Rivals

by Janet Dailey

  “Of course not.” Molly stiffened immediately, lifting her head to show him her total support and confidence.

  “Who’s her attorney?”

  “Guess,” Chance countered sarcastically.

  “Ben Canon,” Sam murmured, then sighed heavily. “You’re right. I should’ve know that.” He glanced hesitantly at Chance. “When you saw her on Saturday, did she give you any inkling at all that she was going to do something like this?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t believe it would come this quickly.”

  “What are you going to do?” Sam frowned. “What can you do?”

  “Stall,” he said, and shifted his attention to Molly. “Get Quentin Worthy on the phone and tell him you’re messengering over this petition. And tell him to find me the best damned divorce lawyer there is, and I don’t care where he has to go to get him. In the meantime, I want any action on this petition postponed. Explain to him that I’m trying to get my wife to agree to a reconciliation.”

  “You don’t really think she will, do you?” Sam questioned skeptically.

  “Of course she will,” Molly spoke up. “She’s hurt and angry and upset right now, and it’s all that Morgan woman’s fault. But she loves Chance. I know she does. She’ll realize that herself. You wait and see—absence will make the heart grow fonder.”

  Sam shook his head at her eternal optimism. “If you’re going to start tossing out clichés, Molly, don’t forget: out of sight, out of mind. And there is half a continent between them. You can’t get much more out of sight than that.”

  “If the two of you are finished trading clichés, then I’d like to know if there are any appointments on my calendar for tomorrow that can’t be postponed,” Chance broke in.

  Molly flashed him a guilty look of apology and replied, “You’re supposed to have breakfast with the governor in the morning—at the governor’s mansion in Oklahoma City—but as far as the rest are concerned, they could easily be switched to another day. I don’t recall anything else that’s pressing.”

  “In that case, after you get in touch with Quentin Worthy, call Mick Donovan and advise him that we’ll be flying to San Francisco when we leave the capital tomorrow.”

  31

  Malcom Powell’s driver had the umbrella at the ready, its ribbed canopy to shield her from the Thursday afternoon drizzle, when Flame stepped from the car. “Thank you, Arthur.” She flashed him a hurried smile as she took the umbrella from him and held it over her head.

  He touched his cap to her. “See you next week.”

  She nodded a brief acknowledgment to that and moved away from the car, cutting across the flow of scurrying pedestrians to reach the entrance to the office building. Ellery was there, holding the glass door open for her, obviously just returning from lunch himself.

  Under the shelter of the entrance’s overhang, Flame paused long enough to lower her umbrella and release the catch to close it. Ellery sent a glance after the limousine pulling away from the curb.

  “I see you had lunch with the Great One today,” he observed.

  “Yes.”

  His eyebrow lifted at her clipped answer, but she ignored it as she brushed past him to enter the building. In two strides, Ellery drew even with her again, matching her brisk pace to the elevators.

  “That bad, was it?”

  “I beg your pardon.” She pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “You’re still gritting your teeth. Which would suggest your luncheon with Mr. Powell was something less than a pleasant experience.”

  She started to deny it, but what was the point? Ellery knew her moods too well. “Unfortunately, Malcom wasn’t as tactful as other clients and co-workers have been.”

  “Asked you a lot of questions about your breakup with Stuart, did he?” Ellery guessed.

  “That’s one way of putting it, yes.”

  It had begun almost the moment she’d walked into his office, her long paisley velvet skirt swinging about the calves of her boots. She hadn’t crossed the length of the room to the massive antique desk where Malcom stood; instead, she’d stopped midway and deposited her handbag on a chair.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Malcom.” She’d talked at him as she tugged off her gloves and unbuttoned her poncho-style raincoat, careful to avoid the probing study of his gray eyes. “Debbie—my assistant—is home with the flu. I have a temporary in her place. When they rang up to say Arthur was waiting for me downstairs, I was on the phone with another client. And she never passed the message on to me before she left on her lunch break.” She’d sent him an apologetic smile as he moved out from behind his desk, angling toward her.

  “I understand.” But the smoothness of his reply had failed to conceal the underlying edge of irritation in his voice, reminding Flame that Malcom Powell wasn’t a man who liked to be kept waiting.

  When she’d squared around to face him, she’d been confronted by the power of his presence. She’d stared at the muscular swell to his chest, arms, and neck that was impressive, and the broadness of his square jaw and the forceful thrust of his dimpled chin that spoke of his iron will. She’d wondered how she could have possibly forgotten in two short weeks.

  The hard gleam in his gray eyes had been difficult to meet. “Although I must admit I had started to suspect that you’d run off again with your lover. Or—should I say your husband?”

  Stung by his probing taunt, Flame had let her gaze drop and masked it by sweeping off her cape and draping it on the chair with her purse. “That was a mistake.” She’d fallen back on what had become her stock answer these past few days. “One that I’ve taken steps to correct as soon as possible.” She’d feigned a smile of indifference and deliberately glanced at the pocket doors to Malcom’s private dining room, slid open to reveal the table set for two within. “We’re having lunch here. How nice.”

