Gift of Gold

Jayne Ann Krentz

Gift of
Gold

Copyright © 1988 by Jayne Ann Krentz

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Excerpt from
GIFT OF FIRE
Copyright © 1989 by Jayne Ann Krentz

Cover design by Purple Papaya LLC

For my mother, Alberta Castle,

who
taught me to keep an open mind.

Chapter
One

The
hunt was over. He’d been chasing her for two months and two thousand miles and he was finally closing in on his quarry. For the first time since the whole thing had started, Jonas Quarrel allowed himself the temporary pleasure of triumph mingled with anticipation.

The Jeep ground its way along the rutted, unpaved road until it reached the edge of the lake. Jonas halted the dusty vehicle near a cluster of tall, swaying pines, switched off the engine, and sat for a moment behind the wheel. Then he opened the door and climbed out.

He walked slowly to the water’s edge and stood gazing thoughtfully out over the expanse of Sequence Lake, the visual focal point of the little Northern California town of Sequence Springs. Jonas had been in the vicinity for a few days getting the feel of the place and planning his next move. Somewhat to his surprise, he had discovered he liked Sequence Springs and its lake.

Ripples on the blue-green surface in front of him shimmered in the waning sun of a warm fall afternoon. The lake was ringed with a thick fringe of pine and fir. Most of what constituted Sequence Springs was on the opposite shore, a cheerful jumble of small shops, old gas stations, and aging houses. Here and there around the perimeter of the lake Jonas could see cabins hidden in the dark shelter of the trees.

The whole place had a subtle air of being undiscovered and picturesque, Jonas decided. It wasn’t quite what he had been expecting, but then, he hadn’t really known what to expect two months ago when he’d begun his hunt for Verity Ames.

At the far end of the lake an impressive, neoclassical structure painted a stark white caught the last rays of sunlight and reflected them back with almost blinding intensity. The building was unlike any other on the lake. Even from here it was obvious it had been designed to impress the viewer. The architect had clearly been given a free hand and he’d used it to create a self-consciously elegant facade that stressed arched doorways, colonnades, and courtyards. The Sequence Springs Spa Resort was as imposing and luxurious as any Renaissance villa.

Almost lost in the trees not far from the resort stood two weatherbeaten cabins and a small building that housed a restaurant. The three structures presented a blithely irreverent contrast to the neighboring spa.

From where he stood Jonas could see a couple of cars winding their way around the far side of the lake toward the gleaming white resort. The cars, Jonas knew, would be of the Porsche or BMW or Mercedes persuasion.

It was Friday afternoon and the weekend crowd of stressed-out, upwardly mobile types from the San Francisco Bay Area were arriving for their fashionable fix of mud baths, mineral soaks, workouts, and massages.

And after they had been through the spa’s luxurious torture program, they would be in the mood for expensive wine and gourmet food that could be eaten with a reasonably clear conscience. The resort offered carefully controlled, reasonably stylish cuisine. But a number of resort guests who were in the know would head for the cozy little restaurant located a short distance from the main resort facilities. The No Bull Cafe did a landslide business on the weekends serving elegant and expensive vegetarian cuisine.

The No Bull was Jonas’s goal this afternoon. He had made his decision on how to close in on his quarry. She owned the cafe and had been advertising in the local paper for a combination dishwasher, waiter, and handyman.

Jonas was presently unemployed and happened to be an expert in the field of dishwashing. Hell, he thought, he could have gotten his Ph.D. in the art if such a degree were offered. It would have been far more useful than the Ph.D. he had gotten in Renaissance history a few years back.

He had never been certain if pursuing the kind of career the history degree had established for him would have killed him outright or just driven him insane. A sense of self-preservation had kept him from experimenting.

Once upon a time, he had come very close to becoming a murderer because of his talent. He had decided then that the fascination of history was better left to those who had less affinity for it than he had.

So he’d washed a lot of dishes in the last few years, mostly bar glasses. He’d also served a lot of liquor, which should have given him the skills of a waiter. And there was no doubt that he’d picked up a few skills as a handyman. He thought of the knife packed away in his duffel bag in the back of the Jeep…

He was a real Renaissance man, he thought wryly. All the benefits of a classical education coupled with a lot of experience in the real world. What more could a potential employer ask? Four hundred years ago he wouldn’t have had any trouble at all getting work.

His mouth was edged with a hint of laconic amusement as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and curled his long, lean fingers around a small circlet of gold. As soon as he touched it the earring seemed to warm his hand and a faint, tantalizing sensation that was both peaceful and pleasant and oddly anticipatory tingled deep within him.

Jonas had discovered that the earring was as effective as a shot of tequila or a couple of bottles of beer when it came time to soften the rough edges of a hard day. He withdrew the tiny piece of feminine jewelry and examined it as it lay innocently in his palm.

It wasn’t the first time he had looked at that earring and tried to fathom its compelling mystery. The truth was, he hadn’t let it get out of his reach in the two months he’d had it. Jonas felt distinctly possessive and protective toward the earring.

The odd thing was that the possessive feeling extended to the woman who owned it, even though he had never met her. Somehow, in a way he couldn’t yet explain, she was part of his future. And it was now time to meet her.

The compulsion to locate the owner of the golden earring had brought Jonas a couple of thousand miles from a Mexican waterfront bar to Sequence Springs. The distance he had traveled meant little to him. He would have come from the other side of the world to find the woman who owned it.

