by Janet Dailey
“Angie,” she cried in delight and embraced the woman who had been her best friend through grammar and high school. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight.”
“Someone said they had seen you and I had to track you down.” Angie drew back from the warm hug. “My God, don’t you look marvelous? I can’t believe it’s really you.”
“Thanks.” Kit laughed at the backhanded compliment, then spared a glance at the audience to their reunion. “You’ll have to forgive us. Angie and I go back a long way.”
“Yes. We were Aspen’s gruesome twosome when we were growing up,” Angie acknowledged, her hazel eyes twinkling with memories of their mischief. “Remember?”
“Do I?” Kit laughed.
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. I think the last time was-“
“Daddy’s funeral.”
“Yes.” Angie’s expression sobered as her hand tightened its grip on Kit’s gloved fingers. “I don’t know if I had a chance to tell you how sorry I was. I know how close you and your father were. I tried to call you the day after the funeral, but you’d already left.”
“I couldn’t stay. I had to fly back right away. Mother had gotten worse-the doctor said it was the emotional shock of Daddy’s death.”
A shock that had caused a full twenty-four hours to go by before she’d learned the news. She’d been on location in Italy at the time, taping her segments for the soap. Then she’d had trouble getting a flight out of Rome, arriving in Aspen on the morning of the funeral. The next day she’d left for Los Angeles to take care of her mother. She remembered too well the numbness, the grief, the fatigue, the anxiety of those days-days she never wanted to live through again, and ones she definitely didn’t want to dwell on.
Mentally shaking off the brief spate of melancholy, she smiled at Angie. “But tell me about you. How have you been? How’s the new husband?”
“Mark thinks he’s found his calling.”
“Really?” The first name struck a familiar chord, then Kit remembered Angie had married Mark Richardson of the Denver Richardson’s. His father was a heavyweight in Colorado’s financial circle. “What is it?”
“He’s thinking about running for the U.S. Senate in three years. And with Daddy Richardson’s contacts, he shouldn’t have any trouble building up his war chest. But can you picture me as a politician’s wife?” she asked with a mild shudder.
“Who knows? You might surprise yourself.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Angie conceded, her gaze traveling over Kit. “I mean, look at you. Who would have thought our little Kit would be in Aspen to star in a movie with John Travis? We always thought you were the girl most likely to get married and have kids.”
“So did I.”
“Tell me-” Angie paused and threw a look at the others, then took Kit by the arm and discreetly drew her apart. “Is it true?” she asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial level.
“Is what true?”
“Is John Travis really as fabulous in bed as they say he is?”
For a split second, Kit was too stunned to speak. In the next, the question was reminiscent of a hundred others they’d exchanged as girls curious about sex. She burst out laughing. “Angie, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Not about some things.” She grinned naughtily. “So? Are you going to tell me or not?”
“I honestly wouldn’t know,” Kit replied, still amused by the turn the conversation had taken, finding it just like old times.
Angie shook her head and smiled. “You haven’t changed either, have you, Kit? You never thought it was right to sleep and tell. But you can’t blame me for being curious,” she said, throwing another sidelong glance at John Travis. Suddenly she grinned wickedly at Kit. “Do you see now why I’d be rotten as a politician’s wife? I’d be as bad as Jimmy Carter, only in my case I’d be looking at other men with lusting thoughts.”
Kit had to laugh, glad to discover that Angie was as frank and fanny as ever. “Then you’d better learn from his mistake and keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Impossible.”
“Probably.”
A waiter stopped and Angie took a glass of Haut Brion from his tray, then turned to Kit, lifting it in a toast. “Here’s to lusting thoughts.” Their glasses touched with a crystal ring. As Angie sipped from hers, she let her glance wander over Kit’s party scene.
“By the way, have you run into the Bannons tonight?”
“No. Are they here?” She automatically turned to scan the ballroom, stiffening slightly.
“Somewhere. I spoke to them earlier. They’re here with Sondra. Naturally.”
