by Janet Dailey
“Were you?”
“Yes, but I’d called him. I’d told him I’d have it for him as soon as I got my paycheck. He said it was no problem. I paid it just like I said I would, then he does this!” He puffed jerkily on the cigarette, his head bowed.
Frowning, Bannon slipped the letter behind the accompanying sheets that had been stapled together. “Is this the lease?”
“Yeah, I thought you’d want to see it.” He took another hasty drag on his cigarette, then tapped the ash from it into the bronze ashtray on Bannon’s desk. “I leased the place from him over a year ago, and he’s got his rent every damned month for it, too. Just how much is a guy supposed to take, Bannon? I’ve been busting my ass, working two jobs, tending bar nights and cooking days, thinking maybe now I’ll be able to start putting money aside so I can finally get a restaurant of my own. I’ve been here in Aspen for thirty years. Hell, I was here before Harry Miller. I remember when he was nothing but a bookkeeper, doing tax work on the side. Then he started his own business-and started investing. Hell, I hate to think how many people I watched get rich along with Aspen. I saw them get all the breaks and I kept waiting and struggling, thinking it’s gonna be my turn next. But it never is. Something like this always happens.” He paused when he saw Bannon flip through the last page of the lease. “Well? Can he kick me out? I paid the damned rent.”
“I know.” Bannon sighed grimly and glanced through the lease again, even though he already knew what it said. “I wish you had let me look at this lease before you signed it, Pete. According to this, he can evict you and sue for the remaining ten months’ rent.”
“You’re kidding.” The cigarette dropped from his fingers. “For crissake, tell me you’re kidding.”
“I wish I was-”
Pete flung his hands in the air, ash flying from the cigarette. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Where am I gonna go? You know there’s nothing here in Aspen I can rent, and with my hours working two jobs, I can’t be driving back and forth from Basalt or Glenwood Springs. I’d be better off sleeping in my car.” He jabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you? He’s made a deal with that motel on the highway. Instead of renting his crummy apartments for twelve hundred dollars a month, he can rent them for two, three, or four hundred dollars a night to those damned skiers. The greedy-”
“Hold it.” Bannon held up his hand to shut off the flow. “I said-he can do it. But maybe we can persuade him that he doesn’t want to.”
“Doesn’t want to? Harry Miller, not want to collect three hundred dollars a night? Fat chance,” Pete Ranovitch snorted as he pushed out of the chair.
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Sure, but…” He frowned uncertainly.
Bannon motioned him back into the chair and reached for the phone. “Sit down and drink your coffee while I call and see if he’s in.” He dialed the number on the letterhead. “Harry and I have locked horns a couple of times in the past. We understand each other.”
Pete studied the hard, almost stubborn set of Bannon’s features and slowly sank back into the chair. “But if he’s got the right-”
“Sometimes a man can be within his rights and still be wrong, Pete,” Bannon said, then swung the mouthpiece up. “Is Harry in?” he said into it.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Bannon.”
“One moment.” Muzak played and Pete lit another cigarette his gaze clinging to Bannon, his fingers never still, toying with the cigarette, the dead match, in a betrayal of nerves.
“Harry Miller here.”
Bannon recognized the brusque voice even without the identification. “Harry, it’s Bannon.”
“I must say this is a surprise.” He sounded a bit amused, and a bit curious.
“It shouldn’t be. Pete Ranovitch came by my office to show me a letter he received from you.”
“Ranovitch. I should have known he’d come to you. He always could count on you to bail him out of the tank, couldn’t he? Well, I hope he brought along a copy of his lease.”
“He did.”
“Then you know I’ve acted in accordance with the terms and conditions of it.”
“I’d like you to reconsider your position, Harry.”
“What is this? A personal appeal, Bannon? Look, I know the man’s had trouble. We all have. This is business. The letter stands. I want him out in ten days.”
“Don’t do it, Harry,” Bannon said calmly.
“He violated the terms of the lease-”
“I disagree.”
“You what?” Before he had sounded impatient, a little irritated; now there was anger choking his voice.
“As Pete explained the situation to me, he called to let you know he’d be late with his rent and you raised no objection.”
“I received no such call.”
“I expected you to say that, Harry.” Bannon smiled without humor.
“I tell you I didn’t. Are you going to take the word of a drunk over mine?”
He ignored that. “Furthermore, Harry, by accepting the late payment on the rent, you waived your rights under the termination clause-”
“Read the damned lease,” Harry snapped. “I was entitled to collect that money.”
“Maybe we’ll have to let a judge and jury decide that,” Bannon suggested, then paused deliberately. “Do you have any idea how much it might cost you in legal fees to take your case before a jury, Harry? It could run anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars. Maybe more, depending on how long it drags out before we actually go to court. And I promise you, I’ll prolong it for at least ten months.”
“I’d win,” Miller insisted stiffly.
“Probably. But you’re good with numbers, Harry. Would it be worth it?”
“This is blackmail, Bannon.”
“Now the way I see it, Harry,” he countered lazily, “I’m giving you a chance to make a business decision. The lease has ten more months to run. You can collect rent and save yourself some legal fees, or you can try to evict Pete and I’ll get an injunction and string this thing out for ten months. It’s up to you.”
