by Janet Dailey
“There’s a problem with that theory, Sam,” Chance said. “She hasn’t got the money to do it. We’ve seen her financial statement. Excluding Morgan’s Walk and her apartment in San Francisco, she has a personal net worth of only about twenty thousand dollars that she can get her hands on readily. She might have used some of the proceeds from Hattie’s life insurance to have the plans drawn up for the dam, but, Sam, she hasn’t been able to raise the money yet to pay our mortgage demand. So where is she going to get the money to buy all this property?”
“From Malcom Powell.” Lucianna sat in the chair next to Chance’s desk, holding her compact open with one hand and applying a fresh coat of lipstick to her already red lips with the other, her purse lying open on her lap. Briefly she met the glance he shot her. “He’s the logical choice, darling, since the two of them are in the midst of a torrid affair.”
“That rumor was thick when I met her,” he replied impatiently. “Their relationship is purely business. She handles his advertising account with the agency, and that’s all.”
“It may have been all then.” Lucianna shrugged with feigned idleness and recapped the tube of lipstick. “But it’s a fact now. Oscar told me they’ve been seen together almost constantly.”
“I told you she handles the account for his stores,” he snapped. “Naturally she has to meet with him.”
“Naturally.” She smiled at him in a look of mock acceptance. “And I’m sure that’s the reason he gave her a key to his apartment in town—so they could have private business conferences in the bedroom instead of the boardroom.”
“I don’t believe you,” he murmured coldly.
“About the key or the fact that they’re lovers? They are, you know. But you don’t have to take my word for it.” She returned the compact and lipstick to her purse and closed it with a definite click of the clasp. “Call Jacqui Van Cleeve—or read her columns these past few weeks. That woman doesn’t print anything that isn’t the absolute truth. And believe me, she has a network of spies that are the envy of the KGB.”
He looked at her for a long, challenging moment, demanding that she admit she was wrong—that she had exaggerated. She looked back at him, in her dark eyes a sadness, a hint of pity, and regret that she’d been the one to tell him. Then it hit him. She was telling the truth. A hot swell of jealousy ripped through him. He turned from both of them, his hands doubled into tight fists, wanting to strike out at something, anything—but there was nothing, just a hard pressure squeezing at his heart.
“Chance, I—” Sam began tentatively.
Chance stiffened, then turned slowly. “Call Fred back, will you? Tell him if he can’t get a copy of those plans, I want him to draw his best guess of the new lake’s location. And I want it now,” he ordered, conscious of the flatness, the deadness, in his voice.
“Right.” Sam nodded, backing toward the door.
He pushed the intercom button. “Molly, will you come in here?”
From her chair, Lucianna murmured, “I have the strange feeling our lunch has been canceled.”
He ignored that as Molly entered. “Get hold of Kelby Grant. Tell him to get over here. I have some land I want him to buy for me—yesterday,” he said grimly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And Sam,” Chance called him back before he got to the door. “Tell Fred I want a finished set of drawings on our dam site as fast as he can get them done for me. And I want the Corps’ stamp of approval on them the day after—and I don’t care how he gets that done.”
“But he can’t complete the plans without doing test work on the site itself,” Sam protested.
“Tell him to get a crew out there and get it done.”
“But we don’t own the land.” He looked at Chance as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
“Haven’t you ever heard of trespassing, Sam?” he replied tiredly. “As soon as you get Fred lined out, call Matt Sawyer. Tell him I want everything he can get me on Malcom Powell.”
“Will do.”
Molly was on Sam’s heels when he exited the office. “Sam, what’s all this about? What happened?” In the briefest of terms, he explained it to her. When he’d finished, Molly looked properly outraged. “What does she know about building a development? Malcom Powell’s money or not, she’ll never succeed.”
“I don’t know about that, Molly. From everything I’ve read about Malcom Powell, he could match Chance dollar for dollar. If that isn’t bad enough, it’s old money. Chance doesn’t have the phone numbers of half the people Malcom Powell calls by their first name. With him backing Flame, this is going to turn into one helluva war. And Morgan’s Walk is going to be the battleground for it.”
