The Chilling Deception (14 page)

“Someday,” Guinevere declared, “we’ll have one just like it.”

“We will?”

Guinevere ignored him as she caught sight of the partly open drawer. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Look, Zac. There’s the golden gun I told you about. The one that really started me worrying about Vandyke’s state of depression.”

Zac reached out and casually picked up the weapon, one brow arched. Just as casually he pulled the trigger. Instinctively Guinevere jumped. A small flame winked into existence from the barrel of the gun.

“Well, what do you know,” Guinevere said in disgust. “On such tiny misjudgments whole cases for Free Enterprise Security are built.” Head high, she turned and stalked back down the hall to Vandyke’s office.

***

Several hours later Guinevere was still fretting about mistaking the gold cigarette lighter for a real gun.

“It looked like the real thing,” she told Zac for the fiftieth time as she stood in the doorway of his kitchen and watched him toss the salad.

“I know, honey. Anyone could have been fooled.”

He had apparently decided to stop teasing her about it and was now taking the consoling approach. It was hard to argue when someone was consoling you. Guinevere groaned and turned to amble out into the living room, wineglass in hand. Behind her Zac studied the salad, trying to decide what else to add. He opened the refrigerator door and took out some feta cheese.

“I guess it must have been Gannon you thought you saw in the trees the night you went to fetch Vandyke from the cliffs, hmm?” Guinevere peered out the living room window, waiting for Zac’s response.

“Must have been. He was undoubtedly stalking his quarry. It was probably Gannon who went through your things the night you traipsed down the hall to see me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Who knows. Maybe to see where you fit into the grand scheme of things. He might have wanted to know if you were Vandyke’s mistress.”

“His mistress!” Guinevere was shocked.

“Or perhaps he just liked going through women’s underwear.”

“Ugh.” She was quiet a moment. “You know, I think Gannon was wrong about Vandyke,” she said tentatively.

There was a beat of silence from the kitchen. “You mean his assumption that Vandyke was soft?” Zac asked calmly.

“Yes. There was nothing soft about the way Vandyke pulled the trigger on that island, Zac.”

“No.”

“You told me once that a weak man couldn’t have gotten as far as Vandyke had gotten in business.”

“Uh, Gwen?”

“Yes, Zac?”

“Don’t dwell on that line of thought, okay?”

“Why? Afraid that I’ll start wondering just how tough Vandyke might have been back in the days he was Gannon’s partner? He came out of that business with enough money to start Vandyke Development. The charter operation must have been operating on slightly more than a shoestring.” She thought about her own words. “Zac?”

“Don’t ask, Gwen.” But he sounded resigned to the fact that she would ask.

“Do you think Gannon might have been right? That he and Vandyke were running drugs and that Vandyke decided to set up his partner and get out of the business?”

“You said yourself that Vandyke’s a good man. You like him and you like his wife. He’s also a good client. Paid his bill right on time. I don’t think there’s any point in asking a lot of questions at this stage.”

“You may be right.”

In the sharply angled living room of Zac’s modern high-rise apartment Guinevere stood at the windows and watched tugboats cautiously move a Japanese freighter into Elliott Bay. There was no doubt that Zac’s view was better than hers, but Guinevere didn’t particularly like the sober colors and conservative furniture of his apartment. She much preferred her own bright reds and yellows and dramatic touches of black to this serene climate of mellow wood and stone-colored carpet. Still, there was something solid and real about Zac’s home, just as there was something solid and real about the man himself.

Guinevere swirled the wine in her glass and thought about her unsuccessful plans to pin down something solid and real about her relationship with Zac. From that point of view the previous weekend had been more or less a failure. True, they had quietly admitted to each other that neither was seeing anyone else, but that seemed insubstantial and tentative to Guinevere.

On the other hand, exactly what did she want with Zac? There was still that faint wariness in her, still a feeling that she didn’t truly understand him. She had always assumed that a complete understanding of the other person was essential to a sound relationship. But there were times when she was not only aware that she didn’t know him completely, she also wasn’t sure that she wanted to know him that well. Once again she remembered the way he could shift from businessman into violent hunter.

