by Janet Dailey
He walked at her side, taking deliberate care not to touch her or let their shoulders brush, even accidentally. They strolled down Channel Gardens and stopped at the stone parapet to gaze at the lower plaza with its open-air cafe and golden statue of the fire-stealing hero of Greek mythology, Prometheus, agleam in the mist of dancing water jets. Other than mentioning points of interest, Clay said little; her comments were equally restrained.
“Where next?” he asked, then suggested, as a lark, “The Empire State Building, perhaps. No true tourist could ever come to New York without visiting it.”
“Is it far?”
“Too far to walk. We’ll take a taxi.” He hailed a passing cab, then held the door for her before sliding in after her, carefully keeping his distance.
He read nothing into either her silence during the short ride or her previous brevity. His glance strayed to her frequently and he let her catch him looking at her. She was, he decided, a beautiful, elegant woman, her dark hair pulled away from her face and neck, its fullness hidden beneath the crown of her hat. In his mind, he likened her to an instrument of many strings, waiting for a master’s touch.
The cab stopped at the Thirty-fourth Street entrance to the Art Deco skyscraper that flimdom and King Kong had long ago immortalized. Inside the marbled lobby, Clay purchased tickets for the observation deck and escorted Natalie onto the high-speed elevator crowded with tourists. It shot them to the eightieth floor, where they switched to another elevator that would take them the rest of the way. Even with the press of bodies and mingling odors, he could smell the subtle sexiness of her perfume.
He waited for the elevator to empty, then guided her out, past the souvenir stands to the heavy door leading onto the deck. Natalie laughed at the slap of the wind and grabbed at her hat, holding it on her head as she crossed to the wall. Clay walked over to stand beside her, gazing with mild interest at the architectural potpourri of glass-and-steel towers, venerable brownstones, and Gothic churches that was Manhattan.
With a reckless disregard for height, Natalie peered over the observation glass. “The taxis, they look like bright yellow marigolds.”
She stepped back and lifted her face to take in the far-sweeping view. He studied her rapt expression of wonder, the delicate curve of her long neck, and the silk of her dress, molded to her shapely figure by the wind.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” He pretended an interest in the view of the island of Manhattan, the Hudson River, the specks of sailboats on the Sound. “So high above everything. Isolated from the hustle of the city below. One could almost believe we are the only two people in the world,” he mused with feigned idleness. “Of course, two people can make the biggest world of all when they are the right two people.” On that, he turned to look directly at her.
Whether deliberately or not, she misread his meaning. “You are missing your wife.”
“My children, perhaps,” he offered, then shrugged, glancing away. “It’s no secret my wife and I have little in common anymore, except our love of the children,” he lied smoothly. “She is content with her flowers and her painting, while I...” He stopped, scowling darkly. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Perhaps you knew I would understand.”
Her dark eyes were a mute testimony to the loneliness of her own marriage when he turned back. He held her gaze for a significant moment without making any response.
“Have you ever taken a carriage ride through Central Park?”
She seemed momentarily thrown by his question. “No.”
“Neither have I.” He smiled an invitation. “Shall we?”
She hesitated not at all, a smile lighting her whole face. “Yes.”
Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the backseat of a carriage traveling through Central Park. Beyond idle comments on sights they passed, they spoke little, but Clay saw by the small smile on her lips that she was comfortable with the silence.
As they rode by the eighteen-acre lake within the park, Natalie sat forward. “Do you see the rowboats?” she asked and continued to gaze at the sunlight glinting on the water’s glass-smooth surface. “How beautiful it looks on the water.”
“I think we should find out if it is,” Clay announced and instructed the driver to drop them off near the boat rental site.
When they pushed away from the dock, Natalie sat at the bow. The red straw hat was in her hand, exposing the sleekly coiled knot atop her head. She gripped the sides of the boat and leaned back, tilting her face to the sun.