“She’s got to be stopped.”
“How?” he asked, and shook his head over the lack of an answer.
“Well, someone has to try,” she insisted.
“I know.” A troubled sigh broke from him. “I can’t help feeling this is all my fault, Molly. If I hadn’t let Chance down—if I’d kept a closer watch on Hattie, we would have found out about Flame right from the start. Then maybe none of this would have happened.”
“Wishing won’t change the past,” Molly replied curtly. “So don’t waste valuable time dwelling on it. Concentrate instead on finding a way to stop her. Which reminds me—” She turned to her desk. “There was a note in today’s mail from Maxine. The new duchess of Morgan’s Walk will be arriving on Thursday—with two guests. It will be interesting to find out who they are.”
38
Exhilarated from the brisk gallop back to the barns, Flame walked back to the imposing brick manor house of Morgan’s Walk with her arm around Malcom’s waist and the weight of his resting possessively around her shoulders, a quickness and a lightness to her steps that matched her new mood. As they approached the front door, she drew apart from him and waited, allowing him to open the door for her, then swept into the entrance hall. There she stopped and turned back to him, pulling off her riding gloves as he closed the door behind them.
“What a marvelous ride,” she declared, leaning into Malcom when he returned to her side, curving his arm to the back of her waist and asserting his claim on her once more. “How about a drink to top it off?”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll shower and change instead. Why don’t you join me?”
“Not this minute, but I’ll be up directly,” she promised. “I want to check with Maxine and see if there were any calls, then find out what Ellery’s doing.”
Ellery called from the parlor, “Do I hear my name being bandied about?” Flame pressed a quick kiss on Malcom’s cheek in parting, then moved to join Ellery in the parlor. “I see the Lone Rangeress and her powerful companion have returned. Hi Ho Silver and all that,” Ellery observed dryly, lounging with his usual ease on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
“And it was wonderful, too,” she stated, ignoring his jesting remark. “There was a blush of green over the whole countryside. I had the feeling that any moment every tree and bush was going to burst into leaf. We rode up to the dam site and I showed Malcom where the lake will be.” She walked over to the drink cart and poured some tonic water in a glass, adding some ice cubes from the insulated bucket. “You should have come with us.”
“No thanks. When I go riding, I prefer to have the horses under the hood of a car.”
Something crackled. Belatedly, Flame noticed the daily paper lying open on his lap. “You’ve been reading the newspaper,” she accused. “You said you didn’t want to go because you wanted to work on the sketches for the golf course.”
His eyebrow lifted at the hint of impatience in her voice. “I can’t make up my mind whether this project of yours is turning you into a shrew or a slave driver.”
“A shrew?” She frowned, faintly indignant. “How can you say that, Ellery? I have never behaved like a shrew.”
“Really?” His eyebrow arched even higher. “I think you’ve forgotten how rudely you berated those poor people on
the phone this morning.”
“You mean those real estates agents?” She remembered that earlier sharpness of her tongue—without regret. “They deserved it. The ones who weren’t waiting to hear back on the offers they’d made were waiting for a little time to go by before making another offer—so they wouldn’t appear too anxious and drive up the price. Why should they care? They aren’t buying the land. I am. Ben warned me that people were laid back around here, but this morning was ridiculous.”
“We are testy, aren’t we?” Ellery murmured.
She started to snap an answer at him, then sighed. “Sorry. It still irritates me when I think how much time has gone by—all because they didn’t want to look as though they were trying to pressure anybody to sell. Believe me, they aren’t going to be concerned about that anymore.” She took a quick drink of the iced tonic water, then wandered over to the fireplace. “You managed to avoid my question about the sketches. Did you get anything done on them?”
“Even though this was supposed to be a pleasure trip, yes, I did sketch for my supper,” he mocked. “They’re on the table by the window.”
