How did he do it? She knew damn well he had been aroused only a few moments before and now he was behaving as coolly as if he had never touched her. However he managed the trick, she was grateful for the time it gave her to regain her composure. Her heartbeat was almost normal again, and soon she would be just as cool and remote as he. “Yes, the main library is at the house. Except for Catherine’s journal, most of these are reference books.”
He took down a leather-bound Bible from the shelf and looked at her inquiringly.
“Several passages are marked in the Song of Solomon. The Old Testament is full of references to perfume.”
His glance fell on a worn, faded book in the second row. “This one isn’t about perfume,” he murmured. “Facts and Legends of the Wind Dancer.” He ran his fingers exploringly over the faded blue binding. “It’s very worn, practically falling apart.”
“I’ve had it for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Years.” He had already invaded too many corners of her life in the short time she had known him, and it was time she set up barriers around this most private corner. “It’s very fragile. Please, put it back on the shelf.”
He lifted a brow but carefully set the book back where he had gotten it. “Interesting.”
She wasn’t sure he was speaking of the book itself or her reaction, for he immediately went on. “May I take some of these perfume books back to the house? I think it’s time I learned a little more about our common interest.”
“Of course.”
He turned and began pulling down volume after volume until he had eight books cradled in his arms.
“You can always come back tomorrow,” she said dryly. “I’m not going to change my mind and lock you out.”
“Thanks.” He moved toward the door. “I don’t sleep very well and I read fast.”
“You must.”
“I taught myself to speed-read several years ago. It was useful in my former profession.” He slanted her a sly glance. “That should be a comfort to you. I shouldn’t imagine the skill would be of any benefit at all to a drug dealer.” He shifted the books and managed to open the door. “Shall I leave the door open? The room smells to high heaven.”
“It’s too late. That’s why we use blotters. They can be put in sealed containers and disposed of after we’ve used them.” She made a face. “Now I’ll have to take a bath to rid myself of the fragrance.”
“Yes, it’s too late.” He smiled curiously. “I lied, you know.”
She gazed at him, startled. “What?”
“The hollow of a woman’s throat isn’t the best place to test a perfume.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “There’s another spot that’s much more interesting. We’ll have to try it sometime.” He closed the door behind him before she could answer.
She gazed blankly at the door for a moment and then started to chuckle.
Alex went directly to his room when he returned to the house and immediately placed a call to Simon Goldbaum in New York.
Goldbaum was less than pleased to hear from him. “Jesus, Alex, what do you expect? Jonathan Andreas is a very private person and he’s got the bread to protect his privacy. It’s gonna take time.”
“I need a hook.” Alex sat down on the bed, flipped open the notebook, and picked up the pen he had placed by the phone when he had unpacked. “Give me what you have.”
“Not much more than you can read in Time. He’s forty-two years old, an industrialist who turned shipping on its ear and reversed the downward profit trend for the cruise ships. Gets along with the unions but he’s sure not crazy about them. They interfere with his incentive plans for the workers. Active in politics. Republican. He has a compound just north of Charleston, South Carolina. Well liked by practically everybody. No family problems. Kind of patriarch of the clan.”
“Married?”
“No, he’s had a number of discreet affairs. The key word is discreet. The guy likes his privacy, I tell you.”
“Is that all?”
“No.” Goldbaum hesitated. “I’ve been nosing around Republican headquarters. They like him a lot. He’s smart, diplomatic, but has the balls to ram in the shaft when it’s needed. He’s sort of Lee lacocca meets Jack Kennedy.”
“What does that mean?”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. “It means he could be the next president of the United States.”
Alex examined the information for value, then discarded it. No help there. “What else?”
“Goddammit, Alex, you’re not going to find a hook. A man who has a chance of becoming president is going to be damn careful not to make a wrong move.”
“Dig.”
“I think maybe he’s a good guy, Alex.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t make mistakes. I need a hook.”
“All right, all right. I’ll call you next week. Are you at the chalet?”
“No, I’m in France.” Alex gave him the number. “Don’t leave any messages.”
“For chrissake, I’m not an amateur. Pavel never made the mistake of thinking—” Goldbaum stopped and then said gruffly, “Sorry.”
“So am I.” Alex’s voice was bleak. “And I want the bastard who killed him. Ledford’s gone underground. To get him I need—”
“The hook,” Goldbaum wearily finished for him. “I’ll get it for you.”
“What about Ledford’s whereabouts? Anything new?”
“I’m working on it. He’s smart. You’re right, about a year ago he dug a hole and then pulled the hole in after him.”
“Then go back further than a year. He had to have made some preparations before he went underground.”
“If he did, he buried them pretty damn good.” He went on quickly. “I know, dig!”
“Right.”
Alex replaced the receiver and looked down at the few notes he had made. Damn few. He had expected more from Goldbaum. The man was a former newspaperman and good at his job. If he hadn’t been able to find out all Alex needed to know about Andreas, it was probably because there wasn’t anything to find out.
But there had to be something.
