Double Dealing (3 page)

Samantha felt the sudden hesitation in him and felt a rush
of satisfaction. Excellent. She had succeeded in taking him back a bit with her
taunting request. It was time she regained the initiative Sinclair had stolen
by approaching her in the manner he had chosen.

But Sinclair, to give him credit, recovered immediately. With
a polished gesture he peeled off the expensive, lightweight jacket he was
wearing and held it out with a flourish. “I s-s-shall be happy to do my best,
Miss Maitland.”

Samantha’s tortoiseshell eyes widened at the solution he was
offering even as her attention was momentarily caught by the unexpected stutter
in Gabriel’s voice as he hit the “
sh
” sound.
Sidetracked by it she had to refocus on the offer of the jacket.

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s either this or walk out of here wearing
that little towel. Your Miss Carson doesn’t look as if she’s going to back
down.”

Indeed, Miss Carson was viewing the entire proceedings with
a baleful eye. “Miss Maitland can’t leave yet! We have only begun to properly
cleanse the pores and rejuvenate the muscle tone.”

Gabriel cocked a dark brow inquiringly at Samantha. “Take
your pick. Miss Carson or me.”

“The devil or the deep blue sea,” Samantha complained. Miss
Carson unloosed a decidedly savage attack on the left hip, and Samantha made
her decision. Extending a hand, she snatched at the proffered jacket. Only to
have it held just out of reach. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Maitland,”
Gabriel insisted for too gently. His eyes gleamed, and Samantha noticed for the
first time that they were a deeply gold shade of hazel. The kind of eyes that
could reflect any emotion or an absolute lack of same. She couldn’t begin to
read anything beyond flickering male amusement in them now.

But she knew when she had been backed into a corner.
Thoroughly annoyed and not a little embarrassed, Samantha recognized that the
only way out of the untenable situation in which she found herself was bold
action. She would not let him win this ridiculous confrontation.

She could only hope that his business acumen for exceeded
his limited ability at gallantry. Grabbing for the towel across her buttocks,
Samantha sat up quickly, holding it in front of her, and then came lightly down
off the table in a hasty rush. The least he could have done, she thought
seethingly
, was look away as she slipped into the jacket.
But of course, being a man intent on establishing dominance in the small power struggle
being waged, Sinclair didn’t bother to glance away.

“I wouldn’t look so pleased with myself,” she advised sweetly
as she wrapped the too-large jacket around her body. “The inside of this coat
is never going to be the same.”

“I doubt that I s-s-shall mind having the essence of your
perfume clinging to the inside of my jacket,” he mocked, studying the way the
garment fell to her thighs.

“It isn’t the essence of my perfume you’re going to be stuck
with,” she assured him with grim cheer. “It’s the sticky remains of Miss Carson’s
cleansing gel!”

Satisfied at having had the last word, Samantha spun around
on her bare heel and strode regally out of the steamy, tiled room. The dark
satyr followed silently in her wake. Miss Carson watched them both depart with
a distinctly dissatisfied expression. Since when was business more important
than fitness?

Disdaining to acknowledge the curious glances of several
people who were checking into the spa, Samantha sailed through the serene
Japanese garden atmosphere of the lobby. She was all too conscious of the man pacing
behind her and of what he must be thinking as he trailed her bare-legged figure
down the tiled hallway.

Gabriel must have had a fairly good notion of what she was
thinking also because as she came to a halt in front of her room he murmured
gently. “Perhaps you s-should have thought twice about requesting my assistance
back there in the spa, Miss Maitland. Summoning angels can be as uncertain a
business as summoning demons. Didn’t you know that?”

“I shall try to remember that in the future,” she retorted
briskly, taking the key which had been attached to her wrist with a band and
inserting it forcefully into her lock. “Do you behave like this regularly, Mr.
Sinclair?” She pushed open the door and stalked into the room.

“No.”

The brusqueness of the admission surprised her. Turning to
glance at him, Samantha suddenly realized that he was telling the truth.
Gabriel Sinclair was not at all accustomed to impulsive action on his own part.

