by Janet Dailey
“Then you aren’t looking for more property?”
“I’m not here for that purpose, but I’m always looking.” He absently swirled the Chivas in his glass, listening to the melodic clink of the ice cubes against the crystal sides. “If you were on vacation and a hot story landed in your lap, would you ignore it?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Need I say more?” He lifted the glass to his mouth and tipped it, letting the cold scotch trickle and burn down his throat.
“You’ve known Miss Colton for some time, haven’t you?”
“A long time, yes.” He lowered the tumbler, his glance automatically straying to the stunning redhead across the room. She had stirred his interest from the moment she’d walked into the room with a stride that had in it the faintest hint of a swagger, with quick rhythm that synchronized and turned graceful the supple movement of her body. And her shoulders, wide and straight, had been presented squarely in a manner that flaunted her serene confidence. She was a woman all the way through—all lace and legs.
“Would it be safe to guess that your on-again, off-again romance with Miss Colton is back on again?” the columnist queried slyly.
“I hate to disillusion you, Jacqui, but all this on-and-off business is the product of your profession. Over the years, our relationship has never changed.”
“I suppose you’re going to try to convince me that you’re just good friends.” She openly mocked the cliché.
“It doesn’t make good press, does it?”
“Not if it’s true.”
Ignoring that, Chance raised his glass and gestured toward the far side of the room. “Isn’t that Malcom Powell?”
All the photographs he’d seen of the august lion of the retail world had depicted a somewhat stout and stern man. In person, he had a commanding presence, physically vigorous and trim despite that barrel chest.
“Yes, that’s Malcom,” the Van Cleeve woman confirmed. “Truthfully, I didn’t expect to see him here. Diedre told me that he’d returned from a business trip only last night.”
“Diedre?” He arched her a questioning look.
“His wife.”
“Is that her?” His gaze sharpened on the pair, irritation flickering through him.
“No, that’s Flame—Flame Bennett.” During the brief pause that followed, Chance could feel the columnist carefully monitoring his reaction. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Definitely.” He continued to lounge against the wall, for the moment content to enjoy his unobstructed view of the woman so aptly named Flame, conscious of the hot, smooth feeling that flowed through him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about her?” The instant the faintly challenging question came out of Jacqui Van Cleeve’s mouth, Chance knew she’d give him a complete rundown on Flame Bennett. She made it her business to collect every scrap of information—whether rumor or fact—on every person remotely important. And when a person had that much information, they could never resist sharing it.
“I was always told it wasn’t polite for a gentleman to ask questions about a lady,” he countered smoothly.
Her short laugh had a harsh and grating ring to it. “I have heard you accused of many things, Chance Stuart, but being a gentleman was never one of them. Granted, you have all the manners, the polish, the clothes of one, but proper, you’re not. You’re too damned daring. Nobody’s sure what you’re going to do next and you move too fast. That’s why you make such excellent copy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Again he felt the speculation in her study of him. “It will be interesting to see how you fare with Flame.”
“Why do you say that?” He glanced at her curiously.
“Because…she’s a woman of such contrasts.” Her attention swung away from him, centering on the subject of their discussion. “She can be as fiery as the red of her hair—or as cool as the green of her eyes—and that quickly, too. I suppose that’s part of the fatal attraction she has for men. You always see them fluttering around her like moths. She lets them get only so close and no closer.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, but no man seems to last with her. It isn’t even a case of off with the old and on with the new. No one sticks around long enough to be old. But there again you have the contrast. These romantic flings of hers are too few and far between. Therefore, you can’t call her wild. Her behavior is definitely unconventional.” After a fractional hesitation, she added, “Of course she was married briefly about nine years ago. Supposedly, it was one of those young marriages that simply didn’t work. At least that was the official line at the time.”
“And unofficially?”
“Truthfully? I never heard anything to make me think otherwise,” the Van Cleeve woman admitted. “A failed marriage has made more than one woman wary of trying again. It could be as simple as that or it could be her career.”
“What does she do?” Currently, careers were fashionable among socialites. But in his experience, Chance had found that the women were rarely more than dilettantes, dabbling in photography or modeling, owning art galleries, antique stores, or exclusive little dress shops invariably managed by someone else.
“Flame’s a vice-president with the Boland and Hayes advertising firm,” she replied, then added, “Of course, it’s common knowledge that she has to work for a living. Even though she comes from one of San Francisco’s founding families, there is little or no money left. No doubt a humbling experience, but I can assure you she’s never suffered any hardship as a result. Like anywhere else, it pays to know the right people.”
“Like Malcom Powell,” Chances guessed.
“She handles his advertising account personally. And—there’s been a lot of speculation lately about what else she might handle personally for him.”
He detected something in her voice that raised his suspicions: “You don’t believe it.”
“No,” she admitted. “By the same token, I don’t believe Diedre when she insists that Malcom takes a fatherly interest in Flame. But what else can a wife of thirty-five years say? Believe me, if a father eyed his daughter the way he does Flame, he’d be subject to arrest. He wants her, but he hasn’t had her.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“If Flame was having an affair with him, she wouldn’t try to hide it. It isn’t her style.” Jacqui frowned, as if aware she wasn’t making herself clear. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—if Flame cared enough to get involved with a married man, then she wouldn’t let herself feel any shame or guilt.”
“What about the other man with her? Is he her latest fling?”
“Ellery Dorn? Hardly.” She laughed, then explained. “Ellery is every married woman’s choice for a walker when her husband isn’t available. He’s handsome, witty, charming—and gay. Surprised?” She shot him a knowing glance. “Not to worry. Few people ever guess that about him. That’s what makes him so ideal.”
“Then he’s nothing more than a safe escort.” Mentally Chance filed that little piece of information away along with all the rest. The more he learned about Flame Bennett, the more intrigued he became.
“They’re good friends as well. As a matter of fact, Flame is probably closer to Ellery than anyone else. Of course, he’s a vice-president in the same agency, so I’m sure the fact they work together has something to do with that.”
“Probably.” With a little push of his shoulder, he straightened from the wall. “Speaking of walkers, Lucianna is bound to be wondering what happened to me. I enjoyed the chat, Jacqui.”
“So did I. And from now on, I’ll be watching your progress with more interest.”
“Not too closely, I hope.” He winked at her as he moved away.
2
Without being obvious, Flame watched as Chance Stuart leisurely wound his way through the guests. He was tall, taller than he’d first appeared. She found herself liking the way he moved, like an athlete, all smooth coordination and easy
grace. He certainly had the body of one, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, with lean, hard muscle in between.
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 th
e 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.”
