"I'll have a hamburger," Paige replied indifferently.
Susannah placed her own order for mahi mahi, a fish she'd grown fond of during her frequent trips with Joel to Hawaii. As the waiter moved away, she broached the subject of their meeting.
"Did you think about what I said on the phone? Tonight is Father's fifty-eighth birthday party. I know it would please him if you were there."
"Did King Joel tell you that?"
"He didn't have to. I'm certain of it." Susannah was certain of no such thing, but she had to end this estrangement between them. Right now her sister was living in a shabby one-bedroom apartment with a would-be rock singer named Conti Dove.
Paige impatiently pushed her hair away from her face. "Don't you ever get tired of running around playing Miss Goody-Two-Shoes? Fuck off, will you?"
Susannah's impassive expression gave no hint of how much she disliked hearing those tough, ugly words coming from her sister's lovely mouth. At the same time, she thought how exciting it would be if, just once in her life, she could toss those rude words at somebody. What would it be like to be so free? What would it be like to have life stretching ahead like a blank canvas-unplanned and waiting to be filled with bold, exciting strokes from one's very own brush.
"He's your father," Susannah said reasonably, "and this estrangement has gone on long enough."
"Exactly twenty-two years."
"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about your leaving home."
"I didn't leave, Susannah. His Highness kicked me out. Not that I wasn't getting ready to split anyway, so you can wipe that pitying look off your face. The best thing that ever happened to me was getting out of that mausoleum." Paige pulled a cigarette from a pack she had tossed on the table and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. Susannah looked away. Cigarettes had killed their mother, and she hated seeing Paige smoke.
"Look, you can stay around and play Queen of the Castle to Daddy's King if you want-waiting on him hand and foot, giving him birthday parties, taking all the shit he hands out-but that's not my scene."
Definitely not, Susannah thought. Within the space of eighteen months, Paige had flunked out of college and had an abortion. Joel had finally lost patience and told her she wasn't welcome in the house until she was ready to start acting like a responsible adult.
The waiter arrived with their food-broiled mahi mahi for Susannah, a burger and fries for Paige. Paige sank her teeth into her hamburger. As she chewed, she refused to look at the creamy amandine sauce that covered Susannah's fish, refused to think about how wonderful the mahi mahi must taste. Since her father had ordered her out of Falcon Hill, Paige couldn't remember having eaten anything more exotic than an anchovy pizza. The bite of hamburger she had just swallowed settled heavily in a stomach already churning with years of resentment from growing up in the shadow of an older sister who was perfect-an outsider who had taken her place in her own father's heart when she had been too young to defend herself.
Paige watched as Susannah delicately set her fork on her plate. Susannah had begun to remind her of those nineteenth century portraits she had studied in her art history class before she'd flunked out of college-portraits of thin, juiceless women who spent their lives languishing on chaise longues after giving birth to small blue-lipped infants. A deceptive image, Paige admitted to herself, since Susannah seemed to have an endless supply of energy, especially for good works such as saving her younger sister from a life of rock 'n' roll and sexual debauchery.
Paige could barely resist the urge to reach across the table and rumple that always-tidy auburn hair, rip away that carefully tailored suit. If only Susannah would scream or yell once in a while, Paige might have been able to get along with her better. But Susannah never lost control. She was always calm and cool, Daddy's paragon of a daughter. Susannah always said the right thing, did the right thing, and now she was capping her accomplishments by marrying exactly the right man-Mr. Calvin Stick-Up-His-Ass Theroux.
Paige was absolutely certain that Susannah was still a virgin. A virgin at twenty-five! What a joke. An image flashed through her mind of the bride and groom climbing into bed the night of their wedding. She saw Cal Theroux flashing that spectacular smile of his and easing up Susannah's nightgown just to the top of her thighs.
"Pardon me, darling, but this won't take a second."
