Children of Dynasty

by Christine Carroll

  His mouth pressed into a line. If Rory stood by and watched Grant Development go down, he would indeed be a little man.

  At three o’clock Rory presented himself in Grant’s outer office. The receptionist behind an impressive circular desk looked like a pro football cheerleader, with round breasts beneath a snug knit.

  “Mariah Grant, please,” he asked, more intent on his mission than the girl.

  “Sir, did you have an appointment?”

  “Look, tell her it’s Rory Campbell …” He cast about for something business-like. “On a matter of extreme importance to Grant Development.” Boy, that was special.

  She murmured into her headset, and then listened for a minute. “Please be seated.”

  He folded his long frame down onto a couch and looked around the lobby. Whereas Davis had called in the decorators and given them a blank check, Grant’s waiting room looked like a moderately successful doctor’s office. Dark green carpet accented soothing, color-coordinated landscapes on the walls. The exception was the fine trophy case in gleaming mahogany. It held a collection of the awards the city’s developers regularly passed among themselves. John Grant had won Developer of the Year for three of the past seven. Rory knew that DCI had won twice, as had Golden Builders.

  He wondered if there would be a Grant company to compete this time next year.

  The door to the inner workings opened to reveal a woman whose red tailored suit complemented her hair. Rory recognized her as the public relations director who’d been on TV in the days following the accident.

  “Mr. Campbell,” she said coolly. “May I help you?”

  He rose and tried to look professional. Anybody in PR would have seen “On The Spot” by now. “I asked to see Miss Grant.”

  “She’s not here. I came out because of the … ah … importance to the company? Won’t you come back to my office?”

  He felt like a double agent on enemy turf, but once past reception, he’d have a better chance of finding out if Mariah really was here and avoiding him.

  The farther they walked down the hallway, the more he wanted to turn around and leave. In one office, a bland man with thinning hair looked up from his desk. His jaw dropped in apparent recognition. Next door, Tom Barrett, whose son had died at Grant Plaza, was coming into the hall.

  “Campbell,” he said coldly. “What are you doing here?”

  From behind Rory, he heard another man say, “I was wondering that, myself.” Turning, he saw the fellow who’d apparently recognized him and gotten up to check him out, someone he was certain he’d never met. No doubt, he had “On The Spot” to thank for that.

  April led the way into her corner office and the two men followed. Everyone stood as if waiting for Rory to conjure a rabbit.

  “It’s pretty simple, really,” he said. “I came to see Mariah.”

  “She’s not here,” Tom replied.

  “So April tells me.”

  The public relations manager gave a tight smile. “Mr. Campbell told reception he wanted to see Mariah on a matter of grave importance to the company. I thought someone should see him.”

  A knowing look broke out on the bland guy’s face. “More like a matter of personal importance.”

  “Hold on, Arnold.” Tom turned to Rory. “You know I helped John found this company over twenty-five years ago. Suppose you tell me what you’ve got.”

  His soft words were persuasive, but it wasn’t even tempting. If Rory were going to blow the whistle on his own father and on the company he owed loyalty to …

  “I really need to talk with Mariah. It’s a follow-up to a discussion she had with my father in Pacific Grove over the weekend.”

  Tom raised a brow. “About property sales?”

  “Have you come to make an offer on something?” April pressed.

  Surrounded by people certain that he bore them ill will, he shook his head. If he told of his father’s treachery, they would think it some kind of Trojan horse trick.

  Without waiting for escort, he walked.

  Bayview Townhomes overlooked the west shore of San Francisco Bay. Though the smooth curve of the San Mateo Bridge arched gracefully nearby, the highway noise did not sound excessive to Mariah. Jets on the southeast approach to San Francisco International were still high enough not to disturb the peace. Waves lapped at the newly built bulkhead.

  Skirting a patch of mud, she dropped her laptop case, purse, and cell phone into the back seat of her sedan. There had been no good reason to visit the site this afternoon, but after watching “On The Spot” with Tom and April, she hadn’t been able to stay in the office. How could any of Grant’s senior managers ever take her seriously again? No one would be able to meet her without seeing her in a rumpled bathrobe.

  She wasn’t sure if the Bayview construction manager had seen the show, for he had maintained a dignified demeanor, answering her questions. The men were another story, jostling each other with elbows, grinning, and making commentary in Spanish too rapid for her to catch.

  When there had been nothing more to do outside, she’d spent time in the model unit writing memos on her laptop, putting off going home. In her purse, she carried the “On The Spot” episode on tape. To say she dreaded showing it to her father was too mild, even though he’d no doubt heard most of what she and Rory had said at the door yesterday morning. Even so, seeing his daughter dragged publicly through the muck would be tough. Especially with him recovering so slowly she wondered if he would ever be back to work full time.

  Mariah leaned against her car in the softening afternoon. The laborers had driven away in their pickups and panel trucks, their passage marked by a litter of taco wrappers tumbling toward the water. Her soft black dress, cut full and flared at the bottom riffled in the wind.

  A faint sound came from the construction entrance. It grew louder, and when she recognized the feral growl, her heartbeat accelerated. Squinting into the sun, she made out a black car speeding over the ruts toward her. It braked, nose down, and pulled up beside her.

