Double Dealing (6 page)

The jacket. Would she remember to bring it with her tonight?
Would it occur to her that he’d deliberately not asked for it before he left? A
subtle reminder of his presence while she prepared to visit his home tonight. He
liked the way she had looked bundled into the
overscaled
garment. The conservative cut had surrounded her naked femininity in a very
appealing way, making her look a little helpless.

Not that she’d seemed overly aware of her softened status,
he thought grimly, sliding piecrust carefully into the pan. She’d remained as
regally arrogant throughout. What would it take to break down that feminine arrogance?
What would it take to make her go soft and breathless and pliable in his arms?

The mental picture of Samantha Maitland clinging to him and
begging him to make love to her was so unexpectedly arousing that his hand
shook a little as he set the oven temperature. Good God! What was the matter with
him? He hadn’t had this kind of reaction to a woman since he was a teenager!

Suddenly Gabriel wondered which of them, Samantha or
himself, was left truly vulnerable. No! He could handle his reactions. He was a
man, not a boy at the mercy of his hormones.

But he wanted the woman he had met in the spa this afternoon.
Wanted her in a way which was new to him. He felt compelled to reach out and take
her as if she were somehow his by right.

Hell, he wondered feelingly as he began methodically slicing
lemons, had Samantha felt anything at all other than annoyance and startled
embarrassment when he’d approached her today? Probably not. He’d read somewhere
that it was only men who had such instant, gut-level reactions to the opposite
sex. Not that he was any judge of uncontrollable desire, Gabriel thought
laconically as he measured sugar with a precise eye. He’d always considered
himself very much in command of his own physical needs.

So why was he deliberately setting out to seduce this one
particular female who had thus far shown no other interest in him except as a
business partner?

Because that’s what it amounted to, Gabriel acknowledged as
he worked on the lemon filling. He was going to stage a seduction scene over
dinner tonight. The realization was enough to make him laugh aloud at himself.
Sinclair the grand seducer.

All she really wanted from him was money. A rather large
chunk of it. It was hardly fair to lead her on, he told himself as he stirred
the bubbling filling with even, controlled strokes. But he had no other hold on
her except the promise of financial support. She would never have come to his
home for dinner tonight if he hadn’t lured her with the business angle.

The least he could do, he promised himself, was look over
her information. He nodded once, appeasing his sense of honesty with that
thought. He’d look at her facts and figures.

Then he’d try to get her into his bed.

Actually, it had been rather sharp of her to try coaxing him
into the deal with her personal angle. Four years ago when he was still
smarting from the loss to Buchanan, the revenge approach probably would have held
some appeal. But now he felt no overpowering urge to challenge the Buchanan
Group. He held no animosity toward the conglomerate. Buchanan’s victory had
been a thoroughly reasonable one of money, power, and experience over an
opponent who’d held much less of all three back then.

It was the way of the business jungle. Hadn’t he, himself,
used similar advantages over others? And he wouldn’t hesitate to use them
again.

True, there was money to be made if Samantha’s scheme
worked. He supposed that to her it seemed a great deal more than it did to him.
Money was always a relative thing, naturally.

He had the feeling she wasn’t wealthy, by any means. The spa
bit didn’t come cheap, but she had admitted it was her first visit to one. No,
Samantha Maitland wasn’t yet wealthy, but she was definitely willing to hustle,
he thought with a small smile. If she wasn’t doing very well financially ten
years from now, it wouldn’t be from lack of trying!

What she needed, Gabriel decided judiciously, timing the
foaming lemon filling carefully, was someone to take her in hand and guide her
naturally aggressive business instincts. She was headed for trouble taking on outfits
like the Buchanan Group, regardless of her skill and talent. She needed polish,
too. The kind of cool, poker-faced, boardroom sophistication which gave nothing
away.

Just remembering how hard she’d had to work trying to hide
her hell-bent-for-leather enthusiasm to get on with the Buchanan project made
Gabriel’s mouth twist in sardonic amusement. Had she really thought she was
hiding the reckless daring which seemed to motivate her?

