Valley of Fire

by Janelle Taylor

  “Who’s invited?” he probed with undisguised curiosity.

  “Since you’re one and the same man, I can hardly include one without the other,” she artfully avoided his snare.

  “A new deal: How about we be ourselves for a change?” he offered a tempting solution. “If you’re afraid of being alone with me, Brandy, you can relax. even I can behave when absolutely necessary. Truce?” he asked, extending his hand to her to seal their pact.

  Why not play this game for a while, she recklessly decided. What did she have to lose? She slipped her hand into his and murmured, “Truce, Steven.”

  “Now, how about we forget this Glitter mess and simply enjoy our lunch, and each other?” he suggested.

  “Sounds marvelous to me,” she quickly and cheerfully agreed.

  There was one other matter she wanted to clear up, but didn’t want to bring it up just yet: Valley, and his inexplicable obsession with it. She didn’t know how he had learned of its existence or why he desperately wanted it. She hadn’t been researching Valley in Vegas; she had been working on Twilight over Venus. Valley had been written and sold last winter . . .

  There was a slight tensing in the man sitting across from her as he leaned forward and lent her his full attention. When Steven unknowingly clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes, she keenly observed his baffling reactions. “Is something bothering you, Brandy?” he pressed, his voice tightly controlled.

  Brandy exhaled softly as she focused her cloudy gaze on him. Did she dare ask him why he was so intrigued by a contemporary romance which takes place on a tropical island following a volcanic eruption, not in the Valley of Fire? It sounded like a crazy coincidence, but it was true. The hero wasn’t modeled after him, and the story wasn’t about their perilous meeting. Perhaps it was best to forget her wild speculations. If she tried to explain, he might think she was being guiltily defensive. She decided to wait until Steven related the importance of that story to him, if he hadn’t forgotten about it.

  She smiled and replied optimistically, “What could possibly be wrong? You’ve just made me an offer I can’t refuse, a trial by a jury of one. Now, how about that lunch you promised me? I’m ravenous.”

  His laughing gaze met hers. Had he really expected her to refuse his offer? He only hoped she wouldn’t discover why he had suggested it. How would she react if she learned there was no new story in the making? It was amazing what a little investigative research and greased palms could uncover! “What would you like to eat?”

  “You order. Surprise me. I need to make a quick phone call.”

  “They’ll bring a phone to our table if you’d like,” he politely offered.

  “No thanks. The call is personal. I’ll return shortly. By the way, I hate blue cheese dressing and oysters,” she tossed over her shoulder as she waltzed away.

  He chuckled to himself in rapidly rising spirits, wishing his contact at Webster Books hadn’t supplied him with the very evidence he had hoped wouldn’t surface, the description of her next hero: Landis Rivera from Valley. Lance Reynolds and Landis Rivera . . . Valley of Fire and Valley of Fire . . . This deceitful truce promised to be an intoxicating and enlightening challenge, and he thrived on conquering the impossible . . .

  Steven’s eyes clouded with a sad reluctance. He berated himself for having her investigated. Some things were best left unmasked. He should have known this woman was too good to be true. Could he change her, or had she already changed since meeting him? Could he pull her from her fantasy world into the real one, his world? He was convinced the Glitter mix-up wasn’t intentional on her part. But to willfully use him as a research project? Then again, it could be unconscious absorption. Perhaps she wasn’t even totally honest with herself. He wanted her, and he was determined to prove to her that he was a real man, not one of her heroes come to life, even if he did seemingly match her images.

  Steven had given Brandy countless hours of deep thought, as well as numerous hours of conversation with the detective he’d hired. He feared she was drawn to his romantic and dashing image, rather her creative image of him. He didn’t want her to be influenced by the way in which they had first met. He had to make certain Brandy wasn’t living out a fantasy, that she truly wanted him. He wanted Brandy to share his life. Somehow, he had to work things out between them. It would be hard work, but he was accustomed to difficult and demanding tasks, especially when the stakes were so high and priceless.

