The Chilling Deception (3 page)

“So glad you approve,” she retorted coolly as she walked out the door with him.

Zac hesitated and then took her arm. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Guinevere heard the sincerity beneath the rough apology. “Perhaps Vandyke’s tension is rubbing off on you,” she suggested.

“Nope. That’s not it at all.”

“I see.”

“Let’s take the car into the village. We can walk around there. Maybe have a cup of coffee and look at the marina.”

“Okay.” Relieved that he wasn’t going to launch an in-depth discussion concerning the reasons for his short temper, Guinevere allowed Zac to guide her out into the parking lot. He and Vandyke had each brought their own cars on the ferry. Vandyke’s was a new Mercedes. Guinevere had come with Zac in his three-year-old Buick.

The small village, crammed with tourists during the summer, was quiet on a rainy winter weekend. It was easy to find a parking space near the marina and even easier to get a cup of coffee at a nearby café. Guinevere sensed Zac relaxing a little as the time passed.

“This is more what I had in mind,” he announced as they left the café.

“Really?” Guinevere glanced up at him with a tentative smile. “Could have fooled me. I thought you were opposed to this trip.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Only until I started thinking of the possibilities.” He started to say something else and then halted, glancing at a man who was opening a car door across the street. “Isn’t that Springer?”

Guinevere peered through the rain at the young man dressed in slacks and a suede jacket. “I think so. I only met him once this morning after we arrived. He’s Washburn’s assistant, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Guess they decided they didn’t need any extras at the first meeting. Looks like he’s headed for the marina. Maybe he’s got a boat.”

Ambling along in Toby Springer’s wake, Guinevere and Zac watched the man make his way past the rows of boats tied up in the marina. He was headed toward an old tin boathouse at the far end of the wharf. A single-engine seaplane bobbed on floats in the water next to the boathouse. Near the plane another man was crouched down over a twist of rope on the dock.

He must have said something to Washburn’s assistant, because in the next moment Springer turned and saw Zac and Guinevere. He waved invitingly.

“I’m not interested in a ride in that silly little plane,” Guinevere hissed to Zac as he started forward purposefully.

“You’ll love it.”

“Not a chance.”

“Come on, Gwen, where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“It hasn’t recovered from the StarrTech case. It may never recover.”

Zac wasn’t paying any attention. He was busy greeting Washburn’s assistant. “I see you escaped for the afternoon too. I was afraid for a while there that I’d have to sit in on the meeting.”

Springer laughed, nodding politely at Guinevere. He was a clean-cut man in his mid thirties with well-styled hair, designer clothes, and a sense of his own future worth. But he was also very charming. “I know what you mean. When Washburn told me we were getting three days in the San Juans I knew there were going to be a few catches. How are you, Miss Smith?”

“Jones,” Guinevere corrected automatically. “I’m fine. Zac and I decided to sneak off for a tour of the town. I just love islands in winter.”

“Personally,” growled a soft masculine voice behind her, “I prefer other islands in winter. Islands with plenty of sun and sandy beaches. This sure as hell isn’t my idea of paradise,” Laconic, laid back, slightly world-weary and coolly cynical, the voice contained a hint of a Southern drawl. “A man who got himself stranded on one of these little uninhabited rocks in winter would probably wake up dead.”

Guinevere turned. Although Zac was merely glancing back over his shoulder in response to the new voice, his fingers tightened a bit on her upper arm as he eyed the speaker. The man who had been crouched over the coils of rope was getting slowly to his feet. Guinevere watched him rise, admiring the perfection of a legend brought to life. A slow smile lit her eyes. It wasn’t every day a woman got to see this sort of thing in the flesh.

The man rose to his full height. He must have been at least six one. Maybe six two, she decided. And he could have stepped out of an adventure film. More particularly, a film featuring a dashing, raffish, danger-loving pilot with plenty of “the right stuff.” He was even wearing a genuine beat-up leather flight jacket complete with a scruffy fur-lined collar. His khaki pants were tucked into worn, scuffed boots and there was a wide leather belt around his lean waist. As she watched he very coolly stripped off his leather gloves and extended a hand to her. It was a picturesque gesture.

“The name’s Cassidy,” he drawled, blue eyes running over her in slow appraisal. He appeared to be in his mid forties, but his dark brown hair was still full and had just the right touch of shagginess. His face was as lean and hard as the rest of him.