It wasn’t that the hunter in him seemed at odds with the more conventional side of his personality, it was simply that she didn’t fully comprehend that aspect of him. As a woman, she mistrusted that element of his nature. And yet there had been moments when she had felt the thrill of adrenaline, the stark sensation of knowing one had to act or all was lost. Still, she had a feeling, based on brief glimpses into the more primitive side of her own personality, that for her the sensation was fundamentally different than it was for Zac. She couldn’t explain it. Perhaps it was because she was a woman and he was a man.

Which brought her back to the question she had asked herself on that nameless island in the San Juans—can a woman ever completely know a man? Perhaps the question should have been: would any woman in her right mind ever really want to completely know and comprehend a man?

Out on the bay the freighter was nearing the loading docks of the Port of Seattle.

“Gwen?” Zac materialized behind her, his glass of tequila in his hand. “You were so quiet out here I wasn’t sure what you were up to.”

“Just watching that ship. Can you imagine spending your working life on a ship like that? Days on end of not being able to touch dry land. Tiny little cabins, storms at sea, tyrannical captains . . .”

“You’re letting your imagination carry you away. I think people who go to sea do so because they like the work. Simple.”

She smiled fleetingly. “You’re probably right. Sometimes my imagination does carry me away. I tend to read too much into things, analyze them for hidden meanings, try to figure out what someone
really
meant.”

“I know. Me, I’m much more straightforward.” He looked down at her, gray eyes intent.

“Are you?”

“Gwen, do you want to try another weekend?” he asked abruptly.

She looked up at him through her lashes. “In the San Juans?”

“Anywhere. Do you want to try going away for a few days? Just us this time? No clients?”

“I’d like that.” She smiled tremulously.

He looked strangely relieved. The intensity in his gray eyes lightened by several degrees. “Good. Good, I’m glad. Thanks, Gwen.”

She’d show him how casual and straightforward she could be. “Is dinner ready?”

He looked momentarily surprised, as if his thoughts had been elsewhere. “Yeah, sure. In another couple of minutes.”

“Good. I’m starving. And can you turn the heat up a little in here? I haven’t felt really warm since we returned from the San Juans. My overactive imagination, I suspect.” She wandered across the room to examine the thermostat setting.

“Uh, Gwen?”

“Yes, Zac?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Careful, Zac.”

“I’m serious,” he protested, watching her fiddle with the thermostat. “This past weekend you said you wanted to talk about our relationship.”

“A momentary aberration on my part. Don’t worry, I’ve since recovered. How about seventy-eight degrees. Okay if I set it that high?”

“Set it wherever the hell you want.” Zac sounded as if he was getting annoyed. “Listen, Gwen, I’m sorry I didn’t let you talk. To tell you the truth, the idea of discussing ‘us’ made me nervous.”

“I said don’t worry.” She smiled very brilliantly at him. He didn’t return the smile.

“All right, I won’t. But I think we should get something settled.” He glared at her.

“Such as?”

“I think we need to know where we stand. Gwen, we are not involved in a casual dating relationship.”

“We aren’t?”

“You aren’t helping,” he said accusingly.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do.” She dropped her hand from the thermostat and faced him.

“I want you to agree that we’re involved in a full-fledged affair,” Zac declared aggressively.

Guinevere thought about that. Labels sometimes clarified things. Sometimes they made things more complicated. “Do you think you could term what we have together an ‘affair’?”

“Yes, damn it, I do.”

“Right. An affair it is. Can we eat now?”

He stalked after her as she started back into the kitchen. “Gwen . . .”

She turned and saw the frowning hesitation on his face. For a moment Guinevere thought he was going to do something wholly unexpected and out of character, such as begin a long in-depth discussion of just what it meant to be involved in a full-fledged affair. A deep, meaningful, analytical discussion about a relationship.

But he didn’t. The frown vanished and his gray eyes gleamed. He grinned his rare wolfish grin and handed her the salad tongs. “Here. You can serve the salad. I’ll get the steaks.”

“That’s what I like about you, Zac. You’re simple and direct. You keep your priorities in order.”

“I’m glad you’re learning to appreciate my finer qualities.”

Maybe she was at that, Guinevere decided, dishing out the salad.

