The Fatal Fortune (6 page)

“We’ve already spent half the night doing what you wanted to do. Now we’re going to do what I want to do. Bed, Gwen.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? You do have a one-track mind.”

“Bed, Gwen.” One arm draped around her shoulder, Zac guided her firmly down the short hall to the bedroom.

Guinevere cast one quick glance over her shoulder before they turned the corner. The two notes rested side by side on the living room table. When Zac flicked the light switch, they were hidden in darkness. They were clues, Guinevere thought, a little worried. Maybe she ought to lock them up before going to bed. But before she could voice her concern, Zac was unbuttoning her shirt and sliding his hands inside the wasteband of her jeans. She sighed contentedly and leaned against him, delighting as usual in his solid strength.

A few minutes later when that strength enveloped her completely, she forgot all about the two notes lying side by side on the table.

***

Guinevere phoned Sally Evenson first thing the next morning. Sally had bravely gone in to work although, Guinevere knew, the note from Madame Zoltana must be preying on her mind. Aware of the younger woman’s fragile hold on her self-control, Guinevere decided on a firm, upbeat, everything’s-under-control approach.

“Sally? This is Guinevere Jones. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Justis has made terrific progress in your case. He tells me he’s very near to settling matters for you.”

“Miss Jones, is that for real? What’s he going to do?”

“He’s going to make quite certain Madame Zoltana gets out of the blackmail business once and for all. You’re not to worry about a thing. You could help him get things under control even more quickly, however, if you could remember anything Francine Bates might have told you about her sister on the coast.”

“Francine!” Sally was shocked. “What’s she got to do with this?”

“We don’t know, Sally, but there is a possibility she might be able to tell us something useful. Mr. Justis wants to talk to her. No one knows where Francine is, but he thinks there’s a chance she might have gone to stay with her sister. She’s never mentioned any other relative, has she?”

“Not to me. I don’t know, Miss Jones,” Sally said worriedly. “I don’t remember much about Francine’s sister. She only mentioned her a couple of times. I think she said she spent Christmas with her last year.” There was a long pause while Sally tried to remember what she could about the sister. When she spoke again her voice was hesitant. “It seems to me her sister’s name was Dorothy or Donna or something like that. I just can’t remember.”

“Do you think anyone else at work might? You could ask Ruth or Mary or one of the others. Perhaps Miss Malcolm would know.”

“I’ll try, Miss Jones. I’ll call you back as soon as I talk to them.”

“Thanks, Sally. I’ll be waiting.” Guinevere hung up the phone and tried to occupy herself with the usual morning chaos. But Trina was handling the flurry of panicked calls from employers who had just had essential personnel phone in sick. Guinevere spent most of the time making notes of everything she had seen in Madame Zoltana’s house the previous evening. Zac was right about one thing. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that they hadn’t learned all that much.

Sally finally phoned back half an hour later. “Hi, Miss Jones. I talked to everyone I could think of, and finally Ruth said she was sure Francine’s sister’s name was Denise. Denise Bates. She thinks she lives somewhere near Pacific Beach. That’s all I could find out. I’m sorry.”

“Sally, that’s wonderful. You’ve been a tremendous help. I’ll call you as soon as Free Enterprise Security finds out anything useful. And don’t worry, Sally. Mr. Justis really does have it all under control.”

“That’s very reassuring, Miss Jones,” Sally said with humble gratitude. “Thanks.”

Three minutes later Guinevere was on the phone to Zac, who yawned in her ear when she gave him the news.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “I’m still working on my second cup of coffee. I think I’m getting too old for the late nights and wild life you lead, Gwen. You’re going to have to slow down for me.”

Guinevere said something short and rude. “We would have gotten to bed quite a bit earlier if you hadn’t decided to take advantage of me. Now, quit complaining, and tell me what you’re going to do next.”

“Have a third cup of coffee.”

“Zac!”

