Iris Johansen (2 page)

“Sorry to disturb you,” Dawson said smoothly, ignoring Santine’s moody glare as if it didn’t exist.
He paused to turn on the desk light. “It’s getting dark earlier every day now,” he commented as he stopped beside the high-backed leather chair where Santine was inelegantly sprawled. “Did you notice that some of the leaves are beginning to turn?”

“No, I didn’t notice,” Santine growled, frowning at him ferociously. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

Dawson raised an eyebrow at Santine’s sarcasm. Lord, the man was in a savage humor these days. “No, that was just chitchat,” he replied calmly, opening the file folder and drawing out several invoices. “I thought I’d get your okay before I sent a check for these little pretties,” he said with a genial grin. He placed the invoices on the Sheraton table beside Santine’s chair. “They’re a bit exorbitant even for Miss Simmons’s expensive tastes.”

Santine picked up the bills and carelessly rifled through them. “Diane is getting greedy,” he said expressionlessly. He tossed the invoices back on the table and took a long swallow of his drink, before he ordered tersely, “Pay them.”

Dawson nodded as he gathered up the bills and put them back into the folder. “Right. I just thought you should see them.”

Santine smiled cynically. “I’m a very rich man, Pat, and rich men are expected to pay for their pleasures.” He stood up lazily and strode over to the portable bar across the room and refilled his glass. “I couldn’t expect luscious little Diane to accommodate me without suitable compensation, could I? She wouldn’t understand an arrangement without a monetary foundation.”

There was a mocking cynicism in Santine’s face that caused a speculative flicker in Dawson’s eyes. Did Santine really believe his only attraction for the women who flocked around him was the massive size of his bank account? Pat dismissed the thought at once. There was no vestige of false modesty in
Santine’s makeup. He knew down to the last degree the extent of every asset he possessed, and he was far from shy about admitting it to anyone. He had to be well aware of the sexual magnetism he exerted over women. Since he’d become Santine’s personal assistant over a year ago, Dawson had acted as a bulwark more times than he could remember, to shield Santine from dealing with his discarded mistresses. Some had been frankly avaricious, but there had been others who seemed to be sincerely infatuated with the tycoon.

What was it that drew them to Santine like a moth to a flame? The man wasn’t really good-looking, he thought impersonally as he watched Santine stride back over to his easy chair and drop into it, propping his feet indolently on the hassock. He was far from the matinée-idol type, who was supposed to be every woman’s dream. In those casual black suede pants and charcoal-gray crew-neck sweater, he looked more like a longshoreman than a sophisticated rake who probably knew his way around more bedrooms than Don Juan had in his prime. His large frame measured in at almost six foot four, and at first glance he gave the impression of being slightly overweight. But there was not an ounce of fat on that massive body. From the brawny shoulders to the strong columns of his thighs, he was as finely honed as a razor-sharp machete.

Machete. Dawson’s lips quirked at the aptness of the simile. Santine did remind him of that bold, dangerous weapon. Those blunt, craggy features should have been ugly, but they weren’t. Instead, the Slavic width of his cheekbones and the bold, thrusting chin were lent a certain fascination by the underlying strength and power in that face. Even the thick black eyebrows couldn’t overshadow the piercing challenge in the darkness of Santine’s eyes and the sensuality and slight cruelty in the curve of his lips. Yes, Santine was no delicate subtle Toledo
blade, but a slashing, curving scimitar that would carve a path ruthlessly through any opposition.

Not that Santine couldn’t be as subtle and manipulative as a veritable Machiavelli when he chose. More often than not, however, Santine didn’t choose to clothe that iron fist in a velvet glove but used his economic power and dynamic personality to bludgeon his antagonists into smithereens. Perhaps this was the secret of his attraction for women. Besides that almost overpowering virility, he radiated an aura of power and leashed danger obviously very intriguing to certain types of women.

Santine’s lips twisted mockingly as he caught Dawson’s speculative stare. “You shouldn’t disapprove of my indulging Miss Simmons’s hunger for trinkets,” he said silkily. “I assure you, she’ll earn every one of them before these two months are over.”

“It’s none of my business, Mr. Santine,” Dawson said quietly. “I wouldn’t presume to question your private affairs. I just thought that you should see these particular bills.”

