Bridal Jitters (12 page)

That explained a lot, she thought, including the sunglasses-at-midnight thing. The Sebastians kept a low profile, but given her personal interest in the family, she paid attention when a member of the clan occasionally appeared in a rez-screen video or in the newspapers. Drake was the heir to the corporate throne—the man slated to take over the helm of the family empire—so lately he had been showing up more than any of the other Sebastians.

Drake was never seen in public without his mirrored glasses. They were his trademark. According to the media, he did not wear them for effect. The unique mirrored lenses had been developed specially for him in a Sebastian company research lab. It was no secret that following a lab accident three years earlier he had developed a severe sensitivity to light from the normal end of the spectrum. Now, without his special sunglasses, Drake was even blinded by a low-watt lightbulb.

For the past year there was only one thing Alice had feared more than her obsessive ex-mother-in-law’s unrelenting harassment. Her worst nightmare for months was that the powerful Sebastian family might figure out that something very bad had happened on Rainshadow Island a year ago and that she was responsible.

Now it appeared the clan had, indeed, sent someone to track her down—and not just some low-ranking security agent. It was the next president and CEO of the family empire standing here in the alley. And he was looking straight at her even though she was bending light with all of her talent.

No doubt about it.
This is officially a really, really bad night
, she thought.

“You can see me,” she said.

The overhead light glinted on Drake’s mirrored glasses. His mouth curved in a mysterious smile, an edgy combination of masculine satisfaction and anticipation that sent shivers of awareness across her senses.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I can see you, Alice North.”

“Crap.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Continue reading for an excerpt from the first book in the Guinevere Jones series by Jayne Ann Krentz writing as Jayne Castle

THE DESPERATE GAME

Available digitally from InterMix.

He was the ugliest man in the bar, and he had his eye on her.

It figured, Guinevere Jones decided as she swept up an empty bottle of imported British ale. Give her one entire evening in the trendiest yuppie bar in Seattle, and she would end up attracting the attention of the only nontrendy, nonyuppie in the room. Deliberately she avoided looking at the corner table where he sat brooding under a huge fern.

Deftly she replaced the empty bottle with a full one, made change with a charming smile, and thanked the attractive young urban professional male who had just ordered the ale. It took an effort to project her voice over the monotonous din of music currently considered hot. By the time the bar closed for the night she would be hoarse.

She was also going to have very sore feet. The black pumps that were a part of the cocktail waitress uniform had become uncomfortable five minutes after she’d stepped into them. The pencil-slim black skirt and the mauve blouse weren’t as unpleasant as the shoes, but Guinevere felt conspicuous. Skirts cut as narrowly as the one she wore were designed for what the fashion industry termed the junior figure. She knew her derriere had not fallen within the junior parameters since she was twelve years old. Unfortunately the blouse seemed to have been styled for a Hollywood starlet, and her bustline had maintained its petite dimensions even though she was now thirty.

Ah, well. Such was the price one paid for the joys of being one’s own boss. She’d spent worse evenings. The client was happy, and the image of being totally dependable had been maintained. One always had to consider the image.

Guinevere made her way to the next tableful of fashionably casual up-and-comers and dutifully took their orders for California wines and an imported light beer. Sooner or later she was going to have to go back to the table in the corner. The nonyuppie had almost finished his small glass of tequila. It was after she’d taken his order the first time that she’d become aware of his
intent scrutiny. Might as well get it over and done. Resolutely Guinevere headed for the fern-shrouded table.

“Another tequila?” She kept her voice bright and her smile brilliantly professional.

He nodded once and swallowed the last sip in the small glass. Guinevere stifled a shudder.

“When do you get off work?”

The low, dark shade of his voice surprised her for some reason, perhaps because it didn’t sound in the least affected by the tequila.

“I don’t. I work twenty-four hours a day. No time off for good behavior. Or bad either.” She made her response polite but firmly discouraging.

“Just one long hustle, hmmm?”

