by Janet Dailey
“Yes, everyone’s buzzing about the new movie you’ll be filming here this winter.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sondra saw someone come up to speak to George Greenbaum. She turned slightly and pretended to notice J. D. for the first time. “There’s J. D. Would you excuse me, John? I need to have a word with him.”
“Of course.” He took a step toward the terrace door.
“If my agency can be of any help with lodging or locations, you call.”
“Promise.” Smiling, John reached for the handle and Sondra turned away, blocking him from her mind and focusing solely on Lassiter.
At sixty, J.D. Lassiter was tall and trim. He had a yachtsman’s tan and a full head o dark hair, clipped close and neat with only a tracing of silver. As a young man, he had taken his family’s small pharmaceutical company and turned it into one of the largest in the industry. From tat, he had moved into insurance, them computers, publishing, communications, oil, real estate, until he had more than one hundred companies under the Lasco umbrella, including Olympic Pictures. His detractors called him relentless, ruthless, dictatorial, cunning, and egotistical; his admirers claimed he was honest, benevolent, philanthropic, and charming. Sondra suspected the truth was all of the above–depending on the situation and circumstance.
“J. D.” She walked directly to him and smoothly extended her hand, forcing him to take it. “I want to congratulate you on throwing such a marvelous party. The atmosphere, the food, the wine, the entertainment, the artful mix of people-it’s all perfect. Hardly anyone has left. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Coming from you, that’s high praise, Sondra,” he replied.
The patronizing tone of his voice set her teeth on edge, but she managed a throaty laugh. “Now you are the one who’s being too kind, J. D.”
“Nonsense.” But his smile said otherwise, although Sondra was careful not to notice that.
“By the way, I almost called you today, J. D.,” she said. “If I hadn’t known I’d see you tonight, I probably would have.”
“Oh?” An eyebrow lifted in only mild interest.
“Yes, my company has obtained an exclusive listing on an absolutely prime piece of property in downtown Aspen. An entire block, in fact. Naturally I immediately thought of you-“
He cut her off. “I’m not interested.”
She hadn’t expected that response-or the abruptness of it. But she was too skilled at her business to let it show. She simply smiled and shook her head as if amused by him. “You will be when you hear the location,” she said confidently.
“No, I won’t.” Both his voice and expression were indifferent.
She kept her smile and refused to accept his answer. “You don’t really mean that.”
“Don’t I?” he countered. “How many times have you contacted me about buying some commercial property since you sold me my home on Red Mountain, Sondra?”
“Several.” She matched him, cool stare for cool stare.
“And each time I told you I wasn’t interested. I should have thought by now you would have gotten the message.”
“But-”
He held up his hand. “Spare me the sales pitch, Sondra. Save it for someone else. Marvin Davis or Trump might be content to own a block of Aspen. I’m not. Only another Aspen would satisfy me.”
At that instant, Sondra realized she’d underestimated the size of his ego. “I’ll keep that in mind, J. D.,” she murmured.
“Do that,” he said and folded his hands behind his back, a gesture that struck her as being somewhat kingly-like the way he tipped his head to peer along his nose at the couples on the dance floor. “That’s Bannon dancing with the female lead in my new film, isn’t it?”
Sondra followed the direction of his gaze all the way to Bannon. Her glance touched briefly on his blond partner, then went back to rest on Bannon’s smiling face. She felt a sharp jolt of jealousy at the way he looked at the woman in his arms.
“Yes, that’s Bannon.”
“He seems quite taken with Kit.”
“They’ve been friends since childhood.” Sondra tried to dismiss his observation, only to remember the talk around town at the time of Bannon’s marriage to Diana-the kind of talk that suggested Bannon and Kit Masters had once been considerably more than friends.
“Yes, she’s originally from Aspen, isn’t she?” Lassiter nodded absently. “John’s been playing that up in the publicity he’s been doing for her.” His mouth twisted in a faint smirk. “John’s ego won’t let him romance a nobody.”
