Aspen Gold

by Janet Dailey

  “I’ll remember that,” he said and moved off, the diamond studded stickpin winking in the flaring light of a candle flame.

  Alone in the shadowy corner, Kit wandered over to the sarcophagus and traded a finger along the edge of its gilded lid. A breeze filtered through the open doors onto a side sundeck, its freshness scenting air redolent with the odor of hot candle wax. More restless than curious, Kit strolled over to the open doors.

  Bannon lounged against the rail, his hands braced on the top of it, his long legs stretched out at an angle. A beer bottle sat on the rail next to him and his head was tipped down as if he were contemplating the scuff marks on the toes of his boots. Kit hesitated, but pride wouldn’t let her back away-just as it had never allowed her to confront Bannon with the truth of how deeply she’d been hurt when he married Diana. Yet it was something else that kept her from admitting to herself that he still had the power to hurt her.

  She stepped onto the deck, her long skirts swishing in a soft rustle of fabric. His head came up, the brim of his hat shading his eyes, but she could feel them on her.

  “I suppose you call that outfit a costume,” she said lightly, her glance running over him. The sun-faded jeans and denim jacket, the boots with the run-down beets and blunt-tipped spurs, the worn-soft chambray work shirt, and the weather-stained cowboy hat on his head, all were the clothes of a working cowboy, typical of the dress Bannon wore on the ranch.

  “I can guarantee it’s authentic.” He drew one foot back, a spur musically rattling, but he didn’t rise. The words were friendly enough but not the coolness in his voice.

  He’d been on the front sundeck when John had kissed her. Kit had glimpsed the hard, closed look on his face before he’d walked off. Part of her had been annoyed by it. He had no right to be jealous; he’d given that up when he married someone else. Yet another part of her had taken perverse satisfaction out of knowing she could still make him jealous. It was this bewildering mixture of feelings that kept pushing and pulling at her, unsettling her, never totally letting her go.

  “It’s definitely authentic,” she agreed and walked past him to the rail. She paused there, facing the night, a nearby radiant heater giving off a toasty warmth and the breeze cool and fresh on her cheeks. The band by the pool struck up a hard, driving rock song, the level of laughing, chatting voices rising and falling. Yet the feeling was one of quiet and stillness, a dusting of stars in the sky, visible beyond the soft glow of Aspen’s lights, the surrounding black mountain masses cutting jagged chunks out of the sky.

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  That one-word answer pulled her around, forcing her to acknowledge the tension in the stillness, the strong cross-currents in the air, the heavy undertow of feeling.

  “Spoken in the best tradition of the strong-and-silent type,” Kit mocked, half serious and half in jest. “Gary Cooper couldn’t have delivered it better.”

  “I guess you’d know about that.” Bannon’s glance bounced off her as he tipped the bottle to his mouth and poured the last of the beer down.

  “Did Sondra mention to you that she has someone interested in buying Silverwood?” Kit asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  “She mentioned it.” He set the empty bottle back on the raft beside him.

  “She brought some people out last week to show them around. She thinks that they may be making an offer soon.”

  She tried to sound very matter-of-fact, but she couldn’t keep the regret that she had to sell out of her voice. Her glance drifted over the contemporary stone-and-glass house in front of her. “I hate to think of houses like this being built along the ridge trail,” she said with more vehemence than she intended.

  Bannon pushed off the rail to stand up, a spur briefly raking across the wood decking. “Why waste the energy? You’ll be going in a few months, back to a world that suits you better.”

  “Does it?” Lately she hadn’t been sure of that and his remark reminded her of it.

  “It’s a little late to be asking yourself that question now, isn’t it?”

  “I guess it is.” She rubbed a hand over her arm, the silk sleeve of her spotted shirtwaist cool to the touch, a coolness that had begun to penetrate. “I think it’s getting colder out.”

  Once that comment would have prompted Bannon to put his arms around her and warm her up. Now he said, “You’d better go inside where it’s warmer.”

  “I think I’ll take your advice.”

