by Janet Dailey
The swing coat was antique gold satin, full cut with dolman sleeves and a stand-up collar. She wore it over a short dress of dark gold lace that was both eye-catching and chicly simple. Two-inch heels in a softer, subtler shade of gold and a waterfall of gold-mounted white stones at her ears provided the finishing touches of invulnerability.
Thus armored, Kelly entered the tower lobby, its walls and floors swathed in apricot-colored marble. A cascading fountain immediately drowned out all sounds of the city. Security directed her to the bank of private elevators that led to the exclusive apartments stacked above the shopping atrium on the building’s lower floors. The ride to the sixtieth floor was, fortunately, a swift one.
Outside Hugh’s apartment, which was really two redesigned into one, Kelly could hear the muted sounds of the party, already in progress. She took a deep, steadying breath and rang the bell.
Within seconds the door was opened by a jacketed member of the staff Hugh had hired for the occasion. Recognition registered quickly in his glance. “Good evening, Miss Douglas.” He swung the door wider and stepped back to admit her.
“Good evening.” Kelly surrendered her coat to him, slipping the chain to her narrow evening bag onto her shoulder before gravitating to the focus of the party noise.
She paused inside the living room that stretched some forty-two feet long. Glass walled the length of one entire side, the sheer drapes pulled back to show off the city’s nocturnal glitter. There was no doubt the apartment was pure New York, modern in design and spirit, an island of serenity and order yet never denying the energy of the city beyond the glass.
Though the apartment was far from serene at the moment, Kelly thought as she scanned the living room where the majority of the guests were gathered, some sitting, more standing, clusters forming and breaking to reform again in a new blend. It was an artful mix of society and celebrity, politicians and power brokers, the wealthy and the well-connected, and – of course the vintners, elevated by the wine mystique to the status of demigods in certain circles, such as this one.
A white-jacketed waiter presented a tray of smoked salmon and spinach canapés to her. Kelly refused politely and he moved on. A second later, Hugh spotted her and came over, brushing her cheek with a kiss.
“You are late,” he said into her hair. She wore it down, thick and full about her face, tumbling in stylized disarray about her shoulders.
“Which is better than never,” she reminded him.
“Probably. How was the farewell party and the cake?”
“The cake was good, but the male stripper who popped out of it was better.” Kelly smiled, pretending there hadn’t been moments when her face was redder than her hair. “The guys on the crew insisted he was a wide receiver on waiver from the New York Jets, but they couldn’t fool me. One look and I knew he wasn’t.”
“How did you determine that?” Hugh turned a curious and amused look on her.
“It was easy,” she insisted. “I may not know much about football, but I know a tight end when I see one.”
He laughed, then caught the eye of a passing waiter and summoned him over. “Something to drink?”
“No wine?” She saw not a single stemmed glass on the tray.
Hugh raised an eyebrow at her question. “With this group? Hardly. No matter what wine I might have chosen, I would offend nearly everyone here. And I definitely didn’t want to exhaust my cellar by turning this into a wine-tasting affair. Mixed drinks were the only safe and practical alternative.”
“And very politic.”
“Very,” he confirmed with his usual attractive arrogance.
“Sparkling water with a lime twist,” she told the waiter. “Whatever brand you have will be fine.” He bowed and left. “So tell me,” she said as she leaned closer to Hugh, lowering her voice and sweeping the guests with another searching glance, on guard against the moment when she encountered Katherine Rutledge and her grandson again, “who is here that I should know and don’t?”
He smiled almost smugly and perused the group. “This gathering could be fodder for an Agatha Christie novel – were the dear lady still alive.” His side glance touched her. “This little soiree of mine has lured not only Katherine Rutledge and Baron Fougere here, but also Gil Rutledge. The plot, as they say, thickens.”
“Assuming it doesn’t blow up in your face.”
“What an interesting thought,” he replied. “Too bad they are being so very civilized about it.”
“You are hopeless, Hugh.” But she laughed softly all the same.
“I know.” The waiter returned with Kelly’s drink. Hugh neatly plucked it from the tray and handed it to her. “Do you know Gil Rutledge?”
“I know of him.” Which was true. “Where is he?”
“Over there.” Hugh nodded discreetly at a silver-haired man chatting with two other guests off to the side. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
With a hand at her elbow he steered her through the gathering toward Gil Rutledge. If Kelly hadn’t known he was Katherine’s son, she wasn’t sure she would have seen the resemblance. But it was there – in the mane of silver hair, and in his features, which were classically handsome, as hers were classically beautiful. Kelly knew Gil had to be somewhere in his sixties, but, like his mother, the years rested lightly on his shoulders. And he had Katherine’s blue eyes as well, eyes that could probably turn icy hot with displeasure as easily as they could radiate warmth and charm.
But the dissimilarities were more obvious. He didn’t possess Katherine’s dignity, her hint of reserve, or that aura of supreme authority. Gil Rutledge was more outgoing; he had dash, a subtle hint of flamboyance, and an abundance of charm. It flashed through his smile, through his face, when he observed their approach.
Unable to resist, Kelly smiled back, understanding thoroughly why Gil Rutledge’s reputation as a marketing genius exceeded that as a vintner.