  “I told you Stuart wasn’t the man for you.”

  No one else had pursued the subject, taking her reply as the final word on the matter. But not Malcom.

  “So you did—and you were right,” she’d admitted, more sharply than she’d intended. “But if you asked me here today to gloat—”

  “Not to gloat, but simply to remind you that I’m here.” His gray glance had wandered over her in an assessing fashion, the look in his eyes turning warm. “My feelings toward you haven’t changed, Flame…nor my desires.”

  “I think you should be able to appreciate that after making one mistake, I’m not about to make another.”

  “And I think…that whatever happened between you and Stuart must have been a bitter blow to your pride.”

  “It was more than my pride he hurt!” She’d flared immediately, then abruptly turned away, struggling to regain control of her emotions. “If you don’t mind, Malcom, I’d rather not discuss any of this,” she’d insisted curtly.

  “I can see that,” he’d murmured. “But I can’t help being curious. I’ve never seen this much anger in you, Flame—not even when you’ve lost your temper with me.”

  “Maybe I have cause.”

  “Maybe you do,” he’d said in a considering way. “And maybe a glass of your favorite chardonnay will cool it a little.”

  They’d gone into his private dining room then, but that hadn’t been the end of it. Several times during the course of the meal, Malcom had alluded in some way to Chance and her breakup as if he knew, or guessed, that there was a great deal more to the story than she was telling.

  “I think Malcom hoped I’d weep on his shoulder,” she said to Ellery as they joined the crowd of workers waiting in front of the elevators. “But I don’t need his shoulder—or anyone else’s.”

  “Speaking of shoulders, we’ll have the artwork finished on the Shodderly ad next week.” Interrupted by the arrival of an elevator, Ellery waited until they’d wedged a space inside, then picked up where he’d left off. “Do you want to take a look at it a week from Friday?”

  “It would have to be first thing. I have
an appointment in Oakland that afternoon.”

  “What’s in Oakland?” Ellery frowned.

  “Thorgood Engineering.”

  “I’ve never heard of them. When did the agency acquire that company for a client?”

  “They aren’t a client. I’m seeing them on a personal matter.” The elevator came to a stop at the agency’s floor. “Excuse us, please.” She squeezed her way through the jam of people to the open doors, with Ellery right behind her.

  “This is about those plans of Stuart’s, isn’t it?” he said.

  Nodding an affirmative answer, Flame walked by the receptionist’s desk and into the hall that led to her office. “If nothing else, they can tell me the steps Chance would have to take in order to have my land condemned for his lake.”

  “Time is definitely not lying idle in your hands, is it?” Ellery murmured.

  “No. And you can bet he isn’t wasting any either. Which is why I can’t afford to sit back and wait to find out what his first move will be….”

  He caught her arm, stopping her short of her assistant’s office and eyeing her with a knowing look. “Why do I have the feeling that you already have some scheme in motion? And I don’t mean this engineering thing.”

  Flame smiled, with just a hint of smugness. “When I talked yesterday to Ben Canon—my attorney in Tulsa—I asked him to find out whether Morgan’s Walk met the criteria for a listing in the National Register of Historic Places. If it does, there might be some objection to having such a house sitting on the bottom of a lake.”

  “Very good.” Ellery inclined his head in approval.

  “I thought so.” But she also knew it was much too early to be congratulating herself. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little pleased as she turned and entered her assistant’s office. “Did any messages come for me while I was gone, Miss Austin?” She didn’t trust the temporary to automatically pass them on to her after this noon’s fiasco.

  “Just two.” The bright-eyed brunette promptly plucked them from her desk top and handed them to Flame, then wasted a sidelong glance at Ellery.

  “Thank you.” Flame scanned the pair of messages as she crossed to her office door.

  “Oh, Ms. Bennett, wait.” The brunette’s anxious call turned her around. “I forgot,” she said guiltily. “There’s a man waiting in your office for you.”

  “In my office? Who?”

  “I believe his name was Stuart. He said you knew him.”

  Too furious to speak, Flame longed to strangle the girl. Instead she swung on Ellery. “I know.” He held up a hand, staving off any need for words. “I’ll call the service for you and have her replaced.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  As Flame swept into her office, she heard Ellery say, “I think that’s a safe assumption, Miss Austin.”

  Chance stood at the window, his back to the door, when she came through. He looked back, angling his wide shoulders at her, then slowly turned to face her. Just for an instant, under the full impact of his gaze, she felt the tear of old feelings. Just as quickly she blocked them out, and pushed the door shut behind her.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I believe you asked the same thing the last time we saw each other.” The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened in a mock smile. “And my answer is the same—I came to see you.”

  “I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to see you.” Flame crossed to her desk.

  “I can’t accept that.” He wandered over to stand in front of her.

  “You have no choice,” she snapped. “And what do you mean coming into my office and making yourself at home as if—”

  “—as if I was your husband?”

  “That isn’t what I was going to say!”

