by Janet Dailey
“I have your permission to hate you—how nice,” she murmured caustically, deliberately striving to shatter the spell of his voice.
“Dammit, I came here to apologize, Flame—to tell you that I love you—I need you.”
“You need Morgan’s Walk—which I now own,” she fired back and watched his head recoil, his eyes narrowing in a probing study.
“Such a sharp tongue you have,” he murmured. “Who is it you’re trying to convince that you don’t love me anymore—you or me? If it’s me, I’m not buying it, because I know you still care.”
She felt her first twinge of uncertainty, conscious of the way everything had quickened inside her moments ago, her pulse accelerating, her senses heightening—coming to battle-readiness, she thought. Yet, she managed to meet his gaze coolly. “As conceited as you are, I’m sure you believe that.”
“Love can’t be turned off with the flick of a switch—as much as you might want to convince me otherwise.”
“That all depends on the circumstances,” Flame asserted, but Chance shook his head, rejecting her claim.
“No, the feelings you had for me are all still there—hidden behind a wall of anger and hurt pride. You may prefer to deny it, but you want me every bit as much as I want you.”
When she felt the pulling pressure of his hands, her first impulse was to forcibly resist. Flame instantly rejected that, realizing that only by showing complete indifference would she prove anything to him. As he drew her into his arms, she steeled herself not to react. When his mouth moved toward hers, she waited until the last second, then turned her head aside, letting his lips graze her cheek.
Undeterred, Chance simply transferred his attention to the pulsing vein in her neck. Suddenly it all felt achingly familiar—the sensuous nibbling of his mouth, the caressing splay of his hands, and the hard, lean shape of him. She had to force her hands to remain at her sides as she fought the memory of how it had been between them. The child in her wanted him to hold her tightly and kiss away all the hurt. But it required the innocence of a child to believe that kisses would “make it all better.” And she had lost that innocence long ago. Physical love—no matter how enjoyable and satisfying—was a momentary thing. It couldn’t right the damage that had been done. He’d used her; and by using her, he’d betrayed her. She couldn’t trust him anymore.
She closed her eyes against her inner tremors of longing, not entirely sure how much she could trust herself. “Are you through?” She injected all the iciness she could into her question.
She felt him pause, then slowly straighten to look at her, but she carefully kept her face averted, unwilling to let him see how fragile her defenses against him actually were.
“For now,” he said, that lazy edge back in his voice. “But you’re not as indifferent to me as you’d like me to believe. I’d prove it to you, but if I did, you’d hate me for it. And it isn’t your hate I want, Flame. It’s your love.”
Stung by his arrogance, she lifted her head sharply to glare at him. “Hattie was right. I’m only now beginning to realize how right she was. You’d stoop to anything, wouldn’t you? You’d lie, cheat, steal—whatever is required to get your hands on Morgan’s Walk.” She shrugged off his hands and stepped back, unable to bear the touch of him. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Stuart. You’re not welcome here—ever.”
For a long second, he made no move at all—said nothing. Just when she thought she might have to summon Charlie Rainwater and some of the boys from the bunkhouse, Chance slowly nodded. “I’ll go. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told Hattie. I’ll be back. This isn’t finished between us.”
“That sounds remarkably like a threat.” She tilted her head a little higher, letting him see that she wouldn’t be intimidated.
His lips curved in a smile that was anything but warm. “I never make threats, Flame. I thought you knew me better than that.”
She stayed exactly where she was, not moving as he walked around her to the foyer. When she heard the front door close, she pivoted slowly to stare after him. Seconds later she heard the growling rumble of his car starting up. Then she was surrounded by the unsettling silence of the house. Made restless by it, Flame ranged over the parlor, then stopped at a window and studied the rolling tumble of dark gray clouds beyond the glass panes.
