Rivals (10 page)

“It's fine.” Malcom nodded to the hovering waiter, then finally tasted his own.

“Would you like me to begin serving now, sir?”

Again Malcom nodded affirmatively. The waiter withdrew to the serving pantry, then returned almost immediately with a salad of fresh spinach and strawberries for each of them. Flame smoothed the linen napkin over the lap of her turquoise-blue skirt then reached for her salad fork.

“How was your weekend?” Malcom inquired.

“Quiet, thankfully. Which is just the way I like it.” Using her salad fork, she folded a spinach leaf onto its tines. “Oh, but Malcom, I did have one rather bizarre visitor.”

Briefly Flame told him about the elderly woman who had called on her Saturday morning, claiming to be a distant relative. When she mentioned the supposed inheritance of a ranch in Oklahoma, Malcom agreed that it was all too farfetched, that the old woman was probably delusionary—if not senile.

“What about your weekend?” she asked. “Did you have your usual complement of house guests?”

His wife's penchant for entertaining was legendary, and an invitation to the Powell family residence in the exclusive island community of Belvedere was highly coveted, both for the “in” status it implied and for the island's balmy climate and scenic vistas of San Francisco's skyline to the south and the famed Golden Gate Bridge to the west. Established by the old guard of affluent San Franciscans shortly before the turn of the century, to escape the summer fog, Belvedere had become renowned for its historic homes, narrow, winding roads, and beautiful gardens, and a life—typical of most island communities—that centered on the water, becoming the home of the elite San Francisco Yacht Club.

“Not this weekend,” Malcom replied. “Like yours, mine was quiet. As a matter of fact, I took the boat out for a last sail.” The vessel he so casually referred to as a boat was a sleek forty-foot sailing yacht that had competed in the America's Cup some years earlier. “The way my schedule looks these next few months, I probably won't have another opportunity to take it out again before winter sets in.”

Sailing was a topic of mutual interest. Their conversation revolved around it through the salad course. The waiter returned with the entrée and placed it on the table before Flame. “Veal with a green peppercorn sauce, this is one of my favorites,” she declared, directing a quick smile at Malcom.

“Don't you think by now I know what you like?”

At that instant, Flame realized the entire menu had been selected on the basis of her personal preferences, everything from the choice of wines and the salad to the entrée and—“Then we must be having chocolate soufflé for dessert,” she guessed, trying to sound off-hand to hide the fact she was impressed that he'd cared enough to notice her likes—that he'd wanted to please her.

“What else?” His look gleamed with confidence and satisfaction.

She laughed softly, aware that her mood had lightened considerably, much of her earlier tension gone. She decided it was the combination of the excellent wine and food, the room's rich, yet comfortable atmosphere—and, perhaps most important, Malcom's subtle attentiveness to detail.

Through the rest of the meal, both the anticipated chocolate soufflé for dessert and the coffee afterward, they chatted about business in general, with a few side trips into politics and the economy. It was this exchange of views and opinions, typical of most of their past luncheons together, that Flame enjoyed, the talk stimulating in a quiet sort of way and providing a diversion from the endless shop-talk at the agency—and the sniping gossip.

“More coffee?” Malcom started to reach for the silver pot the waiter had left on the table.

She refused with a faint shake of her head, then smiled. “Need I say that the luncheon was superb.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.” His glance ran swiftly over her, admiring in its assessment. “That particular shade of turquoise is an excellent color on you. It brings out the green of your eyes. You should wear it more often.”

“If you always serve up flattery after a meal, we'll have to make it a point to lunch here more often, Malcom,” she declared, smiling as she folded her napkin and laid it on the table.

“I'll remember that,” he replied, then paused briefly. “Speaking of remembering, I have something I want to show you.” Pushing his napkin onto the table, he rose from his chair. Joining him, Flame walked back into his office. “For sometime, I've been considering expanding the line of furs we carry at our major stores.” Malcom stopped to close the doors to the dining room. “Naturally I'm concerned about maintaining the Powell reputation for quality. That's why I'd like your opinion on this coat.”

