Gift of Gold

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  The temptation to confide in another woman almost overcame Verity. Caitlin was holding out the lure of mutual feminine understanding at a time when Verity badly needed some. She deeply appreciated the offer, but she managed, barely, to restrain herself. This was between her and Jonas. “No, not really. He’s a good worker. I can’t complain about his dishwashing skills and he’s good with the customers. His background is a little unusual, though.”

  “An interesting man. He really was quite brilliant in his field, you know. I’ll never forget that lecture I heard him give at Vincent, and that was just a routine classroom talk. He had the whole room in the palm of his hand, even those of us who had no real interest in Renaissance warfare. You could almost see the blood and guts and treachery. He had such a passion and a knowledge of the subject that you could even believe he might actually have lived the life of a condottiere.

  “A Renaissance mercenary soldier?” Verity was suddenly fascinated. “Jonas reminds you of one?” She remembered that the bustling Italian cities of the time had squabbled constantly. The great families who governed Florence, Venice, and the other city-states had figured out quickly that it was easier and more economical to hire freelance generals with private armies to fight their endless wars than to rely on hometown loyalty and enthusiasm from the citizens. There was never any lack of work for an able-bodied mercenary during the Italian Renaissance.

  Caitlin shrugged, her full breasts rising and falling magnificently under the water. “As I said, the man had a passion for his subject. It showed.”

  The man had other kinds of passion too, Verity thought. She would remember the impact of his passion on her all her life. “I wonder how well Jonas would have taken orders from a Medici or a Borgia,” Verity mused.

  “The condottieri were an independent lot, as I recall. They took orders when it suited them and ignored them when there was a better deal being offered elsewhere.”

  Verity nodded as bits and pieces of history came back to her. “True. They were definitely entrepreneurs, weren’t they? They worked for whoever paid the best. Yesterday’s foe was tomorrow’s client. They were mercenaries to the core. Some of them became very powerful, too, as I recall. And wealthy. A few even became heads of state.”

  Caitlin gave her a wry glance. “Whereupon they instantly elevated themselves to the status of gentlemen by investing heavily in art. It was a great era for artists. Great strides were made in technique. Lots of work was available. Everyone from ex-mercenaries and upwardly mobile bankers to popes was busy commissioning statues and portraits. The Italian cities of the Renaissance must have been fascinating, their homes, streets, and public places filled with art.”

  Verity chuckled. “It was during the Renaissance that the whole modern concept of collecting and investing in art originated. A fact for which everyone making a living in art today is no doubt grateful.”

  “Extremely grateful. But some collectors today are every bit as ruthless as collectors were back then.”

  Verity laughed and found herself relaxing at last. Caitlin was just what she needed this morning. After the disconcerting events of the previous evening, it was good to sit here in the pool and talk to another woman. Women needed other women, and in Caitlin, Verity discovered she was finding a friend.

  “I meant what I said last night, Caitlin. I admire your work tremendously. Did you always know you wanted to paint?”

  “I dabbled in paint and ceramics and a few other areas during my teen years,” Caitlin said, focusing on the heaving water around her. “But I didn’t commit myself to painting until I was in my early twenties. That’s what it takes to be successful, you know. A true commitment. It’s rather like entering a convent, I suppose. Without a sense of dedication, there’s little chance of becoming a success. Art is a harsh taskmaster.”

  “I understand. But I’m curious. What made you realize you were ready to commit yourself to such a demanding career?”

  Caitlin’s smile didn’t even touch her eyes. The only thing that filled that cloudy gaze was distant pain. “You could say that something happened that gave me a new perspective on life.”

  Verity sensed she was probing too closely, but her curiosity and growing sense of friendship drove her to push just a little. “The car accident?” she asked gently.

