by Janet Dailey
Like Molly, Sam stared at Chance, not entirely convinced that he really meant to imply that. Chance swung away from the window, his glance briefly touching each of them as a wry smile tugged at his mouth.
“The thought has crossed my mind,” he admitted, as if amazed by it, too. “Is there any coffee left in that pot?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
It was obvious to Sam that she was practically bursting with questions about this woman who had managed to capture the heart of the man she loved like a son. For that matter, he was, too. In all the years he’d known Chance, he couldn’t remember him ever seriously contemplating marriage to anyone. He always said he was married to his work, that the company was the only mistress he needed. Sam always thought that if anyone got Chance to the altar, it would be Lucianna. His relationship with her went back a good fifteen years. Nothing lasted that long unless there was some strong feeling on both sides. So who was this Bennett woman?
“Get a fresh pot for us, Molly. I have some things I want to go over with Sam. And bring me the notes of the meeting with Garver as soon as you have them typed.” The decisive tone sounded more like the old Chance, the one who placed business first and everything else a distant second.
Molly heard it, too, and reluctantly smothered her curiosity. “Right away.”
As she left the office, carrying the tray and her stenopad, Chance turned to him and gestured at the roll of blueprints in his hands. “Is that the set Garver left with us?”
“Yes.” Sam nodded, unable to make the lightning switch in conversation. “Chance, were you serious a minute ago about this girl in San Francisco?”
“Woman,” he corrected. “Woman, Sam. Intelligent, sensitive, warm…” He paused, his expression taking on a faintly rueful look. “I can’t seem to stop thinking about her. And no woman has ever intruded on business before.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“I don’t know.” He seemed reluctant to go that far. “I only know I keep remembering what it was like being with her. Not just being in bed with her, but being with her.” This time the shake of his head was more definite as if trying to rid his mind of the memory of her, at least temporarily. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Unroll the site map. I want to see where Garver thinks the shoreline will be once the lake forms behind the dam.”
Sam spread the sheet with the site drawn to scale on the table, anchoring two of the ends down with the sugar bowl and creamer Molly had left. “It hasn’t changed much from his original drawing, except maybe over here on the north side where the water-line doesn’t come up as high on the bluff as he first estimated. Otherwise, it’s the same as before—with virtually all of Morgan’s Walk under water.” Including the house, but Sam didn’t say that.
“That bluff area shouldn’t have much effect on Delaney’s master plan of the project,” Chance remarked, barely looking up from his study of the site drawing as Molly reentered his office with an insulated pot of fresh coffee. “All the same, you’d better make a copy of this and send it over to his office,” he said, referring to the architect and land planner on the proposed resort complex. Then he tapped a finger on the northwest corner of the manmade lake. “We’re definitely going to need the Ferguson property. What’s the status on it? Have they agreed to an option yet?”
“They insist they won’t sell—at any price. Their son’s farming the land for them now and they plan on turning all of it over to him and moving into town this next year. It’s the same story with the MacAndrews place.”
“Who holds the mortgages on their farms?”
“One of the savings and loan companies, I can’t remember which one right now. I’d have to check the reports.”
“Buy the mortgages.”
“Chance, we’re probably talking somewhere in the neighborhood of a half a million dollars to do that,” Sam protested.
“We need those parcels. We’d pay more than that if we could buy them outright.”
“That’s not the point,” Sam hesitated. “Chance, you have to be realistic. Right now—the way things stand—we can’t even be sure you’re going to get Morgan’s Walk. And without it, we can’t build the dam—and without the dam, we don’t have a lake—and without the lake…Let’s face it, without Morgan’s Walk, we don’t have a project. We’ve spent all this money on adjoining land, site plans, and designs for nothing.”
“We’ll get Morgan’s Walk. One way or another.”
“I know you keep saying that—and you’re probably right. But don’t you think it would be wise if we waited at least until Matt tracks down this new heir of Hattie’s before we invest any more cash in the project? We’ve got a ton of money tied up in it now.”
“You’re getting conservative on me again, Sam,” Chance chided.
“Dammit, somebody has to around here.”
“Buy the mortgages, Sam, and stop worrying about Morgan’s Walk.”
“Stop worrying, he says,” he muttered, catching Molly’s eye and shaking his head.
“If Chance says not to worry, then you shouldn’t.” Molly was prepared to expand on that thought, but she was interrupted by the long beep of the telephone. Automatically she turned to the extension sitting on the rosewood credenza next to the conference table. “Mr. Stuart’s office,” she said, once again assuming that crisp, professional air. Then her glance flashed to Chance, a sudden high alertness entering her expression. “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.” She pushed the hold button and extended the receiver toward Chance. “It’s Maxine. She says she needs to talk to you.”
His head came up sharply at the mention of the housekeeper from Morgan’s Walk. In two quick strides, he was at Molly’s side, taking the phone from her.
“Hello, Max. How are you?”
“Truthfully? There are times I’d like to strangle her. She’s been impossible to live with lately.”
“What happened?” He knew something had or she wouldn’t risk a call.
“I overheard a telephone conversation she had with some woman she called Margaret Rose. It has to be the one, because she was talking about sending copies of documents that prove they’re related.”
