Free Trading Secrets by Jayne Castle

“Absolutely, unequivocally, no.”
    “You don’t trust me?” he whispered softly.
    “With my life, perhaps,” she smiled whimsically, “but not in bed. Chalk it up to the lesson you taught me last night. Good night.” Very firmly she stepped inside the room and shut the door in his face.
    Matt stood there a moment longer and then turned to leave. As he did so his glance fell on the gash his knife had left in the corridor wall on the previous occasion when he had said good-night to Sabrina Chase.
    “You’re improving, August. Things are definitely looking up.” Or were they? It was almost simpler dodging knives than cool, elegant little farewells at the front door. But he had the rest of the week ahead of him, didn’t he? A man had to think positive.
    The problem was, Matt explained to himself as he made his way down to the lobby, he wasn’t accustomed to thinking positive. By definition that meant thinking of the future, and that was something he tended to avoid these days.
    He wouldn’t mind getting his hands on the man who had caused Sabrina all that trouble out in California, though. Now, there was a pleasant, positive sort of thought. He smiled to himself in what he assumed was a pleasant, positive manner and walked toward the hotel lobby doors. The wary expression on the doorman’s face made Matt wonder if perhaps the other man wasn’t used to seeing pleasant, positive smiles on the faces of people.
     
     

Chapter Three
    The short drive back to the small white stucco villa on the cliffs outside of town gave Matt a few minutes to ponder just how he would approach Sabrina in the morning. By the time he had parked the jeep in the drive and let himself into the coolly furnished living room, he knew he was far too restless to go to bed. He wandered over to the small wooden cabinet against the wall and unlocked it with the key in his pocket.
    The cabinet didn’t quite blend with the rest of the room, which was done in a style Matt privately termed Ubiquitous Acapulco Modern: rattan and wicker furniture, sisal matting, a few watercolor impressions of encounters between bulls and matadors. He had rented the place furnished two years ago, and other than the dark wooden cabinet, he hadn’t worried about inflicting any personal touches on the white-walled rooms. He wasn’t sure he even had a personal touch to impart. Lately his whole life had begun to feel rented.
    He reached inside the cabinet. The tray of throwing knives flashed dully in the light of the overhead lamp as he removed it. Almost absently he fingered the various designs he had collected. Kirby had made some of them, probably the best ones, but there were some interesting specimens from other knife makers, too. Most of them Matt had commissioned himself and were done to his precise specifications.
    Handles of wood and brass and leather were attached to blades made of an equally wide variety of alloys. There was one of legendary Damascus steel, and Matt let his hand stray first to it. His fingers curled around the handle with a familiarity that would undoubtedly have disgusted Sabrina.
    He spun around, whipping the perfectly balanced knife toward the target at the far end of the room. It flew in deadly silence, burying itself with a satisfying thunk in the heart of the red circle. A second later the next knife in the tray had followed the first, burying its steel head alongside the Damascus blade.
    “So much for the personal touch,” he murmured, reaching for another knife.
    Methodically Matt went through the selection of throwing knives, letting the discipline of the action calm his restlessness. A night in Sabrina’s bed would have been a far more effective remedy, he decided, but a man learned to make do.
    The sound of the car in the drive outside came just as he was throwing the next to the last knife. The knock on the door occurred when the final blade was sinking into the target. Very thoughtfully Matt walked across the room, removed the