by Janet Dailey
“What seems to be the problem, Maxine?” Flame swung down from her horse and passed the reins to Charlie.
“This woman—” Maxine began but never got a chance to finish.
“So you’re the Bennett woman—the new duchess of Morgan’s Walk,” the woman spat with contempt. “This place was big enough for Hattie. Why isn’t it big enough for you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No. You’re too high and mighty to come yourself. You send that agent of yours instead to dangle all that money in front of us.” She took a step closer, her broad face taut with resentment. “And in case you haven’t guessed, I’m Martha Crowder Matthews.”
“The daughter,” Flame murmured, unintentionally out loud.
“Yes, ‘the daughter,’” the woman snapped. “And I’m telling you to your face that our farm isn’t for sale! I don’t know who you think you are to come around here waving money in our face and thinking we’ll snatch at it. Four generations of Crowders have farmed that land, and someday my sons or daughter will work it. My great-grandfather and my grandfather are buried there, and when my father passes on, he’ll be buried there, too. Everybody’s wondering what’s happening to the family farm when it’s people like you who are destroying it.”
“Mrs. Crowder—Mrs. Matthews,” Flame quickly corrected herself. “I’m not trying to destroy—”
But the woman wasn’t interested in listening. “I sent that real estate agent of yours packing this morning. If he ever comes back to badger my father again about selling, and making him feel bad because he can’t take care of his family the way he’d like, you’re going to answer to me! Now, I’m warning you to stop—and you’d better listen.”
Flame stiffened, the phrasing almost an exact echo of the threatening messages she’d received. Was this woman the one who’d made all those calls? And ran her off the road? Remembering those terrifying seconds when the car had been bearing down on her, Flame grew angry.
“Don’t threaten me, Mrs. Matthews.”
“I’m not threatening anything—I’m telling you!” she said and stormed off the portico, straight to the pickup truck coated with a film of red dust.
Spinning tires spit gravel as the truck lurched forward under a heavy foot. Flame watched it speed away from the house.
“Looks like you aren’t going to be able to get the Crowder land,” Charlie observed, leaning loosely on the saddlehorn.
She flashed him a sharp glance, any sympathy she might have felt toward the woman banished by yet another threat. “We’ll see about that.”
“What’s he talking about?”
At Maxine’s probing question, Flame turned, realizing the housekeeper had overheard everything. “Nothing that concerns you,” she said curtly, and climbed the portico steps, removing her riding gloves. “Have you cleared away all those boxes from upstairs? I don’t want that mess there when Mr. Powell arrives tomorrow evening.”
“No, ma’am, but I will.”
Thunder rumbled in the far distance, nearly masking the sound of the car’s engine as Charlie drove the ranch’s Lincoln around to the front of the house. Crossing the foyer, Flame glanced out the window at the ominous black clouds that darkened the sky. As yet, it hadn’t begun to rain, so she left her raincoat draped over her arm and her umbrella closed.
She stopped at the door of the staircase and called up, “Maxine, I’m leaving to pick up Mr. Powell at the airport. When you’re through laying out the extra towels, you can go home.”
A muffled reply came from one of the upstairs rooms, acknowledging the message. As Flame started for the door, the telephone rang. She hesitated, then walked over to the table and picked it up.
“Morgan’s Walk.”
“You have been warned,” the mechanical voice intoned. “Why have you not listened?”
“You don’t frighten me,” she retorted angrily, but as usual, the connection had already been broken. She slammed the receiver down and stood there, vibrating. Why had that Matthews woman called again? Did she think she hadn’t made herself clear yesterday? Then Flame grew still, realizing it was an assumption on her part that the Crowders’ daughter was the one behind the threatening calls. She had no proof. Again she felt the rawness of anger. Who was doing this to her?
“Ms. Bennett?” Maxine stood at the top of the stairs, frowning in surprise. “I thought you’d left.”
