Gift of Gold

the knife packed away in his duffel bag in the back of the Jeep…
    He was a real Renaissance man, he thought wryly. All the benefits of a classical education coupled with a lot of experience in the real world. What more could a potential employer ask? Four hundred years ago he wouldn’t have had any trouble at all getting work.
    His mouth was edged with a hint of laconic amusement as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and curled his long, lean fingers around a small circlet of gold. As soon as he touched it the earring seemed to warm his hand and a faint, tantalizing sensation that was both peaceful and pleasant and oddly anticipatory tingled deep within him.
    Jonas had discovered that the earring was as effective as a shot of tequila or a couple of bottles of beer when it came time to soften the rough edges of a hard day. He withdrew the tiny piece of feminine jewelry and examined it as it lay innocently in his palm.
    It wasn’t the first time he had looked at that earring and tried to fathom its compelling mystery. The truth was, he hadn’t let it get out of his reach in the two months he’d had it. Jonas felt distinctly possessive and protective toward the earring.
    The odd thing was that the possessive feeling extended to the woman who owned it, even though he had never met her. Somehow, in a way he couldn’t yet explain, she was part of his future. And it was now time to meet her.
    The compulsion to locate the owner of the golden earring had brought Jonas a couple of thousand miles from a Mexican waterfront bar to Sequence Springs. The distance he had traveled meant little to him. He would have come from the other side of the world to find the woman who owned it.
    He had gotten only a few brief glimpses of her the night she had lost the piece of jewelry, but he remembered well the copper fire of wild curls that framed huge eyes and a finely boned face. He recalled, too, her soft, slender, feminine shape in the golden light spilling through the open door of the cantina.
    She had never seen his face. Verity Ames had been too busy fleeing back to the safety of her hotel. He could still hear the echo of her high-heeled sandals disappearing into the darkness.
    It had taken Jonas a week to find out the name of the earring’s owner. In true Mexican tradition, money had crossed palms just to get that elemental piece of information. That had been the easy part. It had taken nearly two months to track her down to Sequence Springs, California. All the while the earring had burned in his pocket.
    When Jonas had picked up the tiny local newspaper he’d been pleased to find the ad for the position at the No Bull Cafe. It had seemed like fate. Working for someone was one hell of a good way to learn her secrets. And he badly needed to explore the mysteries of Verity Ames. His future was tied up with those mysteries.
    Jonas stood at the edge of the lake, his fingers moving absently on the earring, and wondered what it would be like to work for this flame-haired woman.
    One thing was certain, he decided: she was bound to be an easier proposition than some of his past employers. After all, she was small, female, and not yet thirty. How much trouble could she give him?
    Dishwashing at the No Bull Cafe was going to be a piece of cake.
     
    Verity Ames groaned in frustration when she heard the demanding knock on the locked front door of the No Bull. She put down the bottle of extra virgin olive oil she had been about to uncork and stalked out of the kitchen into the small dining area.
    “Too bad they don’t teach tourist to read signs,” she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. “The American educational system is obviously failing somewhere.”
    Ever mindful of future business, however, Verity managed a polite smile as she unlocked the front door of the restaurant. She began speaking before she had the door more than halfway open.
    “I’m sorry,” she said in a cheery tone, “we don’t open until five-thirty this evening. We stopped serving lunch at two. If you want to make reservations for tonight, you’re welcome to call. I should warn you, however, that we’re almost booked. The only time open is after nine o’clock.”
    “I’m not here for a meal,” said a male voice that was astonishingly dark and soft and faintly amused. “My name is Jonas Quarrel and I’m here for a job.”
    Verity had the door fully opened now and was already regretting her impulsiveness. She should have peeked through the