“Alex Karazov.”
She frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him. I know I’ve never met him.”
“You would remember if you had.”
She understood what Jacques meant the moment she saw Alex Karazov. He was an exceptionally good-looking man in his mid-thirties with an athlete’s slim and supple strength. He had the deep tan of a man who spent hours on the ski slopes of St. Moritz or the beaches of Antibes and, as he watched her approach, he revealed an easy smile. She tensed as she suddenly realized she might well be looking at a younger version of her father. Her father’s dark hair was now touched with gray, but it had the same luster as Alex Karazov’s, his smile was just as charismatic, and he wore his clothes with the same careless elegance. It was only as she studied Karazov more closely that she became aware of the keen intelligence in his ice-blue eyes, the intensity and confidence he exuded. Why wouldn’t he be confident? she thought ruefully. The sport jacket he wore probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
But, intuitively, she knew he wasn’t really like her father. Denis Reardon had no hidden depths, everything was right on the surface for everyone to see and admire. She had an idea a great deal went on behind Karazov’s urbane smile. He rather reminded her of a beautiful jasmine in the first stage of blooming, closed tight, secret, full of promise. The thought made her smile. How insulted a man as blatantly masculine as Karazov would feel to be compared to a flower.
The smile still lingered as she stopped before him. “I’m Caitlin Vasaro, Monsieur Karazov.” She started to hold out her hand and then stopped and made a face as she looked down at the grime on it. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands. I’ve been working and I’m filthy. I understand you wish to speak with me?”
He didn’t answer her question, his gaze fixed intently on her face. “Do you always work in the fields like a common laborer?”
“There’s nothing common about the laborers of Vasaro, Monsieur Karazov. They’re good people, doing a good job.” She met his gaze. “And I do work in the fields quite frequently.”
“No offense. I merely wondered. I’m afraid I have an insatiable curiosity.” He looked down at the field. “What were you doing down there?”
His French was perfect, but the accent was odd; flat like an American’s yet with an Englishman’s precision. She switched to English. “Planting rosebushes. The storm last month destroyed half the bushes and we have to plant new ones.”
“Shouldn’t roses be planted in the spring?”
He wasn’t either English or American, though he appeared more at ease with the language than French. “Usually January or November. But the weather here is almost ideal for the major part of the year, so we can plant—” She broke off before adding impatiently, “I’m sure you’re not interested in Vasaro’s planting seasons. How can I help you?”
“It’s how we can help each other. And you’re wrong, I’m very interested in everything about Vasaro. I intend to invest a great deal of money in one of its products.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s very simple. I have money to invest. You have a project that requires capital.”
She frowned suspiciously. “What project?”
“Your perfume. I believe you applied at several banks in Cannes for a loan to market your new fragrance.”
“And I was refused.”
“You have to admit that launching a perfume is risky business.”
“And you’re familiar with the perfume industry?”
“I know a little about it. I’ve just finished spending a week touring several packaging houses in Paris. Before that I put in two days at the advertising agency that created the campaign for Obsession, and I spent another week with your neighbors to the south who grow roses and jasmine for Chanel No. 5. Of course, I realize it’s not enough to make me an expert,” he said briskly. “But I learn fast and I’m accustomed to weighing variables. I once did it as a career.”
“A stockbroker?”
“I’ve played the stockmarket on occasion.” He lifted a brow. “I thought you’d be more enthusiastic.”
She shook her head dazedly. “I feel as if I’ve been run over by a truck. I can’t think—there’s something wrong. Things don’t happen like this. Men in Lamborghinis don’t just drop out of the blue and offer—what are you offering?”
“You have a new perfume to market. You’ve tried to borrow four hundred thousand dollars for the project.” He shook his head. “By the way, that won’t be nearly enough.”
“Do you think I don’t know? I thought I’d try to start small, and later, when the perfume caught on, I could show figures to persuade them to lend me more. I knew four hundred thousand was the most I could borrow with the collateral I have to offer. If you’re so friendly with my banker, you must know Vasaro is mortgaged.”
“Ah, but your banker and other bankers in Cannes are most discreet. No, my information came from other sources, sources that also tell me you’re behind in your mortgage payments.” He grinned. “It does sound like an old-time melodrama, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the entertainment value.” Caitlin wished desperately that she weren’t so exhausted. She had to think calmly and clearly. “Are you comparing yourself to the villain in the piece?”
“I don’t believe anyone views himself as a true villain.” His gaze shifted to Jacques working in the field below, then back to Caitlin. “And I have no intention of trying to persuade you into blindly agreeing with my proposition. That would be incredibly stupid of me when you’re obviously an astute businesswoman.”
“Incredibly stupid.”
“So why don’t I go right down the line and tell you what I’m offering and what I expect in return? I’ll bankroll the marketing of your new perfume to the full extent of my resources. In return, you’ll give me full control of all facets of the launch of the perfume for the first year. In addition, I’ll receive twenty-five percent of the profits from the sale of the perfume for the first five years it’s in production. Agreed?”
“No.” She felt as if someone had kicked her in the chest and knocked the breath out of her. “I have to think about it. I can’t just . . . It’s too good to be true. Something has to be wrong.”