The request wasn't unusual. In the past, Malcom had frequently consulted with her on such things, reasoning that she represented both ends of his market—the working career woman and the socialite.

Her interest piqued, she followed when Malcom walked to the small conference table on the far side of the pine-paneled room. A luxurious dark fur lay across one of the chairs. He picked it up, then turned, draping it over his arm for her inspection. The instant Flame saw the dark, almost black, full-length fur, she felt as if the air had been snatched from her lungs.

“Malcom, it's exquisite,” she murmured and reached out to touch it, then darted a quick, dawning look at him. “It's sable, isn't it?”

“Russian sable, yes. Try it on.”

Needing no persuasion, Flame turned and let Malcom help her into it. As she ran her hands under the stand-up collar of the coat and down the front, letting her fingers slide through its thickness, she was certain there was no sensation quite like the sensual feel of a fur—soft, silken, and utterly luxurious. Nothing else could make a woman feel so feminine, so elegant—so incredibly alluring.

Impulsively she turned to Malcom. “It's stunning.”

“On you, it is.”

His response was hardly effusive, but the look that blazed in his eyes more than made up for it. She swung away knowing she shouldn't have invited him to notice, but feeling too recklessly glorious to care. She wrapped the coat tightly around her and hugged it, burying her fingers deep in its fur.

“I have a suggestion.” The weight of his hands settled onto her shoulders. “Why don't you wear it to the opera Friday night?”

Briefly she allowed herself to be tempted, then sighed in regret. “I couldn't. It wouldn't be right,” she said with a firm shake of her head.

She hadn't noticed the slight pressure that had drawn her back against him until she felt the warmth of his breath near her ear. She should have moved away from it, but she didn't.

“It couldn't be more right.” The pitch of his voice was low and caressing. “It belongs on you, Flame.” His lips moved against her hair, a feathery sensation gliding toward her neck.

Instinctively she turned her head to deny him access. “Don't.” The protest sounded weak to her as his mouth found the shell of her ear instead, the sensitive nerve ends reacting to the unexpected contact and unleashing a cascade of shivers.

She hadn't realized how vulnerable she was—how susceptible. She shouldn't have spent so much time alone this past weekend, thinking and remembering how much she wanted to be loved, recognizing that there was no lonelier sound than laughter that was heard only by the one who laughed, that there was no hollower victory than the one celebrated by the victor alone. There was no such thing as independence when there was no one standing beside you; there was only loneliness. The touch of Malcom's hands and the brush of his lips against her skin were reminding her of that all over again.

“I want you, Flame.” His breath heated the side of her neck. “I have from the moment you walked into this office five years ago. I vowed then to make you mine. You belong to me, Flame. It's time you admitted that.”

She realized that she'd been ripe for this moment. And Malcom had set the stage perfectly with the wine and the food, the easy conversation and the sable coat that had reminded her she was a woman with normal, human needs. But could she trust him? Was it her needs he sought to fulfill? Or, like Rick, did Malcom want her to satisfy his own ends?

His hands glided down the fur sleeves, following the bend of her arms to enfold her while his mouth brushed tantalizingly over her cheek and ear. But it was less his caresses she responded to than the stroking words he murmured.

“Haven't I shown you how it can be with us? Quiet dinners together. Intimate evenings with just the two of us. It will be so very wonderful, Flame, if you'll just let it.”

She wavered for the briefest of moments. “No,” she said, then more decisively: “No.”

In one quick step she was free of his arms, and in two more, there was distance between them. Hurriedly she shed the coat, then turned and thrust it back at him, holding herself absolutely rigid so he wouldn't discover how badly she was shaking inside.

“The fur is beautiful, Malcom, but I don't care for the conditions that are attached to it.”

“You didn't offer any objections to them a moment ago,” he reminded her, a confident gleam in his gray eyes.

