Pirate's Gold (4 page)

 

J
AN HAD LONG SINCE LEFT
the office and Maren was finishing reading the final contract. Other than a few typographical flaws, she found nothing out of the ordinary in the documents. The small ache in the back of her head had magnified as the hours had passed and there was still no answer to the puzzling question regarding Sterling Records.

She pulled herself out of the cramped position on the couch and stretched, letting her fingers work out the tension in her shoulders. She rotated her head as she opened her eyes and stared out the window that overlooked the parking lot. From her position on the second floor she could see that the long shadows against the concrete promised an early dusk. A slight breeze moved through the palm trees near the entrance of the building and a brilliant orange sun slipped lower on the horizon.

Though it was only a few minutes after seven, a sporty silver Mercedes rolled to a stop near the building. Maren's fingers stopped massaging her shoulders as she watched the owner of the car with unguarded interest. When he stretched out of the car, Maren's throat constricted with the recognition of Kyle Sterling. As president of Sterling Records, he held all of the cards concerning the fate of Festival Productions in his hands. That wasn't true, she argued with herself. Festival relied on Sterling Records, but surely it wouldn't crumble if the contracts weren't signed. Or was she kidding herself?

Apparently Mr. Sterling had ignored her request to change the time of the meeting. Though he had agreed to a time of seven-thirty, he was nearly a half hour early. Convenient, she thought sarcastically to herself as a slow burn crept steadily up her neck.

He didn't bother to lock his car, but Maren wasn't surprised. What had come as somewhat of a shock to her was that he drove at all. She'd expected a man of such celebrated reputation as Mr. Sterling only to suffer the indignities and snarls of L.A. traffic behind the protective tinted glass of a chauffeured limousine. So the infamous Kyle Sterling was human after all. But she'd guessed that much, hadn't she, at the party in Beverly Hills. The woman in her had intuitively known about his nature as a man.

Kyle strode toward the building as if he were a man with a mission. He was taller than Maren remembered. Though his shoulders were broad, his torso was lean, and he moved with the purpose and grace of a hunter stalking his prey. His dress was sophisticated, but casual: tan corduroy slacks, an ivory sweater and a brown tweed jacket. The tabs of a pale blue collar showed against the neckline of his sweater, but there was no evidence of a tie.

For some strange reason she couldn't completely understand, Maren smiled. It was comforting to think that Kyle Sterling rebelled against the formal convention of a tight silk tie knotted at his throat. It made him seem more real—less of a legend. As he approached the building he made no effort to straighten his jacket or comb his slightly unruly dark hair. It was as if he really didn't care much about his appearance.

When he passed out of view, Maren hurriedly ran her fingers through her hair, put her glasses in her purse and snapped the contracts into her briefcase. She heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Was that how he kept himself slim—by avoiding elevators? The door to her office opened after a brief knock. She had just tossed her jacket over her arm.

It was when she lifted her eyes to meet the uncompromising gaze of Kyle Sterling that the full impact of the man and what he represented hit her. From a distance his eyes had been interesting, a bold gray set deep into his head and guarded by thick black lashes and brooding ebony brows. Within the proximity of the small room, they were more than commanding or masculine, they held a controlled power that threatened to become unleashed at the slightest provocation.

“Mr. Sterling,” Maren managed to say, meeting his severe gaze squarely and ignoring the challenge in his eyes. “You're early.”

His gaze swept the room. “And you're alone…Miss…excuse me,
Ms.
McClure. Sometimes I forget that we live in liberated times.”

“Intentionally?”

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “If it serves my purpose,” he admitted.

Maren inclined her head and smiled stiffly. She extended her hand. “Please call me Maren. It makes things simpler.” Her smile softened and seemed sincere. It allowed Kyle the tantalizing glimpse of straight white teeth and a small dimple. For an uncertain moment he had the feeling that hers was the most honest smile he had ever seen. Her handshake was firm, her fingers warm. He released her palm reluctantly.

She was more beautiful than he had remembered. He'd met her twice. There had been once in this office for only a few minutes and he'd noticed that she was good-looking. He hadn't really thought much about it because he met many good-looking women on a daily basis. But there had been the party at Mitzi Danner's. He'd sensed at that time that she had been staring at him, but by the time he'd had the opportunity to confront her, she was gone. He had never pursued her, knowing instinctively that it could prove dangerous.

But now, as he stared into Maren's mysterious blue eyes, he could imagine himself drowning in their intense indigo depths. The blue color was cool, but Kyle suspected it warmed easily for the right man. Delicate black brows and a slightly upturned nose gave her an innocent look that contrasted suggestively with her elegantly sculpted cheekbones and full lips. Maren McClure was an enigma…a provocative enigma.

Kyle shifted his weight and pushed his hands deeply into his pockets, never once releasing her from the power of his gaze. “I thought you had a late appointment.”

“I did. I managed to cancel.” Once again he was rewarded with the trace of a smile.

“Even though you thought I'd be here later?” he asked skeptically.

“I wanted to be prepared.”

“For what?”

A fire sparked in her icy blue eyes. “For whatever it is you think is so important.”

His brows rose slightly. “And are you?”

Was it her imagination, or was he toying with her? “I hope so, Mr. Sterling.”

“Kyle,” he interjected.

“Kyle.” The word seemed to stick in her throat, but she managed to ignore the familiarity his first name engendered. “I assume you want to talk to me about the unsigned contracts between Festival Productions and your firm.”

His jaw tightened and he walked across the room. After a quick glance out the window, he balanced his weight on the ledge, supporting himself with his hands, his long legs extended on the floor. He seemed entirely at ease, as if he owned the place, and yet he avoided her question. “That's part of the reason I'm here,” he finally allowed. “We should clear up a few of the problems with the contracts.”