Entranced, Guinevere put out her hand and immediately felt the strength of his grip. “Cassidy,” she repeated. Even the name sounded perfect. “My name is Guinevere. Guinevere Jones.”

“I wish to hell my name was Lancelot.” His eyes ceased their perusal and he met her gaze, grinning. “Lancelot was the one who finally got Guinevere, wasn’t he? My history’s a little rusty.”

Zac’s fingers were definitely digging into Guinevere’s shoulder now. She moved slightly, trying to encourage him to loosen his grip, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It wasn’t history. Just a story,” he responded to the other man’s comment. “Nobody ever gets the facts right in those old stories.”

Cassidy switched his gaze to Zac. He shrugged good-naturedly and held out his hand again. “I get the picture. Don’t worry; I know private property when it’s marked.”

“I’m glad. Zachariah Justis.” He accepted the other man’s hand, ignoring Guinevere’s gathering irritation. The handshake was polite but short. Neither man seemed anxious to prolong the civilities. “You fly the San Juans?”

“I do a little charter work.”

Zac nodded toward the bobbing plane. “The One Eighty-five is yours?”

“Yup.” Cassidy smiled in bland satisfaction. “Me and that Cessna have been through a lot together. But I don’t think she’s any more used to this cold weather than I am. Guess we haven’t gotten acclimated.”

“Where were you before you came here?” Guinevere asked interestedly. She would speak to Zac later about his rudeness, she decided.

“Worked the South Pacific,” Cassidy said. “Sight-seeing trips for tourists, a little mail, some cargo. You name it. Thought it was time for a change, so I threw some darts at a map and came up with the San Juans. Soon as I got a taste of that cold dark water I began to have doubts.”

“It’s cold, all right,” Guinevere agreed. “Hypothermia is a real problem around here in boating accidents. During winter a person can’t last long in the water.”

Cassidy sighed. “Back where I come from a man could swim from one island to another as far as those out there and feel like he was in a bathtub the whole way.” He indicated the handful of mist-shrouded islets in the distance. “But around here a pilot’s got to carry all kinds of survival gear just in case he does something dumb and winds up in the water.”

“Hey, don’t go into a long lecture on the perils of flying the San Juans, Cassidy,” Toby Springer interrupted with a laugh. “I’m down here to see about arranging some tours for Mr. Washburn’s guests. Gwen and Zac here are two of your potential passengers. Be careful, you’ll scare them off.”

Cassidy grinned engagingly, his eyes dancing over Guinevere. “Well now, I surely wouldn’t want to risk that. Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Jones. I’ll keep you nice and warm during the whole flight.”

“Gwen doesn’t like flying in small planes,” Zac said smoothly, conveniently forgetting his earlier comments regarding her lacking spirit of adventure.

Cassidy looked crestfallen. “Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to scare you off, Miss Jones. Safe as houses up there. That old Cessna practically knows how to fly herself by now.”

“A cheerful thought. Just the same, I think I’ll do my touring by boat or on foot. Zac’s right. I’m not big on dinky little planes.”

“Dinky!” Cassidy was theatrically offended. “That One Eighty-five is a real workhorse. She can carry six passengers, or a whole mess of cargo.”

Guinevere laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult the plane. Have you been a charter pilot for long?”

“Since I got out of the army. A long time, Miss Jones. More time than I want to add up.” He stepped around her to where he’d coiled the rope, and as he moved Guinevere saw he had a distinct limp. She just knew there would be a good story behind that limp. Old war injury? Plane wreck? Enraged husband? “Hope you change your mind about flying with me, Gwen,” Cassidy went on easily as he bent down to collect the rope. “I’d sure love to show you the sights.”

“I’ll bet,” Zac muttered. “Come on, Gwen, it’s getting late,” he added more loudly. “I promised Vandyke I’d be back by four.” He nodded crisply at Cassidy and Springer. “We’ll see you later.”

“Right,” Springer agreed. “Probably in the bar. Good-bye, Miss—uh, Jones.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Springer.” She didn’t have a chance to do more than nod briefly at Cassidy. Zac was already hauling her back along the plank dock. “Zac, what’s the rush? It’s only three thirty.”

“Somehow,” Zac observed caustically, “I get the feeling the entire world is conspiring against me.”

“Sounds like a clear case of paranoia.”

“All I know is, this trip isn’t turning out to be what I expected.”

“You have to be flexible, Zac.”

