Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
Jonas pushed the newspaper ad back into his pocket and nodded. “I can give you a fairly firm guarantee that I’ll be around for a while.”
Verity was getting nervous. “Look, Mr. Quarrel, you’re not quite what I had in mind. I had intended to hire a local person.”
“I thought you said you were an equal opportunity employer.”
“Well, I am, but I…”
“Seems to me a newcomer to the community has as much right to apply for this job as someone who lives nearby.”
Verity narrowed her eyes as she glared up at him. “Are you a newcomer to Sequence Springs, Mr. Quarrel? Or just passing through?”
“Don’t worry, I told you I’ll be around for a while.”
“But you just got into town?” she persisted.
“A few days ago.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll want to study the job ads for a couple of weeks before you make up your mind about employment. I have a feeling something lots more interesting than an opportunity as a dishwasher will come along soon. You might try one of the wineries up in the hills. You look like you might enjoy outdoor work.”
Quarrel’s eyes gleamed as he looked down at her. For some reason the image of a gilded rapier hilt popped into her mind. Florentine gold beautifully etched on the handle of a blade meant to kill.
“As it happens,” he explained in his low, shaded voice, “I’m looking for indoor work.”
Verity began to panic. Something was very wrong here and she was no longer sure she could deal with the situation. The man didn’t actually frighten her, for all his quiet power, perhaps because she sensed that that power was very controlled. But Verity was also certain this was no casual laborer willing to eke out a living at minimum wage. There was too much intelligence in those gold eyes, too much hooded awareness of both himself and the world around him. But the factor that alarmed her the most was her own too-vivid awareness of him. She struggled to suppress it. This man was dangerous. She knew it intuitively in a way she could never have explained with words.
It was becoming obvious that Jonas Quarrel wasn’t going to take no for an answer, however. She would have to find a more subtle way to get rid of him.
“I presume you have a resumé?” Verity asked in a quelling tone.
“A resumé?” He eyed her thoughtfully. “For a dishwashing job?”
She was onto something, Verity decided in relief. Obviously he did not have a resumé.
“Well, naturally. You can’t expect me to just hire you on the spot. I’ll need a complete work and education history, including dates of previous employment, names of supervisors, addresses and phone numbers. You’ll have to fill out an employment application, too. I’ll add it to the stack I’m collecting. When I have a lot of them I’ll go through them all and make my selection.”
“Sounds like a lengthy process,” Quarrel observed dryly.
“Oh, it is,” she agreed quickly. “Might take a couple of weeks or more.”
“Is that right? What are you going to do for help this weekend?”
Verity froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. You need help now. Tonight, in fact. You’re going to be swamped in a few hours.”
“I’ll make do,” Verity said through clenched teeth. “The managers of the Sequence Springs Spa are friends. I used to run their restaurant. They’ll be glad to loan me someone from their kitchen.”
“Why borrow temporary help when you’ve got an opportunity to hire the best on a more permanent basis?”
Verity’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I had no idea dishwashers took so much pride in their craft. You consider yourself the best, Mr. Quarrel?”
“Trust me,” he said blandly. “I’ve got more experience and skill in the art of dishwashing and waiting on customers than anyone else who’s likely to show up on your doorstep between now and five-thirty tonight.”
“What about your handyperson experience?” she demanded, beginning to feel as if she were getting backed into a corner. Time was wasting. She needed to get back to the kitchen.
“I’m very handy to have around,” he assured her. “I’m capable of just about anything from unstopping a toilet to bouncing a drunk. You’ll see. I’m useful.”
Verity straightened her shoulders. “I only have a beer and wine license. We do not have a problem with drunks here at the No Bull. Furthermore, I have a plumber I can call if something goes wrong in the restrooms. I don’t know what sort of establishments you’ve worked in before, but it sounds as if your job skills might be better used down at the local tavern. Why don’t you try there? I’ll give you the owner’s name.” Milt Sanderson, who owned The Keg, could deal with this man, she thought. Milt was used to dealing with construction workers, truckdrivers, and similar types.
“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?”
“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.”