by Tara Janzen
Jaz had said he was coming back. When? She didn’t have a clue. Why? The answer flowed through her veins, filling her with anticipation and apprehension. She’d never felt before what she felt with him, a sense of utter inevitability. He wanted her. He was going to have her . . . if he came back. If he did, she was going to lose her heart.
Liar. She buried her face in the cowl neck of her dress. Lord, she wished that word would quit jumping out of her subconscious, even if it was the truth. Her heart was already lost. She’d done two stupid things the night before: stolen a necklace for her father and fallen in love with a stranger, a magical stranger who had saved her life and left her. The motives had been honorable for one; they were unfathomable for the other. Maybe it was infatuation.
Liar. “I heard you the first time,” she muttered into the soft angora brushing her lips. She was losing her mind. It could only be love, which didn’t solve anything.
He’d scaled one of her secrets, but not the worst by far. Nothing could compare with her guilt for leaving Paul, hurt and bleeding, on the roof of the Dubois villa—unless it was her shame for being there in the first place. Not even Elise knew exactly what had happened that night.
Chantal had been sixteen, and working with the absolute confidence that only the very young or the naïve have at their disposal. Like the gypsy children picking pockets in Rome, half of her safety came from being a minor, a time-honored prerequisite for a Cochard’s first time out. If she had been able to get Paul off the roof, she would have taken the fall. He would have let her; he’d seen his eighteenth birthday the previous week. They’d been a team, equal partners, and she had abandoned him.
Partners. A heavy sigh blew from her lips, and her hand trailed down to the lock again. Foolish games, she thought, but this time it opened. She picked up the black backpack, carried it to the kitchen, and emptied the contents onto the counter. Out of her junk drawer she pulled a soldering iron and a miniature tool kit. While she waited for the iron to heat up, she dismantled the mirror, putting all the bits and pieces in the drawer. It looked like anybody else’s junk drawer, a lot of loose screws and odds and ends. The mirror itself slipped back into a wooden frame that proclaimed her cabin as “Home Sweet Home.” She tapped the sixteen-penny nails back in place and rehung the frame over the sink.
With the soldering iron she turned the contact rig into a wire and two nondescript pieces of metal. All of it went in the drawer along with the tube of gel. She picked up the stethoscope and looked around her cabin. The whole place was a junk drawer, a mishmash of antique furniture, rugs, and . . . well, just plain junk. She carried the stethoscope over to the coatrack by the front door and hung it there. Hidden things were always more dangerous than the exposed.
Like her secrets. The slate roof had been wet, and slicker than the black ice on Highway 82 in the dead of winter. It had taken all her strength to drag Paul back under the eaves, where he wouldn’t fall off. She’d stayed until he begged her to go, and, as she’d run her feet had slipped in his trail of blood.
“Paul!” The hoarse cry ripped from her throat as lightning cracked the sky. Her eyes meeting his through a wall of gray rain. She clung to the tiles with icy fingers, her feet straddling the high peak of the roof.
He was slumped against a wall, his body a crumpled shadow of black against the white stucco. “Go, Chan, go . . . please . . .” Thunder rolled over his words, sweeping them away on the wind.
And she ran, ran as though the hounds of hell were on her heels, balancing on the crest of the roof and building speed for the leap to the garden house.
He had begged her to leave and never followed through with forgiveness. She didn’t have the right to forgive herself, and she didn’t expect Jaz to deliver absolution or live with her burden. She could take his loving, but not his love, not with secrets that couldn’t be shared. If he came back, if he even offered her his love.
She checked her watch. Six o’clock. He’d been gone for four hours. Four hours of flight could put him anywhere. But she only had an hour and a half to get where she needed to be, finish her business, and make her date at the Hotel Orleans.
* * *
If Aspen had a dive bar, Snaps would have been it. Aspen did and Snaps was. The wood floor was scarred from the thousands of ski boots that had clomped over it. The heavy wood picnic-style tables were equally scarred—for the same reason.
