Mad About The Man Page 2

  "Using all you little local people," Rita continued without missing a beat. "That's part of Mr. Ledan's plan. I'm his assistant and he wants me to approach those tradespeople in the town whom we've already identified as having some useful contribution to make—for Mr. Ledan and for their own benefit."

  Gaby avoided looking at Ledan. "Is there any reason why he can't be the one to tell us little people what he has in mind?"

  "He is. Through me."

  "Has he suddenly lost the gift of speech?"

  "Mr. Ledan doesn't deal with these things directly. He hires people to carry out his wishes—like me."

  Rather than show the pair of them the door, Gaby decided the wiser course would be to gather as much information as possible about Ledan's "project" plans.

  Rita was smiling, showing small, perfect teeth. "Eventually Mr. Ledan hopes to find things for all the existing local businesses to do. He wants every one of you to feel truly cared about and involved in what he intends to do for you."

  Gaby couldn't form a single complete sentence of response.

  "I can see you're overwhelmed. I can well understand that you must be." Rita hitched a shapely hip onto the desk where Gaby did all her paperwork and crossed one long, elegant leg over the other. She pulled a notebook from her red Chanel purse and flipped it open. "Gaby's. You make hats."

  Make hats! Not, you are a millinery designer! Not, you are currently negotiating a contract to design hats for the upcoming movie musical Going to the Dogs.

  "Ms. McGregor?"

  Gaby swung wide her arms to encompass the showroom filled with hats. "I suppose you might say I make hats, yes."

  "Well—" Rita's white teeth flashed "—this is your lucky day. Mr. Ledan is looking for simple items that can be produced in small quantities at first, then mass-produced later. Of course, for the mass production we'll have to go to a professional."

  Gaby choked back an exclamation.

  "You're astounded," Rita said. "Understandable, but you'll discover that Mr. Ledan is very generous. Too generous sometimes. People try to take advantage of him. But he'd like to commission you to make baseball caps."

  "Baseball caps?" Heat climbed steadily up.,Gaby's neck.

  "Yes, you know the sort of thing. Like the baseball players wear."

  "Baseball players?"

  "Exactly. We'll need them in small, medium and large and we've decided on green."

  "Green." This had to be a bad dream—or a bad joke.

  "Mmm. With the logo GFTG above the word Goldstrike. I expect you've already guessed what GFTG stands for." Rita giggled—an unlikely sound.

  "Surprise me," Gaby said through stiff lips.

  "Go for the Gold!" Rita wiggled delightedly. "Go for the Gold in Goldstrike. With a little rainbow popping into a pot of gold. Isn't that clever? At first we intend to send the caps out to publicity people and so on. In time everyone who is anyone will have come to Goldstrike to find their little bit of gold and they'll all be wearing GFTG hats. And you will always know that the very first ones were made right here in your little factory."

  Factory! Gaby breathed slowly and carefully through her nose. She spared a glance for Ledan only to find him deeply engrossed in Rita's spectacular legs. "Why would GFTG ever come to mean anything but winning Olympic medals—to anyone but Mr. Ledan? And you, of course."

  Rita tutted and shook her head pityingly. "I mustn't forget what a quiet life you lead in a place like this. I suppose it might be nice to be cut off from it all—for about a day. TV, of course! We'll be doing commercial spots eventually. And radio and print. The whole country will know what's happening here. The rainbow with the pot of gold is perfect. Guides— you know, the people who will show visitors around—they'll be dressed as leprechauns, and we're going to have a series of fixed mining displays showing carefully accurate mining procedures." Rita leaned closer and her wavy auburn hair swung forward. "The equipment will be accurate, but we're going to dress the models of miners like leprechauns, too! Leprechauns with miners' lamps on their heads!"

  A picture, a ghastly nightmarish picture of oversized leprechauns leaping down Goldstrike's two business streets and between the scattering of public buildings, houses and trailer parks that composed the entire settlement, stunned Gaby.

  Ledan finally broke his silence. "You're really bowled over, aren't you? We've got a long, long way to go before we can declare this thing a success, but with responses like yours I'm convinced this is going to be really something."

