Double Dealing (9 page)

“It’s not professional envy, it’s a professional evaluation of
a colleague,” Gabriel growled. “I mean it, Samantha, stay clear of him.”

“I need a backer for my plan. If you’re not willing to go
into a partnership with me, then I shall have to look elsewhere, won’t I?”

“Samantha, Samantha!” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “You’re
so hopelessly transparent! You’re not going to force my hand by threatening to
run off to William Oakes, so don’t bother trying that tactic. I’m giving you
sound advice about the man. Accept it for what it is.”

“Just tell me the truth, Gabriel,” she demanded. “Are you
even considering my proposition? Or was the invitation this evening strictly a
play to get me into bed?”

He faced her levelly. “I haven’t ruled out the possibility of
doing business with you,” he said honestly.

“Word of honor?” she pressed.

“Word of an angel,” he mocked lightly.

She sat back, somewhat appeased, and picked up her fork. “Then
perhaps we could go over the information I’ve collected after dinner.”

“Samantha?”

“Hmmm?” The veal really was quite fabulous.

“If we do wind up in business together,” Gabriel began
slowly, “there’s something we s-s-should have very clear between us.”

“Yes?” She waited expectantly.

“You have my word that I will be quite frank with you on all
matters. I would want your word in return.”

Visions of what this man might do if he knew her true motivation
on the Buchanan deal blazed in her mind. It was very clear that Gabriel
Sinclair did not approve of emotionalism in business. If he realized just how
steep an emotional investment she had in this deal, it would kill any possibility
of gaining his cooperation.

“You have my word that I will be quite straightforward with
you on all business matters,” she stated carefully. And she would, she promised
herself. She just wouldn’t burden him with a lot of past history about herself
and Drew Buchanan.

He nodded once, as if satisfied. “Excellent. Now please
relax and enjoy the rest of your dinner. I have a lemon meringue pie for
dessert of which I am particularly proud.”

Samantha glanced up, smiling again as she sensed that the
rough spot in their new association had just been safely traversed. “It’s a
wonder some woman hasn’t chained you to her kitchen sink. A man who can cook like
this is prime husband material.”

“I was married once,” he said quietly, managing to make her
feel awkward at having asked the implied question. “The cooking wasn’t enough
to hold her, however.”

“I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” she whispered a
little stiffly.

“It’s quite all right,” he assured her “What about you? I
see no ring.”

“No. I came close once, but disaster was avoided at the last
minute,” she told him lightly, having no desire to pursue the topic.

“The marriage would have been a disaster?”

“One of the many things I learned at my mother’s knee was
that marriage was not one of life’s necessities. I think I’m ready for that pie
now, Gabriel. And after dinner I would like to borrow your phone, if I may, to make
reservations at a motel for this evening. How far is it to Santa Barbara?”

“Several miles, but there’s no need to find someplace for
the night, and you know it,” Gabriel told her bluntly as he carefully sliced
the pie. “You can stay here.” He set her piece of pie down in front of her with
a short decisive gesture as if he were throwing down a gauntlet.

“It’s very kind of you to offer me a bed for the night,” she
began politely, not certain how to take his mood.

“I am not a kind man, Samantha. I am a practical man,” he
added regretfully. “Quiet, practical, fond of detail, careful, prudent, and a
lot of other dull qualities to be s-sure, but kindness isn’t among them. I am
also not given to assaulting potential business partners. You’ll be safe enough
here tonight.”

Or as safe as I want to be, Samantha found herself thinking.
What in hell had put that thought into her head? Too much speculation on what
it would be like to have Gabriel Sinclair make love to her. Far too much.

Stark was the first word that came to mind as Gabriel ushered
Samantha into the guest bedroom. It was done in the same subdued tones as the
rest of the house, the furnishings comfortable but minimal. No, not exactly stark,
she reconsidered as he set her suitcase down beside the bed, but definitely not
comfortably cluttered! She had the feeling that her host had never been exposed
to the glories of clutter—of cozy chaos. Pity. It might have done him some
good. Loosened him up a bit.

