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Masquerade
(excerpt)

Chapter 1

On a scale of one to ten, Ginger decided her office at Benson, Field and Smith, Stock Brokers, was about a four. No walls, just partitions to mark the cubicles. A desk, two chairs, computer and telephone: she didn't really need more. She needed another client or two, but she felt that this was the right occupation for her and, if she worked hard, more clients would show up soon. She bent over the list of possibles on her desk and was about to pick up the phone and call one when a deep, masculine voice greeted her.

"Good morning."

Ginger raised her head and her gaze met the deep brown eyes of a man standing in her doorway. He was tall and well built, with hair a darker shade of red than hers, and he wore a handsome Burberry raincoat. She couldn't help smiling. The man must be a stranger; native San Franciscans seldom wore raincoats in June. The morning fog would soon burn off, no matter how gloomy it seemed at the moment.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a stockbroker," he said, with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. "The receptionist mentioned a Mr. Maddox and pointed me in this direction."

"It's Ginger Maddox," she said. "And you're in the right place; I am a registered representative." Her husband Colin had worked there before her, and--when he was fatally struck by a car--she'd been persuaded to take his place.

He stood, unmoving, in her doorway, and she saw that he was not only over six feet tall, but good-looking, with an aristocratic nose and full lips set in a squarish sun-tanned face. Ginger couldn't help wondering how a redhead could tan so well. It had never been possible for her.

"I was expecting--" he began, and then paused.

"You were expecting a man," Ginger finished for him. "As you know, there are many women representatives these days. And besides," she added, with a broad smile, hoping to convince him to stay, for she desperately needed more clients, "it's my turn."

"I beg your pardon?" He came forward, filling the small space with his imposing presence.

"Please sit down." Ginger pointed to the walnut arm chair. "The receptionist sent you to me because each one is called in turn when a new client comes into the office."

He continued to stand, so Ginger was forced to rise as well, although at five feet nine in her heels, she still found it necessary to look up to him.

"I see," he answered, then repeated, "It's your turn." He paused. "I don't mean to appear chauvinistic, but I had been expecting a man, and--" He broke off.

At least he had the decency to be embarrassed about his sexist remarks.

"I assure you I'm perfectly capable," she said. "Women take the same course of study for these positions as men, and must turn in equally high marks."

"It's not that," then added, "you're so young."

"Thank you for the compliment, but I'm almost thirty." She had just turned twenty-eight, but had already learned that people in their thirties and forties--she judged this man to be somewhere between--had difficulty accepting investment advice from someone too much their junior. And she hadn't lied: twenty-eight was a lot closer to thirty than it was to twenty.

"Please be seated," she said again, but he only stared at her until she could feel a flush rising to her usually fair skin, and then he said, "Excuse me," turned and left.

She watched him return to the receptionist for a moment, then proceed in the direction of the manager's office. Her pulse pounded. What was he saying to her boss? She almost trembled with outrage. How could he do that without even giving her a chance?

She sank down abruptly in her chair and turned her attention to the list of names on the desk, but the words blurred before her eyes, and her mind refused to concentrate. All she could think of was the man in the manager's office, no doubt discussing her.

Jim Blake, the manager of this branch, was more than her employer. he was her friend as well. After his divorce a few years before, she and her husband Colin had sometimes invited Jim to dinner, and had also sailed with him and other friends on his twenty-eight-foot boat in San Francisco Bay. Jim was fifteen years older than Ginger and had taken an almost fatherly interest in her when Colin had been killed in the automobile accident. Since she was between jobs at the time, he had urged her to enter the firm.

Still, friends or not, she was not a charity case and would never let him down. She had studied the market and found that she liked the securities business, and apparently had an aptitude for it. Once she acquired a long list of satisfied customers and generated high commissions for the firm, Jim would see his decision justified and be proud of her. Certainly, if hard work was any criterion for success, she would attain that goal before she reached the age of the insensitive man who had just left her office.

As if responding to her unspoken thoughts, the man himself once more appeared in her doorway. Her eyes widened. What had Jim said to him?

