Mad About The Man

by Stella Cameron

  "The office at La Place is there, not here. That's what's wrong with it." No way would he give Bart even an inkling of the real reason for turning this musty-smelling second story into his project headquarters. "The people around here are bound to react better to someone who's more accessible."

  "You won't be dealing with the people, Jacques. Rita and I will. That's the arrangement."

  "Was the arrangement," he corrected. "I've changed my mind. If they're going to stop viewing me as some outsider whose only interest is in exploiting them, I'm going to have to gain their trust."

  "And you think this—" Bart indicated dusty beams, bare wooden floorboards, trailing electrical wires and the detritus of previous inhabitants "—this is somehow going to make them trust you? Why? Because you decide to put a desk into a slum?"

  Bart could be damned obtuse. Sometimes Jacques wondered why he put up with the man. He wouldn't if Bart hadn't already proved himself very capable. "This slum, as you call it, is going to be renovated. Give it a week and you won't recognize the place."

  Evidently the workmen heard the word week. Three pairs of eyes riveted on Jacques.

  "A week, Mr. Ledan?" Cal Simms, local contractor, wiped scarred hands on his white overalls and ambled up. "I thought you said we were going to put up wallboard and complete all the finishing."

  "You are," Jacques said patiently. "Full bathroom. Kitchen. Bedroom. Sitting room incorporated with the office space."

  Air hissed between Bart's teeth. Jacques ignored him

  Cal removed his sweat-stained white cap and scratched his balding scalp. "Months of work there, Mr. Ledan. Months."

  Jacques moved to a window overlooking the back of the building. "Two weeks, max," he said with finality. "I'm going to tell you what goes where and you're going to see everything gets there." He almost smiled at Cal's bewildered expression. "Pull in as many extra people as you need. Let me know the specs and who you use for supplies. Bart here will deal with anyone who doesn't think they can deliver on time—on time being in the next few days."

  Cal's cohorts hovered in the background casting surreptitious glances at one another.

  "This is all gonna cost." Cal frowned and shook his head. "We could do a nice job of cleaning up in here. Put in a john, burner for coffee… refrigerator for beer. Ain't like you got any long-term plans. Murphy bed, maybe—"

  "I've got long-term plans," Jacques interrupted. Below the window was a roof. In that roof, a large skylight, cranked open to catch the breeze, reflected rays of afternoon sunshine. "And money isn't an issue. Best of everything." Directly in his line of vision; in the room revealed through the skylight, sat Gaby McGregor. "Yeah. I may be around a long, long time."

  "We could be talkin' thousands—"

  "We are talking thousands. Many thousands. Don't cut any corners." Gaby, her head bent over whatever she was sketching at a workbench, had drawn her hair up into a soft chignon at her crown. From his vantage point, Jacques saw the way a soft, white cotton shirt clung to… "This area by the window will be fine as an office space. Desk there." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. The shirt clung to her full breasts, and Jacques had no difficulty visualizing what he couldn't actually see.

  "It's going to take time, Mr. Ledan. Rome wasn't built in—"

  "We're not building Rome," Jacques told Cal. "Just a suite." Pieces of Gaby's long, silky black hair had slipped from the chignon to rest on pale, smooth skin. He'd pushed his luck yesterday. Not that what had happened had been planned—not entirely. "Get the measurements down. My architect will be along shortly to draw something up."

  Cal withdrew and the banging resumed.

  Before the day was out, Jacques intended to pursue what he'd begun with Gaby—at a more leisurely pace, if necessary.

  "Ah." Bart had left his chair and come to stand at Jacques's shoulder. "I begin to understand. We're creating a lair and the prospective prey is in sight."

  Jacques glanced back at Bart. "What the hell are you driveling about?"

  "A little local diversion." Bart nodded toward the window. "I wouldn't have thought country girls were your style, but I guess there's not a whole lot to choose from around here."

  Slowly Jacques looked from Bart's downcast eyes to Gaby. He wasn't sure exactly what he was feeling, but it wasn't pleasant.

  Bart stepped closer. "Uh-huh. Maybe she's not bad by anyone's standards. Great face. I thought so the other day. And great—"

  "That's enough."