  Caitlin looked momentarily surprised, as if her mind had been on another catastrophe altogether. “Yes, the accident had a great deal to do with it. I spent nearly two years in and out of hospitals. That sort of thing tends to realign one’s priorities.” Smoothly she reversed the conversation. “What about you, Verity? When did you know you wanted to open your own restaurant?”

  Verity thought about it. “I’m not sure. Somewhere along the line I must have made some mental connection between having a kitchen of one’s own and having a home. It’s hard to explain. I guess I began to associate cooking with roots and a sense of permanency.”

  Tavi did not participate in the conversation as it jumped from the Renaissance to gourmet food and went on to an analysis of a recent film that was making news. Verity made a few attempts to include the quiet woman but Tavi merely smiled politely and ignored them. Tavi’s dark eyes rarely left her employer and Verity couldn’t help noticing the concern reflected in them. Caitlin had more than a paid companion in Tavi, she also had a loyal friend, whether she knew it or not.

  When Caitlin signaled at last that she had had enough of the pool, Tavi moved forward instantly to assist her. She helped the blond artist out of the water, handed her the ebony cane, and quickly dried her.

  Verity caught a glimpse of Caitlin’s withered leg and looked away as Tavi adjusted the terrycloth robe.

  “It’s all right,” Caitlin said calmly. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “It must have been terrible for you,” Verity said quietly.

  Caitlin shrugged as Tavi fastened the brace. “They told me in the hospital that I was lucky to be alive. But everyone has a different definition of luck. I enjoyed our chat this morning, Verity. I shall look forward to another meal or two at the No Bull. Perhaps we could have tea together one afternoon?”

  Verity nodded happily, again enjoying the pleasant sense of a dawning friendship. It was like that sometimes between two women. Sometimes you just clicked with another person and the friendship sprang into life almost immediately. In this case her sense of compassion was a factor, too. She had the odd feeling that Caitlin needed her friendship. “I’d like that. Good morning, Caitlin. Tavi. I’ll see you both later.”

  Tavi gave her a strange, assessing glance and then turned to escort her employer from the baths. There was a distinct tenderness in the grip she had on Caitlin’s arm and in the way her head was bent toward the other woman.

  Verity watched them leave and then decided that she’d indulged herself enough for one day. There was work to be done and sooner or later a man to be faced. She rose from the pool and picked up her towel.

  From now on she was going to bathe nude in the spa pools. Much more relaxing. Verity grinned to herself at the thought. Obviously her night of licentiousness and unmitigated debauchery had thoroughly corrupted her.

  Upstairs in the suite Caitlin had rented, Tavi served tea and yogurt from a room service tray that had been ordered earlier.

  Caitlin sat in the white wicker chair near the window and looked out over the lake as she sipped her unsweetened tea.

  “Verity Ames is the key, Tavi. I’m certain of it. Everything hinges on her.”

  “Perhaps,” Tavi agreed doubtfully. She poured tea for herself and watched the other woman’s profile as Caitlin stared at the water. There was so much strength in Caitlin, but it was warped and twisted toward only one goal. Tavi was at a loss as to how to alter the direction of her headlong flight toward revenge. Sometimes all you could do was be there for someone. Sometimes there was simply nothing else that could be done.

  Tavi had
been Caitlin’s only friend for five years, ever since the day she had gone to work for a lonely, isolated artist who needed friendship and love far more than she needed a housekeeper/companion. Tavi had seen past the hard surface to the woman beneath it, the woman who lived with constant pain.

  “No, I’m sure of it. She’s an unexpected bonus. I had no idea we’d find someone like her when we located Quarrel. It’s going to make everything infinitely easier. I’m already beginning to get the germ of an idea.”

  “The more people involved, the more dangerous this whole thing will get,” Tavi pointed out.

  “True, but I can see no way of manipulating Quarrel without a lever. He’s too free, too independent. Originally I considered simply paying him to do the job, but I know now that wouldn’t work. He’d tell me to get lost. There’s nothing I can offer him or use to coerce him.”

  “Except Verity?”

