by Janet Dailey
The loggia off the master suite overlooked the mosaic-inlaid swimming pool, surrounded by a deck of travertine marble. Beyond gleamed the bay, reflecting now the scarlet hue of the sky.
“Will this do for a weekend hideaway?”
At the sound of Chance’s lightly mocking question, Flame turned from the loggia’s panoramic view and tried to match his bantering tone. “It’s…simple, but nice.” She feigned a shrug, then found she couldn’t maintain the pretence of indifference, not even in jest, and wound her arms around his neck, clasping her hands behind his head. “It’s beautifully perfect and perfectly beautiful, Chance.”
“I’m glad you think so, my love.”
The intensely intimate look in his eyes was answered by the darkening sparkle in her own. As his hands settled naturally onto the curve of her waist, she started to step into his arms, then checked the movement when she spied the stout Mexican housekeeper approaching the opened glass and wrought-iron doors to the loggia.
“Excuse me, Señor Chance.” She halted in the opening, a short round woman made shorter and rounder by the stiffly starched white apron tied around her black uniform. Shy dark eyes glanced briefly at Flame in silent apology. “Señor Rod is on the telephone. He asks if you have arrived. Do you wish to speak to him now?”
Chance hesitated, arching a look of regret at Flame. “Yes, tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, Consuelo. I’ll take the call in the study.”
“Sí,” she murmured and retreated from the room.
“Sorry,” he said to Flame. “Rod Vega is my man in charge down here. I shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you go ahead and freshen up or whatever, and I’ll meet you in the main salon in—say, thirty minutes?”
“That long,” she complained, her lower lip jutting in a playful pout.
“That long.” He smiled.
Again she had to settle for a warm, but brief kiss. She lingered on the balcony a moment longer after he’d left, aware that he’d be back and confident the evening would be theirs. She turned to the view, and breathed in the sharp clean tang of the sea air. Paradise, Stuart style, Captain Donovan had called it. It was definitely that and more.
She heard the door to the master suite open and realized that if she intended to change and freshen up, thirty minutes wasn’t all that long. She walked back inside and found the housekeeper had returned.
“Ramon has brought your luggage,” the woman said, indicating the two cases lying atop a richly carved luggage rack. “Would the señora wish me to unpack for her?”
“Please.” Flame walked over to the rack and retrieved her makeup case from the smaller bag. “And when you come to the blue chiffon outfit, would you lay that out for me? I want to change into it.”
“Sí, señora.”
Nearly thirty minutes later, Flame exited the master bedroom, the free-floating chiffon of her blue print skirt swishing softly about her ankles. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a hall mirror and smiled at the deep plunge of the blouse’s softly ruffled neckline. The effect of the loose-fitting blouse of the blue-dotted chiffon was subtly risqué, an effect emphasized by the sleeking of her fiery hair into a classic chignon. She loved the wickedly alluring feeling the combination gave her.
As she walked down the wide hall, her high heels clicking across its tiled floor, ahead she could see the march of pillared arches that surrounded the main salon, giving it a galleried look. When she was nearly to it, she heard the explosive pop of a champagne cork. Smiling, she quickened her steps, realizing that Chance was already there waiting for her.
With her chiffon skirt wafting about her in a rippling sweep, Flame passed through the first arched opening into the salon. Chance turned to meet her, holding a fluted glass of champagne in each hand. She observed with satisfaction the quick lidding of his eyes as his surveying glance went no lower than the neckline of her blouse that revealed all of her cleavage. When he dragged his glance back up to her face, the flare of desire was strong in the darkened blue of his eyes—the very reaction she’d hoped to arouse.
“You look ravishing,” he murmured when she halted before him.
She took the glass of champagne he handed her, giving him a coy look of mock disappointment. “And I hoped that I looked like a woman about to be ravished.”
He arched a black eyebrow at her. “The evening is young.”
“Promises, promises,” she taunted playfully and took a sip of the sparkling wine. The instant it touched her tongue, she recognized its distinctive flavor. “Peach champagne.”
“Of course.” He smiled and took a drink of his own.
She deliberately looked about the salon, like all the rooms in the villa designed in grand proportion and superb symmetry. “What? No orchids?”
“I’m glad you mentioned that.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long narrow jewelry case. “Here.”
She looked uncertainly at the jewelry case he’d given her, then lifted her gaze to the lean, rakish lines of his face, unable to conceal her vague astonishment. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” was all he’d say.
Flame hesitated an instant longer, then set her glass down and lifted the hinged lid. Light blazed from inside with sparkling brilliance when she opened it. She gasped audibly at the sight of the magnificent diamond brooch designed in the shape of an orchid spray and flanked by a pair of matching diamond earrings.
“Now you’ll always have orchids.”
She stared at the brooch, tears welling in her eyes, moved as much by the sentiment of the gift as she was by the magnitude of it.
If all he’d wanted to do was give her an expensive present, he could have picked up any bauble. But he hadn’t. No, he’d chosen with thought and care, wanting to give her something special, something that signified their personal relationship.
