by Janet Dailey
“This is strictly the ‘A’ list, isn’t it?” Paula murmured upon completing her own survey.
“Not entirely,” John replied. “We’re here.”
“Speak for yourself,” she replied, arching a cool but amused, brow.
Kit paid no attention to either of them as she scanned the throng of guests, mentally bracing herself for the sight of Bannon. When she failed to see him, she relaxed a little and let her attention drift to the magnificently restored Grand Ballroom, its walls, covered in gilded wallpaper in a variety of patterns and its wide windows draped in French damask.
“Wouldn’t this be perfect for a period film, Chip?” she said, her imagination already painting the scene with waltzing couples, the men in tails and bat-wing collars, the ladies in bustled gowns of emerald satin, scarlet mousseline, and ivory peau de soie, the flutter of fans and scented hankies, the swish of watered silk and bombazine, the air awash with the fragrances of bay nun, rose water, and lemon verbena. “I wish we were making one.”
Chip studied her for a critical second. “You would make an ideal Gibson girl.”
Maury walked up. “She’d make an ideal anything. You name it-Kit can play the part.”
“You don’t have to sell me on Kit,” Chip insisted. “I was sold before you had a chance.”
“Do you see our host?” Paula asked.
“No.” Lassiter was the last person John wanted to see tonight. Turning to Kit, he smiled. “What do you say? Shall we do a bit of mixing and mingling?”
Why not?” She agreed with a careless shrug. “that is why we’re here.”
“It certainly is.” Grinning, he took her arm, letting them be drawn into the vortex of the charity gala.
Old Tom paused in the broad sweep of the Jerome’s lobby, his burly chest and big shoulders firmly encased in black evening wear, complete with cummerbund and black tie. With his grizzled hair and craggy face, he looked like a throwback to the cattle barons of old as he drew back his head and cast an assessing eye over the warm, earth-toned lobby, its walls covered in a rich terra-cotta fabric, its gracefully curved chairs in solid dusty blues and striped blues and mauves, its potted palms and baby parlor grand, its great fireplace and silverdust mirror mantel and the deer heads that flanked it.
When Bannon and Sondra joined him, he turned. Bannon recognized that reminiscent gleam in his eyes before his father spoke. “I remember back during the war when some of the ski troops from the army’s alpine division bivouacked right here on the floor.” He paused and chortled to himself. “And I remember a time or two, when somebody was driving a flock of sheep through town, that a few of them managed to find their way into the lobby. Of course, I wouldn’t be saying how that happened.”
“It couldn’t have been with some help, could it?” Bannon wondered, the corners of his mouth deepening with the suggestion of a smile.
“You never know,” Old Tom said, the twinkle in his eye belying the shake of his head.
“Are we ready?” Sondra prompted coolly.
For an answer, Old Tom started walking in the direction of the ballroom, taking his time as he looked around. “This place brings back a lot of memories,” he declared. “Back during the Depression, fifty cents could buy you one of the best chicken dinners you ever tasted. Practically the whole town turned out for it on Sunday nights. During prohibition, they turned the bar into a soda fountain.”
His pace slowed even more as they traveled down one of the hotel’s broad, arched corridors, its walls lined with old mining maps and photos of Aspen’s past.
“This hotel is as grand as it was in my father’s day,” Old Tom said fondly. “He was one who could tell you some stories about this place and how it was when Jerome Wheeler himself walked these halls.” He turned to Bannon. “Did I ever tell you about the time your granddad walked into Wheeler’s private dining room while Wheeler and his fellow silver tycoons were sipping cognac and smoking their after-dinner cigars? Right there, under those glittering crystal chandeliers, your granddad told Wheeler he was representing a miner’s widow and that his client intended to sue-”
“I think you have told me that story,” Bannon broke in gently.
“Endlessly,” Sondra murmured under her breath, then smiled quickly at Bannon in a show of tolerance.
