Fire in the Wind (11 page)

With a short self-deprecatory sigh, Vanessa dropped her hand from the drapery and turned back to the room. Then she crossed the room to the bed and picked up the phone receiver. "Mr. Conrad's suite, please," she told the switchboard operator.

"Hi," she said softly when his voice answered. "Does the offer of a nightcap still hold?"

Chapter 5

She had expected to be going down to the private lounge off the lobby, where she had been twice before, but instead Jake had told her to come to the top floor of the hotel.

When she stepped out of the elevator there were only four numbered doors opening onto the small lobby, and she blinked when she realized how big each of the four suites must be. These could only be the presidential suites, where royalty and foreign dignitaries stayed. Each of the four doors was a large and ornate double door, and one stood open onto a softly lighted interior. With a gentle tap on the panels Vanessa slipped inside.

It was a huge room, deeply carpeted, luxuriously furnished, and Vanessa leaned her back against the door as she closed it and gazed around. There were several lamps shedding soft light around the room, but the light was still low enough for the room to be dominated by the view out of the far wall. It was all glass, at least twenty-five feet long and ten feet high, and beyond the glass there seemed to be a very large expanse of grass and shrub and even trees on the roof balcony. Beyond that was the city, and then the broad black expanse of the ocean.

Jake was standing by the window, a glass in his hand, staring out as though completely absorbed in his thoughts. He hadn't heard her; he didn't know she was there. For a moment Vanessa enjoyed the luxury of watching him without being seen.

He was wearing dark pants and a cream shirt open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was ruffled and curling as though he had been running his hands through it, and when her glance moved farther she perceived the reason.

A beautiful antique desk lighted by a soft yellow glow, as well as a long coffee table and the couch behind it, were strewn with business papers. It looked as though he had been working between the desk and the couch, which were several yards apart across the room. It seemed like an awful lot of paper for one man to be considering at once.

"Hello," she said softly, dismayed by the caressing note she heard in her own voice. Jake turned his head and then his body, put down his glass and moved across the room toward her.

"Hello," he responded when he reached her, just as softly, just as caressingly. He took her hands and gently pulled her into his arms. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I needed you." Then he bent his head and his mouth found hers.

It was what she had been waiting for all day, without knowing it, ever since she had awakened from that dream of perfect communion. For the first few moments the touch of his lips filled her with perfect peace, with solace, soothed her after a day of turmoil. Then her heart started to beat in heavy, slow thuds, and a thin flame licked through her body, setting her alight. She lifted her arms up around his neck and felt his hands grip her back responsively.

Her lips parted in unconscious invitation, and his seeking tongue came in with a teasing exploration that she felt down to her toes. Vanessa pulled her lips away from his to gasp in a breath, and then they were smiling into each other's eyes, and there was no tension, no pressure, nothing but the perfect communion of her dream.

"Come and sit down," said Jake, releasing her to lead her over to a large stuffed chair. "Talk to me."

"What shall I talk about?" she asked, smiling.

Crossing the room to open the door of a drinks cabinet much like the one in the lounge many floors beneath them, he said, "Anything. Anything at all that will take my mind off my work. Mineral water and lime again, or would you prefer something stronger? Brandy, liqueur?"

"Brandy would be nice," she said. "It will help me sleep." And then she could have kicked herself.

"Will it?" was all he said, and he looked over his shoulder at her for only a moment, but the effect this had on her was profound. Suddenly there was more than just desire in the air between them—there was desire and the promise of fulfilment.

"What have you been working on?" Vanessa asked abruptly, in the most matter-of-fact voice she could muster.

"A reverse takeover bid, but I don't think it's going to come off this time."

"What's a reverse takeover bid?"

"It's what happens when I want to take over a company that's too big for me to buy out. I sell them my corporation first, and then with the money they pay me for it, I buy back controlling interest in the corporation that now includes the target company and my corporation."

He handed her a thick carved glass that might have been Waterford crystal in which the brandy glowed with a dark fire. He cleared some papers from the corner of the couch nearest her, sank down onto it and, simultaneously taking a sip from his glass, slung his feet up into the middle of the document-strewn coffee table.

"Goodness!" Vanessa exclaimed. "Does it work?" She was rather surprised that he would discuss such a plan with her so openly.

"Oh, yes. In this case everyone concerned would agree to the thing beforehand. It doesn't depend on sleight-of-hand, just politicking and hard work." He threw back his head and rubbed his hand in his hair, making it stand even more violently on end. "Sometimes too much work. And that's how it seems to me tonight. Like too much work. What have you been doing today?"

"Tonight, predictably, I was helping Tom entertain the buyers. This afternoon...." She took a sip of the brandy and wondered about outlining Colin's plans to someone who owned a competitive firm, then decided to go ahead. "This afternoon I most unpredictably received an offer to start up in business with a friend."

"Did you?" Jake grunted. "Difficult time to be starting up in business."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But—oh, I don't know, it was all very sudden. I'm not even sure I believe he's serious," said Vanessa, her indecision and worry sounding in her voice.

"Care to tell me about it?" he offered.