Alex could feel the familiar frustration and fury welling up in him. He stood up and moved restlessly toward the casement window across the room. His hand clenched the aqua silk drapes as he gazed blindly out at the moonlit fields of Vasaro. He had thought it would be easier. He had thought he could remain remote and untouched, manipulate the events at Vasaro to suit himself and further his own aims without being affected. Yet he had been in contact with Caitlin Vasaro and her mother for only two days and he found himself—what? Touched, concerned—guilty?
He had no reason to feel guilty, he quickly assured himself. He may not have been completely open with Caitlin, but the influx of his money would save Vasaro, and that was the only thing Caitlin Vasaro really wanted. She had told him herself she didn’t care what his purpose was in investing in Vasaro. As for his other emotions, he’d be very careful not to let Caitlin beneath his defenses.
His grip tightened on the curtains as he remembered the smooth, silky feel of Caitlin’s flesh beneath his fingers, her gray-green eyes wary and wondering as she looked up at him. Why hadn’t he gone further than that teasing foreplay? She had been ready for it. He had seen the faint tremor that shook her as he touched and felt the heat of her. Caitlin might be wary of him, but her response had been purely elemental.
He whirled and pulled his sweatshirt over his head as he strode back to the bed across the room. He would go to bed and forget about Caitlin and Vasaro and think only of Ledford and what he would do to him when he got his hands on the son of a bitch.
“Martinique, Alex,” Pavel coaxed. “A little sun. That’s all I ask. A little sun, a little sex, a gourmet meal now and then.”
“Now and then? You haven’t stepped on a scale lately.”
Pavel strapped to the chair, his eyes looking at Alex, the dead lips moving. “Ma
rtinique. A little sun . . .”
“Pavel!”
Alex jerked upright in bed, his heart pounding, his body coated with a cold sweat.
Another dream. But it hadn’t felt like a dream . . . none of them ever did. He had felt the same explosion of rage and sorrow as the moment when he had seen Pavel strapped in the chair.
He closed his eyes as he tried to control the shudders racking his body. The dreams came every night, but when he got Ledford, they would stop. He couldn’t think of Ledford without thinking of Pavel, and to think of Pavel was unbearable. God, he missed that big bear.
The shaking was easing now. He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes, feeling the tears sting behind the closed lids. He wouldn’t think about Pavel. He couldn’t think of him and keep the guilt and pain at bay. He searched desperately for something, anything to block the thought.
Caitlin Vasaro.
While he was with her he hadn’t once thought of Pavel. He had been intrigued, touched, impatient, but at every moment totally involved. He could use her presence and the lust that accompanied it to distract him. He could use Caitlin to keep the pain away, to keep the dreams away.
Use? Jesus, he hated users. He had been used too often himself over the years.
But he needed something, someone. He needed the woman.
He could be honest with Caitlin, make his position clear. She had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Why wouldn’t she be willing to give him what he needed?
Forgetfulness.
“May I help?”
Caitlin looked up to see Alex standing beside her in the field. He was dressed in faded jeans similar to the pair he had worn the previous night and a white T-shirt.
“What?”
“I’d like to help, if I may.”
He watched Adrienne, the woman next to her, pick the lavender. “This doesn’t look too difficult.”
“It’s not. It requires practice and a certain rhythm.” She frowned. “But it’s hard work.”
He smiled. “I don’t think I’ll collapse from exhaustion. I ski every day when I’m at my chalet, and I’m in pretty good shape.”
She could see he wasn’t boasting. His bare arms were corded with muscle, and he didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his body. “If you’re bored, why don’t you write something?”
He grimaced. “The muse isn’t whispering in my ear. I feel like doing something physical. If I work hard enough, I’ll sleep better.” His shoulders moved restlessly beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Well, are you going to let me help, or not?”
He was telling the truth. She could sense that same restlessness she had noticed the previous night. “Go to the truck and get a basket from Jacques.”
“Caitlin told me to come to you and get a basket, D’Abler.”
“Did she?” Jacques reached down and took a full basket of blossoms a picker was holding up to him before turning to face Alex. “Now, what would you be wanting with a basket?”
In spite of the overseer’s casual tone, Alex could sense his antagonism, and a fierce surge of joy pounded through him as he looked at the man standing on the bed of the truck. He had heard that goading tone before in other men’s voices, and it always preceded violence. After all these weeks of frustration, here at last was something to strike out against.
And Jacques D’Abler was a very formidable something. Though not a young man, the powerfully muscled overseer looked hard as a rock and held himself with the easy confidence of a man who had known few physical defeats. Alex’s gaze ran over him, assessing, picking his spots for the battle to come. “What do the rest of the pickers want with them?”
“To earn a decent living.” Jacques met his gaze. “But Caitlin tells me you don’t need to earn a living, that you’re rich as Midas and going to save Vasaro.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
“I believe you told her that.” He shrugged. “She’s not stupid. We’ll have to see.”
“Could I have a basket?”
“To show her you’re one of us? You’re not one of us, Monsieur Karazov. I’ve seen your kind before. You’re too smooth and easy for Vasaro.”