Paige imagined Susannah picking up her reading glasses along with the latest issue of Town and Country from the bedside table and speaking in that quiet, carefully articulated voice of hers. "But, of course, dear. Just tap me on the shoulder when you're finished."
Across the table Susannah spotted the cynical smile on her sister's face but decided to ignore it. "The party starts at eight," she told Paige. "All his old friends will be there, and I know they'll think it's strange if you don't show up."
"Tough shit," Paige snapped. "Get off my ass, will you?"
"Paige-"
"Look, you're not my mother, so stop acting like you are."
Susannah hesitated. "I know you still miss her. I don't mean to nag."
"He won't even notice that I'm not there." Paige tossed down her half-eaten hamburger and stood. "Listen, I've got to go. See you around sometime." She snatched up her knapsack from the floor and made her way through the dining room. Her swaying blond hair, along with her tight-fitting jeans, attracted the attention of most of the male diners. She favored several of them with a seductive smile before she walked out the door.
As Susannah watched Paige disappear, she wished for the thousandth time that the two of them could have the close loving relationship other sisters shared. It would be so wonderful to have someone to confide in-to be silly with.
But then Susannah was never silly with anyone. For her the daily business of living required great seriousness. As she paid the check, she remembered how often she had listened to Paige giggling with her friends, and she felt another stab of envy toward her rebellious sister.
"I hope everything was satisfactory, Miss Faulconer?"
"Excellent as always, Paul. Thank you."
Susannah slipped her credit card back into her purse and got up from her chair. As she left the restaurant, her posture was perfect, her movements contained and graceful. She bore no resemblance at all to the little girl who had once been so enchanted with a bundle of dancing balloons that she had unlocked the protected gates of her own life and-for a few glorious moments-run free.
Chapter 3
Falcon Hill had been built in the style of an opulent French manor house. In addition to marble bathrooms and polished teak floors, it contained five fireplaces with Louis XV mantels, an oval-shaped morning room, and a well-stocked European wine cellar. Susannah paused inside the arched entryway to the dining room to check the last-minute arrangements for her father's birthday celebration. The handpainted wallpaper was softly illuminated by a matching pair of antique chandeliers sparkling with a waterfall of crystal prisms. Sprays of white flowers spilled from the low Georgian silver bowls. The antique linen tablecloth and twenty matching napkins had been purchased at auction in London a decade earlier. Each piece bore the gold-embroidered crest of Czar Nicholas I.
Susannah had just finished adjusting one of the floral arrangements when she heard Cal's voice in the foyer. She went out to greet him and to straighten his tie, just as she had straightened her father's tie a short time before. Cal and her father were alike in so many ways. Both were commanding presences, both utterly self-assured.
"You look lovely, darling," Cal said, openly admiring her black evening gown. It had an off-the-shoulder neckline surrounded by a wide white organdy ruffle. When she'd put it on, she had thought the combination of the frothy neckline and her bare shoulders made her look as if she had just climbed naked out of a vat of whipped vanilla nougat.
He chucked her under the chin. "You look like a beautiful, graceful swan."
Just her luck, she thought. Cal ate vanilla nougat, but she had never known him to eat a swan.
She turn
ed away abruptly and led Cal toward the living room. He kissed her again-a neat kiss, precisely on target, as neat as the crease in his trousers, as exact as the part in his hair.
"Do you remember me telling you about the problems I was having with Harrison's region?"
He kept his voice low in case there were any eavesdroppers lurking about, and without waiting for her answer, launched into a detailed account of his latest success at work. She needed to speak to the cook, but she listened patiently. Serving as Cal's audience wasn't something she minded. In public, her fiancй was both discreet and modest to a fault, and it was only when he was with her that he dropped his natural caution. Sometimes she thought he didn't really enjoy his triumphs until he had spread them out before her.
After the guests arrived, dinner progressed agreeably. She had seated Cal and her father close together. Although only forty-two, Cal was a senior vice-president, and insiders considered him Joel's probable successor, especially in light of his upcoming marriage to Susannah.
