The book signing session on Saturday morning went well. Margaret thoroughly enjoyed talking to the readers and other writers in the area who had made their way by car, bus and monorail into downtown Seattle to meet the author of Ruthless. She was especially grateful for the enthusiastic crowd this morning because it took her mind off the difficult decision that had to be made by Monday. For a while, at least, she did not have to think about Rafe Cassidy.
"I just loved Ruthless." A happily pregnant woman with a toddler clinging to her skirts handed her copy of the book to Margaret to sign. "I always feel good after I've read one of your books. I really love your heroes. They're great. Oh, Christine is the name, by the way."
"Thanks, Christine. I'm glad you liked the book. I appreciate your coming downtown today." Margaret wrote Christine's name on the title page, a brief message and then signed her own name with a flourish.
"No problem. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. I was an account executive at a brokerage house here in Seattle before I quit to raise kids for a while. I really identify with the business settings in your stories. When's your next book due out?"
"In about six months."
"Can't wait. Another hero like Roarke, I hope?"
Margaret smiled. "Of course." Roarke was the name of the hero in Ruthless, but the truth was all her heroes were similar. They all bore a striking resemblance to Rafe Cassidy. That had been true from her first book, which had been written long before she had ever met Rafe. It was probably why she had fallen so hard and so fast for him when he'd exploded into her life last year, she thought.
At first sight she had been certain Rafe was the man of her dreams.
Except for the boots, of course. Looking back on the disaster Margaret knew she ought to have been warned when her dream man showed up in a Stetson, fancy boots and a silver belt buckle. In her books her heroes always wore European-styled suits and Italian leather shoes.
Hard, savvy and successful businessmen for the most part, her male characters always had a ruthless edge that made them a real challenge for the heroines. But in the end, unlike Rafe, they all succumbed to love.
A stylish-looking woman in a crisp suit who was standing directly behind Christine extended her copy of Ruthless. "Christine's right. Give us another hero like Roarke. He was great. I love the tough-guy-who-can-be-taught-to-love type. I think of them as cowboys in business suits."
Margaret stared at her. "Cowboys? Good heavens, what makes you call them that? I like the sophisticated urban type. That's the kind I always write about."
The woman shook her head with a knowing look in her eye. "But your heroes are all cowboys in disguise, didn't you know that?"
Margaret eyed her thoughtfully. She had long ago learned to appreciate some of the insights her readers had into her books but this one took her back. "You really think so?"
"Trust me. I know cowboys when I see them, even if they are wearing two hundred dollar silk shirts."
"She's right, you know," another woman in line announced with a grin. "When I'm reading one of your books, I always visualize a cowboy."
"What on earth makes you do that?" Margaret asked in utter amazement.
The woman paused, considering her answer. "I think it's got something to do with their basic philosophies of life—the way they think and act. They've got a lot of old-fashioned attitudes about women and honor and that kind of thing. The sort of attitudes we all associate with the Old West."
"It's true," someone else in line agreed. "The shoot-outs take place in corporate boardrooms instead of in front of the saloon, but the feeling is the same." She leaned forward to extend her copy of Ruthless. "The name is Rachel."
"Rachel." Margaret hurriedly signed the book and handed it back. "Thank you."
"Thank you." Rachel winked mischievously. "Speaking of cowboys," she said, exchanging a smile with the other woman, "maybe one of these days you can give us the real thing, horse and all."
"We'll look forward to it," the first woman declared as she collected her signed book.
Margaret managed a laugh and shook her head, feeling slightly dazed. "We'll see," she temporized, not wanting to offend the readers by telling them she'd once run into a real corporate gunslinger who was very much a cowboy and the result had been something other than a happy ending.
She turned, smiling, to greet the next person in line and nearly dropped her pen when she caught sight of the familiar figure standing in front of her. It never rained but it poured, she thought ironically.
"Hello, Jack. What are you doing here? I didn't know you read romance."
Jack Moorcroft smiled down at her, his light hazel eyes full of genuine curiosity. "So you really made it work, did you?"
"Made what work? My writing? Yes, I've been fortunate."
"I didn't think you could turn it into a full-fledged career."
"Neither did anyone else."
"Can I buy you a coffee or a drink when you're finished here? I'd like to talk to you."
"Let me guess what this is all about. I haven't seen you since the day I resigned. You moved the headquarters of Moorcroft Industries to San Diego nearly a year ago, according to the papers. And now, out of a clear blue sky you suddenly show up again in Seattle two days after Rafe Cassidy magically reappears. Can I assume there's a connection or is this one of those incredible coincidences that makes life so interesting?"
"You always were one smart lady. That's why I hired you in the first place."
"Forget the flattery, Jack. I'm immune."
"I get the feeling you're not enjoying old ties with your former business associates?"
"You're very perceptive for a businessman."
Jack nodded, accepting the rebuff. "I think I can understand. You got a little mauled there at the end, didn't you? Cassidy can play rough. But I do have to talk to you. It's important, Margaret. Coffee? For old times' sake?"
She sighed, wishing she could think of a polite way out of the invitation. But the truth was Jack had been a reasonably good boss. And he'd never actually asked for her resignation. It had been her idea to leave the firm. "All right. Coffee. I'll be finished here in another fifteen minutes or so."
