Silver and Spice

Chapter 3

At midmorning, Anne stepped out of her office with a sheaf of papers in her hand. The trust department of Yale Bank and Trust was carpeted in teal blue and paneled in dark walnut; the mood of the place, particularly on the second floor, was efficient, quiet and formal. It suited Anne. Yale was an old-time, small, well-established bank, not in competition with the major conglomerate banks of the metropolitan area. Its specialty was trusts and estate planning; its assets were varied and closely guarded; and its stock was so zealously held that shares were rarely for sale. Conservative was the name of the game.

Anne had a nice block of that stock, and in the six years she’d been with the bank had acquired more. Trust officers were typically over fifty and balding, a stereotype that was important, actually. Authority and experience were critical to gaining the customers’ trust. Fred Laird would never have given her the title two years ago, no matter how much he respected Anne, if she hadn’t demonstrated her ability to bring in the high-powered accounts that the bank specialized in. Gil Rivard had been her first estate. Jake’s grandfather. Anne had wanted to do that work for him, but had been uncomfortable when he later sent his friends to her. She had too much pride to want anyone’s help, and she wished to owe no one favors.

She no longer needed favors from anyone. Anne was conservative, inventive, knowledgeable, and could find loopholes no one else had ever heard of in the tax laws. One customer had told her jokingly that she was more concerned with his security than he was. True.

Between her peaceful bailiwick and the noise of the new computer at the opposite end of the second floor, there was a central room where three assistantss worked, flanked on three sides by filing cabinets. In principle, the computer was supposed to reduce the number of files required, but banks, Mr. Laird had once told her wryly, have an intrinsic need to justify any transaction they make ten times over. Throwing away anything was anathema, a no-no. The computer regularly spit out reports someone was dying to file, even if they were never read again.

A gross exaggeration, Anne admitted dryly, but judging from the pile of paperwork on Marlene’s desk, not far enough from the truth.

“You need something, Miss Blake?”

“Just a report copied.” Anne waved the brunette back to her chair. “I’ll do it myself-I can see you’re swamped.”

“Typical Monday,” Marlene admitted.

A half-hour later, Anne returned from the first floor’s photocopying room, juggling the folders and two cups of coffee, one of which she left on Marlene’s desk. The girl looked up with a surprised thank-you, but Anne was already passing.

It was not, for Anne, a typical Monday, but she was trying to get through it. At work she invariably projected a smooth, quiet-voiced serenity; she never flaunted her authority, but it was there. She’d earned it. No one could conceivably tell by looking at her that her calculator had come up with whimsical figures all morning, that she’d lost three files, that she’d read and reread emails in her inbox and still didn’t know what was in there. She had snagged her panty hose. Being Anne, she had a replacement pair in her desk drawer, but she spilled coffee on them on her way back from the photocopying room… The day was just not going well.

Distractedly, she pushed open the door to her office. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the silver-wrapped package with its gay streamers of pink ribbons. Frowning, she set down the files and her coffee and closed the office door. An unsteady pulse throbbed in her throat as she slowly started to undo the bright wrappings.

Memories of other surprise gifts through the years raised the color in her cheeks. The presents never arrived on her birthday, never at Christmas. Never when she was expecting them. Never anything that was suitable to be opened in one’s office, even if one locked the door and pulled the shades over all the windows…

One peek inside the box and the pulse in her throat went into double time. She glanced up nervously to make sure the door was closed before carefully unfolding the treasure. The camisole was designed like a Victorian corset, the old-fashioned kind that cinched up the figure.

Except that there was no whalebone to viciously sever breath. Just satin, a luscious oyster-colored satin, and a low bodice tucked and gathered to deliberately display the wearer’s breasts so brazenly that she would certainly catch a cold.

Unconsciously, she stroked the soft folds, her palms stroking the luxurious satin, the fabric whispering a subtle, erotic call to her senses. Her rational mind, of course, was already crisply cataloging objections. The gift was terribly inappropriate. Anne’s choice of lingerie was not unfeminine, but always simple and practical. Lace and satin-she just wasn’t the type. Jake knew that. And yes, it was from Jake. She didn’t even need to look at the card.

