Children of Dynasty

by Christine Carroll

  Rory must have heard her thoughts, for he said, “Maybe we should fix Sylvia up with Lyle.”

  That sounded good, but when he pulled up beneath the portico with a jerk, she saw retired developer Henry Sand standing beneath the overhang. Wearing red trousers, a windbreaker, and golfing cap, he was talking with a similarly attired Takei Takayashi.

  “Oops,” Rory said as he set the brake on his Porsche to account for the downhill slant of the driveway toward the sea.

  Though Mariah had planned on at least walking inside with Rory, perhaps using their private balcony as a means to an afternoon interlude in one of their rooms, she put her hand on the door latch. “I’ll get out here, then.”

  Rory looked ahead instead of at Mariah. He gave the Porsche some gas, and it growled as though impatient to be on its way. “I’ll ignore the valet and park it myself.”

  She opened the door and got out quickly. Her cheeks hot, she managed to get abreast of Henry and Takei before they noticed her.

  “Miss Grant,” Henry said.

  “Gentlemen,” she murmured.

  Takei peered down the drive with alert brown eyes. “Wasn’t that Rory Campbell?”

  “Why, yes.” She tried to sound casual while her mind raced for a reason she would be with him after the scene Takei must have witnessed with her and Rory’s father last evening. Gesturing to the thickening fog, she said, “Rory was kind enough to give me a ride in out of this.”

  Not exactly a lie, but it carried the implication she’d been out walking.

  Takei glanced at her dry clothing and hair, but though he could surely tell she had not been out in the weather, he said nothing.

  As she hurried in the heavy wooden door, she felt both embarrassed at the subterfuge and angry that it seemed necessary. She and Rory should be proud of what they had, and they would be, as soon as this weekend was over.

  CHAPTER 15

  At dinner, Mariah and Lyle were seated away from Rory and Sylvia. On the one hand, she was pleased not to have to watch Sylvia beside him, but she also recalled the illicit thrill of his touch beneath the table.

  Her hopes of her and Rory managing a rendezvous in one of their rooms this afternoon had been dashed as they had returned from their drive with barely time to dress for dinner.

  The dining table was so large that she had trouble in locating Rory. Finally, trying not to be too obvious in her bending over and staring, she made out that he was near the end of the table. He and his father sat side by side across from Kiki and Sylvia, with Wilson McMillan between them at the head. Senator Chatsworth and his wife Laura were also with them, making it look enough like a cozy family group to set Mariah on edge.

  It got worse when Sylvia caught her looking and gave her a gloating look. The black-haired beauty’s burgundy silk was more tasteful than her usual garb, and it made Mariah feel plain in her black-jacketed dinner suit with ice blue satin blouse.

  The meal seemed interminable: endive salad, French onion soup, salmon in dill butter, and fresh asparagus. Mariah sipped little as the wines progressed from crisp Sauvignon Blanc to a big, oaky Cabernet. She made small talk with Lyle, who knew she was floating after her outing with Rory, and charmed Henry Sand with whom she had scarcely spoken the evening before. Thankfully, he did not mention seeing her with Rory this afternoon.

  As the help cleared dessert, Mariah noticed them setting out tall flutes at each place setting. They opened bottles of expensive champagne and poured, while a murmur went through the guests.

  Wilson McMillan rose from his place, dapper and smiling. “Everybody, if you would pick up your glass …”

  The buzz escalated. Wilson bent to Sylvia and said something that made her laugh. She turned to Kiki and hugged the older woman.

  Mariah’s mouth went dry.

  Wilson lifted his glass.

  Sylvia fixed Mariah again with her snapping dark eyes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson called, “it’s my honor as your host to propose a toast.”

  “Uh, oh,” said Lyle.

  Wilson finished, “Miss Sylvia Chatsworth has consented to become Mrs. Rory Campbell.”

  At first, Rory thought he was hearing things. One look at Sylvia’s smile told him he had it right. The dinner party burst into oohs and ahs. Glasses clinked, snippets of conversation rose.

