Rivals (3 page)

As he drew closer, Flame was able to see clearly his face and the dark blue of his eyes. She decided it was the deep blue color that made the impact of his glance so much like a jolt of electricity. His features could have been hammered out of bronze, beaten smooth without taking anything away from the ruggedness of his cheeks or the hard break of his jaw. But there was something else there, too—some indefinable quality that stamped him as dangerous, a man who could smile and draw a throaty groan from every woman in the room.

With a faint start, she noticed that he was angling away from her. He wasn't coming over. She hadn't realized how much she'd anticipated meeting him until she felt the sudden sinking disappointment. She struggled to contain it, feeling foolish and a little conceited that she'd taken it for granted that Chance Stuart would seek her out. She realized that she'd read too much into the eye contact, fallen victim to the “across-a-crowded-room” syndrome. It would have been laughable if she didn't feel so let down.

But there wasn't time to dwell on it as she encountered a glare from Diedre Powell. Such looks were nothing new. Most wives regarded her as a threat to their marriages, especially older women like Diedre Powell with husbands who had a history of having affairs on the side.

And like most, Diedre had kept her marriage intact by smiling and looking the other way—until one day she'd seen her reflection in the mirror and fear had set in. Now her skin was pulled smooth, the chin tucked, the jowls gone, the eyelids lifted, her Chanel gown of blue silk crepe flowing over a figure that had regained much of its former trimness. And her hair was once again a lustrous brown—except for the shock of white that streaked away from her forehead.

The woman was living in her own private hell. Flame wondered if Malcom knew it—and if he did, did he understand? She doubted it. That hungry, possessive look in his eyes plainly stated that he wanted her, but she also knew that didn't mean he wanted a divorce. In his mind, there was no correlation between the two.

“There you are, Malcom.” Diedre glided over to them, a smile fixed brightly in place, the Powell sapphires glittering at her throat and ears. “Sid Rayburn was looking for you a minute ago—something about a meeting at the yacht club on Thursday?”

“Yes, I need to get together with him. Where is he?” With a lift of his head, he glanced beyond her to scan the room.

“When I saw him last, he was over by the dining room.” She waved a beringed hand in its direction.

As Malcom moved away, he briefly touched his wife's shoulder in passing. She turned to Flame, a faintly triumphant gleam in her eyes. “It's good to see you again, Flame. How have you been?”

“Busy…as usual,” she replied evenly, aware that they were both going through the motions of polite chatter, and playing their own separate games of pretend.

“So I've heard.” Just for an instant she showed her claws, then quickly sheathed them to smile pleasantly.

A few years ago, Diedre's attitude would have bothered her, but not anymore. Her skin had thickened. Wives invariably blamed her if their husbands started paying attention to her, with or without encouragement. She supposed it was easier to blame the so-called other woman than it was to admit that the fault belonged with the husband and his roving eye. It wasn't fair, but what was in this life?

From the Garden Room, a musical laugh broke above the chatter of voices. The sound drew Diedre Powell's glance. “I do believe that's Margo with Miss Colton. We've been missing each other all evening.” She started to walk by Flame, then paused and laid a hand on her arm, her fingers closing briefly in what passed for an affectionate squeeze, and smiled at Ellery. “You really should see that Flame doesn't work so hard.”

Then she was gone, leaving the cloying scent of Giorgio in her wake. “Such caring, such concern. Amazing, isn't it?” Ellery declared in mock admiration. “I do enjoy intimate little gatherings like these, don't you? As a matter of fact, I enjoy them so much that I think I need something stronger to drink than this wine. How about you?”

“I'm fine, really I am,” she insisted, and smiled as she lifted her glass to take another sip of the dry chardonnay.

“If you say so.” He shrugged and went off in search of the bar.