Flame walked over to look at them. Altogether there were six different views—all in pencil—of the valley, its pastureland and shade trees turned into the manicured green of a golf course.
“Ellery, these are very good,” she declared as she went through them again.
“Then I won’t have to go hungry tonight.”
She turned, smiling at him in amused exasperation. “Will you stop that? I’m trying to pay you a compliment.”
“Thank you.” He bowed his head in mock docility.
Shaking her head at him, she laid the sketches down, mentally reminding herself to show them to Malcom later. “Seriously, Ellery, they are good. Sometimes I think your talent is going to waste in the art department of Boland and Hayes.”
He dismissed that with a careless shrug. “Speaking of art—” He picked up the newspaper in his lap. “—have you seen today’s paper?”
“I haven’t had time to look at it. Why?”
“There’s a small piece in here I found interesting.”
“What’s that?” She crossed to the sofa and glanced over his shoulder, her attention drawn first to the article near his right thumb. “You mean the story about the tenor Sebastian Montebello guesting in the Tulsa production of Otello? I think I saw a poster about that some—” She faltered, her eye caught by the photograph in the left-hand corner, a photograph of Chance Stuart and Lucianna Colton. Flame stared at the warm and lazy smile on Chance’s face, a smile she’d once believed he reserved exclusively for her. Now Lucianna was the recipient of it. The caption beneath mentioned a minor throat ailment that had sidelined the renowned coloratura and stated her intention of attending Otello—in the company of real estate magnate Chance Stuart—to see the performance of her dear friend, Sebastian Montebello.
“I wonder if it’s too late to get good seats,” she murmured.
“You’re surely not thinking of going?”
“Why not?” she challenged. “I’m certainly not going to stay away simply because he’ll be there.”
“Heaven forbid,” he murmured.
“If Malcom and I can get seats, do you want to go?”
“My dear Flame, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Arriving patrons of the opera filled the foyer of Chapman Music Hall, the subdued chatter of their voices punctuated by an occasional trilled greeting. From the hall itself, Chance could hear the muted and discordant notes of the last-minute tuning of instruments by the orchestra. He took another deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled the tangy smoke in a rush. Not for the first time, he wondered why he’d agreed to come. He glanced at his watch. Eight more minutes before the overture was scheduled to start.
Beside him, Lucianna caught the slight movement of his wrist, and his downward glance at his watch. “You aren’t too bored, are you, Chance darling?” she murmured soothingly.
“No,” he lied.
“I’m sorry I had to drag you here tonight,” she said, explaining again. “Unfortunately Sebastian found out I was in Tulsa. He would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t come tonight. I wouldn’t care, but I have to sing Aïda with him this fall. And I shudder to think the hell he could create for me on stage if he chose to be spiteful. It’s bad enough putting up with his endless practical jokes.”
“And you’re the perfect victim for them, aren’t you?” Chance guessed. “You approach everything with such intensity, even rehearsals, completely immersing yourself in the role, you open yourself up to it.”
“He does it to destroy my concentration so he looks good and I look bad,” she declared, then sighed, casting him a sideways glance. “As much as I don’t want to, I have to go backstage before the performance and wish him well. Will you come with me?”
“Of course. Only I think you’re about to be waylaid,” he said, spotting the tall, anorexic brunette making a beeline through the crowd toward them and realizing that he should have known Gayle Frederick would be waiting to descend on Lucianna the instant she saw her. The woman fancied herself a patron of the arts. Which meant she was too rich to be called a groupie.
“Chance, how wonderful to see you.” She sailed up to him and kissed him on both cheeks with typical theatrics.
“Gayle,” he murmured in acknowledgment.
“And Miss Colton,” she gushed, turning to Lucianna. “You don’t know what a thrill it is to meet you. What a night this is going to be—Sebastian Montebello on the stage and Lucianna Colton in the audience.”
“How very kind you are,” Lucianna smiled, putting on her “diva” face.