Jake listened without comment till she had told him the idea as Colin had presented it to her. Then the two of them discussed the pros and cons, with Jake giving her the benefit of his obviously large experience of the business world.

"What attracts you most about the proposition?" he asked eventually.

"Artistic freedom," she said unhesitatingly. "The chance to produce what I think will sell on the market. I've been wishing I could make a move for some time now. But this is not the best time to be looking for a job."

He asked what she meant by artistic freedom, and suddenly she was telling him all her ideas for what working women wanted in clothes, about how they wanted to look business-like without sacrificing femininity, about simplicity.

"It sounds as though Colin's dream and your own dream don't quite coincide," Jake said at last.

"What do you mean?"

"You won't have much room for your own ideas if you're turning his fabric into garments, will you? And the kind of set-up he's talking about sounds as though he means to appeal to a very different market group than the one you feel committed to."

"Do you think so?" She had had her doubts about the number of times Colin had used the word "exclusive" this afternoon, but....

"You did mention that he planned to be designing exclusive fabric design for individual customers as well as for the trade."

"Yes, but that was to be later, if we caught on."

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but fashion rarely goes from the masses upwards. It usually happens first with the upper classes or the wealthy and then filters down, am I right?"

"Yes," she agreed, impressed but no longer surprised by the scope of his knowledge.

"Then it stands to reason his target group is going to be the wealthier women right from the start. When it's caught on with them and is in full bloom,
then
it will be ready for mass-market delivery. But unless he's planning a very big operation indeed someone else will be doing that."

Of course that was exactly what Colin was planning. There was nothing wrong with it—it could be a brilliant success. But was it
her
dream? Was it something she wanted to spend her life—or the next few years of her life—doing?

Vanessa looked at Jake Conrad and made a moue of disappointment. "You're right," she said. "I guess the thought of getting away from Tom Marx was so attractive I just started to think anything would do. But I can't make this decision without a lot of thought."

"Do you have a lot of trouble with Tom Marx?" Jake asked, and she laughed.

"Don't you have arguments with your designers?"

"No, I don't. Should I?"

"You mean you don't scream when they want to use two inches more fabric than is absolutely necessary in a skirt? Or fabric-covered buttons instead of plastic ones? Or a stronger thread?"

He looked apologetic. "Is that what it's like? I don't have much to do with the actual running of the company. There's a manager who does that."

"Well, you can take it from me he makes the designer's life hell."

"You don't sound very happy," he observed.

Vanessa shook her head. "I'm sick of always offering the cheapest possible execution of a design, when a few cents more per item would make all the difference. I'll never understand what's wrong with producing a well-made product for a little less than the ultimate profit. It just makes me—" She broke off self-consciously. "Don't get me started." She laughed. "I make boring speeches on this subject."

Jake didn't answer. He was looking at her consideringly. "Everyone has a weak spot," he said slowly, as if he were thinking aloud. His eyes were somehow distant; he seemed not to see her.

It made her uncomfortable. "What?" she asked, tilting her chin at him inquiringly, and immediately his eyes were focused on her again.

"Tom Marx," he said. "His weak spot is that he wants to get something for nothing. The less he gives his customers for their money the happier he is. That's why you can't fight it. It's not really the profit he's after—it's the psychological kick."

That was certainly interesting, but Vanessa was uncomfortably certain that the "weak spot" Jake Conrad had been thinking about wasn't Tom Marx's, but her own.

Suddenly she wondered if all this conversation was really nothing more than Jake Conrad's way of getting her into bed, if in fact he was only pretending to be interested, pretending to take her seriously. He had looked right through her just now, as though... she might just as well, Vanessa thought irritatedly, have been Louisa Hayward. He'd listen to her woebegone little life story with exactly the same flattering attention.... Vanessa leaned forward and carefully set down her glass.

"I must go," she said. "My body clock is still on New York time, and I'm dropping." It wasn't true. She felt wide awake... and regretful. She had wanted to tell him about how Sergeant Preston of the Yukon had saved the day again.

Jake's eyes were intent on her, and he was as still as a cat. "Be careful, Vanessa," he said softly as she stood up. "When you're always running there's always a risk that you'll trip."

He walked with her to the door, and she could still sense the stillness in him. He wasn't angry, as men so often were when she refused them. He wasn't even insulted. He was merely... watchful. He was like a chess player. His opponent's queen had moved out of danger, but the game was not over.

* * *

She slept late and was only awakened at nine by a knock on the door. Outside was a waiter pushing a damask-covered table laden with breakfast dishes.

"I think there's been a mistake," she said, involuntarily stepping back as the table came through the door. "I haven't ordered anything."

The waiter stopped, plucked a cardboard check from the table top, glanced at it, glanced up at the number on the door. The numbers obviously matched, and the man, who appeared to be of Italian descent, cocked an eyebrow and turned the check over.

"Mrs. Standish?" he queried, reading the name scrawled at the top. Vanessa nodded. The little man shot her a look. "Perhaps someone ordered it for you," he suggested, with a trace of romantic innuendo in his voice designed to let her know that
he
did not disapprove of whatever she had done last night to warrant this.