“Not yet.” She glanced sideways at the phone. “Maxine,…have you taken any…strange calls?”
“Strange? What do you mean?” She started down the stairs, studying Flame with a puzzled look.
“Peculiar-sounding voices—or maybe they hang up as soon as you answer.”
“No.” She shook her head without hesitation. “There haven’t been any calls like that.” She eyed Flame a little closer. “Are you sure you feel all right, Ms. Bennett?”
It almost sounded as if she thought Flame was losing her mind. “I’m fine,” she retorted and crossed immediately to the door.
Charlie Rainwater was coming up the steps as she walked out. “There you are,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you heard me drive up with the car. Here’s the keys.”
“Thank you.” She took them from him, and started to walk to the car, then hesitated and turned back to him. “Charlie, do you know what kind of car the Crowders have?”
“They don’t have a car—leastwise not anymore. They sold it last fall to pay some of Dan’s medical bills. All they got now is that pickup their daughter was drivin’ yesterday.” Then he frowned. “Why?”
“Just curious.” She shrugged off the question and resumed her course to the Lincoln, more troubled than before. Maybe she hadn’t seen what kind of car had almost run her down, but she was positive it hadn’t been a pickup truck. Assuming the woman had borrowed a neighbor’s car, that still didn’t explain how she’d known Flame was at that restaurant—unless, of course, she’d followed her there. Yet that didn’t seem logical—not for a woman with a husband and children at home and a sick father to care for. And why hadn’t the Matthews woman confronted her as she had yesterday instead of trying to run her down? That was backwards.
Flame sighed heavily as she slid behind the wheel of the Lincoln. If she eliminated Martha Crowder Matthews as a possibility, that left Chance again.
Halfway to the airport, the clouds opened up and sent down cascading sheets of rain. Terrific claps of thunder mixed with jagged bolts of lightning to show Flame the awesome power of a Midwest storm.
The violent rain cell delayed the arrival of Malcom’s private jet. Flame used the time to contact Detective Barnes at the police department and inform him that she had received another threatening call, giving him the exact time and the brief message. As she returned to the lavishly furnished waiting room in the F.B.O. Building, she cynically wondered why she had bothered to call him. There was nothing the police could do about the threat, except to file it away. She sat down in one of the leather chairs and listened to the hammer of the rain on the roof and the ominous rumble of thunder.
The rain came down in sheets, drenching Chance as he dashed from the silver Jaguar to the covered entrance of his Tulsa mansion. He paused long enough to shake off the excess water, then reached for the door. But it was opened from the inside as his houseman Andrews appeared, clad in a raincoat, with a black umbrella in hand.
“Mr. Stuart. I was on my way out with the umbrella.” The somberly competent man gave Chance a look of mild reproval for not waiting.
“I don’t need it now,” Chance replied briskly.
“Obviously,” Andrews murmured, stepping back to admit him and observing the water that dripped from him.
“Where’s Miss Colton?” Automatically he handed his briefcase to the houseman, his glance sweeping the marble foyer of his Tulsa residence. “I didn’t notice the Mercedes when I drove in.”
“She returned from shopping about forty-five minutes ago, sir.” Andrews took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the
bottom of the case before setting in on the imported marble floor. “She was caught in the rain as well and went upstairs to change. I’m relieved you made it back safely, sir. With this violent storm in the area, I thought you might be delayed several hours.”
“We landed about an hour before it moved in.” He ran a quick hand through his hair, combing the wet strands away from his face with a rake of his fingers.
“You’ve been back that long,” Lucianna accused from the grand, curved staircase, pausing in a dramatic fashion midway down then descending the rest of the way, the long, tunic-style jacket to her satin lounging pajamas flowing out behind her. “Why didn’t you call and let us know you were back? You have no idea how worried I’ve been thinking you were up in those clouds with all that thunder and lightning. Where have you been all this time?”