Chantal sat down at the rustic bar, in full view of the door and the boisterous crowd. In a sea of bulky sweaters, colorful parkas, and sleek one-piece ski suits, she stood out, claiming the glamour corner for her own with just her coat. She hadn’t changed her dress, but she had repaired the Gibson hairstyle Jaz had so passionately destroyed.
“Slumming, Chantal?” the bartender asked. He brushed a pile of peanut shells to the floor before laying a cocktail napkin on the bar.
“Hi, Rick. I’ll have—” she started to say brandy, but changed her mind, “soda with a squeeze. What are you doing here? The other bartenders at the Crazy Horse get tired of your stealing their women?”
“Can I help it if I’m irresistible?” The green-eyed blond flashed her a bright smile.
“Save it for the out-of-towners, Rick,” she countered with a small grin.
“No secrets in this town. Keep mine and I’ll spring for your soda.”
“Deal. Have you seen Kyle Dawson tonight? I’m supposed to meet him here.”
Rick put the soda gun back in its holder and set her glass on the napkin. “You are slumming. Or have you picked up some nasty habits I don’t know about?”
“No habits. He’s leaving for Cannes in the morning. He’s going to take a birthday present to my father for me.” Weeks ago she’d thought it over very carefully, looked at all her options, and decided on a private courier. Kyle was as private as they came, and he was headed in the right direction at the right time. He was also used to expensive cargo—expensive and dangerous. She was a lightweight, compared to his other clients. There were few secrets in a small town, and if you didn’t count the tourists, Aspen was a very small town.
He just walked in.” Rick nodded at the front door.
“Thanks for the soda.” Chantal picked up her glass and the small, carefully wrapped package she’d brought, and walked over to the table where Kyle had sat down.
Half an hour later she walked out of Snaps and headed for the Hotel Orleans. All she had to do was get through dinner and then she’d go home and cry herself to sleep. No, she wouldn’t. She’d only cried herself to sleep once, and things weren’t that bad tonight. The loneliness was worse, but the fears weren’t as great.
Six
The Hotel Orleans was a historical landmark in Aspen, a holdover from the boomtown days. Small by modern standards, it emanated the intimacy and craftsmanship of a bygone era. Dark polished paneling added a lush contrast to the white marble foyer. Heavily scrolled archways led to the dining room on the right and the saloon on the left. A sweeping balustrade curved to the second-floor suites, supported by lightly veined marble columns.
Chantal turned left into the bar, knowing there would be an empty table in the farthest corner. Like Elise, Roger was a creature of habit and influence. She slipped into the red leather banquette and shrugged out of her fur coat, keeping the shoulders draped over hers.
A cocktail waitress dressed like a dance-hall girl who’d run out of material sashayed over. ‘‘This table is reserved,” she said with an imperious toss of her brunette curls.
“I’ll tell Mr. Neville how protective you were of his interests, dear,” Chantal replied dryly. She wasn’t in the mood for pretentious cocktail waitresses wearing too much makeup and not enough clothes. I’ll have soda and lime.” She’d already discarded getting drunk as a way to spend the evening.
The drink was delivered a few minutes later with just enough force to slop it over the top, but not enough to make a mess. It was a very subtle gesture, and Chantal ignored it completely—on the outside. On the inside she muttered
a few snide comments, realizing even as she did that her own emotions were what had her on edge. Battling wits with a witless waitress shouldn’t even be on her priority list, let alone in the number-one slot.
She took a long swallow of her drink and lowered the glass. Okay, lady, you win, she thought, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her fist. It was tonic, not soda, a not-so-subtle gesture. The day was holding true all the way into the night, all the way down the tubes.
Unlike at Snaps, her coat was no novelty in the Hotel Orleans. Furs more expensive than hers were sprinkled liberally around the saloon, which was fine with her. All she wanted to do was fade into the woodwork, close her eyes, and drift into oblivion. She managed the last two for a few minutes before her reverie was broken.
