“I had my nephew handle the details, but, yes, we’ve been trying to locate him. Now, if you have information on the matter, Mr. Justis, I will be more than happy to pay for it.”
Zac winced at the cold condescension in the words. “Sir, there would be a slight conflict of interest at the moment. I’m already working for your son.”
“What are you doing for him? Is he in trouble? What does he need?” There was a father’s genuine concern beneath the cultured, aloof exterior.
“What he needs and what I need in order to help him are some answers, Mr. Adair.”
“I don’t know who you are, Mr. Justis, but I can find out. In the meantime, if you have made contact with my son, I don’t want to lose contact with you. Ask your questions.”
“I’m afraid I will be making some extremely personal inquiries, sir.”
“Just ask, damn it!”
“All right. I understand that you struck Mason out of your will a couple of years ago when the two of you quarreled.”
“That is correct,” Adair said austerely. “I assumed it would bring him to his senses. Mason had been born and bred with a silver spoon in his mouth. Frankly, I didn’t think he’d last more than three or four months without access to the kind of money and connections he had always taken for granted. I have realized during the past couple of years that I was mistaken. That boy turned out to be every damn bit as stubborn as I am. In some ways it made me realize that he was a throwback to his grandfather and his great-grandfather. Mason has lived a soft life, but it seems my son is not soft because of it.” Pride laced the comment.
“You say Mason had always lived in relative luxury?”
“It was his heritage. In return he had an obligation to that heritage. We . . . disagreed on the subject.”
“I understand.” Zac paused and then asked his next question. “You say you’ve been trying to contact him for some time now.”
“That is correct.”
“Did you intend to put Mason back in your will in the event that you located him?”
“Yes, Mr. Justis. I did.”
Zac exhaled slowly. “I think that answers most of my questions, Mr. Adair.”
“Wait, don’t hang up, Justis,” Adair said urgently. “What about Mason?”
“I’ll tell him I talked to you and that you’ve been trying to reach him,” Zac said, searching for a way to leave the older man some hope without building those hopes too high.
“May I have your number, Mr. Justis?”
“Yes.” Zac gave it to him and then eased himself off the phone. He sat for a long while after that, contemplating what he had learned. He had been right about this mess. There was money involved. A lot of it. Adair money.
Things finally began to jell. It didn’t take any great intuition to realize that there was more at stake than a bit of malicious mischief.
Dane Fitzpatrick had located Mason several months ago, but he not only hadn’t contacted the artist, he also hadn’t bothered to tell Mason’s father. Furthermore, Dane had made a trip to the West Coast and actually talked to Mason. Then he’d returned home and still not mentioned the fact to the senior Adair. Was it because Mason was still being stubborn and refused to talk to his father?
Or because once contact was made, Mason would be back in the will, and Dane would be out in the cold?
And what the hell did all this have to do with Baldric, Valonia, and the Sandwick house?
Zac dialed Guinevere’s number again, but Carla assured him that she was still engaged at lunch. Zac frowned as he glanced at his watch. It was already after two. How long was the business lunch going to last? He had another appointment himself that afternoon, one that would take him out of the office. “Carla, tell her to call me as soon as she walks in the door, understand? I want to talk to her.”
“I’ll tell her, Zac.”
***
The phone was ringing as Guinevere walked into her office much later that afternoon. Carla had already left for the day, she noted, glancing at her sister’s messages on the desk. Apparently she’d scheduled a meeting with Theresa at the Midnight Light gallery. Guinevere picked up the receiver.
“Camelot Services.”
“Gwen, is that you? I’ve got to talk to you.” Mason Adair’s voice was hoarse with tension.
“Mason? What’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m in my studio. Please come quickly. Something else has happened. I can’t reach Zac.” He replaced the receiver on his end.
The phone hummed in Guinevere’s ear. She stared at it, frowning. The urgency in Mason’s voice had been real. Guinevere paused long enough to dial Zac’s number, but when Gertie answered, she just said to tell Zac she’d called and then hung up. Guinevere grabbed her shoulder bag and hurried out the door.
Chapter Nine
Guinevere had almost reached Mason’s apartment building when a hunch made her hesitate beside her own door. The urgency in Mason’s voice had alarmed her. She had a feeling that whatever had happened was something Zac would want to know about.
Digging her key out of her purse, she let herself inside her own building, determined to try to reach Zac by telephone before going on to Mason’s apartment. The call from her phone would only delay her another minute or two.
She opened her door, intent only on calling from the kitchen phone. The mini blinds on her kitchen window were open, and she peered through them, trying to see if she could spot Mason across the street. There was no sign of him.
Zac’s phone was once more answered by his service.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Justis is not available at the moment. May I take a message?”
“Gertie, this is Guinevere Jones. Just tell him I called again and that I’d like him to contact me or Mason Adair as soon as he gets back.”
“I’ll tell him, Gwen. Listen, are you all right? You sound a little upset.”
“No, I’m fine, Gertie. Just fine. Be sure to give Zac my message.”
“I will.”
“Thanks.” Guinevere hung up the phone and heard the faint noise in the hall at the same time. Belatedly she realized that she hadn’t locked the door behind her when she entered the apartment. She had only intended to stay a moment or two.
