Mad About The Man (6 page)

"Did you?"

"Yes. Goldstrike doesn't want what you're peddling." Her heart pounded.

"Doesn't it?"

"No. These people like the way of life they
lead. They're simple and kind…
like this land. They don't need discos and—and strobe lights and mining displays and resorts. They don't—"

"They do need them. And they will want them. If
something doesn't happen around here there won't be
a Goldstrike. Where will all these simple, kind people
be then?"

"It won't happen. I—"

"You
are
a very special, one-of-a-kind woman. But
you don't know what you're talking about. Keep on being special. Especially around me. But leave business to business people."

She made fists and had to quell an urge to pummel
him wi
th them. "What do you think I…
Scratch that.
I know what you think I am.
Who
do you think
you
are?"

"I'm Jacques Ledan and I've been driving through
Goldstrike since I was a kid. My best times have been
right here. I'm a Californian, Gaby. I was born in this
state. Its history is important to me—preserving the past for future generations. The pioneer culture that founded places like Goldstrike, molded me."

"But it didn't make you want it for what it is, did it? You want to change it and make a lot of money in the process."

"I want to help it stay alive." He turned and rested
his back on the tree. His eyes were blue ice now. "Sure there are going to be dissenters, but they'll be a minority and they'll dissent out of pride."

She took an involuntary step toward him. "What's
wrong with a little pride? It makes people strong and
focused."

"What's the point of being strong and focused while what little you have falls down around you?"

"They won't be happy, Jacques." The tears of pas
sion that sprang into her eyes weren't welcome. "You're going to take away their identity."

"I'm going to give them a way to preserve it. You
see this land we're standing on?"

"Yes." Gaby hugged herself tighter.

"I've bought this farm. And the one behind me.
And I intend to get one or two more in the same
block. This is going to become a theme park that peo
ple will come to from all over the country—damn it,
from all over the world."

Gaby raised a hand to her mouth, but Jacques caught her wrist.

"People resist change," Jacques said. "But when
they get used to it, they love what it can do for them.
I'm going to find a way to bring water in here.
There'll be a huge waterslide area—bigger than anything like it anywhere. When people are deciding where to vacation, they'll be considering going for the gold in Goldstrike. This isn't a tacky joke.
This is big business.
And we're all going to benefit fro
m i
t.''

Gaby drew in a breath that burned. "You're going to turn our little town into another resort area? I got out of Los Angeles because I wanted some peace. Everyone who chooses to stay here wants peace."

"
According to you."

With her free hand she gra
bbed his shirt. "I… I…
"

She never finished the thought or the sentence.
Jacques yanked her against him and his mouth came
down on hers. His lips were warm and firm and sup
ple. His eyes closed and he wrapped her in big, strong
arms from which she'd only escape when he chose to
let her go. The kiss was forceful, wild and possessive.
Gaby's legs weakened and her grip on his shirt became the anchor that stopped her from falling.

Jacques groaned and his hands slid down to cross over her bottom. Spreading his legs, he pressed her hips into his pelvis. He was hard. And the fit was right.

This kiss softened to a nipping, nuzzling, searing thing that rocked Gaby's face from side to side. She ran her palms up his chest and around his neck until she could tangle her fingers in his hair.

She smelled his clean scent, felt his hard chest crushing her breasts and wanted to feel his hands there—his lips.

"Gaby," he whispered, kissing her cheek, her
closed eyes, her ear. "Gaby, Gaby." Holding her ever
more strongly against his arousal, he pushed his fingers through her hair and returned to her mouth.

He sucked her lower lip gently between his teeth, then thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth.

His hand shifted from her hair, smoothed her shoul
der,
slipped to cover and
knead her breast. In an in
stant he'd eased down her low neckline and found a straining nipple. Pinching lightly, rolling, he turned her legs to useless things and her womb to a molten
place that drove her hips against him again and again.

Farther down he shifted the loose bodice, far enough to free her naked breasts.

"Oh, my God!" Panting, pushing him away, push
ing back her hair, Gaby tore herself from him. "What
do you think you're doing?"

