Authors: Jayne Castle
Miss Jones, on the other hand, didn’t look at all like a frog. She also didn’t look like the stereotype of the young, urban professional either, although she was about the right age. Zac was willing to bet his IRS deductions for an entire year’s office expenses that Guinevere Jones had never been a cheerleader in high school or homecoming queen. That pleased him in a vague sort of way. He had never been captain of the football team or homecoming king. Something else in common.
Her hair was longer than that of most of the other women in the room. Every other female seemed to be wearing a sleek, expensively styled cut that probably cost a fortune and looked as if it had come out of
Vogue
magazine. Guinevere’s below-shoulder-length hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck in an old-fashioned style that was timeless in its simplicity. Zac liked its coffee brown color.
It annoyed him that he was trying so hard to analyze her, but he couldn’t deny his own curiosity. He’d spent a lot of time deciding whether to move in on her and even more time figuring out how to do it. It was his nature to take his time reaching conclusions. During the hours he’d spent making his decisions, Zac had also had plenty of opportunity to wonder about the woman he was planning to cage.
The first thing he’d noticed when he’d finally identified her in the shadowy bar was that she
seemed to be wearing a skirt that was a size too small and a blouse that was at least a size too big. It was probably the tequila that made him want to reach out and explore firsthand both ends of the spectrum.
It was amazing how professionally she handled the cocktail waitress role. Apparently she’d filled the job at StarrTech just as easily. Zac was impressed. He’d have to ask her where she’d learned the knack of blending into such varied situations. It was a talent he could use.
She didn’t return to his table for the rest of the remaining hour. But Zac knew Guinevere was aware of his watching her. There was a hint of tension in the way she held her shoulders and in the scrupulous way she avoided his eyes. But he was certain she wouldn’t run. Guinevere Jones was the kind who held her ground and went down fighting. Zac knew he lacked finesse when it came to handling people, but his instincts about them were usually sound. He winced as another round of prerecorded music hit the speakers. It seemed to him that someone was deliberately turning up the volume.
At closing time Guinevere considered her options and realized she really didn’t have any. If the Frog had put her name together with StarrTech, Inc. so long after she’d quit working there, he definitely knew too much. There was no safety in running. Hiding her head in the sand wasn’t going to make this particular frog disappear. She could tell that by the way he sat under the fern with such lethal patience. By the time she had collected her oversize red canvas tote and made her way out onto the sidewalk, she was prepared for the fact that Zachariah Justis would be waiting.
“Do you want some help with that?” He stepped out of the shadows and indicated the tote.
“No, thanks. I can carry my own purse,” she told him tartly.
“Purse? I thought it was a piece of luggage.” His hand dropped quickly. He shoved it and his other fist into the front pockets of the tweed jacket he wore. “What the hell have you got in there?”
“A very large assault rifle.”
He nodded, walking toward a cab that waited at the curb. “I understand that a woman living
alone has to protect herself.”
Guinevere gritted her teeth and got into the cab without protest. “You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Justis.”
“I try to learn as much as possible before attempting to blackmail someone, Miss Jones. May I call you Gwen?”
“No.” Blackmail? That wasn’t quite what she had been expecting. Guinevere’s palm was damp against the soft red leather of the tote. For a moment she wished devoutly for the assault rifle she’d told him was inside her bag.
“Every report I have on you implies that you can be a very warm and charming woman, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to let another person call her by a short form of her name,” Zac said as the cab swung away from the curb.
Guinevere noticed that the driver already seemed to have the address. The cab was speeding along Western Avenue toward the Pioneer Square area. In other words, she was being taken home. That information brought an element of relief but not much. Out on the darkness of Elliott Bay a huge cargo ship was making its way cautiously into the port of Seattle. She caught glimpses of its lights between buildings as she looked out through the cab’s windows.