Nerves. Gertie was right. She was a little upset and there was no good reason. The worst Mason might have to tell her about was another incident of vandalism.
Hoisting her purse over her shoulder again, she swung around . . . and came to a dead halt as she found herself facing a thick, heavily built man with a gun clutched in his right fist. Shock held her paralyzed for about three taut seconds. It hit her quite forcibly that this was the man she had seen through Mason’s window the night he had been attacked. He wasn’t wearing a hood this time, and his scraggly, limp brown hair hung almost to his shoulders. There was a flat, aggressive bluntness in his features that reminded her of a pit bulldog. But it was the wild, alien look in his washed-out eyes that truly frightened her.
“Don’t say a word. Not one single word. I can kill you and be out of this building before any of your neighbors realize what’s happened. In fact, most of them aren’t even home at this time of day. I already checked. You understand me, Guinevere Jones?”
“I understand.” She stood very still. There was something abnormal about the way her blood was moving in her veins. Her pulse seemed too fast all of a sudden. Her fingers were tightly clenched around the strap of her shoulder bag. “What do you want?”
“We’ve already got what we want, don’t we, Valonia?”
“Yes.” The woman who materialized behind the heavy man had a ghostlike paleness about her that was unnerving under the circumstances. In contrast to the man, she was very thin with pale skin, pale eyes, colorless lips, and wispy, almost red hair that hung nearly to her wai
st. She stared at Guinevere with an unblinking, intent gaze. She held a small package in one hand. “So. We were right to keep an eye on this building, too. You were correct in assuming she might stop here before going over to his place.”
Guinevere forced her tongue to work again. “His place? Mason’s? What have you done with him? What’s going on here? Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but it’s obvious you two are playing some pretty serious games; games that have gone much too far. If you had any sense, you’d get out of here. Now.”
“Games?” The man, who must have been Baldric, smiled without any humor. “You think we’re playing games? You’re a fool. But that’s not very strange, considering the fact that most people are fools. You should never have gotten involved, Guinevere Jones. Your foolishness is going to cost you. Come here.”
Guinevere didn’t move. For some reason her attention was on the thin woman. She was holding the small package in her hand with a tension that Guinevere could feel across the width of the kitchen. Even as Guinevere watched, Valonia raised her hand slightly. A strange scent wafted through the air.
“I’m not going anywhere, and if you try to drag a struggling woman down the stairs and out the front door, you’re going to be asking for trouble. Someone’s going to notice and you know it.”
“We do not intend to drag a struggling woman out onto the street,” Valonia assured her, stepping closer and raising the oddly scented package. It appeared to be a folded cloth, part of which was dangling into a jar fashioned of cobalt-blue glass. Liquid from the glass was climbing the trail of fabric, permeating it. “You will not be struggling at all. And we will be certain to take you down the back stairs. No one will see you, Guinevere Jones. Do not deceive yourself with false hope. There is no hope.”
The acrid smell emanating from the cloth and the glass in Valonia’s hand was stronger now. Guinevere was suddenly more afraid of it than she was of the weapon Baldric was holding. She edged backward and found herself up against the counter. The handsome red-and-black coffee machine was immediately behind her.
“Don’t touch me,” Guinevere hissed. “Don’t you dare touch me, you little witch.”
Valonia smiled evilly. “How very astute of you.” She lunged forward, trying to slap the package against Guinevere’s nose and mouth. Guinevere gasped and tried to dodge. Her arm swept out in a wide, desperate arc in an attempt to ward off Valonia.
“Stand still or I’ll shoot!” Baldric issued the warning as he leapt toward Guinevere.
Guinevere’s hand missed Valonia but struck the coffee machine. Her fingers closed around the handle of the glass pot just as Baldric clamped a hand around her mouth and shoved the snout of the gun into her ribs. The smell of the object in Valonia’s hand was overpowering. The damp cloth was forced against Guinevere’s nose. Almost instantly her senses reeled.
“Hold her still!” Valonia shoved the cloth more tightly into position.
“Watch out for that coffeepot,” Baldric snarled as Guinevere swung her arm in a frantic, awkward movement.
From a great distance Guinevere heard the sound of shattering glass and Baldric’s furious oath. She wasn’t sure if she had hit either of them. Already she was slumping to the floor, her mind spinning away into darkness as the fumes from the cloth invaded her consciousness. She was aware of a great deal of scrambling movement and crude oaths from both Baldric and Valonia as they tried to follow her to the floor. Guinevere lost her frail grip on the handle of the pot.
She scrambled about in useless protest as she tried to evade Baldric’s grasp. Both Baldric and Valonia were concentrating on keeping the cloth pressed against her face. They didn’t pay any attention to Guinevere’s futile struggles. When her hand closed around a shard of heavy coffeepot glass, Guinevere was too far gone even to be sure of what she was holding. Some vague, rapidly receding instinct made her fumble the piece of glass into the pocket of her skirt. She wondered fleetingly if it would fall out when Baldric and Valonia carried her down the fire escape stairs, and then she wondered what she could possibly do with a piece of glass in any event. Useless effort.