“Ranovitch can’t afford to pay you for this. You’re bluffing.”
Bannon just shook his head and smiled. “You ought to know me better than that, Harry. Think it over and give me a call around noon tomorrow with your decision. That’s about how long it will take me to draw up the necessary papers for Pete.” With that, he hung up and met Pete’s avid gaze.
“What you said to Miller”-Pete sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes round with apprehension and hope, a tower of ash building up on the cigarette between his fingers-“can you do it?”
Bannon nodded. “I can.”
“But…if it costs twenty-five thousand to take it to court-I haven’t got that kind of money to pay you, Bannon.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever come to that. But one way or another, you’ve got a place to live for ten months.”
Pete dropped his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured in a tight, choked voice as the ash tumbled from the cigarette onto the leg of his kitchen whites.
“Just try to pay your rent on time from now on and don’t give Miller any more openings.” Rising, Bannon handed back the lease along with the letter.
“I won’t.” Hastily he put out his cigarette and took the papers. “And thanks.”
Bannon shrugged it off. “That’s what lawyers are for, Pete,” he said, aware the victory was a small one. Ten months from now Pete would have to find someplace else to live, a place he could afford. And in Aspen, he almost stood a better chance of winning the lottery.
A young couple in blue jeans, hiking shoes, and backpacks stood in front of the display case outside the offices of Hudson Properties, looking at photographs of some of the company’s more choice locations advertised for sale. The girl, her brown hair tied in a ponytail with a string of blue yam, pointed to one of the pictures beneath the
protective glass.
“Andy, did you see this house? The price is six million dollars.”
“You think that’s something. Look at this-a two-acre lot in Starwood for two million dollars. Two million dollars just for a lot.”
“John Travis has a home in Starwood.”
On other occasions such comments might have prompted Sondra to gloat a little over the knowledge that her company had an exclusive listing on those particular properties. But this morning, their voices were nothing more than an annoying buzz as she swept past them into the building.
Warren Oakes lounged on a corner of the secretary’s desk. Not in the best of moods after her less-than-satisfactory meeting with Bannon, Sondra gave him a cold, smileless look.
“Don’t you have something better to do than bother Mary, Warren?” She stopped at the desk and picked up her messages.
“We were just talking about Lassiter’s party Saturday night while I was waiting for you.” Warren took his time straightening from the desk while the brunette wisely made an attempt to look busy. “Must have been some affair.”
His remark reminded her that nothing had gone right Saturday night, or Sunday, or today, but she gave a noncommittal nod and leafed through her messages, giving each barely more than a desultory glance.
“Did you express that video of the Carlsen house off to the Eastlakes, Mary?” She fired a quick look at the pale-cheeked woman.
“Finishing it up right now, Miss Hudson,” she promised.
“I want it out this morning.” The order was issued over her shoulder as Sondra pushed open the door to her private office.
Warren strolled in after her, sensing a nasty temper simmering under that icy expression, arousing his curiosity. With other women, a little stroking, a little teasing, and a little sympathy would invariably cajole them into revealing the cause. But with Sondra, those tactics were more likely to gain him a sample of that temper, generously laced with contempt.
“Your chicken king called while you were out to see if we had any response on his offer,” he remarked as he absently ran a hand along the fold of the newspaper.
“Have we?” Sondra tossed the message slips on her desk, adding the only hint of clutter to its otherwise immaculate surface.
“Not yet.”
“You faxed the offer to him?” She pinned him with an accusing look.
Warren nodded. “And followed it up with a phone call, plus I sent the original by certified mail.” He paused in front of the chinoiserie desk and watched her stow her purse in a lower drawer. “What about Lassiter? Did he snap at the commercial block when you dangled it in front of him Sawday night?”
“No.” Her lips tightened fractionally, and Warren had a feeling he’d stumbled onto something.
“No?” He probed carefully, aware that Sondra had been confident-more than confident, really-that the sale to Lassiter was all but a done deal.
“No.” Her answer was harder and flatter with still no explanation forthcoming. Which could only mean she’d struck out royally on this one.
“Too bad.” He glanced at the paper in his hand, debating whether he should probe further or if it would be wiser to do some ego stroking. He decided on the latter. “Saturday night wasn’t all in vain. You got a mention in today’s paper for being there. And a free plug for the company.” The newspaper was folded open to the small write-up on the charity affair. Turning the paper to face her, Warren laid it on her desk. “Good photo of Bannon dancing with Aspen’s future star isn’t it?”
Going rigid, Sondra stared at the picture taken at the precise instant when Bannon’s smile was fading and his awareness of the woman in his arms was rising. The woman was Kit Masters.
Something snapped.
Warren saw the rage that blackened her eyes and pulled the blood from her face until it was dead white. She lifted her head and gave him a bitter, killing glance-hating him because he was the only thing around to receive her anger. He backed up a step, stunned by the change in her.
“Leave me.”
He was gone before she had to tell him again.