“I guess maybe I have,” he conceded, then came to an abrupt stop and peered at an enlargement of an old photograph. “Well, I’ll be…Would you look at this woman in the picture here? The buxom one with the big hat and parasol.” He straightened, an odd smile on his face. “I wonder if they knew this was a picture of one of Aspen’s most famous madams when they hung it. She ran a high-class establishment, catered strictly to the carriage trade.”
Bannon frowned. “How would you know that? That was before your time.”
Old Tom reddened slightly beneath his tan. “Your granddad told me. He-uh-had occasion to represent one of her girls a time or two.” Then his expression took on a faintly sly look. “Got well paid for his services, too, I understand.” He started walking again, ignoring the faint stiffness in the tilt of Sondra’s head. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind knowing how a woman looks at a man with a lot of money in his pocket. If he threw a thousand-dollar bill in her lap, would she show him something he never saw before? Would he get something for a thousand that he wouldn’t get for ten? And when he paid for it-I wonder if it would be worth it?” He fell silent, pondering the thought.
Thrusting a half-amused glance at Sondra, Bannon murmured, “He’s in a philosophical mood tonight.”
“I noticed.” She returned his look, her eyes a deep, dark brown with a stillness to them that always made him wonder what she was thinking, what her eyes meant when she watched him. He was never sure, not even during the times when they’d made love.
His glance lingered on her a moment longer, traveling over the pale blond hair running smoothly away from her forehead and temples. Her lips lay together in a soft, sober line, slightly full at the centers, lips that could heat with the first touch of his.
In those rare moments when Bannon thought about his future, there was a sense of Sondra in it. The slow gesturing of her hands and the small swing of her shoulders never failed to capture his attention. She never asked anything of him, never made demands. She was simply there, waiting with that calm watchfulness.
At the cloakroom, Bannon helped Sondra out of her fur coat of dark Canadian fisher, then pocketed the claim chit and escorted her into the ballroom.
Together, John and Kit made the rounds, wending their way through the clusters of elegantly gowned guests, drifting from group to group, lingering when pressed, then moving on to the next. Once duty was finally done, John edged them back to the fringes.
Taking advantage of the respite, Kit traded her glass of stale champagne for a fresh one. Snatches of conversation came to her, the topics ranging from health spasand Aspen’s usual cause celebre-clean air and the environment-to discussions concerning the economic fallout of a united Germany and a divided Canada.
“It’s crazy,” she murmured, her lips curving in a bemused smile against the glass’s crystal rim.
“What is?” John arched her a curious look.
“All this gloom-and-doom talk. First everyone was worried that the Japanese were going to buy up America. Ten years ago, it was the petro-sheiks from the OPEC countries. Next it will probably be the Germans.”
“True.”
“I hope he’s getting in some practice,” Kit remarked as her roaming glance came to a stop on the pianist in the corner, one of the musicians from the swing band scheduled to play later in the evening.
“Who?”
“The piano player. Nobody’s listening to him.”
“But everyone would if he stopped playing.”
“Probably,” she admitted with a smile.
Smiling with her, he let his glance drift over the gathering, then lifted his wine glass, acknowledging a nod of recognition from Jack Nicholson. Continuing the move
ment, he raised the glass to his mouth and took a sip. “I’d love to have a cigarette right now,” he muttered, all too conscious of the ballroom’s smoke-free atmosphere.
“At a cancer benefit? Shame on you, John T.” Her sidelong glance was full of reproach, the laughter in her eyes removing any sting from her words. “Personally, right now, I’m craving food.”
“That’s easily remedied.” John caught the attention of a circulating waiter balancing an hors d’oeuvre tray on an upraised palm. He motioned him over, then waved a hand in Kit’s direction when the waiter reached him. “The lady’s hungry.”
“Ma’am.” The sun-bronzed waiter offered her a choice from the half dozen caviar-topped delicacies on his tray.
Kit hesitated. “Why do mothers drum it into our heads that it isn’t proper to eat with gloves on?”
