Trading Secrets Read online

  TRADING SECRETS

  Jayne Castle

  When she boldly picked up a stranger in a posh Acapulco bar, Sabrina Chase meant only to have a casual fling. She never dreamed the rugged expatriate would appear in Dallas to rekindle passionate memories she preferred to forget. They were, she discovered, two of a kind. Sabrina had dropped out of the corporate world, while Matt August seemed to have turned his back on the military. But Matt was a mystery. An ex-major trained in Central American operations, he was as evasive about his return to the Caribbean as he was persuasive about leaving his son behind. Sabrina was concerned about her ability to care for the troubled teenager, but concern turned to panic in the face of sudden danger. As they fled to a cabin in the wilds of Oregon, Sabrina knew it would be up to her to save them both, unless Matt—who had shared only part of the truth even as he claimed all of her heart—returned to find them…in time.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  “Why me?” he asked.

  Sabrina Chase considered the man seated beside her. “Was that question directed at me or the universe at large?”

  “I learned a long time ago that one seldom gets answers from the universe at large. The question was directed at you.”

  “Oh hell,” she murmured in disgust. “Four, maybe five available men in this bar and I had to pick the existential philosopher in the bunch.” She stood up from the oversize rattan lounge chair on which she had just sat down and paused for a moment to glare down at her companion. “I’ll have you know I had to get past three off-duty mariachi-band members, the bartender, and that guy in the cowboy hat at the end of the bar to get to you. At least you could be gracious.”

  Hazel eyes regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of the whiskey glass. “I guess some men just don’t know when they’re well off.”

  “Or when they’ve gotten lucky or an evening. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can find someone else who’s not so inclined to question his place in the cosmic scheme of things.”

  He put out a hand and caught hold of her as Sabrina would have turned away. She glanced down in surprise, aware of a curious roughness on the tips of his fingers as they closed over the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

  “If you knew anything about expatriate, existential philosophers in Acapulco bars you’d know we don’t expect answers to our questions, regardless of who we address them to,” he stated dryly. “Let’s start over again. Please sit down and let me buy you a drink.”

  This was the moment for a grand gesture of refusal, Sabrina decided. “I wouldn’t think of infringing on your time and space.”

  “Is that California talk?” He tugged quite gently, but she somehow found herself reseated in the rattan chair with a force that was not quite gentle.

  “Ex-California talk,” she managed, trying to think of a way out of what was rapidly turning into an awkward situation. Awkward with a capital A. She was certainly safe enough here in this plush hotel bar, but she was beginning to realize she might have gotten in over her head when she decided to approach this particular man.

  “Ex-California talk?” He raised heavy brows in polite inquiry. “Have you moved to Mexico?”

  “Dallas,” she corrected as the waiter approached. “Believe me, the cultural shock has been almost as great as if I’d moved to Mars. I’ll get the drinks,” she added quickly. Psychologically it seemed like a way to regain control of the scene. “Whiskey?”

  “On the rocks.” He released her wrist and lounged back in his chair.

  As she hastily ordered the whiskey and a Margarita, Sabrina was aware of the man’s brooding gaze on her tense profile. In the flickering candlelight, which was all that lit the open air terrace bar, his eyes were hooded and unreadable. His opening question had been a legitimate one, she decided uneasily. What had made her choose him?

  When a woman set out to orchestrate her first wild, nostrings-attached, unabashedly romantic vacation fling she ought to select a male who showed some outward signs of being the free-wheeling, nostrings-attached, unabashedly romantic type. The cowboy at the end of the bar would probably have been a much better bet. She knew an easygoing Texan on vacation when she saw one. Maybe it would have been smarter to stick with a known quantity first time out. Then again, she already knew more than she wanted to know about Texans.

  The man beside her appeared a little different up close than he had from a distance. What had looked like an interesting, slightly jaded quality from across the shadowy bar was turning out to be a somewhat grim reserve.

  The intriguing economy of his movements now appeared to be a matter of somber self-discipline rather than casual masculine grace. It was as if she had first viewed him through a slightly out-of-focus lens. Proximity was sharpening the focus, but Sabrina wasn’t certain she was still attracted to the object in view.

  This evening wasn’t the first time she had seen him. She’d encountered him once earlier in the day, although he hadn’t noticed her. He had been busy at the time ringing up the sale of a paperback in the small English-language bookshop he ran near Sabrina’s hotel. But on that occasion, too, she had only watched him from a distance. It went to show that first impressions, while lasting, could be deceptive.

  Sabrina hated it when old clichés proved true. People tended to quote clichés as though the authority behind them were unquestioned. However, that had never been Sabrina’s approach. For as long as she could remember, she’d possessed a natural tendency to question authority.

  Physically, there were no obvious discrepancies in her quarry, now that she was up close, from what there had been when she was farther away. In the dim lounge the man was just as blatantly unhandsome as he had been from a distance. There was a rough irregularity to the bluntly carved lines of nose and jaw. But the hard, uncompromising features appealed to Sabrina for some distant reason.

