by Janet Dailey
Chance’s gaze ran briefly to Flame. “You will excuse me.”
“Of course,” she said, with just a hint of regret in her smile.
With a nod, he signaled to the waiter to lead the way. As they set out, Chance tried to think who would be calling him—especially here. He hadn’t left word where he could be reached when he’d left the hotel. But Sam could have tracked him down.
Sam Weber carried the title of senior vice-president in the Stuart Corporation, but his role was much larger than even the title implied. Sam Weber was his right arm, his detail man, his backup—just as he’d been when they’d served together in Nam, then later in college and finally in business. Chance made the deals and Sam pulled the loose ends together.
It had to be Sam calling him. But if it was Sam, then something had gone wrong.
The waiter halted short of the hall’s square arch and gestured at the contemporary side table standing against the wall to the right of the room’s entrance. “The telephone, sir.”
Chance immediately spotted the brown receiver lying on the table next to the telephone and nodded briefly to the waiter. Dodging the overhanging boughs of the bittersweet branches that sprouted from the celadon vase in the center of the room, he walked over and picked up the receiver. “Hello—”
Before he could identify himself, a voice on the other end of the line broke in. “It certainly took you long enough, Stuart.”
Chance stiffened, instantly recognizing that distinctive, raspy-edged voice that carried both the sound and the sting of whiskey, its tone as critical and malevolent as always. “How are you, Hattie?” he murmured tightly, feeling the old slow burn of anger and bitter resentment. He had stopped calling her Aunt Hattie nearly thirty years ago.
“Obviously still alive,” came the challenging retort. Without any effort, he had a mental picture of her standing before him, gnarled fingers clutching the gold head of her cane, black eyes gleaming with hatred, white hair curling about a face lined by years of embitterment. Not once could he remember Hattie smiling at him—or even looking at him with anything that passed for approval. “I’m at your hotel,” she announced. “I’ll expect you here in precisely thirty minutes.”
The imperious demand was followed by a sharp click as the line went dead. For an instant, Chance remained motionless, frozen by the icy rage that swept through him. Then he quickly hit the telephone’s disconnect switch, listened for the dial tone, and punched the numbers to Sam’s private line.
The call was answered on the first ring. “Yeah, this is Sam. What have you got?”
“Sam, it’s Chance.”
“Chance.” The surprise in his voice was obvious. “I was going to try to reach you as soon as I heard from—”
“Hattie just called me. She’s here in San Francisco.”
“So that’s where she went,” Sam murmured, the familiar loud squeak of his office chair coming over the line as he leaned back in it.
“What’s going on out there?” Chance demanded.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam replied, then sighed heavily. “I know she had a meeting with old Ben Canon this morning. She was closeted in his law office for about two hours. When her driver came to pick her up and take her back to Morgan’s Walk, he was told she’d taken a cab to the airport. We’ve been checking the passenger lists of every flight that went out of Tulsa today.” There was a slight pause. “I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“How did she know where I am?” Chance frowned, giving voice to the questions going around in his head. “And—why would she want to see me?”
“And what’s her meeting with Canon got to do with this trip?” Sam added. “Chance, I don’t like the sound of it. I’d like to believe that maybe she finally wants to make peace, but I can’t buy it.”
“Neither can I.” A grimness settled through him. “It could be Canon found out that I own the holding company that just bought up the Turner land.”
“It would take a corporate genius to unravel that ownership and trace it back to you. Ben’s shrewd, but his knowledge of corporate law is as antiquated as he is.”
Chance couldn’t disagree with that. “There’s no point in speculating why she’s here. I’ll know firsthand in another twenty-five minutes,” he said, checking his watch.
“Call me back as soon as you can.”
“I will.”
Hearing the click on the other end that signaled the breaking of the connection, Sam Weber slowly returned the receiver to its cradle, then leaned back in his swivel chair, ignoring its protesting squeak as he rubbed a hand across his mouth in troubled thoughtfulness.
