by Janet Dailey
“Cowboying is a lousy job,” Old Tom announced, breaking the silence. “Low pay for long hours of dirty, backbreaking work. There’s nothing glamorous or romantic about it.”
“The same can be said for ranching,” Bannon said with a smile.
“Don’t I know it.” Old Tom snorted a laugh. “Been at this business better than sixty years and about all I got to show for it are bones that creak louder than this saddle. Hell, we’re still just one step ahead of the bank.”
“True.” A faint smile lightened the assured and rather hard cast of his features.
“But it don’t matter what you say against it. This is the way man was meant to live-close to the earth where you can watch the seasons change and feel the cycle of life.” The roan horse splashed through a small stream, its clear waters muddied by the cattle’s cloven hooves stirring up its bottom. “Out here, there’s none of them newfangled computers or the stink of towns, no walls hemming you in. There’s just weather, water, grass, and cattle-and man standing against the things the mountains put against a lone man. That’s what stiffens his backbone and makes him view the world differently than other men.
“Could be.”
“Could be? Hell, it is.”
“Right.” Again the smile showed.
Taught by the land to be watchful and aware of his surroundings, Bannon let his glance make a sweeping arc, pausing for a moment on the mountains to the north. Winter crouched somewhere beyond it. One day or one night, it would swirl in and turn the land white, shriveling every living thing exposed to it. He knew this land, and the feeling of being in it expanded his chest and sharpened his pleasure in the moment.
It was a country of extremes, of deep silences and howling winds, of incredibly lush greenness and high suns rent by boiling thunderheads unleashing jagged bolts of lightning to walk the rims and canyons amidst torrents of rain, of the drowsy crystalline peace of a winter dawn and the ominous roar of an avalanche somewhere high up. This was the Rockies, raw and primitive, beyond taming. It scoured the softness out of a man and put an expression in his eyes that never faded. And a claim on his heart that never lost its power.
The limo rolled to a quiet stop in front of a sprawling, multilevel house located in the exclusive, gate-guarded community of Starwood, Aspen’s renowned luxury subdivision. Spread across the shoulder of a mountain overlooking the town, the contemporary structure was all wood and stone and soaring glass, strewn with sun decks, terraces, and balconies.
“Here we are.” John Travis helped Kit out of the rear passenger seat. She paused beside him to stare at the house, her eye drawn by the striking counterpoint its geometric lines made to the natural beauty of the mountain rising behind it. He gestured at the house, presenting it to her with a lift of his hand. “‘Be it ever so humble.’”
“‘Not humble, John T.,” Kit declared, her eyes alight with humor. “This house wouldn’t know how to be humble.”
“You could be right.” The cleft in his chin deepened with his answering smile.
“I know I am.” She turned back to the house. The land around it had a wild, natural look, the evergreens and shrubbery growing free, showing no traces of a gardener’s shears-the sure sign of an expert’s touch.
“Look at this view.” Paula stood on the other side of the limo, facing the view the house commanded of the Roaring Fork Valley, the town of Aspen, and the Elk Mountain range. “You should be shooting your movie now, Chip,” she said to the man beside her. “Think what an opening shot it would make with all this spectacular color.”
“It wouldn’t work.” he said, not even trying to temper the curtness of his rejection. “White Lies needs the winter setting, Aspen blanketed in snow. I already know the opening shot I want.” He held his hands, framing the shot for his mind’s eye. “We’ll be at the top of the ski run on that mountain overlooking Aspen. The focus will be on three gorgeous women, snow bunnies in tight, bright, spandex ski suits, their backs to the camera. We’ll pull back a little.” His voice had an intense pitch. “Then Eden will whoosh in from off camera, goggles covering her eyes, her blond hair loose and flying. Down the slope she’ll go, the camera following her all the way to the bottom, where she’ll spray to a stop and rip off her goggles. McCord’s waiting for her.” Chip paused, lowering his hands. “And there will be Aspen, all iced and glamorous,” he ended softly in utter satisfaction.