  With a smooth purr, the passenger window slid down. Rory leaned across the console and looked at her through opaque sunglasses. “Get in.”

  At the tightness in his voice, she took a step back. “No.”

  He removed the glasses and revealed his eyes, dark pools of hurt. He rubbed his chin, speckled with the bluish note of five o’clock shadow.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  He cut the engine and got out. “When I was leaving Grant, your receptionist told someone on the phone where you were.” His cobalt silk tie snapped in the wind and hit him in the face.

  “What were you doing at Grant?”

  “Looking for you.” Rory loosened the knot, slid it hand over hand from around his neck, and slipped it into the pocket of his charcoal wool suit jacket. “We have to talk,” he went on, placing his hand palm up on the Porsche’s roof.

  She wrapped her arms around herself.

  With long strides, Rory came around the hood to her. “You’ve seen that inexcusable piece of TV trash?”

  “I’ve seen it. As far as I know, my father hasn’t. I get the pleasure of playing the tape for him this evening.”

  “Those bloodsucking leeches. Your dad doesn’t need any more trouble.” Rory captured her, his hands on the car roof on either side of her. His voice softened. “I’m sorry I got you into this. If the press weren’t always after me, you might have been left alone.”

  “It didn’t hurt that you were supposed to marry a senator’s daughter.”

  “I already told you the announcement wasn’t true.”

  Mariah brought up her arms and knocked Rory’s away. “If it wasn’t, you should have told the whole room it was a pack of lies the minute it happened.”

  “I tried to. Didn’t you see me waving and calling for order?”

  “Didn’t you see me leave?” She walked toward her car.

  “I was so livid at my father I was lucky to see anything.” Rory followed her acro
ss the broken ground. “For God’s sake, how can you stand there and keep telling me what’s going on with us is nothing?”

  He grabbed her arm and turned her to him.

  She gave him an icy look, and he removed his hand.

  “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon to tell you Thaddeus Walker is loaning DCI the money to buy Grant out.”

  Though she had suspected something of the sort, she was still shocked. “You came out here to tell me that?”

  “I went to Grant to tell you as soon as I heard. The line of credit is waiting for Father to make his move on John.”

  She studied Rory with dawning wonder.

  “Trust, Mariah.” He looked exasperated. “It’s time.”

  “I want to believe you,” she said slowly. She couldn’t think of how Davis might benefit from Rory bringing her this piece of news, so it didn’t sound like a trick. And as always, Rory looked and sounded completely sincere.

  “Then do believe me,” he said. “And believe Father was behind that fake engagement.”

  “I’m trying.” How she wanted to set aside everything that conspired to keep them apart.

  “Don’t try. Do it.”

  He took her by the arm again, his hand sliding warmly up beneath her sleeve. She felt the deep insistent pulse that had started the moment he took off his sunglasses. Too aware of him, she noted his long thighs inside pleated pants, the span of his shoulders.

  “Let’s go into the model home,” he suggested.

  The evening chill was coming down. Soon fog would begin to condense from clear air.

  Still uncertain, she led Rory across the rutted earth toward the new construction. A neat stone path crossed an emerald jewel of lawn, colorful flowers banked against brick walls. With her key, she let them into the sales unit where mingled smells of fresh carpet, wallpaper, and paint met them.

  Rory sniffed. “Some folks like the smell of new car. I think this is the best.” She followed as he wandered through the model, nodding. “Efficient square footage.” He looked up at high ceilings and skylights. “Good illusion of greater space.”

  The tour complete, he turned his elegant head toward a decorator display on the counter between the kitchen and living area. A vase of silk flowers sat beside a marble cutting board with a plastic wedge of Brie. Plucking out the only genuine item, a bottle of Napa red, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife with a small corkscrew.

  “Eagle Scout,” he said.

  Leaning against the counter, she watched him pull the cork with deft hands and pour wine into the glasses rounding out the tableau. He passed her one, sipped, and swished the liquid in his mouth. “Not bad.”

  She tasted and found it tart, with an undertone of dust. She considered what if, for the sake of argument, he had gone against his father this day. “What will Davis say if he hears about your coming to Grant Development?”

  “Not if. With his spies everywhere it’s a matter of when.” Raising his glass, he clinked it against hers. “Here’s to burning bridges.”

  Puzzled, she studied him. “I can’t drink a toast if I don’t understand it.”

  “I’ll make it clear.” He smiled. “I’m leaving DCI.”

  Joy surged and spread to the tips of her fingers and toes. She clinked her glass against his and swallowed wine that now tasted a lot better.

  Rory set his drink down, took hers and placed it beside his on the counter. Throwing back his head, he laughed.

  Mariah laughed, too, and loved it when he put his hands on both sides of her, pinning her against the counter. The urge to shove his jacket off and put her hands inside his shirt seized her. She’d feel the beating of his heart.

  Rory, too, seemed to sober and held her gaze with his. Ever so gently, he lowered his head until she raised her lips to meet his. He moved his hand to cradle the side of her neck, his thumb stroking the hollow at the base of her throat. With her pulse pounding beneath his touch, she gave up all thought of denying him.