She didn’t resist when he took the case from her numbed fingers and removed the brooch from its bed of purple velvet. As he pinned it to her blouse, she looked up at him, the blur of tears softening all the hard edges of his face. With no hurry at all, he unclipped the drop earrings she wore and fastened the diamond pair in their place. When he’d finished, he surveyed the results, his hands settling warmly on the tops of her shoulders, a gentleness and a simmering ardor in his look and his touch that affected Flame as deeply as his gift.
“Beautiful,” he pronounced in a husky murmur.
“Oh, Chance, I—I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, for mere words failed to describe her astonishment, her joy or her appreciation.
“Then don’t say anything.”
She didn’t. Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, letting her hands, her lips, and her body show him how much his gift meant to her. His arms gathered her close, his hands moving in a restless and needy exploration over her shoulders, spine, and hips, their heat penetrating the filmy fabric of her blouse and skirt. The color and texture of the embrace quickly changed as Flame responded to the unleashing of emotions and desires held too long in check on both sides. She strained closer, arching to him, her fingers sliding into his hair, pressing and urging until the kiss became rough with need, lips, tongues tangling together. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough. She dragged her lips from his and ran them over his face, lipping the high bone of his cheek and nuzzling at his ear, taking all the liberties with him that he did with her, conscious all the while of the high tension of her body and the loud heart thud in her ears.
“Do you have any idea how much I want you—now—this very minute?” Chance murmured thickly, his heated breath stirring against her ear and sending delicious shudders cascading down her neck. “I had this entire evening planned—champagne, a candlelight dinner, easy conversation, a stroll in the moonlight…a stroll that would ultimately take us to the bedroom. Now, I want to skip everything in between and take you straight to the bedroom—to hell with the rest.”
Flame smiled against his cheek, his feelings and desires echoing her own, bu
t with a difference. “Where is it written that a woman can’t be wined and dined and taken on moonlight strolls—afterwards?”
“Where, indeed?” he murmured, drawing back an inch or two to study the swollen softness of her lips and the green of her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire. “Long ago I learned the value of improvising.”
“Did you?” She trailed the tip of a nail down the line of his jaw.
“Yes.” In one fluidly smooth movement, he picked her up and cradled her in his arms. “And with you, I always seem to be improvising.”
“I love the way you improvise…among other things,” Flame added as she began to nibble on the corded muscles in his neck.
In the master suite, all the raw urgency, all the need for haste that had brought them to the bedroom fled. They stood facing each other, less than three feet apart, bathed in the pool of light from the single lamp. Without either saying a word, they slowly began to undress, peeling off layer after layer. It was more than their clothes they stripped away and more than their bodies they bared to each other. As they looked, really looked at each other, they exposed their feelings, their hearts, and their minds to the other.
When he held out his hand to her, she felt a lump rise in her throat. There was something so beautiful in the moment and the gesture she wanted to cry. As she gave him her hand, they moved toward each other, meeting in the middle of the space, their bodies touching. At last she could feel the heat of his body, the hard muscled wall of his chest and the powerful columns of his thighs. Reaching up, he pulled the pins from her hair and let it spill onto her shoulders as she ran her hands over him, his smooth skin like hot satin to the touch.
He held her gaze, his thumbs idly stroking the hollows behind her ears. “I love you.” The declaration was a low rumble of intense feeling all wrapped up in a single phrase.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back as she rose to meet his seeking lips.
Later, much later, they opened another bottle of peach champagne, dined by candlelight, and strolled beneath the stars, ending up again in the master suite and rediscovering all the delights of making love.
17
The glass doors to the balcony stood open, letting in the freshness of the morning breeze. Chance paused in front of them, watching the stout Mexican woman as she added a bowl of fresh fruit to the breakfast table set up on the balcony. His glance strayed to the twin place settings, drawn by the cozy look of matching crystal glasses, china cups, and gleaming flatware silently facing each other. Breakfast for him was usually black coffee and occasionally juice; he rarely sat down to a meal. But this morning was different. He wouldn’t be eating alone. He would be with Flame. It was amazing how appetizing that sounded.
He fastened the clasp on his watch, then turned his head slightly to bring Flame into view. She sat on the damask-covered bench in front of the lighted vanity mirror, robed in a kimono of peacock blue silk, a matching band catching the hair away from her face while she applied the last of her makeup.
Looking at her, Chance felt again a powerful surge of nameless tender feelings all wrapped up with the need to touch and protect. A thousand times he had attempted to identify those feelings, but they were too elusive. Being with her was like stepping outside after a summer rain into a world that was suddenly clean and invigorating, livening all the senses. Yes, when he was with her, he felt good, very good.
“It seems we’re having breakfast outside this morning,” he remarked when she caught him looking at her.
“I suggested it to Consuelo while you were in the shower. You don’t mind, do you? It’s such a beautiful morning.” She turned back to the mirror and raised the mascara wand to her lashes.
“And in here, too.” He wandered over to stand behind her and study her reflection in the mirror, admiring anew her bold, vibrant beauty.
