Rivals (42 page)

“Hello, Flame.”

“What are you doing here?” Perhaps it was the trace of hoarseness in her voice or the faint lines of tension around her mouth that alerted Chance to her fatigue and the stress she was under. He wasn't sure. In any case, he could see that she seemed tired and, he hoped, vulnerable.

“I came to see you.” He moved away from the door and Maxine, angling toward Flame. “You are still my wife.”

“You'll be hearing from my attorney about that.”

Even though he'd expected something of the kind, he still felt an anger at actually hearing the words. “By your attorney, I assume you mean Ben Canon.”

“Does it matter?” She was angry, too, but it was the cold kind she'd shown him at his office. “Whatever reason you thought you had for coming no longer exists. Please leave or I'll have you thrown out.”

“Why are you so afraid to talk to me, Flame?”

“I'm not!” Her temper flared ever so briefly before she shuttered it. “And I don't have to stand here and listen to you to prove that.”

“Hatred is a very contagious thing. It permeates the very walls of this house.” He wandered past her into the parlor, his glance skimming over the room's familiar furnishings—the ebony piano, the Victorian sofa and chairs, and the silk rug on the floor that held traces of the tea he'd spilled on it long ago. “The place hasn't changed,” he mused, then angled a glance over his shoulder at her. “I lived here as a boy. Did Hattie tell you that?” She nodded, almost warily. “I wasn't allowed in the parlor except on very rare occasions, but I used to sneak in here when she wasn't around. She caught me once, jumping off the piano, and took her cane to me. I probably deserved that. But she had no right to refuse to let me see my mother for three days.” Chance paused, remembering, a bitter cynicism pulling at a corner of his mouth. “It's odd, but it never made any difference to Hattie that my mother was a Morgan. I was born a Stuart, and because of it, she made my life hell. If there's any justice in the hereafter, that's where she is now.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now?” Flame mocked from the archway, her arms folded in front in a challenging stance. “Is that what you hoped to accomplish with that poor, abused childhood vignette? Do you know what's sad, Chance?” She walked over to him, never losing that hint of defiance. “If you had told me that before—if you had been honest with me—I probably would have believed you…and made an even bigger fool of myself. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

He faced her, now wary himself. “I made a mistake—”

“A big one. You used me. You used me as a quick and easy means to get Morgan's Walk. I will never forgive you for that or forget it.”

“You're wrong. When we met, I didn't know you had any connection to Hattie.”

“It doesn't matter when you found out—before or after you met me. The point is, you didn't tell me. On the contrary, you deliberately kept it from me.”

“I admit that was wrong. Maybe I didn't think you would understand. Maybe I wanted us to have more time together first. But it wasn't a lie when I told you I loved you.”

She laughed—a harsh breathless sound. “I can't believe this. After what you've done, do you really think you can come here and tell me how much you love me, and I'll just fall into your arms? Do you really think I'm so stupid—so gullible—that I'll let myself be taken in by you again?”

There was an ominous tightening of his mouth, a muscle leaping along his jaw. “I expect you to listen to reason.”

“Whose reason? Yours? You make me sick, you lying bastard.” She turned from him, hating him as violently as she'd once loved him.

“Dammit, Flame.” His hand snaked out to seize her arm. She halted, turning rigid at his touch, and stared coldly at the hand on her arm, saying nothing. The silence stretched for several tense seconds, then he removed his hand from her arm. “You've been infected by the hate that lives in this house, haven't you?”

“Is that why you're so determined to destroy it and build your grand development on it—because you see it as a place of hatred?” Flame caught the faint start that Chance wasn't quite quick enough to conceal at the mention of his proposed development. “Did you think I didn't know what you planned to do with Morgan's Walk—and all the rest of the land you've bought?”

“Whatever use I may or may not have considered putting this land to has nothing to do with why I'm here.”