  “No, it probably wasn’t,” he conceded with a slight dip of his head. “I decided it would be better to wait here than in the outer office where any number of your co-workers might see me. I thought it might spare you a lot of needless questions.”

  “Such consideration would be touching if it came from anyone other than you.” She sat down behind her desk and began going through the stack of mail on top of it, pretending to scan the letters although not absorbing one word.

  “Flame, I didn’t come here to make you upset or angry—”

  “Then why are you here?” She finally lifted her glance to his face, taking in the familiar sight of its smooth, rakish lines, so very strong, so very compelling.

  “I came to talk to you.”

  She arched him a scornful look. “Don’t you mean—to talk me out of Morgan’s Walk?”

  “No, I don’t.” There was a quietness to his voice that she couldn’t ignore. “You’ve condemned me without hearing me out. I’m not saying that when you do, you’ll change your mind. But you owe me that much, Flame.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” she replied stiffly.

  “Maybe you don’t, but what harm will it do to listen? Have dinner with me tonight.”

  She started to reject his invitation hotly, then another thought occurred to her and she wavered, covering her hesitation by rising from her chair and moving away from the desk and Chance at right angles. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Carrington.”

  She wheeled to face him, still gripped with indecision and unwilling to act impulsively a second time. “Let me think about it and call you later at the hotel.”

  Chance sensed she was on the verge of agreeing to meet him. But he also had the feeling that if he pushed her, she’d refuse. He backed off.

  “All right.” He nodded slowly in acceptance. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  She was surprised that he’d given in so easily. She’d expected him to press her for an answer. She wondered why he hadn’t as he walked out of her office. Was he that confident she would ultimately accept? Did it matter if he was? He couldn’t possibly have guessed the reason she was contemplating meeting him.

  Chance had barely left her office when Ellery walked in. His glance ran over her, quick with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “I promise you, Ellery, I’m not about to fall apart simply because I saw him again.” She walked back to her desk.

  “What did he want?”

  Her mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “He wants me to have dinner with him tonight so we can talk.”

  “You refused, of course.”

  “Not yet.”

  For several seconds Ellery was silent, studying her with a probing eye. “Some devious wheels are turning in that head of yours.”

  Flame smiled. “He’s made his first move. He’s going to try to win me back. He convinced me once before that he loved me, why shouldn’t he think that he could do it again? What would happen, Ellery, if I let him think he might succeed?” she wondered aloud.

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  She ignored his question and continued to talk out her stream of consciousness. “If I strung him along, he wouldn’t dare contest the will—or make any overt move to get control of Morgan’s Walk. And think of the time it would gain me.”

  “Stuart isn’t a man to be easily tricked.”

  “I know.” She shrugged that off. “But he’ll also expect me to play hard-to-get. And that won’t be difficult at all.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Ellery warned.

  She turned her overtly bright green eyes on him, the devil of malice in them. “Yes, it is. It’s called ‘deceit’—I learned it from an expert.”

  Flame deliberately waited until nearly six o’clock to call Chance and accept his invitation. When he offered to pick her up, she refused. “We can dine at your hotel,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the restaurant at eight.”

  In the hotel’s multitiered dining room, Chance observed Flame’s approach as the maître d’ escorted her to his table. He paid little attention to the way heads
turned when she passed, for he was wholly absorbed by the striking picture she made coming toward him, dramatic in a high-necked black-and-white suit in a spotted silk moire. The lofty way she carried her head and the confident swing of her square shoulders came naturally to her, like the fiery gold color of her hair. That they created a stir and caught the eye was purely incidental. She’d done more than that to him, though. She’d settled much of his restlessness of spirit, she’d aroused his masculine instincts to possess and protect. He hadn’t realized how much of either until she’d walked out. He wanted her back. He had to have her back. Chance was as single-minded in this as he was in getting Morgan’s Walk.

  When she neared the table, he stood to greet her. Her glance swept him coolly as she murmured a greeting, then let the maître d’ seat her in the chair opposite him. The waiter arrived instantly to ask if she would like something from the bar. Her hesitation was momentary, her glance running to the glass of scotch before him, then she ordered a glass of chardonnay.

  Once they were alone at the table, she finally met his gaze with a look of studied indifference. “I believe this is a first,” she said. “No peach champagne and no orchids.”

  “I didn’t think it would be appropriate.” He scanned the strong modeling of her features, looking for a break somewhere in the reserve she’d thrown up against him. But he couldn’t penetrate the green mystery of her eyes, so cool and aloof to him now. He would have preferred to face the fire and temper she’d shown him in her office rather than this air of tolerance and disinterest.

  “You were right. It wouldn’t be.” Then her attention was pulled away from him as the waiter returned with her wine. She thanked him with a smile—the first Chance had seen on her lips since he’d kissed her goodbye the morning he left for Texas—the morning that had signaled an end to the rare happiness he’d known. When she faced him again, all trace of the smile was gone. He felt a sweep of hot anger and immediately clamped down on it, recognizing it would get him nowhere with her.

  He lifted his glass of scotch in a toast. “Thank you,” he said.