"And the gambling excursions to Tahoe, the high-rise luxury hotel and the health spa," Gaby muttered,
"Yes, of course. But first things first. And you've made a start, you clever thing. You got Mr. Ledan to put off Mr. Paradise's visit indefinitely!"
"I didn't—"
"Stop belittling your efforts, Gaby. You didn't get Mr. Ledan to abandon the park entirely—yet. But before you made your superb effort, the whole thing was in motion."
Effort? Gaby hadn't had a migraine in years. Today might be the day to break that happy record. "Char told you about my… effort with Jacques."
"She certainly did. And she said she'd warned you it wouldn't do any good. Men, she informed me in that terribly flip way of hers, will always be flattered by that sort of thing—enjoy it, I think she said, but not be swayed from a decision already made. But she's being foolish because—obviously—your effort did sway Mr. Ledan. Somewhat."
"I see." Why burst Sophie's bubble?
"Yes. And the reason I wanted to talk to you this morning—in addition to congratulating you on what you've already accomplished—was to ask you to do something else for us."
"Something else?" Gaby said weakly.
Sophie swiveled and regarded her seriously. "I'll understand if you think this is too much."
"What is it?"
"Try again, Gaby. Maybe this time you'll be completely successful and Mr. Ledan will decide to give up on the theme park. For the good of the cause, I'm asking you to repeat your effort."
There was nothing to be said. No answer could convey Gaby's amazement. She stared into Sophie's sincere blue eyes and felt her own muscles turn to water. Sophie Byler, spinster and ex-schoolteacher, upholder of upstanding morals and president of the Women's Auxiliary had exhorted Gaby to venture once more to seduce Jacques Ledan!
"It was a risk," Sophie said. "I knew it, but I took it, anyway. I hope you won't think less of me."
Feeling shell-shocked, Gaby pushed her hat to the back of her head. "I don't think less of you. How could I?"
"Because I was selfish enough to push you too far."
"Nothing could push me farther than I've already been pushed this week."
"Nevertheless…" Sophie became silent and her grasp on Gaby's hand tightened. "Oh, my. Some things simply are not fair."
Gaby looked at Sophie, then slowly turned to see what had drawn the old lady's lips into a disapproving line.
Striding down the center of the street, his denim duster flying in dashing Western fashion, came a tall, huskily-built man.
A weak sun chose that moment to spear through the clouds, and Gaby shaded her eyes. The man's face was in shadow, but his thick blond hair, worn rakishly long, shone—especially where hours on some California beach had turned it almost white.
His shoulders swung and the heels of his silver-toed, gray snakeskin slouch boots rang on the pavement.
A way behind him, parked a distance from the curb, stood a white Mercedes convertible with the top down.
He arrived in front of them.
Gaby started at the custom boots, worked her way up gray leather jeans that fitted athlete-perfect legs like a second skin, skimmed past a low-slung belt of solid silver links, a gray silk shirt of flamboyantly Western cut and arrived at the newcomer's square jaw.
The sun made another run for it.
"Hi, Gab," the man said. "Gorgeous as ever, babe. You never change."
"Neither does he," Sophie murmured.
Of course the chin had a cleft just deep enough to be irresistible. The lips that parted in a smile showed white teeth that had never needed bonding. Warm, boyishly honest eyes were pure, cerulean blue and fringed with thick, black lashes.
Standing in the middle of Goldstrike on a November afternoon was a man no woman could fail to run her car into a pole for.
Gaby plucked at a hole in one leg of her jeans and spread an arm along the back of the bench. "And I said nothing could push me farther than I'd already been pushed this week. Hello, Michael."
He'd made up his mind to stay away from her.
"You do know who Michael Copeland is, don't you?"
Jacques paced another circuit around a storeroom behind the building that housed his suite and Gaby's business premises. Char Brown had called with an urgent request for him to meet her there. Now she was telling him things he didn't want to hear.
"I said—"
"Yes, of course I know who he is. He's some costume designer from Hollywood."
"Oh, boy."
"Do you want to enlarge on that?"
