Texas Sunrise (7 page)

Susan was dozing when the portable pinged to life. It had to be her mother. Who else would be calling at this time of night? Her voice was cautious when she said a wary “Hello?”

“Susan?”

How gentle-sounding her mother's voice was, how concerned. Susan stiffened.

“Who else did you expect to answer the phone—Maggie?” Susan's voice sounded so cold, it was hard for her to believe it was her own.

“I didn't expect you to be in Hawaii, but then you don't write, and the only time you call is ...”

“When something is wrong. Isn't that what you were going to say, Mother? You're known for telling us you're always there for any one of us, day or night, but for some strange reason you're never there for me. Why do you think I'm here in Hawaii instead of Vermont?”

“Susan, what's wrong?”

Instead of answering the question, Susan asked one of her own. “Where the hell are you this time?”

“England. Thad wanted to visit a few of his friends in Parliament. It's a little after ten. I call three times a day to retrieve our messages. Now will you please tell me what's wrong?”

“Do you remember the last time I saw you in the flesh, Mother? It was at Jessie's funeral. I think that's pretty sad.”

“Why do you suppose that is, Susan?”

“Go ahead, Mother, slam it back to me the way you always do. You go to Texas to see Cary, Riley, and Ivy, you go to New York to see Sawyer and Adam, you come here to see Maggie and Rand, and you were in Japan not too long ago to see Cole and Sumi. You've
never
been to Minnesota.”

“You never invited me, Susan. I thought you didn't want me there.”

“Are you saying you would have come if I asked you to? If I asked you right now to come here to Hawaii, would you come?”

“Darling, I can't right this minute. Thad is ... we're in England.”

“I knew you'd say that, I just knew it,” Susan said spitefully. Then her voice broke and she heard herself scream. “You abandoned me, you gave me up, and it doesn't matter if it was to family or not, you gave me up and let Aunt Amelia raise me! I'm not part of this family, I never was. Just go to hell, Mam, just go to fucking hell.” Her shaky finger pressed the button to break the connection. In a fit of anger, she released it and then tossed the phone in the general direction of the beach.

A wave of pure hate, unlike anything she'd ever experienced, rushed through her. She had to pay attention to what she was feeling now, experiencing. All those shrinks she'd spoken to had said her problem was deeply rooted in her childhood, and when she was ready to deal with it, to pull it out and look it in the face, she would be on the right road to understanding why she did the things she did, why she kept making the same mistakes over and over. Tonight, she'd finally used the right word, the word she'd always refused to say aloud: abandoned.

“God, how I hate you, Mother. You should die for what you've done to me. And don't think for one minute I'm going to take your first love up on her offer to work in
your
business. Not in
this
lifetime.”

Exhausted with her mental and verbal tirade, Susan curled into the fetal position, the knuckle of her thumb in her mouth. She was asleep within seconds.

Heads turned, male as well as female. The men leered,
and the women frowned and sucked in their stomachs. The object of their scrutiny strutted her stuff, her red-gold hair flaming out behind her as she walked impatiently up and down the concourse. At her side she held a Bottega Veneta briefcase. She'd just parked—in a no parking zone—her Lamborghini sports car, which could zip off at 180 miles per hour if one chose to put the pedal to the metal. Valentine Mitchell so chose, and had the traffic tickets to prove it.

She flicked back the cuff of her Armani jacket to check the time on her Presidential Rolex. The jacket, as well as her skirt, had been sculpted for her body by none other than Armani himself.

As the cuff fell back over her wrist, she raised her sleepy green eyes and met those of an aging banker in a three-piece business suit.

“In your dreams, old man,” she whispered sotto voce.

The old banker apparently mistook her for a hooker. “I wouldn't give you two dollars,” he muttered.

She laughed, and the banker walked out through the door, feeling like a fool.

Valentine was waiting for Rand Nelson.
Lord
Rand Nelson. Now
that
was a hoot. He'd caught up with her in Los Angeles just as she was packing to drive her new Lamborghini back to Texas. There was no way she could refuse his request, as she was on a retainer from the Coleman family.

