For Richer or Poorer

by JoAnn Ross

  “Connor Mackay bought Blythe’s studio?” Lily asked, instantly forgetting her concerns regarding Mac Sullivan. Blythe was about to have horrendous problems of her own.

  “Who’s Connor Mackay?” Cait asked.

  Lily’s full wide lips drew into a tight frown that told Connor that whatever Junior had revealed about their business dealings hadn’t been the truth.

  “He’s C. S. Mackay Enterprises, Inc.” The way her cornflower-hued eyes had hardened to blue ice assured Connor that if he hadn’t lied about his identity, she wouldn’t have said two words to him. “He’s also greedy, grasping, unscrupulous and dishonest.”

  Connor managed, just barely, to reign in his temper and keep from challenging her unflattering statement.

  “That’s a pretty harsh indictment,” Blythe murmured, even as her heart sank. Lily had always been blind when it came to others’ faults. Which was why, Blythe considered, she’d ended up with Junior.

  “Not harsh enough,” Lily said. “He’s part of the reason I’m broke.”

  Connor nearly groaned. She was wrong, of course. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that about this, at least, she seemed to believe her lying, cheating husband.

  “I thought Junior was the reason you’re broke,” Cait argued.

  Amen, Connor agreed silently.

  “Connor Mackay cheated Junior in some investment deal they’d gone into together. Junior told me he wiped out our mutual fund account.”

  Now that was a damn lie! Entrapped by his earlier subterfuge, Connor clenched his teeth together until his jaw began to throb.

  “No offense, Lily,” Blythe pointed out. “But Junior wasn’t exactly a pillar of personal integrity. Perhaps he wasn’t being quite honest with you.”

  Lord, Blythe hoped so! To think that Walter, for whatever reason, had turned the studio over to some unethical corporate shark caused a headache to begin throbbing at her temple.

  Eddie returned with the paper. “Here it is,” he said, handing the paper to Blythe. The headline screamed the sale in bold black type that assured her it was no ill-founded rumor.

  “Eschewing a position on the board of his family’s vast international conglomerate,” Blythe read aloud, “reclusive multimillionaire Connor Mackay graduated eight years ago with an undergraduate degree from USC and an MBA from Stanford business school.

  “Armed with his sheepskin and a million-dollar trust inheritance from his wealthy grandmother Victoria Vallejo Sullivan Brady, he proceeded to buy his first company, a little known herb farm hidden away in the mountains near Mt. Shasta.”

  Despite his current discomfort, Connor recalled the transaction fondly. The reclusive botanist who ran the company out of his geodesic dome house turned out to be a raging hypochondriac who’d greeted him wearing a white isolation suit—like the type worn by nuclear power plant workers, or environmental scientists assigned to clean up toxic waste—and insisted that the visiting businessman scrub down with Phisohex and change into a pair of organically grown cotton slacks and shirt before their meeting.

  Never one to sweat the small stuff, and deciding it was foolish to allow irritating or idiosyncratic behavior to get in the way of deal making, Connor had readily obliged him.

  Warren Pettijohn might be a little weird, Connor thought now. But he definitely knew his herbs. After buying the company, he’d kept the eccentric botanist at the helm, encouraging him to spread his inventive wings.

  “Benevolent Earth herbs and Blue Sky teas have acquired a worldwide market,” Blythe continued to read. “And after a public offering last fall, the company was listed on the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “I buy those herbs,” Cait said. “The Mediterranean oregano is the secret to my spaghetti sauce.”

  “And I buy the tea.” This from Blythe.

  Lily folded her arms across her chest. “I’d rather starve. And drink mud from the Hudson River.”

  Connor tried to remind himself that he’d always enjoyed a challenge.

  “Mackay went on to expand into real estate, horse breeding farms, computer companies and outdoor equipment,” Blythe read. “It also says that economists are unable to find a common thread among his purchases.”

  That was because the number crunchers in the pinstriped suits on Wall Street had never believed him when he’d insisted that his only secret to success, if indeed there was a secret, was investing in what interested him personally at the moment—like Xanadu Studios.

