Aspen Gold (17 page)

Kit reminded her. "You lose touch with what's going on. And Dad was my main source of information. But you know how he was. If it didn't have to do with the ranch or hunting or fishing or his friends and drinking buddies, it didn't get passed along."

"That I can believe." Angie nodded in understanding. "Anyway, Sondra's first--shall we say, important--clients were Claud Miller and his wife ... of the Denver Millers. They bought some acreage along Castle Creek through Sondra. When they flew in for the closing, she met them at the airport with a horse-drawn sleigh, then picked up the owners at their hotel and took them all out to this wooded parcel. Somehow she'd learned that Claud loved French cuisine, and had arranged for one of the local restaurants to cater a full dinner. Actually, a picnic.

"The setting, the atmosphere must have been marvelous. Snow was lightly falling, the trees were covered with it, a big bonfire was blazing away, a damask-covered table, fully set with china, crystal, and silver flatware, stood beneath an open-sided tent, and a magnum of champagne waited to celebrate the actual closing of the sale. All that by itself would have been enough to make the occasion memorable and unique, but on top of that, Sondra convinced a local furrier to loan her four full-length furs for each of the principals to wear, plus a mink throw for the sleigh. The whole thing probably cost her every dime of her commission from that sale. But it paid off. The Millers couldn't stop talking about it--or her. In a matter of weeks, days, she was getting calls from their friends and business associates. Then, when Claud Miller's wife bought the sable coat her husband had worn for a Christmas present, the merchants fell all over themselves, rushing to Sondra's door, hoping she might borrow something from them and drop their name in passing. Needless to say, there were more sales and more commissions.

"But Sondra was smart; not every client received the royal treatment, only the important ones. And each time, she tailored it to the individual tastes of that person. Catered lunches in art galleries, hot-air balloon rides to picnic sites, down-home Texas barbecues, clambakes along the Roaring Fork--

the list is endless," Angie declared, waving a hand. "Then, about six years ago, she started giving intimate little get-togethers. Reunion dinners she called them, rarely inviting more than twelve and always making sure the parties were uniquely themed. An event not to be missed.

No one did if they could help it." She raised her glass again. "As I said, her strategy was ingenious."

"Very," Kit murmured.

"Now she throws two or three big parties a year, and only rarely does one of her famous

"closing" celebrations. I'd love to know how much money she's made--especially these last few years when the price of real estate has gone into the stratosphere."

"A great deal, I imagine." The talk of money raised the spectre of the hospital and doctor bills, something Kit preferred not to think about tonight.

"So tell me," Angie eyed her curiously, "how are you and Bannon getting along? I understand he's handling all the legal end of your father's estate."

"And managing the ranch for me," Kit added, then shrugged. "Everything's fine. Too much time has gone by to hold any grudges." Holding grudges was alien to her nature and any bitterness had faded long ago. Only the old hurt remained. She'd learned to live with that.

"I suppose." Angie's black-clad shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug, then she paused, catching sight of someone. "Mark is motioning to me. I think they're shooing everyone to their tables so they can start serving." She turned to Kit, laying a hand on her arm. "How long will you be in Aspen this trip?"

"I'll be here until the cameras start rolling and I won't be leaving until they stop."

"Wonderful. Look, I'll talk to you later and we'll fix a time to have lunch together."

"That would be fun."

Angie increased the pressure of her hand.

"It's been too long since we've had a really good natter."

"Much too long." Kit nodded emphatically.

"Catch you later," Angie promised and was off, gliding through the crowd to her husband's side.

Kit watched her a moment, then skimmed the milling guests with a searching glance. As John came up, she turned.

"Still hungry?" he asked.

"Are you kidding? I'm famished," she declared and linked arms with him, feeling again that tug of attraction, sharp and very physical.

After dining on artichokes stuffed with shrimp, pepper-roasted duck with Georgia peaches, and a classic and light cr@eme br@ul@ee that still had everyone chatting its praise, the tables were cleared, and votive candles in crystal holders replaced centerpieces of orchids and lavender asters. The lights were lowered to create a more intimate setting, then the swing band struck up a lively tune.