He gave Hugh no opportunity to introduce them as he reached for her hand. “Miss Douglas.” The instant she gave him her hand, he carried it to his lips, the gesture absolutely natural, with no trace of affectation. “I had the enormous, pleasure of seeing you on television earlier this evening.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Rutledge.” Kelly briefly wondered what his reaction to her interview with Katherine had been, but it was hardly polite to ask.
“And you are too modest,” Gil chided lightly, continuing to hold her hand, now engulfing her long fingers with both hands. “And the name is Gil.”
“Kelly.” She returned the courtesy.
“Kelly.” He smiled. “Obviously I’m not the only one who recognized your talent, or the network wouldn’t have snapped you up for their new show.”
“Much of that I owe to Hugh.”
“Don’t believe her,” Hugh inserted.
“I don’t,” he replied and half turned, one hand dropping away to direct her attention to the man on his left. “Kelly, I want you to meet my son, Clay.”
The sheer force of Gil’s personality had prevented Kelly from noticing the man at his side. Movie-star handsome was her initial impression of Clay Rutledge, from the top of his dark blond hair to the tips of his highly polished Italian shoes. He had a deep California tan, lazy blue eyes – bedroom eyes – and a mouth that could only be described as sensual. There was no doubt he had his father’s charm, but there was a different quality to it, less expansive and more intimate.
“Mr. Rutledge.” Smiling faintly, Kelly offered her hand to him after his father released it.
“Clay. I insist.” He took it, but he didn’t carry it to his lips as his father had done. He simply held it, the pressure of his fingers warm, more personal.
“Clay.” She saw the way his glance skimmed her face. And the frank appreciation in his eyes.
There was a time, not that long ago, when she would have been flattered by his attention,
when her head might have been turned by his smile, his look, or his touch. Working in television, especially in New York, she had been exposed to too many politicians, too many celebrities and bureaucrats who would flirt and flatter, use any means to get what they wanted. She was much wiser to such things now, and she deftly withdrew her hand.
“Congratulations on your new show,” Clay offered. “Now that I’ve met you, I will definitely make a point to watch it.”
To Clay, every woman he met was a challenge. They were an obsession with him, or rather, the conquest of them was. When he had first observed the approach of this slim, statuesque woman, noticed the reddish highlights that gleamed from her silky hair, the hunting instincts had risen, and he had tensed like a thoroughbred at the starting line.
“I hope you do watch,” she replied easily. “The more viewers, the higher the ratings. And the more chance the show has of being a success.”
“I have the feeling it will be a huge success.” He smiled faintly, as if there was something known only to him.
“Certainly everyone involved will be working toward that end.” She acknowledged his remark with another smile.
He recognized the reserve in her eyes and her smile. Yet it was the intensity beneath all that bland composure, the hint of strength that intrigued him. He made a few more comments, idly and deceptively probing, trying to draw her out, always searching for some opening through her pride, her vanity, her career, or her romantic notions, and always watching for the signs that would tell him the best approach.
Clay never expected to succeed on the first encounter, always operating on the assumption there would be others at some later point. When Hugh Townsend took Kelly’s arm, asking for them to be excused so she could meet some of his other guests, Clay didn’t offer any protest, not even a polite one.
Instead he watched her walk away, mentally assessing the few things he’d learned about her. “She’s a sharp, very intelligent woman.”
Beside him, his father made a sound in his throat, disputing that, and raised the glass of Chivas and water to his mouth, muttering behind it, “Katherine handled her easily enough.” He was still seething from Katherine’s remark that the wines of Rutledge Estate had no rivals.
“Speaking of Madam, where is she?”
“Over there. Holding court,” Gil Rutledge added with a definite undertone of sarcasm as he tipped the rim of his glass, indicating the woman across the room.
Clay turned slightly, following the line of his father’s vision, and easily located his grandmother. She stood near the room’s center, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, her chin elevated a degree or two while she addressed the small group plainly hanging on her every word.
Most women as they grew older weighted themselves down with magnificent jewels to distract the eye from their telltale wrinkles. Not Katherine. Other than the South Sea pearls at her ears and the diamonds in her wedding rings, she wore none.
Nor was she overdressed, as were some at the party Clay could mention. A floral scarf in soft shades of aqua, rose, and amethyst draped her throat and trailed down her back in long, diaphanous folds, like a train. Her dress was in the same floral chiffon, falling in a slender column to a handkerchief hem, the points nearly brushing the floor. The effect was pure elegance.
Privately Clay saluted her. But only privately.
“You can bet she thinks she has the deal with the baron in her pocket,” Gil muttered.
“Doesn’t she?” Clay countered dryly.
“Not after I’ve met with him, she won’t.” He took a sip of the Scotch, then lowered his glass, his expression grim and determined. “All I have to do is open his eyes to a few facts.”
“Such as?”
“There’s already a glut of overpriced prestige wines on the market. A market, I might add, that is already depressed. To successfully launch a new one will require aggressive marketing, and an experienced sales force. We have everything in place: the organization, the facilities, and the experience. She doesn’t; her operation her volume, is too small. Not only that, she’s ninety years old. She can’t live much longer. And without her, there is no Rutledge Estate.