  Now that she was sitting beside him she could see that his hair was cut too short in a no-nonsense fashion that was vaguely military. The occasional flare of the candle on the table revealed the gunmetal-gray that was beginning to appear in the deep-brown pelt. He wore a pair of khaki slacks and a neatly pressed white shirt instead of the billowing, vividly patterned resort-style shirt almost every other man in the bar wore. When he lifted his glass to down the last of the whiskey, Sabrina saw the functional stainless-steel watch on his left arm.

  All in all, she decided resentfully, her chosen consort was not quite as she had pictured him from a distance. Too grave, too restrained, too disciplined, and too unreadable.

  “I don’t suppose you own a guitar?” she inquired politely.

  His eyes narrowed. “Afraid not.”

  “And I get the feeling you’re not an artist living down here because of the fantastic Mexican light.” She sighed.

  “You’re in the market for an artsy-craftsy type?” the man asked with mild curiosity.

  “I thought an artsy-craftsy type might do nicely. A passionate expatriate artist or musician would have been perfect.”

  “You knew exactly what you were looking for before you wandered in here tonight?”

  “More or less. I think I’ve made a mistake,” Sabrina mused.

  “We all do on occasion.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for the strong, silent, cryptic type tonight.”

  “You’d prefer someone on the flamboyant, chatty side?”

  She nodded. “Someone charming, amusing, gallant.” />
  He considered that. “Yeah, you might have made a mistake. I get the feeling you haven’t had enough practice selecting the right type of man out of a barroom crowd.”

  “It’s tricky,” she explained with mock solemnity. “I can see there must be a knack to it.”

  “What made you decide to start practicing tonight?”

  “For the strong, silent type you certainly have a lot of questions.”

  “A hangover from the philosophical side of my nature.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just that, as your intended victim this evening, I can’t help being a bit curious.”

  “It’s my birthday,” she explained succinctly.

  “Picking up a man for the evening is going to be a birthday present to yourself?”

  “When a woman turns thirty she’s entitled to something interesting in the way of gifts. Even if she has to go out and get them for herself.” Sabrina broke off as the waiter returned with the tray of drinks. Quickly she dug into her purse for her hotel room key. “I want to put the drinks on my hotel bill,” she said clearly, flashing the room number to prove she did, indeed, have a hotel bill established.

  The dark-eyed Mexican gave her a disapproving glance and set down the drinks. Then he smiled politely at the man seated beside the aggressive little gringa.

  “On your tab, senor?”

  “Latin chauvinist.” Sabrina sighed. “I said I’d get the drinks.”

  The stranger beside her said something in quick, fluent Spanish to the waiter, who nodded complacently and moved off.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I told him to put your Margarita on my tab. Consider it a birthday present. My name is Matt August, by the way. Just in case I wind up becoming a part of your celebration after all.” For the first time the man smiled. “Which brings us back to my first question. Why me?”

  “The bookstore, probably,” Sabrina said honestly as she picked up the Margarita and absently licked salt off the rim. “I figured an expatriate American selling books to tourists in Mexico might be kind of interesting.”

  “Now you’re having second thoughts?” he asked grimly. His hand moved to close around his glass and Sabrina caught a brief glimpse of the fine web of small scars that laced his fingertips. She remembered the way they had produced a strange sensation of roughness on her skin and her frown intensified.

  “Only about my selection technique. I’m sure there’s some man on vacation down here in Acapulco who won’t be as offended as you were when I tried to introduce myself.”

  “I’d like to hear the rest of the introduction,” Matt August said softly. “I didn’t even give you a chance to tell me your name.”

  “Does it matter?” She gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance.

  “Humor me. After all, I’m buying you a birthday drink, aren’t I?”

  “Sabrina Chase,” she answered. He really wasn’t so bad, she decided. Just a little rough around the edges. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Men, she knew, frequently had “bad days” and just as frequently used them as an excuse for rudeness. Something in the male mentality actually believed it was a valid excuse. Of course, let a woman use it and men were inclined to blame it on her time of the month.

  “And is there a Mr. Chase?” Matt persisted.

  “My father and two brothers. Look, if you’ve got a problem with this, I can just—”

  “Sorry,” he interrupted shortly. “I realize it’s none of my business. I just wondered if you were married.”

  “You’re not supposed to probe too deeply in this sort of situation,” Sabrina told him seriously. “It ruins … something.”

  “You are married.”

  “It’s irrelevant.” She paused and got hold of her temper. “This is pretty damn hopeless, isn’t it? I’ll just take my drink and wander off, if you don’t mind.” Once again she started to get to her feet and once again his rough fingertips closed around her wrist. Hazel eyes glinted as he studied her expression.

  “I apologize for ruining the, uh, romantic aura. It’s been a rough day.” He broke off as Sabrina made a small, muffled exclamation. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” she assured him brightly. “You were saying?”

