Fire in the Wind Page 6

  He was dressed casually this morning, his shirt-front open over the gold chains around his neck, his Levis fitting snugly around hips and thighs that were just a little too fleshy. In contrast, the woman with him was almost severely business-like in a black linen suit and masculine white shirt.

  Clawing out a career for herself, just like me, Vanessa sized her up at once and smiled. "Good morning."

  "Have you two met?" Tom put his hand on the woman's arm in the way that a man touches a woman when he wants everyone to know he has just spent the night with her, and he looked up at Vanessa with a triumphant little smile.

  He wanted to see if she would be jealous, Vanessa knew. She wondered how he could imagine that she, having turned him down herself, would still want to keep other women away from him.

  "Margaret, Vanessa."

  Margaret lifted her hand to shake Vanessa's and smiled up at her. "We've said hello," she said, "if we haven't actually met."

  "Monday night," Vanessa agreed.

  "How come you're up so early?" Tom inquired, as though he did not want the women to get chatty with each other. "Thinking you might start a lingerie line?"

  The morning showing was of lingerie, in which TopMarx didn't carry a line.

  "No, I'm going to do some sight-seeing this morning, I think, if we can get a replacement model fast enough."

  Tom snapped his fingers. "I forgot, you fired that girl last night, didn't you? Can you get another one in time?"

  Typical of him to expect her to find the replacement, as though Vanessa had fired Louisa for some petty personal reason and not because it was good business to have TopMarx's designs shown to best advantage.

  "Tom..." she began, and then stopped. If she tried a showdown now, in front of a woman he obviously wanted to impress, Tom would get ugly and then Vanessa would be irritated for the whole morning. And then she wouldn't know whether he had got a replacement till half an hour before the show. She had enough on her mind without a fruitless argument with Tom.

  "Is that one of your own designs?" Margaret was eyeing the summery green cotton pants with the intriguingly tied waistband as though she hadn't noticed the slight tension in the air. Vanessa turned to her gratefully.

  "Yes, they are. Not the top, of course." Her top was a simple T-shirt in matching green that she had picked up at Macy's.

  "Very, chic," said Margaret. "Are we seeing something like that tomorrow night?" Thursday night skirts and slacks were being shown, but although Vanessa had designed a pair similar to these in wool, Tom had axed them from the fall line as being too expensive in both material and production time.

  Tom was shaking his head. "Too bulky in wool," he said shortly. "Made 'em look fat."

  The woman's professional eye was not fooled, but she said only, "Pity. They'd go over big here in a lightweight wool. Toronto's a cold damp city in the winter, and with a coordinated jacket those could look very smart in the office."

  Just about exactly what Vanessa had said to Tom six weeks ago, but she didn't show the rather bitchy triumph she felt now. She smiled her thanks at Margaret, saying to Tom, "I'll let you know when I've got a model." The waiter arrived with their breakfast, and Vanessa moved away to a table by the window.

  It was a beautiful early summer day and the restaurant window faced in the same direction as her bedroom, looking across Burrard Inlet toward Grouse Mountain. There was a cable lift up the mountain, she knew, and she was suddenly wishing she hadn't promised to watch this afternoon's showing of blouses and sweaters with Colin. She could have had the whole day free, and most of Thursday, since TopMarx had nothing showing until tomorrow night's slacks and skirts. She could have rented a car and spent the two days sight-seeing.

  She ate her breakfast quickly; she did not like eating alone. She was half expecting to see Jake Conrad appear, since she was pretty sure he had spent the night in the hotel. But by the time she had finished her last cup of coffee he hadn't appeared, and she realized with irritation that she had spent the entire meal watching the door for him and thinking over what had happened last night.

  There was something very confusing about Jake Conrad, something she couldn't understand. Had he really ever loved her, or had he merely told her that he had for some reason of his own?

  Tom and Margaret had had a leisurely breakfast. Vanessa was just waiting for the waiter to bring her change when Tom crossed to her table.

  "I forgot to tell you—I'll be taking one of the buyers out to dinner tonight. I'd like you to come along. If you're going out will you be sure to be back by eight-thirty? I'll meet you in the hospitality suite."