Sondra wondered if J. D. realized how much his talk sounded like mud throwing, and mud throwers never have clean hands. The waltz ended, the final notes fading into the steady hum of conversation. A few of the dancers acknowledged the band’s efforts with a show of applause while Bannon continued to hold Kit Masters for several beats after the music had stopped. Was he listening to something Kit was saying? Sondra couldn’t see. At last they parted and joined the other couples drifting off the dance floor.
Watching them, Sondra glared at the faint smile on his lips and the hand placed possessively on Kit’s back. She felt her teeth scrape together, her breath holding against an urge to scream.
No, it wasn’t going to happen again. She wasn’t going to lose him, not again.
She murmured some excuse to Lassiter and moved away, angling through the crowd to intercept them.
Scant seconds after Bannon had escorted Kit back to her friends, Sondra walked up, a mask of serene composure firmly fixed in place. Bannon nodded to her, but his hand remained on Kit’s back-a fact that didn’t escape Sondra’s attention.
“You remember my sister-in-law, Sondra Hudson, don’t you, Kit?”
“Of course, we’ve met before. Hello again, Miss Hudson.” Her voice held a guarded warmth and there was more than a trace of reserve in her eyes and her smile.
“Sondra, please,” Sondra insisted,, her mouth curving in a polite smile.
“Sondra,” Kit replied in acknowledgment, then proceeded to introduce her clutch of Hollywood friends whose names Sondra didn’t even attempt to remember.
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” she murmured, then turned to Bannon. “Where’s Old Tom?”
Bannon’s head came up as he threw a look around. “I don’t know.”
“I think I saw him head for the bar,” the red-haired actress volunteered.
“Maybe we should see,” Sondra suggested. “It’s getting late.”
“Of course.” Bannon nodded once, then glanced at Kit Masters. Sondra was quick to note the change in his expression, a warmth gentling all the hard angles of his rough-cut features. “I enjoyed our dance.”
“So did I,” Kit, said as Sondra watched their interchange, conscious of the odd closeness that sprang between them, discernible in the private smiles and private words, their meanings wrapped up in an old memory only they shared. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Like I said-” Bannon’s mouth slanted in a warm and lazy line. “Old habits die hard.”
Her response was a soft, almost soundless laugh as Bannon moved to Sondra’s side. “See you Monday.”
“Right.” He turned Sondra toward the bar. She stiffened at the unbearably casual touch of his hand on her back, drawing his glance. Bannon caught the brief tightening of her lips and the very faint line of dissatisfaction between her brows.
“Is something wrong, Sondra?”
“No.” Her denial was quick, instant, like the glance she threw him, but not so quick that he missed seeing the flash in her eyes that was a bit of anger, a bit of desperation. “My talk with Lassiter didn’t go well, that’s all.”
When she failed to elaborate, Bannon didn’t delve further. The specifics were her business, not his. He dropped the subject and let his mind drift back to Kit.
CHAPTER NINE
Kit watched Bannon disappear into the crowd with Sondra. Somehow she hadn’t expected dancing with Bannon would evoke so many old memories, so many
old feelings. This ache of an old loss, yes-but not the rest.
“If that’s his sister-in-law”-Paula stood next to her, studying the black cut of Bannon’s shoulders over the rim of her wineglass-“where’s his wife?”
“He’s a widower.”
“A widower-what an old-fashioned word,” Paula said in amusement. “I haven’t heard it in years.”
“It suits Bannon.” The band swung into an up-tempo number and another set of dancers took to the floor, fingers snapping, shoulders dipping, and satin hips swaying to the faster rhythm. Kit thought she recognized Angie among them. Then the woman turned and it wasn’t her. “I wonder where Angie disappeared to,” she mused idly and scanned the faces around her.
“Angie Dickinson? Is she here?” Paula raised one eyebrow in surprise.
“No, Angie Richardson,” she corrected, then realized the name meant nothing to Paula. “We were best friends. I ran into her before we sat down to dinner. We were supposed to get together afterward and set a date to have lunch, but I haven’t seen her. I hope she hasn’t left already.”
