Free Orchid by Jayne Castle Page B

instant.
    “I’ll pick you up at eight.” Rafe glided back out into the hall.
    He was gone before Orchid could think of any more excuses.
    A hush fell over the office. It was broken only by the sound of Clementine brushing her hands together in gloating satisfaction. Nothing made her glow like a newly signed focus contract.
    “He may not be one of the Stonebrakers of Stonebraker Shipping, but he’s certainly a Stonebraker,” Clementine said. “I’ll settle for that.”
    “What do you mean?” Orchid asked.
    Clementine shrugged. “Gracie gave me the lowdown on him. Seems our client was in line to inherit control of Stonebraker Shipping at one time.”
    Orchid frowned. Gracie Proud was Clementine’s permanent partner. They had been matched by a marriage agency several years ago. Sooner or later, gay or straight, almost everyone on St. Helens got married. The Malone-Proud relationship was, from all appearances, a blissful union.
    On the surface the two women could not have been more different, Orchid thought. Gracie was a petite, stylish woman with a knack for high fashion and social contacts. She owned and operated Proud Prisms, one of Psynergy, Inc.’s chief competitors. She was an unfailingly accurate source of gossip and information.
    “Whew.” Byron’s eyes got very big behind his purple glasses. “We’re talking about those Stonebrakers, are we?”
    “Yeah.” Clementine grimaced. “But our maybe not-too-bright client quarreled with his grandfather, old Alfred G. Stonebraker, years ago. Young Rafe lit out for the Western Islands to find himself, as they say. His grandfather never forgave him. Cut him off without a cent. Actually, Gracie says it was more like Rafe cut himself off. Apparently he refused to have anything to do with the family fortune or the company.”
    “But he’s back in New Seattle,” Byron pointed out. “Maybe he and his grandfather have been reconciled.”
    “Not likely,” Clementine said. “Gracie knows about these things. She tells me that everyone who moves in the same ritzy circles as the Stonebrakers is aware that Rafe has no interest in the family business. Apparently Rafe’s cousin is scheduled to take over control of the company in a few months.”
    “How sad,” Orchid said.
    “I’ll say,” Byron murmured. “Just imagine walking away from all that money and social clout. Clementine’s right. Maybe our client isn’t all that bright.”
    Orchid glared at him. “I was referring to the rift in the family. It’s always sad when families are torn apart by a quarrel.”
    “Yeah, sure.” Byron draped himself over the half empty box of notepads. He gave Orchid a deeply fascinated look. “So, tell me, is it true what they say about strat-talents? Can they really sense it if you lie to them?”
    “That’s just an old myth,” Orchid said crisply. “Everyone knows that.”
    “Well, what about the other stuff?”
    “What other stuff?”
    “Are they really sort of, you know, primitive?”
    Orchid picked up a stack of Think Exclusive notepads and sent them raining down on Byron’s head.
    At nine o’clock that evening the Volcano Club was only half full. Orchid, seated at a small table with Morgan Lambert and Rafe, studied the shadowed room. The place was a cross between a nightclub and a coff-tea house. It catered to a bohemian crowd of poets, artists, and assorted wannabes.
    A young man on stage hunched over a microphone and growled the words of a poem he had written.
Images burn in jelly-ice.
Frozen forever in jelly-ice
Shimmering in jelly-ice
Dreams of synergy and orgasm
In jelly-ice.
    It may not have been deathless prose, but it beat the heck out of meta-zen-syn philosophical poetry, Orchid thought.
    Tiny jelly-ice candles flickered on the tables. The small flames revealed an assortment of expressions, most of which fell into two categories, world-weary ennui and passionate intensity. The majority of the clientele was dressed in gray, the fashionable color of