“Hello, Chantal.” Roger leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek—which was as far as he’d ever gotten—and sat down next to her. He was dressed in Aspen casual, a three-hundred-dollar sweater, five-hundred-dollar cowboy boots, and twenty-dollar jeans. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, just bland. His hair was thick and brown, with a slight graying at the temples; he had the prerequisite tan. But Chantal knew he could stare at her hard all night long and not generate the heat Jaz had with even the briefest of glances.
Chantal managed a smile. “Roger.” She glanced up at her aunt. “Elise.” She forced into her voice a lightness she didn’t feel, knowing Elise would die the death of a thousand swords before she let anything slip about the morning’s fiasco. Lunch would be something else. Chantal tossed around the idea of calling in sick and letting an anonymous hostess relay her excuses.
“Chantal,” her aunt greeted her coolly, and took the chair on the other side of the table, her back to the room.
This scene had been played many times before, Chantal mused, the three of them meeting for cocktails, dinner, and then everybody going home alone. Elise was between marriages and Roger didn’t have enough nerve to ask Chantal for a private date or a kiss, let alone anything else. His aggressive pursuit of business deals didn’t overflow into his pursuit of her, thank heavens. Unlike another man’s pursuit, a man who hadn’t asked, a man with plenty of nerve and the tender touch to back it up.
Elise and Roger began their predictable conversation of contract negotiations. Unslopped drinks were delivered all around, and this time Chantal got soda. Apparently the war of the waitress was over.
A band warmed up at the other end of the room, the guitarists running riffs, the drummer hitting licks. The saxophone player came in on a low note, and by the time the singer picked up the microphone, the band had melded into a tight rock-and-roll groove.
Elise and Roger’s chitchat faded into numbers and names, and Chantal let her gaze drift around the dimly lit bar. A few couples got up to boogie down, and she noticed the warring waitress had latched on to better game. She was hustling some guy leaning on the bar, and, from the looks of it, was having a good time doing it. The sour countenance she’d subjected Chantal to had been transformed into the epitome of teasing charm, and her hand was practically in the guy’s back pocket. Then, for heaven only knew what reason, she turned around and leveled another dirty look at Chantal.
Chantal immediately looked away, shaking her head. If she could elicit that kind of unbidden response from unknown cocktail waitresses, then this was definitely not her night. She tried to slip back into Roger and Elise’s conversation, but they were well past the preliminaries, right into the guts of a transaction. She wasn’t up to guts, so she concentrated on tracing damp lines into her cocktail napkin with her straw. A splashing brandy snifter put a screeching halt to the harmless endeavor.
The lady was good, really good, Chantal thought, truly amazed that the waitress had been able to slop two inches of brandy out of a balloon snifter. No mean trick.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar.” The waitress sounded absolutely disgusted, but Chantal barely heard her. Somewhere, way in the back of her mind, the shape supporting that back pocket was beginning to register with familiarity. Jaz. Was it possible? Her pulse picked up and her heart lodged in her throat, but not before wrapping itself in a tight spiral of jealousy. No wonder the lady had been having such a good time.
She shot a quick glance at Elise and Roger; they were oblivious to the interlude. They were the ones who ought to get together, she thought fleetingly, craning her head sideways to peek around the retreating hips of the waitress. Her breath stopped momentarily, her teeth unconsciously capturing her lower lip in anticipation as she peered across the dim interior, trying to pick him out. It was predictably easy. He was the only man at the bar staring at her and mouthing the words, “Wanna dance?” He was the only man at the bar whose eyes met hers with enough impact to stop a freight train, holding her steady on a true course straight to her heart.
He was leaning against the bar, resting his elbows behind him, with one boot heel hooked on the brass footrail. Narrow-cut black jeans were low and tight around the cream-colored boots, and low and tight around his slightly thrust-forward hips. The narrow red tie and white dress shirt he wore under his faded blue-jean jacket added a rakish air of formality. He stayed absolutely still under her slow perusal, his body language open, inviting the hundred and one visions he put in her mind.
When she finally met his eyes again he gave her a long wink and a slow, easy smile. Everything inside her melted.
I’ll be back. It was as if he’d never gone, which, considering the short amount of time that had passed, was a distinct possibility. There was nothing in Aspen for him—except her. “Ah, Jaz.” She sighed, shaking her head with resignation.
