by Janet Dailey
Alone in her flat that evening, Flame again went through the sheaf of documents Hattie had sent her. When she came to the photocopy of her own birth certificate, she paused, her attention centering on her given name of Margaret Rose. A smile touched her lips, softly edging the corners. Her mother had been the only one who ever used that name. To everyone else, she’d always been Flame. But not her mother. Never her mother.
Her glance strayed to her purse lying open on the glass-topped occasional table next to her chair. She hesitated then reached inside and pulled out the small compact that had been a gift from her mother on her thirteenth birthday. A special occasion called for a special gift, her mother always said. And this one was special indeed. Done in cloisonné art, the design depicted a vase holding a bouquet of daisies and roses. Somewhere, sometime, her mother had read or heard that in French, Margaret meant daisy. At the time, her father had joked that the design should have been a candle with a tall flame, but her mother hadn’t found his remark all that humorous.
Flame suspected that her mother believed she would outgrow her nickname someday. Once—Flame couldn’t remember exactly when anymore—her mother had told her she’d picked the name Margaret Rose because it had a certain ring of pride and dignity about it that she liked. Of course, Flame had thought it sounded dreadfully old-fashioned and used to cringe whenever her mother called her Margaret Rose. Now no one ever did—no one, that is, except Hattie Morgan.
The telephone rang.
“Speak of the devil,” Flame murmured, as she reached for the phone. She cradled the receiver against her shoulder and slipped the compact back into her purse. “Yes, hello.”
“Flame? It’s Chance.”
“Chance, this is an unexpected pleasure.” She brought the phone a little closer, holding it with both hands.
“I hope so.” There was the suggestion of a smile in his voice. “I had a few minutes before I have to be at a meeting, so I thought I’d call and see if you have any plans for the weekend.”
“I hope I do—with you, that is.” She smiled, finding it impossible to play it coy with him. “Are you flying in?”
“Long enough to pick you up.”
“Where are we going?”
“That’s a secret.”
“That isn’t fair,” Flame protested, intrigued just the same. “How will I know what to pack? You have to give me some kind of clue. Will I need snow skis or a swimsuit?”
“A swimsuit. And maybe something simple for the evening and a light wrap.”
“Is that it?”
“You can fill in the blanks from there.”
“In that case, I’ll bring something lacy and black.” She smiled into the phone.
“Or you could opt for nothing at all,” Chance added suggestively, then said, “I’ll have a car pick you up at work at four o’clock. Is that all right?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“So will I.”
15
As the limousine drove onto the concrete apron, a fuel truck pulled away from a sleek, white Gulfstream jet, with the distinctive “S” logo of the Stuart Corporation emblazoned in gold on its fuselage. Flame spotted Chance almost immediately, standing next to the wing with one of the flight crew. There was a turning lift of his dark head when he heard the limousine. A high alertness held him motionless for a split second, then he said something to the stockily built man with him and moved away to meet the approaching limo.
He was at the door when she stepped out. Again, she felt the jolting impact of his blue-eyed glance, followed by the heady warmth of his mouth moving onto hers in a slow, claiming kiss. As he drew back, Flame gazed at the rakish angles of his face, so smooth and yet so rugged. She had wondered if she would experience the same rush of feeling when she saw him again or if a week’s separation would have changed that. It hadn’t. Her pulse was behaving just as erratically and that vague breathless feeling of excitement was still there. But those were physical reactions, easily identified. What was harder to name was the strong pull of emotion, that elated feeling of having come home—the one that had to fit under the heading of love.
The creases in his lean cheeks deepened, suggesting a smile even though there was little movement of his mouth. “Hello again.”
She was amazed at how much meaning could be conveyed in that soft murmured greeting. “Hello again,” she whispered back. She would have gladly gone back into his arms but his glance to the side reminded her they weren’t alone.
Half-turning, Flame saw the chauffeur as he lifted her two pieces of luggage from the trunk and handed them to a second man in a flight uniform, younger and slimmer than the first with a definitely Latin look.
“Juan Angel Cordero,” Chance identified the man for her, giving his name the full Spanish pronounciation. “But we call him Johnny Angel. He’ll be flying the right seat. Johnny, meet Flame Bennett.”
“Glad to have you aboard, Ms. Bennett,” he acknowledged in flawless English, his dark-eyed look warm with appreciation.
“Thank you.”
“And our pilot in command, Mick Donovan,” Chance said, directing her attention to the man walking up to them, the one he’d been talking to when she’d arrived. “Flame Bennett.”
“Hello, Captain.” She noticed immediately that his strong, broad features seemed to be permanently etched in calm, unruffled lines. He had the kind of face that inspired confidence, and the touch of premature gray in the sides of his close-cropped hair merely added to the image.
“Ms. Bennett.” A faint smile of welcome lifted the corners of his mouth, gentling the crisply pale blue of his eyes. “I just received the latest weather report. Looks like I can promise you a smooth flight.”
“To where?” she asked, her own curiosity about their destination resurfacing.
He hesitated, sliding a brief glance at Chance, then smiled. “To paradise, Ms. Bennett—Stuart style.”