What had he been like at her age? That brash? She was
probably twenty-eight or twenty-nine, which meant about nine years difference
in their ages. That was a lot of time in terms of business experience. But
Gabriel doubted that he had ever been that openly rash in his dealings. Oh, he
had been far less street-wise than he was now, but that restless, volatile
energy which simmered in Samantha had never characterized him.

Even at twenty-eight he’d been the slow, methodical, plodding
type. He’d been born that way!

Gabriel sighed, removing the pan of bubbling lemon filling
from the heat. Did the slow, methodical, plodding types ever get women like
Samantha into bed? Maybe not, but he’d give it a damn good try, he promised himself
a bit savagely as he set the pan down on the counter. The shock of feeling so
strongly about the matter caused him to forget his normal caution long enough
to singe a finger on the hot metal of the pan.

“Jesus!” He stuck the burned finger under cold water from
the tap. What the hell was the woman doing to him? He never had accidents in
the kitchen! Wrong question, he decided broodingly. The real question was what
the hell did he think he was doing trying to seduce the daughter of some
wild-eyed radical even if said daughter did have a delightful backside?

***

Making a scene in a public place had never been Samantha’s
style. Oh, the occasional, arrogant Grand Gesture could be quite satisfying,
but embarrassing confrontations were quite another matter. If she hadn’t had to
learn a healthy respect for the value of a dollar during the past three years,
she probably wouldn’t have fought the battle at the spa’s front desk that
evening.

But she had learned that respect and learned it the hard way
from the time she’d suddenly found herself unemployed after being eased out of
Drew Buchanan’s life. With characteristic bravado she’d refused financial assistance
from either of her parents, flinging herself instead into the task of building
her new business from scratch. It had probably been foolish to turn down the offer
of help, but Samantha had found it hard enough to accept the fact that both her
mother and her father had been right about Buchanan. Pride had made it
unthinkable to allow them to assist in her financial recovery. Another of her
sometimes costly Grand Gestures.

Two years ago she’d had another opportunity to obtain a
solid level of financial security for her struggling young business. Victor
Thorndyke had died, and she had been left a sizeable sum in the will. And once
again pride had prevented her from taking the money. Pride and, she freely
admitted, the sheer unadulterated pleasure of seeing the stunned shock on the
faces of the legitimate
Thorndykes
the day she had
regally declined to accept the money in the lawyer’s office. The brash, arrogant
gesture of refusal had been worth it. She would never forget that scene and
neither, she suspected, would the
Thorndykes
. That
Grand Gesture had been worth every cent it had cost.

Samantha had finished with scrimping almost a year later
when Business Intelligence, Incorporated, had finally achieved critical mass in
terms of having enough clients to begin attracting other subscribers in
satisfying numbers. She now had the kind of income which allowed her such
interesting indulgences as a week at a spa. But, she told herself as she
defiantly faced the desk clerk, she hadn’t reached the level of financial
casualness where she was willing to kiss a chunk of cash good-bye. Not when
said chunk had purchased nothing in return.

“But, Miss Maitland,” the musclebound desk clerk persisted
with hauteur, “surely you understand that the week’s package rate was
nonrefundable?”

“I certainly did not!” Samantha lied, grimly aware that the
travel agent had made some mention of the fact and also aware that she hadn’t
paid any attention to the agent as visions of conducting business in the manner
of the executive elite had danced through her head. She had planned to deal
with her financial angel from the depths of a lounge chair beside a crystal
swimming pool, a margarita in hand. Samantha now realized that she had confused
the realities of spa life with cruise ship living. Next time she would try a
luxury liner. In the meantime she had to make some effort to retrieve the money
she was about to lose.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s the case, Miss Maitland,” the overly
healthy ex-surfer-turned-weight-lifter announced flatly. The young man was far
too large and robust to be a clerk, Samantha decided privately. He would have been
better suited to a job as an orderly in a mental institution. “Your travel
agent guaranteed a week’s stay when she booked the room and I…”

“Originally I planned on staying a week, but something’s come
up. I have business to attend to, and it can’t be done here.” Samantha tried a
reasoning sort of smile.