“Okay, okay. A name and an approximate location should be sufficient. A little time on the telephone should give me an address for Denise Bates. I’ll let you know when I’ve got it. Oh, by the way, I’m going to be a little late getting home tonight. I’ve got to see a new client around four thirty. Chances are I’ll be tied up until six or so. Your turn to cook dinner.”

The phone clicked in Guinevere’s ear, and she sat looking at the humming instrument.
I’ll be home a little late tonight
. It was getting to be so casual, so understood, so very routine. Zac was practically living with her these days. Guinevere tried to decide just how she felt about that, but before she could come to any earthshaking decisions, Trina was interrupting to tell her about the latest crisis. Guinevere sighed and gave up the task of analyzing her relationship with Zac. There didn’t seem to be much point analyzing it, anyway. It was just happening.

At five thirty that evening the doorbell chimed demandingly. Guinevere put down the knife she had been using to chop mushrooms and wiped her hands on a towel. It couldn’t be Zac, unless he had lost his key. She went into the entry hall and peered through the peephole. A shaft of nervous unease went through her when she saw who stood on her threshold.

Frowning, Guinevere held the door open a few inches but did not stand aside invitingly. “Rick! What on earth are you doing here?”

He lounged in the doorway, golden eyes moving over her with a familiarity that did nothing to stem the anxiety Guinevere was feeling. She refused to let him see how he was affecting her.

“I came to see you.”

“I’m busy.”

He looked amused. “So I see. Cooking dinner for that big, plodding hulk you’re dating these days? What a waste of time. You can do better than him, Gwen.”

“I doubt it. Now, would you kindly leave? I’ve got a lot to do.” Guinevere tried to shove the door closed but found it stopped by Rick Overstreet’s shoe. She glanced down, annoyed, and the next instant he had pushed his way inside and was closing the door behind him. Guinevere glared at him, refusing to give in to the small, niggling panic that had sprung up out of nowhere. “I’m asking you to leave, Rick.” She kept her voice steady and very, very cool.

“I’m not ready to leave.” He prowled through her living room as though he found it fascinating. “I’m curious about you, Gwen. I want to see just how much you’ve changed. You were living up on Capitol Hill when I knew you. This is all new.”

“How did you get my address?” she demanded icily.

“It took some work, but I managed.” He scanned the books in her huge yellow bookcase, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his slacks.

“Rick, I—”

He swung around abruptly, facing her. “I’ve been thinking about us, Gwen.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said bluntly, not liking the glitter in those golden eyes.

“I’ve decided there’s unfinished business between us.”

“No, Rick. You finished it before it even began. You must have known I’d never play the role of the other woman. Not for any man.”

“I knew. That’s why I never told you about Elena. But I wanted you, Gwen. After you lost your nerve and broke off what was between us, I told myself I’d give you some time to calm down. Then . . . things happened. I got the new position with Gage and Watson, and shortly after that Elena died. By the time everything had settled down I’d lost track of you.”

“Not only lost track, but lost interest, too, I suspect. I’m sure you went on to bigger and better things—and more cooperative women. Don’t try to pretend that what you felt was a timeless passion, Rick. You know as well as I do that you were only looking for a convenient affair. I realized that as soon as I found out you’d lied to me.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. We’ve run into each other again. There was always something about you, Gwen. . . .” He let the sentence trail off, his eyes intent. “I’ve discovered I want you again.”

Guinevere smiled wryly. “Only because you can’t have me. I’m a challenge for you now because I didn’t fall right back into your hands the moment you encountered me again. Forget it.”

There was a flare from the gold lighter as Rick lit one of his elegant cigarettes. He exhaled deeply, fixing her with a lambent gaze through the smoke. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think I will forget it. It’s fate, Gwen.”

“The hell it is.” She held the door open for him. “Please leave,” she said very steadily. “Now.”

“Before the hulk gets here, you mean?”