“Sondra?” Kit hesitated over the name, then belatedly remembered it. “Oh, you mean Bannon’s sister-in-law.”
“Believe me, she plans to be more than his sister-in-law. Lord only knows how ugly things could have gotten for Bannon if Sondra hadn’t stood up for him when his wife died so mysteriously.” Angie’s voice dropped to a confiding level. “You weren’t here then, but there was an investigation into her death. All very hush-hush, of course. Still, the whole town knew their marriage was hardly a happy one. His wife complained to anyone who would listen that Bannon kept her a prisoner on the ranch and refused to let her friends visit. And-he was the only one with her before she died. But the autopsy came up with nothing. I think heart failure was listed on the death certificate, although they don’t know what caused it. According to Sondra, her sister had rheumatic fever as a child, which might have weakened her heart. Anyway, it was all dropped. But I shudder to think what would have happened if Sondra had pointed the finger at Bannon.”
Kit had heard most of this before. As far as she was concerned it was absurd then, and absurd now. Bannon had his faults, but he was not the kind of man who could knowingly cause his wife’s death.
Anyway, his love life, past or present, was the last subject she wanted to discuss. Instead, she commented, “Sondra sells teal estate here in Aspen, doesn’t she?”
Angie looked at her askance. “My God, you are behind the times, aren’t you? Sondra Hudson owns one of the largest real estate firms in Aspen. More than that, she’s become one of the most influential social doyennes here. When word gets out she’s having a party, everybody holds their breath to see if they receive an invitation. She has this uncanny knack of knowing who’s ‘in’ and who’s ‘out.’ And if your name isn’t on her guest list, it’s like the kiss of death.”
“Sondra Hudson?” Kit frowned, trying to equate this statement with the vague memory she had of the woman-most recently of the cool, slim blonde at her father’s funeral who had led Bannon’s daughter away from the graveside. “I admit I’ve only met her one or two times, but she never struck me as the social type. I always had the impression she was all business.”
“Darling, her parties are business. What better place to meet future clients wanting either to buy or sell here in Aspen?” It was a question that didn’t require an answer, and Angie didn’t wait for one. “Men use golf courses, tennis courts, and ski runs to widen their contacts; Sondra uses her parties. It’s really quite ingenious when you think about it. Of course, it isn’t as simple as it sounds.” Idly she surveyed the gathering. “This is a tight little clique. They don’t let just anyone in.”
“Then how in the world did Sondra manage it?” Kit wondered aloud, her curiosity aroused.
“Well, first of all, she’s no social climber. She’s not interested in belonging to the social scene, only in using it. Oddly enough, she’s respected for that, even admired. Secondly, she started small.” She paused and took a quick sip of her champagne. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard the story before. It’s become practically a legend in Aspen.”
“Don’t forget, counting college, I’ve been away for the better part of twelve years,” Kit reminded her. “You lose touch with what’s going on. And Dad was my main source of information. But you know how he was. If it didn’t have to do with the ranch or hunting or fishing or his
friends and drinking buddies, it didn’t get passed along.”
“That I can believe.” Angie nodded in understanding. “Anyway, Sondra’s first-shall we say, important-clients were Claud Miller and his wife…of the Denver Millers. They bought some acreage along Castle Creek through Sondra. When they flew in for the closing, she met them at the airport with a horse-drawn sleigh, then picked up the owners at their hotel and took them all out to this wooded parcel. Somehow she’d learned that Claud loved French cuisine, and had arranged for one of the local restaurants to cater a full dinner. Actually, a picnic.”