She noticed how handsome the two men looked sitting at the other end of the table. At fifty-eight, Joel was nearly as lean and fit as her fiancй, and his ice-blue eyes hadn't lost a bit of their sharpness. Age had given his face more character than it had possessed on the day he pulled her from her grandmother's closet. The cleft in his chin had deepened, and his square jaw was sharper. Although his blond hair had darkened at the top and grayed at the temples, it hadn't thinned, and he was still vain about it.
Cal's triangular face was much narrower than her father's, broad at the forehead but tapering from the cheekbones down to the jaw. A gray streak, like a lightning bolt, cut a dashing path through the center. He was always tan from sitting behind the helm of his French-made racing sloop, and he had a ready smile that flashed white teeth and oozed confidence.
"Wonderful dinner, Susannah," Joel said, lifting his glass in her direction. "You've outdone yourself." He gave her their private smile, and she felt as if someone had tossed a shower of gold stars over her head. Her father could be difficult and autocratic sometimes, but she loved him deeply.
The plump, aging Italian countess at her side finished a generous wedge of chocolate truffle cake. "You thin girls are so lucky," she said in heavily accented English as she gazed at the barely touched piece of cake on Susannah's plate. "I have to watch every bite I put in my mouth."
"No one would ever know it," Susannah replied graciously. "You have a wonderful figure. Tell me about your gown? It's Italian, isn't it?" Skillfully, she deflected her guest from worries about her waistline to a rapturous description of Valentino's last collection.
She heard her father's laughter at the other end of the table. By tilting her head ever so slightly, she could observe Joel sharing a joke with Cal. She nodded agreeably at the countess's description of a two-piece dinner ensemble, and at the same time noted Cal's hand resting lightly on the stem of his wineglass. His fingers looked sun-browned and strong. She could see the starched edge of his shirt cuff showing beneath the sleeve of his dinner jacket. He was wearing the monogrammed gold cuff links she had given him, and his fingers were sliding up and down the stem of the wineglass. She felt a hot rush of sexual excitement.
"You're absolutely right, Countess," she said. "The Italian designers have been so much stronger this year."
She remembered the first time she and Cal had made love. She had been so excited, so pitifully grateful that she had finally found a man who would relieve her of her burdensome virginity. But it had been over with quickly and wasn't nearly as thrilling as she had thought it would be. It was her fault, of course. After indulging in so many lewd fantasies, was it any wonder that Cal's all too human touch had seemed vaguely antiseptic and somehow perfunctory?
She remembered her embarrassment afterward.
"You nearly poked my eye out, darling," he had said. "I didn't imagine you would be quite so… athletic." And then he'd smiled, as if a smile could take the sting out of his words. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Just rather surprised, that's all."
He had made her feel as if her passion were a breach of etiquette, and she'd been more restrained ever since. Now the bedroom was one more place where she had to mind her manners.
She took a small bite of truffle cake and nodded at the countess. While she chewed she envisioned herself licking a line from the hollow at the base of Cal's throat down his chest and over his hard belly. She saw herself using the tip of her tongue as a sharp, pointed dart, making little stabs at his skin and then softening her tongue to dip lower and lick again.
"More sherry, Countess?" she inquired.
"That would be lovely, dear."
With the barest tilt of her head, Susannah caught the attention of one of the waiters she had hired for the evening to supplement her regular staff. The glow of the candles glimmering in her fine auburn hair touched the strands with gold just as candlelight had illuminated the gracious heads of women of wealth and privilege for centuries.
Another burst of laughter rang out from the head of the table, and Cal called down to her, "Susannah, your father is telling lies about you."
She smiled. "My father never lies. He just colors the truth to suit his purpose."
Joel chuckled and gazed at her fondly. "Not this time, Susannah. I was telling Cal about your hippie period."
