Aspen Gold (39 page)

"maybe" out of any of them."

"You're probably right."

"I know I am." But why hadn't Bannon mentioned any of this? Why hadn't he asked her to help? That bothered her a great deal more than his actions. "Is that all you wanted, Warren?"

"Yes--"

"Then I'll see you in the morning." She broke the connection, then immediately listened for a dial tone and called Bannon at the ranch.

After the fourth ring, Laura answered. "Stone Creek Ranch."

Sondra stifled an initial surge of irritation and said pleasantly, "Laura, I thought you'd be in bed by now. Haven't you finished your schoolwork yet?"

"I've just got a couple more pages to read in my history book."

"Well, I won't keep you from it. Let me speak to your father."

"He isn't here."

"He isn't?"

"No. He left to take her home."

Laura stressed the word with whiny sarcasm.

Sondra knew intuitively whom she meant.

"Kit Masters was there tonight? What did she want?"

"Who knows?" she grumbled. "I went up to my room. But I heard her ask him to play the piano for her. "Something soft and soothing," she said."

"Did he?" Her mouth was fixed in a taut curve, her fingers curling even deeper into the pillow on her lap.

"Yeah, a lot of dreamy Beethoven stuff.

It was sickening."

"I can imagine," Sondra responded with a distasteful murmur.

"Did you want me to leave a note for Dad to call you when he gets home?"

"No. I'll--I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"He'll be sorry he missed you."

"Good night, Laura," she said in a very tightly controlled voice and hung up.

Leaving her own tea to steep in its pot, Emily Boggs carried the small serving tray with its porcelain coffeepot and attendant cup and saucer arranged on top. When she passed the gilded mirror in the hall, she glimpsed a telltale torte crumb near the corner of her mouth and quickly licked away the evidence of the bite she'd snitched before exiting the kitchen.

Before she reached the master suite, Sondra stalked out of it, her long legs slicing out from the fold of the black kimono.

"Clean up that mess," she snapped as she went past.

"What mess is that, mum?" Emily asked with some confusion.

When she failed to get a reply, she stepped into the bedroom and froze, her mouth dropping open.

Feathers. Soft downy feathers were everywhere, but the biggest fluffy mound was on the bed--next to an embroidered pillow cover that looked as if it had been ripped apart.

"A mess indeed," Emily Boggs observed, then clamped her mouth shut and set about cleaning it up. Though Lord knew how she was going to accomplish it.

The track of the pickup's headlight beams picked out the road's twists and curves.

Bannon kept his gaze on them, never letting it stray to Kit, but he was conscious of her, every stir of movement, every soft breath.

When they pulled into Silverwood's ranch yard, the truck's beams flashed over the white Range Rover parked in front of the house.

"Looks like you have company."

"It's probably Paula and Chip. Or maybe John T. is back from Los

Angeles." She reached for the door handle the instant the pickup rolled to a stop. "Thanks for the ride, Bannon."

He nodded a silent response, feeling the blast of cold air that swept into the heated cab when she climbed out. He sat for a minute, out of habit, and watched her walk swiftly toward the house. A man stepped from the porch shadows to meet her, moonlight glinting on burnished gold hair. Bannon whipped the steering wheel around and drove off without waiting to see whether Kit went into the man's arms.

She ran right into them. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself." John dropped a hard kiss on her upturned lips.

The instant Kit felt the heat of his breath on her cool skin, inhaled the expensive fragrance of his cologne, and discovered the differing texture of his body, she knew this embrace wasn't smart. She didn't want to consciously or subconsciously compare the two men. It wasn't fair to John, and it wasn't fair to herself. But she knew that's exactly what she'd do.

"Miss me?" He nuzzled the lobe of her ear.

She pulled back a little, wedging her arms against his chest to create some space. "Were you gone?"

she asked in mock innocence, deliberately inserting lightness before the moment became too heavy.

His eyes glittered with humor, eliciting a little tremble of relief.

"You'll pay for that."

"Inside, please. We'll turn into icicles out here," Kit warned and slipped the rest of the way free of his embrace to head for the door.

John was right behind her. "Don't you think I could make you warm enough?"