He had gotten only a few brief glimpses of her the night she had lost the piece of jewelry, but he remembered well the copper fire of wild curls that framed huge eyes and a finely boned face. He recalled, too, her soft, slender, feminine shape in the golden light spilling through the open door of the cantina.

She had never seen his face. Verity Ames had been too busy fleeing back to the safety of her hotel. He could still hear the echo of her high-heeled sandals disappearing into the darkness.

It had taken Jonas a week to find out the name of the earring’s owner. In true Mexican tradition, money had crossed palms just to get that elemental piece of information. That had been the easy part. It had taken nearly two months to track her down to Sequence Springs, California. All the while the earring had burned in his pocket.

When Jonas had picked up the tiny local newspaper he’d been pleased to find the ad for the position at the No Bull Cafe. It had seemed like fate. Working for someone was one hell of a good way to learn her secrets. And he badly needed to explore the mysteries of Verity Ames. His future was tied up with those mysteries.

Jonas stood at the edge of the lake, his fingers moving absently on the earring, and wondered what it would be like to work for this flame-haired woman.

One thing was certain, he decided: she was bound to be an easier proposition than some of his past employers. After all, she was small, female, and not yet thirty. How much trouble could she give him?

Dishwashing at the No Bull Cafe was going to be a piece of cake.

Verity Ames groaned in frustration when she heard the demanding knock on the locked front door of the No Bull. She put down the bottle of extra virgin olive oil she had been about to uncork and stalked out of the kitchen into the small dining area.

“Too bad they don’t teach tourist to read signs,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. “The American educational system is obviously failing somewhere.”

Ever mindful of future business, however, Verity managed a polite smile as she unlocked the front door of the restaurant. She began speaking before she had the door more than halfway open.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a cheery tone, “we don’t open until five-thirty this evening. We stopped serving lunch at two. If you want to make reservations for tonight, you’re welcome to call. I should warn you, however, that we’re almost booked. The only time open is after nine o’clock.”

“I’m not here for a meal,” said a male voice that was astonishingly dark and soft and faintly amused. “My name is Jonas Quarrel and I’m here for a job.”

Verity had the door fully opened now and was already regretting her impulsiveness. She should have peeked through the window first.

She found herself looking up at a tall, lean man with hair the color of midnight. His surprisingly broad shoulders were covered with a well-worn blue denim work shirt. The sleeves had been rolled up, revealing sinewy forearms sprinkled with dark hair. The man was wearing a pair of jeans that were at least as old and almost as faded as the shirt. The scarred leather belt that wrapped his narrow waist looked as if it had been run over by a truck at some point in its existence. It went well with the low, scuffed boots that clearly hadn’t been exposed to a jar of shoe polish in years.

But the faded, worn garments were only minor disturbances compared to the hard-edged planes and angles of a face that had obviously seen more wear and tear than the clothes. He was not a handsome man by anyone’s standards, but Verity was curiously aware of the quiet power she sensed in him. She did not recall ever having met a man who had impressed her in quite this way before. For some reason she found herself thinking of legends, and her dark red brows drew together in a small frown.

As Verity met his eyes, she discovered gold. Not new, shiny, jeweler’s gold, but rich, ancient gold. It was the gold of history, of pirate treasures and Florentine coins. It was the first time in her life that she had seen eyes that color and she was shocked at the impact they had on her senses. There were ghosts in that gaze, she thought with unaccustomed whimsy. This man knew what it was to live with wraiths and shades and phantoms.

The realization that she was staring open-mouthed at the stranger on her doorstep brought Verity back to herself. Common sense took over, as it always did. Verity prided herself on her abundance of level-headed, practical common sense.

And common sense told her that men such as this did not wash dishes for a living.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Quarrel,” she said briskly, “the only position I have open is that of dishwasher-waiter, and I doubt you’d be interested in that sort of work.” She started to shut the door, Jonas Quarrel shoved one booted foot across the threshold and effectively halted the advance of the door. He smiled faintly. It was not a reassuring expression.

“The dishwashing job is the one I’m after.” He dug a scrap of newspaper out of his pocket and glanced down at the tiny print. “Dishwasher, waiter, and handyman.”

“Handyperson,” Verity corrected absently as she automatically leaned forward to peer at the newsprint. “I’m an equal opportunity employer.”

Quarrel’s smile widened slightly as he watched her reread her own ad. “You’re in luck,” he murmured. “I’m an equal opportunity employee. I’m even willing to work for a woman as long as she signs my paycheck on time.”

Verity pulled her gaze away from the ad and eyed her visitor with wary speculation. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man did not belong behind a sink full of dirty dishes. She couldn’t begin to imagine what had brought him here in response to her ad but she was certain she wouldn’t like the answers if she were to ask. No doubt about it, the safest course of action was to get rid of him.

“You really don’t look the type to be content with the sort of job I’m offering,” she said with polite firmness.

“Let me worry about how content I’ll be. I’ve washed dishes before and I can do it again.”

“I’m only offering minimum wage.”

“I’ll make up the difference in tips,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“I need someone who will be around for a while,” Verity said, clutching at straws. “My summer staff just left to go back to college, and I require someone who will be here through the winter and spring. I don’t want to be bothered training an employee who will be leaving in a month or two.”