Bannon watched from the sidelines as the first couples moved onto the dance floor. Sondra stirred on his left, the slight movement drawing his glance. Her pale blond hair made a soft line at the edge of her temples, the cluster of diamonds on her lobe catching the ballroom's light and throwing it back. The thin, sharp scent of perfume came to him, heightening his awareness of her.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Breaking off her perusal of the crowd, she turned her head to him, a smile edging the sober curve of her lips. "Perhaps later," she replied. "That was a delicious meal, wasn't it? The duck was wonderful, and a clever choice over the usual chicken that's served in so many guises at charity functions."

"It was good, all right." Old Tom spoke up. "There just wasn't enough of it to fill a man up."

Sondra glanced pointedly at his

thickening middle, girded by a black cummerbund, then lifted her eyes to him with cool amusement. "You look full to me, Tom.

Maybe even a little too full."

He drew himself up to his full six-foot height, unconsciously pushing out his chest and pulling in his stomach. "Just shows what you know about it. I weigh the same as I've weighed for forty years."

Bannon joined in to tease. "It's just distributed differently."

"So I noticed," she murmured, catching the glare Old Tom threw at her. She knew Old Tom didn't like her any better than he'd liked her sister. But the feeling was mutual, if--for the most part--concealed from Bannon.

"Careful, son. You're aging fast, too,"

Old Tom warned, the remark igniting a good-natured byplay between the two that Sondra ignored as she resumed her visual search of guests, seeking J.d. Lassiter among the chatting, laughing throng.

She noticed Helen Caldwell, shimmying on the dance floor, making a total spectacle of herself. She'd seen her earlier, before dinner, laughing too loudly and drinking too much. The cause for her display was across the room--

industrialist hubby Evan Caldwell, who was flirting openly with a high-fashion model, the current rage of the runways, and finding numerous excuses to touch her and whisper in her ear.

On the dance floor, Helen Caldwell grabbed her embarrassed partner's lapels and dragged him closer. Sondra watched, irritated by the woman's behavior--by the reason for it, and by the man who was inevitably to blame.

Once again Sondra coolly surveyed the distinguished gathering of media monguls, takeover tycoons, and industrial giants, despising their superior attitudes, their condescending treatment of women in business, and the masks of politeness behind which they concealed their prejudice. She viewed them with contempt, aware that she possessed a sharper intellect and a keener business sense than most.

But she knew that mattered little. Power and money were the only things these men respected; it spoke the only language they understood.

She spotted J.d. Lassiter near the ballroom's terrace doors, his head bent to catch a remark his wife was making, his expression hovering on boredom.

"Would you excuse me for a minute, Bannon?"

She absently laid a hand on his arm, claiming his attention. "I need to speak to J. D."

Bannon knew she wasn't asking his permission, but he nodded just the same.

After she'd moved off, Old Tom said,

"What she need to talk to Lassiter about?"

"Business, probably." Bannon idly let his gaze follow Sondra as she made her way through the crowd, pausing to exchange pleasantries with those she knew.

"If your mother was here, her toe would be tapping in time to the music and she'd be doing her darnedest to get me onto that dance floor. She loved music. Any kind of music. She enjoyed teaching it, too," Old Tom recalled, looking at the band and seeing something else. "Especially piano. I sure wish she could have had the chance to give our granddaughter piano lessons."

Bannon started to respond, then heard a familiar laugh and turned, recognizing the sunny sound of it. "There's Kit."

"Kit's here? Where?"

"Over there. The one in gold, next to John Travis." He recognized the actor, but not the other members in Kit's small party.

"I see her." Old Tom stared for a long second, drinking in the sight of her wide, laughing smile, a smile that naturally had him smiling, too. "Come on. Let's go say hello."

Bannon hesitated for a split second then fell in step with his father as he set an unswerving course straight to Kit.

Catching movement in her side vision, Kit turned, her glance skipping over Old Tom to fall on Bannon. For an instant, ten years could have been ten minutes. She threw off the feeling and focused on Old Tom, moving forward to seize both of his age-mottled hands in greeting.

