Gift of Gold Read online

  “I’d rather work here,” Jonas said simply.

  “Why?” Verity demanded boldly.

  “Let’s just say I’m anxious to improve my lot in the world. I’ve got ambition.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s just say you try another restaurant, Mr. Quarrel. Don’t bother coming back here until you have a proper resumé.” Verity made another attempt to close the door.

  “Not so fast, Ms. Equal Opportunity Employer.”

  He was in the room with her before Verity quite knew what had happened. Instinctively she backed up a step. She had to get control of this situation. It was getting ludicrously out-of-hand. “Now just hold on a minute. The restaurant is closed, I’ve told you that. I have a million things to do before I open for the dinner crowd and I haven’t got time to waste calling the police. Kindly take yourself out of here.”

  “A job applicant has to demonstrate perseverance. Employers respond to that. They’re impressed by it.” Quarrel glanced around the dining room. “Have you got an office?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Mr. Quarrel, I would appreciate it if you would…”

  “Through here, right?” He was already making his way between the maze of country French chairs and small, intimate tables toward the kitchen.

  Verity’s temper overcame her incipient nervousness. “What do you think you’re doing?” She leaped after him.

  “You want a resumé? I’ll give you a resumé.” He paced through the small tiled kitchen, past the large gas stove, the immaculately clean stainless steel counters and the sink, which was still full of dishes from the lunch crowd. Quarrel gave the sink a knowing glance. “Looks like you need me, lady.” Then he was at the door of her tiny office. “Ah, just as I thought. A typewriter.”

  Verity stared at his sleek shoulders and back as he dropped down into the chair at her desk, reached for a sheet of typing paper, and inserted it into the machine. “You’re going to type out a resumé? Right here in my office?”

  “Right. Now go putter around in the kitchen and stop nagging me while I work on this. It’s going to take a little concentration. Been a while since I had to put a resumé together. Christ. A resumé to wash dishes. What’s the world coming to?” He was already flexing his fingers over the keys.

  Short of calling the police, Verity was unable to think of anything else to do. She found herself looking at his hands as he began typing with quick, deft strokes. He had fascinating hands, she thought. Long, supple fingers and strong-looking wrists. A swordsman’s hands.

  A lover’s hands.

  That last impression made her frown. She stepped back out of the office and headed for the kitchen, trying to decide what to do next. This whole situation was bizarre. She didn’t feel personally threatened, but she did feel astonishingly helpless.

  Maybe the poor man really was desperate for a job; any job. Verity picked up the bottle of olive oil and went back to the tortellini salad she had been making.

  There was no denying that she needed help tonight. True, Laura and Rick Griswald, the husband and wife team who managed the Sequence Springs Spa, would be glad to send someone over, but it would be easier if Verity solved her own staff problems. It was unfortunate that Marlene Webberly had given so little notice before running off to get married three days ago. Amazing what love could do to a woman’s common sense. Marlene had always seemed such an intelligent young woman.

  Good help was hard to get.

  Verity was almost finished with the salad when the typewriter hushed in the small office. There was a long silence while her erstwhile job applicant apparently proofread his work, and then Verity heard a few more desultory keystrokes. Obviously Jonas Quarrel’s typing was not letter-perfect. He walked into the kitchen a moment later, thrusting his resumé into her oily hands.

  “Here you are, boss lady. Read it and then tell me I haven’t got the right qualifications for this job. In the meantime, I’ll finish off those dishes for you.”

  Verity clutched the resumé and stared at the opening typewritten lines. Frantically she searched for discrepancies, outright lies, or any other reason she might be able to find for ash-canning the piece of paper.

  “Age thirty-seven? I would have guessed you were a few years older.” Because of the ghosts in your eyes, she explained silently.

  “Thanks,” he growled. “I didn’t think I had that much gray in my hair yet.”

  She shook her head, glanced at his night colored hair and spoke without stopping to think. “It’s not the gray in your hair. You hardly have any. It’s the look in your eyes.” Her own eyes widened as she realized what she had just said. “Never mind. Forget it.” But her eyes widened even further in disbelief as she read the next section. “‘Education: Ph.D. in history from Vincent College.’ You have a Ph.D.?”

  “Yeah. Don’t hold it against me, okay?”

  “What area of history did you study?” Verity demanded suspiciously.

  “The Renaissance, with a specialization in military history. I’m an expert on arms and strategy.” He seemed totally occupied with the dishes he was rinsing.

  “Sure. And if I believe that, you’ve got some waterfront property down in Arizona you can sell me, right?”

  Water splashed in the sink. “It’s the truth. You can check it out with a phone call to the records office at Vincent College. I taught there for a while after I graduated.”

  A scholar in the field of Renaissance history. Verity was hopelessly intrigued in spite of herself. A part of her had always been deeply fascinated by that bloody, brilliant, world-changing era. She suddenly realized that she had been right earlier when she had looked at him and found her head filled with images of gilded rapiers and Florentine gold.

  She forced the mental pictures from her mind and said sternly, “I’ll check it out here and now. Tell me something about Renaissance history.”

  “Do you speak Italian?” he asked politely.

