Trading Secrets (8 page)

The problem was, Matt explained to himself as he made his way down to the lobby, he wasn’t accustomed to thinking positive. By definition that meant thinking of the future, and that was something he tended to avoid these days.

He wouldn’t mind getting his hands on the man who had caused Sabrina all that trouble out in California, though. Now, there was a pleasant, positive sort of thought. He smiled to himself in what he assumed was a pleasant, positive manner and walked toward the hotel lobby doors. The wary expression on the doorman’s face made Matt wonder if perhaps the other man wasn’t used to seeing pleasant, positive smiles on the faces of people.

The short drive back to the small white stucco villa on the cliffs outside of town gave Matt a few minutes to ponder just how he would approach Sabrina in the morning. By the time he had parked the jeep in the drive and let himself into the coolly furnished living room, he knew he was far too restless to go to bed. He wandered over to the small wooden cabinet against the wall and unlocked it with the key in his pocket.

The cabinet didn’t quite blend with the rest of the room, which was done in a style Matt privately termed Ubiquitous Acapulco Modern: rattan and wicker furniture, sisal matting, a few watercolor impressions of encounters between bulls and matadors. He had rented the place furnished two years ago, and other than the dark wooden cabinet, he hadn’t worried about inflicting any personal touches on the white-walled rooms. He wasn’t sure he even had a personal touch to impart. Lately his whole life had begun to feel rented.

He reached inside the cabinet. The tray of throwing knives flashed dully in the light of the overhead lamp as he removed it. Almost absently he fingered the various designs he had collected. Kirby had made some of them, probably the best ones, but there were some interesting specimens from other knife makers, too. Most of them Matt had commissioned himself and were done to his precise specifications.

Handles of wood and brass and leather were attached to blades made of an equally wide variety of alloys. There was one of legendary Damascus steel, and Matt let his hand stray first to it. His fingers curled around the handle with a familiarity that would undoubtedly have disgusted Sabrina.

He spun around, whipping the perfectly balanced knife toward the target at the far end of the room. It flew in deadly silence, burying itself with a satisfying
thunk
in the heart of the red circle. A second later the next knife in the tray had followed the first, burying its steel head alongside the Damascus blade.

“So much for the personal touch,” he murmured, reaching for another knife.

Methodically Matt went through the selection of throwing knives, letting the discipline of the action calm his restlessness. A night in Sabrina’s bed would have been a far more effective remedy, he decided, but a man learned to make do.

The sound of the car in the drive outside came just as he was throwing the next to the last knife. The knock on the door occurred when the final blade was sinking into the target. Very thoughtfully Matt walked across the room, removed the knives from the target, and wondered who would be visiting him at this hour.

The knock came again, but he ignored it while he carefully wiped and replaced the knives. All but the Damascus steel blade. Keeping that one in his right hand, Matt crossed to the door and opened it.

“Well, shit,” he said as two years fell away in an instant. “Well, shit.”

“Your vocabulary has grown somewhat limited since we last met,” Rafferty Coyne drawled pleasantly. He glanced at the blade in Matt’s hand. “But I see you make an effort to keep your other communication skills current. Mind if I come in?”

“What the hell do you want, Coyne?”

“You. Oh, don’t fret, August. My sexual orientation hasn’t undergone any drastic changes.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a sexual orientation.”

“My, you are in a fine mood. Let me in, August. I want to talk to you. I have something to say which I think might interest you greatly.”

“I doubt that.” But Matt stepped back impassively and waited for the older man to enter. He didn’t particularly like Rafferty Coyne, but he had no real cause to dislike him. Silently he motioned the little man to a huge fan-backed rattan chair. He thought it might be amusing to see if Coyne’s short stature would make him look and feel like a small boy once he was seated in the oversize chair.

But it didn’t. Coyne looked as impressively refined and aristocratic as ever. His five feet, four inches of height were meticulously turned out in a beige tropical suit. The thinning gray hair was trimmed with flair and the perceptive fog-gray eyes were as dispassionate as ever. He carried the same leather briefcase he had been carrying the last time Matt had seen him.