That was exactly the way she felt inside—dark and churning with a violent turbulence. These feelings had been there, seething below the surface for the last three days. She’d managed to block them out, but seeing Chance again had unleashed them. Flame finally admitted to herself what she’d instinctively known all along: it would never be over between them. Morgan’s Walk made it impossible.
If she’d had any doubts that he still wanted the land, his coming here had eliminated them. He was as determined as ever to get it. Hattie had warned her about that very thing before she died. But how could he succeed? Hattie had left it to her.
Flame turned from the window, suddenly troubled. Ben Canon had told her something. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to remember what he’d said. He’d mentioned something about Chance contesting the will and—yes, something about applying financial pressure to force her to sell. But he’d talked about a third alternative. Her frown lifted as she slowly brought her hand down—remembering. “He could try to get the land condemned.” That’s what Ben had said.
Why have it condemned? The lake, of course.
She had to stop him. But how? What was this development of his? If she was going to fight him and win, she had to know more about his plans. Against a man like Chance, she needed specific knowledge. Otherwise, she could never hope to block any attempt he made. She couldn’t constantly be on the defensive. She had to find a way to take the fight to him.
The instant she thought it, Flame realized that it wasn’t enough to merely prevent him from getting Morgan’s Walk. If it was the last thing she did, she had to make him pay, for her great-grandfather’s sake as well as her own. It was time a Morgan got even, and she was the one who was going to do it.
It was odd the hot calmness she felt, the rawness—the rage—that had consumed her these last three days now finding a channel, a direction. It didn’t matter that at the moment she didn’t know how she would go about exacting a fitting retribution. That would come. First she had to learn all she could about Chance’s plans for the land.
But how? Ben Canon had indicated there were drawings or blueprints of it in Chance’s office. How could she get a copy of them? Chance would never volunteer a set. If there was some way she could get into his office…She drew in a quick breath, suddenly realizing that maybe there was.
She’d have to act quickly. Tonight, in fact. And clothes, she’d need evening clothes, something ultra-dressy. Nothing she had with her would do. She’d packed for a weekend in the sun, not an autumn week in Oklahoma. The dress she had on she’d bought yesterday for the funeral. Did she have time to go buy something? She glanced at the ancient grandfather clock that stood beyond the parlor doors in the foyer. It was nearly five. Would there be shops open that carried the type of evening dress she needed? And where were they? Flame railed at the time she’d lose looking for one, especially when she knew there were at least three suitable outfits hanging in her closet in San Francisco.
Closet. That was it. Hattie’s closet, jammed with an entire wardrobe of clothes for every occasion. If she could find something that worked, it didn’t matter how old it was. The style of evening clothes rarely changed. As for size, with a little tucking and pinning, she could make it fit.
As Flame walked swiftly from the parlor, Maxine entered the foyer, “I heard Cha—Mr. Stuart leave. Would you like me to start supper now, Mrs. Stuart?”
After faltering briefly, Flame continued to the staircase. “You don’t need to cook anything, Maxine. I’m not hungry tonight.
“Oh, I don’t have to cook. The neighbors brought enough casseroles and salads to last a week.”
“I’d forgotten that.�
� Flame halted momentarily at the base of the stairs and turned back to the housekeeper. “If I want anything to eat later, I’ll get it myself. There isn’t any need for you to stay. It’s been a long day all the way around. I’m sure you’d like to go home.”
“I am tired and…” Maxine hesitated. “If you’re sure you don’t need me anymore this evening, I think I will go back to my place.”
“When you leave, would you stop by the bunkhouse and ask Mr. Rainwater to come to the house?”
“Of course.”
With that minor detail handled, Flame started up the steps to put the rest of her plan in motion, her thoughts racing ahead as she tried to recall what evening wear she’d noticed in Hattie’s closet.
28
From the street below, Flame couldn’t see any lights shining from the windows of the Stuart Tower’s twentieth floor. On a Saturday night, it wasn’t likely anyone would be working—unless it would be a cleaning lady. Just the same, she drove slowly around the block for another look.