  He was gone without waiting for her to say yes or no, but what did it matter? She wasn't likely to be doing anything else tonight. If Jake asked her out, she knew she would have had to refuse anyway. There was no sense courting trouble, and Jake, however adept he sometimes was at disguising it, was trouble.

  * * *

  The woman at the modelling agency listened to the litany of Louisa Hayward's sins with a placid lack of horror that secretly drove Vanessa up the wall. It's a clash of cultures, she reminded herself, gritting her teeth and gripping the receiver so tightly she thought her hand would break.

  "She didn't come up to scratch, eh?" The woman clicked her tongue. "Poor Louisa. She doesn't understand yet that modelling is hard work. She thinks it should be glamorous."

  Culture clash or no culture clash, Vanessa had had enough.

  "You seem to suffer from a little of that same naiveté yourself," she said coolly and unmistakably. "I would like you to understand that you sent us a girl under the guise of a professional model who refused to go onstage in the middle of a trade show because she was talking and who single-handedly destroyed the showing with a collection of tricks I wouldn't expect from a child. Now I am telling you that we are not paying you for Louisa's services and you should consider yourself lucky if we don't sue you for lost business. I was going to ask you for a replacement, but from now on we'll deal with someone else!"

  "Listen," the woman began earnestly, and Vanessa had the satisfaction of knowing that at last she had got through to her. She listened while the overdue apology and concern were expressed, but steadfastly refused to allow the agency to send a replacement model.

  As soon as she hung up she kicked herself for a fool. Now she was stuck with finding another agency and she knew nothing about the Vancouver agencies. Nor did Tom, evidently. He had probably pulled this one out of the phone book, when with a couple of phone calls he could have got their New York agency to recommend one.

  She looked at the phone. It was nine-thirty on a beautiful morning and she had to be back at two-thirty for the sweater show. She could easily waste an hour trying to find a model, and they didn't need anyone till Thursday night's show.

  To hell with it. Martita and the two girls they already had could cover if they had to. She would worry about the model later. It was Tom's problem as much as hers and he wasn't wasting the day worrying.

  Vanessa picked up her bag and the green cotton jacket that matched her slacks, let herself out of her room and went down to the tourist desk in the lobby.

  "You've missed the tour bus," the young girl said sadly. "It just left a couple of minutes ago. The next one's not till eleven-thirty, and it wouldn't get you back in time for two-thirty. You could rent a car, but I don't know what you could see in a few hours. There's the Grouse Mountain cable car and the Capilano Suspension Bridge, you could do that. That's across in North Vancouver. Or you could—"

  "Or you could let me show you the sights," said the deep male voice she had been unconsciously waiting to hear all morning, and Vanessa turned and involuntarily smiled at Jake Conrad.

  "Jake!" she said, not quite aware of what her smiling face told him.

  "Good morning, Mr. Conrad," said the pretty blond tour advisor in a shy voice, and Vanessa turned in time to catch the look of teenage adoration in the soft eyes. She smiled tolerantly at the girl, not realizing that the look in her
own eyes had not, for that fleeting second, been so very different.

  "Good morning, Cathy, how's it going?" He smiled, and there was no trace of cynicism in the crooked grin when he looked at the girl, Vanessa saw enviously.

  "A bit slow," said Cathy in a tone that strove for business-like maturity, "but the season's just beginning, isn't it?"

  He was wearing blue jeans and a blue plaid shirt rolled up at the cuffs, and he looked attractive and unpretentious. He did not wear gold chains around his neck, Vanessa noted inconsequentially, as, at last and almost unwillingly, he turned to her.

  "How much time have you got?" he asked. It occurred to Vanessa that he was in two minds about wanting to take her anywhere.

  "I don't have to be back until two-thirty," she said, feeling that somehow she was courting danger. But if Jake didn't want to show her the sights he would have to say so. Something had happened to her since last night. She felt different with Jake this morning: she wanted to be with him.

  "Have you got a pair of tennis shoes with you?" he asked.