  “Is there a picture?” Cait asked.

  “Of course.” Connor prepared himself for the attack he knew was about to come. But when Blythe held the paper up so everyone at the table could see the accompanying news photo, cooling relief flooded over him.

  It was an old one, taken shortly after his graduation from USC. He’d grown a beard after not shaving on a thirteen-day river-rafting trip down the Colorado in the Grand Canyon. He’d thought it might make him look older and more experienced.

  Unfortunately, the damn thing had been hot as hell in the summer, itched like the devil year-round and when a luscious bond trader from the west coast offices of Goldman Sachs complained it scratched, he’d shaved it off without a hint of remorse.

  “He has nice eyes,” Cait said.

  “They’re too close together,” Lily decided. “And you can see the larceny in them.”

  Although she studied the picture with renewed intensity, all Blythe saw was her project going down the drain. She put down the paper. “It doesn’t say he’s dishonest.”

  Hope melded with worry in her eyes and her voice, making Connor want to assure her that his only goal was to make Xanadu stronger. Not interfere with her own career goals, whatever they happened to be.

  “I wonder what will happen to my script?” Eddie said, his own expression more morose than Blythe’s.

  “Your script is at Xanadu now?” Cait asked. “I thought it was at Touchstone.” And before that, Paramount.

  “After changing the concept three times and giving it six different titles, they finally passed. So I figured, why not try Xanadu? Stern had promised me a meeting next week.” He dragged a hand through his short, wavy brown hair. “I guess I should call and see if it’s still on.”

  He sighed and looked at Connor as if noticing him for the first time. “Can I get you something?” he asked, trying for enthusiasm, but failing. “A draft?”

  “I think I’ll stick to iced tea. Since I’m technically on duty.” Connor flashed a smile at Lily. “If you need any help moving in, Ms. Van Cortlandt, I’ve got a pretty strong back.”

  “I don’t have all that much to move.”

  Her tone was thick with disinterest that Connor hoped was feigned. He took the fact that she was no longer insisting she wasn’t moving into Bachelor Arms as a good sign.

  As he thanked Eddie for the iced tea and ordered a Reuben sandwich from the bar menu, Connor found himself looking forward to tonight’s earthquake survival party.

  * * *

  AFTER ENSURING that Lily’s cupboards were stocked with food, Blythe returned to Château Marmont to find Alan waiting for her.

  “Poor dear,” she murmured as she tilted her head for her fiancé’s kiss. You must be absolutely exhausted.”

  “I caught a few winks in the doctor’s lounge. Actually, it reminded me of my intern days. Although I was a lot younger in those days.”

  “You’re certainly not old now, darling,” Blythe said loyally. At forty, Alan was fifteen years her elder, but having worked all her life, Blythe was more mature than most of her peers.

  “Spoken like a true and loyal wife,” he murmured as he nibbled on her earlobe. He ran his hands down her back and fitted her against him. “I’m sorry about your house, darling.”

  “It’s just a house.” Blythe realized that the loss was, in the scheme of things, vastly insignificant.

  “We can always change our plans and move into mine.”

  She wasn’t about to get into that argument again. “I’ll think a
bout it,” she hedged.

  “That’s my girl.” His lips plucked at hers. Blythe waited for the stirring of desire and was vaguely worried when it wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Do you realize,” Alan murmured against her mouth, “that if it weren’t for that damn earthquake, we’d be in Maui, celebrating our honeymoon right now?”

  “I know.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. If she’d been in Hawaii, she never would have kissed Gage.

  “I know it’s going to take some time to reschedule the ceremony,” he allowed. “But I have a surprise for you.”

  “I love surprises.”

  Most of them, anyway. The surprise concerning Xanadu had been an unpleasant one. When she’d tried to reach Walter Stern, his secretary had informed her that he left the country on a vacation trip to Milan. Blythe had not found the news encouraging. Lacing their fingers together, he led her into the adjoining bedroom. The wide bed had been turned down, fragrant beeswax candles had been lit and a portable CD player that hadn’t been there when she’d checked in sat atop the antique dresser.