A quick drive through the underground garage confirmed no Jaguar was parked in the space reserved for Chance. Satisfied that all was safe, Flame drove the ranch’s Lincoln around to the building’s front entrance and parked at the curb. She gripped the steering wheel with both gloved hands and breathed in deeply, trying to settle the clamoring of her nerves, heart, and senses.
Before she could question the wisdom—or indeed the sanity—of her actions, she stepped out of the car and nervously smoothed a hand over the hipline of the coffee-brown satin gown. Its slim line suggested something out of the midfifties, but the simplicity of its style made it almost ageless, and definitely suitable for her purpose since society’s critical eye wouldn’t be reviewing it. She reached inside the car for the matching evening bag and the full-length fox coat. The fur coat had been an absolute find. It wasn’t in the best condition, its sleeves and collar showing wear, but it was exactly what she needed.
She draped it around her shoulders and unconsciously cast a furtive glance down the street, but all was quiet, with few cars moving about in the downtown area. She turned toward the building’s glass entrance and the lobby within, brightly lit with fluorescent lights. Pausing, she felt the front of her gown and made sure the orchid brooch of diamonds was securely pinned at the center of its V-shaped neckline.
Thank God she needed to appear anxious, agitated, and upset, because that was exactly the way she felt as she hurried to the doors, moving as quickly as the gown’s front-slit skirt would allow. At the doors, Flame stopped and rattled them and tapped repeatedly on the glass. Finally the uniformed guard behind the lobby’s security desk looked up, a Hostess Twinkie halfway to his mouth. Flame gave him her most appealing smile and rattled the locked door again.
He hesitated a split second, then laid the Twinkie on its cellophane wrapper, and hastily wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a backhanded scrub, got up, and walked around the desk. The guard was somewhere in his early sixties, the gray hair beneath his cap cut close to his head in a short butch, and his double chin hanging over the collar of his shirt, the same way his beer belly hung over the belt of his pants. But it was the noisy jingle that caught Flame’s attention as he approached the doors, a large metal ring strung with keys dangling from his hand.
On the other side of the door, he stopped and searched through the keys. Flame glanced anxiously over her shoulder, certain that Chance would drive up any second and she’d be caught in the act. Powerless to hurry the guard along, she waited, mouth dry, nerves screaming with impatience while he separated one key from the rest, and inserted it in the lock. The instant a crack showed, Flame darted inside.
“Is something wrong, miss?” He eyed her curiously, tipping his head down to look at her through the top of his black-rimmed bifocals.
“You don’t know how relieved I am to see you.” She clutched at his arm, drawing him with her as she moved from the door toward the bank of elevators. “I was afraid there wouldn’t be anyone here to let me in. I didn’t know what I was going to do. The most awful thing has happened.” Near the security desk, she let go of his arm and unfastened the jeweled clasp of her evening bag. She started to reach inside, then stopped and looked at him as if just realizing. “You have no idea who I am, do you? And here I am rattling on. I’m Flame Stuart—Chance Stuart’s wife.”
He immediately brightened, his jowled cheeks lifting in a smile. “Of course, Mrs. Stuart. The whole building’s been buzzing with the news of your marriage to Mr. Stuart,” he declared. She’d counted on that—just as she’d counted on the slowness of the word getting around that she’d left him. “Everybody said Mr. Stuart found himself a beautiful redhead and they certainly were right about that.”
“Aren’t you so kind, Mr.—” She glanced at his nametag.
“Dunlap. Fred Dunlap.”
“Mr. Dunlap. Let me explain my problem. As I said, the most awful thing has happened,” she rushed on, reaching into her purse again, this time taking out one of the diamond earrings that matched the brooch. “I’ve lost the mate of this earring. Chance—Mr. Stuart—gave them to me as a gift, along with this pin. I’m supposed to meet him in an hour and he expects me to be wearing them. I’ve searched everywhere. Then I remembered that I was wearing them the day we came here. Is there any way you can let me into my husband’s office so I can see if maybe I left it there? I can’t bear the thought of telling him I lost it.”