Keep reading for a special excerpt from the next

Guinevere Jones novel by Jayne Castle

THE SINISTER TOUCH

Available August 2012 from InterMix

The night had been a long one. No, that wasn’t strictly accurate. It had been
lonely
.

Guinevere Jones glared at the stylish new coffee machine as it dripped with agonizing slowness. She could have bought a cheaper coffee maker yesterday if she’d been willing to settle for a plain white or beige model. But this little sucker was an exotic import, and with its dashing red and black trim it had totally outclassed all the bland models on the shelf next to it at the Bon. Even the glass pot was elegantly different from an ordinary coffeepot. Definitely high-tech. She hadn’t been able to resist it. It lent such a perfect snappy note to her vivid yellow kitchen. Unfortunately it was proving to have more style than efficiency. Zac would undoubtedly have a few pithy comments to make when he tried it out.

If he ever gets around to trying it out, Guinevere reminded herself resentfully as she stood in front of the coffee machine, a yellow mug dangling uselessly from one finger. Zac had been very busy with a new client lately, a client who seemed to find that the most convenient time to consult with the head of Free Enterprise Security, Inc. was in the evening. The fact that the client was Elizabeth Gallinger wasn’t doing much to mitigate Guinevere’s prickly mood. Guinevere’s own firm, Camelot Services, which specialized in providing temporary office help, had had a short secretarial assignment a few months ago at Gallinger Industries. Guinevere had only seen Queen Elizabeth from afar, and then just briefly, but the memory of that regal blond head, classic profile, and aristocratic posture had returned in all its glory last week when Zac had mentioned the name of his new client.

Elizabeth Gallinger was thirty-two, a couple years older than Guinevere, and already she was running one of the most prestigious corporations in Seattle. Queen Elizabeth, as she was rather affectionately known by her employees, had inherited the position of president when her father had died unexpectedly last summer. Everyone had anticipated that Elizabeth would be only a figurehead, but everyone had underestimated her. Elizabeth Gallinger had very firmly assumed the reins of her family business. Four generations of old Seattle money had apparently not led to serious mental deficiency due to inbreeding.

Guinevere was beginning to wonder if Zac was the one with the mental deficiency. If so, it couldn’t be blamed on inbreeding. Zachariah Justis had a pedigree as ordinary and plebeian as Guinevere’s own.

Guinevere frowned at the slowly dripping coffee maker. It occurred to her that an ambitious entrepreneur with no claim to illustrious predecessors or illustrious family money might find Elizabeth Gallinger a very intriguing proposition. Zac had never been overly impressed by money, but there was always a first time.

Damn it, what was the matter with her? If she didn’t know better, Guinevere decided ruefully, she might think she was actually jealous. Ridiculous. The fact that Zac hadn’t spent a night with her for almost a week was hardly cause to become green-eyed. She and Zac didn’t live together. The affair they had both finally acknowledged was still at a very early, very fragile stage. Neither wanted to push the other too far, too fast. They were both carefully maintaining their own identities and their own apartments.

Fed up with the slowness of the coffee maker Guinevere yanked the half-full glass pot out from under the dripping mechanism and quickly poured the contents into her yellow mug. Coffee continued to drip with relentless slowness onto the burner. Deciding she’d clean up the mess later, Guinevere hastily put the pot back on the burner and turned away to sip her coffee.

Through her kitchen window she could see the high arched window of the second-floor artist’s loft across the street. This morning, as usual, the shades were up. Guinevere had never known the artist who lived and worked in the spacious airy apartment to close them. Artists were very big on light, she had once explained to Zac when he’d had occasion to notice the tenant across the street. She smiled slightly, recalling Zac’s annoyance over the small morning ritual she went through with the anonymous man who lived in the loft.

Guinevere had never met the lean young artist. But she waved good morning to him frequently. He always waved back. When Zac happened to be in the kitchen beside Guinevere, the unknown artist tended to put a little more enthusiasm into the wave. Zac’s invariable response was a low disgusted growl. Then, just as inevitably, he’d close the blind on Guinevere’s window.

