Have a Little Faith (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Here’s your report on the Stanhope Project, Mr. Tanner.”

Lane Tanner grunted in what his secretary of four years knew to be an acknowledgement of her presence. Four years ago, she would have been offended at his disregard
,
but after all that time, Monica Smith knew it was
just
Lane’s way.

Pushing her thick, black framed glasses back up her nose, Monica studied her boss. He was wildly handsome, most would say. His face was lean and made up of razor sharp edges and high cheekbones. His aristocratic nose was slightly
bent
as a result of a brawl that probably happened during his childhood.

She couldn’t imagine her tidy employer engaging in a physical altercation when a look or word alone could cut a man at the knees.

His b
lack hair was beginning to curl at the tips and
lay disheveled over his brow; s
harp, green eyes a shade darker than emerald missed no detail. His mouth was possibly the most attractive part of his face and sat in the center of a strong jaw.

His lips were thin and looked firm and were reluctant to smile
,
but Monica had heard rumors that they were lips that knew what do and how to do it. 

Monica, knowing that a grunt was all she was going to get, laid the file down on Lane’s desk and slipped silently out of his office.

Thirty minutes later, Lane surfaced from his work induced coma and closed the file on Morgan Ranch.

His father had brought the Morgan file to him wi
th the hopes of converting the r
anch into
a
hotel or resort. Lane had every faith in Greg Tanner and his ideas
,
but after the past few hours, Lane had
shaped
another
possibility—
a
dude ranch.

He had worked out bids and projections and was ultimately pleased with the results. Of course, further research would need to be conducted before he even presented his father with his
proposal
.

The projected expense for the transition was pocket change to Tanner Enterprises compared to the income they would make on grand opening alone.

It was, Lane thought idly, a good investment. And the Morgan Ranch had currently been downsized and according to his reports, had yet to make a financial comeback. He would need to have a look at the
ir
books
—
a task only attainable if th
e Morgan’s were willing to sell—
but he would bet a year’s salary that their finances weren’t going to change anytime soon.
He would use that to his advantage, he decided, making notes in the folder.
When the intercom buzzed, he answered it absently.

“Mr. Tanner is on line one for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Monica.” He pressed line one.
“Father.”

“Lane, have you looked through the Morgan file I sent
over
this morning yet?” Greg Tanner’s voice vibrated through the speaker. Straight to business, Lane mused.

“Just closed it.
This could be big.”

“It will be big. I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Morgan. She’s agreed to talk terms. I want a man out there next week. She’s offered to accommodate with lodging until her lawyers have read the contracts and a decision is made.”

“It sounds like you have this in the bag.”
What he really meant was
‘why do you need me?’

“Your mother is ill, Lane. It’s not looking good. We’re going to be in San Francisco for a
time. She wants to visit her sisters there while she’s fit too.” Greg sighed. “I’m leaving this contract to you. I’m counting on you.”

Did he even think about inviting me to San Francisco?
Lane wondered dispassionately. No, he wouldn’t.

“Send Mother my love as well as Aunt Kate and Susanne. Leave the Morgan’s to me.”

“I’ll fax over the flight information to your office today. Tell whoever you’re sending it’ll take about a week, maybe two
to get projections and documents drawn up. A
nd I want them there until the contracts are signed and the checks are written.”

“I’ll go,” Lane decided. No way
was he
letting this get away.

“Well,
good
then. I know I can count on you, son. Take care.”

Lane ended the call and sat back in his chair. For years his father had always said those same words.
I know I can count on you
. And he had always been able to count on Lane. Everyone had.

From the time Lane was a young boy, he had strived to earn his father’s approval. Whether it was by
earning perfect grades through
out school or choosing to dive into the family business, nearly every aspect of Lane’s life was centered
on
his family.

And had he ever heard the words he had worked for for twenty-eight years now?
I’m proud of you, son.
No, he had not. Instead, he was acknowledged with rewards or criticized with lectures.

A good grade when he was a boy would mean a bump in his allowance. When Lane was sixteen, he was accepted into Harvard University and was rewarded with a brand new Lincoln. After graduating top of his class from Harvard, Lane received access to one of his trust funds.

Now, when he was successful with contracts or projections, he was rewarded with a grunt of
approval or a slap on the back.
Never
“
I’m proud of you, son.
”

Lane came to attention as his fax
machine hummed behind him. H
e retrieved his flight information and a copy of the
preliminary
contracts.
They would change of course, depending on how much the Morgan’s wanted to negotiate.
He read and reread the contract before slipping
it
into his briefcase and leaving the office.

After slipping
his
tall frame under the steering wheel of
his jag, he gunned the engine and pulled out onto the highway.

Where his family had preferred to be chauffeured, Lane had a need for speed and control. He purchased his newest toy before the ink on his divorce papers had dried and he had more affection for the vehicle than he did for his wife.

A humorless smile crossed his face as he punched the gas pedal. His wife had more affection for his bank account than she did for him. Not that he could blame Roxanne for that. She had never claimed to love him, or need him. Together they had decided their ambitions and goals meshed and they should tie together the Tanner and Whitcomb names.

His father had been pleased to have such a wealthy merger. That was his own definition of what Lane and Roxanne had. Lane could have disagreed
,
but it would have been pointless.

Two years into the marriage, Roxanne had altered from an affair with his bank account to an affair with
their pool
boy. Deciding his name and pride were too important to him, Lane had divorced Roxanne without a second thought. The divorce was polite, civilized
, and cold—
a
n exact
likeness
of their marriage.

Lane slippe
d the valet a bill and his keys.
He rode the elevator to the penthouse floor and strolled straight into his spacious three bedroom domain.

Full of rich, dark colors, Lane’s apa
rtment was kept neat and tidy,
j
ust as his life was.
Overstuffed
furniture showed his preference
for
comfort and style. His kitchen was the only part
of his apartment that was an illusion. One look at the spacious counter tops and stainless steel double ovens, one would assume the tenant enjoye
d cooking. Lane could hardly
heat
up
take out without causing some damage.

It was no matter when a gourmet meal was only a phone call away. With that in mind, Lane dialed the number for a five star restaurant down the block and ordered his usual. With a promise for delivery within half an hour, Lane strolled into his bedroom and flipped on his thirty-two inch plasma television for background noise while be packed his suitcases.

Oklahoma, he mused as he
began to pack.
It would
be warm, as it was now in L.A.
It would be humid. He knew virtually nothing of country living, but he decided absently to invest in a pair of boots anyway.

He had six days to draw up plans in case the Morgan’s would be interested in what they are selling their land for. Already, his sharp mind was overcrowded with ideas and hopes for the six-hundred acres. He had only to put them on paper.

When the buzzer dinged at the elevator doors, Lane allowed entrance, tipped the delivery boy, and took his meal
in
the kitchen.

He ate with little interest while his mind worked on possibilities and projections. This was his project now, he thought as he topped off his wine. He was going to bring this home and make it a success.