“Possibly, but it will be really terrific coffee, Zac. Trust me.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t even bother to research coffee machines before you went shopping for one. I should have gone with you. At least I could have kept you from buying some off-brand piece of junk.”
“You’re wrong. It’s not off-brand; it’s imported.” She got up and reached hastily for her robe. There had been several mornings now when Zac had seen her rising naked from a tangled bed, but she still wasn’t accustomed to the way he watched her when she was running around nude. “And I did research coffee machines. But when I got to the display at the Bon, this one just stood out from all the rest. It was as if it had ‘Buy Me, Guinevere Jones’ written all over it. I couldn’t resist it. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a disaster.”
“Details, details.” She finished tying the sash of the robe and smiled brilliantly. “Relax. It’ll have the coffee ready in a moment. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Maybe we’ll have one mug of coffee out of that idiotic device by the time you’re dressed, but I wouldn’t count on it.” The phone rang in the kitchen, and Zac turned away to answer it.
Guinevere traipsed after him. It was, after all, her phone, her apartment, and her kitchen. Zac had a way of assuming a lot of rights around the place on the mornings after he’d spent the preceding nights. She’d seen this syndrome previously. When she reached the kitchen, he was already speaking into the phone.
“Okay, Gertie, I’ll take care of it right away. Thanks for the message.” He replaced the receiver and glanced at Gwen. “That was my new answering service.”
Guinevere smiled contentedly. “I’m glad you took my advice and hired one. Answering machines don’t leave the best impression on clients. Much better to have a human answer your phone when you’re out. How did Gertie, or whatever her name is, know to call here?”
“I left this number with her last night.” Zac busied himself with the toast that had just popped out of the toaster.
“I see.” Guinevere considered the implications. Zac had obviously intended to spend the night when he’d arrived the previous evening. Well, she could hardly hold his rather arrogant assumption against him. After all, they were involved in an affair.
“Want a bite of toast?”
Guinevere nodded. “So who was the message from?”
“Elizabeth Gallinger. She wants to see me first thing this morning.” Zac was taking great pains with the buttering process. “Breakfast meeting.”
Guinevere gritted her teeth and forced herself to smile sweetly. “Oh, good. You won’t have to worry about getting coffee out of my new machine. Liz can buy you a cup.”
With a certain air of defiance she glanced toward her kitchen window, but there was no view into Mason Adair’s apartment this morning. Zac had lowered the blinds.
Chapter Four
Carla glanced up disapprovingly as Guinevere walked into the office that morning. “You’re late.” Then she added with great interest, “Did Zac spend the night?”
“It occurs to me, sister dear, that your extensive interest in my social life is due to the fact that you’re bored. I don’t think you’ve got enough to do around here now that you’ve got all of Camelot’s files in order. Your skills as an executive secretary are being wasted.” Guinevere hung up her umbrella. It was a myth that Seattle residents never carried umbrellas, a myth perpetuated by the locals, who liked to pretend that they were indifferent to the misty rain that was a major factor in their environment. Hers hadn’t been the only umbrella out there on the street this morning, and there was no way those others could have belonged to tourists. It was only eight o’clock. Most self-respecting tourists were still in their motel rooms at this hour.
Carla gave her sister a strange glance. “I thought you appreciated me getting your office organized.”
Instantly Guinevere was sorry she’d made the comment. From the force of long-established habit she backed off, not wanting to hurt Carla’s feelings. But damn it, she told herself, it was time Carla was out on her own again. Besides, Guinevere wanted her office back, even if she might not run it quite as efficiently as Carla did. “You know I’ve been extremely grateful for all the work you’ve done. It’s just that now you have everything down to such an efficient routine that I’m beginning to feel like an unnecessary accessory around my own office. It’s time you took on a new challenge, Carla.” She waved a hand around the room, indicating the sum total of Camelot Services’ headquarters. “This place is just too small for you. You’re trained for bigger and more exciting things. You’re too skilled, too much of a professional, to continue working here as a clerk.”
Carla’s mouth trembled a little. “I’m not sure, Gwen. I just don’t know.”
“What I need is part-time clerical assistance,” Guinevere said gently. “Hiring a skilled executive secretary such as you to work here is like hiring a Thoroughbred race horse to pull a wagon. I’ve got a dozen people in my files who can handle the clerical work required by Camelot Services. You should be out earning big money and managing an executive office. Carla, you mustn’t let that incident at StarrTech keep you from going back to the kind of work you were trained to do.”
Carla’s beautiful eyes were wary and wistful. “I know, Gwen. It’s just that I’ve felt, well, safe here.”
“I realize that. But you’re also getting bored here. You were born to organize someone or something.”
“You don’t get bored here,” Carla pointed out.
“I own the place. It may be humble, but it’s mine.” Guinevere smiled. “It makes a difference, you know.”
Carla sighed. “All right, I can take a hint. I’ll start keeping an eye out for another position.”
Instantly Guinevere was stricken with guilt. “There’s no rush, you know. We can watch for something interesting that might come through Camelot Services. Lots of times people ask for short-term, temporary secretaries whom they then wind up hiring as permanent staff.”