Beautiful, Clay thought again as he stroked the oars, propelling the boat through the water with slow, languid pulls. His sports jacket was folded neatly on the seat beside him; the cuffs of his shirt were rolled back.
“This is wonderful.” She dipped a hand in the sun-warmed water and watched the drops fall from the tips of her fingers. “You were right, Clay.” She looked at him with a wistful quality. “It is better when it is shared.”
“Yes,” he said, then stayed silent for several strokes of the oars, continuing to hold her gaze. “I shouldn’t say this, Natalie, but you are a very lovely woman.” His voice was full of tightly suppressed intensity.
For a moment, there was such a tightness in her throat she couldn’t speak. Many times – too many times in recent months – she had looked at Emile and longed for him to notice her again, to see her as the beautiful, desirable woman he had claimed she was before their marriage. There were even times when that longing had been a physical ache.
She knew it was wrong to find so much pleasure in another man’s compliment, but she did. She was too starved to care where the nourishment for her soul came from.
But she said, slowly and carefully, “It is rather nice to be noticed, Clay.”
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“For what?” she chided, needing to make light of his words. “For being kind?”
“It wasn’t kind. You are a very lovely woman. A man would have to be blind not to notice that.”
Sometimes she thought her husband was blind. Blind to her needs.
When Clay fell silent, she did nothing to encourage further conversation and tried to turn her mind instead to the serenity of the lake and the blue of the sky overhead. But she found it impossible not to notice the way the sunlight glinted off the dusky gold of his hair, the play of muscle beneath his shirt, and the easy strength of his arms.
What a fool his wife was, Natalie thought, not to appreciate this man. Did his wife not know how lucky she was to have such a sensitive, caring husband, a man so attuned to her that he could anticipate a whim and indulge it even before it was voiced?
Like renting this rowboat to glide across the lake, just the two of them, New York’s tall buildings nothing more than a vague intrusion on the skyline beyond the trees. She watched his hands pulling on the oars, the flexing muscles in his arms. His hands would be warm and sure in the caress of a woman, seeking to please, to arouse, to satisfy. And his kisses would be moist and heated, swift to ravish.
Conscious of the quickening strike of her heartbeat, Natalie looked away. It was not wise to indulge in idle fantasies, even harmless ones.
Too soon, it seemed to Natalie, the hour was up and the rowboat had to be returned. Clay helped her from the boat, his grip firm and subtly strong. But he didn’t release her once she was on the dock. He stood behind her, a steadying hand still on her waist and the other on her arm, below the cap sleeve of her dress.
“I was wrong,” he murmured, ever so softly. “Even a blind man would notice you – the headiness of your scent, the music of your voice, the satin of your skin....”
One finger, and one finger only, traced the curve of her arm before he drew his hand away. She breathed in, and found it difficult to breathe out.
For a moment, she imagined swaying back against him and feeling the solidness of his body along her length, the warmth of his arms folding aro
und her, the sensation of his lips exploring her neck. Before the thought could become an impulse, he stepped back, releasing her, and the moment was gone. But not the memory of it.
“There is a fairly good restaurant not far from here,” Clay said. “If you feel hungry, we could go there for lunch.”
She looked at her watch for the first time since she’d left the hotel. “It is late.” She discovered this with a twinge of guilt, aware that she had been enjoying his company too much to notice the passage of hours. “I must return to the hotel. I promised Emile I would meet him for lunch at one. It is nearly that now.”
“Of course.” Clay nodded, but she caught the flicker of regret in his expression, and understood it because she felt the same.
During the cab ride back to the hotel, Clay bided his time, occasionally filling the silence with banalities and waiting until they were a block from the hotel before saying, “I don’t know if your husband discusses business with you, but my father and he are talking about forming a partnership to build a winery in California. Both sides bring a lot to the table. The Cloisters not only makes award-winning wines, but we also have a sales base, market skills, and an organization that can’t be equaled. As for Chateau Noir, I hardly need to tell you about it.”
