Ride the Thunder (8 page)

“Thanks for lunch, Fletcher,” Max expressed polite gratitude as the man moved away from the table.

“Don’t mention it.”

Brig said nothing, not a thank you and not a goodbye, as the man walked out of the restaurant. He had the feeling he’d just been bought, and he didn’t like the taste it had left in his mouth.

“You really fell into a sweet deal this time, Brig,” Max declared with a wry shake of his head.

“Shut up, Max,” he growled and crushed his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

“What did I say?” He looked startled by the snarling reply. “Fletcher’s going to pay you the money you need, with a little left over.”

“I haven’t said I’ll take it yet.” Irritable and restless, Brig rested his arms on the table and swirled the coffee dregs in his cup, staring at the dark grounds.

“You’ll be a fool if you don’t. You’ve always been stubborn, Brig, but I didn’t think you were a fool,” his cousin mocked.

“Well, maybe I am.” He took a drink of water to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. He set the glass down with a thump and pushed away from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” He had to think.

Not until he was outside the hotel did Brig slow his stride. He began walking the streets, following Fifty-fourth, down Madison, back over to Fifth Avenue. Finally the baking heat of the July sun drove him into a dingy, air-conditioned bar on one of the side streets. He sat at a table in a dark corner and nursed his way through a couple of beers.

A hard-faced hooker with the map of the world on her face sidled up to him. “Want some company, cowboy?”

Brig glanced up. Her dull blue eyes didn’t have any of the tenderness of Trudie’s. He stood up and tossed
some change on the table. “Honey, when I do, you’ll be the last to know,” he drawled.

She called him a few choice names as he walked out of the bar. The heat hit him like the blast from a steel furnace. It reminded him of the oppressive steaming jungles of Central America. Except here, he was surrounded by concrete instead of teeming plant life. Removing the lightweight jacket of his leisure suit, Brig swung it over his shoulder and started back to the hotel.

A few minutes before five, he stopped at the desk for his key then walked to the elevators. Perspiration had plastered his shirt to his back. His skin prickled with the heat as he waited for the elevator. The doors opened and Max stepped out. Brig’s eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise, his alert gaze catching the furtive movement as Max slipped a room key into his jacket pocket.

“Hello, Max. I didn’t expect to find you still here at the hotel,” Brig commented dryly, stepping to one side as the elevator was emptied of passengers.

“I had an appointment.” The defensive response was as revealing as the cloying perfume that had attached itself to his clothes.

A sarcastic sneer curled his mouth. “You’re still the ladies man, huh, Max?” At the moment, Brig didn’t like anybody very much. Max took the brunt of his displeasure at the world in general. “Who was it? That gorgeous black receptionist you’ve got working for you? I’m sure you’re taking the precaution of leaving the hotel separately.” Even as he made the accusation, he knew it hadn’t been the receptionist. Brig remembered the clean fragrance that had scented her skin.

Max stiffened, a little white beneath his tan. “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

“You’re right. You don’t. But you should do something about the way you smell before you go back to the office. It’s worse than the perfume counter at a department store.”

The elevator doors were about to close. Ignoring the flush creeping into Max’s face, Brig moved past him into the elevator. On the ride up, he removed his hat and wiped out the sweatband with his handkerchief. A cool shower was uppermost on his mind.

Unlocking the door. Brig stepped into the room. The drapes were closed and the room was dark. Tossing his jacket on the chair, he walked over to pull them open. Sunlight fell on the blue coverlet of the bed. He grimaced in distaste at the room, a carbon copy of a thousand others in the building.

H
UMMING TO HERSELF,
Jordanna walked down the apartment’s corridor. She shifted the heavy, bulky package in her arms to a more comfortable position. It was wrapped in shimmering silver-green foil with a bright emerald green bow that kept tickling her chin.