  "Hey!" Bart slapped his back "Lighten up. You've been working too hard on this project. You know what all work and no play does to a guy. How long is it since you had some female company?"

  "Drop it."

  Bart held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I get the message. It's definitely been too long. But you'd better watch it with the little hayseed."

  Jacques turned from the window and crossed his aims. "Okay, Bart, you've got my full attention. What d'you mean by that crack?"

  "Oh, nothing much." An eloquent shrug lifted the shoulders of Bart's handmade, gray silk shirt. "Only that messing around with the local talent might not be such a great idea."

  Jacques raised his chin. An unaccustomed shaft of annoyance straightened his spine. "I don't think I like what you're implying. Gaby McGregor isn't—" What exactly wasn't she? He liked her, that much he knew. And maybe he could come to more than like her, much more. "Gaby McGregor isn't the type of woman you refer to as local talent."

  "Whatever you say." Bart laughed. "But I am the one who's supposed to work on making sure your image is snowy white in this town."

  "My image is just fine," Jacques said through his teeth.

  "Yeah. Sure." Bart studied his fingernails. "It's fine as long as no one looks at it too deeply. Turn over the surface and you're going to expose a one-hundred-percent playboy image."

  "Talk," Jacques said explosively. "Just talk."

  "Rich men gather reputations for high living whether they deserve to or not. And you have been known to do your part in that area. I know—" held up a hand to stop Jacques's retort "—I know you've been a good boy for a long time. But once the story of your efforts here hits the news, how long do you think it'll take the tabloids to dig up some juicy history?"

  "If they do, it'll be just that. History."

  "The way they use it, it won't sound like history." Bart reached for the briefcase he'd dropped on the floor. "I'd better get on with it. I'm meeting Rita at that greasy-spoon café."

  "No one can invent what isn't true," Jacques said, but Bart's implication niggled.

  "Can't they?" Bart headed for the stairs. "You know better than that. And Ms. McGregor seems to be the heroine in these parts. Almost a guru. Better keep your hands off if you don't want to get run out of town."

  Before Jacques could reply, Bart clattered down the open staircase.

  The mumbling group of workmen had congregated in a far corner where one of them jotted on dog-eared paper.

  Jacques turned back to the window. She was still there. He wasn't sure when it had happened. Not the exact instant. But somewhere in the few days since he'd met Gaby McGregor, he'd made a discovery that excited his reportedly jaded core—and other parts of him. Collecting rare items had always been his passion. Gaby McGregor was a unique find—and he had to have her.

  "Barney said it's all going to do the town a heap of good." Shirley, one of Gaby's first recruits to her work force, steamed pieces of purple felt, shaping them with deft fingers. "He says it's about time we found a way to bring more people to Goldstrike."

  Another thud from above jiggled the overhead fans.

  Gaby slapped her charcoal down on the sketch and glared upward.

  "Barney said he'll probably be able to add on to Hacienda Heaven in no time once all them tourists start pourin' into town."

  Gaby gritted her teeth and met Char's innocently blank eyes.

  "Barney said—"

  "When are you and Barney going to tie that knot everyone's always talking about?" Ga
by asked with false cheeriness.

  Shirley pursed her lips. "Maybe never. I've had me two husbands already and neither of 'em brought anything but trouble."

  A fresh assault in the upstairs regions made the ceiling tremble. "Men never bring anything but trouble, period," Gaby said darkly. "Why don't you cut out, Shirley? It's almost five."

  Immediately the plump, blond woman flipped off the steamer. "Don't mind if I do. Promised I'd go give Barney a hand." She quickly tidied the pieces assembled before her and went to gather her bag.

  He isn't up there, Gaby thought. Jacques Ledan isn't the type to involve himself with overseeing the small stuff She picked up the stick of charcoal once more. Don't let me have to look him in the eye again. Why did I let him kiss me? She hadn't let him. He'd… well, he'd lulled her into not really noticing what he was doing… until he'd… Gaby rested her elbows on the bench and covered her face. Heat flooded every part of her, and some of those parts ached in a way she didn't want to examine too closely.

  "Bye!" Shirley called.