No one else would have given her a gift that was so blatantly a sexual invitation. No one else persisted in inviting her to be the kind of woman she simply wasn’t. Very rapidly, she folded the camisole back into the box, feeling oddly breathless. When the lid was back on, she caught her breath again. If anyone had seen him bringing that in…

She buried the wrappings in her wastebasket, praying no one would knock on her door until she was done, and then hastily picked up the envelope. The note had been boldly scrawled in black ink. “Since I must have missed you, love, I went to see your Mr. Laird. All I wanted to know, was if you were free for lunch. He said you were free to come to Idaho with me for two weeks.”

She had to read it twice, because the first time she had obviously misunderstood. Jake would never have gone to see Laird, not even as a joke. Jake was unscrupulous and arrogant and, God knew, impulsive, but their affair had always been strictly private; he had always shown a respect for her that Anne had never questioned. She read the note a third time, sank back in her desk chair, closed her eyes and murmured to herself, “I am a mature, rational, practical woman in full control of my life.” One could not feel stalked unless one allowed oneself to become prey. She was not prey. For anyone. There was no logical reason she should feel a shudder of primitive fear dance up her vertebrae.

The thing to do was…open her eyes. Get up, for heaven’s sake, and hide the camisole in the bottom drawer of her file cabinet, bury the note in her purse… Those things done, she straightened an imperceptible wrinkle in her skirt and opened the office door.

She negotiated carpet, linoleum, elevator and more carpet all in the four and a half minutes it took to reach Mr. Laird’s door, truly a record pace in her high-heeled spectators. Her tap was polite, perfectly in control.

“Come in.”

She felt better the moment Mr. Laird offered her his usual distracted smile. Her boss intimidated half the people in the bank with those ice-blue eyes of his. He tolerated no inefficiency, would fire anyone he knew to be disloyal, and ruthlessly dictated policies that were not always popular. Anne had always gotten along beautifully with him. She also knew him well enough to realize that the distracted smile was a favorable augury. “Actually, I was going to call you earlier, Anne, but then I got hung up with a phone call. The White estate-I liked the way you handled all of it.”

“I…thank you, Mr. Laird.” Anne propped herself on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk. Her nerves were all set to relax again when her boss handed her the White file, leaned back in his chair and started chuckling.

Mr. Laird was not a chuckler. Anne’s headache was instant.

The head of stiff white hair was shaking in disbelief. “But that was not what I was going to call you about. Gil Rivard’s grandson was just in here.” Another distinctly rusty chuckle escaped from his throat. “The man is crazy, absolutely crazy. I can’t think of a time I have ever had such an…unusual…conversation.”

Very smoothly and carefully, Anne vaulted out of the chair. “Mr. Laird…”

He waved her back down with that thoroughly uncharacteristic grin. “Here.” He shifted an oblong piece of paper in her direction. “He handed me that, and asked me if I would give it to you. He’s given you power of attorney and wants you to set up some sort of trust for him. Then he sat down for ten minutes, rambled on about the hummingbirds in Idaho, local politics, deep-sea fishing in Tahiti, and left.” Her boss was chuckling again, though one of his eyebrows lurched up in a half-scold. “If you have the time? Anne, I think you could at least have mentioned to me that Gil wasn’t the only iron you had in the Rivard fire.”

Anne was staring at the cashier’s check in her hand. Money made Mr. Laird so very happy. He loved it when his vault was chock-full. That slim little piece of paper in her hand bore a six-figure number after the dollar sign. Jake didn’t have two nickels to rub together, the last she’d heard.

“And there’s more that he wants to put away, Anne. For his children, he put it, even though he doesn’t have any yet. He’s got a wife in mind, I gather. Good Lord, though, the man doesn’t even have the least idea of his own assets. He has bank accounts he hasn’t checked up on in years in God knows how many states. And he may stay in Idaho for a few years, but there’s no reason that state needs to benefit rather than Michigan, which is his real home base. He could be anywhere a few years from now.” Mr. Laird peered at Anne through wire-rimmed lenses. “I suggested he hire an accountant to get his financial situation in order, Anne, but he didn’t like that idea. He wants you and no one else. I don’t know what you discussed with him, but I suppose we could stretch our policy a bit to allow you to conduct bank business out of state.”