  As she crossed to the doors, Kit heard the music of his spurs moving away toward the laughter and the voices at the other end of the deck.

  The warmth of the house washed over her the minute she stepped inside, the heat producing an involuntary shiver. She rubbed again at her arms, then paused when she saw Paula with the hostess. All her life Kit had made a habit out of observing people, their expressions, their mannerisms, their reactions. Looking at Sondra, she was suddenly struck by the smooth inscrutable mask she wore to conceal her thoughts. It made her choice of an Oriental costume singularly appropriate.

  Continuing forward, Kit said, “It’s beginning to feel cold outside without a coat.”

  “We’ll have to start getting used to that,” Sondra replied. “The forecast calls for snow the first of the week.”

  “John and Chip will be glad to hear that,” Kit said, then realized neither of them was with Paula. “Where are they?”

  “Lassiter cornered them.” Paula searched through the finger food on her plate before selecting a salmon roulade.

  “I didn’t know he was here.” Kit automatically lifted her glance to the throng of costumed party guests in the dimly lit living room.

  “He arrived late. About twenty minutes ago,” Sondra explained as a waiter caught her eye and motioned for her. “Excuse me.”

  Paula watched her as she moved off. “I’d watch yourself around her, Kit.”

  Kit turned to look at her, amused and puzzled by the remark. “Where did that come from?”

  “From watching her watch you when you were out on the deck with Bannon.. If looks could kill, we would be planning your funeral right now.” She continued her thoughtful study of their scarlet-gowned hostess while she idly stirred a blackened shrimp in its honeyed sauce.

  Kit shook her head. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I wish I were. Unfortunately I’m not,” Paula replied. “She hates you, Kit. Violently.”

  Kit shrugged, thinking of Bannon ans his releationship with Sondra. “Everyone has their dark side.”

  “But in some, it’s darker than others.” Paula nibbled on the shrimp.

  “I suppose.” She spotted John moving slowly in their direction, two drink glasses in his hands held carefully in front of him. His head was turned toward the person with him, giving her a view of his smoothly chiseled profile beneath the brim of his sleek black gambler’s hat.

  A shifting of guests revealed J. D. Lassiter walking between John and Chip, looking benevolently crisp and professional in a pharmacist’s jacket emblazoned with the emblem of his family’s pharmaceutical company. Responding to a remark from Lassiter, John flashed a familiar smile that successfully mixed arrogance with charm. Obviously Lassiter had said something to please him. Chip, too, for that matter, judging by the look he exchanged with John.

  Maybe she’d misread that murmured comment John had made about Chip. If there was any trouble between them, it certainly wasn’t apparent now. Kit was glad. It was never fun working on a set where there was a lot of friction.

  “By the way”-Lassiter rested a hand firmly on John’s shoulder in comradely fashion-“I had a chance to read through that last set of changes in the script. I think we have a winner now. So does everyone else back at the studio. Good job,” he said to Chip.

  “I’m glad you approve.” There was just enough dryness in Chip’s voice to insert a trace of sarcasm in his response.

  To John’s relief, Lassiter either didn’t detect it with al
l the party noise around them, or chose to ignore it.

  “Now that we have a final script, what’s your start date?” The end of November, right after the Thanksgiving weekend,” John replied, then smiled. “Assuming Old Man Winter cooperates and gives Aspen a solid coating of snow.”

  “There’s such a thing as snow-making machines,” Lassiter stated.

  “We’ll use them if we have to, and we have interiors we can cover with, so I’m not worried about any change in the start date,” he assured him. “Believe me, we won’t be the only ones crying if there isn’t snow before the Thanksgiving holiday to kick off the winter ski season.”

  “True.” Lassiter nodded, then craned his neck, spotting someone in the crowd. “I believe I see our hostess. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to have a word with her.”

  “Go right ahead, Mr. Lassiter,” Chip insisted, a little too readily. “We won’t keep you.”

  Lassiter pinned him with a sharp look. “Again, that was a good job on the script, Freeman. If nothing else, you’re a helluva writer.”