  Remain calm, Gaby ordered herself. She closed her eyes for a moment and deliberately ironed all expression from her face.

  "Are you all right?" Ledan asked, sounding concerned.

  "Yes, I am." She raised her chin. "I certainly am." Combating the kind of power this man represented would take organization and a lot of levelheaded thinking Blowing her top in front of him would accomplish nothing. "Thank you for stopping by."

  "But—"

  Gaby raised a silencing hand to Rita. "No, no. Don't say another word. I'm going back into the workroom now. Quietly. Then I'm going to go through everything you've said to me." To make certain she didn't forget a word the rest of the locals would want to hear.

  "But—"

  "Please!" Gaby walked between Rita and Ledan. "I definitely need to be alone. Absolutely alone for a while. I'm sure you can find your way out."

  As she passed into the short hallway leading to the workroom she heard Rita say, "Odd person. I guess living in a burg like this might make your tolerance for excitement real low. Do you think she's angry?"

  "Come on, Rita," Ledan said. "Let's get back. Like I already said, she's bowled over. Imagine being in her shoes. Imagine living here all your life. Then think how you'd react to hearing you were about to become part of the biggest thing that ever happened in your little world."

  "I don't know. She looked angry to me." Rita wasn't a complete dummy after all.

  "Not at all. Just try to visualize—"

  Gaby shut the door to the workroom firmly behind her and leaned against it. Ledan, on the other hand, might well be a dummy—a dummy with money—a terrible prospect. "Char." She covered her face with her hands, then dropped them to her sides. "Char, you are never going to believe this. That creep… Char?"

  The workroom was empty. A piece of paper flapped from the cork head form they used as a bulletin board. Muttering, Gaby went to rip it off. Char's elegant handwriting announced that she had gone over to Sis's, the town's diner and primary meeting spot, the only place in Goldstrike that served food— unless you counted Barney's burners, the tacos sold at the local tavern.

  Gaby thought of Sis, sixty and full of energy, sister of three burly, silent older brothers who were fruit farmers. Sis's was the center of everything in Goldstrike and had been, so Gaby was told, since Sis's brothers bought her the diner to take her mind off the trucker who passed through and broke her heart— forty years earlier. What place could Sis possibly have in Ledan's damnable Leprechaun City?

  And Barney who ran the Hacienda Heaven— known as Barney's Bar until he returned from a trip to Tijuana twenty years ago. Barney served tacos made of whatever he could buy cheaply and douse liberally in hot sauce. What would Ledan's plans be for him?

  If this curse of a "project" ever got off the ground, it would change the face of Goldstrike forever.

  "I won't let it," Gaby said, pressing the thumbtack back into the cork head until a screwdriver would be needed to extract it again. "No way."

  She sat at a worktable, turned over Char's note and began jotting. "GFTG in Goldstrike." It was horrible!

  The jangle of the shop bell, distant through the door she'd closed, made her hands curl into fists. She got up very slowly and walked toward the showroom. If they'd come back she'd need every fragment of her control not to let them know what she thought of their "project."

  She opened the door and felt instantly relieved. The man standing in almost the same spot where Ledan had stood had dark hair.

&
nbsp; Gaby paused on the threshold to the shop. This man was tall, very tall… and broad-shouldered… and slim-hipped… and dressed completely in black

  He was intent on something outside the window. Gaby looked beyond him, but saw only the quiet street and the hair salon opposite, its stucco walls turned gold by a low, October-afternoon sun. A Jeep, in shades of army olive drab, was parked at the curb.

  There was something about his stance: alert, poised as if ready to pounce… or strike. Gaby's stomach went into a dive. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

  Rita Nagel had said she thought Gaby was angry. Perhaps she'd persuaded Ledan she was right, and now they'd sent someone to make sure Gaby would be more enthusiastic about Leprechaunville in the future.

  He turned his head slightly, showing a high cheekbone and hard jaw. The tip of his eyebrow flared upward and a faint nimbus formed about slightly lowered lashes. His thick curly hair reached his collar and was as black as Gaby's; maybe blacker. A black shirt hugged a muscular back and biceps and fitted, hand- tailored close, all the way to the black belt at the waist of snug black pants.

