . That is . . .” Vandyke coughed a little in embarrassment and leaned forward confidentially. “Look here, Zac, I hired you to keep tabs on, uh, things. I hate to sound priggish, but the fact of the matter is I would appreciate it if you stayed in your own room tonight. So I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”
“I hadn’t planned on leaving the hotel.” Zac shot a sidelong glance at Guinevere, who was saying good night to Toby Springer. She couldn’t hear what Vandyke was saying. “Don’t worry, Mr. Vandyke. I’ll keep tabs on your briefcase.”
“Yes, well, thank you, but I’d like to know where you are at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
Zac thought of the connecting door between his room and Vandyke’s. It was locked, naturally, but that didn’t mean much. The resort was old, the walls badly insulated. A man on one side of that goddamn connecting door would certainly be able to hear any sounds made by the occupant of the other room. A woman’s soft cry of passion would be unmistakable. And Guinevere had her image to maintain. She wasn’t likely to make love within earshot of her current client.
Without a word Zac took the precious briefcase from Vandyke, collected Guinevere, and left the lounge.
It occurred to him that maybe it was time to find out what it was about the development proposal being presented to Washburn this weekend that made Vandyke so damn edgy. The man was acting as if he needed a bodyguard, not just a baby-sitter for important papers.
Chapter Three
“What do you mean you’re going to have a look in the briefcase? You can’t do that, Zac. Those are my client’s private business papers. Besides, it’s locked.” Guinevere shut the door to her room as Zac strode across the carpet and set the briefcase down on the bed.
“He’s my client too. Remember? And he’s acting weird.”
“I told you he was very anxious about a lot of things.”
Zac crouched down in front of the briefcase to study the locks at eye level. He fished a paper clip out of his pocket and straightened it. “He was the one who had the hotel give me a room next to his, Gwen. With a connecting door, no less. I asked the desk clerk this afternoon if there was any way of getting a different room, and was told that the present arrangements were per Mr. Vandyke’s personal request. And just now Vandyke ordered me to sleep in my own room.”
Guinevere flushed. “Yes, well, perhaps he was just trying to look after me. He’s very much a gentleman, Zac. He might feel obliged to, er, protect me from unwanted advances. Or something.”
“Bullshit. Vandyke is making it clear he wants a bodyguard, not a baby-sitter. But he won’t come right out and say it. I’m starting to get curious.” Zac fiddled delicately with the locks on the briefcase. “He’s not as concerned about where the briefcase is as he is where I am. He was upset this afternoon when he got out of his meeting early and found us gone. I got the feeling he expected to find me standing right outside the front door of the conference room with my trusty machine gun slung over my shoulder.”
“Maybe he has a right to be upset.” Guinevere went to stand beside Zac, eyeing his efforts curiously. “After all, he is paying us to be on call this weekend. Where did you learn to do that?”
“Correspondence school.” There was a tiny ping, and one of the locked clasps sprang open. Zac turned his attention to the other.
“Amazing what you can learn at home these days.” Guinevere leaned closer. “Is it hard?”
“Only when someone’s breathing over your shoulder.”
She leaned closer. “You have to learn to work under pressure, Zac.”
“Pressure,” he announced as the second clasp popped open, “is something I’m learning a lot about this weekend.”
“We’ve only been here one day.”
He opened the briefcase. “Don’t remind me.” He stood up and examined the contents. Folders, several thick documents with Vandyke Development Proprietary Information stamped all over them, and a number of letters were neatly arranged in the case. There was also a small silver flask tucked into one corner. Zac reached for it.
“You didn’t tell me the guy was a closet drinker.” He unscrewed the top and sniffed. “Cognac.”
“He has been under a lot of pressure lately, as I keep reminding you. Maybe he feels the need of a nip now and then; how s
hould I know? He certainly handled his alcohol all right this evening.” She broke off consideringly. “Of course, it would have been hard to drink very much of that wine at dinner.”
Zac replaced the flask. “You can say that again. Tomorrow evening we’ll have to work it so that one of us gets to choose the wine.”
“It’ll have to be me. Anyone whose regular fare is tequila can’t be trusted to pick good wine.” Guinevere carefully probed the contents of the briefcase. “I’ve seen most of these at one time or another during the past week. He had me do some of the final revisions. He didn’t even want some of these documents sent out to the word processing pool.”
“That’s a normal precaution when there’s a major deal at stake. Routine company security.” Zac lifted out a few of the papers and set them on the bed. “But Vandyke isn’t acting routine.”
Guinevere examined a cost analysis. “Are you sure you’re not overreacting because he as good as ordered you to spend the night next door to him instead of, uh, wandering the halls?”
“Wandering the halls,” Zac repeated thoughtfully. “Is that what you call it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Let me see that envelope.”
Obediently Guinevere handed it to him, watching as he opened the manila envelope and drew out a single sheet of paper. It was a badly photocopied document, she saw. Head tipped to one side, she peered at the grungy gray page. “That wasn’t done by me. I would never have accepted such a bad print. In fact, I don’t think the printing department at Vandyke Development would let any of the machines get that bad. They keep them in excellent condition.”
Zac held it up to the light. “It was done on one of those cheap little machines you sometimes see installed in out-of-the-way places. You know, the kind of store that sells gas, cigarettes, condoms, and booze.”