  “I’m a helluva director, too.” His chin lifted at an aggressive angle.

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  With the verbal slap administered, Lassiter moved off at an easy pace. He’d never met a director yet who didn’t think he was king. A few were, but that boy was still a knave. He hadn’t liked him from the beginning. Travis was high on him, but what did actors know?

  Nearing Sondra, he switched thoughts as effortlessly as walking from one room to another. When she saw him, she murmured something to the couple with her, then turned to meet him.

  “Marvelous party, Sondra.” His glance made an idle sweep of the artfully staged scene. “I’m surprised someone from Disney isn’t running around making notes.”

  “Why should they? I stole it all from them.”

  He responded with the expected laugh, then came to the point, the obligatory pleasantries dispensed with. “Have you talked to Bannon again?”

  “Not yet,” she replied easily and smoothly. “Bannon isn’t a man to be pushed. After he’s had a few more days to think about it, I’ll speak to him again.”

  “And if he still refuses to sell, what then?” he asked, but didn’t allow her time to answer. “I’m not a patient man, Sondra. I don’t like deals that drag out.”

  Sondra stiffened imperceptibly. “You made no mention of a time limit before. Are you placing one on me now, J. D.?”

  He considered that for a long second. “Sixty days.”

  With a forced show of calm, she looked down at her lightly clasped fingers, suppressing an urge to scream at him. Slowly she lifted her head again. “You have to admit that is not much time when you expect mountains moved,” she said in an attempt to gain more.

  “Sixty days. If you haven’t convinced him by then, chances are you won’t. In which case, you’ll be wasting my time as well as your own. There are always other deals.”

  For him, but maybe not for her. Not one of this size, this scope. She let none of her tension show as she inclined her head in agreement. “Very well. Sixty days it is.”

  “Keep me informed of your progress.”

  “Naturally.”

  The minute she was alone, Sondra felt the rising panic. Sixty days. It was hardly enough time. Her first impulse was to seek out Bannon, talk to him, reason with him. No. Not here. Not at the party. She had to wait. It was a mistake to let this new pressure change her original plan. She had to give Bannon a few more days before she talked to him again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bannon sat at the desk in the lodge-like living room, his pen poised over a yellow legal pad, his gaze fixed on the deposition before him, his attention straying from it again. Sighing in irritation, he combed a hand through his hair and tried to block out the melody Laura picked out on the piano keys-stumbling over the notes the way Kit had. It didn’t work.

  He dropped the pen in disgust and pushed out of the chair. Old Tom lowered his newspaper. “If you’re heading for the kitchen, bring me back a couple antacid tablets.” The paper crackled as he shook it stiff, mumbling to himself, “I don’t know why I eat that chili stew of Sadie’s. Damned stuff always gives me a sour stomach.” When Bannon swung toward the kitchen, Old Tom lifted his voice, “See if it’s still snowing while you re up, too. Paper’s calling for flurries. Looked to me like those clouds had a good six inches in them.”

  Six inches meant they’d have to haul hay to the cattle in the morning. Bannon sighed and continued toward the kitchen, restless and tense. Winter was barely here and he was already getting cabin fever.

  The phone rang as he reached the kitchen doorway. The harsh sound grated across his nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

  “I’ll get it!” Laura bounded off the piano bench and raced to answer it. She snatched up the receiver in the middle of the second ring. “Stone Creek Ranch, Laura speaking.” Swiveling, she looked at Bannon, the phone to her ear, the line of her mouth pulling crooked in a resigned grimness. “He’s here. Just a minute. It’s for you, Dad.” She laid the receiver down and started back to the piano with a definite lack of eagerness.

  “Who is it?” Bannon recrossed the room to the oak table and the phone.

  “Pete somebody. He sounded mad or drunk or something.” She flopped onto the piano bench.

  “Hold up practicing while I’m on the phone.”

  “Gladly.”

  When Bannon picked up the phone, he heard a familiar voice shouting at someone on the other end. “-you be telling me shit. I know my goddamn rights.” The words, the belligerent tone, were a rerun of the two years before Peter Ranovitch had given up drinking. Hearing it, he swore softly under breath, knowing what this meant.