  In the middle of nodding yes, her cheeks suddenly flamed, and she felt the hot blood rush into her face until she knew she was blushing fiery red. Jake's attention, not unnaturally, was firmly caught, but Vanessa turned away quickly, muttering a stifled,

  "I'll get them. Wait here."

  She half walked, half ran to the elevators, one hand pressing her cheeks to try to cool them. She knew now what had happened between last night and this morning to change her feelings for Jake: last night she had dreamt that he had made love to her.

  The dream jumbled around in her memory as she rode up in the elevator and walked to her room.

  He had been fierce and tender, angry and loving, by turns. It was a dream that seemed confusing now, but had made perfect, wonderful sense while it was happening. Afterwards she had flown, exultant in the dark sky, the lights of the city below her. Jake had been at her side, as naked and free as she, his face sometimes smooth, sometimes angry with scars....

  Not Jake. Jace. Vanessa bit her lip. Even in her dreams she was confusing them. Even deep inside her unconscious she was trying to find Jace again in Jake.

  She dragged her suitcase open and snatched out the shoe bag containing her sneakers, then left the room, her thoughts in turmoil.

  In all her confusion, one thing stood out clearly: it would be asking for heartache to become Jake Conrad's lover when she could think only of Jace—and Jake could think only of his demons.

  When he heard her step he turned away from Cathy's adoring gaze and stood looking at her with an expressionless face. "That was quick," he said in a tone of voice that irritated her. She raised an eyebrow at him.

  "If you've changed your mind you've only got to say so," she said levelly. What the devil did the man want? For an answer he took her arm and escorted her across to the huge glass-fronted main entrance, where his long silver car sat by the curb.

  "Do you like sailing?" he asked as the car purred out the drive and onto the street.

  "I haven't sailed for years," she confessed with longing in her voice.

  "No?" Jake asked, as though he had caught her in a lie. "Don't the Standishes sail?"

  She glared at him in silence until he looked over at her. Then she said coldly, "Yes, the Standishes sail, and yes, I learned to sail with them. But I have not been sailing since the second year of my marriage."

  She remembered the first summer they had spent every weekend in the city, Larry answering the phone to his mother every Thursday to tell her calmly that no, this weekend they would be too busy.... He had been so angry, so hurt, he'd wanted nothing from them ever again. Later he had had to accept their help, he had even forgiven them, but by then sailing was only a horrid reminder of his increasing disability....

  "Well, then," said Jake, "I'll have the pleasure of giving you something yo—" He broke off. "Would you like to sail?"

  He couldn't possibly have been going to say, something your husband couldn't give you, because that would be ridiculous, but then what...? Vanessa nodded mutely, and before long the car was speeding through Stanley Park and then into a small parking lot. She could see boats moored in the distance and a sign saying Royal Vancouver Yacht Club.

  You didn't have to be in Canada very long to know that a yacht club with Royal in the title was going to be pretty exclusive, Vanessa thought. Jake parked the car near the clubhouse and pulled a duffel bag out of the back seat while she changed her shoes.

  Near the end of a long dock he pointed out a beautiful sloop-rigged sailboat with a furled jib in deep burgundy. As they drew closer she saw that the boat, thirty-five or forty feet long and painted gleaming white, was trimmed with a long racing stripe in the same burgundy. Underneath the stripe on the bow was the name, Skookum Sail. The canopy over the cockpit was also burgundy.

  As she clambered aboard after him, she asked, "That word Skookum. It was in the restaurant name. What does it mean?"

  He was unlocking the padlocks on the main hatch and all the storage lockers in the cockpit. He moved around the boat with an easy economy that showed her how much at home he was on a boat.

  "Skookum is a Chinook word meaning big, good or strong," Jake said. "Chuck is a body of water. The ocean, for example, is called salt chuck in Chinook jargon, and sometimes skookum chuck—'big water'. Skookum chuck also means 'strong water'—in other words, rapids. Take your pick."

  The explanation delighted her. Vanessa laughed. "And I thought it was named after a man named Charles!"