Anne’s head was spinning. “It would be totally impossible for me to leave right now, anyway…”

“We could arrange something. After all, Gil Rivard has been a loyal customer of this bank for a good many years, and he’s brought us a great deal of business. You’ve got vacation time coming…”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Laird,” Anne sang out cheerfully, “there is no possible way I can go to Idaho at this time.”

“He’s kind of a modern-day adventurer, isn’t he?” Her boss glanced at her, then out the window. The September sky was very blue. “His life sounds like a young man’s dream. You’ll probably find this ridiculous, Anne, but when I was a young man…” He focused back on her with a sudden frown. “If your backlog of work is the problem…”

“No, it’s personal,” Anne said. Now there was a word designed to catch her boss’s attention. Since she’d never let on to anyone that she had a personal life, it had to come as a little shock. She took advantage of the startled look in his eyes, adding swiftly, “I didn’t mean I wasn’t willing to take care of Jake Rivard’s finances, Mr. Laird. Only I can assure you that travel won’t be necessary under any circumstances.”

He took her meaning a little differently than she’d intended, but Anne left well enough alone. The talk had been interesting, she mused as she walked back to her office. She’d never had the least inkling before that Fred Laird had a secret wish to take off on a slow boat to Tahiti. His wife would be crushed. Anne was crushed, to see her normally pompous, conservative and eminently logical boss get taken in by a rogue with a vagabond heart. Frankly, the whole thing was demoralizing…

So was opening up her bottom drawer after lunch to get a file on corporate bond regulations and finding a decadent satin camisole in its place. So was knowing that last night she’d come darn close to tumbling into bed with Jake Rivard about a minute and a half after he’d shown up in her life again.

Around four in the afternoon, Anne was pressing cool, smooth fingertips to her temples, having failed to take care of a single email in her inbox. The only bright spot in the entire day had been whisking Jake’s cashier’s check downstairs and converting it to a nice, safe, invulnerable thirty-day certificate of deposit. Not that she wanted to even touch his money, but at least temporarily he couldn’t splurge it on silver mines or wildcat oil or swampland in Florida. It wasn’t her business, of course. And it wasn’t her business that the trust Jake had requested wasn’t necessarily his best choice of investment tool, or that thirty days would allow someone to seriously study his best options. Someone. Not Anne. In the meantime, Jake was still wearing the patched jeans she remembered from high school. Over the years he’d neglected to mention that he could afford fourteen-karat-gold patches.

She rubbed her temples harder. Jake had been in town less than twenty-four hours, and already her well-ordered life was disrupted. But that was old news, really. She’d fallen just as hard, just as fast, the other times.

But not this time, Jake, she thought sadly. I tried love with you. Far too many times. More than enough to risk walking on the edge of that cliff again. It’s the hot rush of a drug when you’re here, but then you’re gone. Sweetheart, I’m not suited to lead the life of a nomad.

Jake was waiting for her outside the bank when she left at the end of the day. Somehow, she was not surprised. An hour later, he nodded to a black-suited waiter, who then poured a sparkling Burgundy into their glasses. When the waiter was gone, Jake leaned back in his chair and regarded Anne with a faintly amused smile. “You’re looking a little tired.”

“I am,” she admitted, glancing at the red leather wainscoting of the restaurant he’d chosen. Expensive. Terrifyingly expensive.

“Anything interesting happen at the bank today?”

She smiled sweetly. “Not really. Just a typical Monday.”

With a throaty chuckle, he raised his glass. “To two weeks in the Silver Valley with you, love.”

She raised her glass in return. “They’ll have to ship the coffin.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine. I’m not going to Idaho any other way, but you, Jake…” She took a breath, and then a sip of wine. “I will never and have never even considered trying to stop you from going anywhere you wanted to go.”