Her gaze followed the slim set of his shoulders halfway across the room, then wandered absently to the dimly lit Garden Room beyond the set of French doors. Chance Stuart stepped through the opening, his gaze making a leisurely sweep of the room in front of him. For an instant, everything inside her went still. As yet, he hadn't noticed her standing to his left and Flame took advantage of it to study the strong, rakish lines of his face and the ebony sheen of his hair, clipped close as if to curb its unruly tendencies. There was a sleekness about him—a raciness that convinced Flame he should be wearing a warning label advising the unwary that here was a man highly dangerous to the senses.

Still perusing the other guests, he reached inside his black evening jacket and took a gold cigarette case from the inner breast pocket. He flipped it open, then hesitated, his head turning slightly as his glance swung directly to her.

“Cigarette?” He held out the case to her.

“Thank you, but I don't smoke.” She accompanied the assertion with a slight shake of her head in refusal.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Do you object if I do?”

“Not at all.” With a brief movement of her hand, Flame indicated the crystal ashtray on the side table near her.

She watched his strong, tanned fingers as they removed a cigarette from the case and carried it to his lips, their line as masculine and well defined as the rest of him. A light flared, then disappeared behind his cupped hand as he bent his head, touching the cigarette to the flame. A thin trail of smoke curled upward. Flame followed it and again encountered the lazy regard of his blue eyes, all warm and glinting with male appreciation.

“I don't believe we've been introduced.” He wandered over, a hint of a smile now deepening the creases in his lean cheeks. “I'm Chance Stuart.”

“I know,” she admitted and smiled back, aware of the unexpected—and almost forgotten—sensation of heat coiling through her body. It had been a long time since any man had had that effect on her.

An eyebrow lifted. “Then you have the advantage on me.” His voice was pitched low, a hint of a drawl in its delivery.

“From what I've heard about you, Mr. Stuart, that seldom happens,” she said, softening the slightly pointed remark with a smile and adding, “I'm Flame Bennett.”

“Flame,” he said, as if testing the sound of it, his glance sliding to the fiery gold of her hair. “That's much more original than Red.”

“Perhaps, like you, Mr. Stuart, I'm an original.”

“I won't disagree with that. In fact, it's the first thing I noticed about you.” Chance had the distinct feeling that his every remark, his every look was being weighed by her. However receptive she appeared to be to him—and she was—her guard remained up, a guard apparently few men had ever penetrated. He thought back to Jacqui Van Cleeve's comment about Flame and Malcom Powell. Powell was a man who always got what he wanted, yet this woman had successfully resisted him.

“Really, that's the first thing you noticed about me?” A smile played at the corners of her mouth, drawing his attention to her lips, soft and full at the centers yet strong. “And what was the second?” There was a hint of challenge in her question.

“The second wasn't so much noticing as it was recognizing that I wanted to see more of you.”

Her knowing look simultaneously taunted and encouraged him as she laughed softly. “I do believe you're making a pass at me, Mr. Stuart.”

“No,” he denied, “I'm merely stating my intentions. And the name is Chance.”

He detected the faint break in her poise, a break that allowed him to see the pleased look that flared in her eyes, welcoming his interest before her long lashes veiled it. “Your reputation is obviously well earned. You do move fast, don't you…Chance?” She hesitated deliberately over the use of his given name, setting it apart and letting an added warmth invade her voice.

“Am I moving too fast for you?”

“That's a very leading question,” she replied, deftly parrying it without committing herself to anything, although a definite interest remained in her eyes.

“That's why I asked it.” He smiled, his eyes glinting with a wickedly mocking light.

“Will you be staying in San Francisco long?”

“Not this time. I have to fly out first thing in the morning.” Chance regretted that as he studied the tumble of red-gold hair that framed her face in a mass of rippling waves. On its own, the color was striking enough, but it was made more so by the ivory fairness of her complexion. He wondered if her skin would be as smooth to the touch as it looked. He let his glance stray to the lace top of her dress, ashimmer with black seed pearls sewn onto its scrolling pattern. Here and there the fine mesh revealed a discreet hint of flesh. “I like your dress.” Almost absently he trailed the tip of his finger down a long sleeve, feeling the heat from her body—and the sudden tension that claimed her. He lifted his glance to her eyes. They were alive to him, returning his look measure for measure. “I wonder what it is about black lace that stirs a man's blood?” he mused aloud.