Unable to deny that, Flame ignored it. “We've been through this before.” When he failed to take the fur from her, she tossed it onto the back of a nearby chair. “I am not going to become your mistress,” she insisted stiffly. “I won't be used like that.”

“
You
won't be used.” Anger flared, hardening the grim set of his features. “Who the hell do you think you are? Without me, you're nothing but another impoverished socialite with a lot of pride. Your job, your salary, your vice-presidency, your so-called career, I'm responsible for every bit of it!”

She'd pushed him too far and she knew it. But there was no turning back—even if she wanted to. “I never asked you for any favors, Malcom.”

“But you were damned quick to accept them. I've bought and paid for you ten times over.”

“When you wanted me to handle the Powell account, I made it clear that if you thought you were buying anything else, I wasn't interested. I promised you that your account would have my absolute priority. And it has. I have jumped every time you've called. The only place I haven't jumped has been into your bed—and I won't!”

His smile was anything but pleasant. “Even if it means losing the Powell account…and all the others I sent your way? I opened corporate doors for you, Flame, and I can close them just as fast—and make certain they stay closed to you.”

“Is that an ultimatum, Malcom?” The thin thread that held her temper snapped. “Are you telling me that either I go to bed with you or you'll destroy my career? Do you want me so badly you don't care that I'd be hating you all the while you were making love to me? A hostile merger, is that what you want?”

“No, dammit, it isn't!” He half swung from her, raking a hand through the silver-tipped mane of his hair.

Flame stared at him, conscious of the rawness inside, and the trembling of hurt and anger. Abruptly she pivoted on her heel and walked stiffly to the high-backed chair in front of his desk. She retrieved her portfolio case from its sea cushion and started for the door. But Malcom was there waiting for her. She halted an arm's length away.

“I honestly don't think you can complain about the job I've done for you, Malcom. Or the agency, either. If you think you're entitled to more than that, then pull the account. Don't hold that threat over my head.”

“I never intended to,” he stated impatiently.

“No?” She smiled without humor. “It sounded remarkably like a power play to me.”

In one stride, he closed the space between them and caught her arms. “Dammit, Flame, you're not indifferent to me. You proved that when I held you in my arms.”

“I've never denied that I enjoy being with you. I've always admired and respected you, Malcom—and liked you, too. And that's precisely the reason I won't become your mistress.”

“You're not making any sense.”

“Aren't I? Malcom, I don't have any illusions that it would be anything more than an affair. Maybe I'm greedy, but I'm not interested in being some man's mistress—not even yours. I don't want a brief affair where I'm just another possession. I want more than that—something that offers me the promise…or at least the hope…of a lasting, fulfilling relationship with someone who cares about
me
.” She looked at him, more conscious than ever of the void in her life. “Maybe you'd make me happy for a time…I don't know. But sooner or later, you'd get tired of me and it would be over. Then where would I be? We couldn't work together anymore. It would be too awkward—for both of us. Ultimately you'd take your account to another agency. And I'd loose you—and it, too.”

“You don't know that.”

“Let's not kid ourselves, Malcom. That's precisely what would happen.” She was still angry but now there was an icy edge to it. “Either way I'd be on the losing end. I've known that all along.”

His hands relaxed their grip on her arms, then released her altogether. “You wouldn't lose, Flame, I can be very generous.” The look in his eyes was just as strong with the desire to possess as it had been before. Nothing she'd said had made any impression on him.

“I'm not an object to be bought, Malcom. I thought I'd made that clear,” she retorted, then gave up, recognizing further argument was pointless. “If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my office.”

He didn't argue. “I'll have Arthur bring the car around.”

“I prefer to walk, thank you.”

And walk she did, covering the dozen or so blocks between Powell's and the agency at a brisk pace, thinking she could walk off her anger. But it didn't work. By the time she reached her office, she was angrier than before—angry at Malcom for attempting to threaten her, and at herself for giving him the opening. How could she have been so stupid—so weak?