Spotting him at the same moment he spied her, Valentine smiled and did a little jig to make sure enough leg showed. Rand whistled approvingly. God, he was handsome, all six feet two inches of him. She approved of his Hawaiian tan, his dark hair shot with silvery strands at the temple. The mustache was new since she'd seen him last, as were the dark glasses he wore to cover his gorgeous dark eyes, which had lashes long enough to kill for. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, inhaling the scent of her perfume.

“Lady,” he grinned, “you are a killer.”

“And you, Lord Nelson, are as handsome and debonair as usual.”

Rand fingered his collar and wondered why his neck felt as warm as it did. He liked her perfume. It suggested faraway places, incense, and veils—veils that came off. For the life of him he couldn't remember what kind of perfume his wife wore. The sudden urge to bolt and run was so strong that he felt he had to dig his feet into the airport carpeting.

“We have time for a drink,” he said hoarsely.

“Sounds good. Double scotch on the rocks for me,” Valentine said, following him into the airport lounge.

Rand's eyebrows shot upward. “Isn't that a man's drink?” He gave the order to the waitress.

“I work in a man's world, Rand. I've had to join 'em, as the saying goes. Now what are we going to do about Susan and Ferris?”

“I have the key to the house,” Rand said, “so we can stay there and map out our strategy. Or we could go to a hotel. Or you could go to a hotel.” He held his breath, praying she would say she'd go to a hotel.

Valentine leaned across the table, her perfume wafting about her like a breeze. “The house is fine, Rand. I hate running up a client's bill unnecessarily. By the way, how is the rest of the family? Bring me up to date. It's been four or five years.”

“Everyone is fine. You know about my daughter Chesney, of course. Sawyer is designing a new plane, and Cole's wife is due to have her baby any day now. Riley's son is about six months old. Sawyer has twin girls, you know. We haven't seen Billie and Thad for a while but understand they're fine. Cary is about finished with his memorial to Amelia. Maggie and I are doing well, of course, and Susan is the one with the problem. That's about it,” Rand said, tossing his hands in the air.

“What's Maggie doing these days?”

The devilish look in Valentine's eyes was upsetting. “Well, yes, there is other news. Maggie and Susan are taking over Billie Limited. I thought you knew. Maggie said she sent you reams of paperwork.”

“It's probably on my desk back at the office. I've been in Los Angeles for the past six weeks. These movie people are so hard to deal with.”

Rand nodded. He wondered what Maggie was doing.

“Am I bothering you, Rand? You look uneasy, like you want to get away from me.”

“Hell, yes, you bother me. I think every man in this bar has a hard-on just looking at you. Can you, you know, tone down or something? Wear a hat or put on a sweater . . . or
something
.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you're attracted to me? Are you worried that I might try to seduce you? For heaven's sake, Rand, I'd never do that. I adore Maggie. If you're one of those guys in this bar who has a hard-on, then I suggest you squelch it, because you simply aren't my type.”

Well, shit, Rand thought. He had to say something, make some kind of comeback to wipe that victorious smile off her face. “You definitely aren't my type either,” he said, rather lamely. “Now that that's out of the way, what do you say we get down to business?”

“Yes, let's,” Valentine agreed.

 

It was a pretty house, Rand thought, surrounded by gracious old elms that were in the process of dressing themselves for spring. Once, when Ferris had been in residence, it must have been manicured to perfection. Now the grass was brown and full of wide-leaf crabgrass, and the flower beds were choked with weeds.

“Gardeners cost money,” he said tightly.

Valentine nodded.

“This house kind of looks like the one we had in England,” he continued. “Very cottagey, if there is such a word. That's an English garden at the side of the house, and I'd bet five dollars Susan tended it herself. She was happy here. So was little Jessie. I thought they had a good working marriage. I mean, the kind of marriage Billie and Thad have.”

“Sometimes people grow apart, things go wrong, one changes, the other doesn't,” Valentine said quietly.