“Just Margaret Rose. That’s all?”
“Yes.” A sigh of regret came over the line. “If she used a last name, I didn’t hear it.”
“When was this?”
“Last Sunday. I would have called sooner, but she’s been watching me like a hawk. Every time I came up with a reason to come into town, she sent somebody else. Finally I had to break my reading glasses. That’s where I am now—at the optical company getting them fixed.”
“When the time comes that I can, I’ll make all this right, Max,” he promised.
“Whether you do or don’t doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this for any reward, Chance. I’m doing it because Morgan’s Walk should rightfully go to you when she passes on—not to some stranger in California. It’s what your mother would have wanted—God rest her soul. Hattie’s just doing this to be mean and spiteful. Of course, she always was that, but it’s gotten worse lately.”
“How is she?”
“She’s in a lot of pain all the time now. She tries not to let on, but I can tell. I think she’s forgotten I was a registered nurse long before I was a housekeeper. Knowing what she’s going through, sometimes I can’t help feeling sorry for her. I’m convinced that half of what she’s doing now is because she’s crazy with the pain. She’s like a mortally wounded animal, wanting to take something with her when she goes.”
“With your help, maybe she won’t succeed.”
“I hope not.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Nooo.” She dragged out the word, as if none too certain of that. “She did make another call after she’d talked to this Margaret Rose woman. Probably to Ben Canon, although I don’t know that for sure.”
“Why do you think it was Canon?”
“Because he came to the house later that afternoon. When I ans
wered the door, he said she was expecting him.”
“Do you know why he was there?”
There was a pause before she answered, “I think it was to have a new will signed. I know they called old Charlie Rainwater and Shorty Thompson into the library, probably to witness it. I asked them later, but those two are so closemouthed I couldn’t get anything out of them other than a grunt.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” he admitted grimly. “If anything, I thought she would have had a new will drawn up right after she learned about this Margaret Rose.”
“I thought you would probably anticipate that,” she said, then paused again. “I’d better hang up. She sent Charlie into town with me. He could walk in any minute and I’d rather he didn’t see me on the phone.”
“You take care of yourself, Max—and thanks for the information.”
“You know I’ll help any way I can. Be good, Chance.”
“I will.” He hung up.
“Hattie’s made a new will, has she?” Sam remarked in a grimly troubled voice.
“Yes.” Chance turned to look at him thoughtfully, then glanced sideways at Molly. “Get Matt Sawyer on the phone for me,” he directed, then commented idly, “At least we have a first name to give him. I wonder how many women named Margaret Rose there are in the San Francisco area—specifically ones with a residential phone. A computer search of the phone company’s records should be able to provide us with such a list.”
14
Copies of birth certificates, baptismal records, marriage licenses, church registers, obituary notices, death certificates—they were all there—spread across her desk top. In between bites of the seafood salad she’d order from a local deli, Flame checked the names against the ones that appeared on the ancestral chart Hattie had included in the packet of documents. Although she hadn’t had time to verify everyone, the evidence seemed irrefutable. She and Hattie Morgan were related, albeit distantly.
A quick rap on the door pulled her attention from the papers on her desk. “Yes?”
Almost immediately the door opened and the blond-haired Debbie Connors stepped inside, her look anxious and agitated. “I’m sorry, Flame, but Mr. Powell’s outside. He wants to see you. I didn’t know what to tell him.” The words tumbled from her in a rush.
“He’s here?” Flame questioned, as stunned as her assistant was.
“Yes, I—” The door behind her started to move, pushing Debbie along with it. She stepped hastily out of the way as Malcom Powell walked through the opening.
Flame rose from her chair, unsure what to make of this unexpected visit. Surely he had to know that by coming here, the mountain had moved. “Malcom,” she said in greeting, then added coolly, “you should have let me know you were coming.”
He paused in the middle of the room. A hand-tailored gray suit, the same iron-dark shade as his hair, smoothly fit over his powerfully built chest.
“I see I’ve interrupted you in the middle of a late lunch,” he observed, his sharp eyes flicking a glance to the partially eaten salad on her desk.
“I’m finished.” In truth, her appetite had fled when he walked in the door. She picked up the salad container along with its plastic flatware and paper napkin and deposited them in her wastebasket. When she turned back to Malcom, Flame caught Debbie’s frantic what-do-you-want-me-to-do-look. “That will be all, Debbie. Let me know when Tim Herrington arrives.”
“The instant he comes,” she promised and hurried out the door, this time closing it tightly behind her.
“This is the first time I’ve ever been in your office,” Malcom remarked, looking around him with curious interest, his glance skimming over the white lacquered desk and attendant chairs, upholstered in a textured fabric of pale cerulean blue, and lingering on the abstract painting behind her desk, the Art Deco sculpture on the occasional table, and a set of needlepoint pillows in a geometric design on the small sofa.
“What did you want to see me about, Malcom?” She could think of only one reason for his unannounced visit as she gathered together the documents on her desk and slipped them back into their manila envelope.