Char shrugged, drawing her thin shoulders up into wild, graying black curls. "My father never taught me much, but he was pretty insistent that it's more important to know your adversaries well than your friends moderately well."
"I think I can decode that. You're telling me I don't have Michael Copeland's number. And you're also telling me he's my adversary."
"Something like that."
"Well you're wrong on at least one count. The man means nothing to me."
"Good. Every time he comes to Goldstrike he upsets Gaby."
Jacques swung around. "How?"
"I thought you didn't care about him."
"I don't. I asked how he upset Gaby."
She smiled, and wrinkles fanned into the brown skin of her face. "And you do care about her, don't you?" She motioned him to remain silent. "Michael's a big, talented kid. That's why he didn't want children. He couldn't cope with the idea of not holding center stage at all times—with Gaby as well as with everyone else."
"He loved her?" Jacques disliked the way his stomach squeezed.
"As much as he could love anyone but himself. He did come to love Mae, too, but by then it was too late for him and Gaby. Oh, he tried to get her back. She was too smart. If she wasn't such a mush heart, she wouldn't let him see Mae at all, but she thinks it's important for the child to know her father. And, if the truth were known, she thinks it's good for him to spend time with Mae."
"Children should know both their parents," Jacques said distractedly. "Do you know why he's here now?"
"Ostensibly to check progress on the hats for Going to the Dogs."
He looked at her sharply. "You think there's another reason?"
"Yes. I think he's gotten wind of you through the grapevine—namely Mae. He's probably come to check you out. If Gaby doesn't want him anymore, he doesn't want her to want anyone else."
"The man's sick."
"Not really," Char said. "Just the product of his environment. He's been adored for so long, he can't adjust to losing any part of his entourage. I doubt if he's even conscious of what he's doing."
"But he makes Gaby unhappy?"
"He unsettles her by trying to send her on a guilt trip for not letting him back into her life."
Jacques lifted his face to the sky. So, the creep who'd left Gaby when she was pregnant had showed up because he was afraid she might finally be taking someone else into the place he'd once occupied.
"What do you think I ought to do?" Not that he intended to do anything.
"It doesn't really matter what I think." Char smoothed her loose, orange cotton skirts. "I'd better get back. But I did think you'd like to know she's with him over at Sis's and, unless I don't know her as well as I think I do, she's feeling pretty miserable."
16
Laughter—and a rush of hot air—met Jacques as he walked into Sis's.
He slid quietly onto the nearest counter chair. Not that he need worry about intruding on the raucous company. The motley band crowded into the center of the diner hadn't noticed Jacques's arrival.
"It was a blast!" A man's strong voice rose above the others as he stood talking to the group. Hollywood might as well have been written on his broad, gray silk-clad chest. His fascinated audience listened intently.
"Hoffman walked out, of course," the man said, pushing a hand into tousled blond hair. "But what else is new? What a hell of a party, though. Hey—" he pointed to Barney fr
om the Hacienda "—have you seen Julia's new do?"
Barney shook his head.
"Be grateful," the orator announced. "She should have stuck with her old look, and I'm not the only one who's told her so." The man's other hand rested on the back of Gaby's neck. She sat, the only unsmiling member of the group, with her gaze firmly trained on her lap.
A light touch on Jacques's back made him look over his shoulder—and into Char Brown's sharp eyes. "Do I need to introduce anyone to you?"
Muscles in Jacques's jaw twitched. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I wonder why. What do you think of Michael?"
"Think" He drummed the counter. "Nothing, I guess, except that I hate the SOB." The vehemence in his words didn't put a crack in the black tension that mounted in his gut.
"Gaby was very young when they met. So was he. The difference is, she grew up." Char spoke through barely parted lips. "Oh-oh. You're on. She's seen you."
The instant Jacques looked into Gaby's eyes, his view was cut off by Sis who proceeded to pour coffee all around. But the instant had been long enough for him to see, first unhappiness, then embarrassment. He understood both and hated that he was responsible for the latter. If he'd used his damned head he would never have told her he knew what she'd set out to do on Saturday. Gaby accused him of using her, of making love to seal her humiliation.