“I should think you'd be able to answer that question more easily than I could since you are very definitely a man.”

“You noticed.”

She laughed softly. “Along with every other female in this room.”

“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter intruded. “You are Mr. Stuart, aren't you?”

“Yes.” He reached over and stubbed his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray.

“You have a call, sir. There's a telephone in the reception hall.” The man stepped back, still keeping his gaze downcast. “If you would follow me.”

Chance's gaze ran briefly to Flame. “You will excuse me.”

“Of course,” she said, with just a hint of regret in her smile.

With a nod, he signaled to the waiter to lead the way. As they set out, Chance tried to think who would be calling him—especially here. He hadn't left word where he could be reached when he'd left the hotel. But Sam could have tracked him down.

Sam Weber carried the title of senior vice-president in the Stuart Corporation, but his role was much larger than even the title implied. Sam Weber was his right arm, his detail man, his backup—just as he'd been when they'd served together in Nam, then later in college and finally in business. Chance made the deals and Sam pulled the loose ends together.

It had to be Sam calling him. But if it was Sam, then something had gone wrong.

The waiter halted short of the hall's square arch and gestured at the contemporary side table standing against the wall to the right of the room's entrance. “The telephone, sir.”

Chance immediately spotted the brown receiver lying on the table next to the telephone and nodded briefly to the waiter. Dodging the overhanging boughs of the bittersweet branches that sprouted from the celadon vase in the center of the room, he walked over and picked up the receiver. “Hello—”

Before he could identify himself, a voice on the other end of the line broke in. “It certainly took you long enough, Stuart.”

Chance stiffened, instantly recognizing that distinctive, raspy-edged voice that carried both the sound and the sting of whiskey, its tone as critical and malevolent as always. “How are you, Hattie?” he murmured tightly, feeling the old slow burn of anger and bitter resentment. He had stopped calling her
Aunt
Hattie nearly thirty years ago.

“Obviously still alive,” came the challenging retort. Without any effort, he had a mental picture of her standing before him, gnarled fingers clutching the gold head of her cane, black eyes gleaming with hatred, white hair curling about a face lined by years of embitterment. Not once could he remember Hattie smiling at him—or even looking at him with anything that passed for approval. “I'm at your hotel,” she announced. “I'll expect you here in precisely thirty minutes.”

The imperious demand was followed by a sharp click as the line went dead. For an instant, Chance remained motionless, frozen by the icy rage that swept through him. Then he quickly hit the telephone's disconnect switch, listened for the dial tone, and punched the numbers to Sam's private line.

The call was answered on the first ring. “Yeah, this is Sam. What have you got?”

“Sam, it's Chance.”

“Chance.” The surprise in his voice was obvious. “I was going to try to reach you as soon as I heard from—”

“Hattie just called me. She's here in San Francisco.”

“So that's where she went,” Sam murmured, the familiar loud squeak of his office chair coming over the line as he leaned back in it.

“What's going on out there?” Chance demanded.

“That's what I'm trying to find out,” Sam replied, then sighed heavily. “I know she had a meeting with old Ben Canon this morning. She was closeted in his law office for about two hours. When her driver came to pick her up and take her back to Morgan's Walk, he was told she'd taken a cab to the airport. We've been checking the passenger lists of every flight that went out of Tulsa today.” There was a slight pause. “I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore.”

“How did she know where I am?” Chance frowned, giving voice to the questions going around in his head. “And—why would she want to see me?”

“And what's her meeting with Canon got to do with this trip?” Sam added. “Chance, I don't like the sound of it. I'd like to believe that maybe she finally wants to make peace, but I can't buy it.”

“Neither can I.” A grimness settled through him. “It could be Canon found out that I own the holding company that just bought up the Turner land.”