“What could be wrong? I’m not asking you to give me anything but what my money earns for both of us. Aren’t you looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
She leapt wildly toward the only conclusion she could imagine possible. “You’re a total stranger who knows my business intimately. It is frightening, monsieur. I can guess only you’re in some illegal activity. Drug money? You’re trying to launder drug money.”
He burst out laughing. “There are better ways to launder drug money than through the chancy proposition of launching a perfume. Better and safer.”
“You seem to know a great deal about it.”
“It’s not drug money. I write mystery novels.” He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his jacket. “The money for the launch will be drawn from my account at the Bank of Geneva.” He took out a gold Mont Blanc pen and scrawled a number on the card. “Call this number and ask for Monsieur Ganold. He’s vice president of the bank and will verify both the account and the fact that the money’s transferred there directly from my publisher’s bank in New York.”
Her hand trembled as she took the card. It was no wonder she felt almost sick with excitement. He might be a genuine investor. She mustn’t let her hopes soar. This man was a stranger; his motives were obscure. This might be some sort of awful trick. Merde, and she was probably being too eager even to speak with him. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. “Twenty-five percent is too much.”
“Take it or leave it. Seventy-five percent of a successful venture is better than a hundred percent of nothing. If you don’t accept my offer, you may lose Vasaro as well as any chance to launch your perfume.” He paused. “Suppose I sweeten the deal by giving you an additional two hundred thousand d
ollars in the loan. That won’t entirely pay off your mortgage, but it will keep them from worrying you until you have money coming in from the perfume.”
Vasaro safe and her own again. She felt another wild leap of excitement at the thought. “You mean it?” she whispered.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. “Call the bank and check me out. Then we’ll talk some more.”
“I will.” Her heart was pounding so hard, she could scarcely speak. “Will you come up to the house and meet my mother? She actually owns Vasaro and would have to sign the papers.”
“So I learned. But you run the estate?”
Caitlin nodded. “My mother isn’t interested in business. Come,” she said, setting off quickly toward the two-story stone manor a few hundred yards away. “But,” she added, “she won’t object to any agreement we reach. Mother wants only what’s best for Vasaro.” Had she been too hostile to him? Dear heaven, what if he were legitimate . . . and he changed his mind? To come close to saving Vasaro and then fail would kill her. “Things were different when my mother was growing up here. She doesn’t understand that—but she’s really very supportive.” She climbed the three stone steps and opened the mahogany double doors. “I promise there will be no difficul—” Her doubts came flying back to her, and she whirled to face him. “Why are you really doing this?” She rushed on, the words tumbling out. “I know it was rude even to suggest you might be involved in some criminal—”
“Very rude.” A smile tugged at his lips. “It must have been the Lamborghini.”
He was laughing at her, but she didn’t care as long as he wasn’t angry. She mustn’t risk angering him if there was the slightest chance he could save Vasaro. “Why an investment in perfume? And why did you go to the trouble to learn about Vasaro?”
He hesitated, wariness flickering for an instant in his expression, and then he was smiling again. “I didn’t ask specifically about Vasaro. At first I wasn’t even interested in investing. I was only doing research for a book set in a place like Vasaro. But the more I found out about the perfume industry, the more I realized the possibilities. The profits resulting from a successful perfume are astronomical.”
“Successful is the key word.”
He nodded. “Why do you think I came to you? Word has leaked that some people in the business are very impressed with your perfume, if not your bankability. You have the most fertile ground in the province and you’re on the verge of bankruptcy. Actually, a takeover of the property was recommended, but I haven’t the time or inclination for that type of deal. I’m a writer, not a farmer.” He paused. “Trust me, I’m not interested in harvesting anything but the profits from your perfume. I don’t believe there’s anything illogical about wanting to make money and do research for my book at the same time, do you?”
“No.” She felt a little reassured. His reasoning and motivation appeared valid on the surface. “But there’s no place like Vasaro. There is only Vasaro.” What he said fit together perfectly, and yet there had been that instant of hesitation. “Your accent is peculiar. Are you American?”
He nodded. “I’m an American citizen but I grew up in Romania. My father was Russian and my mother Romanian. I now live in Switzerland.”
“What kind of books did you say you wrote?”
“Mysteries. My pen name is Alex Kalan.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“Pity. I’m exceptionally good.”
“I don’t have much time to read.”
He smiled faintly. “Too busy planting rosebushes. I understand.” He stepped into the flagstoned foyer. “Fortunately, there are a modest number of readers in the world who are not so occupied.” He looked admiringly around the cool, airy hall, from the copper chandelier to the small landscape on the white stucco wall. “This is charming.” He moved across the foyer to touch the gleaming oak banister of the staircase leading to the second floor. “And very old. Early sixteenth century?”
“Vasaro was built in 1509.” Caitlin’s smile lit her face. “Some of the outbuildings were built later but nothing past 1815. Many of the pieces of furniture in the house are more than three hundred years old.” She raised her voice and called, “Mother.”