“Yes,” Kit nodded. “It’s perfect, Chip. I love it.”
He whirled to face her, his eyes round with sudden alum. “I never asked-can you ski, Kit?”
She was tempted to tease him and say that she couldn’t but Chip Freeman didn’t have the greatest sense of humor; in fact, it was almost nonexistent.
“It’s been a few years since I spent much time on the slopes, but-yes, I can ski,” she told him. “Although I’m better at cross-country than downhill.”
“I planned on using a stunt double for the major portion of the run.” Chip walked around the back of the car. “But I wanted you skiing into frame. The camera to see your face. If I have to splice something in the editing room, it would ruin the whole shot.” Stopping beside her, he cocked his head to one side, the thick lenses in his glasses giving him an owlish look. “When you went in for your fittings last week, did Sofie show you her sketch for your ski outfit?”
“Yes.” Sofie DeWitt was the costume designer for the film, a woman on her way to becoming a Hollywood legend.
“Forget what she showed you. I threw it out. The colors were all wrong.” Chip took her by the arm and propelled her toward the series of steps leading to the front door. “I don’t want Eden in blacks and yellows or those fake lizard-skin looks. She’s too classy for that. But the outfit needs to be bright enough for her to stand out from the other skiers when she’s going down the slope, yet unique. I see her in jewel tones. Sofie and I talked about using a rich shade of amethyst for the ski pants and a deep royal blue for the jacket…with a little iridescence in it to give a hint of purple.”
“Sounds gorgeous.” Kit stopped by the front door of hammered bronze, inset with swirled, opaque glass.
Maury halted at the top of the steps, laboring to get his breath. “That was some climb.” He mopped the perspiration from his forehead, careful not to dislodge his toupee. “I’m out of shape.”
“It’s the altitude,” Kit explained. “Aspen sits over eight thousand feet above sea level. Up here, it’s probably closer to nine.”
“They should pass out oxygen tanks,” Maury puffed.
“You can say that again,” Paula murmured.
Maury weakly shook his head. “I don’t have the breath.”
John made his way up to the front door and opened it. “Come on. You can collapse inside.”
“Thank God,” Paula muttered and followed Kit into the house. Four steps inside the dramatic entryway, she stopped and grabbed Kit’s arm. “This is no mansion,” she said in an undertone. “It’s a snow palace.”
“And snow is the operative word,” Kit agreed.
The entryway was all in shades of white: the glazed walls, the marble floor, and the staircase. The enormous chandelier suspended from the ceiling resembled a modern ice sculpture done in gleaming silver and crystal. Its brilliance bleached the whiteness even more, dazzling the eyes.
More white shone from the room beyond the double doors to her left. Curious, Kit walked over and descended the two steps into a spacious, cathedral-ceiling living room. This time the white of the walls and furniture was broken by the rich brown of oak flooring and the green of potted ficus trees. She barely glanced at the sunken conversation pit in the corner or its fireplace of white stone. The whole of her attention was caught by the sweep of glass and the mountain vista beyond it, the absence of color making the view the focal point of the room.
“It must be stunning in the winter when the mountains are white with snow.” Kit turned, expecting to find Paula and discovering John beside her instead.
“It is, especially at n
ight with the lights of Aspen glittering like clusters of ground stars.” Reaching up, he let his fingers toy lightly with the ends of her hair. “Of course, it’s a view best seen from the balcony off the master suite.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “I think you’d like it.”
“I’d probably love it,” she agreed easily.
“I meant the master suite.”
“So did I,” Kit admitted. This close to him, it was easy to remember the heat of his kisses and all the heady feelings they evoked.
“Then what’s stopping you?” He moved closer, his low voice all bourbon warm and lazy, the sound of it making it even easier to imagine making love with him.
“The scars from old burns.” She’d loved before-deeply. But that love had been rejected. She’d never forgotten the pain of that. Since then, she’d learned to be cautious where her emotions were concerned, which didn’t come naturally to her. “Besides, John T.,” Kit said, keeping it light, “you’re not exactly known for your constancy with women.”
