Ride the Thunder (12 page)

Her green eyes gave their undivided attention to Max. Something glinted in their depths, barely veiled, hinting at a secret. A cat focusing in on its prey, Brig thought. He glanced sideways at his cousin. Max appeared to preen slightly, but he would do that at the approach of any halfway attractive woman. When the husband and wife stopped in front of them, Brig studied Mrs. Smith with a lazy interest that concealed his astuteness.

“I believe you and Max are already acquainted, Livvie,” Fletcher Smith stated politely.

“Yes, we are,” she admitted and offered her hand to Max. “I’m so glad you were able to come, Max. How are you?”

“Much better now that I’ve seen you again, Livvie.” He was all smooth, urbane charm. “You look even more beautiful than when I saw you last.”

“You are still the flatterer. Max.” She laughed, but Brig saw the faint rosy blush that seemed to make her glow with a fresh radiance. He marveled at the gullibility of older women. Or maybe it was desperation. “And I love you for it.”

“If only I could believe that,” Max countered with mock regret. Glancing sideways, he said, “I’d like you
to meet my cousin, Brig McCord. This is Olivia Smith.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Smith.” He felt her fingers hesitate against the roughness of his hand. Brig doubted that she’d ever come in contact with callouses before.

“It’s Livvie to my friends,” she corrected, not showing in any other way her rejection of his touch.

He could have made a suave reply to equal anything from Max, but his days of posturing and bowing had ended many years ago. Brig merely inclined his head in mute acknowledgement. He wasn’t interested in impressing her.

Now that Max had completed the introductions, Fletcher spoke. “McCord has agreed to act as guide on my hunt for bighorn sheep this fall, Livvie.”

“Oh?” She couldn’t have looked less interested the announcement.

“Yes, he owns a ranch in Idaho,” her husband elaborated.

“How interesting.” She smiled politely at Brig.

He wasn’t surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. She was a green-eyed cat who reclined on velvet cushions and drank cream from a sterling silver bowl. He was struck again by the mismatch of the pair, a big game hunter and a sophisticated cosmopolitan.

“It’s wild, beautiful country where McCord has his ranch. When we were talking about the hunt the other day, Max became so fascinated that he’s decided he’d like to go with us.”

Her green gaze swung in sharp surprise to Max. “I didn’t realize you liked to hunt.”

“It isn’t the hunting,” Max insisted. “Fletcher and Brig’s description of the trip makes it sound like an adventure. I’ve been thinking about taking a vacation. Out there, I can’t be reached by telephone. I’m intrigued by the idea. Of course, it will mean Fletcher and I will have to spend a great deal of time together so I can get in shape.”

“Do you think it’s wise?” she asked.

“If you are implying that I might have a heart attack
trying to get in shape, that isn’t very flattering.” Max laughed and Brig frowned narrowly. He didn’t think Olivia Smith was implying that at all and he wondered why he had that impression. “You’re making me feel old.”

“You’ll never be that, Max.” Olivia denied the possibility with a quick smile. The waiter returned with Brig’s Scotch and paused to murmur something to the hostess. “Please excuse me.” She took her leave from them.

Someone came up who knew Max. Brig suffered through the introductions and the exchange of pleasantries, then left his cousin, pretending an interest in the buffet table set in the dining room. He sampled a few of the finger-sized canapes and found an empty corner. Leaning a shoulder against the wall, he nursed his drink and listened to the idle chatter going on around him. It was all so familiar, the fine wines, the exotic delicacies, the expensively dressed guests, and the superficial conversations—like something out of a recurring dream. Except that it wasn’t out of a dream; it was out of his past.

The air was tainted with the smell of tobacco smoke. A heavyset man near him was puffing on a cigar, sending noxious clouds of smoke into the room. The voices and laughter ran together to make a senseless din, snatches of sentences stringing together to make a confused jumble of conversations.

His gaze shifted back to the living room where his cousin was locked in a conversation with the man who had joined him. If he’d made a different decision, Brig knew he could have been in Max’s position, the head of a national corporation, wearing hand-tailored suits, driving an expensive car, vacationing in Europe, and living in a penthouse apartment. If he’d been running the Sanger Corporation, Brig doubted it would have suffered the reversals it had in his cousin’s hands. Or was that a mark of his own conceit? Look at the mess he was in at the ranch.

