Trading Secrets

TRADING SECRETS

Jayne Castle

When she boldly picked up a stranger in a posh Acapulco bar, Sabrina Chase meant only to have a casual fling. She never dreamed the rugged expatriate would appear in Dallas to rekindle passionate memories she preferred to forget. They were, she discovered, two of a kind. Sabrina had dropped out of the corporate world, while Matt August seemed to have turned his back on the military. But Matt was a mystery. An ex-major trained in Central American operations, he was as evasive about his return to the Caribbean as he was persuasive about leaving his son behind. Sabrina was concerned about her ability to care for the troubled teenager, but concern turned to panic in the face of sudden danger. As they fled to a cabin in the wilds of Oregon, Sabrina knew it would be up to her to save them both, unless Matt—who had shared only part of the truth even as he claimed all of her heart—returned to find them…in time.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

“Why me?” he asked.

Sabrina Chase considered the man seated beside her. “Was that question directed at me or the universe at large?”

“I learned a long time ago that one seldom gets answers from the universe at large. The question was directed at you.”

“Oh hell,” she murmured in disgust. “Four, maybe five available men in this bar and I had to pick the existential philosopher in the bunch.” She stood up from the oversize rattan lounge chair on which she had just sat down and paused for a moment to glare down at her companion. “I’ll have you know I had to get past three off-duty mariachi-band members, the bartender, and that guy in the cowboy hat at the end of the bar to get to you. At least you could be gracious.”

Hazel eyes regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of the whiskey glass. “I guess some men just don’t know when they’re well off.”

“Or when they’ve gotten lucky or an evening. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can find someone else who’s not so inclined to question his place in the cosmic scheme of things.”

He put out a hand and caught hold of her as Sabrina would have turned away. She glanced down in surprise, aware of a curious roughness on the tips of his fingers as they closed over the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

“If you knew anything about expatriate, existential philosophers in Acapulco bars you’d know we don’t expect answers to our questions, regardless of who we address them to,” he stated dryly. “Let’s start over again. Please sit down and let me buy you a drink.”

This was the moment for a grand gesture of refusal, Sabrina decided. “I wouldn’t think of infringing on your time and space.”

“Is that California talk?” He tugged quite gently, but she somehow found herself reseated in the rattan chair with a force that was not quite gentle.

“Ex-California talk,” she managed, trying to think of a way out of what was rapidly turning into an awkward situation. Awkward with a capital A. She was certainly safe enough here in this plush hotel bar, but she was beginning to realize she might have gotten in over her head when she decided to approach this particular man.

“Ex-California talk?” He raised heavy brows in polite inquiry. “Have you moved to Mexico?”

“Dallas,” she corrected as the waiter approached. “Believe me, the cultural shock has been almost as great as if I’d moved to Mars. I’ll get the drinks,” she added quickly. Psychologically it seemed like a way to regain control of the scene. “Whiskey?”

“On the rocks.” He released her wrist and lounged back in his chair.

As she hastily ordered the whiskey and a Margarita, Sabrina was aware of the man’s brooding gaze on her tense profile. In the flickering candlelight, which was all that lit the open air terrace bar, his eyes were hooded and unreadable. His opening question had been a legitimate one, she decided uneasily. What had made her choose him?

When a woman set out to orchestrate her first wild, nostrings-attached, unabashedly romantic vacation fling she ought to select a male who showed some outward signs of being the free-wheeling, nostrings-attached, unabashedly romantic type. The cowboy at the end of the bar would probably have been a much better bet. She knew an easygoing Texan on vacation when she saw one. Maybe it would have been smarter to stick with a known quantity first time out. Then again, she already knew more than she wanted to know about Texans.

The man beside her appeared a little different up close than he had from a distance. What had looked like an interesting, slightly jaded quality from across the shadowy bar was turning out to be a somewhat grim reserve.

The intriguing economy of his movements now appeared to be a matter of somber self-discipline rather than casual masculine grace. It was as if she had first viewed him through a slightly out-of-focus lens. Proximity was sharpening the focus, but Sabrina wasn’t certain she was still attracted to the object in view.

This evening wasn’t the first time she had seen him. She’d encountered him once earlier in the day, although he hadn’t noticed her. He had been busy at the time ringing up the sale of a paperback in the small English-language bookshop he ran near Sabrina’s hotel. But on that occasion, too, she had only watched him from a distance. It went to show that first impressions, while lasting, could be deceptive.

Sabrina hated it when old clichés proved true. People tended to quote clichés as though the authority behind them were unquestioned. However, that had never been Sabrina’s approach. For as long as she could remember, she’d possessed a natural tendency to question authority.

Physically, there were no obvious discrepancies in her quarry, now that she was up close, from what there had been when she was farther away. In the dim lounge the man was just as blatantly unhandsome as he had been from a distance. There was a rough irregularity to the bluntly carved lines of nose and jaw. But the hard, uncompromising features appealed to Sabrina for some distant reason.

