by Janet Dailey
“So help me, Molly, if you touch those cups on that tray one more time—”
“I wasn’t even thinking of that,” she denied, flashing him an impatient look. “I was wondering if I should have had the bakery send up some Danish pastries. Watch your ash. It’s going to drop on the floor.”
“God forbid,” he muttered, cupping one hand under the cigarette as he swung it to the ceramic ashtray on her desk, then pulled it back to tap the buildup of ash into the gleaming bottom. “You’d probably call maintenance and have them bring up a vacuum cleaner.”
“I would not.” Immediately she picked up the ashtray and emptied it into the wastebasket under her desk, then snatched a tissue from the box she kept on the credenza and wiped the last speck of ash from the ceramic tray. “Molly, will you stop this fussing?” He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray the instant she set it down. A bundle of nerves himself, Sam impatiently pushed away from her desk.
“I just want to make the right impression,” she retorted, grabbing the ashtray again.
“Where are they anyway?” He pushed back the cuff of his jacket to check his watch. “Chance said they’d be here by ten-thirty. It’s past that now.”
“You didn’t expect them to be on time, did you?” Molly chided. “After all, they are newlyweds.” Then she sighed, her eyes crinkling at the corners, matching the curve of her lips. “I can hardly wait to meet her.”
Sam shook his head in disagreement and rubbed at the tension cording the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”
Molly looked at him with some surprise. “Why not?”
“Because…” Sam hesitated, but he’d held it inside too long. It had to come out. “—I have bad feelings about this marriage,” he said, turning to face Molly as he brought his hand down, fisting it in helpless frustration. “Dammit, I don’t understand why he married her—why he didn’t talk over his plans with me first?”
“He loves her.” As far as Molly was concerned, no other explanation was necessary.
“But don’t you see, Molly, that’s the point. That is one time I don’t think Chance thought things through too clearly.”
She shook her head, unwilling to listen to his criticism. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Does he?” Sam challenged. “Let’s forget the fact that he didn’t have her sign any prenuptial agreement, and concentrate instead on what’s going to happen when she finds out about Hattie and the ranch. Do you know that he hasn’t told her anything about Hattie? And when I talked to him after they got back last night, he informed me he wasn’t going to tell her.”
“Why should he?”
“Because sooner or later, she’s going to find out. And if he keeps it a secret from her, think how it’s going to look.”
“When the time comes, Chance will handle it. He always does,” she stated with supreme confidence. “You worry too much, Sam.”
“Maybe.” But the boyish features continued to wear a troubled look as he combed the lock of hair from his forehead, unaware that it fell back. “I don’t know, Molly. I just can’t help thinking this is all my fault. Chance relied on me to know what Hattie was up to and I let him down. If only I’d paid more attention to those meetings she was having with Canon, but I thought she was trying to find some legal loophole to avoid willing the land to Chance. I’d already checked that out eight ways to Sunday and knew it couldn’t be done. But I never dreamed she was tracking down another heir. It never even occurred to me there might be one. If I had known—if I’d had her followed that day she went to Canon’s office, I’d have known about her trip to San Francisco—who she saw—everything. And Chance would have known—going in—that Flame was Margaret Rose. It’s for sure we wouldn’t have all these complications we’re faced with now.”
“You are such a pessimist, Sam.” Molly clicked her tongue at him. “You see Chance’s marriage as a complication, but I see it as the perfect solution.” The elevator light flashed on, indicating it was in use. “Here they come.” Molly hurriedly sat down in her chair and grabbed up a pen and notepad, then patted the sides of her peppered gray hair. “Quick. Look busy,” she admonished Sam.
“Busy?” He frowned in confusion. “But they’re on their way up.”
“I know. But we don’t want to look like we’ve been standing around waiting for her to arrive.”
“Why not? That’s what we’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes.”
“We can’t let her know that.” Her glance fastened itself on the front of his suit jacket. “There’s cigarette ash or lint on your lapel.”
Sam brushed it off with a flick of his fingers, amused by her anxious flutters to have everything neat and in order despite his continued concern over the situation. “I’m surprised you don’t want me to spit on my fingers and slick down my cowlicks,” he murmured.
A faint ding accompanied the swish of the elevator doors gliding open, checking any answering retort Moly might have made as she directed a beaming smile at the emerging couple. Sam took one look at Chance’s bride and understood completely how this woman had succeeded in stealing Chance’s heart when so many others before her had failed. In one word, she was a knockout. Gorgeous, subtly sexy—especially in that sweater dress of kitteny soft angora—yet…the more Sam studied her, the more traces of Hattie he saw behind that warm and glowing look she wore. Just little things, like the proud way she held her head, the sharpness of her green eyes, and that confident squaring of her shoulders. Trite or not, he had a feeling she had a temper to match the fiery color of her hair—and all it would take to spark it was someone trying to pull something over on her. He hoped to hell Chance knew what he was doing.
“Am I allowed to kiss the bride?” he asked after the initial flurry of introductions and acknowledgments were over.
“Of course.” The words of laughing assent came from Flame.