She looked back at the photo and reached for the cloisonne scissors, part of a matched set of desktop accessories. With thumb and fingers fitted tightly around the emerald handgrips, she began to cut-scissor blades slashing through the grainy news photo and closing with a snap. Slash, snap. Slash, snap. Over and over again.
When the scissors finally fell silent, she was breathing heavily and the picture was in shreds. The evidence that Bannon had ever looked at another woman the way he was meant to look at her, destroyed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late morning swelled across the triangular valley in warm full waves of sunlight. An alpine white Range Rover, chased by its shadow, cut across it, following the narrow dirt lane, its wheels churning up a low cloud of red-ochre dust in its wake. Slowing, the vehicle rumbled over a wooden bridge spanning a stream, its current sluggish and its waters low without the snowmelt that had it tumbling full in spring.
Ahead, a ranch house sprawled amid a sheltering grove of white-barked aspens. Catching sight of it, Kit leaned forward in the passenger seat, a warm, coming-home feeling rising in her throat.
When John Travis slowed the Range Rover to a stop in front of the house, Kit pulled on the door handle and swung out. One foot touched the hard-packed ground and she planted the other firmly on it and faced the house. Sunlight dappled the white-painted front, three gables rising to form the second story. A window looked out from each of them, a hint of chintz curtains showing behind the gleam of glass panes. A pair of wooden rockers sat on the wraparound porch, keeping company with a swing that hung by chains from the ceiling.
She lifted her gaze to the massed spires of spruce climbing the ridge behind the house and to the purple splendor of the mountains beyond, seeing the majesty of them, the power and strength of them that man could never subdue. Ancient and ageless, they stood as they had stood for millennia, ever changing and ever constant.
The slam of doors and crunch of footsteps broke the stillness. Half turning, Kit flashed a smile at Paula and John Travis as they joined her. “Welcome to Silverwood Ranch,” she said.
With one hand shading her eyes from the sun, Paula looked around with undisguised pleasure. “This place is even more incredible than it looked from the air. The views are breathtaking, Kit.”
Pleased by her reaction, Kit swung expectantly to John. He stood with his head thrown back, his eyes narrowed in thoughtful study of the scene, the sun shining on his hair and toasting it gold. “How big did you say your ranch is?”
“Four hundred acres. It extends to the other side of this ridge, then roughly halfway up that mountain and the ridge that juts out over there,” she replied, pointing out the boundaries.
He gave her a considering look, an eyebrow quirking in mild curiosity. “Do you realize how much this land is probably worth?”
Kit nodded. “Roughly a half million.
His short laugh scoffed at the figure. “More like five million you mean.” He turned back to the view. “On second thought, with a setting like this only minutes from Aspen, you could probably get ten for it.”
Stunned by his statement, Kit stared at him. “You’re joking, of course.” It was the only explanation that made sense.
“Why would I joke about it?” His smile was puzzled. “Any real estate agent in Aspen could tell you this ranch would be in the ten-million-dollar range. Who knows? The right buyer might pay more than that and never blink an eye.”
“You’re serious,” she murmured when it became plain he believed it. Yet she knew it was impossible. Not an hour ago Bannon had told her Silverwood was worth roughly five hundred thousand dollars, a value he said was based on current prices. Why had he said that if it wasn’t true? There wasn’t any reason for him to lie. No reason for either of them to lie. Kit frowned, thoroughly confused.
“Of course I’m serious.” A trace of dry amusement briefly glittered in his eyes as h
is smile deepened. “When you inherited this ranch, you became one very wealthy lady, Kit Masters.”
“Ten million dollars,” Paula mused. “I’d be content to have the interest on that much money. I never dreamed you were so rich, Kit.”
“Neither did I.” In truth, she still wasn’t convinced she was, although she was at a loss to explain the huge discrepancy.
A horse whinnied from the barn area. Turning, Kit saw the chestnut gelding at the corral fence, its neck arched over the top rail and its blaze face pointed toward them.
“It’s Sundance,” Kit said, unable to keep the delight from her voice. “I raised him from a colt.”
She struck out for the corral, aware that John followed her. The chestnut nickered again and rubbed its head against her shoulder.
“Remember me, do you, old fella?” Kit affectionately scratched the thick coat around the horse’s ears, rumpling its forelock. “Well, I remember you, too. We were best buddies, huh?” She laughed when the horse nuzzled at her pockets, searching for a treat. “Sorry, Dance. No carrots this time.”
John curved a shoulder against a corral post and lit a cigarette, watching her through the ravel of smoke. Without even asking, Kit knew by his faintly amused expression that he’d never had an animal for a pet, never felt that bond of affection. She thought again that his childhood must have been a lonely one.
“You seem surprised to find your horse here,” he remarked.
“I thought he’d been sold with the rest of Dad’s horses. Bannon must have kept him and not said anything.” It sounded like something Bannon would do. “I broke him to ride myself.”
“Really. How long have you had him?”
“Forever. At least it seems that way sometimes.” She lifted the chestnut’s head and stroked a hand over the softness of its graying muzzle. “I was ten when I got him.” She did some fast subtraction in her head. “That makes Sundance twenty-two now.”
“That’s old for a horse, isn’t it?”
