Midas Touch

Midas

Touch

Frankie J.

Jones

2009

Copyright(c) 2002 by Frankie J. Jones

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper Originally published by

First Bella Books Edition 2002

2nd Printing 2009

Editor: Greg Herren

Cover Designer: Bonnie Liss (Phoenix Graphics) ISBN 1-931513-21-X

ISBN 13 978-1-931513-21-0

For Martha

My fishing partner

Traveling companion

My life

May the rainbows never end

I want to thank my partner, Martha Cabrera, for reading the manuscript more times than anyone should ever have to, and for her insight in helping me take my characters where they needed to go. She encouraged me to keep working when all I
wanted to do was toss the PC out the window.

Thanks to Peggy Herring for her first, second, and yes, even third reading of the manuscript. Peggy, I promise I will not put a single
scream
in my next manuscript.

Thanks to my new editor, Greg Herren. His patience and suggestions pushed me to try a little harder.

Thanks to Kelly Smith for continuing to work 27 hours a day (no that is not a typo) to insure Bella Books remains the first choice in lesbian literature.

About the Author

Frankie J. Jones is the author of
Rhythm Tide
,
Whispers in
the Wind
,
Captive Heart
, and
Room for Love
. She enjoys fishing, traveling, outdoor photography, and rummaging through flea markets in search of salt and pepper shakers.

Authors love to hear from their readers. You may contact Frankie through Bella Books at BellaBooks.com, or directly at [email protected]

The silver Jag roared off in a blur, leaving Sandra glowering after it. She envisioned the valets joy-riding around Dallas in her car. The unpleasant scenario ended abruptly as a sleek black Mercedes glided into the vacated space and disgorged four laughing women. They had barely stepped away from the vehicle before it, too, zoomed away with another smartly dressed valet at the wheel.

“Nobody gives a damn about anything anymore,” Sandra sighed, watching the car’s taillights disappear behind a long hedgerow.

Carol dug her nails into Sandra’s arm, cutting Sandra’s complaints short. “Don’t you dare make a scene. Your precious car is perfectly fine
.”

Sandra watched the four women make their way up the brightly-lit walkway.

Carol tugged at her arm. “Come on. I want to see what Lona Cromwell is wearing. I swear it would not surprise me to find her

stark naked. She thrives on shocking the world.”

Sandra took a deep breath and gazed at the Cromwell mansion. The three-story, red brick and Texas limestone, transitional Victorian, built by Lona’s great-grandfather in 1892, overlooked a spectacular view of the Reunion Tower and downtown Dallas. Three acres of lavish English gardens surrounded the house. Lona employed a staff of four full time gardeners to maintain the gardens. Architecturally, the house was beautiful, but to Sandra, something about it always felt cold and uninviting. She pulled her jacket tighter to ward off the sudden chill creeping over her.

“Stop tugging at your clothes,” Carol admonished, swat-ting Sandra’s hands away from her jacket. “You’re stretching the material all out of shape.” She eyed Sandra’s gown with disapproval as she rearranged the jacket. “I wish you would buy yourself some decent clothes. It’s not like you can’t afford to dress better.”

Sandra examined her ensemble. The pale green gown, with spaghetti straps, flowed gracefully from beneath the matching bolero jacket. Beadwork, in a small understated geometric design, embellished the bottom front of the dress and the left front of the jacket. She thought the three-inch heels, with cut-away sides, were especially stunning.

Carol thought differently. “Look at your hair.” She began to push Sandra’s short hair behind her ears. “I wish you would make an appointment with Andre. He would work wonders on you.”

Carol gathered the shoulders of Sandra’s jacket in her hands.

“You’ve lost weight. This jacket is too big on you.” She shook her head and released a long-suffering sigh. “You’ll never change.

You’re like a little girl playing dress up.”

Sandra shrugged the comments off. Carol was right. She would never truly fit in with Carol’s world. The designer gown did nothing for her. She was too busy to spend hours shopping or running to hairdressers.

Sandra Tate was a highly successful architect and one of the richest women in Dallas. Her wealth compensated for the fact

she was not necessarily pretty. She possessed a rather plain face.

Each passing year added more gray to her short, mousy-brown hair. People rarely dwelled on these flaws because Sandra Tate had the Midas Touch. Any project she was involved in was sure to prosper.

She owned Tate Enterprises, a multi-million dollar empire that included among its assets an architectural firm and a large construction company. One of her major accomplishments was the design of a new concept in shopping malls.

Geared to the needs of small towns, the malls blended aesthetically into the site location and reflected local history. She personally negotiated with a major grocery chain and a retail merchandise giant to place stores in each of these malls.