“Doesn't it?” she mocked. “You mean you didn't come here to win me back? I'm curious, Chance. How were you going to convince me to flood this valley and destroy Morgan's Walk? Were you going to wait a couple of months, then come to me and say, ‘Darling, I have this great idea to take that land you inherited and turn it into a fabulous resort complex—think of the millions you'll make from it, so much more than you would ever realize if you maintained its current ranching operation'? Maybe you'd add an incentive—‘We'll do it together, darling—work side by side as partners.' Naturally, I'd be so blindly in love with you that I'd agree. That's the way you thought it would work, isn't it?”

“Why should I answer that when you wouldn't believe me anyway?” he challenged quietly.

“You're right. I wouldn't.”

Reaching out, he gently took hold of her arms. Flame stiffened instinctively, ready to resist if he should attempt to force himself on her, but he didn't. She was almost sorry. There was a part of her that was so raw it wanted to lash out—to kick and scream and claw. But the undemanding warmth of his hands didn't invite it.

“I've hurt you, Flame. I know that.” There was a persuasive pitch to his voice now, softly serious and subtly soothing. “You have every right to be angry with me—”

“I have your permission to hate you—how nice,” she murmured caustically, deliberately striving to shatter the spell of his voice.

“Dammit, I came here to apologize, Flame—to tell you that I love you—I need you.”

“You need Morgan's Walk—which I now own,” she fired back and watched his head recoil, his eyes narrowing in a probing study.

“Such a sharp tongue you have,” he murmured. “Who is it you're trying to convince that you don't love me anymore—you or me? If it's me, I'm not buying it, because I know you still care.”

She felt her first twinge of uncertainty, conscious of the way everything had quickened inside her moments ago, her pulse accelerating, her senses heightening—coming to battle-readiness, she thought. Yet, she managed to meet his gaze coolly. “As conceited as you are, I'm sure you believe that.”

“Love can't be turned off with the flick of a switch—as much as you might want to convince me otherwise.”

“That all depends on the circumstances,” Flame asserted, but Chance shook his head, rejecting her claim.

“No, the feelings you had for me are all still there—hidden behind a wall of anger and hurt pride. You may prefer to deny it, but you want me every bit as much as I want you.”

When she felt the pulling pressure of his hands, her first impulse was to forcibly resist. Flame instantly rejected that, realizing that only by showing complete indifference would she prove anything to him. As he drew her into his arms, she steeled herself not to react. When his mouth moved toward hers, she waited until the last second, then turned her head aside, letting his lips graze her cheek.

Undeterred, Chance simply transferred his attention to the pulsing vein in her neck. Suddenly it all felt achingly familiar—the sensuous nibbling of his mouth, the caressing splay of his hands, and the hard, lean shape of him. She had to force her hands to remain at her sides as she fought the memory of how it had been between them. The child in her wanted him to hold her tightly and kiss away all the hurt. But it required the innocence of a child to believe that kisses would “make it all better.” And she had lost that innocence long ago. Physical love—no matter how enjoyable and satisfying—was a momentary thing. It couldn't right the damage that had been done. He'd used her; and by using her, he'd betrayed her. She couldn't trust him anymore.

She closed her eyes against her inner tremors of longing, not entirely sure how much she could trust herself. “Are you through?” She injected all the iciness she could into her question.

She felt him pause, then slowly straighten to look at her, but she carefully kept her face averted, unwilling to let him see how fragile her defenses against him actually were.

“For now,” he said, that lazy edge back in his voice. “But you're not as indifferent to me as you'd like me to believe. I'd prove it to you, but if I did, you'd hate me for it. And it isn't your hate I want, Flame. It's your love.”

Stung by his arrogance, she lifted her head sharply to glare at him. “Hattie was right. I'm only now beginning to realize how right she was. You'd stoop to anything, wouldn't you? You'd lie, cheat, steal—whatever is required to get your hands on Morgan's Walk.” She shrugged off his hands and stepped back, unable to bear the touch of him. “I think you'd better leave, Mr. Stuart. You're not welcome here—ever.”