“You’re forgetting Sam.”
He scoffed at that. “He’s as spineless as his father. Katherine-and only Katherine-runs Rutledge Estate, and she runs it her way. She doesn’t tolerate any interference, any arguments, or any ideas except her own. That company is family owned in name only. As I learned years ago,” he declared bitterly, his fingers tightening around his glass.
“I know.” Clay nodded absently. He’d heard it all before.
“All he had to do was buy grapes from other vineyards, but she wouldn’t let him. Rutledge wine would only be made from Rutledge grapes.” He remembered her words as vividly as if they had been uttered yesterday. “We were losing all those sales, all that profit that we were supposed to be sharing, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Not even when I suggested bottling the wine under a different label. Other wineries do it all the time, but she wouldn’t. Not Katherine.”
Gil paused, the memories rushing back, and the anger with them. “Dear God, there was one year when it rained constantly before the grapes were ready to pick. She sold off every bit of them rather than risk making a wine that might have been inferior. One entire vintage gone. And Jonathon agreed with her. He always agreed with her.”
He glared across the room at her. It made him sick with disgust to see the way people fawned over her. She was a cold, heartless bitch.
Lies. Her whole life was one lie on top of another. To her, family meant cheap labor. And that nonsense of hers that she had kept the winery going during Prohibition by making sacramental wines was another invention. As for that false image she projected of a woman faithful to her husband’s dreams and his memory – did she think he’d forgotten the sight of her with her lipstick all smeared and her blouse unfastened, exposing her breasts? Or the way she had bent down to him, gripping his arms, her eyes blazing: “You must never say anything about this, Gil. Not to anyone. Not ever. Do you hear me?”
He nodded stiffly, jerkily, just as he had done then, those same hot feelings of shock and betrayal sweeping through him. He hadn’t said a word. And he hadn’t forgotten.
“I see Sam standing over there by himself,” Clay remarked idly. “I think I’ll go say hello to my dear cousin.”
“Right,” his father replied gruffly and lifted his glass again.
Sam stood next to a gilded Louis Quinze console table, one hip leaning against a corner of its marble top. His jacket was unbuttoned, a hand buried in a side pocket of his trousers, negligently holding the jacket open.
He noticed Clay slowly but steadily moving in his direction and took another sip of the beer he’d been nursing most of the evening. It was stale and warm, but he continued to hold it, his glance flicking to Clay with disinterest when he reached him. They had never been close, or even friendly. Sam didn’t pretend it was otherwise.
“I saw you were alone and thought you might want some company,” Clay said in greeting, his mouth curving in a smile.
It was a smile that could charm and capture a woman without effort, Sam knew. And he also knew that his cousin had all the scruples of a tomcat.
“You thought wrong,” he said and let his gaze drift over the room. He caught a flash of gold and focused on it.
It was Kelly Douglas. He’d seen her when she first arrived at the party. She had been impossible to miss in that dress of gold-filigree lace. It would catch any man’s eye the way it softly molded her small breasts and hinted at the slenderness of her waistline, then stopped short a little below mid-thigh, celebrating the length of her long, shapely legs.
“An unusual woman,” Clay remarked, following the direction of his gaze.
Sam threw him a glance, his mouth slanting in a dry smile. “Don’t tell me you struck out with her,�
� he taunted, having witnessed the meeting between Kelly and his cousin from across the room.
Clay gave him an amused look. “I haven’t even stepped up to bat yet.” He studied him for another long second. “Are you still upset over that little incident with your wife? Sorry Adrienne is your ex-wife now, isn’t she?”
His marriage to Adrienne Ballard had ceased to exist, in everything but name, six months after the wedding, long before he had surprised her with Clay in what could be euphemistically described as a compromising position. But the incident had certainly done nothing to promote any feeling of closeness to his cousin.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Clay.” Sam set the pilsner glass on the marbled table next to a trio of equestrian figurines of Kangxi porcelain. “You have such class. Such low class.”
Clay just laughed. Sam held his gaze for a long second, then moved off. He preferred to choose his own company.
Hugh shifted closer to Kelly and murmured near her ear, “Now for the third member of our triangle, Baron Fougere. Mention his library at Chateau Noir and he’ll be a fan forever.”
Kelly smiled to herself. This was hardly the first time Hugh had coached her, feeding her pertinent tidbits of information before introducing her to some important personage. Not only did such coaching give the illusion that she had personal knowledge of the individual, creating a favorable impression, but it also provided a topic of conversation so that neither party had to resort to such mundane subjects as weather.
When she was presented to the baron, her first reaction was a vague disappointment. Emile Gerard Chre-tien Fougere did not match her image of a French aristocrat. He had all the accoutrements of one – the signet ring; hand-tailored evening dress; shoes of the finest leather; manicured nails, lightly buffed. But it stopped there. In his fifties, her own height, on the stocky side with thinning hair, he had the staid and solid, inwardly absorbed look of an academe. Kelly realized Hugh’s reference to the baron’s library should have been her clue.