Sandra’s community influence and popularity grew in proportion to her wealth. Charity boards vied for her time, and an endorsement from her was a major triumph for any organization.

She was one of the most sought after individuals in Dallas. She hated every minute of it.

Another car arrived, snapping Sandra from her musing.

“Carol, why are we attending this party? You despise two-thirds of the women who will be here,” Sandra said.

“We’ve been through this a dozen times. Lona Cromwell’s party is
the
social event of the year. Anyone who is anyone will be here tonight,” Carol said. “Besides, we have to make an appearance. You have not attended anything with me in ages and people are starting to talk.” She stopped short and drew her lips into a defiant pout.

Sandra gazed down at her. Lona Cromwell’s yearly ex-travaganza of Who’s Who was the sort of event Carol lived for.

Tonight was important to her. Glancing down at her ensemble, Sandra felt a pang of guilt. For Carol’s sake, she should try harder to fit into the role expected of her.

Sandra looked at Carol, trying to see her as a stranger would.

Carol Grant was a beautiful woman. She religiously attended daily aerobic sessions to keep her forty-one-year-old body slim

and well-toned. Weekly tanning appointments kept Carol’s skin perfectly bronzed year round. Her luxurious blond hair, pulled into a French braid, showed no telltale signs of aging. Only a sprinkling of fine lines beginning to etch their way into the corners of her gray eyes hinted at her actual age. Unfortunately, Carol’s beauty was skin deep.

During the last few months, Sandra often found herself wondering why she had fallen in love with Carol eight years ago. Why had she not seen how petty and manipulative Carol could be? She pushed the thoughts away. It was not fair to blame everything on Carol.

From their first date, Sandra had conceded to Carol’s every whim. Recently, something changed within Sandra. She grew weary of the constant giving. She tried to determine what was different, but was unable to pinpoint the change. After all, Carol was the same as she had been since birth: a spoiled little girl accustomed to receiving everything she wanted.

Carol tugged at Sandra’s arm. Sandra pushed away her doubts and pasted on a smile. She had agreed to come tonight. She could at least be civilized and make the best of it.

“I’m sorry. I’m being intolerable,” Sandra apologized and took Carol’s arm. “I promise not to spoil your evening.”

Carol flashed her a lazy, seductive smile that brought back memories of the woman Sandra had fallen in love with. The moment should have reassured her, but now it merely signaled an end to their current argument.

They strolled up the broad limestone walkway and through one of the three grand arches gracing the front of the mansion.

A string quartet, unobtrusively tucked behind a screen laced with rare tropical flowers, performed a soothing melody that followed them as
they crossed a wide porch and entered the house.

Inside, a small army of staff greeted them and waited to take their jackets. Sandra stood by as Carol slipped out of her gorgeous black silk, sequined and beaded evening jacket. Beneath it, Carol wore an elegant black gown with a plunging v-shaped neckline.

A delicate over-the-shoulders y-shaped back strap held the gown up, leaving her well-toned back exposed. Her only jewelry was a small diamond pendant suspended on a thin gold chain.

A young woman from the staff stepped forward to help Sandra with her jacket, but Sandra opted to keep it. She was cold and the thought of nothing but the thin spaghetti straps left to warm her shoulders only served to make her colder. She could feel Carol’s disapproving frown, but ignored her.

The young woman who offered to help Sandra with her jacket escorted them up a long circular stairwell.

Sandra looked over the rail into the immense foyer below.

The black and white Italian marble floor reflected pinpoints of rainbow hues cast from the massive chandelier. Wood moldings, displaying the handiwork of a master carver, separated the cream-colored walls from the pristine white ceiling.

They climbed to the ballroom on the third floor, and here, Sandra again experienced the shock she felt every time she saw the modern changes. Lona had replaced the original satin wallpaper with custom-made black leather panels lining the high walls from floor-to-ceiling. Inserted at three feet intervals were floor to ceiling silver framed mirrors. The marble floor glistened like black onyx. Strobe lights placed discreetly around the room bounced off the floor and mirrors, filling the space with shimmering waves of light.

The only windows were those in the French doors leading to a magnificent balcony. Also leading from the room was the doorway where Sandra and Carol stood, and a third door opening into a long hallway. The latter door led to an enormous restroom better suited to a stadium than a private home. A long narrow kitchen, used by the catering staff, was located across from the restroom.

Numerous sitting areas were scattered around the room. Two long mahogany bars ran across either side. Dozens of tuxedoed waitstaff glided about the already crowded room offering trays laden with exotic drinks and food.