The realization helped restore her own sense of humor as
well as giving her a feeling of being back in control. She was extremely
grateful for both.

“The problem in this instance,” he went on thoughtfully as
he stepped into the room, “is that I find myself responding to a deliberately
baited hook. I don’t care for such devices, Miss Maitland.”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “My note?”

“Your
cryptic
note,” he clarified coolly.

“You don’t appreciate a hint of a puzzle?” she dared, stifling
a tiny smile. After all, whatever he thought of her provocative note, it had
the merit of having been effective, He had sought her out at the spa as she had
hoped he would.

“Let’s get something clear between us,” Gabriel drawled,
taking a chair beside the window which overlooked a small patio garden. “I don’t
like puzzles. I don’t like unknown quantities. I don’t like deliberately dangled
lures.”

“How very unadventurous of you.” But her tone was light, not
mocking. If he thought she was genuinely laughing at him, he might simply turn
around and leave and then she would be in one heck of a mess. “I shall try to
remember that in the future. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll put on something a
little more, uh, businesslike.” She glanced down in disgust at his jacket
wrapped around her body and started for the dressing room.

“What’s the matter, Miss Maitland?” he asked quietly behind
her. “Afraid I might mistake you for an interesting little puzzle in that
outfit?”

Samantha paused momentarily in the doorway of the dressing
room before shutting the door behind her. “Not at all, Mr. Sinclair. The very
opposite, in fact! Thanks to the way you introduced yourself there isn’t anything
left of me which might still be an unknown quantity. You got an eyeful, didn’t
you?” The door closed with a bit more force than she had planned.

At once she went limp with reaction, sagging momentarily back
against the closed door and shutting her eyes while drawing a long, steadying
breath. It was difficult to tell if her weakened condition was due to Miss
Carson or from the shock of having Gabriel Sinclair materialize in that
spa
room. A little of both, probably. Good lord. What had
she gotten herself into?

Well, there was no time to stand around worrying about the
unorthodox way her business with Sinclair had begun. He was here in response to
her note, and that could only be a hopeful sign.

Staggering a little, Samantha straightened away from the
door and reached for the first thing that looked easy to slip into. She really
was feeling quite limp, and the thought of struggling with tight jeans or a lot
of buttons was simply too much. Miss Carson had a lot to answer for with her
clients!

Dropping the jacket, Samantha pulled the cotton knit crew-neck
dress over her head. It was a bright summer white, California white, she had
decided when she’d purchased it in Seattle, and it was banded at hem and sleeve
with bright stripes of turquoise. Bracing herself with one palm against the
marble counter framing the sink, Samantha lifted her other hand to slip off the
headband and the pins that held the tight bun.

The curve of shining brown hair swung down around her
shoulders, and Samantha couldn’t restrain another groan, this time one of
relief. The severity of the required hairstyle had been slowly contributing to
a headache. The new result wasn’t as businesslike as she might have wished, but
after all, this was California.

“And after what that man has seen of the rest of you,” she
lectured herself in the mirror, “he’s not likely to be too impressed by a
somewhat belated attempt to make yourself look as though you just walked in off
Wall Street.” The thought made her grimace, and she wrinkled her nose and
narrowed her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses. The whole matter had gotten
off to a horribly ridiculous start. It was going to take all of her energy and
skill to get things back on course.

And Gabriel Sinclair did not appear to be a man who was
easily pushed onto a desired course.

Squelching a small sigh of regret over the way she had
loused up the deal thus far, Samantha opened the dressing room door and walked
barefoot into the sitting area of her small suite. Sinclair was seated at the round
table in front of the window, just as she had left him. But now he was sipping
tea from a delicate china cup as he gazed out into the private little garden.
Samantha’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“Where did you get the tea?” she demanded, coming forward to
take the opposite seat.

“I ordered it sent to the room while you were getting dressed.
You looked as if you might need something reviving, and I think tea is about
all that’s allowed in the way of stimulants around here.” To Samantha’s surprise
he set down his own cup and poured her one, handing it to her with grave
politeness.

