Children of Dynasty (25 page)

Davis rose and checked his watch. “Tee time in twenty minutes.” He and Kiki wandered into the house behind Sylvia.

As Wilson McMillan’s guests headed out to enjoy the day, Rory saw Lyle and Mariah near the stone rail. Despite the way last night had ended, he suppressed a twinge of jealousy.

The big man, dressed for golf, left her and stopped by Rory’s table. “Morning, Campbell.” He gave a co-conspirator’s smile. “Mariah said something about wanting to take the 17-Mile Drive.”

She stood with her back to Rory, looking out to sea. Though it had been only a few hours since he’d made love to her, her snug white shorts gave him ideas.

“I’d better go or I’ll miss my foursome.” Lyle left him and Mariah alone.

Rory went to her and clowned, “Good morning, miss, I understand you’re looking for a car and driver.”

The prospect of a day with Rory stretched before Mariah as an impossible luxury. The valet brought his Porsche, and they set out together.

At Point Joe, they watched the turbid mix of ocean currents. Bird Rock, a small island festooned with white guano, harbored thousands of sea lions, harbor seals, and cormorants competing for space. In the parking lot, a flock of gulls with two-inch beaks dogged Mariah and Rory’s heels for handouts.

Farther along, they drove through Crocker Grove, a forest of native pine and cypress. On a winding stretch overlooking the ocean, Mariah pointed out an “Open House” sign. Before she could suggest stopping, Rory pulled into the steep drive.

Down the forested brick lane, they found a secluded retreat. Unimposing from the front, the squat brick chalet had a slate roof and narrow windows. When a middle-aged woman in a red suit opened the front door, they found a different story. Two stories of glass made up the rear wall.

With a glance at Rory’s Porsche, the Realtor qualified them as potential buyers. “Welcome to your new weekend home, Mr. and Mrs… .”

“Campbell,” said Rory.

Mariah’s blood began to pound the way it had in the Italian grocery in Sausalito when he failed to deny they were married. In the house’s sunny dinette, she dared to imagine them breakfasting on flaky pastry and cold, tart juice. In the library, she saw them curled on the big sofa reading. On a cold day, they’d build a fire in the grand hearth and watch a veil of storm sweep in off the Pacific. She dared not speak her dreams, but didn’t Rory’s eyes also light when he pointed out features he liked?

Their tour complete, they left the house and drove to the famous lone cypress on a rugged point. Below the cliffs, the ocean churned a clear blue-green, alive with seals and otters fishing the kelp forest. Yet, as Mariah and Rory took in the scenery together, holding hands, a cloud came over the sun. Though she wanted to believe that this time everything would work out, she knew they were a long way from home free.

“Rory,” she said. “Before you talk to your father about us, there’s something you should know. Why he hates Dad, other than their business competition.”

“I think I’ve figured it out,” he said. “Father told me recently about a woman he once loved … in the same breath he warned me off you.”

“Davis wanted to marry my mother. She chose Dad.”

Rory eyes went wide. “I thought I was prepared to hear something like that, but God … At the reception last night he said you were the image of your mother …” He walked away to stand beside a stone wall at the lip of the sea cliff. “I suspected, but this is worse than I imagined.”

Mariah followed him. “If Catharine had lived, maybe she could have patched things up between them.”

Rory shook his head. “Who knows what would stop them? In the past few weeks, Father has stepped up his efforts. It’s as though something new has set him off.”

She thought. “Maybe it was over one of the tracts Grant outbid them on this spring.”

There had been a few of those, but it didn’t seem like enough provocation.

“Perhaps. If Father has his way, Grant Development will be wiped out.”

From the worried look on Rory’s face, she wondered if he were also thinking that their fathers’ mutual bitterness was the kind of mess where people ended up committing crimes of passion. She thought about bringing up her suspicions about Davis playing a role in the accident, but remembered how Rory had reacted when she’d mentioned it in the funeral home chapel the night of Charley’s viewing.

“I won’t let Grant be wiped out,” she settled for saying.

“I know you won’t,” Rory agreed. “If I can help it, I won’t either.”

She realized that this was the first time they had spoken of their fathers in a way that had them both on one side. Even though he still worked at DCI, she began to feel a tide had turned.

“Maybe we could bring them together,” she hoped. “They could forgive and forget.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid Father isn’t big on forgiveness. And as we’ve been discussing, he can hold a grudge for thirty years.”

Rory drew Mariah against him, and she felt his hands warm on her back. She pressed her head against his chest and heard his heartbeat. There had been no talk of love, and she wasn’t entirely sure about that aspect of it yet, but somehow she believed that together they could defy anything.

After lunch at Pebble Beach Club, and a few hours driving down Big Sur and back, they turned back toward Wilson McMillan’s. Because the sea fog began to come in, or perhaps because their idyll was ending, Mariah could see tension in Rory’s jaw as he drove.

They both seemed to have run out of talk, but she imagined he felt the same frustration at knowing they must part at the door to the castle. It made her wish they’d decided to say the devil with convention and appear together at dinner, instead of with Lyle and Sylvia.

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.

A
t 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.