Double Dealing (2 page)

During the past three years Samantha Maitland had become
accustomed to both the rain and the technology. Around her that afternoon the
Puget Sound island home creaked as if it needed to yawn and stretch
occasionally while waiting for the summer warmth. The house was in no rush. It
had sat through a good many Seattle winters, doing its job of protecting the
various inhabitants with the gracious if slightly supercilious manner of an old
family retainer who knows he’ll be around to serve the next generation.

It was true the house had never been called upon before to
shelter anything like the consoles and computer terminals which now occupied
the back parlor, but the current human resident was quite acceptable. A bit
eccentric, highly independent, and capable of the Grand-Gesture on occasion and
once, three years ago, a Grand Passion, Samantha Maitland felt right at home
amid the quaint gingerbread trim and the underlying solidity of the old house.
She knew the house liked her and was privately convinced that was the only
reason it tolerated the electronic hardware she’d moved into the parlor.

But Samantha had been totally unaware of her surroundings
that afternoon four days ago. Instead, with a mounting rush of barely
suppressed excitement she had entered one command after another into the
terminal. Finally, after taking a few nanoseconds to consider the matter, the
machine had responded by reducing the names on the screen until there remained
only two.

Absently she had chewed her lower lip as she viewed the
final results of her search. The computer had helped her narrow the choice,
sorting through the information at its disposal in response to her orders until
the list had been cut down to two names. But it didn’t contain sufficient data
to select between the final choices. Some human decision-making was going to be
called for in the last analysis.

William Oakes or Gabriel Sinclair. The computer knew very
little about either man. But as she sat staring at the names, Samantha’s frown
of concentration had abruptly cleared, and her mouth had moved upward in a wry
smile. A little divine intervention might be useful for what she had planned.
And if ever a woman needed an avenging angel, she did. Samantha had pressed the
enter key one more time and was left with only one name on the screen. It
seemed entirely appropriate that her financial angel should be named Gabriel.

It was not untypical of Samantha, having relied on
technology to get that far, to rely on pure intuition to make the last
decision.

With a feeling of cool anticipation she had stretched out a
hand to the telephone beside her. It was only as her travel agent came on the
line that Samantha had remembered reading that article on spas.

Now she could only regret the spur of the moment decision
which had put her into the clutches of the zealously devoted staff of health
enthusiasts. And there was no immediate relief in sight. One could hardly look
forward to dinner around here, and Samantha could not check out until Sinclair
got in touch. This was the address she had given him in the short, hopefully
intriguing note she had sent to him.

“Ouch! I thought all that was left was some kind of
cleansing gel,” Samantha protested as the attack on her body intensified.

“But it must be properly applied,” Miss Carson admonished,
pummeling the muscles in Samantha’s legs. “It does no good to pour it lightly
over the skin. It must be worked into each and every pore.”

Gasping for breath, Samantha shut her eyes and then
automatically opened them again as a collective murmur of surprise went through
the room full of
nearnaked
women and their
attendants. Even Miss Carson paused in her assault, joining to look toward the door.

A man stood there, gazing around the room with an expression
of surprised interest. Several women adjusted their towels, a few nonchalantly
slipping them aside.

“The owner of this place?” Samantha inquired, reaching down
to her hips to make certain her towel was securely covering the rounded curve
of her bottom.

“No, it’s certainly not Miss Fortune,” Miss Carson huffed. “I’m
not sure who it is. Probably some lost husband come to collect his wife and
wandered into the wrong room!”

Samantha was about to reply to the comment when quite
suddenly the intruder glanced in her direction. Something about the intensity
of the gaze made itself felt, and she instinctively reached for her glasses
which were lying on a small shelf attached to the table. She prodded the frames
onto her nose with an automatic gesture and discovered that the man was
watching her even though he was now being approached by two determined
attendants.

Samantha smiled in spite of herself as the image of the
stranger jumped into focus. In the white-tiled room full of white towels, white
uniforms, clear crystal pools and nude female bodies, he managed to convey the
impression of a satyr who has just succeeded in crashing a party of sea nymphs.