Sam darted a quick look of surprise at Chance and struggled to hide the surge of misgivings as he brushed his lips across her proffered cheek, breathing in the spicy fragrance of her perfume. Chance seemed to think nothing of the assertion by Flame, but in Sam’s opinion, those were words of warning that here was a woman who knew her own mind and didn’t let others do her thinking.
“I have fresh coffee made,” Molly volunteered. “Would you like a cup?”
“We’ll have it in my office,” Chance inserted, then arched a questioning look at Sam. “You’ll join us, won’t you?”
“Of course. Which reminds me—” he began, following after them as Chance led Flame into his office. “Patty asked me to invite the two of you for dinner on Sunday. She’s anxious to meet you.”
“Dinner on Sunday.” Chance looked at Flame, his gaze intimately warm and possessive in its run over her face. “We should be back by then.”
“Back? From where?” Sam frowned, then remembered. “That’s right. You have to fly to Padre Island on Wednesday.”
A vague nod confirmed it, leaving the impression that Chance was too distracted by his new bride to give the whole of his attention to anything or anyone else. “While I’m there, Flame’s going to fly back to San Francisco and tie up all her loose ends. Which means you’ll need to make reservations for her, Molly, on Wednesday’s flight, but only one way. I’ll meet her on Friday and we can fly back together.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
Not liking the sound of Chance’s plans, Sam immediately spoke up. “And I need to go over some things with you, Chance.” He glanced apologetically at Flame. “You’ll have to forgive me for stealing him away so soon. But its business. You understand?”
“Of course. No problem.”
“I promise I won’t keep him long.”
“Molly, why don’t you take Flame on a tour of the offices and introduce her around?” Chance suggested. “Just remember to have her back by noon. We have a luncheon date.”
“I think I can manage that with no difficulty.”
His arm tightened bri
efly around Flame’s shoulders, a smile tugging at his lip corners. “Molly’s convinced I’m perfect. Try not to disillusion her too much.”
“How could I, when I agree with her completely?” she countered, matching his mocking tone.
“I like her already, Chance,” Molly declared.
“I knew you would.” But his smile was directed at Flame, a familiar pride of possession in his look.
“Come on. We’ll leave these two to their business.”
Sam noticed the way Chance’s gaze stayed on Flame as Molly trundled her off, as if he was reluctant to let her out of his sight—although not for the same reason that Sam had. When they turned down the hallway, Chance forcibly turned his attention back to Sam.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he said, taking Sam’s agreement for granted as he crossed the room to the heavy walnut door. Sam followed him inside and closed the door behind them. Chance went directly to his desk and began leafing through the messages that had accumulated in his absence. “What’s on your mind, Sam?”
“For starters, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to let her go to San Francisco alone. What if Hattie tries to contact her while she’s there?”
“I’ve already considered that possibility. I want you to get hold of Sawyer and have him waiting at the gate when she arrives on Wednesday. I want someone watching her twenty-four hours a day and a tap on her phone. If anyone—Hattie, Canon, that detective Barker—tries to talk to her, I’ll expect Sawyer to make sure they don’t succeed. By Friday, I’ll be there.”
“And what about from now until then—or after you get back? You can’t be with her every minute, Chance,” Sam argued.
“When she’s at the house, Andrews can screen all incoming calls. And if she goes out anywhere—to shop or to play tennis—it will probably be with Patty. She won’t know anyone else here. And, until she gets settled in, she won’t be seeing anyone other than people I introduce her to.”
“You make it sound so simple—so cut and dried—but it’s not that way, Chance.” He lifted his hand in a silent appeal. “What if it’s the other way around? What if Flame’s the one who contacts Hattie? She could, you know. She’s bound to have her phone number. What’s to stop her from calling Hattie, getting directions, and driving out to see her?”
“She’d say something to me about it first.”
“What if she didn’t? What if she did it on the spur of the moment?” Sam leaned both hands on the granite top of the desk, trying to press home his point and penetrate that aloof unconcern. “How would you know?”
“I’ll know.” Chance dropped the sheaf of his messages onto his desk, letting them scatter from the orderly stack as he faced Sam across the desk top, his control snapping from the strain of the last two days—the strain of living half the time in heaven and the other half in hell. “I’ll know if I have to bug my own house and have her followed everywhere she goes from now on. Dammit, Sam, I know I can’t eliminate the risk but I can minimize the exposure.” The level of his voice did not change, but rather the tone of it deepened to a forceful pitch. “And that’s precisely what I intend to do.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam began hesitantly, drawing back from that tautly controlled anger. “It’s just that—”
“I know,” Chance cut him off abruptly and swung away, moving to the window and inhaling a deep breath, regretting the anger he’d turned on Sam. “I found out this weekend just how greedy I am, Sam,” he said, staring out the window at the sprawl of the city beyond the glass panes. “I want Flame and I want that land. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure I don’t lose either one.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” He smiled wryly, unsure that he did.
The beeping ring of the telephone intruded. “I’ll get it.” Sam reached across the desk and picked up the receiver. “Yes, this is Sam Weber.” Almost immediately he lowered the phone, placing his hand over the mouthpiece. “Chance, it’s Maxine.”