"Don't you look handsome tonight," she declared with unfeigned affection as she stood before this big-chested man with grizzled white hair.

"I'm surprised you don't have a horde of women hovering around you."

"You always were good medicine for an old man, Kit." The light from the wall sconces played over his cracked and weathered face. With a warmth and an ease that few men her own age could match, he carried her gloved hand to his lips and pressed his lips against the back of it, a gesture without flourish or flirtation. Smiling, Kit thought again that there was something about this old-time rancher that reminded her of opening an attic trunk and discovering crinoline and linsey-woolsey from a bygone age. "You've been gone too long,"

Old Tom stated, half chiding.

"I know." She nodded briefly, then turned, keeping her fingers curled around Old Tom's hand, and faced Bannon, fighting off the tension and noting--as she had done countless times in the past--the blunt honesty of his features and the warmth and humor lurking around his mouth and eyes.

"Bannon."

"Hello, Kit." He nodded to her, a smile deepening the small weather wrinkles about his eyes. It was obvious to anyone, even more so to Kit, who'd known both men all her life, that Bannon and Old Tom were cut from the same pattern. Bannon had the same granite chin and brow, the same wide and deeply set eyes, the same roughly molded cheekbones.

She noticed the bow of silk ribbon he wore in place of a formal black tie and smiled. "You still don't follow the crowd, Bannon."

"Not hardly." Amusement glinted in his eyes.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Kit?"

Paula asked in a prompting tone.

"Sorry." Still holding Old Tom's hand, Kit swung around to stand between Bannon and Old Tom, her mood deliberately lighthearted and gay. "I want you to meet some of my friends from Los Angeles, Tom. This is John

Travis, who really needs no introduction. The redhead is Paula Grant. She and I worked together on Winds of Destiny. Chip Freeman is the director of the movie we'll be filming here in Aspen, and that's my agent, Maury Rose." She paused and linked arms with the two men flanking her. "Everyone, I want you to meet Tom Bannon. He owns Stone Creek, the ranch next to mine. He's a tried and true cowman. And the gentleman on my left is his son, Bannon."

The usual round of handshakes and greetings followed the introductions. When it was over, Kit didn't allow the conversation to lag.

"I doubt if any of you noticed the distinction I made when I described Old Tom as a cowman, but in western lingo, that means he runs she-stock--cows, in other words--and raises his own cattle. Now, my father was a steer-man.

He bought young steers and raised them for beef.

There's an old saying on the range that

"steer-men go broke, but cowmen never do.""

"There's some that would dispute that nowadays," Old Tom stated.

"Probably." She studied his craggy face, the face of a man who had spent a lifetime grappling with the elements. A host of warm feelings and good memories welled up inside. "I didn't expect to see you tonight. I talked to Angie before dinner and she told me you were here."

"We got here late. We drove the herd down to winter grass today and it took longer than it should. Some damned fool plane--"

Kit covered his mouth with her hand, stopping the outflow of words. "I have a confession to make. I was in that damned fool plane that spooked your cattle, Old Tom. It was my fault. You see, I wanted to fly over the ranch and the pilot obliged. I'm sorry." She lowered her hand.

"You should be sorry. It cost us a lotta time to round 'em back up again." Old Tom tried to hang on to his gruffness as he looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Kit's been worried you'd be angry with her when you found out she was behind it," John interposed, subtly coming to her defense.

"I gotta right to be. It was a damned fool stunt--though I guess she couldn't know beforehand that we were moving the herd," he grumbled in concession.

She winked at John. "I think I've just been forgiven."

"Don't get sassy," Old Tom warned, but without heat.

Paula spoke up. "I'll be honest. When I saw those cows stampeding and the cowboys chasing them, I thought I'd been transported back to the wild and woolly West. Especially when I failed to see any film crew around."

"The West still lives, Miss Grant."

Bannon tempered his assertion with a gentle smile.

Kit missed Paula's skeptical look, struck by the contrast their comments had underlined for her.

Only that afternoon, Bannon had been one of those cowboys in boots and jeans and spurs, racing his horse to check the stampede. Tonight he was in formal dress, completely at ease in these sophisticated surroundings.