Rivals (7 page)

She kept talking as if the matter were settled. Couldn't she see how absolutely improbable it sounded? Flame tried to explain. “Hattie, I'm a city girl. I don't know the first thing about cows or ranching.”

“I am eighty-one years old. You surely don't believe that I chase cows at my age. I grant you, I can still climb on a horse and ride out to look things over, but I have a foreman who oversees everything—a ranch manager, if you will. Charlie Rainwater is a good man—as honest and loyal as the day is long. You leave him in charge and you won't have a thing to worry about. In time, you'll learn from him everything you need to know. Now.” She folded her hands together in a gesture that seemed to indicate it was time they moved on to more important matters. “How soon can you come to Morgan's Walk?”

That was the last question Flame expected to hear. “I don't know that I can. After all, I do have—”

“Forgive me,” Hattie interrupted. “I didn't mean that you should drop everything and fly out with me today. I know that you have certain responsibilities and commitments you have to honor. But surely you can arrange to have a long weekend off and come for a visit. It's selfish, I know, but I want the chance to show Morgan's Walk to you myself.”

Unwilling to commit herself, Flame said, “I'll have to check my schedule.”

“You'll come,” Hattie stated confidently. “You're a Morgan. And whether you want to admit it or not, your roots are buried deep in that land. It will pull you back.”

“Perhaps,” Flame conceded, although she personally wasn't certain she believed any of this.

With her mission complete, a few minutes later Hattie said her goodbyes and left for the airport. Flame offered to call her a cab, but Hattie said, no, she had a car and driver waiting outside for her.

Alone again, Flame returned to the living room. But the quiet of the morning was gone. In its place was a feeling of unreality—as if the last hour hadn't happened, that it had all been her imagination. Had it? No. The teapot was there on the tray next to the cup Hattie had drunk from. But that still didn't mean any of it was true. For all she knew, Hattie was just some crazy old woman. She probably didn't even own a ranch. No, it was all too farfetched.

Still…Flame looked around the room and felt a loneliness wash over her. It was all that talk about family. She hesitated, then walked over to the white lacquered bookcase and took down the family photo album. She hadn't looked at it in years, not since—She shook the memory aside and flipped the book open.

She smiled at the photo of a four-year-old-girl, a new Easter bonnet perched atop her carroty curls, too fascinated by the shiny black of her patent leather shoes to look at the camera. Those were simpler times, happier times. She kept turning pages, pausing now and again to gaze at a snapshot of her with her mother or her father or the rare few when all three of them were in the same photo. They were all there, past Christmases and birthdays, ski vacations in the Rockies or the Sierras, sailing trips along the coast, her first dance recital, her first communion, eighth-grade graduation, dances, proms, boyfriends. And in every picture, there were smiles and laughter.

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at the last photo. She was standing next to her father in front of a fiery red Trans-Am, a graduation present from her parents. It was jammed to the ceiling with her clothes and the thousand other things she was certain she would need at college. It hadn't mattered that she was only going across the bay to Berkeley. She had to take it all. Her father had his arm around her shoulders, laughing and hugging her close.

A tear rolled down her cheek. With the back of her hand, Flame scrubbed it away, sniffed back the runny wetness in her nose, then laughed softly, remembering the time when she'd been seven and taken a tumble on the slopes, banging her knee. She'd cried and her father had given her his handkerchief. She'd blown her nose, then asked him one of those impossible questions, “Daddy, why does my nose run every time I cry?”

He'd had an answer for her. He always did, not necessarily the correct one, but an answer just the same. “Maybe because it's sad that you got hurt.”

“Then why doesn't my mouth run?” she'd wanted to know. “Isn't it sad, too?”

“Your mouth runs all the time. Jabber, jabber, jabber.”

And she'd laughed and laughed. He'd always made her laugh.

A soft sigh trembled from her, wistful of that time when she'd been happy and loved…and so very sheltered. Although she hadn't known it at the time.