“Well…where is she?”
Startled by the prodding question, he shot a glance at the apple-cheeked woman seated across the desk from him. For an instant, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone. A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth as he realized that he could always count on Molly Malone, Chance’s executive secretary and staunchest supporter, to remind him otherwise.
With a shift of his weight, Sam tipped the chair forward and lowered his hand. “In San Francisco.”
“What? Why?” A rare scowl marred features that were inherently jovial in expression. Not that Sam had ever been fooled by her plump and jolly look. Behind those spaniel brown eyes was a mind as keen as a newly stropped razor. There were few who could ever put anything over on Molly. If she had any blind spot, it was Chance. She doted on him like a mother—and frequently pointed with pride to the strands of gray in her nut-brown hair, claiming that he had given her every one of them. “What’s she doing there?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Sam pushed a wayward lock of his sandy hair off his forehead, combing it back with his fingers. But, like the rest of his cowlicks, it refused to be tamed and quickly fell back. “She called Chance and said she wanted to meet with him. He’s on his way to see her now.”
“That—I hesitate to even call that mean old biddy a woman. It’s an insult to my gender,” Molly declared huffily. “But you mark my words, she’s up to something.”
“I agree.” Absently, he gazed at the framed photographs of his wife and children that cluttered his desk. “But what?”
Shortly after Chance left, Ellery strolled back. “I’m not going to ask if you missed me. I noticed you had company. Could it be that the inimitable Chance Stuart is responsible for the glow you’re now wearing?” he murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Talk about ‘only having eyes for each other.’”
“Must you always exaggerate, Ellery?” In truth she did feel passionately alive, but she hadn’t realized it showed.
“Was I? You mean you weren’t at all attracted to him?”
“Will you stop trying to put words in my mouth—my impossible friend!” Flame demanded with affection. “I found him very fascinating and, at the moment, that’s all there is to it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Smiling, Flame tried to keep an eye on the entrance to the sitting room, certain Chance would be returning any minute.
But her view of the archway was unexpectedly blocked by Lucianna Colton when she emerged from the Garden Room, surrounded by her coterie of admirers. She paused, looking about the room as if trying to locate someone. “I know Chance was here only a moment ago,” she declared to no one in particular, then swung around to face Flame, her dark eyes piercing despite the smile on her lips. “Wasn’t he talking to you a moment ago?”
Before Flame could say that he’d been called to the phone, Chance appeared in the doorway. “There he is, Lucianna.” Pamela DeBorg drew the soprano’s attention away from Flame.
His moving glance sought her out, lingered briefly, then shifted to Lucianna as she crossed the room to meet him. Reluctantly, Flame watched as Chance maneuvered Lucianna away from the others and spoke to her privately. She stared at the two dark heads bent so closely together. Lucianna smiled and nodded agreement to something Chance said, then reached up and lightly stroked he
r fingers down his strong jaw—as if it was her right.
When the couple rejoined the other guests, his hand moved across Lucianna’s back-plunging gown and hooked itself to the side of her waist with the ease of long familiarity. Seeing that, Flame wondered if he’d meant any of what he’d said to her. Maybe it had all been a game to him, a way to pass the time. She didn’t want to believe that, yet it seemed all too possible now. Perhaps her ego deserved it. There was one certainty, however, the pleasure she’d felt earlier was gone.
Dimly she heard them offer parting comments to their hosts. When someone protested that it was much too early for them to leave, Chance replied, “For you, perhaps, but you have to remember Lucianna is still on New York time. She has rehearsals tomorrow. And I know her. If she stays much longer, she’ll talk herself hoarse. We can’t have that.”
There was one moment before they left when his eyes briefly locked with hers. But this time, Flame wasn’t so foolish as to read something significant into it.
She drank the last of her wine and set the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. As she started to turn to Ellery, she noticed Diedre Powell looking her way. No doubt Malcom was somewhere in the vicinity, she thought, and sighed inwardly.