  He turned a dial on the CD control. Blythe heard the sound of the sea. “Oh, Alan—”

  He cut her words off with a deeper, longer kiss. “This is just the beginning,” he promised in a voice roughened with desire.

  After draping a lei of fragrant, purple plumaria around her neck, he poured drinks from a glass pitcher that had been left on the bedside table into twin glasses garnished with orange slices and cherries.

  “Mai Tais,” he said, handing Blythe one of the glasses.

  A renewed surge of guilt steamrolled over Blythe. All right, so Alan didn’t always understand about her need to work. And perhaps he didn’t respect the movie business as much as she would have liked. And maybe he didn’t exactly make her blood burn. But she had not a single doubt that he loved her.

  She took a sip and found the drink to be, as everything else Alan Sturgess did, absolutely perfect.

  “How did you manage all this,” she asked, “when you’ve been in surgery all these hours?”

  “It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a few phone calls.” He smiled and looked vastly pleased with himself. “There’s more.” He handed her a slim white box.

  “Oh, Alan,” Blythe demurred as she slipped the ribbon off the box, “you shouldn’t have...” Her voice drifted off as she stared down at the contents of the box. Having expected jewelry, the familiar envelopes came as a distinct surprise.

  “I had them rewrite the tickets,” he said. “We leave at midnight.”

  “But Alan—”

  He pressed a finger against her lips. “Doctor’s orders. You need some time off, Blythe.” His hands sloped her stiff shoulders. “I’ve been trying to warn you that you’ll get ill if you insist on keeping up this grueling schedule.”

  He ran his slender surgeon’s hand down her hair. “So, if you won’t take care of yourself, darling, it’s up to me to take care of you.”

  “But Lily—”

  “Is being well taken care of by Cait.”

  That much Blythe knew to be true. And nothing could be resolved about Xanadu until Walter returned from Milan.

  She thought about Gage, who was already in Florida, tracking down a new lead on Alexandra. And who’d promised, or, more accurately, threatened, to resume what had flared so hotly and unexpectedly between them on the dock in Marina del Rey when he returned.

  Blythe was not immune to chemistry between a man and a woman. There had been several times when she’d experienced a crush on her leading man while making a film, but having witnessed the destruction of too many Hollywood marriages because people couldn’t tell the difference between real life and make-believe, Blythe was too levelheaded to throw away her relationship with Alan Sturgess just because Gage Remington’s kisses could make her knees weak.

  Reminding herself that she’d made the decision to marry Alan months ago, reassuring herself that it was a right and sensible decision, as she allowed him to lower her to the queen-size bed, Blythe vowed that by the time Gage returned, she’d have her uncharacteristic, impulsive, unruly feelings safely under control.

  * * *

  “I REALLY DON’T feel up to a party,” Lily protested that evening.

  “It’s not really a party,” Cait argued. “More of a casual get-together. And what better way to meet your neighbors?”

  “Still—”

  “You don’t have to stay long. Come on, Lily,” Cait urged, “if you’d quit fighting the idea you may just discover you’ll have a good time. Besides, you’re way overdue for a little fun.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” Lily argued, falling back on the time-honored complaint of women everywhere.

  Cait grinned. “Don’t worry. As it happens, I have just the thing.” She was out the door, headed upstairs to her own apartment before Lily could point out that the odds of anything Cait owned actually fitting were slim to none.

  She would have been wrong.

  Cait returned with an ivory gauze dress trimmed in lace that looked as if it had been dipped in tea. Although not technically a maternity dress, the flowing lines could easily accommodate a pregnancy. A wheat-hued underslip kept the dress decent.

  “It’s lovely,” Lily admitted.

  “Isn’t it?” Cait eyed the dress with obvious approval. “I bought it on a wildly romantic whim last week at Saks.” She did not add that she’d been thinking of Sloan at the time.

  “You haven’t even worn it,” Lily protested as she noticed the sales tag hanging from the lacy sleeve.

  “That makes it even better.” Cait pushed the dress into Lily’s arms. “Consider it a housewarming gift.”