“I sure can, Mrs. Stuart. It’s no trouble at all.” He shifted his heavy bulk toward the elevators, again going through the many keys on his ring. “You just come with me and I’ll take you up.”
“You have no idea how grateful I am, Mr. Dunlap. I’ve been half out of my mind with worry over this.” She was certain she sounded like a babbling fool, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking as she followed him to the elevators. “I know the set must have cost him a fortune. But it’s more than that. It was the first present he gave me. Well, not the first. He sent me orchids first. That’s why he had this pin and these earrings designed in the shape of orchids, because they were actually the first.”
Flame wasn’t even sure the security guard was listening as he used a key to open some sort of utility panel and flip some switches inside. The Up arrow blinked on above the elevator directly in front of her and its doors silently glided open. She practically ran into the cage, then waited again for the lumbering guard to join her. He punched the button for the twentieth floor. Seconds ticked by with unnerving slowness before the time-delayed doors finally slid shut.
As she watched the light above the doors blink on the ascending numbers of the floors, the silence seemed worse than her previous chatter. “I never realized how slow these elevators were,” she declared in utter truthfulness.
“It’s always like that when you’re in a hurry. Nothing ever moves fast enough.”
“I guess not,” she said and laughed nervously.
Finally the elevator came to a stop on the top floor. With stomach churning, Flame waited in its dimly lit lobby while the security guard went to turn on the office lights. Again the seconds seemed to drag forever before he came back and led her down the wide hall to Chance’s office. There she had to wait again for him to find the key and unlock the door.
When he followed her into the office, Flame wanted to scream at him to leave. Instead, she forced herself to smile. “Thank you so much, Mr. Dunlap,” she said, turning to face him, letting her body language indicate to him that his presence was no longer required.
He hesitated uncertainly. “I’d be happy to help you look for that missing earring, Mrs. Stuart.”
“That isn’t necessary,” she rushed. “I mean, you’ve done so much already and I wouldn’t want to take you away from your desk. After all, you do have a job to do. It wouldn’t be right for me to take you away from your duty.”
“I suppose not.” He nodded a grudging agreement. “If you should need me, though, you just call thirty-one thirty-one. That’s my extension and
I’ll be up here in no time.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you, Mr. Dunlap.” She remained where she was, watching as he turned and left, not drawing an easy breath until she heard the distant ding of the elevator. Then she hurried over and closed the door—just in case he decided to come back and check on her.
Turning, she swept the long fox coat off her shoulders and scanned the room, trying to decide where to begin her search for the preliminary drawings of the proposed development. She started with Chance’s desk, specifically the long credenza behind it. But none of the papers on top of it contained any reference to the project, and a search of the drawers and doors proved equally fruitless.
Aware that time was against her, Flame moved quickly to the built-in cabinetry along the wall in the informal sitting area. Behind one set of doors, she found a bonanza of blueprints. She wasted precious minutes going through them and, again, came up with nothing.
Where were they? She fought down the momentary panic and widened her search to the bookshelves near the conference table. Nothing. My God, what if they weren’t here? What if they were in Sam’s office instead?
Then she spied the long cardboard tubes in an upright rack next to the credenza on the other side of the burl table—the kind of tubing blueprints and drawings were kept in! Struggling to control the leap of excitement, Flame went to investigate, flinging the fur and the brown satin evening bag onto one of the conference chairs.
Ten minutes later, three of the tubes had offered up detailed drawings of site plans, preliminary blueprints for the proposed dam, and artist’s renderings of the luxury hotel, marina, condominiums, and town houses. And the credenza had yielded an assortment of information—everything from an environmental impact study to a feasibility report. Plus Flame had found copies of several memos outlining the status on additional land purchases Chance was trying to make.