"Ms. Maddox, please forgive my earlier rudeness." He removed his coat, placed it carelessly across the back of the chair, and sat down.

Ginger didn't answer, she was too surprised. Plus, his earlier dismissal remained fresh in her mind.

"You must have thought my remarks were based on your being a woman. It was only a misunderstanding. Mr. Blake told me how qualified you are, a graduate of Stanford and a member of Mensa. I'm impressed."

Her hurt dissolved slowly with his compliments. She felt some gratitude for his changed attitude, and he looked and sounded sincere. "Thank you. It was kind of Mr. Blake to give me such a flattering recommendation."

"And then," he continued, "there are my aunts. They live in the city and apparently worked with your late husband, Colin Maddox. They told me I must look him up for my own investment needs."

Ginger's heart plummeted. So she was not being chosen for her expertise after all, but because the man's relatives were satisfied with Colin's performance.

Again, hiding her feelings, she remained calm. "What are your aunts' names?"

"Mary and Carrie Dillon."

Ginger reached for her client book and scanned the list. "I contacted them, but they never returned my calls."

"Perhaps they didn't recognize the name. They're elderly ladies and sometimes a little--" After a pause he said, "They may not have made the connection."

"But the fact is," Ginger said, "I am not my husband. Perhaps, now that you know your aunts' recommendation was not for me at all, you prefer to see someone else."

As soon as she spoke, she regretted the words. As badly as she needed new clients, why this reluctance, why encourage him to try someone else? Did it have anything to do with his charming smile and her quickening heartbeat?

He studied her face before answering. "Had that been the case, I wouldn't have returned to you. But here I am."

Ginger found his gaze unnerving and his velvet brown eyes seemed to bore into her. She looked away, tried to cover the confusion of her conflicting emotions. Taking a deep breath, she reached into her desk drawer for a new client form to fill out and plunged ahead. "Very well, I'm certain we can work well together in the future, Mr. Dillon."

"I'm sure we can. And the name is Cameron," he said. "My aunts' names are Dillon, but mine is Cameron." He paused. "I should have made that clear at the outset. They're my mother's sisters, and never married." His gaze swept over her face. "In spite of my earlier reluctance, I see now that this could be a very rewarding experience."

Ginger's gaze flew to him once more. What did he mean by that? Was he hinting at a different kind of relationship? Unfortunately, since Colin=s death, she'd run into too many men who wanted more from her than market opinions. She put her sudden doubts behind her. Mr.--

"Your first name?" she asked, pen poised over the form.

"MacKenzie," he said.

"Middle name or initial?"

"Neil."

Ginger had always liked that name, thought she'd give it to a son if she ever had one. She relaxed. Mr. Cameron seemed business-like, just the sort of client she wanted. "Will there be any other names on the account?"

"No, I've just moved to San Francisco and I'm single."

So he was apparently unmarried. For a second the news pleased her, then she told herself it was irrelevant. Once the form was filled out, she began her usual questions for clients. "What are your investment objectives, Mr. Cameron?"

"Capital appreciation," he said. "I have no need for present income. As a matter of fact, I prefer not to have large dividends which may be taxable."

"Are you interested in municipals?"

"Definitely not. Bonds of any kind are far too tame." His look turned from serious to smiling, and his brown eyes seemed to twinkle with mischief. "I'm looking for growth and willing to be a little aggressive."

She liked his smile. She had already forgiven him for his earlier chauvinism. "A shade speculative, perhaps?"

"Yes, I don't mind taking a flyer now and then into a new company that might turn out to be another Microsoft. In fact, I discussed that with your manager. He assured me you wouldn't be too conservative for my needs."

"I hope that's true." She remembered how her mother often lamented having a red-haired child, impetuous and inquisitive from her earliest years.

"Do you want to purchase some stock now, or do you prefer to give me a day or two to prepare some recommendations for you?"

"Both, I think," he said. "Do you have something to recommend at this time?"

"As a matter of fact, I do have a very interesting possibility. It's called Taylor Technology. It went public only two years ago." She suddenly realized he was frowning. "Is something the matter?"