“You’re right, it’s none of your business, Pat,” Santine said curtly, finishing the second brandy in one swallow and crashing the glass down on the table beside him. Then he sighed and ran his fingers through his heavy dark hair. “God,” he said wearily, “I’m sorry, Dawson. You were quite right to question it. I would have torn a strip off you if you hadn’t.”

Santine’s apology surprised Dawson more than his former rudeness. His employer’s bluntness and lack of tact were well known, but he’d never heard him apologize to anyone in all the time he’d worked for him. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle. This new volatility could be as dangerous to handle as nitroglycerine. “It’s understandable that you’d be annoyed, Mr. Santine,” he said carefully, “I never meant …” He stopped as he was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone on the massive mahogany
desk. He looked at Santine inquiringly, and the older man made an impatient gesture for him to get it. “It’s the house phone,” he commented as he picked up the receiver and announced briefly, “Dawson.”

Santine proceeded to ignore Dawson’s murmured phone conversation and continued staring moodily down at his empty brandy glass. Whatever it was, Pat could handle it. There were certainly no worldshaking decisions to be made at this hellishly boring Shangri-la by the sea.

It seemed that Dawson didn’t agree with him, for he looked up at that moment, covering the receiver with his hand. “It’s Sal Goldsmith, head of security, Mr. Santine. It seems that we have a trespasser.”

Santine looked up sharply. “Why the hell are they bothering me with that?” he asked. “Goldsmith has been handling trespassers and thieves without consulting me for years.”

Dawson’s lips quirked in amusement. “He’s puzzled about exactly what to do with this particular trespasser,” he said solemnly, his blue eyes twinkling. “He finds the situation a bit unusual.”

Santine’s eyes narrowed. “Unusual?”

Dawson nodded. “The intruder came over the wall using a rope and a grappling hook. The video camera picked up the breach immediately, and security turned loose the dogs.”

Santine grimaced. “I can see why the situation is unusual,” he said dryly. “Are there any pieces left to send to the hospital?”

“Some very nice ones, according to Sal.” Dawson grinned, “And in quite excellent health, at that. When he and Jackson intercepted her as she was approaching the house, both of the Dobermans were frolicking at her heels like lap dogs. She even had to restrain them from attacking Goldsmith when he grabbed her.”

“She?” Santine asked alertly. “Our trespasser is a woman?”

“A very attractive one,” Dawson replied, leaning back in the leather executive chair. “And very determined, I would say. Climbing that wall would be no easy task for any ordinary woman, even with a rope. It’s over twelve feet high.”

“How did she get around the dogs?” Santine asked softly, his eyes narrowed in thought. “She couldn’t have been carrying raw meat, I suppose.”

Dawson shook his head. “The first thing guard dogs are taught is to eat only out of their own bowls, for that very reason.”

“Interesting,” Santine said slowly. “Very interesting. Was she carrying any weapons?”

“Not even a hat pin,” Dawson answered. “Sal says that she went to all this trouble just to speak to you.”

Santine smiled cynically. “Well, it’s an unusual approach, anyway. Didn’t anyone tell her that I already have a mistress in residence at the moment?”

“It probably wouldn’t make any difference to someone as determined as our intruder,” Dawson said flippantly. “Anyone who could scale a twelve-foot wall would snap her fingers at another woman.”

“Perhaps you’re right at that,” Santine drawled. “She certainly doesn’t appear to be shy about going after what she wants. It’s a quality that I admire.”

“What shall I tell Goldsmith to do with her?” Dawson asked. “He wants to know if he should call the Sheriff’s Department.”

Santine was silent for a long moment, before a smile touched his lips. “No, I think not. Persistence like that shouldn’t go unrewarded. Tell Goldsmith to bring her to the library. I’ll see what the lady has to offer.”

Dawson shrugged, and spoke rapidly into the phone. “He’ll bring her right over; it’ll only be a few moments,” he said as he replaced the receiver.

“Where is she?” Santine asked idly. He was really in bad shape to become so intrigued by the appearance
of an ambitious little hooker who looked on him as her next target. But how in the hell had she gotten around those Dobermans?

“Across the courtyard in the security office,” Dawson replied, watching curiously as Santine stood up and strolled lazily to the window overlooking the tiled courtyard. The floodlights had been turned on, giving a daylight clarity to the scene. Dawson also got to his feet and joined Santine at the window, his eyes on the three people rapidly approaching the house.