He was careful to keep his tone casual. He glanced at her and smiled, observing that she listened with mild interest. “Naturally a partnership will, of necessity, mean frequent trips across the Atlantic by both parties.” Clay paused, letting the smile fade and his gaze become intent on her face. “I find I’m looking forward to that a great deal.”
The taxi pulled up at the Park Avenue entrance. She had no chance to respond directly as the doorman swung the rear passenger door open on her side. But Clay had already gotten all the response he wanted when her gaze had first clung to him, then moved abruptly away.
He paid the fare and followed Natalie out of the cab. On the sidewalk, she turned to him. “Thank you for the tour of New York. It was most enjoyable.” She was careful not to use his name, and that very care was telling.
“It was my pleasure.” His smile was properly polite as he again showed her a demeanor of severe restraint. “My regards to your husband.”
Clay deliberately didn’t mention the gala auction tonight, aware she would be there, and equally aware that she knew he would be attending it as well.
With a small, polite smile, she moved away from him and entered the hotel. He lingered outside and stared thoughtfully after her, considering whether he would speak to her at all that evening or merely let their eyes meet, keeping the room between them.
Either method would be effective, depending on how soon his father planned to meet with the baron again after this weekend. Clay needed to find that out before he settled on his approach. After all, timing was critical in such things.
He wandered into the hotel, pleased with his morning’s work and certain the evening’s event would prove to be most interesting.
A hush gripped the black-tie-only crowd in the Waldorf’s palatial Grand Ballroom as the price on the case of Rutledge Estate ‘73 cabernet sauvignon Private Reserve continued to rise in spirited bidding. Sam sat next to Katherine, one leg crossed, a hand resting lightly on his thigh and the other arm lying across it in a pose of calm nonchalance.
Katherine appeared equally composed and unmoved by the bidding that had already taken the price well above the anticipated figure. But the tension was there, as noticeable to Sam as the avid glow in her eyes.
When the gavel came down, the winning bid was a history-making sixty-five thousand dollars, the most ever paid for any lot of wine made in the United States. There was an instant of silence in the room as the significance of the final bid registered.
Katherine’s pose of dignified calm never changed, but out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression. A cat with telltale traces of rich cream on its whiskers couldn’t have looked more satisfied.
Someone started to applaud. A few chairs away, Hugh Townsend stood up and turned to direct his applause to Katherine. As others came to their feet, Sam rose to add his tribute to theirs. Katherine acknowledged the ovation with a slow and graceful nod of her head. But the applause didn’t stop until she was escorted to the front.
She waved aside the microphone that was offered to her, her voice in its pure tones lifting to address the gathering. “Thank you. Thank you all.” She paused briefly, waiting for silence to fall, then continued. “My late husband, Clayton Rutledge, was long an admirer of Thomas Jefferson, one of America’s first Renaissance men and a connoisseur of fine wines. Like Jefferson, Clayton believed that one day America would make wines that were the equal of the great chateaux of Europe. It was his dream that the wines of Rutledge Estate would be among them, a dream I have carried on alone these many years. Tonight you have bestowed a great honor on the house of Rutledge Estate. And a very worthy cause will receive the benefit of it. Clayton would be very proud of that, as I am. Thank you.”
More applause broke out when she finished. As several of the guests pressed forward to extend their personal congratulations, the auctioneer wisely announced a short break in the proceedings while they prepared for the next lot.
Sam wasn’t surprised to see Baron Fougere and his wife among the first to approach Katherine. In a business where image and prestige were all-important, that of Rutledge Estate had risen sharply. The baron was impressed and it showed in his deferential manner, a stark contrast to the brusque, slightly overbearing attitude he’d displayed at this morning’s meeting. It had irritated Sam a few times, but Katherine had dealt with him smoothly, and a partnership between them seemed to be only a matter of time. At least, in Katherine’s opinion. Sam, on the other hand, knew his uncle was still fighting to stay in the race.
