Ride the Thunder (11 page)

“Why? Is this evening special? Have you invited your current lover?” He was arrogantly sarcastic. “Is it anyone I know? I hope you introduce me to him.”

“If I did, what would you do?” Olivia challenged. “Do you think you might challenge him to a fight? Or would you look the other way and pretend you didn’t know he’s my lover?” Her mockery of him was deliberately cruel. Even Jordanna flinched at it.

“Who is it, Livvie?” Her father’s voice rumbled in a low, ominous threat.

“A man. A very special man. When he holds me, I actually forget that you even exist, Fletcher. It’s an extraordinarily pleasant sensation.”

The bitterness had accumulated to gargantuan proportions over the years of their marriage, until it was too high to be surmounted, too deep to be subverted, and too wide to be bridged. The ugliness was more than Jordanna could stomach. She retreated to her room and closed the door.

As a child, their venomous arguments had made her physically ill. They were no easier to take at twenty-four. Jordanna had no idea how long she had been sitting on the edge of her bed, hugging her arms around her stomach. There was a knock at her door, but she didn’t hear it.

The door opened. “Jordanna?” Her brother walked in and paused. “The guests are arriving. Aren’t you coming?” She glanced up, looking at him but not seeing him. A furrow formed between his dark brows as he walked toward her. “What’s the matter?”

“Why don’t they destroy each other and be done with it? Why do they keep tearing each other to pieces bit by bit? At Jordanna’s tortured questions, Christopher breathed in deeply, held it, and released it in a weary sigh. “She taunts him with her lovers, Kit. She brags about them as if they were trophies. Why doesn’t she leave him?”

“Do you think she hasn’t tried?” he murmured.

Her eyes widened. “But . . .” she began in confusion.

“Dad won’t give her a divorce, Jordanna,” he stated. “God knows you and I might have had a more pleasant childhood if he had, but . . .” There wasn’t any need
to finish the rest. “You can’t let their problems become your burden, Jordanna Come on.” He extended a hand toward her. “No one will ever see that gown if you stay in this room.” His mouth quirked into a coaxing smile. Jordanna hesitated, then placed her hand in his. As a child, she could hide in her room; but she was an adult and life went on.

M
AX WAS WAITING
in the lobby as Brig stepped out of the elevator. Brig didn’t bother with the pleasantries of a meeting. His glance encompassed his cousin and the area immediately around him.

“Where’s your wife? Aren’t you taking her to the party?” Brig was irritable and he was taking it out on Max. Dressed in a tan suit and tie, he’d left his hat in the hotel room. He felt naked without it, but less conspicuous.

“Charlotte and I got a divorce five years ago, shortly after the kids were grown. I thought you knew.” Max started toward the entrance. “We’ll catch a cab outside.”

“I suppose she finally got tired of you stepping out on her all the time.” Brig was aware he was picking on Max, deliberately baiting him, and using him as a scapegoat for the decision that was eating him raw inside. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I have often wondered if the only way you get any thrill out of sex is by doing it behind someone’s back.”

“Anyone else but me would punch you in the nose, Brig.” Max held his temper, even though his neck was reddening.

“Anyone else would try,” he agreed with a taunting smile. “I’m surprised you haven’t remarried, Max.”

“As a matter of fact, there is someone I’m serious about, but I’m, not about to talk to you about her and subject her name to your insulting comments!” Outside the revolving doors, Max signaled the doorman for a cab. One was immediately waved to the curb and the two men climbed into the back seat. “Have you decided what your answer to Fletcher is going to be?”

“Yes.” A muscle flexed along Brig’s jaw.

“Are you going to keep it a secret?” Max sent him a sideways glance that seemed to know he’d found the jugular vein.

“I’m going to guide and outfit his hunt.”

Smugness was written in the deepening corners of Max’s mouth and in the glinting depths of his blue eyes. “It’s reassuring to know that everyone has a price, Brig—especially you.”