There was something very solid and substantial about him,
Samantha decided as he looked away to speak quietly to one of the attendants.
He wasn’t fat or soft or particularly tall, just very much there. An
uncompromising, rather unyielding male presence. Then Samantha blinked in
sudden intuition as the intruder followed the nod of one of the attendants and
glanced again in her direction.

“Oh, no! It couldn’t be! Surely he wouldn’t just walk in
here unannounced.” The words were spoken on a weak hiss of dismay as the man
started toward her with a resolute stride. Just from watching him walk Samantha
got the distinct impression he did everything resolutely. “Oh, hell,” she
murmured in frustration.

“You know him?” Miss Carson demanded as she returned to work
with a vengeance.

“I’m not sure, I… Please, Miss Carson, could you stop that for a
moment? I can’t think when you’re pounding on me!”

“You are here to exercise the body, not the brain!”

Skirting the hot plunge, the stranger was rapidly nearing
Samantha’s massage table. She found herself desperately wishing for more
covering than the towel provided and grimly reminded herself not to raise her
bare upper torso far from the surface of the table.

This wasn’t going at all as she had planned! If this was
Gabriel Sinclair, things were already veering disastrously from the course she
had charted. Samantha groaned to herself, and this time the exclamation was not
caused by Miss Carson’s tender touch. How could everything have gone so wrong?
How had Sinclair gotten past that hulking desk clerk in the lobby? Why hadn’t she
been paged?

Of all the stupid, ridiculous situations! It looked very
much as if she was about to be forced to begin negotiations on the deal of a
lifetime while her body was being pummeled. Talk about not being firmly in
control of a situation!

Frantically, recognizing that she simply could not get up
and flee into the woods like any other respectable nymph would under such
circumstances, Samantha tried to concentrate on what she knew of Gabriel
Sinclair. If she was going to survive the encounter without a total loss of
dignity, she had better get a firm grip on her flustered thoughts.

The problem was that there wasn’t a great deal of
information to marshal and collect in her head. From the beginning Samantha had
realized she was going to have to play the opening scene by ear. The computer
had contained so few personal facts on this man that she hadn’t even been able
to guess his age.

Now Samantha eyed the firmly etched brackets around the hard
line of his mouth, absorbed the impact of the quiet, controlled solidity of
him, and pegged the years at thirty-seven or thirty-eight. There was a
restrained, shuttered look about the stranger, as if he did not allow himself
to become too involved with anything or anyone around him. It would take that
kind of aloof arrogance to stride through a spa room full of naked women,
Samantha decided grimly. The impression was reinforced by the knife blade of a
nose and the cool, watchful expression which schooled the bluntly unhandsome
features.

“What do you think, Miss Carson?” she heard herself demand
with false flippancy as the intruder neared.

“He looks in fairly good shape to me,” the therapist allowed
judiciously as she concentrated on kneading her client’s right thigh.

“Yeah, I had the same impression,” Samantha drawled wryly.
Trust Miss Carson to view everyone from her own peculiarly limited viewpoint.
In that moment Samantha could have used a little insightful input from the
other woman, and all she got was an analysis of whether or not Gabriel Sinclair
was a candidate for treatments!

Damn it to hell! Hadn’t she seen movies in which powerful
corporate heads or prominent underworld figures conducted business in the
surroundings of a health club?

Yes, she had, Samantha thought nervously. And in those films
there had usually been a dead body or two lying around after the mist from the
steam bath had cleared! She didn’t even have the advantage of a cover of hot
steam. Instead she was going to confront Gabriel Sinclair while wearing only a
towel and a massage table. Well, she would just have to strive to be as brisk
and calm and as coolly professional as possible under the circumstances. So
much depended on subtly gaining and keeping the upper hand with Sinclair.

