She hated the patronizing grin that spread across his face. He reached out and patted her elbow. “Now, that’s what I like to hear out of my baby. You have your fun, dear. But always remember, when you’re through playing at a career you come on home and I’ll keep you in diamonds and furs like I always promised. Like the daughter of a wealthy senator ought to be kept.”
Ugh! Last thing wanted in life was to be a Reva MacGlenary knock-off.
Blaire smiled sweetly on the outside and snarled on the inside.
Mastin turned to leave and then abruptly turned back. “Oh, and dinner is at eight. I’ve brought home that nice young junior senator from Oregon for the weekend. Might get a bit of skiing in with the snow. You know the one, don’t you? Single. A nice small fortune—invested in salsa, don’t you know? Who would have thought? Those Oregon types are so free-spirited…” He rubbed his chin. “But nevertheless, potential husband material, Blaire.”
He scrutinized her as he spoke, his gaze drifting. “And spruce yourself up a bit before you come. You do remember that we dress for dinner, don’t you? It’s been so long.” And with that, he swept out of the room as quickly as he arrived.
Staring at the closing door, Blaire let her hands drop to her sides. Dinner. Not likely. She had other things to tend to. Namely one Reva MacGlenary. She’d deal with her father later.
Potential husband material, my foot.
****
But dinner it was. Several hours later Blaire found herself at her father’s home, dressed in wide-legged black silk pants and a matching jacket, a white body-hugging camisole top underneath. She hadn’t planned it; in fact, she’d had no choice.
She’d been sitting in her apartment trying to figure out what her father had meant about Darian’s aunt, and then letting her thoughts drift to Darian. Her heart ached a bit and her mood turned a bit melancholy. She’d promised herself that Darian MacGlenary was past history, just one more big, bad mistake she’d made in her life; but it was more difficult day after day, and night after night, for her to shove her emotions away.
Ready to dig into a sub sandwich from the shop down the street, she started when someone rapped on her door. A peek out the window and she saw her father’s limousine pulled up outside. Dammit. He was not going to take no for an answer. Soon it was apparent that he had bribed his limo driver, whose instructions quite clear: Fetch the daughter of the Senator or don’t come back to a paying job. Once Blaire had learned that, she couldn’t refuse. She couldn’t cost the man his job. Once again Mastin Kincaid got his way.
So as the candlelight flickered between her and the Honorable Salsa Senator from Oregon, an impeccably dressed, quite handsome man by most women’s standards, blond, well-groomed, about ten years older than herself. She tried to find something about him, anything about him, that aroused her interest. She couldn’t. Not in the least. She then determined that she much preferred flannel shirts to crisp cotton and blue jeans to polished silk. And, a beard and mustache lent a man a rugged softness that she also preferred over the barefaced freshness of a slightly nerdish but sophisticated, businessman. His aftershave, she was certain, some women would fine sexy and alluring. To her, it was nauseating. She would rather inhale wood smoke and pine.
Again, her thoughts drifted. Darian. Oh, God. What had happened there?
No! She jerked her thoughts back to the present and the man sitting smiling at her from across the table. Darian MacGlenary had made it perfectly clear he had nothing to offer. Not even love. This man, of course, had nothing to offer her either. Not really. She didn’t care if he was the Salsa King. Come to think of it, he actually smacked a bit of jalapeno and onion—and she was not that fond of salsa. But she’d play the game again tonight, for her father, although she wasn’t quite sure why.
Mastin sat perched, like the patriarch of the table, content to finish his dinner. She smiled politely, trying to strike up a friendly conversation with her tablemate from Oregon, while fighting off his stockinged toes creeping up her pant leg.
“So,” she directed to Alan Cromwell as she shoved his foot away for the ten-thousandth time, only biding time until she could satisfy her father and get the heck out of there, “how did you get to be the Salsa King of Portland?”
Alan grinned back. “Well, actually, Miss Kincaid, it was quite by accident, and actually, quite unknown to most people.”