“Why the sly smile, Samantha?” Gabriel interrupted her
thoughts to ask.

“Does it make you nervous?” she taunted lightly.

“It would probably make any man nervous,” he told her
seriously.

“Well, don’t let it bother you. I was just thinking that you’re
a very tidy housekeeper. Everything always in its place.”

“Feel free to mess up this room if you like,” he retorted.

“Thanks, I’ll think about it. It has great possibilities, you
know. A little sand tracked across the carpet over there, perhaps.” She waved
toward the door which opened onto a balcony. “Then I could take a few of the books
out of the bookcase and fling them around at random, Or I could spill a cup of
coffee on the dressing table…”

“Please make yourself right at home, he invited gravely.

She spun around, startled by the hint of humor in his tone.
For an instant she stared at him thoughtfully. “Was that a joke, Gabriel? A
sarcastic quip about the way you imagine I keep house?”

“Everyone knows witches live amid a certain chaos.” He
smiled.

“Witch? You think of me as a witch?” She frowned.

“An interesting combination, isn’t it? A witch and an angel?”

“Except that it’s not a combination. Not yet. You haven’t
agreed to work with me, remember?”

“I remember.” He watched her prowl restlessly around the
room. “The bathroom connects through that door.”

“Thank you. Actually, it’s a lovely room, Gabriel. I’m sure
I’ll be very comfortable,” Samantha said, suddenly aware of being rather tired.
It had been a long, frustrating day. She turned away from studying the night-darkened
view outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and faced him with a deliberately
dismissing air. “Good night, Gabriel. In the morning perhaps we can go over those
computer printouts I’ve got stashed in the car.”

“Yes.” But he didn’t move, and Samantha had the feeling he
was thinking about something other than the printouts. It didn’t take any great
intuitive powers to read the trace of masculine hunger which came and went very
quickly in the depths of those hazel eyes.

Samantha found herself wondering how long it had been since
he’d invited another woman to stay the night. Some instinct told her that there
probably weren’t vast numbers of females coming and going in this man’s life.
Not because he had an angelic, disinterested view of sex but because of his
innate caution.

Gabriel Sinclair would be as careful in his selection of a
woman to share his bed as he was in everything else he did. That thought left
her intrigued. She had been one of those women he’d selected, and he had made the
decision within hours of knowing her. Samantha pondered just what that
signified. Rashness of any kind, as he, himself, had pointed out, wasn’t one of
his normal character traits!

On the other hand, there was no denying the heavy maleness
of him. It was a dense, tempered aura that emanated from the man, making itself
felt whenever he came too near. But Samantha had the feeling that he wasn’t
aware of the solid, unyielding power he projected. Or perhaps it only affected
her?

Perhaps he wasn’t used to the idea of what he could do to a
woman’s sense of awareness because other women were not affected by the aura of
implacable maleness, the waves she felt coming at her across the bedroom.

Were other women immune? Or was she more attuned to this man
for some reason?

That last thought was far too disturbing. It was time to
drop the curtain on bedroom drama before it developed into something much more
complicated.

“Good night, Gabriel,” she said again, this time very firmly.
He nodded once instead of replying, swung around on his heel, and walked out of
the room, the sense of him lingering long after he had gone. Slowly Samantha crossed
the room and shut the door. After a second’s pause she flipped the lock, too. A
part of her insisted the man could be trusted not to force himself on her. If she
hadn’t truly believed that, she wouldn’t have accepted his invitation to stay
the night.

But a more objective side of her nature reminded her that
she knew as much about Gabriel Sinclair as just about anyone else in the world,
and that wasn’t really much when you thought about it. She might have been a
bit hasty in making her decision to stay the night.

Well, as Vera Maitland was fond of saying, to live life to
the fullest one must take risks. She could almost hear her mother quoting the
words. Samantha went to stand before the window facing the darkened ocean. The problem,
of course, was that her mother’s notion of a worthwhile risk often differed
considerably from that of her daughter.