“You’re quite free to leave” was the cold retort, “although
I must warn you that once you’ve gone off the Plan, even if it’s only for a
meal off the premises, we can no longer promise you the full benefits of the regimen.”

“You don’t seem to understand! I’m not just sneaking off
campus for dinner, I’m checking out permanently! I’ve had it with all this
good, clean living, is that clear?” She knew she was beginning to sound
agitated, but she couldn’t help it. Already the clock was nearing seven, and
the last thing she wanted to be was late to Gabriel Sinclair’s. “I want to go
back to potato chips and wine and a nice walk now and then for exercise!” If
this torture chamber is a sample of what you Californians do for fun, she
thought to herself, you’re going to count me out of the running in the fast
lane.

“No one is stopping you from walking out the front door!”
The clerk, too, was clearly losing patience.

“Not without my refund!”

“There are no refunds on the plan you chose. Especially not
after we made such an effort to accommodate your agent’s request!”

“Don’t blame my travel agent for this. It’s not her fault!”
Samantha gritted furiously. “I want to speak to the manager,” she forced
herself to add more sedately, chin lifting with as much arrogance as she could
command.

“The manager is at dinner with the other guests,” the
oversized
beachboy
announced vengefully. He looked
very pleased at being able to thwart her.

“Surely he can leave his alfalfa sprouts long enough to
attend to this little matter?”

“Perhaps in the morning,” the clerk conceded dismissingly.

“Perhaps right now!” Samantha interrupted forcefully, only
to find herself interrupted in turn by a low, quiet male voice behind her.

“What seems to be the trouble here, Jon?”

The clerk and Samantha both turned in surprise to see a
balding, middle-aged man in a somewhat rumpled dark suit entering the
plant-lined foyer. He was not more than a couple inches taller than her own
five feet four inches, and what remained of his graying hair had once been
midnight black. There was more than a hint of a comfortable paunch beneath the
outline of the suit, and the heaviness was repeated in the man’s face. Dark
eyes studied her from beneath heavy lids, eyes filled with a pleasant,
old-world gallantry. He looked, thought Samantha, like someone’s grandfather.

“Good evening, Mr. Fortune,” the desk clerk said in an
astonishingly deferential tone. “Is Miss Fortune expecting you? I’ll have her
paged immediately.”

The newcomer inclined his head, waving off the clerk’s offer.
“That’s quite all right, Jon. I know where to find her.” Turning back to
Samantha, he repeated his question. “What seems to be the trouble, Miss… ?”

“Maitland. Samantha Maitland,” Samantha said quickly.

“It’s kind of you to offer to help, but I’m afraid this is
between myself and the spa’s management. A slight misunderstanding about
billing procedures,” she explained dryly.

But the desk clerk was not nearly so inhibited about dragging
the innocent bystander into the fray. “Miss Maitland, sir, is one of our
guests. She, uh, wishes to check out ahead of schedule, and as I’m sure your
sister has probably explained, our policy requires a nonrefundable fee.”

“All guests eventually check out, Jon,” Fortune pointed out
very mildly, smiling gently at Samantha. “Does it really matter whether or not
they leave ahead of schedule? Perhaps a slight change in policy could be made
in this instance?”

“Thank you very much for seeing my side of this, Mr. Fortune…”
Samantha began quickly.

“Emil, my dear. Call me Emil.”

“Yes, well, Emil, thank you for your interest in the matter,
but you needn’t get involved. It’s not your problem. I just hope your sister
doesn’t have the same problem when she checks out!” she added darkly.

“My sister owns this place. She makes the policies,” Emil
Fortune explained kindly.

“Oh.” Nonplussed, Samantha stared at him.

“I gather you have not enjoyed your stay here?” Emil Fortune
inquired gravely.

“I am starving to death and sore all over, to be perfectly
blunt.” Samantha could not resist the opportunity of listing her complaints in
front of the desk clerk. “Your sister has built a very impressive business
here, Mr. Fortune—but frankly, it’s beyond me why anyone would pay good money
for this sort of thing!”