  For no matter what happened to Grant Development, Rory was leaving DCI to be his own man.

  He’d only had a few swallows of wine, but Rory felt high. Buoyed by the decision he’d made to break with his father, he reveled in the touch and taste of Mariah. On this roller coaster ride, the lows were dark valleys, each new summit more spectacular than the last. With an exuberant flourish, he lifted her as if she were a feather and deposited her on the smooth granite counter. Her brows lifted, and her eyes went wide, but she laughed again, a clear peal that made him believe in magic. Somehow, despite Davis’s designs on Grant Development, everything would be all right.

  They could be together, the way they had been the last two Friday nights.

  He bent to kiss her, and she met him with the sweet strength that always surprised him in a woman so small. Drawing her closer, he sensed the breadth of his own chest against her compactness. Her pumps clattered to the tile floor, and her legs wrapped around him, bare feet pressed to the backs of his thighs.

  The sound of his name on her lips had him thinking, “This was a model home, right? There ought to be a bed here somewhere.” The way Mariah was holding on to him had him thinking she would find that an excellent idea.

  He pulled away, went to the door in the entry hall, and engaged the dead bolt. Swiftly, he closed the living room drapes and the kitchen shutters, holding his eyes on hers as he moved about. When he put a hand to the light switch, she shook her head.

  He wanted to see her, too, to slick that little number of a black dress off and throw it as far as he could.

  Mariah waited impatiently. When Rory returned to her, she spread her thighs to accommodate his body between them. It felt so right, with his fingers digging into her backside and sliding her forward on the counter. Her dress slid up high so that her cleft, clad in a scrap of crimson silk from the Carmel lingerie shop, cradled the swelling at the front of his trousers. He pulled her closer and pantomimed what they both needed, pressing his hips into her.

  “You have too many clothes on.” He skimmed her dress up over her head to reveal her undergarments. “Too damn many clothes.”

  With a slow smile, he released the front clasp of her lacy crimson brassiere. A tug at the straps, and it followed the dress to the floor.

  For a moment, she sat before him without moving, while his gaze traveled over her taut breasts, down her tummy to the triangle of silk, and back to her face. “That’s better,” he murmured.

  The heat reflected in his eyes leaped to her.

  She fumbled the buttons of his starched shirt open, shoving it and the jacket off his shoulders into a heap on the floor. He bent his head, his parted lips claiming her beaded rose nipple and tugging strings deep inside her. She wanted him, hot and tight in the most secret part of her.

  Rory knelt before her and slid both hands up her legs. Lifting her weight, she helped him strip her panties down and over her ankles.

  She sat naked before him and reached for his belt buckle. He pushed her hands away and knelt before her. Instinctively, she pulled her legs together, but he caught her knees. “Let me.” It wasn’t a question.

  Still, she hesitated.

  “You’re beautiful to me, there and everywhere,” he promised.

  How could she resist a man with mental telepathy on his résumé? With a sigh, she parted her thighs.

  When his breath stirred the golden tendrils, she appreciated the contrast between his dark head and her blondness. Her head fell back, and she braced herself as his fingers parted lips already slippery with moisture. Her hips bucked against him. With a soft chuckle of pleasure, he replaced his touch with the impossible heat and softness of his tongue.

  Shock waves shimmered through her, radiating from his mouth that must surely scorch her skin. Moments before she’d felt shy, but arousal made her shameless. Raising one of her hands, she ruffled his hair. He ignored her, still intent on laving her with his lips and tongue. Digging her f
ingers in, she tugged.

  He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. She could see in his what he must be finding in hers, a kind of glazed intensity. He moved then, getting up and pulling her tight against him. His bare chest pressed her breasts, and she loved the feel of their naked skin together. With eager hands, she unbuckled his belt and shoved his trousers over his hips.

  With Mariah spread before him like the most exquisite smorgasbord, Rory realized the bedroom was too far away. With her hair backlit from the kitchen, she wore a halo effect that definitely did not make him think of an angel. She was, rather, a siren who had cast her spell long ago and never released him. Tasting the tang of her on his lips, he brushed his mouth against hers and made a mix of her essence, sweet and slightly salty.

  How was it possible that this was so much better with her than with any other woman? The same mechanics, the same breathy exertion, but with Mariah he felt closeness and comfort. A sense of belonging that threatened all the barriers he had up against letting anyone into his heart.

  When she took his sex into her hand, he gasped and nearly lost himself. Perhaps she sensed it, for her fingers danced over him lightly, careful not to go too far.

  Yet, despite her care, pressure built in him like a wave streaming toward the shore. It rose steadily, until it towered and curled toward its crest.

  Mariah looked down and saw the length of him, more clearly now than in the subdued light on the patio at Big Sur, or in the moonlit bedroom at McMillan’s. Rory’s sex was beautiful, rising powerfully out a thicket of close black curls. In her hand, that flesh felt far hotter than the rest of him, as he fumbled for his wallet condom and rolled it on.

  Before she could finish the thought, he arced up between her thighs and filled her. A groan escaped him.