  “Not much.”

  “Okay, then I’ll translate for you.” Jonas paused, apparently gathering his thoughts, and then he quoted smoothly:

  “My Lady wounds me with her doubts.

  Each sigh, each glance, a rapier’s thrust.

  I yearn to give her love’s sweet joys,

  But she must first gift me with trust.”

  Verity leaned against the doorway, crossed her arms over her breasts, and tried for a fierce expression. “What is that supposed to be?”

  “A quick, rough translation of a bit of little-known Renaissance poetry. Impressed?” Jonas gave her a hopeful glance.

  Verity’s sense of humor was threatening to get the better of her. It was hard to dislike a man who could quote Renaissance love poetry. Of course, it paid to remember that some of the most ruthless men of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had not only quoted such poetry, but had written it. There was no law in nature that said killers couldn’t write poetry, and in those days, Verity knew, a true gentleman was expected to be as good at composing verse as he was at wielding a rapier.

  “The poem must be quite obscure. I’ve read some Renaissance poetry and I don’t recall that little ditty.”

  “All the more reason for you to be impressed,” he retorted smoothly.

  “I’m impressed, but I’m not sure if knowing a smattering of Renaissance love poetry is much of a qualification for dishwashing,” she murmured.

  “I can quote a little Machiavelli if you’d prefer. Perhaps something on the art of governing through fear? He taught that it was politically more expedient for a leader to be feared rather than loved. I suppose that applies to running a restaurant.”

  “Never mind. I’ve read enough Machiavelli to know I don’t run this place along his principles.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Jonas drawled meaningfully. “How did you happen to read his stuff, though?”
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br />   “My father always claimed Machiavelli’s theories on how to survive politically are still the foundation of modern government. He thought I ought to study them,” Verity answered absently. She examined the resumé again. “You’ve done a lot of bartending, I see. The Green Witch Bar in the Virgin Islands?”

  “A tourist trap. I’ve had a lot of experience with tourists,” Jonas said modestly.

  “The Harbor Lights Tavern in Tahiti?”

  “We catered to a slightly less genteel crowd there.”

  “The Seafarer Bar and Grill in Manila?”

  “The clientele there consisted mostly of U.S. sailors on shore leave. I picked up a lot of diplomatic techniques. I’m very good at quelling brawls and riots.”

  “I’ll bet,” Verity said mildly. She was fascinated, in spite of herself. If nothing else, Jonas Quarrel had a vivid imagination. “How about The Get Leid Tavern in Hawaii?”

  “Another military hangout, although we got our share of tourists. A little classier than the Seafarer.”

  “You’d never know it from the name. The Crystal Bell in Singapore?”

  “A place where expatriates gathered.”

  Verity scanned the next entry on the resumé and caught her breath. Then she looked up slowly. “The El Toro Rojo Cantina?”

  “Got a lot of expatriates there, too. You know, the would-be writers and artists who go to Mexico to create their art and wind up swimming in cheap tequila instead.”

  “I know the type,” Verity said stiffly. “I also know this cantina. I was in Puerto Vallerta a few months ago and stumbled across it.”

  Quarrel gave her an unfathomable look as he efficiently stacked dishes. “What were you looking for in a place like the El Toro?”

  “I was looking for my father.” Verity frowned and tapped the resumé with a fingertip. “You didn’t make these places up in a spurt of creative writing, after all, did you? You really have worked in all these sleazy dives.”

  Quarrel ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Did you find your father?”

  Verity shook her head. “No. But that’s no big deal. He’ll show up sooner or later. He always does.” She came away from the wall and started toward the office. “Excuse me for a few minutes.”

  Jonas dropped a pan back into the sink. “Hey, wait a minute. What are you going to do?”

  “Make a few phone calls,” she explained sweetly. She smiled at him.

  Jonas stared at her for a long moment. He seemed momentarily disconcerted by her smile. Then he pulled himself together and asked slowly, “You’re going to call some of those bars?”

  “I always check references. What’s the matter, Mr. Quarrel? Did you think I’d hesitate to call places like Tahiti and Manila and Mexico?”

  He wiped his hands on a towel, studying her intently. “Well, yeah. Most people are a little intimidated by that kind of long-distance dialing.”

  “I’ve got news for you. You’re not the only one who’s had the advantages of extensive world travel. I spent a year and a half in Tahiti, three months in Manila, a year in Mexico, and another year in Hawaii. My memory is a little vague because it’s been a few years, but I think I’ve even been in a few more of these dives than just El Toro Rojo. The Harbor Lights Tavern has a familiar ring. I hate to admit it, but so does the Get Leid.”

  Quarrel looked genuinely startled. “You’re kidding. You know some of those places?”

  “My father gave me a very well-rounded education.” Verity walked into her office, vaguely pleased at having finally been able to turn the tables on Jonas Quarrel.

  “It’ll cost a fortune to call those taverns,” Jonas pointed out.

  “I’ll take it out of your first week’s pay.” Verity smiled slowly as she sat down at her desk and reached for the phone. This was going to prove interesting.