Hell! Brig took a hefty swallow of the Scotch and grimaced at the taste. Swirling the glass in his hand, he rattled the cubes against the sides. His impatient gaze made an inspecting sweep of the two expensively furnished rooms in his view. It was a sharp contrast to the log ranch house he and Tandy Barnes had built with their own two hands. All of this could have been his, Brig realized. And it was a relief to discover he didn’t want it.

As he raised the glass to his mouth to take another drink, he saw the auburn-haired woman framed by the dining room arch. The glass remained poised a half-inch from his mouth. For a stunned instant, Brig couldn’t believe it was the same woman, the one he’d seen with Fletcher Smith at the hotel. But it was. He lowered the glass and leveled his steady gaze at her. She had actually come to this party given by her lover and his wife. One look at her smooth, proud carriage and Brig realized she was the type that could be that bold.

His gaze made a wayward sweep of her from head to toe. The black gown was sexy without being vulgar. It definitely revealed more of her figure than the blouse and pants she’d been wearing the other day. Her shape was flawless, neither overly rounded nor overly slender. Her breasts would nicely fill the palms of his hands. Brig was aware of a tingling itch in the hollows of his hand to do just that. Lord knew the plunging front of the gown invited such a wish. He lifted his gaze to her chestnut hair, shot with red fire. Its color reminded him of a spirited sorrel horse he owned.

A movement attracted his attention to the young man at her side. Tall and dark-haired, with Apollonian looks, the man reminded Brig of someone, but he didn’t take the time to puzzle it out. His mind was registering the fact that the woman hadn’t come alone, but with an escort. Brig wondered at that. Who had chosen the man, Fletcher Smith or the woman?

The question had barely formed when an attractive
blonde joined the pair. Effusive and gushing, the blonde had obviously made liberal use of the bar. After briefly greeting the auburn-haired girl, she ignored her to devote her attention to the man, clinging to his arm and pressing against him. Brig watched the indulgent, yet indifferent way the man regarded the blonde’s attentions. His mouth suddenly twisted into a smile as Brig realized the redhead couldn’t have a safer escort. Her handsome companion wasn’t interested in the female sex.

Downing the contents of his glass, Brig straightened from the wall, intent on refilling it at the bar on the near side of the dining room. As he started forward, he saw his hostess approaching him.

“Has Max deserted you?” Olivia Smith inquired in a voice of cultured honey.

“He’s in the living room talking to some of his friends.”

Her green eyes noticed the empty glass in his hand. “Would you care for another drink, Mr. McCord?”

“I was just on my way to the bar,” he admitted.

She motioned to a waiter wandering through the scattered groups and took the glass from Brig’s hand to give it to him. “Another drink for this gentleman,” she ordered and glanced inquiringly at Brig.

“Scotch on the rocks.”

The waiter nodded at his answer and walked toward the bar. “How long will you be in New York, Mr. McCord?” Olivia Smith was standing close to him. The cloying fragrance of her perfume was nearly overpowering.

“I’m leaving in the morning.” Brig lit a cigarette to fill his nose and lungs with the smell of tobacco smoke.

“So soon? How long have you been here?” The questions were polite, a dutiful attempt to make conversation with a guest.

“Two days.” Brig was no more interested in talking to her than she was in talking to him. The waiter returned with his drink and offered an escape. “I won’t
keep you, Mrs. Smith. I know it’s a hostess’ duty to circulate among her guests.”

“Let me introduce you to the Fennimore’s.” She curled a hand inside his elbow and Brig was obliged to accompany her or be needlessly rude.

A flash of green caught Jordanna’s eye. The only woman at the party wearing that distinctive shade was her mother. Shut out of the one-sided conversation Alisha Van Dyke was having with her brother, Jordanna let her restless gaze seek the emerald gown.

Her mother was talking to a dark-haired man in a tan suit. Jordanna didn’t recognize him. Vaguely curious, she ran her gaze over his hawk-like profile. Tall and lean as a winter wolf, he was wide and deep in the shoulders and narrow at the hips. His face was tanned by the sun, a neatly trimmed mustache shadowed his mouth. His hair was the rich color of dark chocolate. Thick and indifferent to any current style, it shaped his head and formed short sideburns. Despite his casual stance, there was something about his rangy build that suggested coiled readiness.

The thought struck Jordanna that it wouldn’t be wise to cross that man. He would make a dangerous enemy—strong, powerful, and sure of himself. There wasn’t a man in the room that could be a match for him, unless it was her father.