“Before I lose my temper and call the police to throw you out!” Guinevere heard the edge in her voice and frantically tried to bring herself back under control. She must not let him affect her this way. She refused to let him frighten her. “Listen to me, Rick. I will try to spell this out as simply as possible. I am not interested in you anymore. I want nothing to do with you. Find some other woman to hypnotize, because I’m immune to your brand of charm. It’s shallow and it’s meaningless.
Now get out
!”

He approached her with indolent grace, eyes narrowed and gleaming. “You say I’m only attracted by the challenge? Better watch out, Gwen. You’re making yourself more of a challenge each minute. Two years ago you got away with walking out on me, only because I had other things to handle at the time. But now it’s different. Now I can do what I should have done then. Are you sleeping with the hulk or keeping him dangling, the way you kept me dangling?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

He nodded as if she had answered his question. “You’re sleeping with him, I’m sure of it. There’s something about the way he looks at you, the way he touches you. He tried to warn me off the other day when he saw me with you, did you know that? In a way, that added to the challenge, too. It would be interesting to take you away from him, just to see how he would react. All things considered, I’m afraid you’re becoming damn-near irresistible, Guinevere Jones. I want you, and this time I’m going to have you.” He smiled grimly around the cigarette. “But first I think I’ll let
you
dangle a bit. It will serve you right. It’s time you learned a lesson.”

“Rick, if you don’t leave, I swear, I’ll have you thrown out.” Guinevere’s teeth were locked together with tension. She watched him take the cigarette from his mouth and casually grind it out in a small pottery bowl that stood on the hall table. It was the bowl where Guinevere kept her car keys. She wanted to scream at him that he had no business using the lovely bowl for an ashtray, but common sense told her to hold her tongue. She wanted to do nothing that would give him an excuse for staying any longer, and losing her temper would accomplish only that. He would delight in making her lose control.

“Good-bye, Gwen.” He nodded with a mocking courtesy and walked out the door.

Guinevere shut the door behind him and locked it, leaning against it with her eyes closed in relief. Holding her breath, she waited for the sound of his footsteps to die on the stairs. Only after she heard the faint noise of the outer door closing did she release her breath. Her heart was pounding with a fear that seemed wholly out of proportion to the incident.

The first thing that caught her attention was the smell of cigarette smoke. Guinevere wrinkled her nose in disgust. It wasn’t just that it was smoke; it was Rick Overstreet’s smoke. She hurried around the room, opening the windows as wide as possible. She didn’t want the smell in the apartment when Zac arrived. She didn’t want to have to try to explain Rick Overstreet to Zac. Her own foolishness two years ago was a source of embarrassment, and Zac would simply not understand why the man felt he could show up at her apartment uninvited. Lately Guinevere had begun to sense the streak of possessiveness that ran through Zac. She didn’t approve of it, but she had no wish to bring it to the surface. Far better to let sleeping dogs lie.

When she’d finished with the windows, she grabbed the bowl from the hall table and took it into the kitchen. There she held the butt under running water until she was certain it was extinguished and tossed it into the trash can under the sink. She rinsed out the bowl and replaced it just as she heard Zac’s key in the lock. Taking a deep breath, she managed what she hoped was a bright smile as he came through the door.

“You’re late,” she announced, going forward to kiss him with more passion than she’d intended.

“I’ve got an excuse. I think I’ve located Francine Bates’s sister,” he said.

Chapter Six

“
She’s over on the coast, all right,” Zac explained as he lounged at the kitchen table while Guinevere finished preparing dinner. He rested one foot on the chair opposite the one he occupied and wrapped his large fist around the small glass of tequila. His tie had been discarded and his collar loosened. He was the picture of domesticity—relaxing after a hard day’s work while watching the little woman bustle around the kitchen. Zac intended to take advantage of the domestic scene as long as Guinevere would allow him to do so. “I got an address and a phone number. I tried phoning, but there was no answer, so I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“What if we can’t reach her?” Guinevere dumped the pile of mushrooms into a frying pan and let them sizzle in butter.