Well, actually, I dislike you very much, Blaire mused, smiling.
“You see,” he went on, “a friend of mine from New Mexico had a moderately successful company there years ago. I invested in his business when he was about to sink under. We made him a pretty penny there, and then we did the same in the northwest. Quite a hot little prospect, if you don’t mind the play on words. At any rate, it’s spread over most of the country like wild-fire, as you probably know.” He chuckled. “Wild-fire, another pun I’m afraid. That’s the name of the product.”
Blaire thought she might gag. “And is your friend still in business with you?” His foot crept back up the calf of her right leg.
She shoved it away.
Cromwell shook his head. His eyes twinkled and she didn’t like the come-hither look in them. Or perhaps it was an if-your-father-wasn’t-here-I’d-do-you-on-the-table, look. At any rate, her stomach lurched.
“No, I bought him out. He’s back in New Mexico.” A toe nudged her ankle.
“Still in the business?” She brushed it away.
“Actually, he went bankrupt a few years back. Bad investments.”
“And so you simply took over his company and didn’t help him out?”
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled sardonically. “He made some bad business moves. Can I help that? I bailed him out once already.” His foot boldly lifted her pant leg and slid higher up her shin.
Blaire shivered and jerked her leg back. “But you have his company?”
“A good move on my part.”
“And quite good for the votes, too, I would think?” She kicked his foot away and smiled sweetly.
“What do you mean?” He narrowed his gaze, scooted his chair closer, and shoved his foot between her knees.
Blaire gasped and squeezed her knees together, tight as she could, hoping she’d pop his toes right off. This man was disgusting. Darian would never do anything like this. A dinner of beans and franks lit only by the glow from the fireplace in his cabin would be much preferred to this elegant setting with this man. She pushed that thought aside. “Well, I’d think the salsa public would definitely follow the likes of you. You know, the common man thing. The blue-collar work ethic. I’m sure you just ooze that, don’t you?”
He dropped his foot and Blaire stomped on his toes.
He grimaced and learned forward, picked up his fork and stabbed a hunk of prime rib. “Actually my constituents are quite unaware of my investments. I don’t make my partnership in the business world known,” he countered angrily and shoved his foot higher between her thighs.
Blaire picked up her own fork, really ticked now at his boldness. “Isn’t that illegal?” She glanced at her father as he cut off a thin slice of his prime rib.
Alan Cromwell’s foot was getting way too intimate. “Oh!” Her voice rose.
“And why is it you don’t make your business efforts known? Are you afraid of offending the masses? Are you avoiding the income disclosures? Would it be so bad to be known as the salsa king? Or are you just another rich senator trying to eke out as much money as you can from your constituents, and your friends, get the votes of the important ones, and then to hell with all of them once you make your fortune or get into office?”
There were any number of things going on that could have made Blaire angry, and she wasn’t sure one was at the top of her list. The fact that the kind Senator had taken advantage of his friend, or that he was violating her space in a way too personal way. Or, that she was sitting here like a damn fool indulging his crassness for the sake of her father.
Or maybe it was her earlier thoughts
about Darian.
She missed him. She didn’t want to miss him.
“You men are all alike,” she continued, bolstered now. “You think you can take what you want simply because you want it. Well, you can’t! It doesn’t always work that way Mr. Cromwell!” And with that she grabbed his foot between her legs and stabbed it soundly on the top with the gold-plated fork.
The salsa senator jerked backward with a screech and jumped up. Blaire stood and faced him across the table.
“You little bitch!”
“Serves you right, asshole!” Blaire glanced at her father who sat with an amused look on his face slowly chewing his last bite of beef. “Good night, Mastin,” she tossed out in her next breath, turning away from the table. “I’m going home.”
“Been burned too many times, Miss Kincaid?” Cromwell called out.
“Go to hell.” She spat back over her shoulder.
“Blaire!” Her father finally tossed in his two cents.