  Steven had gone from wildcatting on other men’s oil rigs to owning his own slew of wells and businesses: refineries, gas stations, a computer firm, an electronics firm, and even foreign oil leases and a tanking business. He had lucked up, if he could call it that, when his partner had died shortly before their first oil well burst a seam. Since both had been heavily insured to protect their holdings, Steven had come away from his first strike an extremely wealthy man. Every time another oil well came in, he reinvested the money or purchased another business. He owned so many now that holding companies and corporations had entered the picture. He possessed more investments and stocks than he could keep track of. But that was the mark of a truly wealthy man, to be unaware of how much he owned or was worth. He had been labeled the “man with the Midas Touch,” which was fortunately true. Whatever he touched, especially in oil, always succeeded. He was tough and resilient; he was relentless and cunning. Things hadn’t come easy for him, but it surely looked that way.

  He had been cynical and carefree towards women, until Brandy entered his life. Steven felt she had surrendered her body to him, but nothing more. She appeared physically attracted to him, but she didn’t seem interested in establishing a deeper relationship. Was she playing with him, as he had done endless times with females? Was she afraid she couldn’t become more than a passing fancy to him? Damn, he was confused and frustrated. He needed some answers. He needed and wanted this vital creature who caused his blood to sing and burn. He had always been able to analyze any situation, to master it, to remove all obstacles, to buy or take what he wanted. Brandy made him feel vulnerable, helpless, downright nervous. He had read her books; maybe Brandy knew him too well. He had felt stripped naked, for she had frequently described him to a T. It was as if she had been reading his mind or observing him for years, as if she knew him better than he knew himself, or as well. Her insights and perceptions troubled him. If only she hadn’t cheapened their relationship by using it in Valley. He had to get a look at that manuscript! Surely there was a copy at her home . . .

  Steven leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs while he waited for her return. He wondered what else the detective’s report would reveal. He would have it in his hands within days, before he headed for Kentucky. He sipped the Scotch and plotted. He had hired the best workers and executives he could locate for his many companies and corporations; they could function without his eagle eye for a few weeks. Life wasn’t one endless circle of meetings, deals, wealth, power, and social obligations. He was successful, the master of his fate. Now, he had everything except for that special someone to share it with . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Brandy had waited until the powder room was empty before placing a call to her agent, who must be sweating out this unexpected meeting. “Casey, Winngate’s deal includes a story and photos in Kentucky. Winngate says if I’ll let him do another story, he’ll burn the old one. I’m scared stiff, but I’m going to bluff it out. Besides, I’ll have protection from the big, bad wolf. Nigel’s already made plans to visit me at the same time.”

  Brandy listened to Casey’s reaction and comments, then chatted for a few more minutes. “I’ll bring him along as my escort tonight.” She waited for that news to settle in. “Of course he agreed. I’ll talk to you later. My lunch is on the way.” Brandy still couldn’t reveal this offer included more than business, that she was in love with this unpredictable and mysterious man. Yet, Brandy had a nagging sensation there w
as some critical point which she couldn’t put her finger on . . .

  When she returned to the table, Steven arose once again to politely seat her. “I was afraid you’d deserted me,” he murmured into her ear as he pushed her chair up to the table.

  She glanced up at him and cooed, “Not before lunch. I’m dying to see what delectable surprise you ordered for me.”

  Their eyes met and fused. He leaned forward as if to kiss her right there in public, and she did not move away. A curious look swept over his face as he drew back and stood up to the full height of his towering frame. She faced the table once more, feeling strangely denied of something special.

  He returned to his chair. “Get your call through?”

  For some unknown reason, she replied honestly, “Yes, I thought it might ease Casey’s mind if I let her know I hadn’t been consumed by the dragon’s fire. I hope it was all right to let her in on our deal? She was pleased to hear we’re collaborating on a new story. Needless to say, a percentage of a ruined, has-been writer doesn’t amount to much,” she jested.