“She’s quite tall,” he commented casually as he distinguished the feminine form between the two security guards.

Santine’s gaze was also fixed absorbedly on the woman. “Yes,” he agreed absently. “But look at the way she moves. I’ve never seen a woman so graceful.”

“You think she may be worth your time after all, then?” Dawson asked, his brow arched quizzically.

There was a strange flicker in the depths of Santine’s black eyes as he said slowly, his gaze still on the woman’s khaki-clad form, “There’s a distinct possibility, Pat. There’s definitely a distinct possibility.”

“Thanks, Sal, you can go now. I’ll handle it from here,” the young man behind the desk said genially as he appraised Janna with frank curiosity. “When a decision is made in regard to the Sheriff’s Department, I’ll let you know.”

The two burly security men nodded in respectful acquiescence and quietly left the room, and Janna took a step closer to the desk with an eagerness she couldn’t conceal. The quiet luxury of the library could be dimly discerned, illuminated as it was by just the one desk lamp; but surely she’d been taken to see Mr. Santine himself. Then she felt her hopes plummet as she got a better look at the man leaning lazily back in the executive chair.

This couldn’t be Santine. Even though the security men were treating him with deference, there was no way the man behind the desk could be the ruthless legend that was Rafe Santine. There was nothing forceful or intimidating about this young man, with his modishly cut acorn-brown hair and appealing blue eyes. Had she gone through all this trouble just to be relegated to one of Santine’s underlings?

“You’re not Mr. Santine,” Janna accused flatly, disappointment making her tone imperious. “I want to see Mr. Santine.”

“And so you shall.” The deep voice was a curious blend of sandpaper on velvet and came from the
dark shadows beside the long window at the far end of the room. “Let’s have some light on the subject, Pat. I want a better look at her.”

“Right, Mr. Santine.” The blue-eyed man at the desk pressed a button on a console, and the room suddenly flared into light.

Santine. Janna’s eyes widened as the man strolled toward them with casual grace not usually found in a man so large. She was vaguely conscious of thick dark hair worn a trifle long, a blunt, almost Slavic face, and eyes so black and piercing that they sent a shiver through her. But that wasn’t what caused her suddenly to catch her breath and experience an odd sensation of weakness. Santine radiated a power and virility that seemed to dominate his surroundings effortlessly. For the first time in her life, Janna felt a strange sense of being threatened by another human being.

Threatened? Ridiculous! How could Santine be a threat to her? All he could do was say no to her pleas, and she would leave and never see him again. It must be the tension and turmoil of the evening that was making her so stupidly imaginative.

“Very nice,” Santine said silkily, his gaze moving over her almost caressingly. “Not beautiful, but definitely arresting. Don’t you think so, Pat?” He half leaned, half sat on the corner of the desk.

“She’s lovely,” the brown-haired man agreed politely.

Janna felt as if she were on an auction block, as Santine continued to appraise her with an intimacy that caused the color to rise to her cheeks. She firmly brushed away the unusual shyness that threatened to overcome her. “Mr. Santine, I’m very sorry to have had to approach you in this manner,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed earnestly on his face. “I’ve been trying to arrange an appointment with you for over two weeks. I was getting desperate, or I’d never have resorted to invading your privacy. My name is Janna Cannon.”

Santine’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “By all means, let us observe the amenities,” he said softly, his gaze running keenly over each feature of her face, so that she felt he must be cataloguing them. “This is my assistant, Pat Dawson, and you obviously are well aware of who I am. As for your rather unusual approach, I find it just as intriguing as you obviously meant me to. I enjoy aggression on the part of the woman occasionally. You might remember that.”

Janna gazed at him in puzzlement. “Aggression? I didn’t mean to appear aggressive, Mr. Santine,” she said earnestly. “It’s just that time is running out, and it was terribly important that I see you before our deadline is reached. They’ll be taking over in two weeks, and we can’t allow that to happen.”

“A takeover?” Santine drawled, his eyes narrowing. “So you’re not working on your own initiative.” His lips curved wryly. “You’ve been sent to persuade me to save your company from a takeover.” His gaze once more traveled over her from head to toe with that burning intimacy. “Well, I can’t say that I haven’t been offered similar inducements before, but this time I might be tempted to agree. You’re quite an unusual type, Janna Cannon.”