You've enjoyed making a fool of me, haven't you? she'd told him. And those had been her parting words when she'd insisted he leave her house.
"Mr. Ledan!"
Jacques's name, yelled in her ear by Caleb, jolted Gaby all the way to her toes. She felt the entire company's attention shift in the direction of the tall, darkly silent man at the counter.
"Mike," Caleb continued in a bellow. "You gotta meet Mr. Jacques Ledan. He's the one who's putting little old Goldstrike on the map. Gonna see to it that our kids get to go to school here in town again and that there's enough work to keep 'em here when they're through. The two of you are bound to have a heap in common—both of you bein' movers, like they say."
Gaby felt Michael's fingers tighten on her neck. As if she watched a scene without sound acted out on the other side of a glass wall, she saw him lean forward across heads, his right hand extended, and saw Jacques rise smoothly from his chair and approach.
Nothing in common, she wanted to shout. But they wouldn't have heard on their side of the glass. These two men are different from the bone out.
Jacques wore all black as he had that first day in her showroom. And today, as then, flecks of black showed in his searingly blue eyes, eyes that looked not at Michael, whose hand he shook, but at Gaby.
"The candy man himself," she heard Michael say in his best, deliberately hearty voice. "Great to meet you, Jacques. Heard a whole lot about you. And I'm excited about what you represent to these folks. Hell, I'm amazed someone hasn't come along and seen what there was to be made here long before this. Trust a man who turns sugar into you-know-what to see gold in dirt."
Only Michael's grip on her neck stopped Gaby from jumping up.
Jacques's flat gaze would have closed most men's mouths permanently.
"Hey," Michael said, slapping his thigh. "Gold from dirt in Goldstrike. They sure as hell never found much of the real stuff when they were looking for it. Took a French taffy puller to do the job. Pretty good, -huh, Jacques?"
The slow movement that caught Gaby's eye was Jacques's hand, curling into a fist at his side. "We're third-generation Californians," he said quietly.
"Hello, Michael," Char popped from behind Jacques. "Why didn't you call and say you were coming, you reprobate?"
"I knew I'd be welcome." Michael laughed. He swept up an arm. "And I was right, wasn't I, folks?"
A chorus of assent followed.
"And you know you keep a bed made up for me, Char, love." He blew her a kiss. "I'll be over later."
"Come and join us, Jacques. Pull up a chair. Sis! Bring Jacques here a cup of coffee."
Jacques didn't move.
"It's nice to see you, Mr. Ledan," Sophie said politely from her seat, which was slightly removed from the rest. "I've already explained about the library and the senior center. Everyone is most appreciative, I assure you."
Gaby closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. Sophie was deferring to Jacques, just as Caleb already had
"Mighty nice," Sis said, in a remarkably clear voice. She smiled at Jacques with frank friendliness. "And my brothers say the teen center is goin' to mean nothin' but good to me—with me supplyin' the refreshments at the concession stand, that is."
Jacques appeared vaguely uncomfortable, but he nodded at Sis and the others. "We'll make a great team."
"I really am flattered that you want me to help draft a proposal to the state about the school," Sophie put in.
They were defecting. Gaby managed to shrug away from Michael's hand. One by one, everyone in the town was going over to Jacques's side because all they could see was what they, personally, had to gain. Even Sophie, who had been so adamantly opposed to the whole project, had drawn back and dumped the problem of the theme park in Gaby's lap as the apparent sole remaining adversary.
The door flew open to reveal Camilla Roberts. "Hello, everybody," she said loudly, but managing to retain the huskily sexy quality in her voice. "I'm so excited! Is it true?"
It was happening. Everything she'd feared. This town was turning into a glitzy zoo. Gaby tried to gauge an inconspicuous escape.
"Hi, Jacques," Camilla said. "Why didn't you tell me the Michael Copeland was in town?"
"When would I have done that?"
"Oh, you. Such a tease. I swear, if Rita hadn't taken me in, I'd be having no fun at all on my vacation."