  Her tone and look became serious as she stated, “I really do appreciate your kindness and generosity, Lance. I know you aren’t obligated in any way to do another story. Just to show how grateful I am, I’ll do my best to provide you with a good one. Plus a marvelous vacation,” she added with a bright smile.

  His eyes flickered with mischief as he lazily drawled, “I plan to soak up every ounce of Southern hospitality I can find. Your lunch is here,” he said to alert her to the approaching waiter.

  She observed him closely as the waiter removed the cork from the green bottle of Johannesburg Riesling and handed it to him. He carefully checked the number of linear markings and the texture of it. He sniffed it three times, then placed it on the table. He nodded for the waiter to pour a small amount into his glass. He lifted it, holding it by the flat base, and swirled the contents in a counterclockwise direction. He held the glass at a slanted angle to check its hue. He inhaled its delicate bouquet, noting the scent of dried apricots. He smiled and took a few small sips, letting it linger in his mouth and then ease down his throat. He smiled his acceptance, and the waiter filled their glasses.

  After the waiter’s departure, Brandy playfully declared, “You can order for me anytime, La—Steven. You’ll have to bear with me, Steven. Since I first met you as Lance Reynolds it’s hard to call you Steven. This looks scrumptious. Do I look like a lobster person?”

  “You look like a person who loves anything . . . but oysters and blue cheese dressing. What else do you dislike?” he probed as he cut off a piece of succulent lobster.

  “Men who are far too attractive and charming for their own good. Men who have everything. Men who blackmail women into obeying their enticing whims. Men who stare at women with entrancing blue eyes which makes eating and relaxing impossible,” she teased happily, nipping at his ego and confidence. His eyes twinkled in hearty amusement and undisguised appreciation.

  “In conclusion, you dislike me. Is that it?” he taunted devilishly, a sensual smile caressing his lips. “At least that’s how it appears every time we meet,” he remarked casually, then roguishly added, “Except for our last encounter. Did I change your mind about me, or did I paint myself into a corner?”

  “Was I describing you?” she mockingly questioned, warming but not responding to his last words. “On the contrary, Steven. I find you utterly fascinating and irresistibly charming. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You’re confident, bright, witty, well-mannered, suave . . . and valiant,” she surprised him with her bold flattery and bold look of admiration. “And most enjoyable company . . .”

  At a loss to comprehend the meaning behind her unexpected confession or to fully accept the blaze with her sparkling eyes, he inquired, “In what sense do you use valiant? Brave and daring, or intrepid and gallant?”

  “Yes,” she succinctly replied, placing a morsel of freshly baked bread in her mouth. She slowly sipped the tasty wine.

  “Yes to which meaning?” he stressed for clarity.

  “To all of them of course. From my viewpoint, there’s no lack of confidence within you.”

  “In short, you think me overbearing and conceited?”

  She mused on that question for a minute. “Conceited, no. Arrogant, not really. You strike me more as a very self-assured, contented person. Although you’re vividly aware of your wealth, power, and good looks, you accept them with ease and pride. You wear success exceptionally well, Steven,” she astonished him further. “I envy that ability. Does it come with the territory? Or were you always like this?”

  “I thought it was the man’s place to flatter and to compliment the lady, not the other way around,” he chided huskily.

  “I never flatter, Steven. If I can’t speak the truth, I remain silent. What’s wrong with a well-deserved compliment from a lady to a gentleman? Besides, if you didn’t want to know the answers to those questions, you shouldn’t have asked them,” she cheerfully rebuked him.

  “Where does it say only men can speak their minds? Women have opinions and should be allowed to state them freely. I merely stated my opinion—no flattery or compliment was intended. If you want to analyze me, doesn’t that include my feelings and thoughts? What better place to begin a truce or friendship than with the truth about my temporary boss? What do you want to know about me?”