“I guess if we can’t get hold of her in a couple of days, we can drive over to the coast and see if we can find her,” Zac said reluctantly.

“Good idea! I’m impressed that you found her so quickly.” Guinevere picked up her wineglass and took a rather large swallow. “You really are awfully good at your work, aren’t you, Zac?”

Zac blinked lazily, watching her movements with a shuttered curiosity. The tension in her this evening was new. He’d seen it the moment he’d come through the door. Because of it, he’d refrained from asking her who had been smoking a cigarette in the apartment before he’d arrived. He’d caught the lingering scent of burning tobacco as soon as he’d entered the hall. But before he could casually ask who’d been visiting, Guinevere had thrown herself into his arms. Instinct had warned Zac to wait and see. “In my own slow, humble way I try to do my job,” he said with grave modesty. To his surprise she reacted strongly to the joke.

“You are not slow or humble or plodding or anything like it,” Guinevere said fiercely. “You are downright brilliant at times.”

“Gosh, lady, I didn’t know I’d made such a great impression.”

She turned back to the stove brusquely. “Well, you have. Are you ready? The salmon is done and so are the mushrooms.”

Zac cocked one thick brow. “Salmon? Now I’m the one impressed. What did I do to deserve salmon tonight?” He swung his foot down off the chair and got up to pour another glass of tequila.

“Nothing special. I stopped by the market on the way home from work and spotted a great buy on salmon, so I got some for us. Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

She continued to chatter throughout dinner. Zac let her, content to eat the beautifully poached salmon and listen to Guinevere’s conversation. The truth was, most of the time he liked listening to her talk. She had a talent for soothing him or teasing him or nagging him or arguing with him that was very satisfying. Zac had a feeling he could listen to her for the rest of his life, merely taking steps to close her mouth when he was ready to take her to bed. Maybe not even then. He liked the small, passionate sounds she made in bed. But there was no getting around the fact that her conversation tonight contained a thread of tension. Zac waited. He was a patient man, and he’d always been good at waiting when it was necessary.

After dinner Guinevere sat back in her chair and drained the last of her wine. “That,” she announced, “was terrific salmon, even if I do say so myself.”

“It was,” Zac agreed, smiling at her. “And this kitchen will smell of fish tomorrow if I don’t empty your garbage for you tonight. I’ll take care of it while you start the dishes.”

“Why do I always get to start the dishes while you empty the trash? There’s a male-chauvinist pattern developing in this household, Zac Justis.” But she got to her feet and began rinsing dishes under the faucet.

“Some things are biologically preordained,” Zac explained as he hauled the garbage out from under the sink. “Women have evolved with a certain innate ability to do dishes, and men seem to have gotten stuck with a talent for emptying garbage. I suppose it’s all fair enough, when you consider the great cosmic scheme of things. Be back in a minute.”

He opened a drawer and found a twist tie for the garbage sack and headed for the front door. The building’s garbage chute was located near the stairs in the outside hall. Standing before the metal panel that opened onto the chute, Zac caught the stale cigarette smell as he started to twist the tie around the plastic bag.

He stood still for a moment, thinking. Then he calmly opened the bag and glanced inside. He found the damp cigarette butt under the paper that had been used to wrap the salmon. Zac stared at it for a moment and then twisted the bag closed and dumped it down the chute. He would be patient.

***

The damning photos arrived in Guinevere’s mail the following day.

She had decided to go back to the apartment before returning to the office after lunch, and her mail had already arrived. The lack of a return address in the upper left-hand corner made her curious about the plain manila envelope. She tore it open with an inexplicable sense of urgency. The message was as straightforward as the one Sally Evenson had received. It also appeared to have been typed on the same typewriter. Madame Zoltana had been busy.

Guinevere stood in the hall of her apartment building, reading and rereading the message.