“Let’s leave, shall we. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” Oddly enough, it was true. She felt drained, physically and emotionally.
Ellery seemed about to make one of his cuttingly astute observations, then appeared to think better of it. “Yes, it has been a long day,” he agreed. “Why don’t you make our apologies to the DeBorgs while I get the car.”
“All right,” she smiled, a trace of weariness showing.
“I’ll pick you up in the front of the building in, say…” He turned back the cuff of his jacket sleeve to look at his watch, then hesitated, his glance darting to something on the floor near her feet. “Is that slip of paper yours?”
“What paper?” Flame stepped back as Ellery reached down and picked up the square of paper folded neatly in half.
He flipped it open. “How cryptic,” he murmured, an eyebrow arching.
“What is it?”
He hesitated, then handed it to her. “Perhaps it is yours after all.”
“Now who’s being cryptic?” she chided, then looked at the paper, tensing when she read the hastily scrawled message inside: Stay away from him!
“Short and sweet, isn’t it?” Ellery murmured.
“Very,” Flame agreed tightly and shot a sharp glance in Diedre Powell’s direction. Yet it seemed too childish, even for her. But if not her, then who?
“I’m sorry.” Concern darkened Ellery’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have let you see it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She closed her fingers around the paper, crumpling it into the palm of her hand. “Sticks and stones, Ellery, sticks and stone.”
“Of course.”
But both knew it was a child’s cry. An adult knew better.
3
As the limousine pulled away from the curb, Chance gazed at the mist swirling outside the tinted windows and continued to puzzle over Hattie’s unexpected arrival. There was no logical reason for her to fly halfway across the continent. It wasn’t to see him. The Hattie Morgan he knew would rather see him in hell first.
A soft sigh was followed by a stir of movement next to him as Lucianna settled back against the plush velour seat. “I’m glad we were able to slip away from the party early, Chance.” She reached for his hand, sliding her palm over his and lacing their fingers together. “Those affairs can be so tiring.”
“Especially the endless compliments.” He sent her an amused look.
“Not that.” She poked at his arm in playful punishment. “That’s the one part I like.”
“That’s what I thought, my prima donna.”
She smiled and let that go, her expression turning thoughtful as she tilted her head back, resting it against the seat and exposing the long, creamy arch of her throat. “It’s playing the role of the prima donna that’s so tiring sometimes. You not only have to dress the part, but you must act it too—always pleasant, always smiling, pretending to be friendly, but never too friendly or you’ll lose your mystique. But above all, a prima donna must be aloof to criticism. You have to smile and never let them see how it cuts you.”
“You do it well.” Chance studied the mask of self-assurance and confidence that had become a permanent part of her. There was little resemblance between the woman beside him and the hillbilly girl from the mountains of Arkansas he’d met for the first time fifteen years ago singing in a smoky piano bar—the same girl whose pastor once claimed was an angel singing in his church choir. But she’d left all that behind long ago—along with the thick rural accent and the unglamorous name of Lucy Kowalski. Today few would guess at her background—as few guessed at his.
“Truthfully—” Sighing, she kicked off her satin pumps dyed to match the scarlet of her dress. “—I’m tired of smiling. I don’t know which aches more—my cheeks or my feet.” She turned her head to look at him, a coy appeal in her dark eyes. “Will you rub them for me?”
“Your cheeks?” Chance smiled, deliberately misunderstanding.
“What a stimulating thought, darling.” She slipped her hand free and lightly stroked his cheek. “Why don’t you start with my feet and work your way up?” she suggested and curled her legs under her to kneel on the seat cushion facing him. “That’s what you used to do. Remember?”
“You never let me forget.” But he didn’t object as she shifted to recline lengthwise on the passenger seat and rested a stockinged foot on his thigh. Automatically he cupped his hands around it and began gently kneading its sole and running his thumb along its arch.
