Forster, Suzanne (39 page)

He didn't know how to answer that. He was just damn glad he hadn't blushed.

Chapter 21

Gus let herself out of the taxi and immediately glanced over her shoulder. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was staring at her, one of those prickly sensations that comes over you suddenly when you realize you're being watched. As the cab sped off, she stepped up on the curb and took another look down the side street in the direction they'd just come.

The most alarming thing she saw was a street person relieving himself in a recessed doorway. Still, she couldn't relax until she'd taken a complete turn and made a thorough visual search of the quiet business area. No one was lurking in the shadows, spying on Gus Featherstone with binoculars, she told herself firmly. It was just one more weekday evening in the city of the angels. The worker bees had gone home, or they were celebrating their freedom in one of the crowded, popular watering holes.

Gus might liked to have joined them, but she had nothing to celebrate, at least not yet. In a few short hours she would either be euphoric or in despair, but that would all depend on tonight's mission. Everything depended on that.

A brisk walk three doors down took her to Cezanne, the restaurant she'd chosen for her campaign. One short flight of dangerously steep cement steps below street level, and she was adrift in the heyday of the French impressionist. Claret-red brocade walls were hung with prints of the artist's work and linen scrolls chronicled his life and painterly influences. The featured wine was French Tavel, a pungent vin rose reputed to be the same vivid pink that Cezanne would have painted an onion, had he ever had the urge to paint such a vegetable.

The restaurant's reputation for discretion made it a popular haunt for business liaisons. The cavernlike quiet and lambent gold wall sconces evoked the wine cellars of elegant French turn-of-the-century chateaux. Rosewood booths lining the walls of the dining room were the equivalent of intimate conference chambers, and many a fabulous deal was rumored to have been cut within their confines.

Gus had reserved one of Cezanne's chambers in the hopes of cutting just such a deal. She'd also worn her carbon-black Donna Karan power suit and lit money-green candles to the gods of Mammon. This meeting was about the financing she needed for the launch of her magazine.

Moments later, literally on the edge of her seat in the booth, she steepled her hands and brought them to the liquid sparkle of her cherry-red lips.
Please God,
she thought, imbuing the words with all the intensity she could muster, which was considerable,
just this once, give me what I truly want. What I've always wanted. Please.

She'd arrived alone and well ahead of her companion to be sure their booth wasn't in a heavily traveled area. She'd also insisted on a single freshly cut stalk of white orchids in the crystal bud vase and pure artesian springwater for the goblets, rather than the Perrier the restaurant usually served. And then, straining the maître d's celebrated patience even further, she'd politely declined the signature Tavel in favor of champagne. In fact, she'd ordered her favorite drink, a Bellini, a luscious mix of champagne and peach nectar.

She hadn't yet revealed the identity of the potential investor to anyone, including Rob and the magazine staff, because she didn't want to raise false hopes or compromise the investor in any way. She was also superstitious. She'd always felt too much talk about a deal could jinx it. For so many reasons,
ATTITUDE
was the most important thing she'd ever done in her life. She would never forgive herself if she lost it through some foolish blunder.

Lifting the tangy sweetness of the Bellini to her lips, she held the flute there for a moment and sighed, then set it down without drinking. Was the linen tablecloth all right? Was that a yellow spot in the corner or just a trick of the lights? It looked like a food stain, probably something with gourmet mustard. Suddenly she was searching the entire milky white cloth, looking for spots. Maybe there was time to call a waiter and have him change—

She flattened her palms on the tablecloth as if putting on the brakes. Enough, she told herself. Everything was as perfect as she could make it. There was nothing left to do now but compose herself and wait for her dinner companion. Nerves. What would people think if they knew Gus Featherstone's legendary "brat" behavior was mostly bogus? She still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was hovering, watching her, but she would have been a wreck tonight regardless. The majority of her noisier conniptions had appeared to be triggered by others' failings, but they were really about keeping her own insecurities at bay and warding off crippling attacks of nerves. Surely people would understand if they knew. They forgave Barbra Streisand, didn't they?

A shadow darted through Gus's field of vision.