And there stood Gil, all charm and smile as he faced Katherine. “A stunning price, Katherine. Congratulations.” He sounded exactly like a son, happy for her, but something told Sam that the bright gleam in his uncle’s eye came from jealousy rather than pride.
“Thank you, Gil.” As usual, she was gracious yet reserved with her estranged son. “I am certain your lot will acquit itself very well when it’s offered. The Cloisters ‘eighty-seven cabernet is quite good for a young wine.
Gil stiffened slightly at the condescending compliment. “Perhaps one day you will agree to submit your ‘eighty-seven vintage in a blind tasting with mine, and we’ll see which one comes out on top.”
Katherine drew her head back. “I would never do that to you, Gil.”
Color stained Gil’s cheeks. Katherine had not only parried his challenge but delivered a killing thrust in the process. She had sounded sincere in her desire not to engage in a head-on confrontation with her son, and thus spare him the humiliation of losing to her, but Sam didn’t even try to guess whether that was really her motivation.
Gil managed to choke back his anger and force a smile. “No one wins all the time, Katherine. Not even you.” With commendable aplomb, he moved off, toward the bar.
Sam joined her. “I don’t think that was very wise.”
“Perhaps not, but it was necessary,” she replied coolly, then beamed a smile at Hugh Townsend. “Mr. Townsend, you are the one to blame for this embarrassment of attention.”
“Richly deserved attention, Madam.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “’Like the best wine that goeth down sweetly,’ if the auction ended at this moment, it would be a huge success – thanks to you.”
She didn’t dispute his extravagant claim, nor did she acknowledge it. Instead, she asked, “Is your young friend Miss Douglas here this evening? I remembered a Zachary Douglas owns a vineyard in the valley’s Carneros district and I wondered if she might be related to him.
“I don’t think Kelly has any relatives in California. I’m sorry you won’t have the opportunity to ask her. She had a broadcast to do tonight.” He gl
anced at his watch. “In fact, she’s probably still at the studio, wrapping things up before heading home.”
“Six days a week. I hadn’t realized she had such a grueling schedule,” Katherine remarked, an eyebrow arching in faint surprise.
“The glamour of television,” Hugh replied dryly.
“I do hope all that glamour doesn’t extend to Sunday,” Katherine responded, matching the dryness of his humor and tone. “Everyone needs an opportunity to rest.”
In Sam’s opinion, that was a strange remark coming from her. He’d never known her to have time for anything but the vineyards and winery. True, she had slowed down some in recent years. But rest still wasn’t a word he could associate with her.
After chatting a few more minutes, Townsend excused himself and moved on. Sam let his gaze scan the throng of guests – elegant people in elegant clothes having elegant conversations. He had been raised in this environment, moving as freely through it as he did the vineyards. But tonight he was bored, and edgy.
He spotted Gil near the bar, talking with the baron and his wife. Clay was with him. As usual, the whole of Clay’s attention was directed at Natalie Fougere. Sam watched, his mouth twisting in a smile. Last night Clay had made a play for Kelly Douglas; tonight he was using his wiles on the baroness, with more success, judging by the pleased glow in her expression.
“What do women see in him?” Sam didn’t realize he had voiced the question until Katherine answered.
“What they want to see.” The hint of bitterness, of anger in her voice, the impression that she was speaking from experience, drew his glance. “A man who could end the loneliness, someone to fill the emptiness of their existence with all the richness of those feelings for which the human spirit was created. When the color goes out of a woman’s life and the romance shrivels, she hungers to be important to someone again. Hungry, she dreams.” Her gaze was fixed on the couple across the room, but Sam wasn’t sure it was the baroness and Clay she was seeing. “When a man comes along and pays attention to her, feeding that hunger, she believes – because she wants to believe, because she wants her dream to be real. She refuses to consider that his only desire may be to take advantage of her, that to him it is a cheap thing, because that would destroy her dream.”