“Clean up that mess.” Baldric’s order seemed to come from a million miles away. “We don’t want anyone to guess what happened here. Get rid of the glass. Hurry!”
It occurred to Guinevere as she slipped into unconsciousness that Zac, for one, would be glad to know that the stylish coffee machine was out of commission, at least temporarily.
***
Zac sat brooding in Guinevere’s apartment, a glass of tequila in front of him. It was nearly eight o’clock. He knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt because he’d been glancing at his watch every couple of minutes for the past two hours. He was not in a good mood. The only explanation he could come up with for Guinevere’s absence was that lunch with the client had turned into dinner. That explanation did not please him.
In fact, Zac decided, staring at the half-empty tequila glass, the explanation infuriated him. He sat alone on the black leather sofa and faced the extent of his jealousy. This was what came of not pushing her for some formal commitment. Declaring to each other that they were in the midst of a genuine affair was not enough. Something more was needed in this relationship. Zac vowed that when Guinevere finally came through the front door, he would point that out to her in no uncertain terms.
Grand, masculine wisdom told him that women had become unmanageable during the twentieth century. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, men were going to have to put their feet down again and exert a little male authority. It was ridiculous that a woman, even a businesswoman, could take an extended lunch with a client and then turn around and take an extended dinner with him, too.
The phone rang as Zac was mentally listing his grievances. Irritated, he stood up, scooped up the glass of tequila, and went into the kitchen to answer it. The voice on the other end was Carla’s.
“Hi, Zac. Is Guinevere there?”
“No, she is not. Apparently lunch turned into dinner.”
“What does that mean?”
“I haven’t seen her since this morning. Every time I called Camelot Services today, you informed me she was at lunch with a prime client. Remember?”
“I remember. You sound annoyed, Zac.”
“Possibly because I am annoyed. It is eight o’clock at night and I still haven’t seen your sister.”
“Hmmm. She should have been home by now.”
“Tell me about it.” He took a swallow of tequila.
“Well, we can commiserate together,” Carla said with an air of resignation. “I can’t locate Mason, either. We were supposed to have dinner together. I was going to coach him on how to handle the interview with the reporter from the Review-Times. Maybe he got caught up in his work.”
Zac’s brows came together in a heavy line as he considered that bit of information. Automatically he glanced through the mini blinds to check Mason’s studio. The window was unlit, but there was still enough lingering daylight to let him see that the apartment across the street was empty. “He’s not working. I can see the studio from here.”
There was a pause from Carla’s end of the phone. “Interesting. I wonder where he could be? Do you suppose he and Guinevere have, uh, gone out to dinner together?”
“Why would they do that? Especially if Mason had a date with you?”
“I don’t know,” Carla admitted.
There was another long pause as they both considered the various possibilities. Zac’s frown deepened. “Hang up, Carla. I want to call my answering service. I didn’t do it earlier because I got back to the office late this afternoon and I didn’t want to deal with any business until tomorrow morning.”
“Doesn’t Gertie have Gwen’s number?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t necessarily try to contact me here unless I gave her specific instructions to do so. Hang up. I want to
check.”
“Okay. Zac, let me know if you find either of them.”
“I will.” Zac cut the connection and redialed. “Gertie? This is Zac. Any messages?”
“Gwen called around five o’clock. Said to tell you to contact either her or Mason Adair when you got back to the office. I tried your office around five fifteen and again at five thirty. You weren’t there. I thought you would call in before now.” Gertie sounded defensive.
Zac rubbed the back of his neck while he contemplated Mason’s empty studio. “Don’t worry about it, Gertie. Did she say where she was when she called?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Justis.”
“All right. Thanks for the message.” He let the receiver drop into the cradle. If Gwen hadn’t stipulated where he was supposed to call, then he had to assume that she had been calling from either her office or her apartment. She was in neither of those locations now. And Mason Adair was not in his studio.
Uneasily Zac gazed around the kitchen, wondering if Gwen had been standing here when she made the call. It was a possibility. He stood silently, aware of the utter lack of Gwen’s presence. Where the hell could she be at this hour of the night? Surely she and Adair hadn’t decided that they were more than two ships passing in the night, after all. It didn’t make any sense. There was no way on earth Gwen could respond in bed the way she did to him, Zac told himself, and then turn around and jump into Mason Adair’s arms.
Besides, he’d seen the way Adair had looked at Carla the last time they were together. The artist definitely had his eye on the younger Jones sister.
Damn it, Zac thought, I’m letting my imagination run wild. Maybe what he needed was another shot of tequila. His eyes went to the cupboard that held the Jose Cuervo, and for some reason he noticed that the coffee machine was minus its pot.
No loss, Zac told himself as he glanced around the small room, looking for it. With any luck the sucker was broken and Gwen wouldn’t be able to replace it. It would be tough to find a replacement for that idiotically designed pot. Out of curiosity he opened the cupboard under the sink and saw the broken pieces of glass in the trash can. He could imagine Gwen’s irritation. She had really liked the looks of that coffee machine.
The Sinister Touch Page 14