“What?” Roger asked.
“Uh, nothing. I’ll be back in a minute.” She didn’t know what she was going to say to him, but whatever it turned out to be was better said privately at the bar.
Jaz watched her approach, watched the tight sway of her hips and the supple movement of her legs beneath the clinging angora dress, and his muscles tensed with the memories of holding her close. The elfin princess was coming for him, and this time he wasn’t going to let her go.
Old Roger didn’t look too happy about it, but then, he wasn’t too keen on old Roger either. He’d seen the chaste kiss Roger had given her, and it had taken all his self-control not to go over there and show old Roger the correct technique. Not to go over there and take her breath away with his mouth on hers. Not to go over there and start something stupid, like a fight. It wouldn’t have been much of one. The man had a good thirty pounds on him, but Jaz knew that days later, Roger would still be wondering what had hit him.
Only Chantal’s confession about no love life had stopped him. Old Roger was a fool. But moving too fast had been Jaz’s own foolish mistake that afternoon. He wouldn’t make it again—he hoped, his chest already swelling with a deep breath of anticipation.
When she stopped less than a foot away, he pushed himself off the bar and touched his finger to her lips. He didn’t want her to say a word until he had her in his arms. Silently he led her to the dance floor, his hand trailing along the back of her neck, taking note of her tense muscles. He tried not to imagine all the ways he could work those tensions out—of both of them. But she had a way about her. Without even trying, she started an avalanche of hormones and other, more emotional responses that were both challenging and irresistible.
Right on cue the band changed tempo into a sultry song about love gone bad, and Jaz marveled at the amount of magic ten bucks could buy. Curling his fingers around her belt at the small of her back, he pulled her body tightly against his, until he felt every delicate curve soften and give way to his hardness. This was where she belonged. She had to know it.
Instinctively following his lead, Chantal closed her eyes and ran her hands under the collar of his jacket, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. The sway of his body ruled hers. She’d think of something to say in a minute, as soon as she caught her breath and remembered how to form letters into words.
“I�
��m sorry for this afternoon,” he whispered in her ear. “You left me hanging and I acted like a fool. Can we still be friends?”
Friends, she thought. The next step for strangers. Tonight she needed a friend. She nodded, and felt his soft kiss of acknowledgment on her cheek.
“Good. Did you miss me?”
“I didn’t have time,” she hedged. She’d barely had time to accept the hours of loneliness his leaving had brought, let alone share them, even with a friend. “Besides, I’m not sure you actually left.”
“I left,” he assured her, “but I came back because I missed you. Did you miss me?” The man was not shy about his feelings, she realized, and once again she felt the uneasy mix of apprehension and anticipation swirl into inevitability. More than friendship was at stake. She knew it as surely as she felt the throb of music through the slow ripple of the muscles in his shoulders, the firm pressure of his hips against her abdomen.
“You couldn’t have gotten very far,” she said breathlessly.
“I got to Denver and back today . . . but it seemed farther and longer without you.” The saxophone wailed its heartache and Jaz swung her into a low dip, holding her off balance. A teasing smile lit the depths of his eyes and touched the corners of his mouth. “Did you miss me?”
“I . . .” She hesitated.
“Missed you too,” he finished confidently, and pulled her up into his arms. The band quickened its pace, and he leaned back to grin at her, doing a gentle bump and grind against her body and shuffling his feet backward until they were lost in the crowd.
Incorrigible, she thought, feeling the more-than-friendly suggestion in each erotic move. He used the music to ply a rock-and-roll brand of sensual corruption on her body, promising more than he gave, enticing her with each added degree of pressure. Enticing her and drawing a response as surely as a pulsing flame draws a moth into fire; drawing her into the danger zone where desire overcame inhibitions. Words had no meaning under this kind of assault. She completely gave up on conversation and surrendered to his mating game, tunneling her fingers through the dark silky hair curling around the back of his neck. Tactile delight coursed up her arms and down to her breasts, pressed so closely to his chest.