Pivoting sharply, Chance reached for it. “Let me talk to her.” He took the phone from Sam’s hand. “Yes, Maxine.” A tension kept him motionless as he listened to her hurried message. “Thanks for letting me know.” Slowly he carried the receiver back to its cradle.
“Letting you know what?” Sam asked, watching him closely.
He let his hand stay on the telephone. “It’s Hattie. According to Maxine, she’s very ill. She doesn’t think she can hold on much longer.”
Sam let out a long, slow breath. “I’m not sure I believe it. And I feel guilty for hoping it’s true.”
“I don’t.”
“It looks as if everything’s going to come to a head sooner than I thought. It’s going to get real touchy, Chance.”
“I know.”
19
Sunlight flashed on the marquise-cut diamond on her finger, sending prisms of light dancing across the car’s dash. Absently, Flame turned her gaze out the window at the still unfamiliar scenery of big and bold Tulsa. She had yet to explore it—or get used to the huge canopy of pale blue sky that seemed to stretch forever, unmarred by ocean-born cloudbanks or blanketing fog.
It was moments like these, when the strangeness of her surroundings made itself felt, that it all seemed unreal. She touched the ring on her finger, the one Chance had placed there. It was physical proof this wasn’t a dream. She was his wife.
Flame Stuart. She smiled, liking the sound of it.
Even though she was resigning from the agency, she planned to continue with her career here in Tulsa. Not right away, of course. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chance these next few months. Later she’d see about obtaining a position with some local agency. Or maybe she could work with Chance in his company, handling the ad campaigns on his various projects. Either way, she knew she would ultimately want the challenge and mental stimulation of work again.
She smiled to herself, realizing that this was a fine time to be thinking about all this. But it had all happened so suddenly—the marriage ceremony coming right on the heels of his proposal, then less than twelve hours later flying here with a new husband to a new home. And what a gorgeous home it was, a 1930s mansion styled after a gracious Palladian villa. She remembered that moment on their arrival when Chance had carried her over the threshold into the marble foyer with its grand, curved staircase—and later, when he’d taken her to the special master suite. Sighing, she ran her fingers into her hair and flipped it behind her ear with a combing toss of her hand, the enormity of the step finally hitting her. My God, she was giving up her home, her job, her friends—everything that had ever meant anything to her. But she’d known that when she’d married Chance. It hadn’t mattered then because he was with her, right at her side.
Overhead, the contrails of a passing jet streaked the sky, reminding Flame that Chance was halfway to Texas by now. She wished he was in the car with her so she could take hold of his hand and have the physical reassurance that she wasn’t alone in this. Instead, she fingered her wedding ring and sighed her longing.
“Is something wrong?”
Startled by the question that came from the silence, Flame glanced at the man behind the wheel, momentarily at a loss for an answer. She couldn’t very well admit to Sam Weber that she was having a slight case of postwedding jitters, not when she knew that keep down she didn’t really have any doubts about her decision to marry Chance.
“No, I was just thinking about all the things I have to do once I get to San Francisco.” Conscious of his close scrutiny, she turned her attention to the freeway traffic in front of them. “Is it much farther to the airport?”
“Ten minutes, more or less. Which means—” He paused to glance at the clock on the car’s dash. “—we’ll be there a good forty-five minutes before your flight leaves.”
“I don’t know why Chance insisted that you take me to the airport. I could just as easily have gotten a cab or had Andrews drive me. It wasn’t necessary for you to do it. I’m sure you have more i
mportant things you could have been doing.”
“You’re not going to hear any complaints from me.” Sam took his eyes from the road long enough to flash a boyish grin her way. “As far as I’m concerned this is a very pleasant break.”
“Well, good, Sam.” She hoped he meant that.
At odd times, she’d had the feeling that Sam wasn’t particularly happy about her marriage to Chance. It was nothing he’d said. No, it was more the way he looked at her sometimes, as if questioning her reasons. She supposed Sam thought she might have married Chance for his money. She hadn’t, of course. His wealth didn’t matter to her at all, but Sam couldn’t know that.
“I’m sorry Chance had to leave so soon after the wedding,” Sam remarked, genuine regret tinging the glance he sent her. “The two of you should have gone off on a long honeymoon.”
“I don’t mind,” Flame insisted with a dismissing shake of her head. “I’ve known from the beginning that his work demands a lot of travel. Maybe it’s best our marriage starts out as it will go on.”
“Maybe. But I still believe newlyweds need some time alone. I told Chance before he left that Molly and I were going to take a look at his schedule and see if we can rearrange to give you those three or four weeks together. It shouldn’t be too difficult—barring any emergencies, of course.”
“Sam—” Flame began, touched by his thoughtfulness and wondering if she had misjudged him.
But he didn’t give her a chance to say more. “You’d better start thinking about where you want to go, otherwise Molly will have it all planned for you,” he warned, humor twinkling in his hazel eyes. “She’s already told Chance that she thinks he should take you to Venice.”
