Gift of Gold (Gift #1)

Gift of Gold (Gift #1) Page 4

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 resume 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 resume 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 br**sts, 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 resume 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 resume 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?"