Bile clawed at his throat. “But I didn’t have to sell out to you, Max,” Brig reminded him. “I don’t have to become involved in your underhanded scheme to dump the company on some rich sucker before it goes down the tube.”

“But I can still sell my stock. And Fletcher is still interested in it. Even if he loses on the deal, he’ll never miss the money.”

Brig eyed him. “You hate Smith, don’t you?”

Max Sanger avoided his gaze. “He has something I want.”

“Like the old man, you’re going to get it if you have to lie, cheat, or steal to do it.” Contempt riddled his voice.

“I’m going to have my chance. I’m not going under.”

Guys like Max usually didn’t, Brig thought. It was the honest, hard-working men who lost everything they’d worked all their lives to get. It wasn’t fair. But life generally wasn’t. Look at himself. He had compromised
his principles to save the ranch. Maybe he despised Max so much because he saw in him a magnification of one of his own flaws. He’d heard it said that the faults you find with others are the ones you find in yourself.

The taxi stopped at the address Max had given him. Brig climbed out and waited on the sidewalk. “What floor?” he asked when Max joined him.

“Top floor penthouse, what else?”

Brig wondered why he had come. Why hadn’t he simply telephoned? He wasn’t in the mood for any damned party. Any details could have been settled by phone. But it was too late. He was here, committed to a course of action. Maybe this was Fletcher Smith’s way of making him jump at his whistle. That prospect didn’t set well with Brig.

The party was in full swing when they reached the top floor. The ornately carved door couldn’t muffle all the sounds of laughter and voices coming from within. Max pushed the doorbell. Within seconds, the door was opened by a man in the black uniformed attire of a butler. Max gave him their names which were discreetly checked against a list before they were ushered through the foyer into the living room.

A mass of people were already crowded into the room, sitting, standing, talking, laughing, eating, and drinking. A waiter appeared at Brig’s elbow and offered champagne from the trayful of glasses he carried. The last time Brig had drunk champagne, he had been living on his grandfather’s estate. He took a glass and Max ordered a martini. Brig sipped at the sparkling wine. An eyebrow arched in surprise.

“You like the champagne, Mr. McCord?” Fletcher Smith paused in front of him, smiling faintly.

“It’s excellent.” Brig studied his glass, noting the color and the natural effervescence.

“You speak as a man who knows.” Fletcher regarded him with a sideways tilt of his head.

“My grandfather prided himself on being able to distinguish between a fine wine and one that was merely
acceptable. He didn’t believe in settling for the latter if he could have the former. Wine-tasting was a part of my education. My grandfather considered it essential knowledge.” One corner of his mouth curved into his dark mustache. “I regarded it as a means of getting drunk.”

“Obviously you acquired some expertise,” Fletcher remarked.

“Some people are experts at setting up dominos.” Brig shrugged away the idea that knowing the difference between a good wine and a bad one was worth anything but snob value.

“I’m glad you could come to the party, Mr. McCord,” Fletcher offered his hand in a greeting that had been postponed until that moment. He turned to Max. “I knew you would be here, Max, but I wasn’t so positive that your cousin would come.”

“Weren’t you?” Brig was still in that irritable mood that put a biting edge to his voice. “You know you made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse, if you’ll pardon the cliché.”

“Did I?” Brown eyes widened in false surprise. “I hope that means you aren’t going to refuse.”

“I’m not. I’m accepting your offer,” Brig admitted a trifle stiffly.

“Good.” Fletcher reached inside his jacket and pulled an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to Brig. “Here’s a deposit and a generalized statement of the terms we discussed. You can contact me within a week or so after you’ve settled on a convenient date. In the meantime, maybe I can talk Max into coming along.”

Brig didn’t bother to open the envelope as he slipped it inside his jacket pocket. Irritation simmered through him. Why had he come to this party? It hadn’t been necessary unless the man wanted to gloat over his moment of triumph.