A pair of hands brushed the points of her shoulders, then glided firmly down her arms to the tops of her gloves. Kit, caught the scent of John’s cologne an instant before he bent his head and nipped lightly at the ridge of her shoulder.
“Were you looking for me?” he murmured.
With a turn of her head, she encountered the gleam in his eyes. “No.”
He frowned in reproach. “Wrong line. This is where you say ‘yes.’”
“It is?” She feigned confusion. “But what’s my motivation?”
“Maybe you missed me?”
“That would work, wouldn’t it?” She couldn’t honestly say she had missed him, but she was definitely glad he was back.
“Especially if you danced with me.”
Laughing, Kit turned the rest of the way around. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Did you now?” he murmured and swept her onto the dance floor.
They laughed and talked, danced and flirted their way through song after song, never leaving the floor until the band took a break. While John went to fetch a drink, Kit slipped off to the ladies’ lounge.
A socialite’s wife, weighted down with a suite of diamonds and rubies, sat in front of a lighted vanity mirror fussing with her hair, a monogrammed silver brush in her hand, when Kit walked in. The woman glanced at Kit, then ignored her, the same way she ignored the lounge attendant standing nearby. Kit smiled at her anyway, chose an empty stall, and went inside.
Seconds later the door to the lounge opened, admitting a rush of sounds from the outer hall and a voice Kit recognized at once as Angie’s. Hastily she smoothed the skirt of her gown over a hip and reached for the stall latch, a wide smile curving her lips.
“Don’t be naive, Trula,” Angie was saying. “Of course Kit is sleeping with John Travis. How else do you think she landed a leading role in his new movie?”
Kit went motionless, too stunned to move.
“Did she tell you that?” the other woman, obviously Trula, asked with an avidness that Kit found revolting.
“Oh, she denied it, of course,” Angie replied. “Which didn’t surprise me at all. Kit always acted so virtuous in school it was positively disgusting at times.”
There was more, but Kit shut it out as she struggled to understand why it hurt so much. Worse things had been said or insinuated in Hollywood. But she’d expected that kind of spiteful and malicious talk in Hollywood, where egos abounded and jealous claws were unsheathed on anyone who climbed a little higher. She’d always laughed off such snide remarks. But she couldn’t laugh this time. This time it wasn’t amusing. This time it was Angie, someone she’d always thought of as her best friend, who was accusing her of sleeping her way to stardom. This time it hurt. She felt betrayed.
She heard the tap-tapping of heels on the marble tiles, the click of stall doors latching, and the rustle of clothing. Intervening stall partitions gave Angie’s voice a hollow sound.
“Damn, I just ran my stockings.”
Kit took advantage of the moment to slip out unnoticed. John was waiting for her with a glass of wine when she returned to the ballroom.
“Thanks.” She took a sip and found it tasteless. She lowered the glass, her fingers tightening around it. She felt suddenly restless, impatient, irritated with everything-the wine, the music, the people, the party.
“Something wrong?” John tipped his head at an inquiring angle, his glance probing.
She gave a vague shake of her head. “It just seems noisy and loud in here.”
“Doesn’t it though?” Paula murmured and pressed a hand to her temple. “It’s given me a pounding headache.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“Please.” Paula spoke up before Kit could respond.
“Do you mind?” Kit glanced at John.
“Not at all. I’ve had my fill of the party scene, too.”
“What about your old school chum, Kit?” Paula remembered. “The one you wanted to have lunch with?”
“I guess I must have lost her somewhere,” Kit said and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did.
CHAPTER TEN
Morning sunlight streamed through the church’s stained glass windows, giving the reds, greens, and blues of the colored glass rich, jewel-bright hues.
Minute particles of dust glistened in the shafts of light that spilled across the outer aisles and invaded the space between the polished oak pews.
Old Tom Bannon sat in the last row, close to the doors along with the other ushers for the morning service. Bannon sat near the front next to Sondra, his glance drifting over the small congregation. From the pulpit, the minister read the selected verses from the New Testament, then issued a call to prayer.