“I’m impressed, August.” Coyne nodded to himself as he glanced around the cool, neat room. “You haven’t gone to seed yet, have you? I was very much afraid you might be deeply into the tequila by now.”

“I’m surviving. If you thought you’d have to roll me out of the gutter, why did you bother to come looking for me in the first place?”

“I took a chance because I’m in the unique position of being able to offer you a job. I didn’t know if you’d be in any condition to accept it, but I thought I’d come and check.”

“Why?” Matt sank down onto a carved wooden chest and stared at his visitor.

Coyne shrugged elegantly. “Oh, I suppose because I’ve always felt rather badly about what happened two years ago.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Perhaps not, but I was involved in the planning phase and—”

“And I screwed things up in the field. Like I said: Not your fault. So why are you here?”

Coyne expelled a sad sigh. “Such cynicism. I can see that the past two years have embittered you, August. I wondered if that would happen.”

“I don’t generally go in for extensive analysis sessions at this hour of the night. Say what you have to say and then say goodbye, Coyne.” Matt got to his feet and went to the liquor cabinet. He uncapped the whiskey bottle while he waited.

“I do hope whiskey didn’t take the place of the tequila I’ve been worrying about,” Rafferty Coyne observed with mild distaste.

“I told you, I’m surviving. Want some?” The offer was hardly a gracious one and Matt knew it. His guest declined.

“You don’t like me, do you, August?” Coyne was amused.

“Nothing personal.” Matt swallowed the whiskey. “It’s just that you bring back some unpleasant memories.” He flexed his hand in an old, unconscious movement, tightening it into a fist and then deliberately stretching out each finger.

“I’m here to offer you a job that could well go a long way toward wiping out those memories,” Coyne said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Working for me.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’m putting together a small team, August. A very specialized team. You have some unique talents and I want you in on this.”

Matt eyed his visitor speculatively. “I gather you’ve advanced a bit through the ranks during the past two years?”

“I have.” Coyne’s expression was bland. “I have been given considerably more authority than I had the last time we worked together.”

“Congratulations.”

“I think it’s time you went back to work, August. And this time around you will be given the free hand and the authority you need to pursue your work properly. You will report only to me.”

Matt swirled whiskey around in his glass and smiled down at the amber whirlpool the action created. For the rest of his life the color of whiskey was going to remind him of Sabrina’s hair. “I’m afraid I’m not available for employment at the moment, Coyne.”

Coyne paused. “May I ask why not?”

“Sure. I’m not available because I have other things to do. You see, Coyne, I think I’m in love.” Matt smiled whimsically and raised his glass in a careless salute to the other man before taking another swallow of whiskey. “Either that or I’m horny as hell. Amount to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

***

On the morning of her third day in Acapulco, Sabrina sat lounging at the poolside bar, sipping a fruit punch and deciding that Javier Reyes was definitely one of Mexico’s national treasures. The man was blessed with sultry Spanish good looks, all liquid brown eyes, long black lashes, and a matador’s slimness. He had that marvelous Latin quality of being able to make a woman to whom he was talking believe that she was the only woman in the world. Charming. He also spoke excellent English, but that was probably because he managed the hotel in which she was staying.

“Another punch, senorita?” he asked as she siphoned up the last through her straw.

“Sounds great. Remember to tell the bartender to leave out the rum, though. It’s a bit early in the morning.” Sabrina smiled. She perched on a padded rattan stool, her bare leg swinging idly beneath the colorful yellow-and-green sundress she wore. Her hair was anchored in its usual casual knot and held with a huge, carved wooden comb that she had picked up in the local market. It was one of those ornaments that would look ridiculous outside of Acapulco and therefore made a perfect souvenir. Tendrils of hair were already fraying lightly around her shoulders. Javier appeared to be mildly fascinated by those fluttering wisps of hair.

“You aren’t going to swim today?” Javier asked, indicating the huge pool that meandered in an architect’s version of a jungle stream through the thickly landscaped gardens of the hotel.

“I don’t think so. At least not this morning. I went snorkeling yesterday.”

“Perhaps you will try the
para
-sailing then, hmm? I enjoy it occasionally myself. I would be more than happy to show you how it’s done.”