He took his hands from her, held out his palms. His chest rose and fell with great, dragging breaths. "I'm doing exactly what you know I'm doing." De
sire made his eyes brilliant, the lines of his face rigid.
"We're
doing exactly what we know we're doing.
Sometimes these things are meant to happen. This is
one of those times."

"No. No." Hitching at her dress she backed away.
"Never. Not to me. This doesn't happen to me."

"This?" He shrugged away from the tree and winced.

Gaby's eyes went to his pants and she looked quickly away. What had happened to him wasn't go
ing away. Her own desire throbbed in every vein. And
it was nothing but lust.

"Gaby. What do you mean by
this?"

"Casual encounters." She shook her head vio
lently. "I a
sked you to talk to me about…
professional
matters. Business was what I had in mind."

He smiled, the slow, incredibly sensual smile that
made her throat feel entirely closed. "There's no rea
son to a
llow business to infringe on…
other things."

She stared. "Take me back, please." This man was
telling her that there was no reason to allow major
differences in every other area to interfere with the
possibility of great sex. Gaby managed to swallow. If
what had happened was a barometer, sex with Jacques
Ledan would be unb
elievably great. "I want to go
back."

"Fine. I'll take you. But don't think this is a closed
subject. And I'm not talking about
business."

Gaby started walking. "We are on opposite sides in a war."

"Not between us. Not unless you call what just happened some sort of battle." He caught up easily
and slipped an arm around her waist, jerked her back
when she tried to escape him. "That kind of battle
I'
ll engage in any day. As many times a day as I can persuade you to be with me."

"There won't be other times. This won't—what happened won't happen again."

He spread his hand over her ribcage until his thumb
could range back and forth across the soft underside
of her breast. "It's going to happen, Gaby," he said softly and laughed. "It's going to happen again and again."

"No!"

"Yes." He swung her easily around to face him "Right now I'll do what you want. I'll take you back to Goldstrike and safety. But you're never going to be safe again. Not from me."

4

A
nother wad of aluminum foil zipped past Jacques,
hit sagging pink insulation and dropped to the base
of an exposed wall stud.

Jacques rounded on Bart and said, "Enough with
the missiles," in a low voice. The three workmen who
wandered the length of the unfinished space, tapping,
banging and muttering, were unlikely to hear, any
way.

Bart Stanly, slouched in a discarded metal lawn
chair with no cushions, began rolling another piece of foil from a very old TV dinner cover. "We're wasting
time in this dump." He formed the tarnished ball deliberately between his
palms
.
"You don't need an office downtown. Not that you can say this burg has a
downtown."

"I do need it," Jacques said shortly. "Damn, it's
hot up here." He undid several buttons on his khaki
shirt.

"Yup." Bart rolled and rolled the foil while his
eyes lost focus. "And it's going to stay hot up here.
Heat rises, in case you haven't noticed. What's wrong
with the office at La Place?"

"The office at La Place is there, not here. That's
what's wrong with it." No way would he give Bart
even an inkling of the real reason for turning this
musty-smelling second story into his project head
quarters. "The people around here are bound to react
better to someone who's more accessible."

"You won't be dealing with the people, Jacques.
Rita and I will. That's the arrangement."

"Was
the arrangement," he corrected. "I've
changed my mind. If they're going to stop viewing
me as some outsider whose only interest is in ex
ploiting them, I'm going to have to gain their trust."

"And you think this—" Bart indicated dusty
beams, bare wooden floorboards, trailing electrical
wires and the detritus of previous inhabitants "—this
is somehow going to make them trust you? Why?
Because you decide to put a desk into a slum?"

Bart could be damned obtuse. Sometimes Jacques
wondered why he put up with the man. He wouldn't
if Bart hadn't already proved himself very
capable
.
"This slum, as you call it, is going to be renovated. Give it a week and you won't recognize the place."

Evidently the workmen heard the word
week
.
Three
pairs of eyes riveted on Jacques.