  “Except Verity. He wants her, Tavi. That was crystal clear last night. The man is as possessive as hell. I saw it in his eyes. In fact, I would be willing to bet that he made love to her last night. There was something about her this morning that was not there last evening. I suspect Quarrel staked his claim in bed.”

  “It could all be a figment of your imagination.” Tavi’s cup clattered on its saucer. She finished her tea with trembling fingers. “You’ve been living with your schemes and plans for so long that you might be fooling yourself into thinking you can actually turn them into reality.”

  Caitlin’s frown was sharp as she snapped her head around to glare at her companion. “I found him, didn’t I? I located Quarrel after all this time. You didn’t think I’d get that far, but I did.”

  Tavi nodded reluctantly, saying nothing.

  Caitlin relaxed and turned back to the view. “I knew that when I found him I would need some leverage to persuade him to play his role. Verity Ames is that leverage. I know she is.”

  “Just because she’s sleeping with him, you think you can use her to manipulate him?”

  “It’s not a casual affair,” Caitlin rasped. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes last night. I did. There’s no telling how long he will want her. A man’s attention span is apt to be quite short. But for the moment he’s captivated by her, and while he’s in that state he will be easy to maneuver.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is a streak of wildness in him,” Caitlin stated. “Most of the time he has it under control, but when it appears, he is vulnerable. I saw it the day he gave that lecture at Vincent and I saw it later when he nearly killed a man.”

  “Wonderful. Now we’re dealing with a crazy man.”

  Caitlin shook her head. “No, far from it. I’ve read the reports on him. He’s definitely not crazy. In fact, he has great strength of mind, otherwise he wouldn’t have survived his talent this long.”

  “Caitlin, you don’t know that. You can’t be certain. You’re taking a huge risk.”

  “What do I have to lose?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do. You’ve told me yourself that if you go through with this you’ll never paint again. And if you stop painting I think you might decide to do something very drastic.”

  “You’re being morbid.”

  “How would you describe your view?” Tavi demanded tightly. “You’ve lived for years with no other goals but revenge and your art. If you satisfy your lust for vengeance and simultaneously cease painting, what will you have left?”

  “It won’t matter. The only thing that matters is sending Damon Kincaid into hell in a fitting style. I will compose his exit from this earth as I would compose a painting.” Caitlin’s smile was without pity. “Quarrel is the man who can carry out the task for me. He will be my mercenary executioner. He will be the man who makes the punishment fit the crime.”

  “What if he finds out he’s been used?”

  “It won’t matter. Nothing will matter after Kincaid is dead. Ah, Tavi, it’s all working out so beautifully. Kincaid fancies himself a modern-day Borgia. He thinks he has hidden his old lusts well beneath a slick, sophisticated surface, but I know all about them and I can exploit them. Soon he will learn what it is to be the victim. Do you know something, Tavi? That conversation I had with Verity about Renaissance mercenaries was prophetic. Jonas Quarrel is going to play the role of condottiere for me.”

  “The most important thing to a condottiere was getting paid.”

  Caitlin laughed. It was a low, harsh sound that made Tavi close her eyes. “He’ll get Verity. That will have to be enough for him.”

  Chapter Seven

  Verity was in her office going through a pile of receipts when she heard footsteps in the hallway that led to the kitchen. She recognized them instantly.

  “Hello, Dad. Had breakfast?”

  Emerson Ames appeared in the doorway. “In a manner of speaking. Quarrel puts together a mean cup of coffee. Went great with the three-day-old doughnuts he had in the cupboard.”

  Verity made a face. “That man has made no effort to learn anything about good nutrition even though I have given him one lecture after another on the subject.”

  Emerson grinned widely behind his graying red beard. “I’ll just bet you have. You always were damn good at giving lectures and advice even when you were a little kid.”

  “We all have our talents,” Verity retorted dryly. “The real burden I have to bear is knowing I’m so good at giving lectures and advice and having so few people pay attention to me.”