Samantha managed to summon a graciously aloof smile, hoping
her inner agitation did not show in her eyes. It was tricky maintaining the
serene, faintly inquiring expression while keeping her chin planted firmly on
her stacked hands. Miss Carson industriously ignored the potential interruption
as the man came to a halt beside the table. Her continued assault was going to
make conversation as well as the gracious smile rather difficult to maintain,
Samantha acknowledged ruefully.

“From that rather cryptic little message you sent, I somehow
pictured you in a gray pinstripe business suit and a pair of low-heeled pumps,
Miss Maitland.” The man’s voice suited him, a low, soft drawl that held the
essence of stones on a riverbed in its depths. “The towel adds a whole new
twist to the picture.”

Good God! He was so
substantial
-looking.
The impression of solid, granite-hard immobility was unnerving. How did one get
the upper hand with this type? It took a fierce effort of will for Samantha to
maintain the smile. “I was led to believe that Californians appreciate a touch
of novelty, Mr. Sinclair. You are Gabriel Sinclair, aren’t you?” She tried to
inject a hint of admonishment into her voice. After all, he hadn’t had the good
manners to properly introduce himself. But, then, someone with good manners
would have backed out of this room full of naked women as soon as he’d
blundered through the door!

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. Before Samantha
could continue, Miss Carson chose to take temporary charge of the situation.

“My client is occupied at the moment, Mr. Sinclair,” she announced,
turning violent on a particularly stubborn bit of cellulite. “And gentlemen are
not allowed in the treatment rooms.”

“I am a friend of Miss Fortune, the owner,” Gabriel murmured
absently. His gaze was focused on the portion of Samantha’s anatomy presently
under attack.

“And that gives you the right to just march in here?”
Samantha demanded coolly, annoyed as she sensed a flush rising into her face.
Heaven only knew what other parts of her were also turning pink under the
interested perusal she was undergoing.

“Frankly, I didn’t ask.” Gabriel smiled down at her, a
small, faintly amused smile that increased Samantha’s feeling of unease. “I
just came looking and here you were.”

“I see,” she retorted repressively. “Do you make a habit of
staging such grand entrances for every business appointment?”

“As you said, Californians are fond of novelty.”

Samantha eyed him warily. She mustn’t let him think he had
intimidated her with his unexpected appearance. She had enough instinctive
business sense to know the value of holding her own, especially when dealing
with a successful businessman. Such males were natural competitors, natural
hunters. They survived precisely because they knew how to zero in on weaknesses
in their opponents. The one thing she must not do was appear weak. On the other
hand, she didn’t want to alienate him, either. His cooperation was all that
stood between success and failure for her. A delicate situation.

The worst part of the whole thing, Samantha thought
irritably, was that he had succeeded in his obvious attempt to catch her
off-balance. “A robe,” she muttered, “my kingdom for a bathrobe. Miss Carson,
would you kindly fetch that robe you took from me earlier?”

“We are far from finished for the day, madam!” Miss Carson
protested, redoubling her efforts.

“I think I’m finished for the rest of my life! Miss Carson,
please do as I ask. I have a business appointment with this gentleman.”
Samantha tried to infuse her voice with authority. Damn hard to do from her
position on the massage table, she discovered. She was vividly conscious of
Gabriel Sinclair’s silent amusement.

“Tell him to come back later. You are here at the spa for
physical reconstruction, not business!”

“My God, I don’t believe this,” Samantha gritted. “I feel as
though I’ve been trapped in Dr. Frankenstein’s spare parts room.”

“Would you like me to draw up a chair so that we can talk
here while you are being,
er
, reconstructed?” Gabriel
asked very politely.

His smooth taunt was too much. Damned if he was going to
stand there and silently laugh at her predicament. Forcing a cool, challenging
smile, Samantha lifted her head just far enough to meet his assessing eyes. “I
really don’t think I can concentrate on business while this person is intent on
working me over as if I were a particularly tough cut of meat. Why don’t you be
an angel, Gabriel, and make Miss Carson go away? Show me you wield a little
clout here in California!”