“The setting, the atmosphere must have been marvelous. Snow was lightly falling, the trees were covered with it, a big bonfire was blazing away, a damask-covered table, fully set with china, crystal, and silver flatware, stood beneath an open-sided tent, and a magnum of champagne waited to celebrate the actual closing of the sale. All that by itself would have been enough to make the occasion memorable and unique, but on top of that, Sondra convinced a local furrier to loan her four full-length furs for each of the principals to wear, plus a mink throw for the sleigh. The whole thing probably cost her every dime of her commission from that sale. But it paid off. The Millers couldn’t stop talking about it-or her. In a matter of weeks, days, she was getting calls from their friends and business associates. Then, when Claud Miller’s wife bought the sable coat her husband had worn for a Christmas present, the merchants fell all over themselves, rushing to Sondra’s door, hoping she might borrow something from them and drop their name in passing. Needless to say, there were more sales and more commissions.”
“But Sondra was smart; not every client received the royal treatment, only the important ones. And each time, she tailored it to the individual tastes of the person. Catered lunches in art galleries, hot-air balloon rides to picnic sites, down-home Texas barbecues, clambakes along the Roaring Fork-the list is endless,” Angie declared, waving a hand. “Then, about six years ago, she started giving intimate little get-togethers. Reunion dinners she called them, rarely inviting more than twelve and always making sure the parties were uniquely themed. An event not to be missed. No one did if they could help it.” She raised her glass again. “As I said, her strategy was ingenious.”
“Very”, Kit murmured.
“Now she throws two or three big parties a year, and only rarely does one of her famous ‘closing’ celebrations. I’d love to know how much money she’s made-especially these last few years when the price of real estate has gone into the stratosphere.”
“A great deal, I imagine.” The talk of money raised the spectra of the hospital and doctor bills, something Kit preferred not to think about tonight.
“So tell me,” Angie eyed her curiously, “how are you and Bannon getting along? I understand he’s handling all the legal end of your father’s estate.”
“And managing the ranch for me,” Kit added, then shrugged. “Everything’s fine. Too much time has gone by to hold any grudges.” And any bitterness had faded long ago. Only the old hurt remained. She’d learned to live with that.
“I suppose.” Angie’s black-clad shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug, then she paused, catching sight of someone. “Mark is motioning to me. I think they’re shooing everyone to their tables so they can start serving.” She turned to Kit, laying a hand on her arm. “How long will you be in Aspen this trip?”
“I’ll be here until the cameras start rolling and I won’t be leaving until they stop.”
“Wonderful. Look, I’ll talk to you later and we’ll fix a time to have lunch together.”
“That would be fun.”
Angie increased the pressure of her hand. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a really good natter.”
“Much too long.” Kit nodded emphatically.
“Catch you later,” Angie promised and was off, gliding through the crowd to her husband’s side.
Kit watched her a moment, then skimmed the milling guests with a searching glance. As John came up, she turned.
“Still hungry?” he asked.
“Are you kidding? I’m famished,” she declared and linked arms with him, feeling again that tug of attraction, sharp and very physical.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After dining on artichokes stuffed with shrimp, pepper-roasted duck with Georgia peaches, and a classic and light creme brulee that still had everyone chatting its praise, the tables were cleared, and votive candles in crystal holders replaced centerpieces of orchids and lavender asters. The lights were lowered to create a more intimate setting, then the swing band struck up a lively tune.
Bannon watched from the sidelines as the first couples moved onto the dance floor. Sondra stirred on his left, the slight movement drawing his glance. Her pale blond hair made a soft line at the edge of her temples, the cluster of diamonds on her lobe catching the ballroom’s light and throwing it back. The thin, sharp scent of perfume came to him, heightening his awareness of her.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Breaking off her perusal of the crowd, she turned her head to him, a smile edging the sober curve of her lips. “Perhaps later,” she replied. “That was a delicious meal, wasn’t it? The duck was wonderful, and a clever choice over the usual chicken that’s served in so many guises at charity functions.”
“It was good, all right.” Old Tom spoke up. “There just wasn’t enough of it to fill a man up.”
Sondra glanced pointedly at his thickening middle, girded by a black cummerbund, then lifted her eyes to him with cool amusement. “You look full to me, Tom. Maybe even a little too full.”