  “A lovely couple.”

  “Wonderful match.”

  “Now Campbell will be pulling strings in Washington.”

  Sylvia knocked her flute against Rory’s with a ring. Kiki beamed at him and drank off half her champagne. Wilson McMillan thumped him on the shoulder, bent spryly and bussed Sylvia. She rushed around the table and hung on Rory’s arm.

  My God, what must Mariah be thinking? He tried to see her, but too many people blocked his view. Setting down his glass, he shook his arm free, waving it in the air. “Folks,” he called.

  His father, seated to his left, dug his fingers into Rory’s leg above the knee.

  Pain radiated from the pincers-like grip. To keep from sprawling face first on the table, Rory clutched his chair back. “I’m damned if I’m going to let you do this.”

  He knocked the hand off his leg, jumped up, and gritted in Davis’s ear, “Don’t even think about it.”

  And through it all, Davis smiled, a man exchanging a private pleasantry with his son. “You’ll not spurn a lady in public. Or make a fool of a United States Senator.”

  “If that’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.” Rory felt like throwing up. “Hey, everybody!” he shouted.

  The crowd clapped as though his exclamation was one of joy.

  Davis raised his arms and called, “No speeches now.”

  At his words, people began moving out of the dining room.

  Rory pushed into the crush to find Mariah.

  Mariah clutched her glass. If she’d been holding the stem, she might have broken it.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lyle said at her elbow.

  “No,” she hissed. She must never show the depth of her humiliation.

  Lyle set his champagne flute on the table and took hers from her. “Smile … and come with me.”

  With an effort, she stretched the corners of her mouth into what she hoped did not look like a grimace.

  Lyle winked and grinned at the couple across the table. “I don’t think Mariah and I will stay any longer.” His blue eyes conveyed his interest in getting her alone.

  “Have a pleasant evening.” Henry Sand nudged Lyle’s ribs.

  “Will do,” the big man boomed, slipping a supporting arm around Mariah. Amidst the blur of approbation and clinking glasses, he manhandled her through the nearest door, the servants’ entrance into the castle kitchen.

  “Some water here,” she heard him direct as though from a distance. The racks of pots and pans spun and, but for Lyle, she would have fallen. A cold cloth draped her neck, soaking the collar of her satin blouse.

  The clatter of dishes came to a halt. Curious men and women in caterer’s black and white stared. “She needs air,” Lyle said.

  Mariah trembled. Chill water dripped down her sides.

  He hustled her through the kitchen and down the back stairs. As the cool freshness cleared her head, numbness gave way to disbelief.

  “I’m sorry.” Lyle patted her shoulder like a big bear pawing.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “I can’t stand this place another minute.”

  They walked downhill toward the sea. The fog hung thicker over the lawn and contributed to her sensation of dreaming. How was it possible Rory had gone from her arms to toasting his engagement to another woman?

  Her heels kept sinking into the turf, so she kicked off her evening sandals and carried them. Dressed more warmly this evening than last night, she refused Lyle’s offer of his jacket. But as the chill from the fog cooled her heated brow, she threw the damp rag onto a bush and went with him down to where lawn merged with fairway. Her pantyhose grew wet from the dewy grass, bu
t she kept moving as though distance could insulate her.

  It didn’t help. Rory’s engagement couldn’t be real, but she had seen it with her own eyes. How could she have been so stupid as to believe in a Campbell?

  The answer was clear. Rory had gone to great lengths to earn her trust. One step at a time, from his party invitation, to running “On The Spot” out of Charley’s viewing, and promising his father could go hang. The final degradation was making love to her so passionately she’d believed his fervor.

  She and Lyle reached the highway and she put on her shoes to cross the pavement. Once they passed over to soft sand, she took them off again. On the way down to the water, on the same beach where her mother and father had come together and alienated Davis Campbell, agony metamorphosed to fury.