“I limit my warmth and charm to people who aren’t prone to kidnapping and blackmail,” Guinevere said finally. The backseat of the cab felt crowded. Zac Justis was a little less than six feet in height, and she hadn’t noticed any fat on him, but he somehow seemed to fill up all the available space. She felt he was pushing her in more ways than one.
“Aren’t you worried about limiting your circle of acquaintances?”
“I have a feeling that I’ve got more friends than you have, Mr. Justis.” She kept her eyes on the night-darkened scene visible through the cab’s windows.
“You’re probably right,” he admitted dryly. Then he leaned forward to tap the driver’s shoulder. “That’s the building there on the left.”
Guinevere resisted the urge to comment scathingly on his knowledge of her address. He was
probably trying to impress her with just how much information he had. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of demanding further explanations.
Without a word she stepped out of the cab and waited stoically while her unwanted escort paid the driver. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that he tipped carefully but not at all lavishly. A man who watched his money. She could identify, however unwillingly, with that. Sighing, she fished her key out of a zippered pocket on the tote.
“I suppose you intend to come upstairs?” she muttered as Zac walked toward her.
“How can I turn down such a generous invitation?”
Closing her teeth very firmly against the retort that hovered in her throat, Guinevere led the way through the well-lit entrance of the brick building and up one flight of stairs. The façade of her apartment building was a stately design of arching windows and ornamental detail that dated back to the turn of the century. The inside had been gutted and completely renovated with the goal of capturing the attention of the new urban pioneer: the single person who wanted to live downtown and demanded something more interesting than a bare box.
“All right, Mr. Justis,” Guinevere said as she opened the door of her apartment, “let’s hear what you have to say about blackmail and StarrTech. And then you can leave.”
His mouth curved slightly at one corner and there was a reluctantly appreciative expression in his eyes as he followed her through the door. He came to a halt on the threshold and absorbed the brilliant impact of color that greeted him.
“Somehow it looks like you. Unexpected.”
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which was painted with yolk-colored enamel. En route he noticed slate gray carpets bordered in red. There was more red throughout the apartment: a red window seat, a red-painted desk with red bookcases behind it, and a red shelf in the entrance hall. The yellow reappeared elsewhere in the shape of a tea cart and a trash can beside the desk. The room seemed to be anchored by the few pieces of furniture, all of which were in black. The night was locked out with miniblinds custom-designed to fit the high, arched
windows.
“I’m surprised you find anything about me unexpected. You seem to have done a fairly thorough job of snooping.” Guinevere tossed her tote bag onto the tea cart and stepped out of the pumps with an exclamation of relief. Barefooted, she lost a couple of inches of height, but a few centimeters weren’t enough to make her feel any more in charge of the situation anyway, so why suffer? She walked to the black leather love seat and threw herself down into a corner. “My God, I’m exhausted. Say what you have to say and then leave, Mr. Justis.”
“You’ve had a long day, Gwen,” he observed mildly. He took the black-wire diamond-shaped chair across from her and eyed her feet. “You were in the offices of Camelot Services at seven o’clock this morning, ate a sandwich at your desk for lunch, grabbed a bite of supper on your way to the bar, and then put in a full shift as a cocktail waitress.”
“The woman who was assigned to take the waitress job phoned in sick at the last minute.” Guinevere decided trying to keep him from using the short form of her name would be pointless. Another small battle lost. Sooner or later she was going to have to find a defensible position.
“Do you always sub for your people when they can’t go out on one of the temporary assignments?”
“Someone has to do it. As you must know from your prying, Camelot Services is still a very small operation. I didn’t have anyone else I could call in at the last minute.”
“And you didn’t want to offend the client by being unable to meet the request for a temporary cocktail waitress,” he said softly.
“When you’re in the temporary help business, you can’t come up with too many excuses or you’ll lose clients.”
“Yes. I know how important it is to please clients. Which brings me to the reason I’m here.”
“I’m glad something is going to get you to explain yourself. Do me a favor and lay it all out in short, pithy sentences. I’m too tired to fence with you.”