“Not at all,” she insisted. “If anything, I’m lucky. Although not as lucky as you,” she added, sliding a quick look at Chance. “I mean, here you are with the throb of every heart in Tulsa.”
“I am lucky,” Lucianna agreed, her hand tightening ever so slightly on Chance’s arm.
Catching the minor stir of activity at the entrance, Chance glanced in that direction. A fine tension, different from the impatience and irritation he’d felt before, held him motionless as he found himself looking at Flame. The months and days since their first meeting at the cocktail party seemed to drop away. Again he was staring at her from across a crowded room, drawn by that arresting combination of red-gold hair and jade green eyes.
Yet, tonight she looked untouchable—somehow distant and aloof. Frowning at the change, Chance studied her closer. She was wearing her hair differently. Instead of cascading in a luxuriant mass around her face and shoulders, it was smoothed back and caught in a wide clasp at the nape of her neck. The style wasn’t severe, yet its effect was to subdue the fire with high sophistication. That wasn’t Flame. Neither was the strikingly chic and elegant suit of quilted copper lamé that she wore, unrelieved by any jewelry. The straightness of its long jacket completely hid the ripeness of her figure, giving Chance the impression that she had gowned herself in a suit of copper armor.
Someone moved into his vision, blocking his view of Flame. For an instant Chance tried to look through the man, then the cleft chin, the square jaw, and the iron eyes registered. It was Malcom Powell—her new lover. Chance looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette, a tightness coiling through him.
When he lifted his glance again, he caught the smile she gave Malcom…so warm, so admiring, so damned intimate. He had tried to convince himself that she had turned to Malcom out of spite—that it had been a means of getting back at him…maybe even an attempt to make him jealous. But the way she looked at Powell…With a hint of savageness he turned and stabbed the end of his cigarette in the ashtray, burying it deep in the fine white sand.
“Look, Malcom Powell and his party have arrived,” Gayle Frederick declared as Chance straightened and turned back. He stiffened in alertness when he saw they were coming directly toward them, although he doubted Flame had seen him yet. “Didn’t I tell you this was a night,” the brunette added,
her low voice riddled with excitement. “You know him, don’t you, Chance?”
“Yes.”
Lucianna’s fingers dug into his arm. “Perhaps—” she began. But Chance, anticipating her suggestion they leave before Flame and Powell reached them, silenced her with a faint shake of his head. The anger in him wanted a confrontation with Flame.
“He’s visiting friends in the area.” Gayle issued the quickly whispered aside even as she turned to snare the approaching party that included, Chance noticed, Ellery Dorn. “Mr. Powell, how delightful to have you with us this evening. Let me be—if not the first, then the most recent—to welcome you to Tulsa.”
“Thank you…Mrs. Frederick, isn’t it?” Powell replied with a suggestion of a bow.
“Yes,” Gayle confirmed, preening a little at his recognition. “And I believe you know the marvelous diva, Lucianna Colton, and—of course—Chance Stuart.”
“Indeed.” The gray eyes turned on him, iron-smooth and blatantly measuring.
“Powell.” Nodding once, Chance returned the look and briefly gripped the man’s hand, aware of the strength and power that lay in more than just Powell’s hand.
Continuing with the introductions, Gayle said, “And this is Flame Bennett from Morgan’s—”
But Flame broke in. “Mr. Stuart and I have met before.”
Her coolness grated at him as Gayle swung toward him, red firing her cheeks. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, remembering precisely who Flame Bennett had been.
“It’s all right, Gayle,” he said, masking his anger with a smoothness. “The ex-Mrs. Stuart has a habit of bringing up a past that is better forgotten.” Deliberately Chance held Flame’s gaze. She tried to conceal it, but he saw the flash of anger in her green eyes.
“I am so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, Mrs. Frederick,” Flame inserted coolly. “It isn’t necessary. Mr. Stuart isn’t known for the accuracy of his memory.”