Without saying a word, John selected one of the miniature potato pancakes from the tray and carried it to her lips, the impish twinkle in his blue-gray eyes confirming his intention to feed it to her. Feigning demure obedience, Kit opened her mouth, intending only to take a bite from it, but he popped the whole thing inside.
Caught off guard, Kit struggled to chew the mouthful. The laughter gurgling in her throat made the task all the more difficult. Somehow she managed to chew and swallow it without choking, but only barely.
“That wasn’t nice,” she accused, the laughter still in her voice as she dabbed at the corners of her mouth, certain some had escaped.
“But was it good?” He grinned, remorseless.
“Mmmm, delicious,” Kit confirmed and licked at her lips, feeling the telltale roundness of roe somewhere on the lower one. “It was beluga, though. Ostra is really my favorite.”
“How can you tell the difference?” he asked idly.
“No pop.”
“I beg your pardon.” He frowned, giving his full attention to her answer.
“When you press osetra eggs against the roof of your mouth, they go ‘pop’,” she explained. “As a rule, beluga caviar won’t do that.”
“I never would have guessed you were a connoisseur of caviar.” Why? He wasn’t sure.
She laughed. “Another one of my many talents, I guess.” “You missed a crumb.”
“Where?”
She started another exploratory search with the tip of her tongue. John stopped her. “Let me get it.”
When he crooked a finger under her chin, she automatically tipped her face to him. In the next second, his mouth was covering hers and eating off the minute crumbs left behind wdith an erotic thoroughness that turned her breathless.
“Really, Travis. Necking in public?” a male voice taunted. John lifted his head, holding her gaze for an instant before he turned to face Tony Akins, one of the jet set’s more notorious hangers-on.
“Some things are irresistible, Tony,” John replied, smiling coolly.
“Tut, tut, John. Now you’re stealing my lines,” he chided. The sarcastic curve to his mouth softened when he turned his darkly handsome face toward Kit. “Don’t tell me this ravishing creature is your new leading lady I’ve been reading about in all the right gossip columns. Kit Masters, isn’t it?”
“The one and only,” Kit confirmed when John remained silent.
“That I believe.” He took her hand and made a show of bowing over it and kissing the back of her gloved fingers. “A new bright star bursting over Hollywood’s horizon.”
“How very flattering, Mr.-” She gently but firmly disentangled her fingers from his grip.
“Akins. Tony Akins-“
“Where’s Madelyn?” John interposed.
His glance flicked briefly to John before centering again on Kit. “He’s referring to Madelyn St. James. You’ve heard of her, I’m sure.”
“Yes.” Madelyn St. James was the granddaughter and heiress to the Hoffstead billions.
“I’m one of the pieces of luggage she carries around. Miss St. James arrived in Aspen today, with four trunks, five suitcases, and Tony Akins.”
Kit smiled in spite of herself at his self-deprecating humor. “I doubt that’s totally true.”
“Oh, but it is,” he insisted, his smile widening. “I’m not complaining, mind you. In fact, I rather enjoy being a kept man. How else would I get invited to all the best parties and stay in all the best places?”
She wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. “You’re outrageous.”
“That’s how I stay in the game,” he replied smoothly, then went on without missing a beat. “Tell me, has anyone warned you about Hollywood’s golden boy here?” He flicked a hand in John’s direction. “The affairs he’s had with his leading ladies are positively legendary. I’ve often wondered if this penchant of his is a case of proximity, convenience, or expediency.”
“Maybe it’s a simple case of excellent taste,” Kit suggested.
“That was fielded very deftly, my dear.” Tony Akins arched a dark brow in approval. “There may be a future for you in Hollywood after all.”
“Who will you sell that quote to, Tony?” John challenged, then addressed his next remark to Kit without his gaze leaving Tony. “You should know that Tony is often the ‘reliable source’ cited in various gossip columns and tabloids. Peddling newsworthy items is a lucrative sideline for him.”
