The Sinister Touch Read online

  Contents

  Also by Jayne Castle

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Special Excerpt

  About the Author

  Titles by Jayne Ann Krentz writing as Jayne Castle

  The Lost Night

  Canyons of Night

  Midnight Crystal

  Obsidian Prey

  Dark Light

  Silver Master

  Ghost Hunter

  After Glow

  Harmony

  After Dark

  Amaryllis

  Zinnia

  Orchid

  The Guinevere Jones Novels

  The Desperate Game

  The Chilling Deception

  The Sinister Touch

  The Fatal Fortune

  Titles by Jayne Ann Krentz writing as Amanda Quick

  Crystal Gardens

  Quicksilver

  Burning Lamp

  The Perfect Poison

  The Third Circle

  The River Knows

  Second Sight

  Lie By Moonlight

  The Paid Companion

  Wait Until Midnight

  Late for the Wedding

  Don’t Look Back

  Slightly Shady

  Wicked Widow

  I Thee Wed

  With This Ring

  Affair

  Mischief

  Mystique

  Mistress

  Deception

  Desire

  Dangerous

  Reckless

  Ravished

  Rendezvous

  Scandal

  Surrender

  Seduction

  Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Copper Beach

  In Too Deep

  Fired Up

  Running Hot

  Sizzle and Burn

  White Lies

  All Night Long

  Falling Awake

  Truth or Dare

  Light in Shadow

  Summer in Eclipse Bay

  Together in Eclipse Bay

  Smoke in Mirrors

  Lost & Found

  Dawn in Eclipse Bay

  Soft Focus

  Eclipse Bay

  Eye of the Beholder

  Flash

  Sharp Edges

  Deep Waters

  Absolutely, Positively

  Trust Me

  Grand Passion

  Hidden Talents

  Wildest Hearts

  Family Man

  Perfect Partners

  Sweet Fortune

  Silver Linings

  The Golden Chance

  eSpecials

  The Scargill Cove Case Files

  Anthologies

  Charmed

  (with Julie Beard, Lori Foster, and Eileen Wilks)

  Titles written by Jayne Ann Krentz and Jayne Castle

  No Going Back

  A GUINEVERE JONES NOVEL

  The Sinister Touch

  Jayne Castle

  InterMix Books, New York

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE SINISTER TOUCH

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Dell Books edition / October 1986

  InterMix eBook edition / August 2012

  Copyright © 1986 by Jayne Krentz, Inc.

  Excerpt from The Fatal Fortune copyright © 1986 by Jayne Ann Krentz.

  Crosshairs © ancroft / Shutterstock

  Seattle Skyline © Hiep Nguyen / Shutterstock

  Photo of couple © Shirley Green

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56977-1

  INTERMIX

  InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Dear Reader:

  Welcome to the third book in my Guinevere Jones series – four novels featuring G. Jones and her PI lover, Zac Justis. These books are pre-Arcane Society and there is no psychic stuff involved – just classic romantic-suspense. I am delighted that my publisher has made them available again.

  A lot of you have asked me why I write under three different pen names. I’m not trying to keep secrets, believe me! I use the three names to distinguish my three worlds so that readers will know what sort of fictional landscape they will get when they pick up one of my books.

  I use my Amanda Quick name for historical novels. My Jayne Ann Krentz name is for my contemporary novels. But I have always reserved Jayne Castle — which happens to be my birth name — for forays into sub-genres that are “experimental” or a little different — books like the Guinevere Jones series. Currently I use Jayne Castle for my futuristic Harmony/Rainshadow Island novels.

  I hope you enjoy Guinevere and Zac.

  Chapter One

  The night had been a long one. No, that wasn’t strictly accurate. It had been lonely.

&n
bsp; Guinevere Jones glared at the stylish new coffee machine as it dripped with agonizing slowness. She could have bought a cheaper coffeemaker when she went shopping for one yesterday if she’d been willing to settle for a plain white or beige model. But this little sucker was an exotic import, and with its dashing red-and-black trim it had totally outclassed all the bland models on the shelf next to it at the Bon. Even the glass pot was elegantly different from the ordinary coffeepot. Definitely high-tech style. She hadn’t been able to resist it. It lent such a perfect, snappy note to her vivid yellow kitchen. Unfortunately it was proving to have more style than efficiency. Zac would undoubtedly have a few pithy comments to make when he tried it out.