“You still aren’t going to tell me where we’re going, are you, you devil!” She flashed a mildly accusing look at Chance.
“I’m saving it for a surprise.” He smiled back at her, then turned to the pilot. “Everything set?”
“As soon as Johnny gets Ms. Bennett’s luggage stowed, we’ll be ready to leave whenever you are.”
“Then let’s go.” His hand moved to the small of her back to guide her to the waiting jet.
As she turned, Flame thought she caught a glimpse of the hawk-faced man who’d been following her for the last ten days. She looked again at the man heading toward the office of the private aviation company. At this distance, she couldn’t be sure it was the same man, yet a feeling of unease ran through her. She had previously dismissed the man as an irritating annoyance, thinking Malcom was responsible for the tail. But he wasn’t. She had no idea now who was behind it. Maybe no one. The city had its share of crazies, and, for all she knew, this man could be one of them. And that possibility was a more frightening one.
When she got back, she’d have to do something about him, but not now. She didn’t want anything or anyone intruding on her weekend with Chance. She reminded herself that she couldn’t be sure it was even the same man. She could be seeing ghosts where none existed. After all, no dark green sedan had followed her to the airport. Of that, she was certain. Smiling, she walked with Chance to the jet’s stairway.
A certain amount of luxury was to be expected in a corporate aircraft, but Flame wasn’t prepared for the scale she found when she entered the stylishly appointed cabin. Leather suede in a pale ivory color covered the walls. The same shade was repeated in the upholstery on the swivel chairs, this time with the addition of threads of sea-foam green accented by French blue. The entire color scheme served to enhance the array of sculptures scattered through the cabin and invisibly secured, works of Brancusi, Giacometti, and Moore. The collection represented a veritable Who’s Who of twentieth-century sculptors. Yet there was no sense of being overpowered by it. Instead, the effect was one of restrained elegance.
&n
bsp; “Like it?” Chance was directly behind her, his hands warm on her arms, his breath stirring the edges of her hair.
“I love it. It has the feel of a…small sitting room in a private home—comfortable, beautiful, a place to relax and enjoy.”
“This is—for all intent and purposes—my second home,” he admitted. “If the truth was known, I probably spend more time in this one than I do at my house in Tulsa.” Behind them came the grinding hum of the steps being retracted, followed by the closing of the hatch door. “Sounds like we’d better take our seats,” Chance remarked. “Once Mick gets the green light, he doesn’t like to dawdle. After we’re airborne, I’ll take you on a tour of my home-away-from-home.”
“I’d like that.”
As good as his word, shortly after the jet leveled off at its flying altitude, Chance showed her through the aircraft. The interior design was a marvel of understated luxury, compactness, and high tech. Fine leather, the same creamy pale shade as the suede walls, covered a low coffee table that—at the push of a button—became a conference table. In addition to a full entertainment center, there was also a work station with a microcomputer that allowed Chance to transmit information to his Tulsa headquarters by modem and remain in constant touch with his business operation.
And the small galley, Chance informed her, was capable of serving a full-course meal for eight. The galley cabinets, covered in the same ivory leather as the tables in the main cabin, contained a complete setting of Italian china and silver, as well as an appropriate quantity of linen.
The powder room had the same combination of suede and leather with its accents of sea-foam green and French blue, plus a carpet of gold on the floor.
Last, Chance took her into the rear compartment, sectioned off from the galley and main salon area by a door. As she looked around the small executive compartment, Flame noticed a double-width closet built into the wall next to a leather-topped desk, also built in. Impelled by curiosity, she opened its doors. Inside, there were hanger after hanger holding men’s suits, sportcoats, blazers, and slacks.
“I keep a complete wardrobe on board,” Chance explained.
“How convenient.” She swung the doors closed, then turned to survey the plush sofa covered in a velvety fabric of French blue.
“It saves a lot of packing and unpacking,” he agreed dryly, then added, “The sofa makes into a double bed.”
“How very convenient,” Flame mocked suggestively, smiling as she rejoined him by the doorway.
“On international flights, it can be.” His gaze took on an intimately possessive look as he lifted his hands, tunneling them under her hair to lay on either side of her neck. “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you.”
The husky pitch of his voice made it easy for her to admit, “And I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you, too.”
As she tilted her head back, his mouth found hers with unerring accuracy. Instantly, Flame was conscious of the warm feeling that sprang to life inside her, a feeling he could arouse so expertly without their bodies even touching.
With obvious reluctance, he shifted his attention to the corner of her lips. “I should have arranged to make this a longer flight. We would have had time then to see if that bed could be put to a more satisfactory use than sleeping.”
“Does that mean we’re almost at our destination?” She slipped her hands inside his suit jacket and spread them over his shirt front, feeling the heat that emanated from his lean, hard body.
“We probably have another hour to go yet, maybe more,” he admitted, then forced himself to pull away, as if the temptation of her nearness was more than he could resist. “But after waiting a week to be with you again, I’m not interested in a quick romp. I want to take my time making love to you.”
“I admit a quick romp would merely be an appetizer,” Flame conceded, eyeing him with a playfully deliberate, seductive look. “But don’t you usually serve your guests an appetizer before you offer them the main course?”