  Had the stepped-up campaign to take down Grant Development kicked off when Davis heard she was returning to San Francisco? Rory had “warned” her, but what if he meant to put both Grants on notice of precisely which family was winning the war?

  Lyle walked with her a while in silence. “You were with him all day and he didn’t say a thing?”

  “He said a lot of things, designed to set me up for a fall.” She reached the smooth wet sand near the water’s edge and felt the Pacific’s chill on her bare soles.

  “You really think this thing between your families has gone that far?”

  The jury was still out on how far they had gone. First California, Zaragoza … sabotage?

  “There’s nothing else to believe. Years ago, Rory chose his family over me, made a marriage his father wanted. Now he’s gone to work for him.”

  The pieces continued to fall into place. It made sense that he’d toyed with her emotions and she’d been the same kind of fool she’d been eight years ago, falling for a man whose acting skills were worthy of the stage.

  She had no choice but to conclude the goal was not only to destroy Grant Development, but also to gain retribution by breaking the heart of a woman who was “the image of Catharine.”

  Revenge was, indeed, a dish best served cold.

  On swift feet, Rory searched the marble halls and rooms. He ducked out onto the empty terrace and checked the garden, calling, “Mariah, Lyle, you out here?” On his way up the wide staircase toward the guest rooms, well-wishers ambushed him. Sylvia led the pack. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Rory steered her outside to a private corner between moss-covered stone walls. “What were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that? You know I’m not going to marry you.”

  Sylvia’s smile faltered. “Last night I talked to your mother. She said you needed the right woman in your life, but you’re cynical about getting burned again.” Her lower lip trembled. “She thought if we made the announcement you’d come around.”

  “I can’t see Mom suggesting a circus like this evening.” Rory bent closer to see Sylvia’s face in the light from a small iron wall sconce. “Think now, did she really say that last part?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Dark hair swished her shoulders as she shook her head. “No. Kiki just agreed when Davis came up with it at breakfast.”

  The rage he’d felt at his father in the dining room resurfaced. “This time he’s gone too far.” After he found Mariah, Rory was going to tell him what to do with his money and his company.

  Sylvia’s mascara ran. She dashed at her eyes and smeared it further.

  It made Rory feel like a bastard. Though Chatsworth and Campbell might push an alliance between their families, she had nothing political to gain. No doubt, she truly wanted him.

  She gulped back sobs and he glanced around to see if anyone observed. Fortunately, they were alone in the dimly lit alcove.

  He let his voice soften. “Did you really think I’d marry you?”

  “Kiki said with time you could learn to love me.”

  “If that worked, I’d still be married to Elizabeth.”

  And if time brought relief, he would not still want Mariah. He should be upstairs right now explaining things to her, but only a man as cruel as his father would shove Sylvia aside at this moment. For all her boldness, she was no match for Davis’s dirty tricks.

  “I’ve been unfair to string you along,” he told her, “but I’m not free to care for you.”

  “Mariah Grant.” Another tear rolled and made a wet mark on her silk-clad breast.

  “That’s right,” he said evenly. “I’ve got to find her and sort this mess out.”

  Sylvia clutched his arm. “What will I tell my parents?”

  “The truth. It’ll be public knowledge soon enough.”

  He went into the castle and ran up the marble steps. The long corridor was deserted.

  The door next to his stood closed. He knocked and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer.

  “Mariah?” Trying the knob, he found it turned smoothly.

  Still silence, so he pushed open the door. Inside, a stained-glass lamp beside the bed was the only light. An air of stillness said no one was there. Still, he moved to the bathroom door, noting the clear countertop. The closet was empty save for a nest of bare hangers.

  He reached for his phone, but she had never given him her cell number. Hell, she’d know better than to answer even if he could call.

  Poised on the edge of rushing into the foggy night, driving his Porsche to the limit to catch her and Lyle, he knew he couldn’t do it. Since she and Lyle weren’t sleeping together, the only logical place she’d have him take her was her father’s, where she’d been staying. And much as he’d like, Rory could not storm the home of a man recuperating from open-heart surgery in the middle of the night.