“I asked only for a basket, not your opinion.”
“I’m a generous man. I’ll give it to you anyway.” Another picker had appeared beside the truck and Jacques reached down and took the woman’s brimming basket. “As I said, Caitlin’s not stupid but she wants to believe. I think she’s beginning to trust you.” He emptied the basket into the larger casque on the truck. “That makes me uneasy.”
“Regrettable.”
“Yes, it is. She doesn’t trust many strangers. I’d be very upset if you disillusioned her.”
It was coming. Alex took an eager step forward, his gaze narrowing on Jacques’s face. “How upset?”
Jacques didn’t answer him directly. “When Caitlin was a little girl, her father gave her a necklace, a golden Pegasus with emerald eyes. Everyone knew how fascinated she was by the stories of the real Wind Dancer, and Reardon was always clever about pleasing the ladies. She loved that necklace and wore it everywhere.” He returned the empty basket to the picker and watched the woman stroll back into the field, waiting until she was out of earshot before continuing. “The night he left Vasaro, the necklace disappeared with him.” He smiled sardonically. “God knows, by that time there wasn’t much else left for him to take.”
“I assure you I’m not a jewel thief. Is there a point to this story?”
“Oh, yes.” Jacques’s toothy smile widened, gleamed, in his brown face. “I followed the son of a bitch to his hotel in Cannes and tried to get the necklace back. I tried so hard, I broke his nose and three of his ribs.”
“Interesting. And did you retrieve the necklace?”
“No, he’d already sold it to one of his jet-set friends. I tried to track it down, but the woman had left the country. So I went back to the hotel, broke both Reardon’s arms, and came back home to Vasaro. He was the last man who disillusioned Caitlin.”
Alex tried to hold on to his antagonism but found it impossible. Something about the man’s frank, earthy ferocity reminded him of Pavel during those first days he’d known him in the Spetznez. “I can see why it might have discouraged all comers. Did Caitlin ever find out what you did?”
“No, she wouldn’t have understood.”
“But I do. Now that I’ve been properly intimidated, may I have my basket?”
“You’re not intimidated.”
“No, actually I’m disappointed.” He met Jacques’s gaze and told him the truth. “I needed something to fight, but I don’t believe it’s going to be you. We think too much alike.”
Jacques stood looking at him for another moment and then reached down, took a basket from the stack, and tossed it to Alex. “Third row. I’ll be there in a minute to show you what to do.”
Caitlin had expected Alex to come back and pick with her after Jacques showed him the rudiments of gathering the blossoms. Instead, he chose a place beside Pierre Ledux and stayed there until afternoon, when Jacques called a halt to the picking. He tossed his empty basket on the bed of the truck and strode off toward the house without a word.
Alex was up and ready to go with her at dawn the next morning when she went down to the fields, but again he chose to pick in another row. When it was time to break for croissants and coffee at ten, she saw him sitting on the bed of the pickup truck, talking to Jacques.
On the third day Jacques made a point of stopping by the row where Caitlin was working. “He’s pretty good, eh?”
Caitlin looked over to the row where Alex was picking beside Renée Boisson. “He’s fast.”
“And strong. He has great energy.”
That was without question. She had noticed that volatile energy seething just below the surface for the past two days. He couldn’t seem to work fast enough.
“At first I wasn’t sure about him, but I . . . I think he’s a man to trust.”
Caitli
n looked at Jacques in surprise. Jacques didn’t make snap judgments, and she had thought a man as enigmatic as Alex Karazov would pose a problem for him. “He’s not an easy man to understand.”
“He’s hurting.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “I know. He works too hard.” Jacques turned and strode off down the row toward the truck.
Caitlin gazed at Alex thoughtfully as she went back to work. He was laughing at something Renée had said, his face alive and expressive. He didn’t look like a man who was troubled or in pain. He looked earthy, thoroughly male, and as distant from the polished man she had first seen waiting for her on the hill as Earth was to Neptune. A lock of dark hair hung over his perspiring forehead, and his blue shirt was darkened with sweat. He stood with his legs slightly astride, and the material of his faded jeans clung to his muscular thighs and hips.
Caitlin felt a tingle of heat move through her and hurriedly lifted her gaze back to his face. What had passed between them in her workroom had been only an episode to be forgotten by both of them. Alex Karazov had evidently succeeded, and so must she.
Yet Jacques was right about Alex’s labor having an almost feverish quality. Not only did he work hard in the fields, but her mother had mentioned there was frequently a light under his door until after three in the morning. Well, his nocturnal habits were none of her business any more than those mysterious packets he received every day were her concern. A man as guarded as Alex Karazov would neither invite nor appreciate probing or sympathy. She firmly dismissed him from her thoughts and concentrated on the work at hand.
“Will you go for a walk with me?”
Caitlin turned from stacking her basket on the truck to Alex. She was again conscious of suppressed volatility and stiffened uneasily. “I don’t have time to go for a walk.”
“Just a short one. I’ve been exploring Vasaro by myself for the last few days, but there are questions I need to ask.” He smiled. “Research.”