“I had some things I needed to go over with Sam and Molly.” His quick smile at her approach failed to erase his vaguely preoccupied air.
Ignoring it, Lucianna started to slide her hands around his neck, then felt the dampness of his suit jacket and drew back. “Darling, you’re soaked to the skin.”
“It’s raining outside—remember?” he murmured, an ironic twist to his mouth.
Lucianna turned to the houseman. “Andrews, draw Mr. Stuart a nice hot bath,” she instructed peremptorily.
“Don’t bother, Andrews,” Chance said, vetoing her order. “Just lay me out some clean, dry clothes.”
“Very good, sir,” the houseman replied, inclining his head in a movement that fell somewhere between a bow and a nod.
“Are you sure, darling?” Lucianna murmured softly, sidling closer to him while taking care not to let her satin lounging suit come in contact with his wet clothes. “I was going to volunteer to wash your back…among other things.” She slipped her hands inside his jacket and smoothed them over his custom-made shirt as Andrews silently climbed the staircase to the master suite.
Chance caught her hands and set them away from him. “Maybe another time,” he said, rejecting both her advance and her suggestion.
Momentarily taken aback, she laughed to cover it and took him by the hand to lead him to the stairs. “You’ll regret that someday, Chance Stuart. I don’t make offers like that very often.” When he failed to respond with some equally teasing rejoinder as they started up the bleached oak staircase, Lucianna eyed him thoughtfully, trying to fathom this oddly preoccupied mood he seemed to be in. After all these years, she thought she knew his every mood, but this one puzzled her. She finally asked, “Is something wrong, Chance?”
“Of course not. What makes you think there is?” he shot back, the very abruptness of his answer making it ring false.
“This feeling I have that something’s bothering you.”
And the guarded look he gave her, masked by a lazy smile, heightened the feeling. “Woman’s intuition, I suppose.”
“Darling, you can’t deny I’m a woman. And my instincts tell me that something’s upset you and put those lines of tension around your mouth,” she replied confidently, her glance flicking to the unusually thin line of his lips.
He looked at her, for a moment neither denying nor confirming her observation. Then a loud clap of thunder vibrated through the house, setting the wall sconces’ pendants of Nesle crystal to tinkling.
“Blame it on the storm then—and the violence in the air,” he said.
Suddenly she knew that, whatever was bothering him, it had something to do with Flame. Rage flashed through her, jealous rage. She looked away, aware that it was useless to confront him. Flame Bennett was one subject Chance refused to discuss with her—not even in the most general terms. Had he seen her? Talked to her? But that was impossible. He’d come directly from the airport. No—he’d met with Molly and Sam before coming home. Then the meeting must have been about her. She had never hated anyone as much as she hated that woman. But she knew how to make Chance forget her. It merely required setting the proper scene.
Twenty minutes later, Chance stood beside the king-sized bed and tucked the tails of his striped shirt inside the waistband of his Italian slacks. Outside, the storm had subsided to a steady rain. Lightning flashed, drawing his glance to the rain-washed window.
In his mind’s eye, he saw again the jagged bolt of lightning that had lit up the night sky as he’d been leaving the airport after meeting with Sam and Molly—the bolt of lightning that had revealed the light blue Lincoln in the parking lot and the woman walking away from it, an umbrella tipped against the sheeting, wind-whipped downpour. The long shape of her, the familiar way she moved—it was Flame; he’d known it immediately even though he couldn’t see her face. There was only one possible reason for her to be at the airport: Malcom Powell was flying in to spend the weekend with her.
From the adjoining sitting room came the distinctive pop of a champagne cork, shattering the mental image of that rainy scene. Abruptly Chance turned away from the bed where she’d slept with him for those few precious nights as his wife, turning his back on those memories just as she had spurned him.