  If he ever got around to trying it out, Guinevere reminded herself resentfully as she stood in front of the coffee machine with a yellow mug dangling uselessly from one finger. Zac had been very busy with a new client lately, a client who seemed to find that the most convenient time to consult with the head of Free Enterprise Security, Inc., was in the evening. The fact that the client was Elizabeth Gallinger wasn’t doing much to mitigate Guinevere’s prickly mood. Guinevere’s own firm, Camelot Services, which specialized in providing temporary office help, had had a short secretarial assignment a few months ago at Gallinger Industries. Guinevere had only seen Queen Elizabeth from afar, and then just briefly, but the memory of that regal blond head, classic profile, and aristocratic posture had returned in all its glory last week when Zac had mentioned the name of his new client.

  Elizabeth Gallinger was thirty-two, a couple years older than Guinevere, and already she was running one of the most prestigious corporations in Seattle. Queen Elizabeth, as she was rather affectionately known by her employees, had inherited the position of president when her father had died unexpectedly last summer. Everyone had anticipated that Elizabeth would be only a figurehead, but everyone had underestimated her. Elizabeth Gallinger had very firmly assumed the reins of her family business. Four generations of old Seattle money apparently had not led to serious mental deficiency due to inbreeding.

  Guinevere was beginning to wonder if Zac was the one with the mental deficiency. If so, it couldn’t be blamed on inbreeding. Zachariah Justis had a pedigree as ordinary and plebian as Guinevere’s own.

  Guinevere frowned at the slowly dripping coffeemaker. It occurred to her that an ambitious entrepreneur with no claim to illustrious predecessors or illustrious family money might find Elizabeth Gallinger a very intriguing proposition. Zac had never been overly impressed by money, but there was always a first time.

  Damn it, what was the matter with her? If she didn’t know better, Guinevere decided ruefully, she might think she was actually jealous. Ridiculous. The fact that Zac hadn’t spent a night with her for almost a week was hardly cause for turning green-eyed. She and Zac didn’t live together. The affair they had both finally acknowledged was still at its very early, very fragile stage. Neither wanted to push the other too far, too fast. They were both carefully maintaining their own identities and their own apartments.

  Fed up with the slowness of the coffeemaker, Guinevere yanked the half-full glass pot out from under the dripping mechanism and quickly poured the contents into her yellow mug. In the meantime coffee continued to drip with relentless slowness, splashing on the burner. Deciding she’d clean up the mess later, Guinevere hastily put the pot back onto the burner and turned away to sip her coffee.

  Through her kitchen window she could see the high, arched window of the second-floor artist’s loft across the street. This morning, as usual, the window was uncovered. Guinevere had never known the artist who lived and worked in the spacious, airy apartment to pull the shades. Artists were very big on light, as she had once explained to Zac when he’d had occasion to notice the tenant across the street. She smiled slightly as she recalled Zac’s annoyance over the small morning ritual she went through with the anonymous man who lived in the loft.

  Guinevere had never met the lean, young artist. But she waved good morning to him frequently. He always waved back. When Zac happened to be in the kitchen beside Guinevere, the unknown artist tended to put a little more enthusiasm into the wave. Zac’s invariable response was a low, disgusted growl. Then, just as inevitably, he’d close the mini blinds on Guinevere’s window.

  But Zac wasn’t here to express his disapproval of the anonymous friendship this morning. He hadn’t been here to express it for the past several mornings. So Guinevere sipped her coffee and waited for the appearance of her neighbor. Idly she studied the canvas that stood facing her on an easel tilted to catch the northern light. The young man with the slightly overlong hair had been working on that canvas for several days now. Even from here Guinevere could recognize the brilliant colors and dramatic shapes.

  But there was something different about the painting this morning. Guinevere’s brows came together in a new kind of frown as she tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. There was a large black mark on the canvas. From her vantage point it appeared to be an uneven square with a jagged slash inside. It didn’t fit at all with the wonderful brilliance and lightness of the painting.

  Guinevere went forward, leaning her elbows on the window ledge, the mug cradled between her hands. There was more than just an ugly black mark on the painting. She could see that something was wrong with the canvas itself. It was torn or slashed. Terribly slashed.