“True.” His gaze traveled over her face, its look thoughtful and unexpectedly serious. “But I have a feeling it will be different with you. Very different.”
Kit laughed and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek. “It’s about time.”
Before he could follow up on that kiss, Maury walked down the steps into the living room, the others drifting along behind him. “This is some layout you’ve got here, Travis.” Maury took note of the full bar along one wall and ignored the flicker of irritation in John’s expression. “You got a pool?” He padded over to the glass doors leading onto a wood-decked balcony.
John lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke, his gaze following Kit as she wandered over to idly inspect a celadon vase. “An indoor-outdoor pool, sauna, hot tub, exercise room, a climate-controlled wine cellar, a billiard room, private studio office-all the amenities.”
“What? No bowling alley?” Maury joked.
“No.” John swung toward Chip. “The media room is equipped with a projector and screen. We’ll be able to view the dailies there.”
“Great.” His face lit up at the news.
“Forget the amenities. The house is still beautiful.” Yvonne Davis paused in the center of the room, running an admiring glance over the elegant furnishings. “You must love coming here, John.”
“Actually, I’m hardly ever here. In fact, I’d planned to sell it.”
“Why?” Kit frowned.
He glanced at her. “I bought it five years ago for a million and a half. In today’s market, it will sell for four and a half to five million.”
Maury whistled. “That’s what I call a tidy profit.”
“Yes, it is.” John blew out a stream of cigarette smoke.
“I suppose you’re going to rent the place to your production company for the filming and rake in a few more bucks.” Maury guessed.
“When you film on location, there are always lodging costs,” was his answer.
“But the accommodations aren’t always so plush.” Maury grinned. “Are you gonna rent something like this for Kit?”
John ground his cigarette out in disgust. Didn’t the fool know that if he wanted special perks for his client, he should have made them part of the contract?
“It isn’t necessary, Maury,” Kit inserted. “I’ll stay at the ranch.”
John shot her a look, discovering he didn’t like that idea at all.
“We’ll see,” he said, tabling the subject as Nolan Walker and Abe Zeigler came striding across the marbled entryway to the living room. Both men wore sweat suits; Nolan’s was, naturally, a Bill Blass design, and Abe’s was the sloppy YMCA variety intended for real workouts.
“We thought we heard voices.” Nolan ran lightly down the two steps, looking trim, tanned, and remarkably fit.
Abe plodded down behind him, looking anything but. “Did you guys just get here? How was the flight?” He stuck out his meaty hand to Chip.
“Don’t ask him,” Paula inserted. “Chip had his eyes shut the whole time.”
Chip ignored her. “Where have you two been? I thought you were going to meet us at the airport.”
“We’ve been down in the gym working off some frustration,” Nolan replied. “It seemed more productive than hanging around the airport waiting for your plane to land.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Yvonne Davis broke in. “But could I persuade you to point me in the direction of my room, John? Or better yet, considering the size of this place, draw me a map? I still have a few last-minute things I need to get done.”
“While you’re at it, direct me to mine.” Paula ran a hand through her red hair. “I need to freshen up.”
“Rooms,” Abe groaned. “Did you have to mention rooms?”
“Carla will show you to your rooms.” With a nod of his head, John directed them to the woman standing quietly in the doorway, the black of her maid’s uniform doing absolutely nothing to disguise her chunky figure.
“Why? What’s the problem with the rooms?” Chip asked, following up on Abe’s remark.
“Not the rooms here,” Nolan explained. “Abe’s pulling his hair out over the lodging for the filming.”
“Yeah, it looks like we’ll have to put the crew up in Basalt or Glenwood Springs…if we’re lucky,” Abe grumbled. “I hope you know what that means in additional transportation costs and travel time.”
“You can’t put them up in Aspen?” Chip frowned in disbelief.