A set of double doors led into the sitting room. He crossed to them and pulled them open. Andrews glanced at him briefly, then continued to pour champagne into the two fluted glasses, a serving towel deftly wrapped around the bottle to absorb the bubbly foam. When Lucianna saw him, she undraped herself from the brocade sofa she’d been lounging on and assumed a seductive pose, her hands gripping the plump edges of the sofa cushions, her shoulders hunched forward, and her head thrown back.
“Feel better, darling?” Her dark gaze slithered admiringly over him.
“Drier,” Chance replied and strolled the rest of the way into the room as she picked up the two glasses and rose from the sofa to cross to him. “Champagne. What’s the occasion?” he said, taking the glass she handed him.
“Darling, when has there ever had to be an occasion for us to drink champagne?” she challenged, and touched the rim of her Baccarat crystal glass to his.
Chance lifted the glass to his mouth, but the effervescent wine had barely touched his lips when he jerked the glass away. “What the hell—” He bit off the rest of the expletive, flashing a furious glance at Lucianna.
She laughed at his reaction. “It’s peach champagne, darling, not poison.”
He swung on the houseman as he folded the towel neatly around the bottle nestled again in its bed of ice in the champagne stand. “How much more of this do we have, Andrews?”
“You instructed me to purchase two cases when—”
“Throw it out. All of it!”
Andrews blinked at the appalling waste. “But, sir—”
“I said—get rid of it!” Chance set the fluted glass on the contemporary acrylic table with such force the crystal stem broke, spilling champagne on the ecru rug and sending the rest of the glass shattering to the floor. Yet he seemed mindless of it as he strode to the door.
“Chance. Where are you going?” Lucianna called, still stunned and confused.
He stopped at the door and turned. The look in his eyes was cold—so cold it burned. “To the library.” Then his glance cut to Andrews. “Hold my calls. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Lucianna flinched at the loud slam of the door when he pulled it shut behind him. Slowly she focused on the peach champagne in her glass. “He told you to buy this when he brought her here to live, didn’t he, Andrews?” She murmured the accusation.
There was a slight pause before the houseman answered, “It may have been around that time, yes, ma’am.”
She walked over to the champagne stand and poured the contents of her glass onto the ice, then glared at him. “Why are you standing there? You heard Mr. Stuart. Get rid of it. Now!” She swung away from him and folded her arms tightly in front of her, still holding the empty champagne glass.
There was a rustle of movement, then the almost silent click of the door latch. Alone in the room, Lucianna looked at the glass in her hand. In a fit of rage, she hurled it at the wall and shu
t her ears to the sound of the expensive crystal shattering into fragments.
42
As Malcom stepped out of his Learjet, Flame went forward to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. When he reached her, she quickly shifted the umbrella to cover both of them from the downfalling rain and gave him a quick kiss in greeting, which he immediately lengthened into something warmer.
“You’re definitely all in one piece.” She smiled at him. “I wondered if you would be.”
“So did I,” Malcom replied.
“Was it very turbulent up there?” she asked, surveying him with some of her earlier concern.
“We were able to fly around the worst of it.”
“Good. My car’s in the lot,” she said. “We’ll come back for your luggage.”
“Come back? From where?”
“We were supposed to meet Ben Canon and Ham Fletcher ten minutes ago,” she said, water splashing about their feet as she hurried him across the tarmac to the parking lot across from the F.B.O. Building. “Ham Fletcher’s the real estate agent who’s been trying to buy the Crowder land for us—with absolutely no success. He insisted it was important that he talk to us. I started to meet him by myself, but I thought it would be better if you hear firsthand whatever it is he has to say rather than for me to try to repeat it.”
“Where are we meeting them?”
“At the hotel here by the airport.”
Irritation rippled through him as Malcom ducked inside the car and settled in the passenger seat. “I fly all this way—just to step off the plane straight into another meeting. You know this isn’t what I expected, Flame,” he challenged. “What happened to that fine old brandy and our cosy evening in front of the fire—the one you described to me over the phone?” And the one that had persuaded him to come out here.