  “Meaning people like me and Quarrel. Don’t worry, Red. We pay attention. It’s just that we don’t always do as we’re told.”

  “It can be extremely frustrating,” Verity said with a rueful smile.

  “Think of it as a challenge. What are you working on there?”

  “I was just doing a little bookkeeping. I was about to take a break and make myself some tea. Want some?”

  “Sounds good. I need something to wash away the sludge Quarrel fixed for me. I think I’m getting older, Red. Coffee like that wouldn’t even have made me blink ten years ago.”

  “It’s not a question of getting older,” Verity said brusquely, “it’s a matter of finally gaining some common sense.”

  “I shall resist common sense with my last breath,” Emerson declared in ringing tones.

  Verity glanced at him in quick assessment. Her father appeared as hale and hearty as ever. The thought of him losing any of his vitality and zest for life was a disturbing one. She was mature enough to recognize the inevitable processes of life, but another part of her resisted the idea that they should apply to Emerson Ames.

  There were times when her father’s blithe, here-today, gone-tomorrow attitude drove her nuts, but she had instinctively relied on his strength for years. Perhaps it was inevitable that fathers defined masculinity for their daughters. Verity knew only that she had never met another man who had that same inner core of male energy and power as her father had.

  Except Jonas Quarrel.

  She pushed aside that unsettling thought and strode out of the office. Emerson ambled after her as she walked into the kitchen of the No Bull Cafe.

  “Where’s Jonas?” Verity asked, not looking up from her tea preparations.

  “When I left the cabin a while ago he was reading. Machiavelli, I think. The man has interesting tastes.” Emerson opened a cupboard door experimentally. “Got anything edible in here?”

  “There are some sesame seed crackers in that carton in the corner and some dried prunes, too, I think.” Verity poured out hot water. “He’s due here at work in forty-five minutes.”

  “Who? Machiavelli?”

  “Very funny. I meant Jonas.”

  “I’m sure he’ll show up on time.” Emerson munched a cracker. His eyes gleamed. “He wouldn’t dare be late to work. I get the feeling this job is important to him.”

 
“Washing dishes is quite a comedown for a man who was once headed for the top of his profession,” Verity grumbled.

  “Depends on your point of view. Where did you find him, Verity?”

  “I didn’t find him. He found me. Didn’t he tell you?” Verity demanded grimly. “I finally got the whole story last night. He was the other man in the alley down in Mexico. The one who pulled that damned Pedro off of me. I didn’t hang around to say thanks. Jonas claims he tracked me down so that my little oversight could be corrected. I left one of my earrings behind in that alley. Jonas returned it last night.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, I’m glad you do, because I don’t,” Verity peered at her father as she sipped her tea. Emerson might be an irresponsible rogue who had turned his back on his literary talent in favor of indulging himself in the wilder side of life, but no one had ever said he was stupid. “Dad, tell me something. Do you really believe any man would follow a woman two thousand miles just to return an earring?”

  One bushy red-gray brow climbed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Red, but I got a feeling Quarrel did more than return an earring last night.”

  Verity flushed, in spite of herself. “Don’t look at me with so much prurient interest. We both know I’m not the type to bore you with girlish confessions. Tell me what you really think about Jonas.”

  “So you value your old man’s opinion on some things, after all, hmmm?”

  “You know very well I value your opinion on a lot of things,” Verity said tartly. “I’ll say one thing for the lifestyle you chose, you’ve picked up some useful pointers on human nature and motivations.”

  “Praise at last from my prudish, conservative, disapproving daughter. You astonish me, Red.”

  “I asked a straightforward question.”

  Emerson grinned. “I’ve hardly had a chance to get to know the man, but I’ll tell you one thing. If he succeeds in helping me sell those dueling pistols for enough cash to get Yarington off my back, your Jonas is going to be my best buddy for life.”