“Thank you,” she murmured, unaccustomed to men who knew how
to pour tea. “My mother would love you,” she added unthinkingly.

Gabriel’s hazel eyes lifted quickly, something close to
humor moving in their depths. “Your mother?”

“Umm.” Samantha took a long, satisfying sip from her cup and
settled deeply into the chair, bare legs stretched out in front of her. “My
mother is a woman who appreciates men who don’t have role problems. She’s one
of those who read Simone de Beauvoir’s
The
Second Sex
in the original French.”

“An early feminist?” Gabriel seemed mildly curious.

“An early everything.” Samantha smiled reminiscently. “An
early beatnik, an early environmentalist, an early antinuclear power type, an
early women’s rights person. You name it.”

“A natural revolutionary?” Gabriel asked dryly.

“A natural independent,” Samantha corrected him. “She could
never become a true revolutionary because, although she loves causes, she also
likes people. Real revolutionaries have to be willing to sacrifice people to a
cause.”

“I see. A humanist, not an urban guerrilla.” Gabriel nodded,
as if finally satisfied at having pegged the unknown woman.

Samantha shrugged. “You may be right.” Humanist would be a
good term to describe Vera Maitland, Samantha thought. “She’d probably like
that.” Did Sinclair have to label everything and everyone? He’d said himself he
disliked unknown quantities. Perhaps it was his instinctive way of maintaining
control over situations. But he must be something of a fanatic about summing up
people and stuffing them into their proper niches if he went so far as to
categorize a woman he was never likely to meet! What a neat, analytical,
methodical sort of mind he must have, Samantha thought in silent amusement.

She sincerely hoped she could resist the temptation to
occasionally provoke him. People with neat, methodical, pedantic sorts of minds
did not appreciate being baited, she knew from experience. It was a pity that they
made such irresistible targets to people like herself who preferred to move
through life at a much more hectic pace, relying on intuition as much, if not
more, than analysis.

“What does your mother do when s-she’s not out demonstrating?”
Gabriel asked calmly, blithely unaware, apparently, of her thoughts.

“Teaches socioeconomic theory at a small college back east.”

“And are you truly your mother’s daughter?” he startled her
by asking.

Samantha
slitted
her eyes briefly,
caught off guard. “If you mean am I cause-oriented, I’m afraid not,” she finally
said remotely. “I seem to have inherited a fair share of my father’s interest
in the more self-serving world of business.” But I am Vera Maitland’s daughter,
she told herself silently, fiercely. And you, Gabriel Sinclair, are going to
help me prove it!

“Perhaps it’s just as well you don’t s-s-share your mother’s
devotion to causes. I get a bit nervous at the thought of doing business with
radicals. So unstable. So unpredictable,” he added, frowning. It was obvious he
didn’t approve of unpredictability in any form.

Samantha’s mouth curved faintly at the corners as she realized
that she was finding his slight stutter almost endearing. A stupid reaction
under the circumstances, actually. The man was anything but endearing! His financial
success alone was proof of that. Men as quietly successful as Gabriel Sinclair
couldn’t afford genuinely endearing weaknesses. She mustn’t let her imagination
paint him other than what he obviously was.

But it was odd to find herself discussing such a personal subject
as her mother’s unusual career with a man she intended to know only on a
business basis. How had they gotten started on such a personal topic?

Gabriel’s strong, square hand reached for the teapot, clasping
the delicate curve of the handle and pouring tea with a precision and innate
grace which made her think of a Japanese tea ceremony. Every movement had meaning
and no motion was superfluous. He was that kind of man, she realized. Every
action would be planned and executed with an absolute efficiency. The knowledge
sent a small chill down her spine. It was going to be difficult curbing her own
far more dynamic, often impulsive methods. She couldn’t afford to scare him off
with such hints of “unpredictability.”

“How are you feeling? Recovered from your therapist’s S&M
techniques?” Gabriel broke into her musings to inquire politely.