  The stomach dive became a loop. Nothing about him moved.

  A shiver ran up Gaby's spine. She crossed her arms tightly. Once before, she'd felt an instant aura of raw power emanating from a man, but on that occasion it hadn't happened until she'd seen his face.

  She took another step into the shop. At the same moment a truck rumbled by, and the man watched its progress, turning until she saw his full profile. His nose was straight, his bottom lip fuller than the upper. Even in repose, the corner of his mouth tilted up and a vertical groove showed in his cheek. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back over tanned, muscular forearms, and a slim gold watch glistened at his wrist where he rested his hands on his hips.

  Gaby slowly shifted a hand to her stomach and pressed. Once before. Never again. And she was being foolish. This was a total stranger who probably wanted nothing more complicated than to ask directions.

  So why wouldn't he choose the gas station over a millinery shop?

  He flexed his spine and looked over his shoulder… directly at Gaby.

  Her hands slid slowly to her sides. His eyes, in a deeply tanned face, were dark, dark blue. Full-face, the uptilted mouth—so very seriously set—was wide and firm. The vertical lines rose to his cheekbones, and there was a definite cleft in the center of his square chin. A black tie had been loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone. Black hair, the same sun-gilded hair that covered strong forearms, showed at his neck.

  Gaby swallowed and passed her tongue over her lips. She noticed his attention go to her mouth… and his chest, his broad chest, with every muscle delineated beneath the perfectly fitted shirt, expanded with a deep breath.

  She changed her mind. She'd never, ever, felt anything like this before. Her skin tingled. Somewhere deep inside her belly a burning contraction hit and sent a tense ache into her thighs.

  At the instant when a bolt of warning finally sounded in her numbed brain—he smiled. A marvelous smile, lazily sexy and feral, that drove dimples into lean cheeks. The vague shadow of a beard darkened his jaw.

  Gaby walked to the center of the shop.

  The man transferred his hands from his hips to his pockets and approached until he stood only feet from her. There were chips of black in those deep blue eyes, and his lashes were thicker than any man's ought to be.

  He'd stopped smiling.

  "Is there something I can do to help you?" Gaby asked, all too aware of the crack in her husky voice.

  A ghost of a smile showed strong, white teeth. "I'm sure there is."

  Gaby nibbled her bottom lip and swallowed with difficulty. Any suggestiveness she felt in this man had to be imagined… didn't it?

  He looked at her mouth again.

  She wasn't imagining a thing. This was the sexiest man she had ever come within a mile of, and he was standing only grabbing distance away… staring straight at her mouth, her breasts, her hips. He was assessing her all the way to her bare, sandaled feet.

  "Are you lost?" she asked, feeling inane and hot and afraid he'd leave… and equally as nervous that he'd stay.

  "Lost?"

  "Did you need directions?"

  "No."

  A faint scent of warm musk and clean skin almost closed her eyes. "How can I help you?"

  Tipping his head to one side, he studied her all over again, starting at her toes and finishing at her eyes. "I'm not sure anymore. Not as sure as I was when I walked in here."

  His voice was deep and warm, a voice that flowed along a woman's nerves like heated honey with a disguised bite.

  Gaby breathed in deeply again—and saw his attention flicker away from her face.

  He pulled a long, broad hand from his pocket and held it out. Gaby slipped her own graceful fingers into his palm and found herself held as surely as if he'd embraced her.

  "Are you Gaby McGregor?"

  She frowned. "Yes."

  "I thought so. I'm Jacques Ledan."

  2

  Five minutes ago he'd have said he wasn't in the mood. Now he was definitely in the mood and, if he had to guess, he'd say the woman whose hand still rested in his and who showed no sign of wanting it to be anywhere else, was feeling more than a twinge of the same sexual charge that had just hit him.

  "I thought…" Her eyes—green, shimmering eyes flecked with yellow, like those of a sleek cat—slid away toward the window of her shop. The black straw hat that she wore tipped forward over her brow could only be worn by a woman with such dramatic looks. "Two people just left. A Rita Nagel and… I thought that man was Jacques Ledan."