"That's the electronics firm in what you Californians call Silicon Valley, isn't it? Forget them." His manner was abrupt and Ginger felt her earlier hostility returning.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I've investigated the company and it's not one of those

dot.com startups that--"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, "but I happen to know that stock isn't going anywhere."

Ginger was taken aback, but managed to speak softly. "It's your decision of course. But our research department did a very thorough study recently and I visited their offices not two weeks ago for a first-hand look."

His face softened, he smiled again, and she took advantage of his changed attitude. "I predict," she said, "that their next quarter's earnings will be fifty percent higher and at a price/earnings ratio of only fifteen."

"Well, perhaps I should take a chance, especially since you guarantee it's a good deal."

"Guarantee? Mr. Cameron, you know there are no guarantees in the stock market."

"But you were so positive about it a moment ago. Are you revising your opinion? Why?"

She raised her chin and straightened her back. "Very well, Mr. Cameron, buy some shares in this company and, if they haven't increased in value within six months, I'll repay your brokerage commissions personally."

Her words seemed to come from some other person, and their rashness only began to penetrate after they left her lips. What had made her say such a thing?

The room became ominously quiet and she regretted her outburst. Besides being drop-dead handsome, what was there about this man that made her behave so strangely?

He took her hand in his. "You have a deal, Ms.-- See here, I can't call you Ms. Maddox. We're going to be very close from now on. I'll call you Ginger instead. And you must call me Mac. Everybody does."

His strong hand dwarfed hers. It was hard and smooth. Its touch sent disturbing sensations through her, and she pulled away as soon as she could do it politely. She swiveled her chair around to face the small computer terminal in the corner and tapped

in the stock symbol of Taylor Technology. Its current price flashed on the screen.

"Twenty-nine and a half," she quoted, using every ounce of her strength to remain riveted on the transaction. "How many shares would you like?"

"Whatever a hundred thousand will buy," he said.

A volcano erupted in Ginger's chest. One hundred thousand dollars! Why the commission on that was-- was-- staggering!

Once more, her mouth open in surprise, she stared at Cameron and could say nothing.

"Are there enough shares outstanding?" he asked, his eyebrows arched inquisitively. "Or is it a thin stock?"

"No, no," she murmured, heart pounding, her face feeling hot and as red as her hair. "I mean, yes," she stammered. She'd almost memorized the statistics earlier but now she hardly knew what she was saying.

"Good." He stood up and flung his coat over his arm in a careless gesture. "It's been a pleasure meeting you. I have no permanent daytime telephone yet, but you can reach me in the evenings at the number I gave you."

She had risen when he did, and now she said goodbye in a barely audible whisper.

He thrust his hand forward and she took it automatically, its firm touch reminding her of both her rashness and of the sudden physical attraction he held for her. He released her, turned and left, and she watched him walk through the office. He paused to look up at the electronic stock board with its moving letters and numbers, then he sailed through the doors and disappeared into the crowds on Montgomery Street.

Ginger stood still for several more seconds, still flustered. Then she caught a glimpse of Jim Blake re-entering his office and remembered what Cameron had hinted. The temper that went with her red hair flared again. Token woman, was she? Well, she'd show Jim. She'd be the best representative that ever sat in this office.

As for Mr. Cameron, she'd show him too.

* * *

MacKenzie Neil Cameron hailed a cab, told the driver his destination, and thought about the woman he had just met. There was only one word to describe her: a knockout. Perfect features, a great figure, and that short curly hair that made a coppery halo around her face. He'd convinced himself he preferred women with long blonde hair, certainly not a redhead like himself. He'd always hated his own hair when he was a child, hating being called, "Red" or "Carrot-top." Fortunately, he'd been able to joke about it himself and then grew tall enough that even such mild bullying stopped. But Ginger Maddox--

Talk about mixing business with pleasure. What a pleasure it was going to be to handle this assignment. Of course, his business came first and--depending on what Ms. Maddox knew and when she knew it--she might not appreciate his interest in her at all. Still, he had a job to do, and he'd keep his word about that, no matter what the cost.

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