by Janet Dailey
Her secretary’s voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Atchison is on line two. He insists on speaking with you.”
She glanced impatiently at the gold Cartier watch on her wrist, conscious of time slipping away. “Very well,” she said curtly, then paused a moment to suppress any hint of irritation from her voice before picking up the phone. “Mr. Atchison, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” she said with studied pleasantness.
“Ida and I have been talking things over since we left you,” he said, his tone brusque, his accent thick. “We said we’d get back with you tomorrow, but we’ve decided we’re going to take a little drive over to Vail and take another look at the place we liked so much there.”
“I think that’s a very sensible thing for you to do,” Sondra replied smoothly through a tightly held jaw. “Buying a second home is a major decision, certainly one that shouldn’t be made in haste. Vail does have a great deal to offer. After all, Jerry Ford goes there. Now Aspen, on the other hand, tends to be the playground for the Kennedy’s.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Sondra deliberately didn’t attempt to fill the silence, letting all the subtle implications of her words sink in.
Warren Oakes sat silently, listening with amusement and grudging admiration. Sondra Hudson was a cool one. But for all her coolness, there was always an anger there, simmering below that smooth surface. He had a feeling it was that anger that fed her discontent-and her ambition.
“Ida did like that house you showed us on Red Mountain,” he said finally. “You said the owner was asking three million five for it. Do you think he’d take an even three for it?”
Sondra smiled. “Possibly. That particular home has been on the market for a few months. If you like, I can draw up an offer for that amount.”
“Do that.”
“I’ll do it immediately and have my vice president, Warren Oakes, bring it over to your hotel for your signature.” It was never wise to allow a buyer, or a seller, to have too much time for second thoughts; deals could easily be lost that way. “I’d bring it myself, but unfortunately I have a dinner engagement tonight.”
“That’s fine. We’ll be expecting him.”
Sondra hung up and turned to Warren with a faintly satisfied air. “They’re making an offer of three million on the Baxter’ place. Draw it up and run it over to their hotel. They’re staying at the Little Nell.”
“Will do.” He nodded, invisibly shaking his head at her self-containment. If he’d been on the verge of making a sale this size, he’d be grinning from ear to ear-and sweating out the time until closing. But not Sondra. Never Sondra.
CHAPTER SIX
The stylist deftly smoothed a stray strand of blond hair in place, then spritzed to keep it there. Kit sat with her eyes half closed, relaxing while the stringy brunette arranged her hair in a soft and classic upsweep.
Stepping back to survey her work, the stylist announced, “All done, I think. Take a look.”
Opening her eyes, Kit studied her reflection in the brightly lit vanity mirror, ignoring the drab plastic cape that protected her gown. “It’s perfect.” She nodded in approval.
The brunette bent down to unfasten the cape, her reflection joining Kit’s in the mirror. “If Beau saw you looking like this, he wouldn’t be so quick to chase other women,” she said, referring to Kit’s longtime love interest in the soap. “I watch Winds of Destiny all the time.” She removed the cape and began folding it to return it to her case. “Truthfully, I don’t know why you put up with that conniving, two-timing creep.”
“What can I do? I love him,” Kit replied as she reached for the pair of antique ruby-and-diamond earrings. Edwardian in design, the delicate drops were on loan for the evening.
“You can dump him, that’s what you can do,” the brunette told her.
Kit hid a smile and fastened the first earring to her lobe, aware that the episode marking her departure from the daytime drama would air next week. “Maybe I should break off with him-this time, for good.”
“You’ll be a lot happier in the long run. Believe me.” The stylist gathered up her case and her oversize shoulder bag and headed for the door. “Have fun tonight.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at the brunette as she waved and sailed out the door.
Alone, Kit felt a tension work its way through her nerves, a tension caused by the certain knowledge Bannon would be at tonight’s gala dinner. He and Old Tom had been ardent supporters of the American Cancer Society ever since a malignant tumor had taken the life of Bannon’s mother. It was only logical he would attend.