Jake regarded her thoughtfully. Anne met his look for a moment and then studied the bubbling Burgundy in her glass with fascination. He’d given her fifteen minutes to change at her place before coming here, because she’d asked for that. A pale gold velvet jacket complemented the crimson dress, with its pale gold hem and cowled collar; bone sandals completed the outfit. Not a hair was out of place; her perfume was fresh; she knew she looked her best.

Jake, by contrast, was wearing a red flannel shirt and navy cords. He was a disgrace, a total disgrace. And those damn sexy eyes of his wouldn’t leave her alone for a minute.

She set down her wineglass and picked up a warm roll from the basket. “I returned your gift on my lunch hour,” she lied, knowing full well he was waiting for her to comment on the camisole.

“Did you, now?”

“I think you had in mind a lady of a little more…formidable stature.”

“Actually, I’m well aware of every dimension of the lady I bought that for.”

“Is she nice?”

“When I was in high school,” Jake drawled, “we used to make a little distinction between nice girls and good girls. Good girls went home and went to bed. Nice girls went to bed, and then got up and went home and went to bed.” He paused. “At times she can be very nice.”

Sooner or later, Anne figured, they would have to stop making inane conversation. The problem was, they always had inane conversation. Another problem was the way Jake was perfectly comfortable in a red flannel shirt when every other man in the place wore a suit. Still other problems were the way his hair had been roughly brushed back from his forehead and the bold male vibrations he sent across the table. You still want him, whispered a little voice in her head.

The waiter served a steak to Jake, which he devoured immediately, and veal parmigiana to Anne, which she pushed around the plate.

“Just try a bite,” Jake coaxed. “Or if you want, we can order something else.”

“No, thank you.”

“Why don’t you get it off your chest?”

“Why don’t I get what off my chest?”

The waiter suddenly dipped down from behind her to take her plate. A flush climbed up her cheeks like a glowing pink brush fire. The waiter didn’t even look up. Jake chuckled.

“The worst they can do is throw us out if you start shouting,” he said helpfully.

“I have never shouted in a public place in my life!”

“You should.” Jake leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, his silvery eyes intent on hers. “Let’s hear it, Anne.”

Without her dinner to push around, she had nothing to do with her hands but clutch the coffee cup. “This has nothing to do with you and me personally, understand? We’re just talking about you now.” Distress was mirrored in her clear green eyes as she thought about something he’d said earlier. “Jake, how could you have gotten involved in something as fly-by-night as silver mines when you… Look. How deeply are you involved? No, I really don’t want to get embroiled in your personal affairs, but for god’s sake if you’re in over your head…”

“You’d help me?”

“Don’t make fun, Jake,” she warned in a low voice.

His silvery eyes settled on hers. “I wasn’t. And I never have. And if you’ve ever misunderstood that-”

She waved that aside with a motion of her fingers. Irrelevant. “The last I knew, you were tearing up your inheritance and tossing it to the four winds, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that you seem to have actually accumulated something to put away, and I really don’t want to see you just gamble it away, risk it all again…”

“Exactly why I need your help,” Jake agreed, claiming her frustrated little half-fist on the table. Slowly, he smoothed out her fingers, his thumb rubbing gently up and down her soft palm to her wrist. “Laird must have mentioned that I’m willing to give you full power of attorney. You can do whatever you want with everything I have. Lock all the money up in trusts so tight that I can’t get my hands on it. You’re going to love the Silver Valley in Idaho,” he promised her.

She stiffened. “I am not going with you.” Her hand shot away from his.

He didn’t seem to notice. He was busy removing the spotless white napkin from her lap and standing up. “We might as well go if you’re not even going to drink your coffee.”

“I am not going to become involved in your personal affairs, Jake. Nor do I want your power of attorney. Ever.”

“Now let’s not say things we might have to take back,” he said mildly. “And I do promise, Anne, that you’re going with me.”

Why try to talk to a red flannel brick wall? Gritting her teeth, Anne led the way out of the restaurant and tried to force her blood pressure back down. Standing on the lamp-lit street, she shivered suddenly in the cold night air. A gray mist was climbing around the lampposts in whimsical little clouds. She buttoned her velvet jacket very slowly while Jake waited with an elusive half-smile.

“Ready for me to take you home and seduce you?” he asked casually.