  Jacques shook his head. "Rita's my assistant. The man with her is Bart Stanly. He's working on planning and development for my project in Goldstrike."

  The cool hand was quickly withdrawn. "Yes. Your project."

  So, Rita's instincts had probably been right. There was less than enthusiasm here. "I understand Rita mentioned the work I'd like you to consider doing for me."

  Gaby McGregor's full mouth turned down. "She mentioned it." A wonderful, sensual mouth. A mouth that would move so well beneath the lips and tongue of a man who was an expert in such matters.

  Jacques stared into her eyes once more and met pure hostility. Bart was definitely no judge of reactions. "Overwhelmed," he'd insisted. Gaby McGregor was "bowled over" by the generous offer of work. Well, she wasn't, Jacques knew, but he was damned if he could begin to understand why. He'd noted a general air of sluggishness pervading Goldstrike every time he'd driven through on the way to his house in the foothills beyond.

  "How much do you know about my plans, I wonder." Perhaps it was time to explain more to the locals. He'd hesitated to do so while so much was uncertain, but now everything was set to go.

  The woman moved next to him and stared out of the window. "You intend to bring Goldstrike into the twentieth century. That's what your assistant told me." The brim of the hat shaded her face, cast rounded shadows beneath her high cheekbones. Her skin was smooth and pale with the faintest peachy blush on her cheeks.

  "Rita has a somewhat… individual way of putting things sometimes." No, Gaby McGregor was not delighted with whatever picture Rita had painted. "I've been coming through this valley for almost fifteen years now—since I was a teenager—"

  "To your house. Everyone here knows about it."

  Did everyone here also feel as hostile about the subject as Gaby McGregor did? "Have you seen La Place?"

  She gave a short laugh. "La Place. No, I haven't seen it."

  "You sound as if you've decided you wouldn't like it."

  She looked at him and shrugged. "I'm never likely to see it, and it really doesn't matter whether or not I'd like it."

  Jacques made no attempt to ignore the fact that the shrug had allowed the wide neck of a lacy red over-blouse to slip from an ivory shoulder. "I hope you will see it," he said with absolute honesty. "It's a beautiful house. You'd look good in it."


  She blushed slightly and wonderfully and ran her tongue over her lips, leaving the skin moist… and driving the dart of desire ever more sharply into the part of him that made his pants suddenly too tight.

  "Rita spoke to me from the phone in the limo. Since I was coming through town, anyway, I decided to stop and talk to you myself." There was some other element here, something completely different from anything he remembered feeling. He was probably reacting to the unusual sensation that he was being confronted by a will as strong as his own. "Tell me what concerns you. There is something?"

  The breath she drew raised her full breasts again. Through the loose, lacy blouse he could see that she wore a strapless red top. Between the top and the waist of slim pants there was the suggestion of slim, bare midriff.

  He checked her left hand. No rings. What did a single woman, one who looked and sounded like Gaby McGregor, do for diversion in a sleepy town several hours' drive from civilization?

  One thing she didn't do was talk a lot.

  "Isn't it pretty quiet here?"

  "In Goldstrike, you mean?"

  He could watch that mouth form words for a very long time. "Yes, in Goldstrike. Don't you get bored?" Now he sounded as if he was coming on to her.

  "I never get bored."

  Strike one. He looked around the shop. To his inexpert eye her merchandise appeared completely out of place for the area. "You make hats." It could be that she'd bought all this stuff somewhere just to use for decoration.

  He caught Gaby's eye and winced. "Did I say something wrong?" She was staring at him with something close to green hatred.

  "Didn't you send Rita here because you knew I 'made' hats, as you put it?"

  "Yes." Realization dawned. She felt threatened by him. "I really did mean that I'd like you to fill an order for me. I don't usually deal with these things myself, but—"

  "Rita told me how carefully you avoid the little people."

  "As I was saying. I usually leave the people I hire to deal with such matters. Goldstrike is special to me. I want to be personally involved." He would only take just so much unwarranted antagonism. "Do you feel threatened?"