Inside the box was one of those modern art sculptures that didn’t resemble anything. As far as Jordanna was concerned, they were strictly conversation pieces, but her brother loved such pieces. They were expensive, too. She wouldn’t have had enough money if she hadn’t persuaded her father to chip in on the gift during lunch. After the argument last week, she hoped Kit would accept the present as a peace offering, even if it came in the guise of a house-warming present.

She sighed at the thought of their argument. She couldn’t even remember what had started it. It was supposed to be natural for a brother and sister to quarrel, but she felt they argued more than was healthy. Her problem was the quickness of her temper,
all the fault of her dark red hair. And there wasn’t any closeness between them. She and Kit were too different, their interests too divergent. They were at opposite ends of a spectrum, their opinions colored by different viewpoints.

Her searching gaze located his apartment number on a door. Jordanna stopped in front of it and juggled the package to push the doorbell. She heard the muffled buzz it made and waited.

As the door opened, she smiled and said, “Surprise,” but the smile faded at the sight of the strange man standing in the opening instead of her brother.

Recognition flashed in his eyes. “Hello, you must be Jordanna.”

“Y . . . Yes,” she faltered, staring at the sandy-haired man. “I was looking for my brother.”

“Christopher isn’t here right now. I’m sorry he didn’t say what time he’d be back. Was he expecting you?” He was good-looking in a clean-cut way, young, in his middle twenties.

“No. I just dropped by to bring him this house-warming present for his new apartment.” Jordanna indicated the bulky gift in her arms and tipped her head to one side to study him with a straightforward boldness. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mike Patterson.” There was a wary alertness in his returning look. “Hasn’t Christopher mentioned me?”

Jordanna had become accustomed to people calling her brother by his given name. She and her father were the only ones that still used his nickname of Kit.

“No, he hasn’t,” she admitted openly. “Should I know who you are? I’m sorry, but Kit doesn’t talk to me very much about his girls or his friends.”

“I see.” A smooth mask seemed to slide over his expression. “I’ve moved in with Christopher to share the expenses on the apartment.”

“I didn’t know.” Jordanna shrugged her ignorance aside with a casual laugh. “I haven’t talked to Kit in more than a week.” The gift was growing heavier by
the minute, despite the strength in her slender arms. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Sure.” He reacted swiftly, as if suddenly remembering his manners, and opened the door wide to admit her. He stepped forward, offering, “Let me carry that for you.”

“No. That’s okay. I can manage it,” she insisted. He moved out of her way and Jordanna entered the apartment. “You can set it on the coffee table,” he told her.

Stooping, she carefully placed it on the glass-topped table and straightened to look around the room. “This is nice.” As she pivoted to face her brother’s friend, her dark hair whirled about her shoulders, flaming with red highlights. “I haven’t seen it since Kit furnished it,” Jordanna explained. “Personally I prefer something more traditional and homey than all this modern chrome and glass, but Kit likes it. Do you?”

“Yes.” He smiled and his eyes had the same indulgent look that Kit so often gave her.

It irritated Jordanna. It made her feel like a child instead of a grown woman of twenty-four. Turning away, she held her temper. Her eyes, green flecks glittering in hazel pupils, fixed on the luxuriant potted tree by the window.

“That’s a beautiful rubber plant. It must be your contribution to the apartment,” she guessed.

“It is,” Mike Patterson admitted. “How did you know?”

“It was easy,” Jordanna laughed in a warm, throaty sound. “Kit isn’t good with plants—or anything that has to do with nature as far as that goes.”

“Can I get you anything?” Mike offered. “Coffee or a Coke? Or maybe you’d like a drink. I fix a mean margarita.”

“No, thanks,” she glanced at the thin gold watch on her wrist. “I’d better be going.”

“You’re welcome to wait for Christopher.” He seemed worried that his actions had given her the impression she should leave.

“As you said, Kit didn’t say when he’d be back,” Jordanna reminded him. “And, my parents will be expecting me.” She moved toward the door with smooth, graceful strides.