Carla’s insipient depression disintegrated beneath a wave of humor. “I know. And you chew nails every time it happens.”
Guinevere was pleased to see how quickly her sister had thrown off her bad mood. A few months ago such a mood might have settled on Carla for a full day or more. Her sister really was back to normal, and it was time she went back to the kind of work she liked. “Well, it is a little irritating to have some of my best temps stolen, but I guess it goes with the territory. Besides, it’s good advertising in a way. The people who get full-time jobs tell others how they landed them through Camelot Services, and the new employers are impressed with the quality of the people we send them. You have to look on the positive side.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling so positive and philosophical this morning, because Bonny Hatcher’s husband just phoned to say Bonny went into labor last night and had her baby at three this morning.”
Guinevere stared at her. “But she wasn’t due for another couple of weeks!”
“These things happen, Gwen. Healthy baby girl. Seven pounds, two ounces.”
“Good grief. Zac was right?”
“About the sudden onslaught of baby making?”
Guinevere nodded dolefully. “It’s scary, isn’t it? Everyone is either talking about babies or having them. And you read all the time about how well all those new fertility clinics are doing. It’s the latest fad among educated, successful women. Biological clocks. Probably just a craze, but when it’s all over, there are going to be a lot of kids running around.”
“Oh, my God,” Carla breathed. “You are really starting to worry about this, aren’t you?”
“My imagination has been running riot a lot lately.” Guinevere pulled a stack of folders toward her as she sat down at her desk. “But business comes first.”
“Wait a second,
” Carla said bluntly, “What about Zac? How does he feel about the new fad of having babies?”
Guinevere opened a folder and stared unseeingly at the contents. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know.”
Carla grimaced. “Haven’t the two of you talked about the subject?”
“Not directly.”
“But, Gwen—”
“Look, Carla, I don’t have the answers to your questions, so let’s get down to work. As long as you’re sitting at that desk, you might as well do something useful. Get on the phone and see who you can find to replace Bonny Hatcher at Fogel’s today. She was due to work there for another five days to replace his secretary who’s on vacation. We can’t let Fogel down. He’s been a small but very loyal client.” She glanced at the clock. “His insurance office doesn’t open until ten. That gives us less than two hours.”
“I’ll find someone. I can always go out myself if necessary.” Carla reached for the phone and the folder full of temps who were qualified for Fogel’s kind of office.
“Oh, and Carla, when you’re finished, you’d better send flowers to Bonny’s hospital room. And maybe one of those little designer baby suits.”
Carla chuckled. “A designer baby suit?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s what the new brand of baby is wearing these days.”
“Okay.” She started to dial.
“And when you’re finished,” Guinevere added deliberately, “I’ve got something important to tell you about Mason Adair.”
Half an hour later, as Guinevere finished her story of the events in Adair’s studio, she was glad she hadn’t brought up the subject until after Carla had located a replacement for Bonny. Carla nearly went into shock.
“Good Lord! Is everyone all right? What about Mason?”
“He’s okay. He got a few bruises in the struggle, but he wasn’t badly hurt. He refused to go to an emergency room.”
“And you and Zac?”
“We’re fine,” Guinevere assured her. “It was probably the sound of Zac racing up the stairs that drove off the intruder.”
“I’ve got to call Mason.” Carla was already dialing.
“I don’t see why,” Guinevere began calmly, only to be interrupted by Carla as she spoke urgently into the phone.
“Mason, what’s this I hear about an intruder in your apartment last night? I can’t believe it. Are you all right?” Pause. “Are you absolutely certain? There can be delayed effects from this sort of thing, you know.” Another pause as she listened to Mason. “Yes, yes, I realize that, but all the same—” Long pause while Carla listened impatiently. “I know, but I still think you should take it easy today. What do you mean, you can’t? Just don’t try painting until tomorrow. There’s no sense pushing things. Besides, you deserve a break after your brilliant show last night.” Carla frowned. “Oh, I see. I didn’t realize. Your cousin? Well, I’m not sure. After all, this is your family and all, and I know there are problems. I wouldn’t want to make things awkward.” One more pause. Carla suddenly seemed to change her mind. “I understand completely. Of course we’ll be there. One o’clock. Yes, I know the restaurant. See you then, Mason.”
Guinevere leaned back in her swivel chair and eyed her sister. “What on earth was that all about? Where, exactly, are we going to be at one o’clock?”
Carla appeared to remember something. “You’re not already scheduled for lunch with Zac, are you?”
“Zac didn’t schedule me in for anything today,” Guinevere said dryly. “He left my apartment in a big hurry. Had a hot breakfast meeting with Liz. My next appointment with Zachariah Justis is tonight. I’m due to escort him to the queen’s party. Zac was afraid that if he went alone, he’d be a wallflower. Fat chance. I’m sure Ms. Gallinger would have found some way of entertaining him.”
“Gwen, I hate to tell you this, but you’re losing your objectivity. Are you jealous?”