“I want to please one of my clients, Gwen. I think you can help.”
She eyed him narrowly. “What client?”
“StarrTech.”
“I see.” She thought about that for several long seconds. Then she thought about the future of Camelot Services. It was the same as thinking about her own future. At the moment both were beginning to look shaky. “What, exactly, are you doing for StarrTech?”
“It’s hired my firm to take a private, very quiet look at a problem it’s been having with lost equipment shipments. The people there think the problem is originating within their computer department.”
“Your firm?”
“Free Enterprise Security, Incorporated.” There was a hint of satisfaction underlining the words.
Guinevere blinked. “You’re an investigating agency? A private detective service?”
He shook his head. Then he frowned down at his hands. He’d clasped them loosely between his knees, his elbows resting on his thighs. “My firm offers consultations to businesses.”
“What sort of consultations?” It was like pulling teeth, Guinevere decided. But she was going to get some answers if it killed her. Perhaps a little more liquor would make him chattier. And heaven knew she could use a drink. She got to her feet, wincing a little. “Would you like some brandy?”
“Thank you.” He watched her as she walked into the kitchen, but he didn’t follow. When she reappeared, holding two small snifters of brandy, he accepted the offer with a polite inclination of his head.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Guinevere prompted him, resuming her seat. “Just what sort of consultations do you provide?”
“Security consultations.”
“Ah.” She swallowed some of the brandy. It might not make her guest any more comprehensible, but it certainly made it easier to sit here and deal with his presence in her
apartment. She took another sip. “Ah,” she said again, and wondered if it sounded any wiser this time.
“My firm provides very discreet services, Gwen. We’re called in when management does not want to create a stir or make accusations. Generally corporate managements hate to create stirs or make accusations. Bad for the image, and stockholders take a dim view of that sort of trouble. If we learn that there’s something worth creating a stir about or decide that accusations should be made, we go ahead and make the recommendation. It’s up to the client to pursue it into court.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Just how big is Free Enterprise Security?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. The small movement emphasized the width of his shoulders. “You will have the distinction of being my first employee. I just got started a few months ago, and until now I’ve been a one-man operation. A small business, just like your own.”
Guinevere stared at him and then seized on the most puzzling element in his explanation. “Your employee?”
“Ummm.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not. That’s where the blackmail comes in.” He lifted the snifter to his mouth and took a healthy swallow.
Guinevere placed her glass down very carefully on the table beside the small sofa. “Let me get this straight. You’re not planning on impressing your client by dragging me in chains into StarrTech headquarters?”
“The image is intriguing, but frankly I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Your bit of finagling with StarrTech’s computerized benefits program is not what I’m investigating.”
Guinevere closed her eyes briefly. Hearing it put into words made it suddenly very, very real. This man knew what she had done during her short stint as a clerk in the computer department of StarrTech. “How did you find out?” she asked bleakly.
“Russ Elfstrom is a friend of mine.” Zac was calm, almost placid. A man in control. “He
came across your little maneuvers a couple of weeks ago. Just about the same time that management began to worry about bigger problems it had discovered.”
Russ Elfstrom, Guinevere remembered, had been in charge of all computer systems at StarrTech. She hadn’t liked the man. No one in the department did. The programmers had called him the Elf behind his back. He wasn’t particularly short, but there was a kind of high-strung quality about the man. He smoked incessantly, and occasionally, while she was at StarrTech, Guinevere had seen him furtively pop a couple of small pills. Wiry and balding, with restless, pale eyes, the Elf had ruled the department with little regard for the delicate egos of programmers and even less for the hopeful computer operators who had dreams of using the machines as a way out of the clerical pool.
On the other hand, Russ Elfstrom was a good company man. He got things done. Management liked him, and as long as he was content to run a department that had a high turnover in personnel, management was content to leave him alone. Management didn’t really understand computers, anyway, let alone computer personnel. Results were all that mattered.