“Here, Caitlin.” Katrine’s light, cheerful voice issued from the salon to the right of the foyer. “I’m glad you decided to stop early. There’s no sense in your . . .” Katrine trailed off as she came into the foyer and caught sight of Alex Karazov. Her face brightened. “We have a guest?”
She could put Karazov safely into her mother’s hands to entertain while she made the telephone call, Caitlin realized with relief. No one could be more charming and warm than Katrine when she was playing the hostess. “This is Monsieur Karazov, Mother. My mother, Katrine Vasaro. Monsieur Karazov is a novelist and may decide to invest in Vasaro.”
“Really?” Katrine’s smile was radiant. “How delightful, Monsieur Karazov. I’m sure Caitlin is pleased. She seems to worry so much about money these days. I always tell her that everything—”
“Will you give Monsieur Karazov a glass of wine while I make a telephone call, Mother?” Caitlin asked quickly, her fingers toying nervously with the business card. “I’ll be back in a few moments.”
“Take your time.” A dazzling smile in place, Alex turned to her mother. “I’m very happy to meet you, Madame Vasaro.”
He was displaying the same easy charm he had shown Caitlin, and her mother was positively glowing under his smile. But then, Katrine was susceptible to attractive men of all ages.
He took her mother’s hand and said over his shoulder, “I’m sure your mother and I will get along very well without you. Ask any questions that occur to you. I told Ganold to be perfectly open with you.”
“I will.” Surely he must be legitimate, she thought, to be so frank. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I—”
“Don’t trust me.” His eyes glittered in the dim light of the hall as they met her own, and the words came crisply and with none of the charm with which he’d spoken to Katrine. “You’d be a fool to trust a man who walks in and offers to solve all your problems. Self-interest rules the world. If you can prove that it’s in my best interest to bail out Vasaro, then trust me. If not, send me on my way.”
“I’m sure Monsieur Karazov isn’t serious,” Katrine said, smiling uncertainly.
And Caitlin was quite sure he was entirely serious for the first time since she had met him. She shivered uneasily as they gazed at each other. She could sense a quiet power that had been hidden before and had a feeling this was the real Alex Karazov, not the charismatic man who had reminded her of her father. This man was bold, coldly incisive, ruthless . . . and honest. The last quality marginally reassured her even while the other characteristics gave her pause. If Karazov was honest, what did she care if he wasn’t warm and wonderful? What did she care about anything as long as he could save Vasaro?
“I’ll ask my questions and, if I’m not satisfied, you’ll certainly be sent away.” She gave him a cool smile. “But I think we can afford to give you one glass of wine while I decide.” She ignored the sudden flicker of interest in his expression and waved him and her mother toward the salon. “I’ll join you shortly, Monsieur.”
She closed the study door behind her and wilted back against the polished panels. Her knees were unsteady and she felt light-headed. Mon Dieu, she was frightened. Not of Alex Karazov, she assured herself. She was afraid for Vasaro, afraid he wasn’t what he claimed to be, afraid this chance to save Vasaro would vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
There was only one way to put her fear to rest.
She straightened away from the door and moved slowly toward the telephone on the Louis XIV desk.
Caitlin Vasaro’s face was radiant with excitement when she walked into the salon twenty minutes later.
Alex stiffened with shock as he looked at her and felt a purely sexual stirring. Christ, he hadn’t expected this reaction. He had thought Caitl
in plain when he had first caught sight of her kneeling in the dirt in her grubby jeans and sweat-stained shirt, her shoulders bent with weariness. Later, he had revised his opinion to moderately attractive when he had seen her delicate features, the glowing skin of the same tawny shade as her hair. Now, with her expression charged with vitality and her green-gray eyes blazing with emotion, she came close to beauty.
He set his glass down on the table next to his chair and rose to his feet. “I take it you’re satisfied I’m not a drug dealer.”
She nodded eagerly. “Monsieur Ganold has even read your books.”
“Of course. He has excellent taste. Why do you think I give him my business?”
“He says you’ve written two books and that they’re extraordinary.”
“I’m strong on plot, weak on character.”
She laughed. “You said before that you were wonderful.”
“But now that I have someone else to praise me, I can go back to being becomingly modest.”
Caitlin gestured impatiently. “We have to talk about the perfume.”
He lifted a brow. “You’re going to agree to my proposition?”
“Of course I am. Do you think I’m a lunatic?”
“No.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “But I think you may be that rare creature, a woman without subterfuge.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not bad. Just disconcerting.”
Katrine lifted her glass of wine. “Caitlin has always been very blunt. One always knows where one stands with her.”
“When do I get the money to pay the bank?” Caitlin asked.
Mother of God, the woman was as open and vulnerable as a child. All her previous wariness had vanished, and Alex felt an inexplicable irritation at the knowledge she was now completely malleable. “We can go into Cannes tomorrow and transfer the money into your account. However, I’d like to get this made final tonight.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a document. “I had a contract drawn up with the terms I outlined. I’d appreciate it if you’d sign on all pages, Madame Vasaro. The first four are mine, the last four are your copies.” He laid the contract down on the table and gestured for Caitlin to seat herself in the chair he had just vacated. “The terminology is very clear-cut, but you’ll want to read them before you advise your mother to sign.”
Reap the Wind Page 4