“A woman’s work is never done.” She scooped up the little glass, her tone dropping several degrees in temperature. “I’ll be right back.”

“I put in a lot of twenty-four-hour days myself. Or at least it seems that way sometimes.”

“Fascinating. Excuse me.” Without another word she took the glass and hurried back to the long, ornate bar at the far end of the room. In all fairness the man wasn’t really ugly. It was just that in this terribly chic environment he tended to stand out. Like a sore thumb.

For one thing, he was definitely older than almost everyone else in the room, probably near forty. The typical young, upwardly mobile urban professional tended to be around thirty—a good age for making it big or at least living well so that everyone was convinced you were making it big. Same difference.

The man crouching like a malevolent frog under the fern was dressed much more conservatively than those around him. His white shirt and bland tie were definitely nondesigner, and his short, no-nonsense haircut was not the product of a blow dryer. She hadn’t peeked under the table, but Guinevere was willing to bet the shoes would be wing tips.

In the dimly lit room it was difficult to get a good look at his face, but she’d seen enough to know the frog drinking tequila among princes had not been cloned from the same designer genes
as the rest of the crowd in the bar.

And the heavy-handed pass he was attempting to make could have used some social polish, to say the least.

“Order in,” Guinevere called to the busy bartender. Jerry nodded once to show he’d heard and went on blending the frothy pink strawberry daiquiri someone had ordered. His expression was polite, but she had a hunch what he was thinking. Bartenders, Guinevere had learned, were very disdainful of people who ordered fluffy drinks. She waited patiently until he was done.

“Two more chardonnays, three draft bitters, and another tequila straight.”

“Who’s the guy drinking the tequila?” Jerry smoothly poured the white wines.

“A frog that never metamorphosed into a prince.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Don’t they ever turn that music down, Jerry?”

“Nope. It’s after midnight. The meat-market action is going to be getting very intense soon. The music helps.”

“Helps what?”

Jerry shrugged with the wisdom of bartenders the world over. “Helps make it all right, I guess. How are you holding up?”

“My feet are killing me, but I’ll last.”

“You get used to it after a while.” Jerry grinned abruptly. “But I guess that bit of information doesn’t matter much to you. You’re here only for the night.”

“Thank heaven. I think I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. Be back in a few minutes.”

Guinevere picked up the drink-laden tray and moved back into the crowd. Jerry was right. The action was getting intense. There was an air of urgency hanging over some of the participants. It was Friday evening, and a lot of the people in the room were going to be facing a lonely weekend if they didn’t connect with someone soon.

She would have found the whole scene sociologically interesting if she hadn’t been so tired,
Guinevere realized. And if her feet weren’t hurting so much. She saved the tequila order for last.

“You didn’t answer my question,” the man under the fern said just as if their earlier conversation hadn’t been terminated.

Guinevere set down the tequila. “Seven, please.”

“What time do you get off work?” He pushed eight dollar bills toward her. They were left over from the change she had made on his first drink.

“I told you, never. They lock me up in a little cage in the back room from two
A. M.
until six. Then I start all over again.” Guinevere found fifty cents in change and set it in front of him. “Thank you.” She turned to leave.

“I’m thinking of locking you up in a cage myself.” He gave her a contemplative glance, ghost gray eyes moving over her with grave consideration.

Guinevere knew she was close to losing her temper. Only the necessity of maintaining a good image in front of the client kept her from dropping the tray on the Frog’s head. Smiling very sweetly, she leaned a little closer.

“Allow me to point out that you have wandered into the wrong pond tonight, sir. This is trendy young go-getter territory. Not really suited for frogs. Try your luck in one of the big hotel bars downtown or out on the airport strip. I think that would be more your style. Better hurry. It’s getting late.”

“Whatever luck I’m going to have will be here.” He picked up the tequila. “You see, I’m not looking for just any woman tonight. I’m looking for you, Guinevere Jones. And I’ve found you.”