  As generous a gesture as it was, Lily wanted to turn it down. But as she fingered the intricate lace, she felt herself succumbing to temptation. It had been so long since she’d been able to afford anything this lovely. Longer still since she’d felt she deserved anything this lovely.

  “I think housewarming gifts are supposed to be toasters.” The lace truly was exquisite. “Or blenders.”

  Cait shrugged. “This is Los Angeles. We don’t follow any stuffy rules out here.”

  “I’ll just try it on,” Lily decided. With luck, it wouldn’t fit.

  Wrong again. The silky slip fell over her body like a cooling waterfall.

  “Oh, I knew it!” Cait said, clearly pleased when Lily called her into the bedroom. “It’s you.”

  Lily ran her hands down the front of the dress and silently agreed. She studied her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. “The dress is wonderful,” she agreed. “But I still look like death warmed over.”

  “You are too pale,” Cait agreed with typical honesty. “But you just need a little help until our California sun kicks in.”

  She dug around in the duffle bag she’d brought downstairs with the dress, pulled out a black-and-gold compact, and applied a soft rose blush to Lily’s cheeks.

  “There,” she said, standing back to approve her handiwork, “that’s a lot better.”

  Lily checked in the mirror again and decided Cait was right.

  “And you need a brighter lipstick,” Cait decided, getting into the impromptu makeover. “Something with pow.” She rummaged through the bag again and came up with a gilt tube.

  “I could never wear that,” Lily protested as she observed the bright scarlet shade.

  “I suppose it is overkill,” Cait agreed reluctantly, pausing to touch up her own vermilion lips. She began rummaging again. “Aha! Perfect. Peppermint pink.”

  The color, which reminded Lily of bubble gum, turned an attractive rose hue on application. “Much, much better,” Cait decided.

  Lily had to agree. She was, she realized amazingly, almost pretty.

  She was the loveliest woman at the party. Connor, who considered himself an expert on such things, observed Lily’s arrival and felt his stomach tighten.

  Not that Bachelor Arms was suffering f
rom a surfeit of attractive women. At any other time, despite what Connor guessed to be a ten-year difference in their ages, he would have found Jill Foyle’s blend of sex and class decidedly appealing. And of course Brenda Muir and her best friend, Bobbie-Sue O’Hara, were gorgeous enough to be cast in any daytime soap opera.

  As for Cait Carrigan, her stunning, dramatic looks were designed to bring a man to his knees.

  Despite the obvious appeal of the other female tenants, in Connor’s eyes, they couldn’t compete with Lily Van Cortlandt’s fragile blond looks. He watched her for a while, talking with some dapper guy in Armani slacks and Ralph Lauren polo shirt, who was gazing at her the way a chocoholic stares at a Hershey bar. Obviously Connor was not the only male who found blond madonna types appealing.

  Determined to stake his claim now, before the resident Lothario got any ideas, Connor went over to the bar that Jill, with Eddie’s help, had set up at the far end of the central courtyard. Then, with a beer in one hand and a glass of mineral water in the other, he headed toward her.

  Lily sensed him coming before she saw him. It was, oddly, as if she’d developed some type of radar that told her whenever Mac was in the vicinity. Resisting an urge to smooth out any wrinkles in the gauze dress, or finger comb her hair, she pasted an interested look on her face and continued to smile up at the man who, amazingly, given the advanced state of her pregnancy, had hit on her within seconds of her arrival at the party.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Van Cortlandt.” Connor’s tone was absolutely proper, belying the gleam in his midnight dark eyes.

  His use of her married name drew the response he’d been hoping for. “It’s Lily,” she corrected mildly. Only a man who was listening very carefully, as Connor was, could have detected the faint edge to her tone.

  “Lily,” he agreed.

  His gaze slowly swept over her, from the top of her blond head down to her feet, clad in the gold mesh sandals Cait had insisted made the outfit. “You’re looking particularly lovely tonight.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes were overbrimming with a warm masculine approval that jangled her nerves. Uneasy, but loath to show it, Lily accepted the glass he held out to her. “Although I think anything would be an improvement over how I looked the first time we met.”