“He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

She shrugged at that. Maybe if he had forgiven her, he would be. “Tell him I stopped and . . .” She opened the door and paused, “. . . I hope he likes the present. It was nice meeting you, Mike.”

“Same here.”

The shoulder strap of her purse slipped as she swung the door closed. Jordanna adjusted it and retraced her route down the long corridor.

A half-hour later, Jordanna opened the door into the formal entryway of her parents’ penthouse apartment. The maid was arranging a bouquet of pink roses on the elaborate baroque rosewood table that occupied the center of the foyer.

“Hello, Tessa. The flowers look beautiful, as usual.” Jordanna paused to admire the arrangement. “Are my parents back yet?”

“Your mother returned an hour ago. She’s in her room resting before dinner,” the maid replied, still smiling from the compliment of her floral skills. Her wand-slim figure didn’t show her age, but her shyly drawn features were etched with wrinkles.

“Thanks.” Jordanna started toward the den, then turned, continuing to walk backwards as she asked, “Dinner is at eight?”

“Yes.”

She glanced at her watch. “I guess I’ll have plenty of time. Mother is such a stickler about changing for dinner.” She wrinkled her nose in disdain for a custom she felt was needless.

Skirting the living room with its Louis XIV furniture, upholstered in pale green silk damask, and Baccarat crystal chandeliers, she walked directly to the den. She knocked once and walked in. Her father was
sitting in his favorite chair, its brown leather worn soft and faded to tan. A magazine was lying open on his lap. His grayed head was resting against the high back. A dead pipe was clamped between his teeth. The weary look was wiped from his face as he smiled.

“Hello, Dad.” Her gliding walk carried Jordanna to his chair, where she bent to kiss his smoothly shaven cheek. She had seen the tiredness in his expression, but knew better than to mention it. Straightening, she suggested, “I’m going to have a Scotch. Can I fix you one?”

“Please.” Fletcher Smith took the pipe from between his teeth and knocked the ashes from the bowl into the ashtray.

A crystal decanter of Scotch sat on a tray atop his desk, along with a matching set of four glasses. Jordanna filled two of them, not bothering with ice since they had both acquired a taste for Scotch served at room temperature. Her gaze strayed around the room. The decor in the rest of the apartment changed at her mother’s whim, but this den always remained the same. The only alterations were additions of new trophies on the wall. The latest was a pronghorn antelope that she bad downed.

“Did you stop by to see Kit?” He took the drink she handed him.

“Mmm.” Jordanna swallowed the sip she had taken and walked to the nearest sofa, curling her long legs beneath her on the cushions. “Yes.”

“What did he think of the present?”

“He wasn’t there. I didn’t want to wait until he came back so I left the gift.” She took another sip of the liquor and glanced at her father over the rim of the glass. “He’s sharing the apartment. Did you know that?”

“No.” Fletcher set his glass on the tobacco stand and began filling his pipe.

“Well, he is. I met his roommate today. His name is Mike Patterson. He seemed nice. The two of them
are really going to turn that place into a bachelor pad.” Jordanna leaned back against the cushions and studied the liquid swirling in her glass, caused by the circular motion of her hand. “Kit is really serious about living on what he earns, isn’t he? I mean, there he is—having someone else move in to share the expenses of the apartment.”

“He seems to be serious.” He held a lighter flame to the bowl and puffed out smoky clouds. “From now on, you had batter check first to be sure Kit is there before you go to his apartment.”

“Why?” Jordanna lifted her head from the back cushion to frown at her father. “Just because he’s sharing his apartment with someone? Mike looked like a nice clean-cut guy. He isn’t likely to attack me or anything.”

“No. That isn’t what I meant.” He sounded angry and her frown returned. “I simply believe we should respect Kit’s desire for privacy and not drop in on him without calling in advance.”

“I suppose you’re right.” she conceded and watched him closely through her lashes. She saw him turn his head away and close his eyes in an expression of pain before he rubbed his forehead. “What’s the matter, Dad? A headache?”