“Of course not. Forget that and tell me what’s happening at one.”
“Mason’s cousin is in town. Just showed up without any notice. Called Mason’s apartment this morning. He’s been sent here on family business, apparently. He’s taking Mason to lunch, and Mason doesn’t wish to be alone with his cousin. Feels it will be a stressful situation, to say the least. I volunteered you and me to run interference. The lunch is free, Gwen. Cousin’s going to pick up the tab.”
Guinevere eyed her sister appraisingly. “Carla, haven’t you learned yet that there is no such thing as a free lunch?”
“What could go wrong?” Carla asked with perfect confidence.
“We could become embroiled in an embarrassing family conflict.”
“Nonsense. By going we’ll be helping Mason to avoid a conflict.”
Guinevere gave up the argument and went to work.
***
Dane Fitzpatrick turned out to be something of a surprise. He was, according to Mason, the son of his father’s sister, an only child, just as Mason was. Apparently the family had always expected Dane and Mason to be close friends, but the truth was, they had very little in common. When they were very young, Mason said, there had been a distinct hostility between himself and his cousin, probably promoted by the fact that the other family members tried to force them to be buddies. But there were also some very basic differences between the two men. Dane had been content to fulfill family expectations as far as career and lifestyle were concerned. Mason had been of a more independent and rebellious temperament.
Given Mason’s surly comments on his cousin, Guinevere wasn’t expecting the gallant, charming, thirty-five-year-old man who looked as if he had just stepped out of a fine East Coast law office. Impeccably dressed in a gray suit and old-school tie, his slightly thinning hair meticulously trimmed, Fitzpatrick exuded quiet confidence and the sense of authority that came naturally to those who are descended from a long line of successful upper-class lawyers and a good family. He was a handsome man, with the kind of physique that spelled tennis courts, golf, and sailing on a regular basis. He had what must have been the family’s dark eyes, judging from the fact that Mason had them, too. He also had excellent manners. Guinevere was surprised by the gracious way he covered up his astonishment at seeing Mason walk into the restaurant with two strange women in tow.
“Please sit down,” Dane said with quiet gallantry as he accepted the introductions. “Mason, you should have mentioned you were bringing guests. But no matter. This table will seat four.”
Guinevere glanced around at the interior of the expensively paneled restaurant. The place was noted for its fish, of course, just as most of Seattle’s good restaurants were known for seafood. But this particular restaurant was also known for its prices. It looked as if it had been established for fifty years, but Guinevere knew for a fact that it had been built only recently. Nevertheless, the mahogany walls, old-fashioned chandeliers, and heavy green carpeting gave the impression of a much older heritage. She had been looking for an excuse to dine here, and she wondered now whether Mason or his cousin had chosen the place. A waiter materialized near Dane Fitzpatrick.
“Would anyone care for a drink?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“Sure,” Mason said. “I’ll have a beer.”
Mason hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. He was wearing his usual paint-stained jeans, a scruffy-looking pullover, and an even scruffier pair of Nikes. There was a certain air of defiance about him that touched Guinevere. She had the feeling that Mason had been battling his family a long time. Carla was watching him with a protective expression, as if ready to jump between Mason and Dane, should violence erupt. But violence wasn’t about to erupt, Guinevere knew. Dane Fitzpatrick would never stoop to such blue-collar behavior. Above all, he was a gentleman.
“Well, Mason, I had planned to discuss business with you, as you well know, but since we have guests . . .” Fi
tzpatrick let the sentence trail off. His meaning was clear. This was family business and not meant for the ears of outsiders.
“Don’t worry about Carla and Gwen. I’ve already told them why you’ve flown three thousand miles just to take me to lunch. You can talk in front of them.”
“Perhaps they would prefer that we didn’t,” Fitzpatrick suggested with grave politeness. It was obvious he was seeking a socially acceptable path out of an uncomfortable situation.
It was Carla who took charge of the conversation at that point. She buttered a chunk of French bread and said blithely, “Did you hear about Mason’s show last night? Very successful launch. Several important paintings were sold, and next time there will be press coverage. He’s on his way in the art world.”
Fitzpatrick looked directly at Mason, who was nursing his beer. “I’ll be sure to tell your father.”
“Why bother? Dad could care less. But he must have been the one who sent you out here on this wild-goose chase. You wouldn’t have come on your own. Why, Dane? What’s happening back home to make him suddenly start wondering how things are going with the black sheep of the family? And how did you get my address? I haven’t communicated with anyone back East for nearly two years.”
“Your father asked me to try to find you, Mason. It’s taken quite a while. When I told him that I had a Seattle address for you at last, he asked me to come and see you. You know him. He’s much too proud to contact you himself. As it so happened, I had business out here on the coast. After I finished meeting with my clients in L.A., I flew directly here. I think you should consider it an overture, Mason. Your father is a stubborn man. He’ll never be able to bring himself to contact you first. Not after what happened between the two of you. But this is his way of trying to tell you the door is open.”
The Sinister Touch Page 6