He drew himself up to his full six-foot height, unconsciously pushing out his chest and pulling in his stomach. “Just shows what you know about it. I weigh the same as I’ve weighed for forty years.”
Bannon joined in to tease. “It’s just distributed differently.”
“So I noticed,” she murmured, catching the glare Old Tom threw at her. She knew Old Tom didn’t like her any better than he’d liked her sister. But the feeling was mutual, if-for the most part-concealed from Bannon.
“Careful, son. You’re aging fast, too, Old Tom warned, the remark igniting a good-natured by-play between the two that Sondra ignored as she resumed her visual search of guests, seeking J. D. Lassiter among the chatting, laughing throng.
She noticed Helen Caldwell, shimmying on the dance floor, making a total spectacle of herself. She’d seen her earlier, before dinner, laughing too loudly and drinking too much. The cause for her display was across the room-industrialist hubby Evan Caldwell, who was flirting openly with a high-fashion model, the current rage of the runways, and finding numerous excuses to touch her and whisper in her ear.
On the dance floor, Helen Caldwell grabbed her embarrassed partner’s lapels and dragged him closer. Sondra watched, irritated by the woman’s behavior-by the reason for it, and by the man who was inevitably to blame.
Once again Sondra coolly surveyed the distinguished gathering of media moguls, takeover tycoons, and industrial giants, despising their superior attitudes, their condescending treatment of women in business, and the masks of politeness behind which they concealed their prejudice. She viewed them with contempt, aware that she possessed a sharper intelligent and a keener business sense than most. But she knew that mattered little. Power and money were the only things these men respected; it spoke the only language they understood.
She spotted J. D. Lassiter near the ballroom’s terrace doors, his head bent to catch a remark his wife was making, his expression hovering on boredom.
“Would you excuse me for a minute, Bannon?” She absently laid a hand on his arm, claiming his attention. “I need to speak to J. D..”
Bannon knew she wasn’t asking his permission, but he nodded just the same.
After she’d moved off, Old Tom said, “What she need to talk to Lassiter about?”
“Business, probably.” Bannon idly let his gaze follow Sondra as she made her way through the crowd, pausing to e
xchange pleasantries with those she knew.
“If your mother was here, her toe would be tapping in time to the music and she’d be doing her darnedest to get me onto that dance floor. She loved music. Any kind of music. She enjoyed teaching it, too,” Old Tom recalled, looking at the band and seeing something else. “Especially piano. I sure wish she could have had the chance to give our granddaughter piano lessons.”
Bannon started to respond, then heard a familiar laugh and turned, recognizing the sunny sound of it. “There’s Kit.”
“Kit’s here? Where?”
“Over there. The one in gold, next to John Travis. He recognized the actor, but not the other members in Kit’s small party.”
“I see her.” Old Tom stared for a long second, drinking in the sight of her wide, laughing smile, a smile that naturally had him smiling, too. “Come on. Let’s go say hello.”
Bannon hesitated for a split second then fell in step with his father as he set an unswerving course straight for Kit.
Catching movement in her side vision, Kit turned, her glance skipping over Old Tom to fall on Bannon. For an instant, ten years could have been ten minutes. She threw off the feeling and focused on Old Tom, moving forward to seize both of his age-mottled hands in greeting.
“Don’t you look handsome tonight,” she declared with unfeigned affection as she stood before this big-chested man with grizzled white hair. “I’m surprised you don’t have a horde of women hovering around you.”
“You always were good medicine for an old man, Kit.” The light from the wall sconces played over his cracked and weathered face. With a warmth and an ease that few men her own age could match, he carried her gloved hand to his lips and pressed his lips against the back of it, a gesture without flourish or flirtation. Smiling, Kit thought again that there was something about this old-time rancher that reminded her of opening an attic trunk and discovering crinoline and linsey-from a bygone age. “You’ve been gone too long,” Old Tom stated, half chiding.