“No.”

She slipped into the car and waited for Jake to come around to his side. While the engine was warming, he leaned back for a moment and just stared at Anne. She felt his eyes sweep over her fine-boned profile, taking in the slight flush in her cheeks, the way her lashes fluttered away from him when she felt that claim of possession. She knew he’d meant what he said. A polite kiss at the door was not what he had in mind. She stared straight ahead. “I think you should see something of your grandfather. You’ve been in town more than a day already, and Gil-”

Jake chuckled and backed out of the parking space. “The lady will just build up anxiety by waiting, but we’ll let her have her way,” he told the sky. “I called Gramps earlier this afternoon to let him know we’d be there,” he told Anne.

She leaned back in the seat and ignored him. Did she have a choice? They drove in silence for a few minutes, Jake’s car lapping up the freeway. “Anne?” he said finally. “The financial bit was a smoke screen. I think you know that.”

“Pardon?”

“A smoke screen. An excuse.” Jake flicked a glance at the rearview mirror, changed lanes and pulled over to the shoulder of the expressway-to Anne’s total horror. Cars whizzed past, headlights blinding them. She glanced out the rear window in search of approaching police cars, but Jake firmly turned her head until she was eye to eye with him. The smooth laziness was gone from his tone; his tenor was rough and sharp. “I’ve never wanted anyone intruding in my personal affairs, financial or otherwise, except you, Anne, but that isn’t the point. Giving you an excuse to come with me was the point. If you need it, take it,” he said harshly when she parted her lips to protest. “I’ll invent just as many excuses as you need. All I want is two weeks with you, Anne. Two weeks to convince you to marry me. And I’m going to have those two weeks.” He paused. “We’re not a matched set. If you think I don’t know it, you’re crazy. Unfortunately, though, I just can’t go on anymore without you, Anne. I’ve tried working myself half to death and not sleeping, and I’ve tried other women, but nothing works, and I’m damned tired of trying to make it without you. That’s the bottom line. And you’ve got the same problem, now, haven’t you?”

Anne just looked at him. Light and then shadow from the passing cars intermittently flashed across his face. Something tight and hard seemed to have settled in her throat. Jake had never talked that way; he’d always been an easy, slow, sensual lover, impulsive in a way she found irresistible.

Marry him? It was finally sinking in that he actually meant it. Oddly, the thought hurt her, deep inside. She’d fallen in love with the wolf who nipped at her hooks and eyes in the middle of a formal party, with the devil who dared to send an outrageous camisole to her at her sedate office. At thirty-one, though, she couldn’t keep on playing. She needed roots, and Jake couldn’t even define the word. Romance was a parachute jump where all the thrill was in midair, but Anne knew she couldn’t live her life without something to hold on to. She’d spent a whole childhood falling.

“Jake, it’s no good,” she said desperately.

“We’re going to have to try.” Jake touched her cheek gently, then settled back and turned his attention to the road again, easing the car back onto the expressway.

“All this time, you never said anything-”

“All this time,” he echoed, “I gave you every chance to find someone who would fit that mold you have in mind for a husband, Anne. Security, white picket fence, gray flannel suit-the whole bit. You’ve failed, honey. And I’m all through gnashing my teeth and worrying about who the hell you might be letting your hair down for, that he’d be the total ass I think you have in mind.”

“I’m certainly glad you appreciate my taste in men,” Anne remarked.

Jake shot her an amused glance. “Honey, a man who makes love to his wife two-point-three times a week couldn’t keep you happy by a long shot. It isn’t my fault you’ve built up these terrible misconceptions of what’s important in your life. You forget I’ve been there when the lights were off.”

Far too often, Anne thought darkly.

Jake pulled into the long, shadowed drive of his grandfather’s house. A three-story stone mansion sat at the end of the drive. Warm lamps lit an impeccably landscaped lawn. Jake stopped the car, switched off the ignition and turned to Anne, who was ostentatiously studying the scene outside. “If I didn’t think you were desperately in need of a little sustenance, Anne, I’d be awfully inclined to offer you a little tangible proof…”

She got out of the car, slammed the door and stalked deliberately toward the house.