But Zac wasn’t here to express his disapproval of the anonymous friendship this morning. He hadn’t been here to express it for the past several mornings. So Guinevere sipped her coffee and waited for the appearance of her neighbor. Idly she studied the canvas that stood facing her on an easel tilted to catch the northern light. The young man with the slightly overlong hair had been working on that canvas for several days now. Even from here Guinevere could recognize the brilliant colors and dramatic shapes.

But there was something different about the painting this morning. Guinevere’s brows came together in a frown of more than concentration as she tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. There was a large black mark on the canvas. From her vantage point it appeared to be an uneven square with a jagged slash inside. It didn’t fit at all with the wonderful brilliance and lightness of the painting.

Guinevere went forward, leaning her elbows on the window ledge, the mug cradled between her hands. Besides the ugly black mark on the painting, she could see that something was wrong with the canvas itself. It was torn or slashed. Terribly slashed.

Slowly Guinevere began to realize that the huge canvas had been horribly defaced. Her mouth opened in stunned shock just as her unknown neighbor sauntered yawning into the brightly lit loft.

He was wearing his usual morning attire, a loosely hitched towel around his lean waist and a substantial amount of chest hair. Guinevere had decided that he always wandered into the loft just before he took his morning shower. Perhaps he had an artist’s need to see how his work looked in the first light of day. He glanced at her window before he looked at his painting.

Across the narrow street his eyes met hers. Even from here she could see the questioning tilt of one brow as he made a small production out of looking for Zac. When she just stared back, her expression appalled, he finally began to realize something was wrong. He looked at her curiously. Guinevere lifted one hand and pointed, and the stranger turned and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze fell at last on his savaged canvas.

His reaction answered Guinevere’s silent question as to whether he could have done the damage himself. The artist stood staring at the ruined canvas, his back rigid with shock. When at last he turned to meet Guinevere’s eyes again, all trace of amusement had vanished. He just stared at her. Unable to do anything else, consumed with sympathy for him, Guinevere simply stared back.

How long she stood like that Guinevere wasn’t sure. It was the artist who broke the still, silent exchange. Swinging around with an abruptness that conveyed his tension, he picked up a huge sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. Hastily he scrawled a brief message in fat letters.

The Oven. 10 Minutes. Please
.

Guinevere nodded at once, then turned away to find her shoes, hurriedly finishing her coffee. She was already dressed for work in a gray pin-striped suit with a narrow skirt, and a yellow silk blouse. Her coffee-brown hair was in its usual neat braided coil at the nape of her neck. She slid her stockinged feet into a pair of gray pumps and slung a leather purse over her shoulder.

Quickly Guinevere made her way through the red, black, and yellow living room with its red-bordered gray rugs and high vaulted windows. The old brick buildings here in the Pioneer Square section of Seattle had wonderfully high ceilings and beautiful windows. When they had been gutted and refurbished, they made great apartments for the new upwardly mobile urbanites. The busy harbor of Elliott Bay was only a couple of blocks away, and although Guinevere didn’t actually have a view of the water, just knowing it was close gave her a certain satisfaction. Many mornings she walked along the waterfront on her way to her First Avenue office.

Closing and locking her door behind her, Guinevere hurried down the two short flights of stairs to the security door entrance of her apartment building and stepped out into the crispness of a pleasantly sunny late spring morning. On mornings like this, one knew for certain that summer really was just around the corner. Another sure sign was the fact that several restaurants and taverns in the area had started moving tables and chairs out onto the sidewalks. The rain was due late this afternoon and would probably last awhile, but this morning the air was full of promise.

The missions, which were one of Pioneer Square’s more picturesque features as far as Guinevere was concerned, had already released the crowd of transients, derelicts, and assorted street people they sheltered overnight. Without much enthusiasm the ragtag assortment of scruffy mission clients were slowly drifting out onto the sidewalk, blinking awkwardly in the sunlight as they prepared for the day’s work. Soon, either under their own power or aboard one of the free city buses that plied the short route, they would make their way toward the Pike Place Market, where the tourists would be swarming by mid-morning. One particularly ambitious soul decided to practice on Guinevere. She smiled vaguely and shook her head, ignoring his outstretched palm and request for cash as she hurried toward the restaurant known as the Oven.