But all Zac seemed intent on flexing at the moment was a little muscle. Guinevere found herself back at the Buick before she had a chance to catch her breath. Turning to glance once more toward the marina she saw Springer in deep conversation with the man called Cassidy.

***

It was during dinner, which she and Zac shared with Edward Vandyke at his insistence, that Guinevere learned she was not alone in her dislike of small planes. Vandyke fully concurred with her feelings.

In the week she had known him Guinevere had come to like the slightly balding, slightly paunchy, earnest, hardworking Vandyke. She knew there was intelligence and ambition beneath the sincere manner, as well as a willingness to work hard for his objectives, and she admired that. As she sat across from him at the dinner table she wondered what was causing the anxiety she sensed eating him. It seemed out of proportion to the business he was here to negotiate with Sheldon Washburn.

Washburn, a thin well-dressed man in his fifties, and his assistant Toby Springer were seated on the other side of the dining room. The two other businessmen and their assistants who were there to make presentations to Washburn were also eating. Everyone had been quite civilized over cocktails earlier, Guinevere reflected in amusement. You’d never know from looking at them that there was so much money on the line, she thought.

“I know exactly how you feel, Miss Jones,” Vandyke said in response to her comment about seeing the small plane in the marina. “I did some charter work myself in my wild and misspent youth. It would suit me perfectly never to get near anything smaller than a Seven Twenty-seven again in my life.”

Zac prodded his red snapper. “You did some flying?”

Vandyke nodded. “At the time it seemed very adventurous and it certainly made for some great cocktail stories over the years. But to tell you the truth, most of what I remember is the unpleasant aspects. Running a shoestring charter service is no picnic. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It provided me with the stake I needed to start Vandyke Development.”

“Did you operate alone?” Guinevere asked.

Vandyke concentrated on his salad. “No. I had a partner for a while. There was an accident, and he was killed. It was one of the things that made me decide I’d pushed my own luck far enough. I was sick of flying around, under, and through tropical storms; landing on dirt roads, or in places where there weren’t any roads at all; trying to collect for deliveries from people who could have cared less about their credit ratings. And then Gannon got himself killed. . . .” Vandyke paused for a long moment, his dark eyes distant and full of fleeting pain.

Empathic as usual, Guinevere immediately wished she hadn’t asked the question. Zac, however, seemed oblivious of Vandyke’s unhappiness. Tearing off a chunk of sourdough bread, he asked, “Tropical storms? Where did you do your flying?”

“The Caribbean. What about you, Zac? Has your varied background included a bit of flying?”

Zac shrugged. “Some. Not much. It was a long time ago.”

“Ever yearn to go back to it?”

“Nope. I feel the same way you do. For me the old adage applied: hours of boredom broken by moments of stark terror. Basically I’m a quiet businessman at heart. I prefer to—ouch!” He glowered at Guinevere, who had just kicked him under the table.

Guinevere smiled sweetly at Vandyke, who was looking curiously at Zac. “Zac tries to downplay his more adventurous activities. He’s always pretending that everything he does professionally is just business as usual. Actually, some of his tales make your blood run cold. But you have to get him fairly drunk before you get the truth.”

Vandyke managed a small chuckle. “I see. I’m not surprised. I suppose most men who have lived action-oriented lives like yours, Zac, become very casual about the risks they take.”

“Until they get kicked under the table,” Zac muttered.

“Well, I, for one, am very glad I took Miss Jones’s advice and hired you to come with us this weekend. I shall sleep a lot better knowing you’re nearby in case of need.” Vandyke paused. “Do you carry a gun, Zac?” he asked in a low tone.

Guinevere jumped in to answer before Zac ruined the image she had so carefully created. “Of course he carries a gun, Mr. Vandyke. But he prefers not to mention it at the dinner table.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad somebody does,” Zac observed.

***

Later, after joining the others for a nightcap in the lounge, Zac decided he’d done his social duty. The first day of his long weekend with Guinevere was almost over, and thus far it had offered such highlights as an aging macho pilot in a Goodwill flight jacket who had made a pass at Gwen, dinner with a man who had a hard time hiding his personal anxiety beneath a layer of business charm, the discovery that Guinevere’s room was quite a ways down the hall from his own, and a bad choice of wine at dinner. The last had been Vandyke’s fault, but since the older man was picking up the tab it had seemed crass to complain. Zac had kept his mouth shut and gone back to tequila as soon as dinner was over. You were always safe with tequila.