He walked over to the window. “I almost called and had Arthur pick you up. Then I thought better of it.” He stood with his hands clasped behind his back in a pensive pose. “After our luncheon last Tuesday, I had a feeling you wouldn’t react well to such a summons. You would have come, but only because you felt you had no choice. You would have resented that. And it isn’t resentment I want from you.”
Flame very carefully avoided asking him what he did want. She knew the answer to that. She always had. Remaining by her desk, she waited for him to continue, a fine tension threading through her nerves and matching the slow simmer of her anger.
“I think you should know where I stand, Flame. The Powell account is yours as long as it is handled satisfactorily. I won’t hold it over your head.”
Provoked by the tone of largess in his remark, she challenged, “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”
He half-turned to look at her. “You should,” he said, his eyes defiantly narrowed in their penetrating study of her. “Those were brave words you said last Tuesday, but that’s all they were. I know you won’t admit it, but I could use the account to get what I want from you.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she snapped.
Malcom merely smiled. “I don’t think you realize just how vulnerable you are to that type of pressure.” Then he shrugged, dismissing it. “But it won’t be applied. A victory under those circumstances would be hollow indeed. Which is not to say I’m giving up,” he inserted quickly, a subtle warning contained in the firm advisory. “I’m only saying that when you come to me, it will be of your own free will.”
Ignoring his latter statement, Flame tilted her head at an aggressive angle and demanded, “Does that mean you’ll be calling off your bloodhound?”
“I beg your pardon.” He turned the rest of the way around, his eyebrows lowering to form a thick bushy line that hooded his eyes.
“You amaze me, Malcom,” Flame murmured with a touch of sarcasm.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the man who’s been following me for the last week, the one you hired,” she retorted, her anger showing, although tightly controlled.
“I didn’t hire anyone to follow you. Why should I?”
Both his denial and confusion seemed genuine. She frowned. “Either you have acting talents you haven’t used—or you’re telling the truth.”
“It is the truth,” he insisted. “Who’s following you and why?”
She hesitated, still watching him closely. “A man. I saw him for the first time at the Deborgs’ party for Lucianna Colton. He was a waiter, in his middle to late forties with brown hair and a large, hooked nose. He drives a dark green sedan, a late model Ford.” There was nothing in his expression to indicate the description meant anything to him. “And twice he’s passed on messages warning me to stay away from Chance Stuart. I assumed…you were behind them. But you weren’t, were you?”
“No.” His gaze narrowed on her sharply. “Have you been seeing a great deal of Stuart?”
“When he’s been in town, yes,” she admitted.
“Are you serious about him?” A muscle flexed visibly along his strong, square jaw.
She waited for a twinge of doubt to come, but none did. “Very serious,” she stated, amazed by the buoyantly content feelings within that had surfaced with the admission.
Malcom paused, then laughed abruptly. “My God, I didn’t realize I could still feel jealousy.” A slight frown creased his forehead as he gazed at her in thoughtful study. “I don’t know why that should surprise me. With you, it’s always been different. Perhaps, in the beginning it was the chase and the conquest that appealed to me, but that changed long—”
“Stop it, Malcom,” she warned.
He looked at the sparkle of temper in her eyes and smiled. “You excite me the way no other woma
n has—including my wife.”
“I don’t care, Malcom! Your feelings are a problem you’ll have to deal with—not me. I am not going to be the solution to them.” She struggled to keep her voice down and her temper in check.
Moving away from the window, Malcom crossed to the side of her desk, that aura of power emanating from him and reminding her that he was a force to be reckoned with. She faced him squarely, conscious of the possessive look in his eyes and the slow skim of his gaze as it traveled the length of her.
“Stuart’s not the man for you,” he announced.
Infuriated by his arrogant assertion, she snapped, “That’s for me to decide!”
“Right now your eyes are filled with him. But it won’t last. You’ll come to me…in time.”
Momentarily shaken by the certainty in his voice, she fought to dispel it. “You have forgotten one very important detail, Malcom. Whether Chance Stuart is in my life or not, my answer to you would be the same as it’s always been—no.”
He didn’t like her answer, but a knock at her door checked his reply. Aware that anger had flushed her cheeks, Flame turned, welcoming the interruption as Tim Herrington, the head of the agency’s San Francisco branch, walked in.
“Sorry to bother you, Flame,” he began, then paused in feigned surprise when he saw Malcom Powell. “Malcom, I didn’t realize you were here.” He crossed the room, a hand outstretched in hearty greeting, his eyes big and dark behind the bottle-thick lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, Tim. How are you?” Malcom responded perfunctorily.
“Fine, just fine. And you? No problems, I hope.” His glance ran to Flame as if addressing the remark to her, concerned that there might be trouble with the agency’s biggest client.
“None at all,” Malcom assured him.
“Good.” He seemed to visibly relax, the falseness of his wide smile diminishing.
The two of them chatted about business in general a few minutes longer, then Malcom brought the conversation to a close. “You’ll have to excuse me, Tim, I have another appointment.” He looked at Flame. “We’ll have lunch next week. I’ll have my secretary call and let you know the day,” he said, taking it for granted that she would make room on her schedule to accommodate him. Which, of course, she would.