As soon as she opened the high doors the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls assailed her, reminding her that she hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast. A fire burning on the huge hearth on one side of the enormous old brick room took the chill off the morning.

Guinevere glanced around. She didn’t see her neighbor anywhere, so she decided to throw caution to the winds and order one of the cinnamon rolls. It arrived with butter dripping over the sides. Of course, you couldn’t eat a cinnamon roll without a cup of coffee. Something was required to dilute the butter. She was paying for both when the artist slid into line behind her.

“Hi.” His voice was pleasantly deep, edged with a trace of the East Coast and laced with a certain grimness. “What a way to meet. Thanks for coming. I’m Mason Adair, by the way. I feel as if I already know you.”

Guinevere smiled at him, liking his aquiline features and the large dark eyes. It struck her that he looked exactly like a struggling young artist should look. He was taller than she had thought, towering over her as she stood in line beside him. His height coupled with his leanness made him appear aesthetically gaunt. He was also younger than she had imagined. Probably about thirty. His paint-stained jeans, plaid shirt, and heavy leather sandals fit the image too.

“I’m Guinevere Jones. Want a roll?”

“What? Oh, sure. Sounds good. I haven’t had a chance to eat yet.”

“Neither have I.” Guinevere picked up her tray.

“Here, I’ll take that.” Mason Adair took the tray out of her hands and started toward a table in front of the fire. A little of the coffee in Guinevere’s cup slopped over the side as he set the tray down on the wooden table. “Sorry. I’m a little clumsy by nature. Finding that canvas slashed this morning isn’t improving my coordination. Shit.”

Guinevere smiled serenely and unobtrusively used a napkin to wipe the cup as she sat down on one of the short wooden benches. The fire felt good, even if it was produced by fake logs. Mason Adair sank down onto the opposite bench and reached for his roll.

“I was shocked when I glanced out my window and saw that huge black square on your beautiful painting. At first I thought maybe you’d gotten disgusted with your work and had deliberately marked it up.” Guinevere stirred her coffee.

“I’ve got a certain amount of artistic temperament, but I’d never do anything like that to one of my own paintings. Hell, I liked that one. Really liked it. I think it might have been inspired by your kitchen, by the way.”

“My kitchen!”

“Yeah, you know. All that yellow. Every morning I look in your window and it’s like looking into a little box of sunlight.”

Guinevere smiled with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. “I’m flattered.”

“Yeah, well, somebody wasn’t.” Morosely Mason chewed a huge bite of his roll.

Her pleasure disappearing as she recalled the reason she was finally meeting Mason Adair, Guinevere sighed. “I’m terribly sorry. Have you any idea who would do a thing like that, and how someone could have gotten into your loft?”

Adair hesitated. “No, not really. I asked you to meet me here because I wondered if you’d seen anything, or anyone. I never pull that shade and you usually have your kitchen window blinds open. I thought maybe you’d noticed something out of the ordinary last night. It must have happened last night. I was out all evening and I didn’t look at the painting before I went to bed.”

“Mason, I’m really very sorry, but I didn’t see a thing. I did some paperwork in my living room. I do remember going into my kitchen for a snack around nine o’clock, but your window was dark.”

“No lights on?”

She shook her head. “Not then.”

“Whoever did that would have needed some light, don’t you think?” he asked broodingly.

“It would depend on what time during the evening he did it. It doesn’t get really dark until after eight o’clock now. I suppose someone could have gone into your studio and defaced your painting sometime before then without needing to turn on a light.”

Mason took another huge bite of his roll, dark eyes focusing blankly on her concerned face. Guinevere had the impression he was trying hard to sort out some very private thoughts. She let him chew in solitude for a moment before she said, “That square that the vandal drew in black. It looked a little odd. Of course, I couldn’t see it very well from my window, but there was something about the shape of it that looked awkward. Was it a child’s work, do you think? Youngsters getting into mischief?”

“This isn’t exactly suburbia. We haven’t got a lot of children running around Pioneer Square. Just an assortment of street people, artists, and upwardly mobile types. All adults. At least physically. Mentally, who knows?” Mason chewed for another moment. “And it wasn’t a square. It was a pentagram.”