IF
YOU
WOULD
PREFER
THAT
MR
.
JUSTIS
DID
NOT
SEE
THESE
PHOTOS
,
YOU
WILL
STOP
MAKING
INQUIRIES
ABOUT
ME
.
I
DO
NOT
APPRECIATE
THE
INTERFERENCE
IN
MY
BUSINESS
.

After having read the message through at least four times, Guinevere unwrapped the black-and-white photos with a sense of dread. She was not surprised when she saw the crude shots of herself lying naked in Rick Overstreet’s arms. No, she was not surprised, but she was suddenly physically sick.

Stuffing the photos and the message back into the envelope, Guinevere ran up the two flights of stairs and stabbed her key into her lock. It took several tries before she could control her shaking hand long enough to get the door open. Her breath was coming in tight gasps and her stomach threatened to rebel. She was damp with perspiration. Blindly she groped her way down the hall to the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub, waiting to see if she was going to lose her lunch.

Crouched on the cold porcelain edge of the tub, she clutched the terrible envelope in both hands and thought, This was what it was like for poor Sally. I didn’t understand. How could I have known how awful it really is.
Blackmail
.

The photos were fakes, of course. Someone had cleverly taken head shots of her and Rick and applied them to two anonymous nude bodies. But they looked perfectly real. Modern photography techniques could mask almost any kind of fakery.

She had never been to bed with Rick Overstreet, not two years ago, not this past week, not
ever
. But, oh God, the photos looked so real. What’s more, they were definitely recent shots. She had not worn her hair that way two years ago. It was the way she wore it now. Zoltana had made certain these pictures appeared very current. Zac would have understood Guinevere’s involvement in an affair with another man two years ago. He wouldn’t appreciate having it thrown in his face—no man would—but he’d have understood.

But he would never tolerate being a cuckold. Zoltana had wanted her victim to see these shots, to know that if Zac saw them, he must certainly assume Guinevere was currently having an affair with Rick Overstreet. Any man who looked at these photos would believe the worst.

Guinevere sat waiting for the nausea to pass and tried desperately to think. For a few perilous moments it all seemed too much. She wanted to run and hide from Zac and the world. The only way she could steady herself was by thinking of Sally Evenson. That poor, poor woman. How easy it had been to give her bracing advice and tell her not to worry. How easy it had been to hand out the usual trite words about never paying off a blackmailer. Only now, finding herself in the same position, did she know the sense of awful doom and the utter helplessness. Guinevere opened her eyes and stared across the room. At this moment she understood completely how any blackmail victim might commit murder. But she didn’t even have that option. Madame Zoltana had disappeared.

The phone rang in the kitchen. For a moment Guinevere blocked the intrusion out of her mind. She couldn’t handle anything as normal as the phone right now. Besides, she wasn’t even supposed to be home at this hour of the day. But it rang again and again, and at last Guinevere responded out of the habit of a lifetime. Ringing phones had to be answered. Like a zombie she walked into the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Gwen? What the hell are you doing home at this time of day?”

When she heard Zac’s voice, Guinevere thought her throat would close up completely. “I had lunch nearby. Just thought I’d stop and grab my mail.”

“I see. When I couldn’t get hold of you at the office, I decided to take a chance and try the apartment. Trina said you should have been back from lunch by now.”

“What did you want, Zac?”

“I was just doing my consultant’s duty and reporting in. I still can’t get hold of Denise Bates. I think we’re going to have to drive over to the coast. What about tomorrow morning?”

She nodded, realized belatedly he couldn’t see her response, and finally found her voice. “Yes. Tomorrow would be fine, Zac. I’ll tell Trina she’ll be in charge all day.”

“Okay, then I’ll make arrangements here. Maybe it’s all for the best. I was supposed to meet with that crazy interior designer in the morning. This will give me a perfect excuse for canceling the meeting. Oh, by the way, the caterer called to discuss adding a basil dip, for the vegetables, and a bunch of miniature eggplants. I told him to forget both, but he insisted on talking to you first.”

