Rivals (48 page)

“I rolled them up and set them in the corner.” With a swing of his balding head to the right, he directed her attention to the plans propped against the bookshelves behind him, half-hidden by the walnut stand supporting a world globe.

“Maxine didn't see them, did she?”

“No. I already had them put away when she brought the coffee.”

“Good.” Flame relaxed a little then.

“Did your engineer friend get off all right?”

She nodded absently as she retrieved the site plan and spread it out on the desk. “Charlie's taken him to the airport. I'm afraid Karl walked poor Charlie's legs off today.” A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “To hear him tell it, Karl tramped every foot of the hills at both locations, and even climbed down to inspect the riverbanks. Just before he left, Karl told me his visual inspection hasn't given him any reason to believe that the dam couldn't be built on the north site. I've authorized him to do whatever test borings are necessary—and I also told him to bring in a crew from the coast, not to use anyone locally. I don't want Chance to find out what we're up to.”

“What
are
you up to?” Ben Canon rocked back in the desk chair and folded his pudgy hands across his chest to study her with a puzzled, penetrating look. “As your attorney, don't you think I should know?”

“I want to prove this second dam site is viable. You've already warned me about the political power and influence Chance wields. If we have to fight a condemnation attempt, this might be a weapon for us—an alternative to his proposal that will, at least, save the house and part of the valley.”

She had another idea, too—one she'd been toying with ever since Karl Bronsky had brought up the possibility of another dam site—but she didn't mention it to Ben Canon. She knew how crazy, how impossible, it would sound to him. It probably was, but she hadn't been able to totally convince herself of that yet.

“It might work.” He nodded slowly in thoughtful approval. “Is that it?”

“I was curious about something else,” she admitted, and moved the site plan over in front of him. “This valley on the northwest side, it doesn't appear that Chance owns it—or has optioned it. I'd like to find out who owns it.”

“It's probably the Starret place, but I'll stop into the county courthouse and check the tax rolls to make sure.”

“I think it would be better if you didn't do it yourself, Ben. If Chance finds out, he might wonder why you're interested, and we don't want to tip our hand to him.”

“You sound remarkably like Hattie,” the lawyer observed, then humphed a short laugh. “She's probably turning circles in her grave knowing you've invited him here to dinner tonight.”

“Maybe,” Flame admitted as she began rolling up the site plan. “And maybe she'd approve.” This would mark the third time since their separation that she'd met with Chance, and the first time it wouldn't be at a public place. That part didn't concern her. She was confident of her ability to handle him, even if sometimes she momentarily let herself be attracted to him again. No, not to him, she quickly corrected that thought. She was attracted by the memory of how it had been between them before she'd discovered he was only using her. That sense of loving and being loved had been powerful then.

Ben Canon rocked forward in his chair, a rare grimness pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I wish you could persuade Stuart to tip his hand.”

Aware that the crafty old lawyer never made idle comments, Flame glanced at him sharply, noting the look of heavy concentration that creased his brow as he studied the papers before him, the ones he'd been going over when she came in. “You had a reason for saying that, Ben. What is it?”

“As you know, the inventory and appraisal of all of Hattie's assets has been completed—along with compilation of all the outstanding debts, mortgages, and bank notes. While I was going over them to establish the worth of her estate, I came across something that bothers me.”

“What?”

“The bank sold the mortgage on Morgan's Walk last spring.”

She immediately tensed. “To whom? Chance?”

“I don't know, and that's what bothers me. I have the name of a corporation that's the new mortgage holder, but I can't trace the true owner. Which makes me suspect that I'd find Chance at the end of the maze of holding companies and private trusts. Unfortunately I can't prove it.”

Flame turned away, bitterly realizing just how hollow and fleeting that sense of victory could be. “He knows how to stack the deck, doesn't he?”

“You could say that.”

“I suppose he can call the entire mortgage due.”

“He can and—more than likely—he will.”

“What about the money from Hattie's life insurance policy?”

“There's enough to pay the estate tax and give you about six months' operating capital. I'm afraid the only way you're going to be able to pay off the mortgage to Chance is to find yourself another lender. And, I have to be honest, Flame, that isn't going to be easy.”

“Why? The ranch is worth it.”

“The value's there, yes. But good management and the ability to repay—that's what a lender will look at very hard, especially these days with so many family farms and ranches going under. And you know next to nothing about the ranching business.”

“I don't, but Charlie Rainwater—”

“—is old. Old enough to draw Social Security. It's time reality was faced, Flame.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “Morgan's Walk is something of a white elephant—especially this old house. As you can see from those cost/income statements, the ranching operation itself has shown marginal profits the last few years. And nearly every bit has been gone into the maintenance and upkeep on this building.” He paused, regret entering his expression. “I know how much Hattie loved this place, and, in my own way, I fought as hard as she did to keep it from falling into Stuart's hands. But realistically speaking, if this house wasn't out here in the country, I'd recommend that you donate it to some local historical society for a museum—anything to get out from under its costs. I don't mean to sound like the prophet of doom, Flame, but if the cattle market should go down or the calving losses in the spring are high or Charlie's health goes bad and your new manager isn't as sharp as he is, you could be in trouble. I'm telling you all this to make sure that you see you're going to have a tough time of it all the way around…especially with this mortgage business.”

“I see,” she murmured, then added wryly, “At least I'm beginning to.” She stared at the papers in her hand. “May I keep these and look them over?”

“By all means,” Ben nodded. “Those are your copies.” He set his briefcase on top of the desk and flipped it open. “I have some documents that require your signature.” He laid them out for her and gave her a pen. “With luck, and no interference from Stuart, by the end of the next week Morgan's Walk and everything on it will officially be yours.”