In any case, it was inevitable she would see him while she was here, probably several times-not because he lived in Aspen, but because Bannon was the executor of her father’s estate. Still, seeing him again would be difficult. It always was…even after ten years.
All wounds eventually healed, but sometimes, when a wound was deep enough, it left a lingering ache that could last a lifetime, making it impossible to forget the cause of it. Brooding over it never helped. On that mental reminder, she reached for the mate to the Edwardian drop on her lobe.
With the second earring in place, Kit rose from the velvet-cushioned stool and crossed to the bed. The full-length cape that matched her strapless gown lay across it, a shimmering river of pale gold. A pair of opera-length gloves rested beside it, her only accessory other than the earrings she wore.
As she pulled on the first glove, there was a knock at her door, followed by the sound of John Travis’s voice: “May I come in, Kit?”
“Of course. Come ahead.” She reached for the second glove and glanced at the crystal clock on the bed table, reassured to see she was ready a full ten minutes early.
When she heard the click of the door latch, she turned to face it. John walked in, the sight of him triggering an awareness, an attraction that seemed to get stronger each time she was with him. She smiled, her gaze taking him in, the formal black suit offering a striking contrast to the deep gold lights in his hair.
“You certainly look splendid tonight, John T.,” she declared, smoothing the second glove over an elbow.
“Thank you.” He inclined his head briefly at the compliment, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I saw the hairdresser leave and hoped I’d be able to catch you alone.”
“You probably hoped you’d catch me indecently clad,” she mocked lightly. “But you’re out of luck this time, John T. What do you drink?” She rested a hand on her hip in a model’s pose, and executed a slow pirouette to show him the gown, then stopped to stand before him, a slim column the pale shade of twenty-four carats. “Do you like it?”
She looked elegant and incredibly stunning. He stepped closer, seeing the dusting of golden freckles she hadn’t bothered to conceal with makeup. They took her out of the realm of a goddess and made her back into a warm, vibrant woman.
He kept her waiting while he pretended to inspect her with a falsely critical eye before he said, “It doesn’t look right. Something’s missing.”
“You can’t be serious.” Frowning, she turned to look at her reflection in the mirror. “The gown is beautiful; it fits perfectly. There’s not a thing wro-”
“Yes, there is.” He lifted her right hand. “You need this.” He wrapped the bracelet from his jacket pocket around her wrist and fastened the safety catch to secure it. For an instant, Kit stared at the delicate gold-and-platinum bracelet set with small white and yellow diamonds.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, turning her wrist and watching the way the stones caught the light.
“A gift from me to you,” he said. She started to shake her head as if in refusal. “Please. Rare and beautiful things should be worn by a rare and beautiful woman.”
She smiled and curved a hand to his cheek. “I don’t care if you’ve said that to every woman you’ve ever known. I love it. And I love the present.”
Rising up, she kissed him, her lips moving warmly against his. Desire flamed in him, w
ith the swiftness of a match flame. He caught her close and deepened the kiss, not caring if he crushed her gown or mussed her makeup. The taste of her was like a heady wine. He wanted to get drunk on her and forget, for a short while, the stress he was under.
A voice in the hallway outside her bedroom restored a degree of reason. He drew back to hold her loosely, watching her eyes slowly open to look at him.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to skip that damned dinner tonight?” he murmured, fully aware he had to attend. Lassiter had commanded it.
“It’s tempting, isn’t it?” she murmured back, her gaze lifting no higher than his mouth. “Very tempting.” She was still feeling the effects of his kiss and the longings it had evoked. The need to be held in his arms and feel the intimate caress of his hand was like a physical ache–the kind that would be easy to assuage. Too easy. “But you’re right.” Kit sighed her regret. “We should be joining the others.”
When she moved out of his arms, he made no attempt to stop her. “You’d better freshen your lipstick first.”