"I'll wait."
Twenty minutes later Margaret bid goodbye to the bookstore manager and the last of the readers who had dropped by the store to say hello. Slinging her stylish leather shoulder bag over her arm, she went to join Jack Moorcroft who was waiting patiently at the entrance of the store near the magazine racks.
He smiled when he saw her and put back the copy of Forbes he had been perusing. She studied him objectively as he held the door for her. Moorcroft was five years older than Rafe, which made him forty-three. On the surface he fit her mental image of a hero better than Rafe ever did. For one thing, there wasn't a trace of the cowboy in Moorcroft's attire or his accent. He was pure corporate polish.
Moorcroft was also a genuinely good-looking man. He kept himself trim by daily workouts at an exclusive health club and he dressed with impeccable finesse. His light brown hair was streaked with silver and thinning a bit, but that only served to give him a distinguished look. His suit was European in cut and the tie was silk.
By right Moorcroft should have been a living, breathing replica of one of her heroes but Margaret had never once thought of him that way.
In addition to his beautifully cut suits, Jack Moorcroft also wore a wedding ring. He was married and that fact had made him off-limits from the day she had met him.
But even if he had not been married Margaret knew deep down she could never have fallen for him the way she had fallen for Rafe. What she couldn't quite explain was why Moorcroft could never have been the man of her dreams.
"All right, Jack, let's get the cards on the table." Margaret sat down across from her former boss at a small espresso bar table. "We both know you're not in Seattle to rehash old times."
Jack toyed with the plastic stir stick that had come with his latte. He eyed Margaret thoughtfully for a long mome
nt. "You've changed," he said finally.
She cocked a brow, amused. "Everyone does."
"I suppose. You like the writing business?"
"Love it. But that's not what you're here to talk about, is it?"
"No." Moorcroft took a sip of the latte and set the cup down on the small table. "My information says Cassidy came to see you this week."
Margaret shrugged. "Your information is good. He was here Thursday night. What does that matter to you?"
"He wants revenge, Margaret. You know him as well, if not better than I do. You know he always gets even."
"He's already had his revenge against me. You were there that morning. You heard him tell me to get out of his life."
"But now he's back, isn't he?" Jack's mouth twisted. "Because he never got his revenge against me. He kicked you out of his bed but there wasn't much he could do to me."
Margaret felt her cheeks burn at the blunt reference to her relationship with Rafe. "Why should he want revenge against you? I was the one he thought betrayed him."
Moorcroft's eyes narrowed. "Ah, but you betrayed him to me, remember?"
"Damn it, I didn't betray anyone. I was caught in the middle and I did what I had to do."
"The way he saw it, when the chips were down, I was the one who owned your loyalty. He was right in a way, wasn't he? But he didn't like that one bit, Margaret. I think he saw me as the other man in your life."
"You were my employer, nothing more. Rafe knew that. Tell me something, Jack, did you really lie to him about us?"
Moorcroft shrugged apologetically. "Cassidy was out of control that morning. He thought what he wanted to think, which was that you felt loyal to me not only because you worked for me but because we'd been involved in an affair."
Margaret shook her head in sheer disgust. "You did lie to him."
"Does it matter if I let him think what he was already thinking? The damage had been done. He'd already thrown you out and he knew he'd lost Spencer to me."
"So you decided to take advantage of the situation and gloat over your victory."
Moorcroft smiled cryptically. "I'll admit I couldn't resist the chance to sink the knife in a little deeper. Two years ago Cassidy cost me a bundle when he wrecked a merger I had set up. I owed him."
"And I just happened to get caught in the middle this time."
"You probably don't believe this, but I'm sorry about what happened, Margaret."
"Sure. Look, let's just forget this, all right? I've got better things to do than talk over old times."
"Unfortunately I can't forget it." Moorcroft leaned forward intently. "I can't forget it because Cassidy hasn't forgotten it. He's after me."
"What are you talking about?"
"This isn't just a business rivalry between that damned cowboy and me any longer. Because of you it's turned into some kind of personal vendetta for him. A hundred years ago he would have challenged me to a showdown at high noon or some such nonsense. But we live in a civilized age now, don't we? Cassidy's going to be a bit more subtle about his vengeance."
Margaret stared at him. "What in the world are you talking about, Jack?"
Moorcroft sat hunched over his latte, his hazel eyes intent. "He's up to something, Margaret. My sources tell me he's got a deal going, a deal that could directly affect Moorcroft Industries. I need to find out what's going on before it's too late. I need inside information."
"Sound like you've already got information."
"Some. I don't know how much I can trust it."
"That's your problem, Jack."
"Look, Cassidy always plays his cards close to his chest but after what happened with you last year, he's more cautious than ever. Whatever he's working on is being kept under very tight security. I have to find out what he's up to, Margaret, before it's too late."
"Why are you coming to me about this? I don't work for you any longer, remember? I don't work for anyone except myself now. And I like it that way, Jack. I like it very much."
Moorcroft smiled. "Yes, I can see that. You look good, Margaret. Very good. I know you're out of the scene and you want to keep it that way, but I'm desperate and I need help. That business between me and Cassidy last year?"