"Not and still keep my clothes on," she said over her shoulder and swept into the house.

"There's a tantalizing thought."

She laughed and whipped off her stocking cap, shaking her hair loose. "I knew you'd think so." She saw Paula near the foot of the stairs, her ebony-dyed mink draped over the newel post. "Hi. How was dinner?"

She felt another wave of relief. This was one night she didn't want to be in the house alone with John. She was afraid she'd turn to him out of need, not love. When they made love again, she wanted it to be all love.

"Fattening." Paula unclipped an earring and rubbed at her lobe. "Did I just hear a car drive out? Your note said you'd gone riding.

Horseback."

"I did. But Dance threw a shoe. He was too sore-footed by the time I reached Stone Creek. So I left him there and Bannon gave me a lift home." Kit stripped off her gloves and jacket, carefully avoiding the speculating gleam in Paula's green eyes. Sometimes her eyes saw too much.

She started to give her jacket a toss onto a nearby chair, then stopped when she saw the stack of long garment boxes piled on its seat.

"What's all this?" She walked over to investigate.

"Costumes for Sondra's Halloween party,"

John explained. "While I was in L.a., I went by wardrobe and brought back a selection for you and Paula to choose from."

"What fun." Seizing on the diversion, Kit pried at the lid of the top box. "What all did you bring?"

"Everything from a flapper outfit to gypsy costume." Watching her, John thought she had all the eagerness of a child opening her presents on Christmas morning.

"A gypsy--that's you, Paula," she said without hesitation. "Tell me there's a witch's costume in here. That's what I'd like to go as."

"Sorry." His mouth crooked in an amused line. "It didn't occur to me how appropriate that would be."

"Appropriate?" Kit looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I'm not sure I like that remark."

"You should--considering you appear to have the power to cast spells.

"Aren't you the smooth talker tonight?" she chided as she set the lid aside.

"It's the spell you cast." John lit a cigarette.

"A likely story." The tissue rustled noisily when Kit pushed it out of the way to see the costume it protected. She smiled in sudden delight. "Paula, look at this. It's gorgeous." She lifted up an old-fashioned shirtwaist outfit, the long tapering skirt in a deep electric blue and the high-necked blouse in a spotted silk with long sleeves, puffed at the shoulders. A second later she saw the high-laced shoes in the same blue satin overlaid with black Chantilly lace. "There's even shoes to match, Paula." She turned her bright glance on John. "I love it."

He lowered his cigarette, studying her. "You could have been the original Gibson girl--very feminine yet something of a feminist."

"Do you get the feeling he's been drinking, Paula?" Kit eyed him askance, then returned the outfit to its box. "Keep him entertained while I put on some coffee to sober him up."

All the life and color seemed to go out of the room when she disappeared into the kitchen. John took another drag on his cigarette and glanced at Paula, who continued to gaze in the direction Kit had gone. "Kit's in high spirits tonight," he remarked to fill the silence.

"Look again," Paula suggested dryly and removed the other earring with a sharp snap of the clipped back. "She's a little too bright and a little too cheery if you ask me. You may have returned just in the nick of time, John."

He lifted his head. "Care to explain that?"

Paula removed a flat gold case from her evening bag and lit a rare cigarette. "Kit's starting to feel the backwash of the spotlight--the meanness of people and the drawing back due to their own feelings of inferiority or insecurity." She took a seat on the couch, lounging back and crossing her legs. "She doesn't like it."

"Who does? But after a while you become callused to it--the same as you do with anything that rubs you the wrong way." Crazily John discovered he didn't like the idea of Kit acquiring that hard shell you needed when you made it to the top, the layer upon layer you acquired until you became cynical and indifferent, not totally trusting anyone or caring too deeply, not letting anyone get too close or risking being hurt by them. He didn't want to see that happen to Kit. He didn't want to see her being swept into the power struggles that went on at the top, and the fight to dominate the old game of You want this, then do this. Hollywood had a dozen ways to screw you over besides the casting couch. This last trip to L.a. served as a very vivid reminder of that. A dozen times he'd wanted to tell Lassiter what he could do with his money, but he needed it--he needed this picture. He'd fought for what he could, and bowed to the rest.