  Gaby glanced up. "Bye. See you tomorrow."

  Once the door closed behind Shirley, Gaby ground her fists into her eyes. She just couldn't bear the idea of having to face Jacques Ledan and know he knew what she was thinking—what they would both be thinking.

  "Okay. Let's have it."

  Startled, Gaby turned to Char. "Have what?"

  "The whole story. Yesterday you left Sis's with the bozo and didn't get back for an hour and a half. What happened?"

  Gaby gaped.

  "He's a knockout, isn't he?" Char's cloud of springy gray curls bobbed with the toss of her head. "Tall, dark, blue-eyed and knock-'em-dead good- looking?"

  "When did you see—"

  "Ah-hah!" Char wagged a long finger. "So the reports are true. Where did he take you and what did the two of you do?"

  "I don't believe this." Gaby realized she'd crushed the charcoal, and tried to brush oily black dust from her fingers. "Sophie tattled! Not that there's anything to tattle about. I simply wanted to take the opportunity to tell Ledan where we stand in this town."

  "For an hour and a half?" Char said, squinting at a row of small pump bottles. "Drove off toward Odles' place, so Caleb at the garage said. In a big Jeep. The one we've seen going through town, only we didn't know it was Ledan's."

  "We decided we'd talk better in private," Gaby said lamely.

  "We decided." Char sprayed a mist from one bottle into the air and sniffed. "Banana. I don't know about this idea of making the fruit smell authentic. You and Ledan already became a we. Sounds promising."

  "Promising?"

  "Do you like him?"

  "No!"

  Char smirked. "Too emphatic, darling. You do like him."

  "I hate him!"

  "Very narrow line between love and hate. Did you wonder what it would be like if he kissed you?"

  An immediate flood of heat washed Gaby's face.

  "Yippie!" Char twirled, spraying essence of banana as she went. "You didn't just think about it. You found out!"

  "You don't know—"

  "Yes I do. I'm clairvoyant. Good. I'm glad. It's long past time for you to have a man in your life… again. Michael Copeland was a dud, but—"

  "Michael is Mae's father and he's a good… well, an interesting man. He wasn't right for me, but neither was I right for him."

  Char hoisted herself to sit on the edge of a bench. "As I was about to say. Just because Michael Copeland's a dud, it doesn't mean every man is. Jacques Ledan will probably do Goldstrike some good. And if he can do you some good at the same time, I'm all for it."

  "Char!"

  "There's no substitute for good sex, my girl. You've been celibate far too long, and before you know where you are you'll be a dried up old bag like me."

  Gaby flapped a hand. "You amaze me. That—" she pointed weakly toward the upper story of the building "—that opportunist is going to turn this lovely place into a zoo, and all you can think about is…"

  "Go on. What?"

  "All you can think about is getting me into bed with him. I don't know what's gotten into you."

  "I believe in making the best of things. He plans to build a little hotel and some shops and maybe put up some mining displays. Big deal. We could use something new around here."

  "Little hotel? Shops? You don't know the half of it. Try a wild teen center in the old schoolhouse. Try a theme park. When Jacques Ledan finishes with us we're never going to be the same—ouch!" A blur of white shot from above and something sharp hit Gaby's cheek.

  "That came through the skylight," Char said.

  "No kidding." Scowling, Gaby picked up a sleek paper airplane. "What a dumb stunt."

  Char craned her neck to peer out the skylight. "There's a man up there. He's waving."

  "I bet he is," Gaby mumbled, knowing who she would see if she looked.

  "Tall, dark, blue-eyed and knock-'em-dead handsome, unless I'm much mistaken," Char reported in rapt tones.

  "Yeah."

  "Wave to him, Gaby."

  Feeling yet another dull flush creep up her neck, Gaby raised her chin. The window where Jacques stood had always been closed. Now it was open, and he leaned his weight on the sill—and smiled that smile she was unlikely ever to forget.

  "He's got a mean aim," Char said.

  "Yeah. Doesn't he?" Gaby rubbed her cheek. "Some people never grow up."

  "He's trying to tell you something."

  "I'd like to tell him something."

  "I bet the plane's a note. Open it up and see."