  “Everything. That way, I can select the proper angle for the story. I want to know you as well as you know yourself.”

  “Everything? That’s a simple order. I can accomplish our trade before this lunch is over. There isn’t much to learn. I’m just me. When I’m not writing, or rewriting, or proofing galleys, I work on the ranch. Believe it or not, I clean the stables, and I ride and train horses. I’m not too good at some chores and I dislike them, but I do cook and clean house and go shopping, when I can’t get around them. I read a great deal for pleasure and for my work. For exercise, I take long walks, and I play tennis with my ball-machine. I’m usually in jeans and barefoot. I sleep late and work late, a staunch night owl. I’m practically in a daze until after lunch and several cups of black coffee. Spring and fall are my favorite seasons. Red and green are my favorite colors. I like to eat on the floor in front of the fireplace in the winter or on my screen porch during other seasons. You already know about my college years. I started writing professionally during my junior year. I write in any genre that I like, or that sells,” she added with a musical laugh. “You know—give the public what it wants?

  “Most of the time I do all of my work, but I do occasionally use a part-time typist when my deadlines overlap. When I began writing, I was blissfully ignorant. I assumed writers wrote. I didn’t know about galleys, revisions, promo tours, and reader mail. They can play havoc with a fantastic schedule when they conflict. I do my own research. I visit locations whenever possible. I love old western movies, plus most science-fiction films. While growing up, I was a terrible tomboy. I still have a tendency to be one every so often. What else do you want to know?”

  “How about your social life? Who’s in it? Where do you go? What do you do? Readers love those topics.”

  Between bites and sips, she related the answers she assumed he was after. “First, I’m sort of a loner. I used to be very shy, but I’ve worked on improving it. Traveling and promoting my books have worked wonders for me. I lean more to a few good friends rather than a lot of lukewarm ones. I spend a lot of time on my ranch, working or writing. I travel mostly for researching a new book or for publicity tours. In all honesty, I do like fancy occasions, but only in small doses. That’s what makes such things and events special. As for the big who, there isn’t one right now.”

  “Why are you still single?” he attacked a question which held special interest for him. Brandy, however, took his mocking inquisitiveness in light of the lewd article which she was trying to discount. He no
ted the raw nerve which he had rubbed.

  Her eyes chilled; her smile faded. She inhaled deeply and slowly several times as she sought to master her anger and resentment at his bold intrusion into the most private area of her life. If she refused to give some logical answer, it might encourage him to think the worst, yet he should know the truth by now. Even though he was the first man in her life, surely he didn’t doubt her? She gazed into his vivid blue eyes for a few moments, then cunningly parried, “Probably for the same reasons you’re still a carefree, happy bachelor.”

  “Such as?” he challenged her witty answer, not to be denied this vital information.

  “Is it necessary to expose my personal life this fully?”

  “I’m not going to print everything we discuss, Brandy. That was a question from me to you. I need to understand who you are, and where you’re coming from, and where you’re heading. Has there ever been anyone special in your life?”

  “All right, Steven. Off the record, from me to you, I’m not married yet and never have been, because I haven’t found the right man to suit me or to fit into my life-style,” she answered bluntly.

  “Surely there’s some man alive worthy of you?” he jested.

  “It isn’t that. Considering how I work, he would have to be very understanding and compatible. He would have to be totally confident in his own right, a man who wouldn’t feel threatened by my success and wealth, a man who didn’t demand I become his shadow, his possession, his extension. I have to be me; I have to write. I’ve watched the effects of marriage and children on other female writers. I’m selfish. I couldn’t place everyone and everything above my needs. Creative flow and deadlines don’t recognize family demands. I’ve seen it create terrible problems and bitterness. I’ve met women who were given a choice between writing and their marriages. Frankly, I can’t imagine changing myself and my inner clock to suit another person, or persons. See? It’s really very simple, just personal. The insinuations in Laura’s story are lies, but you already know that,” she helplessly added.