Calculated Risk (3 page)

“Eight-thirty.”

“If I leave now, go home and change, I
can stop and see Ward and get this matter straightened out before
the concert. Maybe even have a little Dutch-aunt talk with Bobby,”
Stevie added. “I’ll be polite but professional. That should burst
Bobby Ward’s amorous bubble.”

A grin split Gloria’s attractive
features. “Not afraid to beard the lion in his own den, are
you?”

“Lion is right,” Stevie retorted
sharply, “the man does roar.”

“And what does Papa Ward look like?
Came the curious inquiry.

Stevie found herself frowning in
memory. “Tall. A few inches on me. Snarly face, furious dark eyes,
nearly black hair, Roman features. Football build.” Her sudden
laugh was purely feminine.

“What?” Gloria demanded an
explanation.

Hazel eyes gleamed in awareness. “Even
after all the yelling and all the swearing, as I watched Quintin
Ward stalk out of the restaurant, I remember thinking: there’s a
man whose ass could sell a million pairs of jeans!”

Chapter 2

The sedan’s engine purred steadily in
neutral while Stephanie Brandt contemplated Quintin Ward’s stately
southern colonial home. “Charm and dignity.” The honeyed words
rolled off her tongue. “It’s a shame a little didn’t rub off on the
owner!”

The house’s massive columns and
pediment gable were dramatic examples of late eighteenth-century
architecture. Antebellum ghosts seemed to dance around the restored
plantation, courtesy of the colorful floodlights that cast the
giant magnolias, ginkgoes and cedars in shadow.

Through the windshield Stevie pensively
regarded the three cars parked ahead of hers on the curved drive.
Her hazel eyes stared at the luminous digital clock on the dash;
gingered lips puckered in a thoughtful moue. Could Quintin Ward be
entertaining dinner guests?

Her hand moved the gearshift from
neutral to drive, then suddenly jammed it into park. Stevie
snickered in disgust at her concern. Why should she worry about
etiquette? The vivid memory of her ruined dinner came into focus.
Quintin Ward had no respect for the social graces nor for food. No
doubt his guests would welcome an intrusion; the man’s idea of
gourmet was probably two all-beef patties on a sesame seed
bun!

Elegantly manicured fingers pulled the
keys from the ignition. Guests or not, Stevie knew it was vital to
get this entire situation straightened out immediately. Both her
professional and personal reputations were on the line. It was
imperative for the truth to exonerate her.

The Wards’, father and son,
needed to see everything in proper perspective and
proper
was the word for
this whole affair.
Affair!
She winced and opened the car door. That word had
no place in tonight’s vocabulary!

The frigid winter air further primed
the vibrant woman cocooned in fiery red fox. Stevie felt confident
and in control of all her faculties. No matter how Quintin Ward
acted, no matter how much the man growled and fumed, she would
remain as cool and unflappable as she did when she negotiated
recording contracts.

Of course, an impish smile curved her
lips; her choice of dress didn’t quite match her feelings. Beneath
the opulent fur, was a purely feminine creation - a metallic
embroidered cocktail dress that shimmered and flowed, with a
plunging neckline highlighted by a tulle ruffle. Stevie’s smile
broadened, her arms squeezing against her sides in a smug gesture.
Ruffles would reflect her mood once she was rid of the Wards! She
was going to enjoy the concert at the Opry, attend one of the many
parties she had always avoided and have the time of her life. She
deserved it.

Her anxious finger pressed
against the doorbell. When the chimes played the first four bars of
“Tara’s Theme” from
Gone With The
Wind,
Stevie’s calculated hauteur bubbled
into laughter.

“Welcome to our open house.” Quintin
Ward’s jubilant greeting and beaming smile slowly disappeared once
his dark gaze connected the arresting side tumble of gold-laced
auburn curls and attractive, winter-flushed features with a name –
Stephanie Brandt. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Tut, tut,
Master Ward
–“ a titian
brow lifted in sardonic condemnation “—where’s the chivalrous charm
that goes with the courtly southern trappings?”

“I’m from Rhode Island,” came his
clipped rejoinder.