Tossing her napkin aside, Blaire exited the room, shouting for the driver, slamming the front door behind her. Not allowing herself to remain one second longer in the presence of men who were only out for themselves.
****
The next afternoon, it took exactly thirty-two minutes for Blaire to drive to the MacGlenary estate in Oxford, from her office in Trenton. She hadn’t called beforehand—she didn’t really want Reva MacGlenary to expect her. This time she opted for the element of surprise.
The last time she’d seen Reva was in the coffee shop when she’d told her she couldn’t find Darian. The same place she’d made the original deal to find him. The same day she gave her back the money. This was the first time she’d been to the estate.
She never would have given the money back to Reva had the other woman not given her a sob story about how she really needed it, less her expenses, of course, because the taxes were draining their capital. Even though Blaire needed the money herself, she took pity on the woman and gave her back over half of the money.
As she wove through the winding roads toward the mountain top estate, she wondered what she would find. She’d always known where it was—there wasn’t a local around who didn’t know of the MacGlenary estate. But there was also probably not a local around who had seen it in the thirty years since Darian’s parents had died. It was then that the security fences and gates went up at the bottom of the mountain and only a select few people gained admittance.
Blaire grimaced. She hadn’t thought of that. She probably was wasting her time. Reva MacGlenary would never allow her admittance; she was sure. After all, she had no business with her anymore. But just as Blaire had decided she was better off turning around and heading back to her office, she rounded a curve which lead her directly to a turn-off to the left. A pair of tall and sturdy iron gates stared back at her. Blaire glanced to the left at the speakerphone, then to the twin security cameras balanced high on either side, and to the apparatus which housed the laser beam projected across the width of the gates to the other side.
She had arrived at the MacGlenary estate. On closer inspection she spied the letters carved into the slightly rusting exterior of a panel on the right gate and her suspicions were confirmed. The name MacGlenary was molded into the gate.
“Well,” Blaire muttered as she sat back against the driver’s seat, stretching her arms out in front of her. “Now what?”
She sat for only a few minutes more before she made her decision. She was here. There was no reason to change her plans. The least she could do was push the button and see what happened. The worst that could happen was that Reva would send her hightailing it back home. And if she did, then she’d simply call tomorrow morning and set up an appointment with her.
Blaire rolled down the window next to her and reached out to touch the button.
Almost instantly, a male voice squawked, “Yes?”
“Blaire Kincaid to see Reva MacGlenary, please,” she returned.
“Appointment?” the voice queried.
“No.” Blaire heard a crackle in the intercom. “Not today,” she added. “Please, just ask if she would see me. Tell her I’ve just spoken with my father, Senator Kincaid.” Blaire crinkled her nose at the thought of using her father’s name to gain access to anything. It went against every principle she had. But for some reason, she felt she needed to get things straight with Reva. She couldn’t afford to have her put the skids on her business even before it was off the ground. She had the feeling that she was going to have to appease her somehow.
“Hold on,” the voice responded.
Blaire waited for several minutes, the car engine humming, the intercom cracking intermittently, the din of birds and insects chirping just beyond the fence in the forest surrounding the estate.
Suddenly the intercom came back to life, nearly startling Blaire. “Drive to the house. Someone will meet you at the front door,” the voice barked at her. Then the gates screeched as they began to slowly open, allowing her access the infamous estate and her first sight of what had eluded so many in the past.
As Blaire drove, she thought about what Reva has said to her at their first meeting. The estate was in near ruins, she had said, left to the devises of her father’s attorney who had embezzled most of Darian’s inheritance away and had not even left enough money for general upkeep. But as Blaire continued along the blacktopped road that wound its way up the mountain, she felt puzzled. Even though everything was snow-covered, things seemed quite neat and cared for. When at last she burst through the snow-laden pines and other trees, she was greeted with a magnificent sight.