  His mouth hardened faintly. “I said I apologize. Please sit down and let’s try it one more time.”

  Reluctantly she allowed herself to be reseated. “If we’re going to try this again I insist we do things my way.”

  “You’re an expert?”

  “Maybe not, but something tells me I’ve got more of an idea of how to handle this sort of situation than you do.”

  “Feminine instinct?”

  “Probably,” she agreed spiritedly. “Now are you going to relax and let me work it my way, or shall I go try the Texan?”

  August shifted his considering gaze to the man at the end of the bar. “He’d take you up on your offer in a minute, wouldn’t he?”

  “I haven’t made any offers. Merely an introduction.”

  “Which is designed to lead to bed.”

  “Only if everything goes the way I want it to go.” That last bit took a little courage. She reached for her Margarita. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her or make her feel like a scarlet woman. She had a right to live her life the way she wanted. Every woman had that right. Especially on the day she turned thirty.

  Matt’s gaze came back to rest on Sabrina’s slightly flushed features. A glimmer of unwilling appreciation moved in the hazel depths and then disappeared. Watching him, Sabrina was suddenly certain that Matt August had come to some inner decision.

  “All right, Sabrina Chase. We’ll do things your way. What do you want from me?”

  “At the moment only a little intelligent conversation,” she informed him stiffly.

  “Intelligent conversation. If we have to exclude existential philosophy, what does that leave us? I’ve got it. Business. How did you know about the bookshop? I don’t recall seeing you in there today.”

  “Would you have remembered?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d have remembered.”

  The way he said it, Sabrina felt abruptly warmed. She relaxed slightly and tried another sip of the Margarita. “I was browsing in the window and I noticed you behind the counter. You were busy at the time. I intended to drop in later, but I went swimming instead. Have you been running it very long?”

  August lifted one shoulder uninterestedly. “About two years.”

  “Is it very profitable?”

  He looked at her. “I’m not making a fortune, if that’s what you want to know. But tourists are always looking for something trashy to read on the beach. I get by.”

  “I was just curious. I own a small shop, too, in Dallas.” She glanced away, wishing she hadn’t pried. As she kept pointing out to Matt, prying was not allowed under the rules of this particular game. It threatened to jeopardize the illusion.

  “Books?” he surprised her by asking.

  She shook her head. “Texas souvenirs. You know, little brass cowboy boots, barbecue sauce, stuffed bulls…

  “Stuffed bulls?”

  “I have a lovely one in the window. I actually would have preferred a stuffed cowboy, but my assistant thought that would be overkill. My assistant has excellent taste,” she added with a small grin.

  “I see.” Matt looked slightly disconcerted. “So your question was one of professional interest? One businessperson to another?”

  Sabrina relaxed still further. “Well, when you think about it, we do have something in common. Similar professions, you could say. I sell tacky souvenirs to tourists and you sell trashy novels to them. At least down here you don’t have to mess around with the IRS.”

  “Believe me,” he corrected, “Mexico has its equivalent.”

  This was much better, Sabrina decided. As if she were handling a small sailboat in danger of capsizing at any moment, she carefully maneuvered the conversation around light, impersonal topics, trying to establish the sort of casual rapport that
she thought might be appropriate for a vacation affair. He was right about her lack of practice in such matters, but she was convinced her instincts would guide her.

  Two drinks later the romantic aura she had sought to create seemed to be firmly in place. Matt was matching her with a whiskey on the rocks for every Margarita she consumed, and the conversation had loosened up considerably.

  “You know,” Sabrina remarked seriously at one point, “you really can be quite charming when you try.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a formal inclination of his head. “I really am trying.”

  “It shows. Do you hang out here a lot?” She waved a hand casually to encompass the elegant tropical bar setting.

  “Occasionally, when I feel like imbibing a little atmosphere.”

  “Or when you get homesick?”

  “I don’t get homesick. Acapulco is home now.”

  “No family?” Sabrina pushed, unable to help herself even though the question violated her own rules on the matter.

  “Are you asking me if I’m married? I thought those sorts of questions were forbidden.”

  Sabrina licked more salt off her glass. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I had no right to ask.”

  “But you’re curious?”

  “No,” she declared. “I don’t want to know anything that personal.”

  “Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes. You have very expressive eyes, Sabrina Chase of Dallas.” Matt’s mouth lifted at the edge. “The answer is no. I’m not married. Not any longer.”

  She chewed her lip for a moment and then smiled.

  “Thanks.” The sensation of relief was very real. Much too strong. Whether or not Matt August was married shouldn’t have mattered. Not for her purposes tonight. “I’m not married, either,” she offered magnanimously.

  He let the free information pass as if he no longer cared. “Another drink?”

  She stared doubtfully down at her nearly finished Margarita. “Actually, I think I’ve had enough. I had a couple before I came over to introduce myself.”

  “Liquid courage?” he mocked softly. “I didn’t realize I was so unapproachable.”