"A week, Mr. Ledan?" Cal Simms, local contrac
tor, wiped scarred hands on his white overalls and
ambled up. "I thought you said we were going to put
up wallboard and complete all the finishing."

"You are," Jacques said patiently. "Full bath
room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Sitting room incorporated
with the office space."

Air hissed between Bart's teeth. Jacques ignored
him

Cal removed his sweat-stained white cap and
scratched his balding scalp. "Months of work there,
Mr. Ledan. Months."

Jacques moved to a window overlooking the back
of the building. "Two weeks, max," he said with
finality
.
"I'm going to tell you what goes where and
you're going to see everything gets there." He almost
smiled at Cal's bewildered expression. "Pull in as many extra people as you need. Let me know the specs and who you use for supplies. Bart here will deal with anyone who doesn't
think
they can deliver on time—on time being in the next few days."

Cal's cohorts hovered in the background casting surreptitious glances at one another.

"This is all gonna cost." Cal frowned and shook his head. "We could do a nice job of cleaning up in
here. Put in a john, burner for coffee
…
refrigerator for
beer. Ain't like you got any long-term plans. Murphy
bed, maybe—"

"I've got long-term plans," Jacques interrupted. Below the window was a roof. In that roof, a large
skylight, cranked open to catch the breeze, reflected
rays of afternoon s
unshine. "And money isn't an is
sue. Best of everything." Directly in his line of vision; in the room revealed through the skylight, sat Gaby McGregor. "Yeah. I may be around a long, long time."

"We could be talkin' thousands—"

"We
are
talking thousands. Many thousands.
Don't cut any corners." Gaby, her head bent over whatever she was sketching at a workbench, had drawn her hair up into a soft chignon at her crown. From his vantage point, Jacques saw the way a soft
, white cotton shirt clung to…
"This area by the win
dow will be fine as an office space. Desk there." He
hooked a thumb over his shoulder. The shirt clung to
her full breasts, and Jacques had no difficulty visualizing what he couldn't actually see.

"It's going to take time, Mr. Ledan. Rome wasn't built in—"

"We're not building Rome," Jacques told Cal.
"Just a suite." Pieces of Gaby's long, silky black hair had slipped from the chignon to rest on pale, smooth
skin. He'd pushed his luck yesterday. Not that what had happened had been planned—not entirely. "Get the measurements down. My architect will be along shortly to draw something up."

Cal withdrew and the banging resumed.

Before the day was out, Jacques intended to pursue
what he'd begun with Gaby—at a more leisurely
pace, if necessary.

"Ah." Bart had left his chair and come to stand at Jacques's shoulder. "I begin to understand. We're creating a lair and the prospective prey is in sight."

Jacques glanced back at Bart. "What the hell are you driveling about?"

"A little local diversion." Bart nodded toward the
window. "I wouldn't have thought country girls were
your style, but I guess there's not a whole lot to
choose from around here."

Slowly Jacques looked from Bart's downcast eyes
to Gaby. He wasn't sure exactly what he was feeling,
but it wasn't pleasant.

Bart stepped closer. "Uh-huh. Maybe she's not bad
by anyone's standards. Great face. I thought so the other day. And great—"

"That's enough."

"Hey!" Bart slapped his back "Lighten up.
You've been working too hard on this project. You
know what all work and no play does to a guy. How
long is it since you had some female company?"

"Drop it."

Bart held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I get the mes
sage. It's definitely been too long. But you'd better watch it with the little hayseed."

Jacques turned from the window and crossed his
aims. "Okay, Bart, you've got my full attention.
What d'you mean by that crack?"

"Oh, nothing much." An eloquent shrug lifted the shoulders of Bart's handmade, gray silk shirt. "Only
that messing around with the local talent might not be such a great idea."

Jacques raised his chin. An unaccustomed shaft of
annoyance straightened his spine. "I don't think I like
what you're implying. Gaby McGregor isn't—"
What exactly
wasn't
she? He liked her, that much he
knew. And maybe he could come to more than like her, much more. "Gaby McGregor isn't the type of woman you refer to as
local talent."