Atop the mountain the estate stretched out before her. Blaire slowed her car to a crawl. The earlier falling snow had left a crisp, cloudless afternoon sky behind, framing a rambling mountain home, complete with peaks and gables and a wide covered porch. Three stories of stately home stretched across the white lawn before her as well as several other buildings, a garage and what looked to be a guest house to the right. The black-topped road was obviously heated, for it shown slick and shiny against the white snowfall. Blaire drove on.
As she drew nearer, she sensed something wrong. The hedges were all manicured and perfectly shaped, she could tell that even underneath the three inches of snow. The house was a paragon, painted and trimmed in the decorations of Christmas. Every gutter was in place. Every black shutter was pinned securely against the white brick. Not so much as a leaf was out of place.
This was not an estate in near ruins waiting for the government to take it because of the back taxes. This was a showplace. This was an estate worth millions.
What the hell kind of fool does Reva MacGlenary take me for anyway?
Blaire finally stopped in front of the house, killing the ignition just as she noticed the blood-red entry door open inward. She left her car and rounded it to the front and mounted the three steps to the covered entrance. A man, formally dressed, greeted and ushered her inside. Once there, he asked for her coat and she gave it to him. He whisked it away and within seconds she was standing alone in the great entry—parquet floor shining, brass and crystal candelabra sparkling, a hushed silence echoing in her ears. Inside, her anger was churned.
Soon, the sound of heels clicked across the floor above her head and Blaire let her narrowed gaze travel up the stair to the second floor landing. There, Reva MacGlenary, impeccably dressed, glided across the floor to the carpeted stair and descended, her eyes locked with Blaire’s as she did so, her face taut and without expression.
When she reached Blair’s level, a smile broke about her lips and she extended her hands to Blaire as she grew nearer. “Blaire. How nice. How is your father?”
Blaire placed her hands in Reva’s, realizing that she was smiling back at this woman and didn’t know why. And before she knew it, she spoke sweetly and said, “Oh, Father, he’s fine. In fact, he’s why I’m here.”
“Is that so?” Reva tucked Blaire’s hand into the crook of her elbow and patted her knuckles. Surprised, Blaire let
her. Reva led her to the left through two heavy oak doors halfway slid back into their pockets in the wall. “Come. Let’s sit by the fire.”
As Blaire was led through the room toward the crackling warmth of the fireplace, she surveyed her surroundings. Deeply polished furnishings shone about her. Refined draperies adorned the deep windows, more crystal candelabra and chandeliers reflected the fire’s glow, rich woven rugs accented the wood flooring, fine fabrics graced the elegant lines of the upholstered furnishings. Blaire wasn’t quite sure what Reva MacGlenary had tried to pull with her, but she knew she didn’t like it. She’d been laughed at enough in her short adult life, she didn’t care to be made fool of once more. Besides, she was getting tired of it.
Reva released her and Blaire sat gracefully on the sofa facing the fire. Reva sat ramrod straight on the seat of an armchair next to her.
Blaire smiled a honeyed grin at her. Reva smiled back. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Blaire tilted her head at her thinking her lips were going to crack from stretching them across her teeth so far.
“Well,” Reva continued. “How is your father, dear?”
“The same. Once a bastard, always a bastard, I say.”
Blaire watched Reva’s smile fade. “I always thought your father a fine man.”
Blaire crossed her legs and leaned toward Reva. “I’m sure you do. You’re quite like him.”
She could tell Reva wasn’t quite sure if she’d been insulted or not. She stared at Blaire for an instant and then continued in a rather matter-of-fact tone, “What brings you here, Blaire?”
“Actually, it is my father who brings me here. We had quite an interesting chat yesterday afternoon.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” The smile on her face was quickly turning sour.
Blaire nodded. “Everything.” She stood. “What the hell are you trying to prove?”
Reva stood straight up. “Prove? I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about, Miss Kincaid. Perhaps I should show you the door.”
Body Heat (Vintage Category Romance) Page 11