  As he moved to leave the bedroom, he saw something dark draped over on a pale chaise lounge near the balcony door. Going closer, he recognized the black velvet robe he’d chosen for her.

  She must have known he’d find it.

  Catching up the cloth, he crushed it against his face. It still bore her scent, and he inhaled deeply, vowing this was the last time his father would interfere in his life.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sunday morning Mariah lay in her childhood room surrounded by the blue dotted Swiss she’d selected in high school. She’d passed a quiet existence in this house, dated uncertain boys, saw movies where things happened to other people, until Rory had blown into her life like a Pacific typhoon.

  Last night when Lyle had brought her home, she’d tapped on her father’s door, told him she was there, and fled into her room without discussing why she’d cut the weekend short. Now, she wondered if telling him about Davis Campbell and the loans would be sufficient to explain her pallor. She certainly couldn’t reveal what had happened with Rory without looking brainless.

  Avoiding the moment of reckoning, she decided to take a bath. Her terry robe, soft and floppy as a well-worn stuffed animal, was far more practical than black velvet trimmed in crimson silk.

  As she started to open the bedroom door to head for the hall bath, the pale blue phone on her antiqued white and gold nightstand rang.

  Mariah’s breath caught, but it couldn’t be Rory; he must be breakfasting with Sylvia. Nonetheless, she stood frozen through the second ring.

  It stopped then, and she realized John must have picked up the cordless extension he kept by his recliner in the living room.

  A moment later he called, “Mariah! Phone for you.”

  Her heart raced. It could be anybody, most probably Lyle wanting to know how she was holding up. She knew her father would stay on the line until she made the connection, so she picked up.

  “Mariah,” Rory said in a drawn voice.

  On instinct, she slammed the phone down and stomped toward her door.

  From the living room, she heard John. “Who’s there?”

  Her steps slowed.

  “Certainly,” he went on in an oddly formal tone.

  She tiptoed into the hall.

  “I’ll tell her.” His tone softened. “I take it this is important to you?”


  Mariah closed her eyes and put a hand on the wall. She alternated between rage at Rory for disturbing her dad and wondering why he would call. In the other room, she heard the portable phone replaced in its cradle.

  Her bare foot managed to find one of the creaky boards in the hardwood floor. Her father’s hearing wasn’t as good as it once was, but he knew his house. “That was Rory Campbell,” he said at normal volume. “I suppose you knew that when you hung up.”

  She went slowly into the living room. John reclined in his pajamas, a lock of his silver hair standing straight up. Pieces of the Sunday paper lay scattered.

  Mariah wrung her hands. “I swear I tried to stay away from him.”

  “Do you remember what I said last week about me never getting over your mother and you never getting over Rory?”

  She nodded miserably.

  “Much as I might condemn you, I can’t. Or him.”

  “Dad, it’s over,” she insisted. “He was just using me because his father wants us both hurt. Last night at McMillan’s Rory announced his engagement to Sylvia Chatsworth.”

  Thoughtful gray eyes pitied her as John reached for a section of the paper lying open and handed it across. Rory wasn’t in the picture the way he had been with Elizabeth, but even so, Mariah had a sickening feeling of déjà vu. Sylvia’s photo showed her looking fresh and lovely, a white day dress setting off her black hair and eyes.

  Miss Sylvia Elise Chatsworth, daughter of Senator and Mrs. Lawrence Arthur Chatsworth III, to wed Rory Davis Campbell, son of Mr. and Mrs. Davis Gates Campbell.

  Mariah let the paper fall. “So, why would he call?”

  John nodded toward the phone. “He said to tell you this is one of Davis’s tricks. He’s not going to marry her.”

  She shot to her feet. “I can’t take any more of this.”

  “Maybe he can’t either. He sounded like hell.”