"I thought you were just passing through town," Jacques commented without looking at Camilla. "This is Michael Copeland. He's passing through, too."
Gaby eyed him sharply, but saw no sign of anger— or of any emotion at all.
"Michael Copeland," Camilla said breathily and with great reverence. "If you knew how I've dreamed of this moment. I'm Camilla Roberts."
"It's great to meet you, Camilla," Michael said. He drew up another chair—on the other side of him from Gaby—and motioned Camilla into it. "Sit right here and tell me about yourself."
Gaby's head jerked up so sharply, her neck cracked. After all these years nothing about Michael had changed. A beautiful, fawning woman still made him react like a grateful dog in the mating season.
"I can't believe it." Camilla slid to sit beside Michael who promptly found a new neck upon which to lavish attention. "I can't. I've wanted to meet you for just ages. For ever. I'm a makeup artist, you know. Ask Jacques."
Michael wasn't asking anyone anything. "I'd have known that without being told. You look wonderful, baby. Who're you working for these days?"
"Well." Camilla, in a thigh-high, gold satin shirt-dress with buttonholes that were evidently too small to use, crossed one long, bare, tanned leg over the other and fixed her big, brown eyes on Michael. "Actually I'm between engagements. I was considering an offer from Jacques to oversee things at his little spa, but my real love is—naturellement—the movies!" She squealed.
"God, this is something," Michael said, dropping into a crouch beside Camilla. "I knew I'd heard your name. Camilla Robertson, the makeup artist."
"Roberts. You've heard of me?"
"You bet I have, baby." Michael's eyes were in great position to figure out how much bigger Camilla's buttonholes needed to be. "And I'm into a big deal right now. A big deal. Going to the Dogs. You've heard of it?"
Another squeal rent the air.
"Right. Well, of course, I get mucho input in your chosen area, sweetie. Leave it to me. I'll work something out—if you'd like that."
"Oh, I like. I like very much."
Michael draped an arm around Camilla's shoulders. "Consider it done." He tore his gaze from the region of Camilla's buttonholes and inclined his head to Gaby. "Gaby's doing the hats—to my specs, of
course. Isn't that right, love?"
Gaby seethed. "The movie's going to be wonderful. An extravaganza." True, Michael was a genius at what he did, but where hats were concerned he'd always deferred to her.
"Did you know Gaby's my wife?" Michael continued. "Ex-wife, that is. We're one of those lucky couples who came through a divorce as the best of friends. Isn't that right, love?"
She'd dearly love to slap him. "We manage."
"Which brings me to another point," Michael said, bouncing to his feet and jabbing a finger in Jacques's direction. "I understand my ex has a new man-of-the-moment. I'd have thought she'd make sure I was the first to know about a thing like that, wouldn't you, Camilla?"
Camilla, wisely, said nothing.
"Is it true that you've got the hots for my little Gaby, Jacques?"
Gaby looked at the floor and felt her face turn dull, throbbing red. "Michael," she whispered. "Please don't."
He wrapped his arms around her. "You know I'm a joker, love. I don't want anything but the best for you. That's why it's my duty to make sure what's what where you're concerned."
"And where Mae's concerned, too?"
A second passed before he laughed. "Of course. That doesn't have to be said."
"None of this has to be said."
"Jacques," Michael boomed. "Isn't this some woman I used to be married to!"
"She certainly is," Jacques agreed.
"God!" Michael slapped a hand to his brow. "I just had a fantastic idea… one of many I have every day. Didn't I hear you were planning a movie theater here?"
"Eventually."
"Well, hell. Why not use everything that comes easily to hand? Why not a live theater, too?"
Jacques raised one brow. "I suppose—"
"Of course! Production would be no sweat. I could send appropriate material your way—and even let you use part of my team for costumes and sets from time to time. But, best of all, we could put our heads together and find ways to showcase Gaby's stuff." He grinned at her. "Don't thank me, love. What are old friends for? Right, Jacques?"
Mad About The Man Page 16