She glanced up and gave out a sharp little cry, astonished as her ex-fiancé slipped into the booth opposite her without a word of explanation. Rob Emory was the last person she was expecting to see. He was wearing a dark trench coat and glaring at her with the intensity of a jealous husband who'd caught his wife red-handed.

"R-Rob?" How could he have known where she was going? She'd told no one. He must have had her followed, and perhaps even before tonight, which would explain the uneasiness she'd been feeling for the last several days. She'd written it off as stress, but had found herself scrutinizing the people on the elevator with her that morning, trying to decide if the man with the RayBan Aviators had a sinister look, or if she was imagining it.

"What's going on, Gus?" His voice was hushed, his eyes hot as he searched her face, her hairdo, her outfit.

She was not totally unsympathetic to his desperation. The mess with Jack Culhane seemed to have turned a perfectly nice man into an obsessed stalker. Rob wasn't himself lately, and she could hardly blame him, but there was too much at stake to indulge him in such crazy behavior. She'd been so upset with his bombshell at the brainstorming session, she'd confronted him afterward, and they'd argued. She hadn't spoken with him since, but this stunt was too much. He had to understand that his paranoia was damaging their relationship and possibly the magazine.

"I could ask you the same question, Rob, " she said, lowering her voice. "What are you doing here?"

He reached across the table and helped himself to her drink, downing half of the flute in one gulp. "I've been trying for days to beg, borrow, or steal a goddamn minute of your time, Gus, but you haven't had
any
time for me, not even that much. "

There was some truth to that, she admitted. He'd left messages on her machine at home, and when she hadn't returned them, he'd called Frances to find out where she was. He'd also come by the bank building on Wilshire, where she and the magazine staff were setting up their offices, but she'd always been involved with her people, potential advertisers or whoever else might be there. It had been chaotic. There hadn't been time, and to be fair, she hadn't been inclined to make any.

"I'm sorry, Rob, but I'm meeting someone for dinner. Maybe I could come by your place afterward, and we could talk. "

"Meeting who?" He finished the rest of her drink, but didn't set the flute down. Instead he rocked it in his hand, leaning toward her aggressively, as he talked. "And since when do you make dinner appointments without telling me?"

Her backbone jutted against the brocade contours of the upholstery. "I've never cleared my dinner appointments through you. "

"Cleared them, no. But we've always let each other know when we had plans with others. It's a courtesy between people who have a commitment. "

"Rob, things are different now. I'm committed to Jack Culhane, or at least the rest of the world thinks so, and I have to play along. "

A waiter appeared, hovering, trying to gauge whether or not it was appropriate to approach. Rob waved him away. "Why the hell aren't you taking steps to have the marriage annulled?" he asked. "Or at least to find out if it's legal? Have you even consulted an attorney?"

"I would prefer not to have Culhane act on his blackmail threat and destroy everything I've worked for. Is that so hard to understand?"

"Everything
we've
worked for, Gus. You and I, together, a team, partners. That's what we were until recently. " He fell back against the seat so heavily that several locks of his dark, slicked-back hair spilled onto his face. "Where's it going from here? What's happening to us?"

"I don't know, " she said honestly, aware of the powerfully spicy scent of his cologne and his dishevelment. His tie was undone and he didn't appear to have shaved, now that she could see him. She had every reason to be angry at him. He'd crashed her dinner meeting tonight, demoralized her staff with his announcement, and his reckless attempt to unmask Jack as the art thief had not only backfired, it could have been their undoing if Jack had decided to retaliate. She really didn't understand what was happening to her and Rob. He'd been a symbol of security in her life, the one person she could count on. Now he felt like her adversary, a loose cannon who was no longer thinking about the two

of them. He was thinking only about himself and what he might lose. Or had he already lost it?

She didn't realize that she'd been madly tapping her nails against the table until he grasped her hand. His fingers closed around hers, gripping them too tightly. She caught her breath it was so painful.

"Is it him you're meeting?" he asked. "Is that what this private booth is all about? Gus, please, tell me you're not getting yourself emotionally involved with that bastard. He's a blackmailer. An ex-convict!"