  Slowly Guinevere began to realize that the huge canvas had been horribly defaced. Her mouth opened in stunned shock just as her unknown neighbor sauntered, yawning, into the brightly lit loft.

  He was wearing his usual morning attire, a loosely hitched towel around a lean waist and a substantial amount of chest hair. Guinevere had decided that he always wandered into the loft just before he took his morning shower. Perhaps he had an artist’s need to see how his work looked in the first light of day. He glanced at her window before he looked at his painting.

  Across the narrow street his eyes met hers. Even from here she could see the questioning tilt of one brow as he made a small production out of looking for Zac. When she just stared back, her expression appalled, he finally began to realize that something was wrong. The amusement faded as his glance turned to curious.

  Guinevere lifted one hand and pointed behind him. The stranger turned and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze fell at last on his ravaged canvas.

  His reaction answered Guinevere’s silent question of whether he had done the damage himself. The artist stood staring at the ruined canvas, his back rigid with shock. When at last he turned to meet Guinevere’s eyes again, all traces of amusement had vanished. He just stared at her. Unable to do anything else, consumed with sympathy for him, Guinevere simply stared back.

  How long she stood like that, Guinevere wasn’t sure. It was the artist who broke the still, silent watch. Swinging around with an abruptness that underlined his tension, he picked up a huge sketch pad and a piece of chalk. Hastily he scrawled a brief message in fat, charcoal-colored letters.

  “Coffee downstairs. Ten Minutes. Please.”

  Guinevere nodded at once, then turned away to finish her coffee and find her shoes. She was already dressed for work in a narrow-skirted, gray pin-striped suit and yellow silk blouse. Her coffee-brown hair was in its usual neat, braided coil at the nape of her neck. She slid her stockinged feet into a pair of mid-height gray pumps and slung a leather purse over her shoulder.

  Quickly Guinevere made her way through the red, black, and yellow living room with its red-bordered gray rugs and high, vaulting windows. The old brick buildings here in the Pioneer Square section of Seattle had wonderfully high ceilings and beautiful windows. When they had been gutted and refurbished, they made great apartments for the new, upwardly mobile urbanites. The busy harbor of Elliott Bay was only a couple of blocks away, and although Guinevere didn’t actually have a view of the water, just knowing it was close gave her a certain satisfaction. Many mornings she walk
ed along the waterfront on her way to her First Avenue office.

  Closing and locking her door behind her, Guinevere hurried down the two short flights of stairs to the security-door entrance of her apartment building and stepped out into the crispness of a pleasantly sunny late-spring morning. On mornings such as this, one knew for certain that summer really was just around the corner. Another sure sign was the fact that several restaurants and taverns in the area had started moving tables and chairs out onto the sidewalks. The rain was due late this afternoon and would probably last for a while, but this morning the air was full of promise.

  The missions, which were one of Pioneer Square’s more picturesque features as far as Guinevere was concerned, had already released the crowd of transients, derelicts, and assorted street people that had been sheltered overnight. Without much enthusiasm the ragtag assortment of scruffy mission clients were slowly drifting out onto the sidewalks, blinking awkwardly in the sunlight as they prepared for the day’s work.

  Soon, either under their own power or aboard one of the free city buses that plied the short route, they would make their way toward the Pike Place Market where the tourists would be swarming by mid-morning. One particularly ambitious soul decided to practice on Guinevere. She smiled vaguely and shook her head, ignoring his outstretched palm and the request for cash as she hurried toward the restaurant.

  As soon as she opened the high doors, the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls assailed her, reminding her that she hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast. A fire burning on the huge hearth on one side of the enormous, old brick room took the chill off the morning.

  Guinevere glanced around and, when she didn’t see her neighbor, decided to throw caution to the wind and order some cinnamon rolls. They arrived with butter dripping over the sides. Of course, you couldn’t eat a cinnamon roll without a cup of coffee. Something was required to dilute the butter. She was paying the check when the artist slid into line behind her.

  “Hi.” His voice was pleasantly deep, edged with a trace of the East Coast and laced with a certain grimness. “What a way to meet. Thanks for coming. I’m Mason Adair, by the way. I feel as if I already know you.”