"Whatever you say." Bart laughed. "But I am the one who's supposed to work on making sure your image is snowy white in this town."

"My image is just fine," Jacques said through his teeth.

"Yeah. Sure." Bart studied his fingernails. "It's fine as long as no one looks at it too deeply. Turn over the surface and you're going to expose a one
-
hundred-percent playboy image."

"Talk," Jacques said explosively. "Just talk."

"Rich men gather reputations for high living whether they deserve to or not. And you have been
known to do your part in that area. I know—"
held up a hand to stop Jacques's retort "—I know
you've been a good boy for a long time. But once the
story of your efforts here hits the news, how long do
you think it'll take the tabloids to dig up some juicy history?"

"If they do, it'll be just that. History."

"The way they use it, it won't sound like history."
Bart reached for the briefcase he'd dropped on the floor. "I'd better get on with it. I'm meeting Rita at that greasy-spoon café."

"No one can invent what isn't true," Jacques said,
but Bart's implication niggled.

"Can't they?" Bart headed for the stairs. "You
know better than that. And Ms. McGregor seems to be the heroine in these parts. Almost a guru. Better keep your hands off if you don't want to get
run out
of town."

Before Jacques could reply, Bart clattered down the
open staircase.

The mumbling group of workmen had congregated
in a far corner where one of them jotted on dog-eared
paper.

Jacques turned back to the window. She was still
there. He wasn't sure when it had happened. Not the
exact instant. But somewhere in the few days since
he'd met Gaby McGregor, he'd made a discovery that
excited his reportedly jaded core—and other parts of
him. Collecting rare items had always been his pas
sion. Gaby McGregor was a unique find—and he had
to have her.

"
B
arney said
it's all going to do the town a heap
of good." Shirley, one of Gaby's first recruits to her work force, steamed pieces of purple felt, shaping them with deft fingers. "He says it's about time we found a way to bring more people to Goldstri
k
e."

Another thud from above jiggled the overhead fans.

Gaby slapped her charcoal down on the sketch and glared upward.

"Barney said he'll probably be able to add on to Hacienda Heaven in no time once all them tourists start pourin' into town."

Gaby gritted her teeth and met Char's innocently blank eyes.

"Barney said—"

"When are you and Barney going to tie that knot everyone's always talking about?" Gaby asked with false cheeriness.

Shirley pursed her lips. "Maybe never. I've had me two husbands already and neither of 'em brought any
thing but trouble."

A fresh assault in the upstairs regions made the
ceiling tremble.
"Men
never bring anything but trou
ble, period," Gaby said darkly. "Why don't you cut out, Shirley? It's almost five."

Immediately the plump, blond woman flipped off
the steamer. "Don't mind if I do. Promised I'd go
give Barney a hand." She quickly
t
idied the pieces assem
bled before her and went to gathe
r her bag.

He isn't up there,
Gaby thought.
Jacques Ledan isn't the type to involve himself with overseeing the small stuff
She picked up the stick of charcoal once
more.
Don't let me have to look him in the eye again.
Why did I let him kiss me?
She hadn't
let
him.
He'd
…
well, he'd lulled her into not really noticing wh
at he was doing… until he'd…
Gaby rested her el
bows on the bench and covered her face. Heat flooded
every part of her, and some of those parts ached in a
way she didn't want to examine too closely.

"Bye!" Shirley called.

Gaby glanced up. "Bye. See you tomorrow."

Once the door closed behind Shirley, Gaby ground
her fists into her eyes. She just couldn't bear the idea
of having to face Jacques Ledan and know he knew what she was thinking—what they would both be thinking.

"Okay. Let's have it."

Startled, Gaby turned to Char. "Have what?"

"The whole story. Yesterday you left Sis's with
the bozo and didn't get back for an hour and a half. What happened?"

Gaby gaped.

"He's a knockout, isn't he?" Char's cloud of
springy gray curls bobbed with the toss of her head.
"Tall, dark, blue-eyed and knock-'em-dead good-
looking?"