“This hunt sounds fascinating,” Max remarked. “I’ve never been West before.” Immediately he qualified that. “I have been to California, naturally, and skiing in Aspen several times, but every luxury imaginable is
there. The trip you’re planning seems to be a tremendous challenge. Maybe I could come hunting with you this time.”

“You don’t have a permit, Max. It’s too late to get one.” Fletcher quietly studied him.

“I’m not really interested in hunting nearly as much as I am in going on the trip,” he countered. Brig guessed why his cousin wanted to go. There would be two, possibly three weeks for Max to convince Fletcher Smith to buy his stock. He would have a captive audience for his sales pitch.

“The mountains would kill you, Max,” Brig stated. The man was in no shape for such a grueling trek into the high sheep country.

“It’s almost two months away. I have time to get ready for it.” Max appeared unconcerned by Brig’s warning as he glanced at Fletcher. “As a matter of fact, we could work out together at the club.”

“That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that,” Fletcher agreed and smiled. “I can’t think of any reason why you couldn’t come along for the ride, can you, McCord?”

“I can think of a couple,” Brig replied in a grim, flat tone.

“Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll pay my share,” Max laughed as if Brig had been making a joke.

“Excuse me a moment, would you?” Fletcher requested. “My wife is over there. I’d like you to meet her. I’ll see if she can spare a few moments.”

As he moved away into the crowd, Brig darted an irritated look at the man beside him. “You aren’t going on this trip, Max.”

“The man just invited me. You heard what he said.” He rocked back on his heels in satisfaction. His curling black hair glinted with silver in the light of the chandelier overhead.

“I’m not going to be a party to your schemes,” Brig warned. “If you try to come along, I’ll give him back his money and he can find somebody else to take him.”

“No, you won’t. You need that money.” His glance mocked the impotence of Brig’s threat.

Brig swore silently because he knew it was true, but he tried to bluff it out. “But I don’t need you. My agreement with Fletcher Smith was for a party of two hunters and I’ll make him stick with it.”

“You try to mess this up for me, Brig, and I’ll queer your deal with Fletcher. And if you think I can’t, just try it,” Max challenged. “I’ve got nothing to lose. But you do. You’d be smart to remember that.”

Could Max create enough mistrust to make Fletcher back out? Brig didn’t know, and he couldn’t risk finding out. It was salt on an already sore wound.

“If you come, Max, you’ll pay. And I’ll want it in cash the day you arrive. There won’t be any credit.”

“Aren’t you worried that my money might be tainted?” he taunted.

“I know it is. But I’m not throwing away good money to feed you or provide you with transportation and a place to sleep.” Brig was in a corner but he could still snarl. “You go ahead and make your pitch to Smith, but don’t mention my name or try to include me even distantly in any of your dealings.”

“We understand each other.” Max’s agreement was smooth and self-satisfied.

“And you’d better be in shape for this trip, because if you fall behind, I’ll leave you. That’s big country. I may not be able to find you again.” The champagne had gone flat. Brig handed the half-full glass to a passing waiter and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. He needed something stronger.

“You won’t lose me unless you lose Fletcher.” Max sipped at his martini, covering his next words with the glass. “Speak of the devil, here he comes now with his wife.”

Brig glanced in the direction Max was looking and saw the tall gray-haired man escorting a petite brunette through the throng of guests. She was a striking woman with vivid green eyes, their color intensified by the emerald green gown she was wearing. It took Brig a
second to realize that the black hair had once been natural, but now its ebony sheen was achieved by the skillful application of dye. He missed seeing the character lines in her face. Her skin was too smooth. The tightness of her perfectly bowed lips suggested acrimony. She was pushing fifty, but clinging desperately to a youthful appearance. Brig wondered what it cost her to maintain that trim figure.

As they approached, he noticed that she never once glanced at her husband. She appeared indifferent to the guiding hand at her elbow. There was none of the close rapport he had seen between the married couples of his ranching friends. Something in the crisp tension between them made him suspect their marriage had been made in hell.