  An hour later she had her answers and Jonas had the dishes done. They faced each other in the small kitchen.

  “All right,” Verity said calmly. “You’ve got the job. Everyone spoke very highly of you. They said you could be relied upon to open a bar on time, you aren’t into drugs, you don’t have the bad habit of helping yourself to the contents of the cash register, and you don’t drink on the job. High praise, indeed, considering the sources. Oh, and Big Al at the Sea Siren said to give you his best and swears he’ll send along the money he owes you now that he has a current address.”

  Something in Jones’s eyes seemed to relax. It was replaced with a curious expression that was part anticipation and part satisfaction. “Thanks, Verity,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Since you’ve finished the dishes, you can start chopping onions for the vegetable tart I’m going to make. I’ll do the pastry.”

  “I’ll get right on it, boss lady.” Jonas reached for a long-bladed knife, hefting it with an easy familiarity. “There’s just one more small problem.”

  Verity paused warily in the act of taking a ball of chilled pastry out of the refrigerator. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll need a place to stay.” Jonas smiled at her. “Any ideas? Since I’m going to be working for minimum wage, I won’t be able to afford anyplace fancy. I checked out of the Lake Motel this morning. I was running low on cash.”

  Verity sighed in resignation. “You can have the cabin my father uses when he deigns to visit. It’s in back of the restaurant.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t heard from him since I got the message inviting me to meet him down in Puerto Vallerta. He’d already left town by the time I got there and I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t think he’ll be disturbing us anytime soon. If he does, you can flip a coin for the bed. Both of you have probably slept on more than one floor in your life.”

  “You’re a generous woman, Verity Ames.”

  “It’s not that. I think the real problem is that I’m just a little soft in the head when it comes to professional drifters who spend their lives running from their talent.”

  Jones’s head came up and his eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Verity looked at him as she rolled out the pastry. “I called Vincent College after I checked with a few of your previous employers. You really did teach Renaissance history there. What’s more, you were damn good at it. Lots of impressive publications and one book on ancient armory to your credit. And then you gave up teaching for no apparent reason. Have you been drifting around the world ever since?”

  “What does all this have to do with your father?” Jonas asked coolly.

  “He’s a professional drifter, too. Does the name Emerson Ames mean anything to you?” Verity realized she was wielding the rolling pin with too much force. Deliberately she made herself relax.

  Jonas flicked off the end of an onion with a negligent slash of the knife. “Yeah, it does, as a matter of fact. Are we talking about the same Emerson Ames who wrote Juxtaposition a few years back?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I seem to remember that book caused a certain, small sensation when it was published. Anybody who had any academic pretensions at Vincent College had it on his coffee table. What ever happened to him? Has he written anything since Juxtaposition?”

  “Unfortunately,” Verity said tightly, “Dad decided Juxtaposition wasn’t his kind of book. He vowed not to waste his time doing another one like it and went back to writing what he claims he likes writing best.”

  Jonas glanced at her. “What’s that?”

  Verity wrinkled her nose. “Paperback westerns. Can you believe it? The man who was once heralded by The New York Times as the author of the year. A writer who had ‘boldly and decisively examined and illuminated contemporary uncertainties and paradoxes,’ they said. And this bold genius ups and decides he would rather write westerns.”

  Jonas st
ared at her for a moment longer and then began to laugh. It was a deep, masculine roar that filled the kitchen. His golden eyes gleamed with it. “I think,” Jonas finally said through his laughter, “that I would like your father.” He lopped off the end of another onion. “I hope I get a chance to meet him while I’m here.”

  “Something tells me the two of you have a lot in common,” Verity grumbled.

  Jonas laughed again and flipped the knife into the air. Verity sucked in her breath as the blade spun end over end. Visions of blood and sliced fingers made her clutch at the counter top. But an instant later Jonas neatly caught the knife by its handle and went back to slicing onions. Verity repressed a shudder.

  “I have a hunch that what your father and I have in common is a mutual decision to live in the real world instead of pretending we actually enjoy the academic and literary establishments.”

  “It looks to me as if you both got lazy and took the easy way out,” Verity retorted in an upbraiding tone.

  All traces of humor vanished from Jonas’s face. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously edged, just like the knife in his hand. “Lady, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Not all talent is a blessing. Sometimes a thing like talent can kill you. Or it can drive you crazy. Maybe in your father’s case, it simply bored him to death. You’ve got no right to sit in judgment.”

  Verity shivered. She didn’t doubt that Jonas knew what he was talking about. Instinctively she sought refuge in a change of subject. “This is a stupid argument. You’d better get busy on those onions,” she said briskly. “When you’re finished with those, you can start chopping the carrots. I want them done julienne style. Do you know what that is?”

  “Sure, boss lady. Whatever you say. I’ve got a question, though.”

  Verity eyed him warily. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never worked in a gourmet vegetarian kitchen.” He smiled a little too innocently. “What do you use the extra virgin olive oil for?”

  “Salad dressings, among other things,” she explained tartly. “And please spare me your sophomoric jokes. Extra virgin refers to the fact that the oil is of very high quality from the first pressing of the olives.”