“That's well and good, but that didn't give Ferris the right to rob Susan blind. I want you to pull out every big gun you have and shove it in that bastard's face. Make it smoke. Guess the file is here already,” Rand said, pointing to the bright Federal Express envelope propped up by the front door.

Valentine looked over the low ranch house with its added dormers. It appeared neat and tidy, much the way she remembered Susan being. The pink and white brick, and the diamond-shaped windows, reminded her of the foster home she had grown up in. She corrected the thought. She hadn't grown up in a home, she'd grown up in a house, a house full of kids who, like herself, were unwanted. The Delroys hadn't been unkind, but neither had they been particularly kind. She'd been fed and clothed decently with the money the state paid for her keep. There were no extras, no spending money, no parties. No love of any kind was showered on her. Yet she hadn't been truly unhappy, and she still stayed in touch with the Delroys. She always remembered to send a Christmas card as well as a present. But she'd never gone back to visit.

At eighteen she'd struck out on her own, working as many as three jobs at a time to put herself through college and law school. She'd done all right for herself too. She'd graduated from college in the top three percent of her class, and was the salutatorian in law school. Then she'd done a lot of pounding the sidewalks, looking for someone to give her a decent job. In the end she'd had to sleep her way through several senior law partners just to be taken on as an associate at a miserly salary. She never looked back, never chastised herself for what she had done. Her big break, as she always thought of it, had come when she took over a case from a law partner when he went into the hospital for an operation. Not only did she get a whopping three million dollar settlement for the firm's client, but she also managed to get her adversary's business. Afterward, she bought a swanky condo full of chrome, glass, and mirrors. End of story. No, not quite. She still didn't have anyone to share her success with.

Valentine sighed as she watched Rand fit the key into the lock.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I'll turn up the heat and make some coffee while you read the file and come up with a plan of action.”

“Okay.” Valentine kicked off her shoes and looked around, trying to imagine Susan living in this place. “It looks like Mr. Clean lived here,” she muttered, grimacing. “Is the kitchen cozy and cute?” she called out to Rand.

“Come see for yourself,” he called back.

Rand blinked in surprise when Valentine walked in. Without her three-inch spike heels, she was tiny and didn't seem so ... so seductive.

Valentine nibbled her fingernail. “All this kind of surprises me,” she said thoughtfully. “Susan is a world-renowned pianist. I more or less expected a house filled with exotic souvenirs from all over the globe. This . . .” she said, waving her arms about, “just isn't what I expected.”

“Me neither. I suppose it has something to do with being sent off to England at such an early age to live with us. This is like our kitchen there. It broke Billie's heart to send her, but Susan's world was music, and England was where it was going to happen for her. She didn't really have a childhood like most children. All she did was practice the piano. I always had the feeling that Susan must have been starved for love. She still hasn't found it, from the look of things. I just fucking hate it when a man steals money from a woman. I thought more of Ferris.”

“Not to worry, Lord Nelson, we'll get him,” Valentine said airily.

“I wish you'd stop with the lord bit. I never use the title, and hearing you say it makes it sound obscene. Sugar or cream?”

“Black. See if you can find the deed to this house, and any other papers you think I should have. Income tax records would do nicely. Are they here?”

“Susan said Ferris took them when he left, but she had enough sense to go to the accountant and ask for copies. The accountant didn't want to give them to her, so she went to the head of the firm and got them. They were afraid of adverse publicity, but since her name was on all the returns, they really had no choice. She told me they're in the piano bench in the music room under her sheet music. I'll get them.”

Valentine became so engrossed in the file that she barely noticed when Rand laid a stack of tax returns next to her on the couch. Rand tried not to look at the long expanse of thigh exposed through the slit in the Armani skirt.

“I'm going to call home,” he said. “If you want me, I'll be in the kitchen or upstairs taking a shower.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he bit down on his tongue. If Valentine heard him, she gave no sign.

He needed to talk to his wife, he thought as he left the room. He didn't like what he was feeling toward Val. Maggie was his wife, his lover, his friend. Maggie would put it all in perspective for him. “Shit!” he said succinctly.