  "It is," said Jake. "It's owned by an old ex-fishing guide, ex-member of provincial parliament named Charles Catfish. Chuck is a very big man, and somewhere back in history he picked up the name Skookum Chuck."

  Jake pushed open the cabin door and threw the duffel bag down inside.

  "If you want to change, you'll find something in the forward locker," he said, and stood to one side to let her climb down into the cabin.

  It was beautiful, and it had everything. There was a small galley, a bathroom with a shower, two large lounges that obviously converted into sleeping quarters at night—and quantities of teak panelling and trim. She found the locker without difficulty and sorted out a navy jersey and a pair of worn blue jeans that were large for her around the waist, but not too bad around the hips. They were obviously men's jeans and quite possibly Jake's, since he was slim-hipped for his height, and she had to roll them up at the cuffs. There didn't seem to be anything feminine anywhere in sight, even in the bathroom. Perhaps Louisa didn't like sailing?

  The engine started while she was changing, and when she climbed back up on deck they were moving out between rows of parked sail and motor craft toward the open water of the harbour.

  Jake looked up with a smile as she came through the hatch, and then his jaw tightened and his eyes went so dark she gasped; it was as though she had hit him.

  "What's the matter?" she demanded, and Jake drew his brows impatiently together.

  "Matter? Nothing's the matter," he said.

  But she wasn't going to be put off. "What were you thinking of just now, when you looked at me?" she asked.

  "What?" he asked irritably, bending over to prod a dial.

  "What were you just thinking of?" she persisted.

  After a moment, he said, "I was thinking that I like seeing you wearing my clothes—hardly a tragic thought."

  No, she thought. It isn't. So why were you looking at me as though you wanted to kill me?

  For some minutes they were on the motor, and she watched the magnificent trees of the park pass as Jake negotiated his way through the inlet and out into the open water of English Bay. When he shut off the engine, the silence of the ocean enveloped them, broken only by the luffing of the wine red jib and the calling of some distant gulls.

  "Good day for sailing," Jake said quietly as his lithe body moved to adjust ropes and cleats, and Vanessa stood still and gazed until the mainsail was at its full height and the jib was hauled close and beautiful against
the wind.

  "Jake, it's wonderful," she breathed. "I'd forgotten how much I love to sail."

  The sun was glinting on the curls that the wind stirred up in his dark hair and he was smiling, his eyes narrowed against the light that sparked off the water. He looked perfectly at home. It was an almost physical pleasure to watch the Vancouver skyline shrink behind his still, lithe figure.

  "Do me a favour," Jake said briefly, glancing up at the sails and then to his compass. They were running straight out, away from the city toward the distant shapes of tree-covered islands dark against the clear blue sky.

  "What?" she asked, expecting to be asked to adjust a rope or to get him something from the cabin.

  "Take your hair down," he said. "I'd like to see it blowing in the wind."

  It sent a little thrill through her, as though he had made verbal love to her. With hands that weren't quite steady Vanessa pulled out the clips that held her hair and slid them into the back pocket of the jeans. Her hair tumbled down, clouding around her shoulders in the soft silent breeze that caressed her face and forehead. With hands that were suddenly self-conscious she shook it loose, not daring to look at Jake Conrad.

  "Did anyone ever tell you your hair is an absolutely unique colour?" he asked softly.

  Many people had, but Jace was the one who had loved it. "All those days of not being able to see a thing," he had said. "And the first thing I saw when my eyes finally opened enough to let the light in was sunlight on your hair. I thought I was hallucinating."

  "Jace told me about your hair," Jake said then, watching the memory steal over her face. "He said there's not a sight more beautiful in the world than your hair spread out on a pillow." He looked at her. "And I believe him," said Jake Conrad.

  * * *

  Colin's offering at the knitwear showing that afternoon was somehow lacking. Vanessa couldn't quite place what was wrong, but the collection was somehow uninspired. It was the first time she had been unimpressed by his work, and at first she didn't want to tell him so. Then she remembered Colin's own knack for dishing out the brutal truth and knew that he would not thank her for a comforting lie. They had been friends too long.