Her fingers clenched in her lap, but no trace of agitation was evident in her voice or in the calm, smooth line of her brow. "Be careful what you say, Daddy. You'll scare poor Cal away before we get him to the altar."
"He's made of stronger stuff. He won't be frightened by a little mushy-headed liberalism."
Susannah took a sip from her wineglass, maintaining her cool, careful smile even though she was having difficulty swallowing.
"I can't imagine Susannah going through a hippie period," Paul Clemens said. He was FBTs Vice-Chairman of the Board and Joel's oldest friend.
"She wasn't wearing beads and living in a commune," Joel quickly interjected. "But when she was twenty, she came to me and-with great solemnity, mind you-announced that she was thinking about joining the Peace Corps."
There was a momentary silence, and then the sound of several chuckles. Please don't do this, Daddy, Susannah silently pleaded. Please don't trot out my confidences for dinner party conversation.
She touched her napkin to the corner of her lips, smearing her lipstick on the gold crest of Czar Nicholas I. "I'm certain no one wants to hear about my boring youth," she said.
The flicker of a frown passed briefly over Joel's features, and she knew her interjection had displeased him. He disliked it enormously when anyone interrupted one of his stories.
Madge Clemens, Paul Clemens's wife, turned toward Susannah. "Why on earth did you want to join the Peace Corps? It's so-I don't know-bacterial or something."
"I was young," Susannah replied with a trace of a smile and a casual shrug. "Young and idealistic." Her fingers tightened in her lap.
"You little rebel." Cal winked at her as if she were a mischievous ten-year-old.
Joel leaned back in his chair, the worldly-wise patriarch protecting foolish females from their silly little mistakes. "A stern lecture on the political facts of life from Old Dad put an end to it, of course. But I haven't stopped teasing her about it."
The smile never left Susannah's face. No one watching her could guess at the humiliation she felt.
"If everyone has finished," she said smoothly, "let's have our after-dinner drinks in the living room."
Everyone was finished, and the party moved on.
An hour later one of the waiters came up behind her as she stood chatting with several of the FBT wives while a string quartet from the San Francisco Symphony played discreetly in the background. The waiter whispered, "There's a man who wants to see Mr. Faulconer. He wouldn't leave, so we put him in the library."
What now? she wondered. She excused herself from the group before her father became aware that there was a problem and headed for the library. As soon
as she opened the doors she saw the worn soles of a pair of motorcycle boots propped on top of Joel Faulconer's massive walnut desk.
"Un-fucking-believable," a male voice murmured.
For a fraction of a second she thought he was talking about her, and then she realized his head was turned upward toward the hand-embossed copper ceiling that had come from an old French tavern.
"May I help you?" she asked, her voice cool and distinctly unhelpful.
Somewhat to her surprise, he didn't jump up in embarrassment when she spoke. Although he swung his boots to the carpet, he remained seated as he studied her.
He was so obviously foreign to her world that she felt a combination of unease and fascination. He wore an old leather motorcycle jacket over a black T-shirt, and his hair was long. It wasn't the fashionable length of a young executive's hair, but Apache-long, falling straight as the blade of a knife until it curled up on the shoulders of his jacket. He was perhaps a year or so younger than she was, and brash-she saw that, too. His cheekbones were high and flat, his mouth thin. But it was his eyes that ultimately held her attention. They were hard black marbles flecked with amber. And they were incredibly vulgar.
It wasn't a lecherous vulgarity she saw there. He didn't try to undress her visually or make an exploratory trip down her body. Instead, she saw the vulgarity of too much intensity of expression for too short an acquaintance.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said.
"I want to see Joel Faulconer."
"He's unavailable."
"I don't believe that."
Why did he keep looking at her as if she were some sort of exotic species on exhibit at the zoo? "If you'd like to meet with him, i suggest you call his office for an appointment."
"I did that. The bitch who answers his phone keeps brushing me off."
Her voice passed from cool to cold. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
"That's bullshit."
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