"What about it?"
"That's all it was until you got involved. Business as usual. Cassidy and I have tangled before. Bound to happen. We're natural competitors. But after you came into the picture all that changed. Cassidy's out for blood now. Lately I've had the feeling I'm being hunted and I don't like it. I'm asking you to help me."
"You're out of your mind. I can't help you. I wouldn't even if I were in a position to do so. As you said, I'm out of this."
Moorcroft shook his head. "It's not your fault, Margaret, but the truth is, unwittingly or not, you started it. And now Cassidy is involving you again."
Margaret sat very still in her chair. "What makes you say that?"
"He's invited you down to that spread of his in Arizona, hasn't he?"
"How do you know that?"
Moorcroft sighed. "I told you, I don't have totally reliable inside information, but I have some. I've also heard your father has been seeing Beverly Cassidy."
Margaret grimaced. "Your information is better than mine, Jack. I didn't know that myself until Thursday night. My own father. I didn't even believe it at first. How could Dad…" She bit her lip. "Never mind."
She had spent most of Thursday night trying to convince herself that Rafe had lied to her. But several phone calls on Friday had failed to elicit any response from her father's home in California. His housekeeper had told her he had gone to Arizona.
When Margaret had angrily dialed the Cassidy ranch she had been told by another housekeeper that her father was unable to come to the phone but was looking forward to seeing her on Monday.
The unfortunate reality was that Rafe Cassidy rarely bluffed—so rarely, in fact, that when he did, he usually got away with it. Connor Lark probably was involved with Mrs. Cassidy and if that much was true, the part about selling Lark Engineering to Rafe was probably also true.
That knowledge gave Margaret a sick feeling. What was Rafe up to? she wondered.
"We're on the same side this time, Margaret." Jack's tone was soft and cajoling. "We're natural allies. Last time you were caught in the crunch. You were in love with Cassidy but you felt loyal to me. A real mess. But that's not true this time, is it? You don't owe Cassidy anything. It's payback time."
"What are you talking about? I don't want revenge, I just want out of the whole thing."
"You can't get out of it. Your father is involved. If he marries Beverly Cassidy, you're going to spend the rest of your life connected by family ties to Rafe Cassidy."
"That notion is certainly enough to kill what's left of my appetite," Margaret said morosely. The thought of being related by marriage to Rafe was mind-boggling.
Moorcroft picked up his latte and took a swallow. "You'll be going to Arizona, won't you?"
She groaned. "Probably." She had been facing that reality since Rafe had walked out the door on Thursday night. She had to find out what, exactly, was going on.
"All I'm asking is that you keep your eyes and ears open while you're down there. You may pick up something interesting, something we can both use. Maybe something that could save my hide. I'd make it worth your while, Margaret."
She looked up sharply. "Forget it, Jack. If I go down there, it won't be as your spy. I have my own reasons."
He exhaled slowly. "I understand. It was worth a shot. I'm a desperate man, Margaret. There's an outlaw on my trail and I'll do anything to survive."
"You're that afraid of Rafe?" she asked in genuine surprise.
"Like I said—before we were just business rivals. Win some, lose some. No problem. That's the name of the game. But this time things are different. This time I have a feeling I may be fighting for my life."
"Good luck."
Moorcroft turned his cup of latte carefully in his hands. He studied Margaret's
face for a long moment. "You're not going to help me, are you?"
"No."
"Because you love him?"
"How I feel about Rafe has nothing to do with it. I just don't want any part of this mess, whatever it is."
"I guess I can understand that."
"Terrific," she murmured. "I'm so glad."
"Margaret, there's something I want to ask you."
She waited uneasily. "Yes?"
"If Cassidy hadn't ridden up when he did and swept you off your feet, do you think you could ever have been interested in what I had to offer?"
"You didn't have anything to offer, Jack. You're a married man, remember?"
"But if I hadn't been married?"
"My best guess is no."
"Mind telling me why not?"
"First, when I was in the business world I had a policy of never getting involved with my employers, even if they did happen to be single. From what I saw, it's almost always a bad career move for a woman to sleep with her boss. Sooner or later, she finds herself looking for another job."
"And second?"
"Let's just say you're not exactly the man of my dreams," she said dryly.
Rafe was waiting at the airport gate. Margaret didn't see him at first. She was struggling with her carry-on luggage and scanning the crowd for her father. She was annoyed when she couldn't spot him. The least Connor Lark could do after causing all this commotion in her life was meet her at the airport, she told herself. When someone moved up behind her and took the travel bag from her arm, she spun around in shock.
"I'll take that for you, Maggie, love. Car's out front."
She glared up at Rafe, who was smiling down at her, a look of pure satisfaction in his gaze. He was dressed in jeans and boots and a white shirt that had the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The boots were truly spectacular—maroon leather with a beautiful turquoise and black design worked into them.
"I thought my father would have had the courtesy to meet me," she muttered.
"Don't blame Connor. I told him I'd take care of it." Rafe wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, bent his head briefly and kissed her soundly. He did it hard and fast and allowed her no time in which to resist.