“Do you think so?” She glanced at him with laughing eyes, then walked over to the vanity. He watched as she applied a fresh coat of peach gloss to her lips. “There,” she said, satisfied with the results the mirror showed her. Rising, she slipped the tube of gloss into a gold-mesh evening bag and crossed the room to gather her cape from the bed. “Isn’t it funny? Usually I love parties. But I’m not really in the mood for one right now. Tonight I’d much rather go walking in the moonlight.”
“Moonlight is for adolescents,” he said. “You and I are flesh-and-blood people, Kit. It’s time we moved on to something more real than that.”
She swung around at his words, paused, then released a long, slow breath, accompanying it with a faintly dazed shake of her head. “You do have a way with women, John T.”
“Why are you always throwing that up at me?” he demanded, but he knew why. Deserved or not, his public image was that of a womanizer, an image that had practically become carved in stone over the years. After one disastrous marriage and a dozen abortive affairs, there had been a subtle merging of his private life with his public one. There had been women. A lot of them. Most had wanted nothing from him but the thrill of making it with a big-name star. Something he had never fully understood. But Kit wasn’t one of those women. For her, there was no such thing as a casual affair, and he knew that, too. He wasn’t entirely sure it was what he wanted either. “To protect myself, I suppose.” She admitted, recognizing that she used it as a shield against the sexual attraction he held for her.
“Protect yourself from whom? Me?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.
“Don’t look so innocent, Joun T.,” she mocked and picked up her cape and draped it over a gloved arm. “You aren’t really trying to suggest that I would be the first woman to lose her head over you, are you?”
“Maybe I’m suggesting that you’re the first woman I could lose my head over.” He replied. The mere thought was enough to steal her breath. She was stunned to discover how much she wanted to believe that, how thrilling it would be if she were the last in his string of women, if she would be the one who tamed him. The very potency of the idea was enough to make believing him doubly dangerous
“Life is full of risks, John T.,” she said finally able to recover her breath and her good sense. “That’s what makes the rewards so wonderful. She moved to his side and slipped her arm under his. Shall we go?”
He hesitated, remembering that glimpse of bright, shining excitement he had seen in her eyes only seconds ago. For the first time, he was confident that she was his for the taking. The urge was there to gather her back into his arms and do just that. But he didn’t have the time to indulge in such luxury. Not with Lassiter waiting.
Sighing, he escorted her from the room.
Bannon stood in front of the dresser mirror in the log-walled bedroom and absently buttoned his white dress shirt. A patchwork quilt filled with goose down covered the double bed behind him, its once-bright colors faded with time, like the braided rug on the planked floor. A spindle-backed chair sat in the corner, angled toward the blackened maw of a much-used fireplace, at one time the only source of heat. It was a room of simple comforts, yet homey and solid.
“Hi.” Laura wandered into the room and stopped next to the dresser, propping her elbows on it and resting her chin in her hands, her hair falling loose about her shoulders in a gleaming black curtain.
“Hi.” Bannon smiled down at her, catching the lemony fragrance of her shampoo. “Are you all packed?”
“Yep. My toothbrush, too.” She watched him fit a gold cuff link through its opening while she swayed on one foot, waggling the other behind her. “Are you almost ready?”
“Almost.” He fastened it in place and reached for the other.
“Gramps is all dressed. I saw him admiring himself in the mirror when I went past his room,” she said with an I-told-you-so look, then pushed off the dresser and strolled over to the bed.
“Did you fix yourself a sandwich?” Bannon watched her in the mirror, smiling at her bored, faintly impatient look.
“No.” She plopped on his bed. “Buffy and I are going to fix pizza as soon as I get there.”
Bannon tucked the shirttails inside the waistband of his trousers, listening to the protesting squeak of the bedsprings as Laura lightly bounced on it. Then the sound stopped and there was silence. Bannon glanced in the mirror and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at the walnut-framed wedding picture next to the lamp on his night table. He paused in the act of reaching for the black tie, for a moment unable to move as she picked up the photograph to study it.