The next pages were missing, ripped from the book in a fit of wounded rage. She fingered the ragged edges of the stiff paper, not at all sorry they were gone. She didn't need photos to remind her of Rick.

The sudden loss of her parents had been a brutal shock. For days after their separate funerals, one after the other, she'd been too numb to feel anything. Then came the grief, the pain, the terrible loneliness. But more than that, she'd felt lost and alone, with no anchor and no direction. To have their love wrenched from her so suddenly had left an awful, aching void. She'd desperately needed to be loved again. She had started reaching for it, grasping for it everywhere and anywhere. On campus the talk had been that she was a little wild. Maybe it had looked that way, but she hadn't been, not really.

Then, at a frat party, she'd met Rick Bennett. That night he'd made her laugh—the way her father used to do. And he had dark eyes and dark hair, like her father. And he'd been handsome in a clean-cut all-American way that spoke of solidness, steadiness. Rick had taken her home that night, back to her sorority house, then called to say goodnight. He'd phoned the next morning, too, to tell her good morning.

Almost from the beginning, they'd been inseparable. The only thing they hadn't done together was attend the same classes. He'd been a post-graduate student in law, and she'd been only a lowly sophomore—majoring in Rick was always what she'd laughed and said then. Which had been the absolute truth.

In retrospect, it seemed appropriate that Rick had proposed to her on April Fools' Day. Of course, he had made it sound very romantic by claiming that he'd picked it because he was a fool over her. During their short engagement, he managed to pass his bar exam and persuaded Flame to introduce him to a very senior partner with one of San Francisco's most prestigious law firms, who was also a long-time friend of her family. Whether out of friendship or sympathy for Flame or an objective evaluation of his qualifications, he had subsequently invited Rick to join the firm.

Then came the wedding. Rick had insisted it be a lavish affair. Flame had argued against it. Without any family of her own, she hadn't felt right about it, but he'd urged her to remember her social position—and to be practical and think of all the wedding gifts they would receive, items they wouldn't have to buy to set up house. She could have told him that gifts of silver and Baccarat crystal would hardly be practical for a young couple, but in the end, she'd relented, and the guest list for the wedding had read like the Who's Who of San Francisco society.

On her marriage, Flame obtained absolute control of her parents' estate, which amounted to a little more than a quarter of a million dollars. The first purchase they'd made had been this pricey flat—no boxy condo in a concrete-and-glass high-rise for them. And second, they'd bought a Porsche for Rick. He'd always wanted one, and an aggressive young attorney needed to project the right image. And that image had meant clothes. Brooks Brothers suits hadn't been good enough for Rick; it had to be Cardin, Blass, and Lagerfeld.

Oddly enough, she had never minded the money they'd spent. The apartment was a good investment as well as a comfortable home. As for the car, she'd loved Rick and wanted him to have it because he'd always dreamed of owning one. And the clothes, she'd been just as guilty of wanting to wear only the best.

No, the money hadn't been their problem. As soon as they'd returned from their honeymoon in Greece, Rick had urged her to renew her family contacts and persuade some of her friends to recommend him for membership in the yacht club. Soon they were going out nearly every night—to this party or that dinner, a gallery showing or a ballet, a charity benefit or a gala opening. They'd dined only at the trendiest restaurants and partied only at the “in” spots.

In the beginning, she'd accepted his reasoning that it was important to his career for him to mix with the right people. San Francisco was full of brilliant young lawyers, but without influential contacts few of them would ever achieve their potential. And Rick had no intention of being a brilliant older lawyer still waiting to be made a partner in the firm. She'd agreed with him—and allowed him to organize her daytime activities, too—becoming involved in the “right” charities and civic organizations, lunching, playing tennis, or going shopping with wives whose friendships he wanted her to cultivate.

After seven months on that social merry-go-round, Flame had grown weary of it and rebelled. There had been some charity ball they were supposed to attend, but when Rick had come home from the office that evening, she hadn't been ready.

“Why aren't you dressed?” He looked at her with some surprise and glanced at the gold Piaget wristwatch she'd given him for Christmas. “You'd better get a move on or we'll be late.”