Vera Maitland was too gloriously self-contained to risk
herself emotionally the way Samantha had once done so disastrously with Drew
Buchanan. For Vera risk was something undertaken for the sake of a great cause,
and when it came to that sort of thing, few people were braver than Samantha’s
mother.

She remembered the fearless way Vera had joined ranks of
others one dark year to go against the dogs and fire hoses in Alabama. Samantha
remembered the incident clearly because Vera had taken her along on the theory
that one was never too young to get involved in the things that mattered. It
was the dogs Samantha recalled most vividly. She had always loved dogs before that
frightening trip to Alabama; always thought of them as friendly, affectionate
creatures, responsive to love and kindness. Since that fateful year Samantha
had been wary of dogs and generally gave them all, large or small, a wide
berth.

During the march Samantha had been terrified; more than once
she had considered letting go of her mother’s hand and running. But finally her
fear of disappointing Vera by showing herself a cowardly daughter had been Ear
greater than her fear of the snarling dogs. Even at that early age living up to
Vera’s standards was important.

But nothing frightened Vera except, perhaps, the knowledge
that she had raised a daughter who was not cast entirely in her own image.
Samantha closed her eyes against the memory of her mother’s shocked expression the
day she had learned that Samantha was planning to marry Drew Buchanan.

“My God, you can’t possibly be serious!”

Samantha met her mother’s eyes across Vera’s kitchen table
and bravely nodded her head. “I’m very serious, Mother. He loves me and I love
him.”

Vera’s finely drawn features were still austerely beautiful even
in middle age. Her deep brown hair, which Samantha had inherited, had begun to
streak quite dramatically with gray in the past few years in a manner hairdressers
envied. That day she had worn it combed straight back, caught with an exotic
clip at the nape of her neck.

The clip, Samantha knew, had been given to her mother by one
of her economics students. He was the son of an important political figure from
an underdeveloped country in Asia. Vera had seen a golden opportunity to
inculcate him with her socioeconomic theories for developing nations and had
lavished a considerable amount of attention on him. The young man had sent the
clip as a token of his appreciation. Samantha knew better than to speculate on
whether her mother had had an affair with the young man. Vera was neither
promiscuous nor a prude, but she had made it a rule never to become physically
involved with her male students. Vera never broke her own rules. Society’s on
occasion, but never her own.

“Love? Samantha, how many times have I told you that the
emotion is a myth—a trap. A dangerous illusion for a woman. A fairy tale that
Madison Avenue employs to sell everything from mouthwash to linoleum. It blinds
her to reality, puts her in the grip of a man’s will, and she is used! Enjoy an
affair with Buchanan if he attracts you, but don’t make the mistake of thinking
he seriously returns your affection. He isn’t capable of it. Haven’t you
learned anything at all working with him? He’s the original user—using up
people and money and anything else he can get his hands on to get what he wants.
He’s a full-blooded robber baron who would have done very nicely a hundred
years ago when there were no legal brakes at all on such men. Even today he’s
doing very well manipulating everything and everyone around him quite
ruthlessly!”

“If you thought so poorly of him, why did you encourage me
to go to work for him when Dad suggested it?” Samantha flung back, already
knowing the answer.

“Because I thought, as you’ve decided to follow a business
career instead of an academic one, that you might as well go into a position
where you could exercise some good influence, however small, over a man like
Buchanan. I don’t live in an ivory tower, Sam; I’m well aware that sometimes
the most important battles are the insidious ones fought from within the enemy
walls.”

“I’m not working for Drew as some kind of spy!” Samantha
protested fiercely.

“But you’ve already proven you have the power to sway or at
least alter the effects of some of Buchanan’s decisions. Look at the way you
mitigated the effects of his last land grab in Miami. Those people in that
apartment complex would have been dumped into the street if you hadn’t been in
a position to assist them. You used Buchanan’s resources to find those
unfortunate people new housing. That was a brilliant play, Sam!”