“I wasn't aware there were any.”

“No?” He was dubious; mocking. It made Maren uneasy, but she contained her case of nerves under a thin, tight smile.

“No.” She crossed her arms under her chest. “You keep hinting that we have a problem. Let's quit beating around the bush. What exactly is wrong? I read all of the contracts this afternoon and they seem in perfect order. Is there any particular clause to which you object?”

“Several. We'll discuss them later.”

“Along with the other part of the reason you're here,” she pressed.

“Of course.” His gaze dropped from her eyes and slid past the gentle slope of her shoulders to the swell of her breasts hidden annoyingly by the tie of her blouse. Abruptly his eyes returned to meet her gaze. “There's something more important to talk about.”

“More important than the contracts?” she repeated, as a puzzled expression crossed her finely sculpted features. “Such as…?”

“For one thing, the relationship of Festival Productions with Sterling Records.”

“Is it in jeopardy?” she asked calmly.

“Not really, but there are a few things I'd like to change.”

“Major things, I take it.”

His smile was sincere and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “You don't miss much, do you?”

“I hope not.”

“But you did have a bit of trouble here,” he prodded, and for a strange reason Maren felt as if her back were against the wall.

“What do you mean?”

“A couple of our videos were duplicated and put on the black market.”

This was a subject she had hoped to avoid. Kyle Sterling didn't seem to miss a trick. “That's true,” she agreed hesitantly. “We had a dishonest employee—he's no longer with us.”

He watched her intently. Was it his imagination, or was there just a trace of doubt in her clear eyes? He pushed himself away from the window and walked toward the door. “Are you ready?” he asked, positioning his body against the door in order to allow her to pass.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” she whispered, picking up her briefcase and puzzling over his cryptic comments concerning the relationship between her company and his. Apprehension knotted her stomach. They walked down the stairs and out of the building into the emerging evening. In the dusky twilight, Maren slid a secretive glance in Kyle's direction.

His was a hard face. A face that had once been in the nation's eye. A face that had been posed perfectly onto the record jackets of more than a few albums. A face that represented the American dream: A poor boy from the back hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains makes good. Perhaps it was the shadowy twilight that made his features appear more rugged than they had earlier, or maybe it was the years of living on the road that made his face seem strained. Whatever the reason, Kyle Sterling was still an attractive man and despite the webbing of crow's-feet near his eyes or the hint of gray at his temples, he conveyed a raw masculinity that was lacking in most of the men Maren had met in her lifetime.

He opened the car door for her, but she paused before taking a seat. He stood on one side of the silver door, she the other. She met his gaze levelly, but her brow was furrowed, as if she were reading an unfathomable passage. “My curiosity has the better of me,” she confided, noting his uplifted brows. “Just what is it that you want to change? It's not every day that the president of Sterling Records comes begging for my company.”

“Maybe tonight will change all that,” he replied cryptically.

“Oh?”

“We'll see. I've got a proposition for you, if you're interested.”

“Is it related to that enigmatic statement in the office—you know, about the duplicating of the tapes?”

“Only slightly. That's not why I had to see you personally. The black market will always be there, no matter who Sterling Records does business with.”

She slipped into the soft leather seat of the expensive car and waited while Kyle got into the Mercedes and maneuvered it speedily down the freeway. Though she worried over his mysterious remarks, she held her tongue, deciding it was better to bide her time and let the cryptic man sitting next to her make the next move. She was conscious of every movement he made as he drove.

Without looking in her direction, Kyle slipped a tape into the cassette recorder on the dash. The interior of the car was filled instantly with soft-rock music. “Do you like it?” he asked, referring, of course, to the driving beat and sultry lyrics of the song.

She concentrated for a moment, knitting her dark brows. “It's all right,” she said a few moments later. The last thing she wanted to do was offend this man. She knew that he was playing some obscure game with her, but she wanted to understand the rules before she committed herself to what was apparently a test.

“Ever heard it before?” The question seemed innocent enough. Kyle's eyes never moved from the darkened freeway and the endless taillights of the cars speeding west through the sprawling city of Los Angeles.

Maren's nerves were stretched more tightly than piano strings. It had been a long day and she wasn't up to guessing games with a man who could very well decide her future. She tried to focus all of her attention on the recording. The beat was unfamiliar. “No.”

She shook her thick copper-colored hair and cocked her head thoughtfully. The blend of voices and musical instruments was distinctive. “I don't think I've heard it, but the group sounds like Mirage.”

“It is. The song is the title track from their next album.”

Maren nodded noncommittally. It was the album for which Festival didn't have a signed contract. Was Kyle toying with her? Why? She sensed that he expected something more from her, but she didn't understand what. The entire situation added to her unease. She shifted uncomfortably in the seat and turned her attention to the view from the window of the car.

The city was alive. Motorists and pedestrians crowded the concrete streets. Several popular restaurants sat on the edge of the boulevard and traffic snarled as cars attempted to squeeze into parking spaces.

The people were as diverse as the city itself. Maren smiled to herself as she saw punk rockers dressed in outrageous leather outfits walking next to couples conventionally attired in silk dresses and conservative business suits. Only in L.A., she thought. It was a city of glitter and serene beauty, home for the very rich or the incredibly poor, a city caught between the sea and the mountains in an incongruous collection of communities joined together in four hundred and sixty-five square miles. Where else could you drive from the Pacific Ocean to the Mojave Desert, or tour through Beverly Hills and Hollywood in the beautiful Santa Monica Mountains? Maren had lived in southern California all her life and had never grown tired of the warm climate or the ever-changing city of Los Angeles.