“Gathering dirt is a rotten job, but somebody has to do it.” He continued to smile, not at all troubled that John had told her. “Luckily it pays well.”
Kit tried not to be shocked by his callousness, but not even eight years in Hollywood had made her immune to it.
“John, darling.” Madelyn St. James swooped toward him in a shimmer of silver brocade and kissed the air near his cheek, making sure a nearby photographer had a shot of her best side. “How are you? It’s been ages,” she gushed, drawing back. “When was the last time? I remember-that celebrity tennis tournament. Heavens, that was two years ago.”
“Impossible.” John smiled at the thrice-divorced brunette, ten years his senior. “You’re looking younger than ever.”
“I should hope so. If I didn’t, you can be sure I would have already filed suit against the surgeon.”
“I’ll bet you would have, too,” John replied, then introduced the woman to Kit.
“What an absolutely stunning gown.” Madelyn skimmed her from head to foot. “Is that from Dior’s fall collection?”
“No. It’s from Sophie DeWitt, the costume designer for the new film. A preview of the clothes I’ll be wearing.”
“Oh.” Madelyn lost interest immediately and turned to John, pursing her lips in a ridiculously petulant pout. “I’m still angry with you for not coming to my party last winter.”
“It couldn’t be helped. I had other commitments.”
“I’ll have you know that you missed one of my best. It was held the very evening Ivana and Donald had their little blowup on the slopes. I was at Bonnie’s when it happened and saw it all.” She smiled a little wickedly. “What a delicious little avalanche that started. Of course, I’m speaking as a woman who’s found herself standing in the same shoes facing a two-timing husband.”
“Not the same shoes, darling,” Tony inserted. “Your feet are much daintier than hers.”
“True.” Madelyn preened a little, then took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You see why I keep Tony around, don’t you? He’s so good for the ego.”
“I hope I’m good for more than the ego.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss in her palm, his tongue darting out to add a suggestive lick.
Her throaty laugh had a purr to it. “Definitely more than that.”
Kit knew her smile was getting stiff, and covered it by taking a slow sip of champagne. She lowered the glass, curling both hands around its fluted sides and calling on her skills as an actress to maintain a pleasant and interested expression.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Madelyn chided Tony. “You distracted me so I completely forgot what I was talking about.”
“Avalanches,” Joh
n said in a tone that had Kit fighting a smile.
“Avalanches? Of course.” She smiled away her initial blankness with the curve of her orange-red lips. “Lord knows how many avalanches have started in Aspen. Why, it was in this very hotel at Don Henley’s New Year’s Eve bash that Gary Hart met Donna Rice. That man is a story in himself. I mean, can you imagine a politician changing his name? I grant you Hartpence doesn’t exactly have a memorable ring to it, but only actors can get away with that sort of thing.”
Maury Rose chose that moment to join them, arriving at a fast walk. “So this is where you slipped off to, Kit. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was just talking to some people who know you. Forgot their names.” Without drawing a breath, he turned to the others. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Maury Rose, Kit’s agent.”
He pushed a stubby hand at Madelyn, forcing an introduction.
“Madelyn St. James.” She gave him her limp fingers, reluctantly.
“To tell you the truth, Miss St. James, I knew who you were. And I have to say, your life story would make a terrific movie. My Kit here would be the perfect actress to play the part. You could search the world and never find anyone better. You mark my words-she’ll be a bigger star than Elizabeth Taylor ever was. I knew it the first time I saw her,” Maury boasted. “Kit has fire and laughter. She’s loyal and straight. Why, she could feed chickens on a farm or stroll through Buckingham Palace and look right at home in either place.”
Kit grew increasingly uncomfortable with the praise he continued to heap on her. When she heard someone call her name, she turned, welcoming the interruption. The welcome became a wholehearted one the instant she recognized the chestnut-haired woman gliding toward her, sleek and elegant in a gown of basic black. Chanel, of course.