A low moan of pleasure came from her throat. “Mmmm, that feels so good, Chance.” He smiled and said nothing. For minutes there was only silence. Then Lucianna murmured, “Was it nine or ten years ago that you pulled off your first really important deal—the one that netted you more than a million dollars?”
“Nearly ten.” He lifted her foot off his thigh and placed it on the seat. Obligingly she raised her other foot for him to rub.
“I tried to be happy for you. In a way, I was.” Her shoulders lifted in a vague shrug. “But I hated you, too. You were succeeding and I wasn’t.”
“I know.” They’d gone their separate ways after that. No longer lovers, and jealousy straining even their friendship.
“Now I’ve made it, too.” Satisfaction riddled her voice. “Chauffeured limousines, sable coats, designer gowns, my own personal hairdresser, everything first class—all the accoutrements of success are mine. I’m thirty-five years old. Thankfully, that’s young for an opera singer. My voice will be good for another fifteen years—longer if I’m careful. But, do you know what’s funny, Chance? I have everything I’ve ever wanted, yet, being with you again, I realize how lonely I’ve been.”
“Lonely?” He arched her a skeptical look. “With your traveling entourage of maids, hairdressers, and accompanists? Impossible.”
“It’s true. I’m not close to them like I am to you. We should get married, Chance.”
His thumb paused in midstroke halfway down her foot. Then he ran it the rest of the way to her heel. “And do what? Meet each other in airports? You know how much I travel. And you said you were booked for—what?—over a hundred performances next year alone. That wouldn’t be much of a marriage, would it?”
“But don’t you see, Chance, you understand how much this means to me. If I married anyone else, he would object to all the traveling I have to do. Maybe not in the beginning, but in time he would. I’ve seen it happen with too many other singers, male or female. But you wouldn’t mind. You have to admit, Chance, that we are good for each other.”
“You don’t really want to marry me, Lucianna.” But he understood what she meant. Over the years they had become comfortable with each other—the way two old friends could be. They slipped in and out of the roles of lovers because it wa
s easy. He knew he could find comfort and affection in her arms—with no demands from her, no strings, no expectations to be fulfilled. “We know each other too well.”
“Is that bad?” she chided. Yet the very absence of any hurt in her voice proved to him that he was right in what he said. “We are a lot alike, you and I.”
“Be honest, Lucianna. Do you really want a husband who knew you when you were Lucy Kowalski, a nobody from nowhere with only pride and ambition to her name. We both started at the bottom and clawed our way to the top. We aren’t the same people anymore. We’ve put all that behind us. I don’t want to be reminded of it every morning. I don’t think you do either.”
“I couldn’t stand it.” Her voice vibrated with feeling as she turned her head away, presenting him with the power of her profile. “Although, it did sound like a good idea,” she added, a little wistfully.
Looking at her and feeling the ease of friendship, he thought of Flame, the intriguing green of her eyes, the sculptured bones of her face, and the aloof calm of self-control; but, beneath, was an untapped well of emotion. She was a woman of strong will, perhaps even stronger than his own. That alone was a challenge to him, but that alone didn’t explain her attraction for him, an attraction that had something to do with the awareness that lay between them. The few minutes he’d spent with her, she’d stimulated more than his desire.
Then he’d gotten the phone call from Hattie. What the hell did she want? A troubled frown darkened his expression.
The limousine made a wide turn into the private cul-de-sac of the hotel’s entrance, its headlights piercing the wispy white fog. Roused from his thoughts, Chance gave Lucianna’s silk-clad foot one last kneading squeeze and swung it off his leg. “Better put your shoes on. We’re here.”
“Must I?” Again there was that petulant note in her voice, but when Lucianna stepped from the limousine, her feet were once again wedged in red pumps.
Their individual suites were located on opposite ends of the same floor. When they emerged from the elevator, Lucianna paused, angling her body toward him and idly running her fingers up the edge of his jacket lapel, her dark eyes bold with invitation. “This business meeting of yours can’t take much more than an hour, can it? I have a magnum of Taittinger’s chilling in my room.”