Now that she was sitting beside him she could see that his hair was cut too short in a no-nonsense fashion that was vaguely military. The occasional flare of the candle on the table revealed the gunmetal-gray that was beginning to appear in the deep-brown pelt. He wore a pair of khaki slacks and a neatly pressed white shirt instead of the billowing, vividly patterned resort-style shirt almost every other man in the bar wore. When he lifted his glass to down the last of the whiskey, Sabrina saw the functional stainless-steel watch on his left arm.

All in all, she decided resentfully, her chosen consort was not quite as she had pictured him from a distance. Too grave, too restrained, too disciplined, and too unreadable.

“I don’t suppose you own a guitar?” she inquired politely.

His eyes narrowed. “Afraid not.”

“And I get the feeling you’re not an artist living down here because of the fantastic Mexican light.” She sighed.

“You’re in the market for an artsy-craftsy type?” the man asked with mild curiosity.

“I thought an artsy-craftsy type might do nicely. A passionate expatriate artist or musician would have been perfect.”

“You knew exactly what you were looking for before you wandered in here tonight?”

“More or less. I think I’ve made a mistake,” Sabrina mused.

“We all do on occasion.”

“I’m really not in the mood for the strong, silent, cryptic type tonight.”

“You’d prefer someone on the flamboyant, chatty side?”

She nodded. “Someone charming, amusing, gallant.”

He considered that. “Yeah, you might have made a mistake. I get the feeling you haven’t had enough practice selecting the right type of man out of a barroom crowd.”

“It’s tricky,” she explained with mock solemnity. “I can see there must be a knack to it.”

“What made you decide to start practicing tonight?”

“For the strong, silent type you certainly have a lot of questions.”

“A hangover from the philosophical side of my nature.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just that, as your intended victim this evening, I can’t help being a bit curious.”

“It’s my birthday,” she explained succinctly.

“Picking up a man for the evening is going to be a birthday present to yourself?”

“When a woman turns thirty she’s entitled to something interesting in the way of gifts. Even if she has to go out and get them for herself.” Sabrina broke off as the waiter returned with the tray of drinks. Quickly she dug into her purse for her hotel room key. “I want to put the drinks on my hotel bill,” she said clearly, flashing the room number to prove she did, indeed, have a hotel bill established.

The dark-eyed Mexican gave her a disapproving glance and set down the drinks. Then he smiled politely at the man seated beside the aggressive little
gringa
.

“On your tab, senor?”

“Latin chauvinist.” Sabrina sighed. “I said I’d get the drinks.”

The stranger beside her said something in quick, fluent Spanish to the waiter, who nodded complacently and moved off.

“What was that all about?”

“I told him to put your Margarita on my tab. Consider it a birthday present. My name is Matt August, by the way. Just in case I wind up becoming a part of your celebration after all.” For the first time the man smiled. “Which brings us back to my first question. Why me?”

“The bookstore, probably,” Sabrina said honestly as she picked up the Margarita and absently licked salt off the rim. “I figured an expatriate American selling books to tourists in Mexico might be kind of interesting.”

“Now you’re having second thoughts?” he asked grimly. His hand moved to close around his glass and Sabrina caught a brief glimpse of the fine web of small scars that laced his fingertips. She remembered the way they had produced a strange sensation of roughness on her skin and her frown intensified.

“Only about my selection technique. I’m sure there’s some man on vacation down here in Acapulco who won’t be as offended as you were when I tried to introduce myself.”

“I’d like to hear the rest of the introduction,” Matt August said softly. “I didn’t even give you a chance to tell me your name.”

“Does it matter?” She gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance.

“Humor me. After all, I’m buying you a birthday drink, aren’t I?”

“Sabrina Chase,” she answered. He really wasn’t so bad, she decided. Just a little rough around the edges. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Men, she knew, frequently had “bad days” and just as frequently used them as an excuse for rudeness. Something in the male mentality actually believed it was a valid excuse. Of course, let a woman use it and men were inclined to blame it on her time of the month.

“And is there a Mr. Chase?” Matt persisted.

“My father and two brothers. Look, if you’ve got a problem with this, I can just—”

“Sorry,” he interrupted shortly. “I realize it’s none of my business. I just wondered if you were married.”

“You’re not supposed to probe too deeply in this sort of situation,” Sabrina told him seriously. “It ruins … something.”

“You are married.”

“It’s irrelevant.” She paused and got hold of her temper. “This is pretty damn hopeless, isn’t it? I’ll just take my drink and wander off, if you don’t mind.” Once again she started to get to her feet and once again his rough fingertips closed around her wrist. Hazel eyes glinted as he studied her expression.

“I apologize for ruining the, uh, romantic aura. It’s been a rough day.” He broke off as Sabrina made a small, muffled exclamation. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she assured him brightly. “You were saying?”

His mouth hardened faintly. “I said I apologize. Please sit down and let’s try it one more time.”

Reluctantly she allowed herself to be reseated. “If we’re going to try this again I insist we do things my way.”

“You’re an expert?”

“Maybe not, but something tells me I’ve got more of an idea of how to handle this sort of situation than you do.”

“Feminine instinct?”

“Probably,” she agreed spiritedly. “Now are you going to relax and let me work it my way, or shall I go try the Texan?”

August shifted his considering gaze to the man at the end of the bar. “He’d take you up on your offer in a minute, wouldn’t he?”