She pulled her hand free and cupped it, massaging the blood back into her aching fingers. "This private booth is about
privacy.
I have a business dinner scheduled, and he'll be here any minute. It's for the magazine, Rob. Please, don't do this. Don't embarrass us both. "

He moved quickly then, sliding to the side of the booth and flashing up from the table. His hand came up so suddenly, she flinched back, then realized he was only yanking his coat into place.

"If you think you're patting me on the head and pushing me out the door, think again, " he warned. "I've already invested two years of my life in you, in your career, and in this magazine of yours. I'm not walking away from this with nothing. I want my fair share. "

She felt as if he
had
struck her. "Is that what this is about then? Your fair share?"

"Yes, it is. My fair share of the magazine. And you. I want both. "

What her intuition had told her was true, she realized. He was the one following her—or having her followed. And he
was
her adversary. She and Rob had made no formal plans to divide the proceeds from the magazine. Given the profitability of most new magazines, they'd assumed there would be nothing to divvy up for several years. All their energy had been focused on finding the truly staggering amount of start-up money it would take. Clearly things had changed.

"Don't worry, Rob, " she told him. "I'll see that you get whatever's coming to you. I don't want to cheat you of anything. But your 'fair share' doesn't include me. "

He said nothing to that, simply turned on his heel and stormed through the restaurant toward the door. As Gus stared at the billowing darkness of his coat, she saw a figure in her peripheral vision and realized something that sent a frisson of surprise through her. The sensation was hot and sharp, like two wires touching together, sparks flying. The man she'd been waiting for, her potential investor, was sitting at the bar. His drink was half gone, and it was quite evident he'd been there for some time.

His steady gaze told her he'd seen, and perhaps heard, everything that had happened. The questions in his eyes told her that he would be factoring this new information into his decision. Somehow that didn't surprise her. She'd had enough dealings with him already to know that he missed nothing. She also knew that he was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with their potential business arrangement, and that the price he would extract for his investment, should he make one, might be considerably more than she could afford.

It was nearly midnight when Gus returned to the mansion. She ought to have been exhausted, but she was still too much on edge. The dinner had ended without a deal in place, and as if that weren't depressing enough, she'd spent the taxi trip home looking over her shoulder and wondering why she couldn't shake the feeling of some unseen presence. Her childhood had been haunted by night terrors and shadow people, and the encounter with Rob had undoubtedly triggered those early fears, but the awareness did little to calm her.

It was to be a night of surprises, she realized as she quietly let herself into the house. A bouquet of flowers had been arranged in a crystal and silver Victorian vase, and they were sitting on the mahogany console and mirror in the foyer, several dozens of them, the fattest and most splendid rosebuds she'd ever seen. They were so perfect they didn't look real. They seemed cut of velvet-lined satin, with a nap that was rich, rouge-red, and plush.

Rob? she wondered. Had he come to his senses and realized the impossible bind she was in? Relief swept her. As angry as she was, she did care about him, perhaps even more than she'd realized. She flopped her briefcase on the console and bent to smell one of the plumpest blooms. Another possibility occurred to her as she drank in perfume so rich and deep it filled her nostrils with a pleasant burning sensation. Perhaps the dinner meeting had gone better than she'd dreamed and these roses were from her anonymous investor.

Eagerly she took the card from its holder, pulled the note from the engraved envelope and read it. Her soft gasp echoed in the marbled silence of the foyer.

There were only two typed words: BITE ME.

A postscript at the bottom said: "If you're hungry, come to the tack room. "

Gus wasn't hungry in the slightest, but she was burning with curiosity. She was wary, too, as she ought to have been after the evening she'd had, but curiosity won easily. If Rob was waiting for her in the stables, he should have let her know in a less cryptic way. As it was she couldn't not respond, or he'd be spending the night with English saddles and riding crops. And if it wasn't Rob, then it had to be Jack, though she couldn't imagine such an extravagant gesture from him.
Bite me?
That was Bridget's favorite line, but Jack was the only man she'd ever bitten, so to speak. She explored the textured surface of the card with her thumb, a flush of confusion heating the softness beneath her chin. Who in the world?