Bannon automatically bowed his head and listened to the somnolent drone of the minister’s voice, his attention wandering as it had all morning. Around him there was a murmur of voices echoing an “Amen” and he lifted his head, his gaze shooting to the dozen members that comprised the children’s choir as the organist began to play. He scanned their solemn and earnest faces until he saw Laura’s, her dark eyes intent on the director.
Sondra touched his arm, momentarily distracting him and reminding him of her presence at his side. Then he focused again on his daughter and observed the faint, barely perceptible bob of her chin as she counted off the beats in the organ prelude. Bannon found himself mentally counting with her, his feet pressed hard against the floor, a fine tension lacing through him.
He saw the decisive nod she gave as her lips parted on the first word and a chorus of young voices lifted in song, filling the sanctuary with the hymn “This Is My Father’s World.” Bannon quickly picked out the pure, clear tones of Laura’s voice from the others. She had a small solo in the second verse and he waited for it, knowing how anxious she’d been about it and trying to remember the words himself. The moment came and her voice rang out strong and sure.
“This is my Father’s world,” she sang. “He shines in all that’s fair. In rustling grass I hear Him pass. He speaks to me everywhere.”
The other voices joined hers for the final verse and Bannon released the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. She hadn’t faltered over a single note or phrase. Smiling faintly, he unclenched his hands and ran damp palms over his trouser legs.
When the song ended, Sondra turned to him, smiling as she leaned close to whisper, “She was perfect.”
Bannon nodded and thought of Diana…of how pleased and proud she would have been of their daughter this morning. Suddenly he felt old and tired as if he’d been beaten in a fight. He knew the feeling and it left him vaguely depressed.
After the service was over, he followed Sondra up the aisle and reclaimed his hat from the rack by the door, then stood in the short line to shake hands with the minister. Outside the church there was the usual dawdling of parishioners and the noisy chatter of children releas
ed from forced silence. With a hand at Sondra’s elbow, Bannon descended the steps.
“Morning, Ed.” He nodded to the balding, ruddy-cheeked physician chatting with a local broker, Frank Scott, near the base of the steps.
“Morning, Bannon,” he responded with typical cheeriness, “Gorgeous weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Bannon gave a glance at the high blue sky overhead, and the lone marshmallow cloud drifting across it. “Better enjoy it while we can. It won’t last much longer.”
“I’m headed straight for the links to play a few rounds,” he replied, then turned to the broker as Bannon continued past him. “Give Martin a call and we’ll make it a foursome.”
Halfway to the parking lot, Bannon moved to the outer edge of the sidewalk and paused. “We’d better wait for Laura,” he said to Sondra. “It shouldn’t take her long to
change out of her choir robe.”
Sondra smiled an acknowledgment and stood close him, nodding to those who passed by them, well aware that the sight of her with Bannon didn’t draw a second look. She and Bannon had been coupled in the minds of these people for too long. In fact, now they’d be quicker to notice if they weren’t together.
The thump of a cane signaled the approach of the white-haired and ramrod-straight Hetta Carstairs, who never ventured out of her Victorian home on the West End without her gloves and pillbox hat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carstairs.” Bannon touched his hat to the widow of the late Pitkin County judge, Arthur Carstairs.
She recognized him and stopped, leaning briefly on her cane. “Mr. Bannon. Miss Hudson.” She acknowledged both, then focused on Bannon. “May I compliment you on your daughter, Mr. Bannon. She has a very sweet voice.”
“Thank you-” he began, only to be brusquely cut off.
“Obviously she gets it from your mother. She had a lovely voice, too, but yours-yours always reminded me of a beagle Arthur once had. I was quite relieved when you dropped out of the choir as a lad.”
“So was I, Mrs. Carstairs,” he assured her with a barely concealed smile. Her thin lips twitched with amusement before she nodded to him and moved on, her cane thumping the sidewalk with every other step. “Speaks her mind, doesn’t she?” Bannon murmured to Sondra.