He discovered he wanted to shield Kit from things like that, he wanted to protect her. He had started to care, and with Kit, there was no halfway.

She gave totally and completely and she demanded the same in return. He wasn't sure

he had the ability to do that anymore.

He pulled on the cigarette, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs. But the taste was too pungent. In the next second John stabbed the cigarette out in an ashtray.

"She'll toughen up," Paula remarked, almost idly. "She'll have to; we both know that. Right now she's resisting the whole idea." She stared at the front door with a faraway look. "And that rancher Bannon is part of the reason. You may have some competition there, John."

"From that rancher?" He raised an eyebrow.

Paula's mouth curved in a droll smile.

"Careful, John. Your ego is showing. Yes, that rancher. Kit thought they were going to be married once--until he married someone else. Now I have the feeling if he asked her, she'd marry him and give up everything. It would be a sin for her to throw away a chance like this for a bedtime story.

Talent is rare, one of the few things that grows richer over the years. Love dies."

"Kit's right. You're too much of a cynic."

Paula laughed in her throat, adding, "So said the pot to the kettle."

"What's this about the pot and the kettle?" Kit walked in, bearing a tray laden with coffee and cups. "It's no fair telling stories when I'm out of the room."

"I wouldn't worry," John said. "The punch line was as funny as it got."

After drinking only one cup of coffee, John lingered a few minutes over a cigarette, then pleaded fatigue from the long flight back to Aspen. Kit walked him to the door, waited until she heard the Range Rover start up, then flipped off the porch light.

"Another cup?" Paula asked when Kit turned from the door.

"Why not?" Her shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug as she wandered back into the living room. Taking the cup Paula had refilled, Kit breathed in its aromatic steam without finding any pleasure in it. Paula slipped off her heels, the thunk of them hitting the floor emphasizing the silence of the house. Kit didn't like it and resorted to small talk to fill it.

"Did you enjoy your evening with Chip?"

Nodding, Paula rubbed at an aching arch.

"Did you? Enjoy your evening with Bannon, I mean?"

For some inexplicable reason, Kit felt the need to defend her visit. "I went over to give him my father's favorite rifle. Dad would have wanted him to have it."

"That's all?"

"That's all." Uncomfortable with the subject, Kit walked over to her father's chair and ran her hand over the back of it.

"Kit, you're not still waiting for Bannon after all this time, are you?" Paula said with more than a touch of impatience.

"Not waiting." Kit shook her head at that.

"A woman doesn't wait for things she can't have.

You're a woman, Paula. You should know we're more practical than that." She offered Paula a very sober smile. "We've always been the realists. It's men who are the idealists, the romantics. When a man falls in love--

deeply in love--then loses it, he never forgets, he holds on to the illusion of it. He may satisfy his needs with someone else or seek pleasure somewhere else, but his heart stays true to the one he lost." She trailed her hand over the antimacassar on the chair's headrest. "Like my father."

"And like Bannon?" Paula guessed.

Kit withheld comment on that. "We women, on the other hand," she began on a slightly lighter, and slightly wryer, note, "when we love and lose, we hurt, we wail, or we rage--then we go on with the business of living because that's what we have to do." She paused. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, although now I wonder what stage you are at. Are you wailing or raging?"

"I'm getting on with the business of living,"

Kit stated firmly.

Looking at her, Paula silently hoped so.

Lasco Industries' executive jet

rolled to a stop in front of flight-base operations at Aspen's Sardy Field, the whine of its engines dying as the ground crew slipped the wheel chocks in place. Within minutes J.d.

Lassiter emerged from the plane, clad in a black cashmere topcoat. He took little notice of Sondra Hudson standing at the bottom of the steps, waiting to greet him as he paused and glanced around, like a politician on a campaign stump surveying his surroundings and verifying which stop this was.

A man joined him. Lassiter turned to briefly speak to him, the strong afternoon sunlight picking out the traces of silver that crusted his hair. With forced patience, Sondra kept her smooth smile in place and waited while he made a leisurely descent.