Her brother nudged her with his elbow. Turning, Jordanna glanced at him. His dark eyes pleaded to be rescued from the blonde hanging on his arm.

“Kit, be a dear brother and fetch me a drink?” Jordanna asked, her hazel eyes twinkling.

“Of course,” he agreed and smiled politely at the blonde as he unwound her hand from around his arm. “Excuse me, Alisha.”

When Christopher returned with her drink, the blonde had left. Together, Jordanna and her brother began mingling with the other guests, stopping to chat with various clustered groups until they were finally separated.

Drifting away from two couples arguing the aesthetics of modern art, Jordanna wandered into the living room. The banal conversations she could overhear didn’t interest her. A few feet ahead of her, she saw her father politely withdrawing from a circle of guests. The expression of concealed boredom on his face matched her own mood. Approaching him from behind, she touched his elbow.

In a pseudo-cultured voice, she remarked, “Papa, have you seen the latest exhibition at the gallery?”

He pivoted, arching a peppered-gray eyebrow at her before a smile curved his mouth as he realized she was mocking the conversations around them. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. Tell me about it.”

Jordanna laughed briefly, then sighed. “It’s a pity we aren’t guests. We could leave.”

“Isn’t it?” Fletcher Smith agreed. His gaze swept the room. “We seem to be a minority. Nobody else seems inclined to leave. I think it’s more crowded than the last party. Apparently, the party is a success. That should please your mother.”

“Yes.”

At his reference to her mother, Jordanna automatically glanced to the corner of the room where the raven-haired woman was talking to an older, well-dressed man. Slender and attractive, he had curly hair, its darkness well peppered with gray. The man looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall his name. His charm was evident in the way her mother was basking in the glow of his attention. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at her father. His mouth had thinned into a hard line, his gaze also focused on the woman who was his wife. Jordanna felt his pain and bitterness, and sought to distract his thoughts.

“I’d love ten minutes of peace and quiet,” she said. “Who would know if we slipped away for a little while?”

His downward glance was indulgent. “No one. Where do you have in mind?”

“The den.” It was his favorite place, unburdened by the opulence of the rest of the apartment. It was Jordanna’s, too.

“All right,” he agreed with a half-smile. As they started toward the hallway to slip unobtrusively away from the party, Fletcher stopped. “Wait a minute. Here comes Sam Brookfield. I want to have a quick word with him.” He pressed a key in her hand. “I locked the door so no one would get some stupid notion to mess around with the gun cabinet. You go ahead. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Don’t be long,” she urged as he left her side to speak to the tall, spare man in glasses walking toward them.

“You honestly own a ranch—with horses and cows and everything?” The brunette gave Brig a skeptical, sideways look. She was an attractive woman, recently divorced, she had informed him, but Brig suspected her looks would vanish when the makeup was cleansed from her face.

“Yes, I do.” His gaze wandered to the hallway where he had seen the redhead disappear after briefly meeting Fletcher. Perhaps she had left.

“You don’t look like a cowboy, except for the mustache maybe,” the brunette was saying.

“The next time I’ll wear spurs and a ten-gallon hat,” Brig replied with a biting dryness that was meant to silence, but the woman laughed.

“What sign are you? I’m a Taurus.”

“Sagittarius.” Brig hoped it was an incompatible sign.

“That’s too bad.” She made a moue of disappointment, then brightened. “Do you know your ascending sign?”

“Nope. ’Fraid not.” He smiled, but the expression didn’t reach the dusky brown of his eyes.

“I don’t know if you can believe horoscopes anyway,” she shrugged. “My ex-husband and I were supposed to be very compatible, but we fought all the time.”

“It happens.” Brig didn’t want to hear the messy details of their divorce.

A rich, throaty laugh attracted his attention. Olivia Smith was standing off to one side with Max. His cousin was weaving a charmed spell over the woman and she was loving every enchanted second of it. When they’d first arrived at the party, Brig had gained the impression it had been a considerable time since Max had seen Fletcher’s wife. Now, they were acting as if it had been yesterday. Brig wondered if the two of them were having an affair, and dismissed the idea just as quickly. Not even Max would have the gall to romance a man’s wife while he was trying to get his money. He glanced to where he’d last seen Fletcher, but he wasn’t there. Brig wondered if he had disappeared into the hallway where the redhead had gone. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that thought.