“No, we won't.” Ignoring his look of impatience, she went to him and firmly placed his hands on the back of her waist, then wound her own around his neck. “Instead of going to the ball, let's stay home and have a romantic evening together…just the two of us.” She leaned up and nipped at his ear. “We haven't done that in a long time. And I have a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in the fridge, along with some Beluga caviar. Later we can fix some fettucini, or maybe a steak. You slip out of that tie and I'll—”

As she started to loosen it, Rick stopped her. “I love the thought, darling, but we'll have to do it some other time. Tonight we have this charity thing. They're expecting us.”

“You make it sound as if they'll cancel the ball if we don't show up. I assure you they won't,” she teased with a cajoling smile. “So why don't we just skip it?”

“No.” He set her away from him, a finality in his voice and his gesture that rankled.

Still Flame persisted. “Why not?”

“Because we said we'd be there and we're going.”

“Rick, it's a charity ball, for heaven's sake. How many hundred functions like it have we attended these last six months? I'm tired of them. Aren't you?” She frowned.

“Whether I'm tired of them or not is immaterial,” he retorted, yanking at the knot of his tie. “Affairs like this are important to me. I thought you understood that.”

Stung by his tone, Flame was tempted to ask if they were more important than spending time with her, but she checked the angry impulse and turned away instead, feigning a shrug of indifference. “Then you go. I'll stay home by myself.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Flame,” he snapped. “You're a Morgan. You have to be there.”

You're a Morgan
. How many times had she heard him say that? She'd lost count, but this time, the phrase sunk in. She swung on him in full temper. “My name is Bennett. Or had you forgotten that little detail?”

He flushed guiltily. “You know what I meant.”

“No.” She shook her head in firm denial. “I don't think I do. Why don't you explain just how you see me? Am I your wife? Am I the woman you love? Am I your life's partner? Or—am I your social entrée?” she challenged, suddenly remembering the thousand little conversations that had taken place over the past months—and the way Rick had always drawn her family name into them. She realized that he knew more about the history of her family than she did.

From that point on, the confrontation had degenerated into a shouting match, insults and accusations hurled on both sides. In the end, Rick had stormed out of the flat, and for days afterward they'd been cold to each other. Eventually they'd gone through the motions of making up, but it had never been the same after that.

As the weeks wore on, Flame had gradually come to see that she'd unwittingly hit on the truth. If Rick loved her at all, it was because she was his passport into a world that would have otherwise barred him from entering. He didn't love her, not for herself. He never had. Two months later, she filed for a divorce.

She'd walked away from the marriage scarred but much wiser. She'd learned a valuable lesson, one that she found many occasions to apply. Over the years, she'd discovered that few people sought her company for its sake alone. Some, like Rick, saw her as a passport to power and prestige. Some were outright social climbers. Others were attracted by her beauty and regarded her as a prize to be paraded on their arm. And to others, like Malcom Powell, she represented a conquest that had eluded him. All of those people she had eliminated very quickly from her life, dropping them the instant she discerned their reason for wanting to be with her—which was much easier than most supposed. As a result, her circle of friends was small indeed. And, of them, she regarded only Ellery as her one true friend. He'd never asked anything of her and never once taken advantage of their friendship. On the contrary, Ellery had always given—of his knowledge, his understanding, his time and his company.

Slowly Flame closed the photo album and hugged it tightly to her. That old need to love and be loved was still there, but of necessity, buried deep inside. Friends, a beautiful home, gorgeous clothes, and an unquestionably successful career weren't enough to fill the emptiness. Without someone to share them with, they meant little. But who?

Instantly an image of Chance Stuart flashed in her mind. Suddenly she could see again that faintly wicked glint in his blue eyes, the raffish charm of his crooked smile, and that aura of virility he wore so casually. She smiled, realizing that he'd made a very definite impression on her—and wondered if she would see him again or whether it had been a line, forgotten minutes after it was said. Probably.