Her glance met his in the mirror, a hint of demurring amusement in the greeness of her eyes. “It will be…in just a few more minutes.” She returned the mascara wand to its container and laid it on the vanity table.
Admidst the collection of lipstick, creams, and shadows, Chance noticed a flat cloisonné case. “This is an unusual piece.” He picked it up to take a closer look at the intricate design depicting a vase of flowers.
“Isn’t it?” Flame said in an agreeing tone, laying down a cotton swab and picking up a tube of lipstick. “My mother gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday—when I was finally allowed to wear makeup. Powder, lipstick and mascara, to be precise.”
“Is this lettering on the vase?”
“My initials—M.R.M.—with the ‘M’ in the center, of course.” She pressed her lips together, spreading the lipstick evenly, then reached for a tissue to blot them.
“M.R.M.?” Everything inside him went still, his gaze riveted to the lettering.
“Margaret Rose Morgan. That’s what I was christened. Daddy’s the one who gave me the nickname Flame when I was about a year and a half old. It stuck.” Smiling, she reached up and slipped the band from her hair, giving her head a shake to let the fiery strands spill forward. “My mother always thought I’d outgrow it in time.”
Her glance flicked to his reflection, expecting to encounter his answering smile. Instead, his expression seemed frozen, the muscles along his jaw tightly corded. Bewildered by his reaction, Flame turned sideways on the beach.
“Is something wrong, Chance?” She noticed the way his hand closed around the compact, his knuckles white. She wasn’t certain he’d heard her. Then his gaze shot to her face, all icy blue and cold. “Chance, what is it?”
Immediately he looked down. “I just realized—I have nothing of my mother. Nothing at all.” He held the compact an instant longer then gave it back to her.
The compact had always been special to her. Yet, it was only now, with some invisible hand squeezing her heart, that she realized how very precious it was.
“Chance, I…” But she didn’t know what to say.
His mouth quirked faintly in an attempt at a smile. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his expression now shuttered. His hand touched her hair, lightly fingering a red lock as if he was somehow distracted by its fiery color. A light rap on the door broke his absorption. “Yes?” There was a sharpness in his voice, making Flame aware of the hard tension hidden just below the surface.
“The telephone, Señor Chance,” came Consuelo’s partially muffled and heavily accented reply. “It is for you. Señor Sam is calling. He say is muy importante he speak to you.”
“I’ll take the call in the den.” He continued to study her hair for another full second before letting their eyes meet. Again his expression was unreadable. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“All right,” she agreed, striving for lightness, recognizing that he didn’t want sympathy. “It’ll take me a few more minutes to finish dressing anyway.”
He let the lock of hair slide from his fingers, then drew his hand away, lightly touching her cheek in parting before he turned and walked from the master bedroom. Flame looked down at the compact her mother had given her those many years ago.
Rage, resentment, and the wretched irony of the situation all seethed inside him as Chance strode across the Spanish tiled floor to the massive teakwood desk. Dammit, he didn’t want it to be Flame. She was the one untouched thing in his life. With her, he could almost forget everything. Dammit to hell—it wasn’t fair! But when had life ever been fair to him? He looked at the jet-black phone on the desk and forced his fisted hand to unclench and reach for it.
“Yeah, Sam,” he said into the mouthpiece, deliberately shutting out all emotion.
“Chance, I’m sorry to call you like this, but…you have to know. We’ve learned the identity of Margaret Rose. Chance, it’s Flame.”
“I know.”
“You do? How? When?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, his mind racing now that he had refused to feel anything.
“Does she know who you are? Did she co
nfront you with it? What has Hattie told her?”
“Obviously nothing.” He went through everything Flame had ever said to him. There was nothing that even hinted she was aware of his connection to Hattie. Why? Considering how much Hattie hated him, why hadn’t she tried to poison Flame with it? He could think of only one reason: she hadn’t had the opportunity yet. Which meant he had to make sure Hattie didn’t get it.
“Could it be that Hattie doesn’t know you’ve been seeing her?” Sam ventured.
“How could she?” He doubted that Flame would have mentioned him to Hattie. She wouldn’t have any reason to. In this short period of time, it was logical to assume that any conversation between Hattie and Flame hadn’t touched on private matters.
“Chance, what are you going to do? She’s bound to find out.”
“Maybe not. Maybe I can prevent that.”
“How?”
But it was something he needed to think through first. “I’ll talk to you later, Sam.”
He stood at the wrought-iron rail of the loggia overlooking the bay and the golden resort far below. His stance was that of a man lost in thought, his head drawn back, his gaze fixed on some distant point at sea, and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his slacks. Flame paused, wondering if he was still thinking about his mother, then continued to him. He didn’t hear the dull click of her sandaled heels when she walked up behind him—completely unaware of her presence until she touched his arm.
Then he turned, that familiar, lazily intimate look immediately darkening his eyes the instant he saw her—that look that always caused those crazy tumblations of her heart. She smiled, realizing that everything was all right again.
“Your phone call must not have taken very long.”