“I’ll give him a call, Zac.”

“I don’t care what you do about the basil dip, but I do not want to waste a dime on eggplant, miniature or otherwise. I hate eggplant. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Zac.”

“I mean it, Gwen. No eggplant,” he said, suspicious of her quick, obedient response.

“I heard you. No eggplant. I’ll call him this afternoon. Is that all, Zac?”

There was a short pause. “Are you going back to the office now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up after work. We can walk back to your place together this evening.”

Guinevere cleared her throat in a wave of panic. “Uh, Zac, you’ve been over here for dinner every night this week. And you’ve stayed the night every night this week. Don’t you need to take care of some things around your own apartment? What about your laundry?”

“My laundry’s under control, Gwen,” he said laconically. “Don’t worry, if you don’t feel like cooking, I’ll handle it. We can have tacos again.”

She wanted to cry, and instead she had to sound calm and firm. “Zac, I think we need a little time apart, don’t you? After all, we’ve been almost living together lately. I think . . . I think we’re rushing things. We need to maintain our separate identities. We haven’t really discussed this, I know, but I thought we understood each other. Please, Zac.” She held her breath, knowing her inner agitation was showing and unable to control it.

There was another brief pause from Zac’s end of the line, and then he said quietly, “I thought we understood each other, too. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for the drive to the coast. Have a good evening, Gwen.”

When he gently hung up on her, Guinevere let go of the hold she had been maintaining while on the phone. The tears fell freely until there were no more left inside. Then she picked up the phone again, called the office, and calmly told Trina that she would not be in for the rest of the afternoon or tomorrow.

“Is anything wrong, Gwen?” Trina added, concern in her voice.

“No, Trina. Nothing’s wrong.” She replaced the receiver and went into the living room. There she spread out the awful photos on the coffee table and tried to imagine exactly how Zac would respond if he ever saw them. When her mind refused to form a picture of his reaction, she decided it was because she couldn’t bear to think about it.

Feeling weary and drained, Guinevere leaned back against the couch cushions and wondered vaguely how Madame Zoltana had learned about her and Zac. She wondered how Zoltana knew enough to select Rick Overstreet to use in the photos. And she wondered how Zoltana had found out that Guinevere was making inquiries.

When she got nowhere with that line of questioning, she remembered something Zoltana had said about Zac.
You will not be able to trust him
.

“Oh, Zac,” Guinevere whispered wretchedly, “it’s not a question of trust.” But it was, wasn’t it? Yet how could any woman expect a man to look at such pictures and not believe the lie they portrayed? If only Rick Overstreet had not shown up in her life a second time.

Which led back to the interesting question of how Zoltana could have known about Overstreet. Someone at Gage and Watson might have seen them together, Guinevere speculated listlessly. Or perhaps Rick had commented on their past relationship. Gossip could have filtered back to Zoltana’s informant.

Guinevere tried pursuing that line of thought for a while, but it led nowhere. Nothing led anywhere. All her thoughts were running in useless little circles. An hour later she was still sitting on the couch, staring helplessly at the photos.

* * *

Zac found his own apartment very dull and very confining. It was not a place of relaxation and refuge, and it hadn’t been for some time, he realized. Guinevere’s apartment was home now. And he hadn’t been invited home this evening.

He sat with his feet propped on his coffee table and stared out of his high-rise window, watching night settle on Elliott Bay. He was on his second tequila and was seriously thinking of forgoing dinner altogether in favor of getting disgustingly drunk. He rarely got disgustingly drunk. He couldn’t even remember the last time. Probably back in college shortly before he’d dropped out in his junior year. Maybe not even then.

He liked his tequila, but the truth was, he wasn’t the type of man who did anything that would take him beyond his own self-control. Except make love to Guinevere Jones. Zac had to admit that when she came alive under his hands, he forgot everything else in the world but their combined excitement and satisfaction.