  "No." Gaby threw the plane on the bench an fished a fresh box of charcoal from a drawer.

  "Then I will."

  Gaby snatched back the plane as Char made a grab. "All right. All right." Even at a distance, Jacques's teeth shone. "Stupidity. Throwing paper planes like a little kid." She unfolded the paper, read, then pressed it to her chest when Char tried to see what he'd written.

  "What does it say?"

  "Nothing." Gaby made to crumple the paper, caught Char's eye and pushed it into a pocket instead.

  "Oh, come on." Char sidled closer. "You can't do this to me. What does the note say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yes it does."

  "No, it doesn't." Why did she wish so badly that whatever game the man was playing wasn't just that—a game?

  "I'll go on upstairs and thank him for it anyway and tell him you agree. How's that?" Char put down the bottle and turned toward the door.

  "He wants me to have dinner with him," Gaby said in a rush. "At that wretched La Place. Can you imagine the nerve of the man?"

  "He wants you to have dinner" Char repeated slowly. "Accept."

  "I will not." But she wanted to.

  "Wave and nod."

  "No."

  "Then I'll go and tell him for you." Char headed for the door again.

  "No! Char, don't you dare do any such thing. He's only trying to get me in his corner because he doesn't Want any opposition to his plans."

  "I bet he kisses wonderfully."

  "What?" Gaby leapt to her feet. "Char, I can't believe you're talking like this."

  Char shrugged. "Great aim with a paper plane. Stands to reason a man with that kind of aim would be marvelous at kissing—and other things. He'd be bound to do other things with a lot of flair and authority."

  "This is bizarre. You must be tired. Why don't you go home early?"

  "You did like the way he kissed you?"

  "Yes, but—I never said he kissed me."

  Char nodded with apparent satisfaction. She leaned forward to peer at Jacques. "Gone," she said, sounding disappointed. "Use your head, girl. Even if you don't want to have an affair with him, it won't hurt to get close enough to be on the inside of whatever his plans are."

  "You are definitely not yourself," Gaby said. "There's no reason I can't go home and sketch. You stay here and fantasize. I'll go to my place and work. Michael's expecting the drawings for Dogs by next week."
<
br />   "And since Michael's always been so trustworthy and timely himself, we wouldn't want to keep him waiting, would we?"

  Gaby picked up a natural straw hat with a wide brim that turned up and crammed it low over her brows. "Michael did get me the work for the film," she reminded Char.

  "Because you're the best there is at what you do," Char said tartly. "Go on home. But make sure you give some thought to tall, dark and—"

  "Knock-'em-dead handsome," Gaby concluded for her. "Not if I can help it." But she probably wouldn't have any choice.

  Letting herself out by the back entrance, Gaby walked into the courtyard where she kept her bike… and stopped.

  Littered all over the red tiles and caught in the fronds of purple bougainvillea that trailed from painted planters atop a white stucco wall, were pieces of white paper—pieces of white paper folded into sleek airplanes.

  Gaby shook her head, picked one up and unfolded: "Have dinner with me tonight. It's time you saw La Place from the inside. Jacques."

  She retrieved another and another and opened each one: "Have dinner with me tonight…"

  A slow smile formed on Gaby's mouth. She pulled her battered bicycle upright before turning back to look again at the upstairs window. Once more he watched her and this time she did wave—and let the papers flutter, one by one, from her fingers. The thought of him trying, again and again, to get one of his silly concoctions through her skylight brought immense satisfaction. It shouldn't please her so much that he'd been determined to capture her attention, but it did.

  Great aim Jacques Ledan didn't have. Great kissing technique, he did. The jury was still out on the rest of his skills. But the jury hadn't adjourned—not yet.

  5

  He almost fell down the stairs.

  Scrambling to catch his balance, Jacques skidded through the hallway and burst into the street Without pausing, he gained the Jeep, vaulted into the driver's seat and gunned the engine to life. In seconds he shot around a corner and instantly brought his quarry into sight. His prey, as Bart called Gaby.

  She rode at a leisurely pace, arms braced straight against the handlebars of the decrepit bike. The brim of the straw hat flapped, and her hair and skirts floated behind.