“Yes, but I like everything served in one sitting.” His mouth slanted in a one-cornered smile.
Sighing, she lowered her gaze to his shirt front and slid her fingers under his silk tie to trace the line of buttons. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can get this plane to fly faster.”
“I wish.” He chuckled softly, bringing his hands down to capture hers by the wrists and end their tantalizing exploration.
“It never hurts to dream,” she said, offering no protest when he gently directed her back to the main salon area. Then recalling the hurt of previous lost illusions, she qualified that, “Almost never, anyway.”
“You have to dream,” Chance said. “Otherwise you’ll never have a dream come true.”
“Have your dreams come true?” she wondered curiously.
“Some of them have. I’m still working on others.”
“Such as?” she asked, trying to imagine what he might dream about.
“Getting this jet to fly faster.”
She laughed in full agreement.
16
The sun was riding low in the sky, setting fire to the clouds on the horizon, when the jet touched down at the private landing strip along the western coast of Mexico. That much Flame had guessed from the southerly route they’d taken from San Francisco, keeping the coastal mountains on their left and the Pacific Ocean on their right. Chance confirmed they were in Mexico but he wouldn’t enlighten her further.
Alongside the runway stood a small open-air building set amidst a stand of palm trees and rampant mounds of lavender bougainvillea. As the jet taxied onto the tarmac, Flame had a glimpse of the sign on what was obviously the terminal building. But the glimpse was too brief and her knowledge of Spanish too limited. She still didn’t know where they were. Not that it bothered her. On the contrary, this aura of mystery merely heightened her interest and added a further touch of excitement to her weekend away with Chance.
A car waited for them on the tarmac. On the driver’s door was the now familiar logo of the Stuart Corporation. In the time it took Flame and Chance to walk to the car, her luggage was transferred from the plane to the limousine’s trunk. Less than five minutes from the touchdown, they were driving away from the inland airport, following a paved road that wound over the mountain toward the ocean beyond.
As they approached a scenic overlook, Chance spoke to the driver in Spanish. Immediately the car slowed and pulled onto the graveled roadside, stopping well short of the viewpoint.
“Do you still want to know where we’re going?” Chance arched an eyebrow at her, his sidelong look glinting with faint challenge.
She sensed his desire to show her, a desire that seemed to be couched in a pride and a need to share. That, coupled with her own curiosity, made it easy for her to answer quickly. “Yes, yes, yes,” she declared, grinning back at him.
He helped her from the car, then led her to the edge of the overlook, his hand firmly hooked around the side of her waist, keeping her close to his side.
The Pacific sprawled before her, the slanting rays of the sun laying a long golden trail across it. At the end of the sun’s trail was a small bay surrounded by a dazzling blaze of gold that spread up the mountain slopes. Flame breathed in sharply at the sight, stunned by the discovery that the golden glitter came from the buildings stair-stepping the slopes in tier after tier. Here and there, she saw ruby splashes of cascading red flowers and the emerald fronds of tall palm trees.
“Welcome to Cuidad d’Oro de la Stuart…Stuart’s City of Gold.”
“Chance, it’s phenomenal.” She stared at the golden tower of a multistoried hotel that stood near a pearl white beach, its balconies strung with more ruby garlands of red flowers. “The buildings, they actually look as if they’re gilded. They aren’t, are they?”
“No. After six months of testing, we finally developed a stucco-like compound composed mainly of a micalike substance that reflects the sunlight. Its most effective at this time of day.”
/> In Flame’s opinion, that was an excessive understatement. “I have the feeling I’m looking at the fabled city of gold.”
“Wait until you see it at night when it catches the silver of the moon and the stars.”
Back in the car, they resumed their journey down the winding mountain road to the secluded resort complex, driving past the bay with its yacht harbor and marina crowded with charter boats for deep sea and sport fishing. A strolling mariachi band played for the bathers still lingering on the beach to catch the last rays of the sun.
For those who shunned salt water, the high-rise hotel offered an oversized swimming pool—although Flame hesitated to call it a pool when it resembled a meandering tropical lagoon complete with a cascading waterfall and rock ledges. Across from the hotel, a small shopping village with fountains and an arbored square offered familiar Mexican wares. The tiers of buildings on the surrounding slopes were a combination of condominiums and private villas. It was to one of the latter that the driver took them.
As they drove onto the gated and walled grounds of the villa, Flame was immediately enchanted by its lushness. Bougainvillea grew rampant, its multitude of red and purple blooms nearly overpowering the fragrant scarlet hibiscus and the tall graceful palms. A golden fountain sent a continual spray of water into the air, a spray the sunlight turned into diamond droplets.
Her enchantment grew when she entered the house itself. Built in the grand manner around a coral rock courtyard, the interior abounded with architectural and visual vignettes—recessed window seats, intricately carved cathedral ceilings, antique wooden doors, coral stone fireplaces, and floors of Spanish tile and pegged oak. Scattered discreetly throughout were works of Aztec and Oaxacan art, some like the terra-cotta pot tucked among the tropical greenery that added to the open-air feel of the cool and spacious villa, and others, like the magnificent hammered bronze sun disk, boldly displayed to dominate the room.