“Do you think I look like her, Daddy?”
“When you’re nineteen, you’ll look exactly like her.” Dropping his glance from the mirror, Bannon bypassed the bow tie in favor of a wide ribbon tie of black silk, the one his father always called his Sunday-go-to-meeting tie. “That’s how old she was when that picture was taken.”
Laura sighed, a soft and wistful sound. “It would be nice to have a mother.”
Her words hit him hard, filled as they were with her loneliness and longing for a mother. They sent his thoughts racing back to that long-ago night when he’d met Diana, when she’d smiled at him across the width of the table at the Jerome Bar, putting everything into her sparkling eyes. He’d been twenty-four and she’d been the kind of wild dark-eyed beauty men dreamed about.
He hadn’t cared about the man beside her, the one who was supposed to be her boyfriend.
The bar was packed when Bannon walked in, filled with the usual raucous and rowdy crowd of ski bums, party seekers, ski groupies, and assorted hangers-on. Not his scene at all. One drink and he’d leave, he decided.
He followed Sondra to a table occupied by a noisy group. His glance fell on a dark-haired girl as she looked up, her lips red and full, provocation in every soft curve of her cheeks, and her eyes dark and alive to him. He felt like he’d come in contact with a bare electrical wire, that’s how sharply the sight of her had jolted him.
He pulled up a chair, unable to take his eyes off her, and ignored the attempts by the males in her group-frat brothers all-to make him feel unwelcome. He recognized the type, sons of Denver’s upper crust dressed in turtlenecks and cashmere sweaters, more interested in scoring and getting high than in getting high scores.
Bannon sat with his chair rocked back, indifferent to the brags about runs made and slopes conquered, his gaze seldom straying from Diana’s face. Beside him, Sondra Hudson asked, “How long have you lived in Aspen, Bannon?”
“I was born here.”
“A native,” Diana observed, a provocative pair of dimples appearing near the corners of her mouth. “How unusual.” She shook her hair back with a toss of her head and continued to eye him. “Did I hear my sister say your family owns a ranch here?”
“Stone Creek. East of here, toward the Divide.” There were a hundred things he wanted to tell
her about it, but not here, not in this room full of people, some of them half drunk, some of them half stoned, all of them loud.
“A ranch by whose standards?” her boyfriend, David Thornton, challenged, his lip curling in a faint sneer, an arm draped around Diana in an assertion of ownership. “I’ve seen some of the so-called ranches around Aspen. A measly five and ten acres. My uncle owns a two-thousand-acre spread along the Wyoming border. I spent my summers there when I was a kid.”
Bannon smiled slowly into his pilsner glass before lifting his glance. “Stone Creek encompasses a measly four thousand acres.”
His softly spoken comment earned him a glare from David Thornton and a laugh from Diana. “Shut up, Di,” Thornton snarled.
“Why?” she taunted. “You walked right into that one.”
One of their group sauntered back to the table after a trip to the john. “What’s so funny? Did I miss something?” He looked around the table, his eyes unnaturally brilliant.
“Just you, Eddie,” Thornton snapped.
“Yeah, I am a funny fellow,” Eddie agreed with a ridiculous grin, then proceeded to pick up the pitcher of beer and down half of it to slake his coke-dry mouth.
“Jeezus, Eddie, why didn’t you just spit in it?” one of the others complained.
“Hey, there’s Andy Holmes,” Thornton said and placed two fingers in his mouth to whistle at the skier, considered by many to have been America’s best hope for a gold in the giant slalom at the last winter games, until an injury had eliminated him. “Andy!” he called, waving him over and rising to welcome him. “It’s good to see you again. We met last year at the Halston party and shared a few lines together. David Thornton,” he said to jog the skier’s memory.
“David, right. How’ve you been?”
“Great. Sit down. Have a beer.”
“Sorry, I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve-” He paused in mid-sentence, catching sight of Bannon. “Hey, man. Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you on the slopes this year.”