Sabrina glanced out over the bay, taking in the sight of the multicolored parachutes with
waterskiers
dangling beneath them. The skiers became airborne with the aid of fast boats, and once aloft the parachutes acted as sails. When the ski boats slowed, the chutes gently allowed the airborne skiers to descend. It was supposedly all very safe, but somehow it didn’t look like anything Sabrina wanted to try that morning.

“I think that’s something I’ll have to work up to,” she decided. “When I’m back in Dallas I’ll practice on a mechanical bull.”

“Mechanical bull?” Javier looked handsomely perplexed.

“A little Texas invention which, for sheer creativity, is right up there with putting a set of horns on a Cadillac,” Sabrina explained.

“I see.”

He didn’t, but Sabrina excused him because he was so terribly attractive. “I think I’m just going to spend the day relaxing, Javier. This afternoon I’ll probably take a taxi to the market and do some more shopping.”

Javier nodded pleasantly. “By all means. I will give you the names of the vendors I have found most reliable.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“It is my job,” he protested cheerfully, and then broke off as a large shadow fell across Sabrina. “Ah, good morning, Matt. I’d ask you to join us in a fruit punch but I imagine you are on your way to open the bookshop, no?”

“Don’t look so hopeful.” Matt took the stool next to Sabrina. “I have plenty of time. I put Elena in charge of the shop. Hello, Sabrina. Isn’t it a bit early to be starting in on Manuel’s rum punches? Just orange juice for me, Manuel,” he added, speaking to the young man behind the bar.

“I thought I’d be daring. Put a little excitement into my life.” Sabrina noisily siphoned up a sip of punch.

“There are more intelligent ways of doing that than drinking rum at ten in the morning.”

“Yes, sir, Major. Whatever you say, Major.” She smiled serenely.

The bartender handed the orange juice across the polished bar and said something rapidly in Spanish that made Matt grimace and caused Javier to chuckle.

“What was all that about?” Sabrina demanded of the hotel manager.

“Manuel informed Matt that you were drinking the punch without the rum.”

“Oh, heck,” Sabrina complained. “I was hoping to hear the rest of the lecture before I let him know that.” She gave Matt her most expectant expression. “I don’t suppose you would care to carry on, regardless of the facts, Major?”

“How about if I just carry you over to the pool and dump you in?” he suggested.

What was the matter with him this morning? Perhaps he was still upset about having been sent on his way the previous night. The thought gave her some degree of satisfaction. Before she could give him a reply, Javier was stepping in to the rescue.

“I’m afraid you will only be allowed to throw Senorita Chase into the pool over my collapsed body,” he stated grandly.

“Dead,” Matt corrected.

“Pardon?” Javier looked abruptly concerned.

“You’re supposed to say over your dead body.”

“Ridiculous!” Javier appealed to Sabrina. “Surely you would not ask me to go to such lengths just to keep this rude beast from dunking you, would you?”

“Besides, think of his wife and three little kids, Sabrina,” Matt put in helpfully. “You wouldn’t want to deprive them of a husband and father, would you?”

“What wife and three little kids?” Sabrina turned a severe glare on an innocent-looking Javier. “Did you plan on having them join us when you invited me out to dinner tonight?”

“Javier occasionally neglects to inform lady tourists of his family,” Matt explained.

“Sabrina, do not listen to this man. He wants to invite you out to dinner himself.” Javier assumed his most aristocratic air. “Do not worry about my wife and children. They accept my business activities.”

“Think how happy they’ll be tonight when you show up at home for dinner. A real surprise for them,” Sabrina murmured.

“You are canceling our date?” Javier was deeply hurt.

“Now, Javier, you know we hadn’t—”

Matt interrupted Sabrina before she could finish the admonishment. “She’s going to have dinner with me, Javier.”

“Am I?” Sabrina arched her brows in mild astonishment.

“Damn right. After what you put me through last night, you owe me.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Sabrina sat firmly on her stool, aware of a conflicting rush of emotions. Had he really suffered when she’d turned him away from her bed last night? Never for the world would she let on that she’d stayed awake for a long while having second thoughts.