“Then I guess your manners are
appropriate for a carpet bagger.” Her eyes glittered with an unholy
light. Stevie had noted Quintin Ward’s initial reaction of
masculine appreciation. She found herself indulging in a bold,
purely feminine appraisal of her own.

The foyer chandelier created a glowing
nimbus around dark-brown waves that framed strong, Roman features.
The brief smile she had witnessed bestowed appealing warmth that
softened the planes and angles of his weathered face.

Quintin’s broad-shouldered,
narrow-waisted, slim-hipped body, which had looked so disturbing in
denim work clothes was even sexier in the European-style tuxedo.
Stevie didn’t stop to evaluate the rush of adrenaline that made her
act the coquette rather than her normal sedate self. The toes of
her black evening sandals crossed the threshold; her hands lifted
to straighten his bow tie. “I came to talk about your
son.”

Brown eyes blinked into tawny irises
that were level with his own. “This … this is hardly convenient.”
For some inexplicable reason, Quintin found himself short of breath
and stammering.

“It was hardly convenient when you
interrupted my dinner.” Her palms flattened against the smooth
material of his lapels and gave a warning push. Glossed lips formed
each word with care. “Now it’s my turn to talk and your turn to
listen.”

He stared at the feminine hands on his
jacket; a muscle worked in his cheek; his voice was tight. “I’m
having a party. I have guests.”

The heels of her hand dug into his
chest. “I’m sure your guests will excuse you.” Stevie’s manner and
tone were unyielding.

“Look. I –“

“Shut up, Mr. Ward. You had your say;
now I get mine.” Her hands pushed again. “Make your apologies to
your guests and then you can make one to me.”

“Stevie!” An adolescent male voice
squeaked out her name in dual octaves. “I knew you’d come. I just
knew you’d accept my invitation.” Bobby Ward’s lanky evening-suited
frame sidled next to his father. “Dad, this is my boss, Stevie
Brandt.” An oversized grin stretched his lips. “Oh, wow. I can’t
believe it.” His childish face grew mottled with his excitement.
“This is wonderful!”

Her smile was feeble. For the life of
her, she couldn’t remember being invited to the Ward’s open house.
And even if she had, she certainly would never had made an
appearance.

“Rob, you never told me Miss Brandt was
to be our guest tonight.” Quintin’s congenial voice belied the
rough hands that aided Stevie out of her coat. “I don’t recall
getting your RSVP.” The question was expelled through even white
teeth.

Bobby shrugged the answer. “I’m
surprised Stevie even found the card I left under her calendar. Her
desk looks like the after effects from an A-bomb! It’s always piled
with demos, discs, tapes, folders, posters…” His brown gaze shifted
to his red-haired employer. The soft architecture of intricately
embroidered, layered, hush-hued chiffon flowed and defined her
womanly contours; the dress’s plunging neckline was saved from
total impropriety by layers of tulle. “Oh, wow, you look
gorgeous!”

A weak smile etched Stevie’s
lips. She watched Bobby turn five shades of red, his expression
much like the basset hound her uncle owned.
The kid really has it bad. Now, why couldn’t I inspire this
type of response from a male who uses a razor more than once a
month!

Mascaraed lashes shielded
her glance at Quintin. The intensity of his feelings was all too
visible on his face.
If looks could
kill.
Stevie shook off a chill that had
little to do with the winter temperature.

The melodic door chimes heralded more
arrivals. “Aren’t those wild?” Bobby grinned. “A friend of Dad’s
had those made to celebrate the renovation of Cedar
Hill.”

“Cedar Hill?”

“We’re not quite Belle Meade,” he said,
laughing. “Let me give you the grand tour.” Turning his back on his
father, Bobby hesitated for a moment before letting shaky fingers
slide along Stevie’s bare arm to grip her elbow.

Stevie gave a backward glance in
Quintin’s direction, took note of his scowling expression, and
decided she was damned either way. “Belle Meade once presided over
five thousand acres. How does Cedar Hill compare?” came her
pleasant inquiry while Bobby led her across the mammoth entrance
foyer with its black and white marble floor and open twisted
staircase.