“Not unless you want to play musical motel rooms. And believe me, you’d have one damned unhappy crew if they had to keep changing rooms every four or five days.”
“This conversation sounds like the beginnings of a pre-production meeting to me,” Kit said, smiling as she moved past John. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it and catch up with Carla.”
John wanted to call her back. Or better yet, go after her. He did neither. Instead he watched her run lightly up the white staircase after the others.
He lit another cigarette and dragged deep on the smoke, irritated to discover how easily she distracted him. He didn’t need that. He had enough problems, enough pressure in his life right now. White Lies had to be a success. He needed it if he hoped to stay on top. After a string of mega-hits, his last two films had been flops. True, they had made money. But not nearly enough by Hollywood standards, where any film that fails to gross over one hundred million is considered a flop.
If White Lies didn’t roll up those kind of numbers at the box office, he’d lose what power his name still had-and he’d lose control over his films. He’d be back in the fray, fighting for roles.
Christ, he might even find himself back in the grind of a television series, like Burt Reynolds.
Grim-lipped, he flicked the ash from his cigarette and listened to the voices of Chip, Nolan, and Abe in the background, the sound of them reminding him of the less-than-subtle pressure he’d been getting from Lassiter on every aspect of this film from casting to his choice of director, from script revisions to the decision to shoot it entirely on location.
Behind him, John heard Chip arguing with Abe. “No, I am not doing the interiors in the soundstage. White Lies needs to be filmed entirely on location. All of it,” he insisted angrily. “You can fake the look and feel of some places, but not Aspen.”
“Okay, Chip.” Nolan, ever the diplomat, stepped in. “Cool down. You’ve made your point.”
John turned back to finally join the discussion, forcing Kit out of his mind-for the time being.
CHAPTER FOUR
The guest bedroom, like the rest of the house, was decorated stunningly in shades of white with a few vivid
slashes of blue accent. Kit decided it was gorgeous, but nothing she would ever choose for her own home. It was too modern, without color or emotion.
Entering the room, she set her purse on a free-form glass table, discarded her gold coat on an ivory mohair chair, shrugged out of her coral jacket and gave it a toss onto the bed’s plump duvet of
white velvet, then crossed to the glass doors leading onto a private terrace and a spectacular view of the green and gold mountains beyond. For a moment she simply gazed at the craggy sea of peaks capped with snow, then pulled open the doors and breathed in the sharp mountain air. It was good to be back in Aspen for more than just two or three days-even if it meant facing Bannon again.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” The maid waited in the doorway.
Turning, Kit smiled at her. “Nothing I can think of. Thanks, Carla.”
With a nod, the woman left. Kit glanced at the suitcases lined up in a neat row on the cream white rug. She knew she should unpack but-first things first. Unconsciously she squared her shoulders and walked over to the telephone on her the bedside table. She picked up the receiver and dialed from memory, then listened to the ringing on the other end while she ran a finger along the filmy edge of the white voile bed hangings, idly exploring their silken texture.
“Hello,” a woman answered, somehow managing to make herself heard above the rock music blaring in the background.
“Hello, Maggie. It’s me-Kit.”
“Who? Wait a minute. I can’t hear a thing,” Maggie Peters grumbled, then shouted at her teenaged daughter, “Nicole Marie, I told you to turn it down! I’m on the phone.” Hearing a muffled protest in the background, Kit smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed, stretching out the cord and kicking off her shoes, digging her toes into the rug’s soft, thick nap. “Turn it down or you won’t go anywhere for a month.” The threat worked as the volume went down to a sane level. “Thank you.” Maggie’s voice reeked with sarcasm, then held a weary sigh. “Sorry. I’m back now. Is, that you, Kit?”
“Yes. I’m in Aspen-”
“Then you made it safely. Good,” she said and went on without a break. “In case you didn’t guess, Nikki’s grounded and I’m paying for it. Lord, it’s such a relief to hear my own voice. I am so sick of those New Kids on the Block I could scream.”