“Good,” she said, although at the moment she was beginning to wonder about that.

“Oh, and something else.” He reached inside his briefcase again and took out a newspaper clipping. “This was in a Reno paper recently. I thought you might like to see it—just in case Stuart decides to give you any problems about the annulment.”

The newspaper photograph showed a smiling Chance and beaming Lucianna, and the caption beneath it read: “Real estate magnate Chance Stuart and diva Lucianna Colton back together again. Seen at a recent fund-raiser for the performing arts.” Flame didn't read any more, going cold, then hot with rage. All that talk about how much he loved her and needed her, how much he wanted her back—for herself—it was all more lies. And he was coming here tonight to tell her more.

After dinner, Chance stood in front of the parlor's fireplace, a brandy glass in his hand, and stared at the new flames dancing and darting over the seasoned logs in defiance of any pattern. It should have been a cozy setting—brandy and coffee for two, the flickering glow of the fire, the easy quiet of the house, the low lights of the room.

A single floor lamp burned, its dome-shaped, fringed shade diffusing the light from its bulb and casting a soft amber glow on the wing chair where Flame sat, her body angled sideways, knees drawn up. Turning his head slightly, Chance surveyed her with a sidelong look.

Like a contented cat, she looked, all curled up in the chair, the sleeves of her intarsia sweater pushed up, the loose fit of her white slacks clinging softly to her long legs. Her mane of red-gold hair ran faintly lawless back from her lovely and proud face. The mere sight of her stirred him profoundly.

Yet, as he looked at her, it wasn't Flame he thought about. His mind kept playing back to the discussion he'd had with Sam today in his office.

“Chance, a whole month has gone by. Don't you think it's time we did something?” Sam argued, exasperation and frustration showing on his features. “We haven't contested the will. If we don't do something in the next couple days, the court's going to hand Morgan's Walk over to her. You realize that, don't you?”

“Tying up the title to that land isn't going to accomplish anything, Sam. I'm not going to fight her on it, and that's final.”

“You're not going to fight her on that, and you're not fighting her on the annulment either. Dammit, Chance, I know you love her and you want her back. I understand that, but—what about Morgan's Walk?”

“What about it?”

Sam lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “It just seems to me that you're counting an awful lot on getting Flame back. I mean, you're not making any other move to get the land.”

“If I take any action against her now, I can forget persuading her to come back to me. She'd be convinced all I want is the land.”

“Maybe so.” Sam sighed, a heavy, disgruntled sound. “But I worry about the amount of time going by. I'm not saying you should call the mortgage due, but you could hassle her a little by demanding financial statements and a review of the loan. Put some pressure on her and maybe shake her up a bit.”

“You don't shake Flame up; you just make her mad.”

“I think it's a mistake to do nothing, Chance. How long can we afford to sit on our hands?”

“As long as it takes.”

Sam looked at him. “Are you making any headway with her? Or is she just stringing you along?”

He hadn't had an answer for that—and he didn't now as he swirled the brandy in his glass, then tossed down most of it.

“More brandy?” The softness of her voice reached out to him, stirring his senses, but it was the politeness of her inquiry that registered.

“No.” He turned the rest of the way around to face her chair, letting his gaze move over her. She seemed vaguely restless by it, her guard lifting, shuttering the green of her eyes and masking her expression with a blandness. “During the last—almost four—weeks, we've had dinner together, talked, and occasionally even laughed together. So why do I have the feeling that I'm not getting through to you—that you're just going through the motions?”

With an unhurried grace, she uncurled her legs and rose from the chair, her hands sliding into the slanted side pockets of her slacks as she wandered over to the fireplace. “I think you've forgotten these meetings were your idea, not mine.”

“I suppose they've meant nothing to you—that you've regretted every unguarded smile you gave me,” he taunted, lifting the glass halfway to his mouth and speaking over the top of it. “And you have given them to me. Granted, they happened at weak moments—when you forgot to hate me.”

“Then they must have been rare indeed,” she returned coolly.

He smiled at that and finished the rest of his brandy, then walked over to the coffee table and set his empty glass on top of it. He didn't turn back.

“What do you want from me, Flame?” Every sense was sharpened as he waited for an answer that didn't come. He spoke again with a rising energy, his anger close. “Am I supposed to crawl? Beg? What?”

“I want nothing from you, Chance. Absolutely nothing.”

When he turned, she had her back to him, facing the fire. He stared at the tall, willowy shape she made against the firelight.

“I don't believe you've stopped caring, Flame.” As he walked up behind her, he saw her stiffen in sudden alertness, defending herself against the steady beat of his presence.

“And I don't care what you believe.”

“I've made you laugh. I've made you smile. I've made you angry. And, no doubt, I've made you cry.”

“While you're enumerating your list of accomplishments, don't forget that you've also made me hate you.”

“But you care. You're not indifferent to me, any more than I am to you.” He touched the soft points of her shoulders, his hands settling gently onto them, remembering the feel of her—and feeling the tensing of her body. Drawn closer by her nearness, he brushed his lips against her hair, breathing in its clean scent. “I've missed you.” He hadn't meant to say that, but now that it was out, he said the rest, too. “I've always believed that a woman had to be everything to a man—or nothing. You are everything to me, Flame. Everything.” He let his hands trail down her arms and follow the bend of her elbows to cross in front of her, drawing her back against him. She tipped her head to the side, as if away from him, but he found the slender curve of her neck and the vein that throbbed there. “I never knew anything about family or love—not growing up here, in this house. But you taught me…you showed me how it could be.”

“No.” She wasn't sure what she was saying no to—to him, to her memories, to the physical response he evoked? His words, his voice, his touch were all working on her, undermining the barriers she'd put up against him. She offered no resistance at all when he turned her into his arms.