“Back in 1850, this manor house was
queen to about a thousand meadowland acres. Five years ago, Dad
saved the place from a wrecking ball,” Bobby explained. “Vandals
and vagrants had set small fires; windows were glassless holes; the
roof had more birds’ nests than shingles. Dad liked the ten acres
of land; we both hated living in an apartment, so…”

“The rest, as they say, is history,”
Stevie supplied, viewing with approval the ornate powder room, with
its double marble sink and French toile wallpaper. “Who did all the
decorating?”

“Dad and I. We’ve been researching the
books at the historical society, hunting through antique stores,
looking for odds and ends, period pieces, good reproductions.”
Bobby pushed open the study door. “There’s quite a bit of history
in some of our furniture.”

There was no doubt in Stevie’s mind
that the den was Quintin Ward’s private domain: the room looked
like him. Massive, bold, solid. From the leather-topped desk to the
oversized furnishings to the beautiful collection of books, their
tooled bindings displayed to best advantage in the floor-to-ceiling
bookcases.

Carved doors led from the study to the
formal parlor with its arched windows defined by Doric columns.
Walls were a mellow gold accented with cream-painted woodwork;
chandelier wall sconces highlighted the polished wood floor,
Oriental carpets, and a comfortable mix of Georgian tables and
chairs combined with contemporary sofas and lamps.

“You’ve really done a remarkable job.”
Stevie meant the compliment. She followed Bobby into the large
gathering room that was obviously the center of family activity.
From the ornate fireplace, blue-gold-tipped flames crackled and
hissed a greeting, inviting the growing number of guests to warm
themselves. “Do you play?” Stevie nodded toward the baby grand
piano in the opposite corner.

“Dad and I are taking lessons,” Bobby
grumbled the reply. “I like to listen to music – not do those
endless scales.”

Stevie favored him with a maternal
smile. “I think you’ll appreciate music more when you learn how
it’s made. The most joyous sounds come from the emotions –“ her
hand patted his breast pocket “—and from the heart.”

“Do…do you play?” His eyes were rived
on the feminine hand that touched him.

“Yes. Piano, drums and guitar.” A low
chuckle escaped her. “My first crib was a blanket-lined bass case,”
Stevie informed Bobby. “My mother was a gospel singer and my father
a jazz trumpet player. We were quite the gypsies, going from one
gig to another. I’ve always been surrounded by music. I don’t know
anything else.”

“Your life is so…so…” he groped for the
right word “—awesome.”

Again Stevie found herself in the
uncomfortable position of being worshiped by puppy-dog eyes.
Clearing her throat, she made her tone clipped and professional.
“Bobby, you’re failing in your duties as a tour guide.” Her elbow
prompted him into motion.

The dining room shimmered under large,
ornate mirrors and a breathtaking chandelier that seemed an
infinite cascade of crystal icicles. The banquet-size table was
graced by a decorative ice sculpture and a bountiful array of
food.

“The kitchen is totally twentieth
century, right down to this scary new oven that I think might be
nuclear.” Bobby’s fingers ruffled through his dark, shaggily wavy
hair. “I’d show it to you, but the caterers have thrown me out
twice.” The toe of his black dress shoe made a path in the low nap
of the rug. He took a deep breath and grabbed her wrist. “Let’s go
up the back staircase.”

She coughed. “Huh … well …” Stevie
found that her matter-of-fact attitude had deserted her. “Shouldn’t
you … shouldn’t we go back to the living room? Your doorbell has
played the entire overture and I imagine your father could use your
help with the guests.” A hopeful smile accompanied her request as
she successfully disengaged her wrist.

“Dad’s fine. He loves to play host.”
Ignoring her stuttered protests, Bobby took Stevie’s hand and began
climbing the polished wooden steps. “The second floor lounge opens
for a spectacular view of the main gathering area. We had a
twenty-foot Christmas tree this year.”

Bobby was right, Stevie acknowledged a
few moments later. The view was breathtaking. Even with the lack of
artificial Yuletide glitter. The main floor’s family room was a
colorful palette, resplendent, courtesy of chandeliers, fireplace
and elegant furnishings.