She drew in her breath slowly, hiding the jolt he had given her. The fact that the Frog knew her name introduced a vaguely alarming element into the atmosphere. She wished he looked more like a drunken businessman attempting a clumsy pass. She didn’t care for the steady regard of those dark eyes.

“Just what,” she said calmly, “did you intend to do with me after you found me?”

“I told you. Put you in a cage.”

There was always the possibility, of course, that he was simply crazy. But Guinevere couldn’t find any sign of obvious insanity in the unrelenting face of the man under the fern. It was the fact that he knew her name that really disturbed her.

“Would you care to explain yourself so that I can make a decision?” she inquired politely.

“Make a decision about what?”

“About whether to call the cops or the mental health folks.”

A faint smile flickered briefly at the edge of his grim mouth. “I don’t think you want to call either crowd, Miss Jones. The police would be an embarrassment to you, and the mental health people have more important things to do.”

Guinevere went still, the tray balanced precariously on one hand as she eyed the Frog. “Why,” she asked distinctly, “would the cops prove embarrassing?”

Looking thoughtful, he tasted the tequila and then reached up to push aside a trailing piece of fern that seemed to be trying for a sample of his drink. “Because then I would have to go into long and rather detailed explanations about who I am and why I’m spending an evening fighting off a fern and making threats to a particular cocktail waitress, all of which would be awkward for a supposedly upright, tax-paying small businessperson such as yourself.”

The tray wavered a bit on her hand. Guinevere steadied it. “Okay, I’ll ask the obvious. Who are you?”

“Zachariah Justis. You can call me Zac.”

“Why would I want to call you Zac?”

“Because you’ll soon be working for me and I’d like to try for a certain degree of informality on the job. I’ve heard it, uh, lubricates the channels of communication. Smooths the ripples in the chain of command. Makes for an atmosphere of teamwork. That sort of thing.”

Guinevere was aware of a growing sensation of lightheadedness. Frantically she kept a hold on the tray and her nerves. Her throat felt a little dry. “Where did you hear that, Mr. Justis?”

He opened one large, square hand in a negligent gesture. “I think I read it in a recent issue of
some business management magazine.”

“You read a lot of those?”

“Not as many as I should, I’m afraid.” There was no real note of apology in the words. “I find them irritating.”

“I’ll just bet you do.” He looked like a man who would in general find irritating excessive demands for polite, socially acceptable behavior, let alone the courtesies of modern management.

“How soon can you leave?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

“You have a one-track mind. I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Justis.”

“This is where I get to say the magic word.”

“Which is?”

“StarrTech.”

Guinevere let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A small, nasty sensation of prickly awareness went down her spine. “For a frog you know some interesting magic words.”

“I thought you’d appreciate that particular one. Can you leave now?”

She shook her head instantly. “No.”

“When?”

“Not until two.”

He glanced at the clock over the bar. “That’s another hour.”

“Don’t let me keep you. If you’re bored with waiting, feel free to leave.” She swung around and started for the next table.

“I’ll wait,” he said behind her.

Guinevere didn’t doubt it.

Zac watched her as she moved off into the crowded room. She’d handled it well. When he’d mentioned StarrTech, there had been no furious denials, no loud exclamations of angered innocence, no contrived demands for an explanation. She had assessed the single word and figured out for herself all the ramifications. She’d be going home with him at two.

He appreciated that kind of direct acceptance of reality. He hadn’t expected to find it in Guinevere Jones. But, then, she was a small businessperson, just as he was, and people struggling to keep small businesses afloat learned in a hurry to deal with reality.

It was an interesting concept, Zac decided, this notion of having something in common with Miss Guinevere Jones. He wondered how she’d react to the idea. Probably wouldn’t be thrilled. What was it she had called him? A frog. That was it. Absently he shoved the fern frond off his shoulder. The damn thing seemed to be alive, the way it was attempting to climb into his drink. Suddenly he realized how he must look sitting in this dark corner under the overly healthy plant. Rather like a frog.