For a long second, he made no move at all—said nothing. Just when she thought she might have to summon Charlie Rainwater and some of the boys from the bunkhouse, Chance slowly nodded. “I'll go. But I'll tell you the same thing I told Hattie. I'll be back. This isn't finished between us.”

“That sounds remarkably like a threat.” She tilted her head a little higher, letting him see that she wouldn't be intimidated.

His lips curved in a smile that was anything but warm. “I never make threats, Flame. I thought you knew me better than that.”

She stayed exactly where she was, not moving as he walked around her to the foyer. When she heard the front door close, she pivoted slowly to stare after him. Seconds later she heard the growling rumble of his car starting up. Then she was surrounded by the unsettling silence of the house. Made restless by it, Flame ranged over the parlor, then stopped at a window and studied the rolling tumble of dark gray clouds beyond the glass panes.

That was exactly the way she felt inside—dark and churning with a violent turbulence. These feelings had been there, seething below the surface for the last three days. She'd managed to block them out, but seeing Chance again had unleashed them. Flame finally admitted to herself what she'd instinctively known all along: it would never be over between them. Morgan's Walk made it impossible.

If she'd had any doubts that he still wanted the land, his coming here had eliminated them. He was as determined as ever to get it. Hattie had warned her about that very thing before she died. But how could he succeed? Hattie had left it to her.

Flame turned from the window, suddenly troubled. Ben Canon had told her something. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to remember what he'd said. He'd mentioned something about Chance contesting the will and—yes, something about applying financial pressure to force her to sell. But he'd talked about a third alternative. Her frown lifted as she slowly brought her hand down—remembering. “He could try to get the land condemned.” That's what Ben had said.

Why have it condemned? The lake, of course.

She had to stop him. But how? What was this development of his? If she was going to fight him and win, she had to know more about his plans. Against a man like Chance, she needed specific knowledge. Otherwise, she could never hope to block any attempt he made. She couldn't constantly be on the defensive. She had to find a way to take the fight to him.

The instant she thought it, Flame realized that it wasn't enough to merely prevent him from getting Morgan's Walk. If it was the last thing she did, she had to make him pay, for her great-grandfather's sake as well as her own. It was time a Morgan got even, and she was the one who was going to do it.

It was odd the hot calmness she felt, the rawness—the rage—that had consumed her these last three days now finding a channel, a direction. It didn't matter that at the moment she didn't know how she would go about exacting a fitting retribution. That would come. First she had to learn all she could about Chance's plans for the land.

But how? Ben Canon had indicated there were drawings or blueprints of it in Chance's office. How could she get a copy of them? Chance would never volunteer a set. If there was some way she could get into his office…She drew in a quick breath, suddenly realizing that maybe there was.

She'd have to act quickly. Tonight, in fact. And clothes, she'd need evening clothes, something ultra-dressy. Nothing she had with her would do. She'd packed for a weekend in the sun, not an autumn week in Oklahoma. The dress she had on she'd bought yesterday for the funeral. Did she have time to go buy something? She glanced at the ancient grandfather clock that stood beyond the parlor doors in the foyer. It was nearly five. Would there be shops open that carried the type of evening dress she needed? And where were they? Flame railed at the time she'd lose looking for one, especially when she knew there were at least three suitable outfits hanging in her closet in San Francisco.

Closet. That was it. Hattie's closet, jammed with an entire wardrobe of clothes for every occasion. If she could find something that worked, it didn't matter how old it was. The style of evening clothes rarely changed. As for size, with a little tucking and pinning, she could make it fit.

As Flame walked swiftly from the parlor, Maxine entered the foyer, “I heard Cha—Mr. Stuart leave. Would you like me to start supper now, Mrs. Stuart?”

After faltering briefly, Flame continued to the staircase. “You don't need to cook anything, Maxine. I'm not hungry tonight.

“Oh, I don't have to cook. The neighbors brought enough casseroles and salads to last a week.”