  “Pete.” He broke in. “It’s Bannon.”

  “Bannon? Bannon, you gotta do something. You gotta get me outa here. Goddamn it, it isn’t right.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “One beer. One lousy goddamn beer! Not even enough to make their goddamn Breathalyzers light up. They can’t keep me here for that. Damn it, it’s not right. I said I’d pay for the goddamn damages, but that bastard insists on pressing charges-“

  “What damages? What happened, Pete?”

  “I broke my goddamn hand, that’s what happened. I broke my hand and I can’t work. And if I can’t work…” He stopped. When he spoke again, there was no more anger in his voice, only defeat. “I broke some glasses and a chair-maybe more than that, I don’t know. It was Harry’s. I was standing at the bar, wondering what the hell I was going to do. There was some dirty glasses sitting there, and I just swept them off onto the floor. It felt so good when they crashed. I picked up a chair and…I’ve had it, Bannon. I’ve had it with this town and everything in it. I can’t make it here. I’ve just been kidding myself. I’m never going to have a restaurant of my own. I’m never gonna have shit. Bannon, can you come and get me out of this?”

  “I’ll be right there, Pete.” Hanging up, Bannon swung away from the table.

  Old Tom lowered his newspaper again. “Ranovitch on the sauce again?”

  “Not exactly, but it sounds like he did some busting up at Harry’s.” Bannon took his hat from the wall peg and pushed it on his head, then reached for his sheepskin-lined parka. “I’m going in and see if I can persuade the manager not to press charges-or arrange bail. I’ll probably be gone awhile.”

  “The road could be slick,” his father wanted.

  “Right.” He shrugged into the parka and reached for the door.

  “Bye, Dad,” Laura called.

  “Bye.” He sent her a smile and wink, then pointed at the piano. “Practice.”

  She wrinkled her nose, making a face at him as he went out the door.

  Snow fell soft and steady, a diaphanous white curtain with no wind to stir it. From the secluded terrace of John Travis’s Starwood estate, the lights of Aspen were an indistinct gleam somewhere in the distance, a gleam made even mo
re indistinct by the steam billowing above the heated, chanting water in the hot tub.

  Deftly, centimeter by centimeter, John worked the cork from the magnum of champagne until it was out with the softest of pops. Kit applauded.

  “Well done.” She took the fluted glasses from the shelf attached to the side of the hot tub, and held them out for John to fill, water dripping from her outstretched arms and more bubbling around the top of her blue two-piece swimsuit, one of many John kept for guests.

  “Practice.” He filled both glasses, then turned, the sheen of moisture on his bronze skin revealing the ripple of muscle along his arm and chest as he partially buried the champagne bottle in its bucket of ice, placed conveniently close to the tub.

  “You’ve had a lot of practice, too, haven’t you?” Kit taunted playfully, handing him a glass.

  “Experience has its advantages.” He touched his glass to hers, a glint of amusement in his eyes as his gaze traveled with deliberate boldness over her face and down to the visible swell of her breasts above the waterline. “And its rewards-on both sides.”

  His words evoked images, images that ignited a disturbing heat that had nothing to do with temperature of the water.

  “That’s a tantalizing thought.” She lifted the fluted glass to her lips.

  “Maybe even arousing,” John suggested, the glint in his eyes turning to a wicked twinkle.

  “That, too,” Kit admitted, a tiny, pleased smile touching the corners of her lips when she saw the way his eyes immediately darkened on her, knowing her answer had aroused him. “Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  He lifted his glass in a salute of touché. When Kit tipped her head to drink from her own, she felt the faint cool kiss of snowflakes on her skin. She lifted her face to the failing snow, the sip of icy cold wine sliding down her throat and the crystalline flakes melting on her eyelids and cheeks. She reveled in the contrasting sensations of the water’s heat and the air’s snow-sprinkled crispness, sensations that both relaxed and sensitized.