Rivals (2 page)

“I was tied up all afternoon filming a commercial. I didn't have time to check with the office for messages. You surely don't think I deliberately ignored your call.” She accompanied her reply with a bright smile. Long ago, she had learned that the best way to handle Malcom Powell was by not letting him intimidate her. Confrontation was always better—if done carefully.

“No, not really.”

“What was it you wanted?”

His glance flicked to Ellery. “Get Flame another glass of wine.” He took the crystal goblet from her and set it on the lacquered side table along the wall. “And make sure it's been properly chilled this time.”

“By all means.” Ellery bowed his head with an exaggerated respect. “I'll even corner the wine steward and express your dissatisfaction to him.” To Flame, he added, “It shouldn't take more than five minutes.”

When he strolled away, Flame turned to Malcom, the cornerstone of her entire career. She owed him a great deal, and he knew it. She hadn't been hired by the agency eight years ago because of her qualifications or her college degree. She had been window-dressing for the firm—with valuable connections and contacts, someone they could parade before a client during a presentation. That's when Malcom had seen her, over five years ago. Less than a year later—at his insistence—she had been put in sole charge of his account. Plus, he had directed other companies her way, especially ones he did business with. Within three years, she controlled several of the agency's largest accounts. Naturally, they had promoted her to a vice-president.

She let her gaze run lightly over his face, taking in the broad, square jaw, the jutting chin with its dimpled cleft, the deep set of his gray eyes, and most of all the power that was so indelibly stamped in every line. Gratitude, admiration, respect—she felt all those things…as well as a trace of resentment.

“Have dinner with me Monday night.” The invitation fell somewhere between a demand and command.

“Have lunch with me on Tuesday.”

“Have you already made plans for Monday evening?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“No, you haven't. I had your secretary check when I called this afternoon. We'll have dinner together Monday night.”

“We'll have lunch on Tuesday,” she countered. Again that feeling of being watched returned, but she couldn't let it distract her.

“Why must we always fence over such trivial issues?” Malcom grumbled in irritation. “Why can't you simply agree to dine with me on—”

“Tuesday at lunch. We made some changes in the holiday layouts. I want to go over them with you.”

The look in his gray eyes took on a wanting quality. “Do we always have to discuss business, Flame?” he asked, holding her gaze.

“You know we do, Malcom.” The entire conversation was an echo of hundreds that had gone on before.

“So you say, but I'll argue the point with you further—on Tuesday,” he replied, conceding to her with a final dip of his head. “I'll have Arthur pick you up at twelve-thirty sharp.”

“I'll be ready.”

“So will I.”

Flame knew she'd be in for another contest of wills on Tuesday. And she had to admit, if only to herself, that there was a part of her that enjoyed these stimulating duels of theirs—and Malcom's always challenging company.

As Ellery came walking back, that sensation of someone watching her resurfaced. “Your wine, m'lady.” He offered a stemmed glass. “Chilled to precisely thirty-six degrees Centigrade. Or was it Fahrenheit?”

“There is a difference, my fine friend,” she answered as she covertly scanned the room. Just as she suspected, the brown-shoed waiter with the hawk face was on the other side of the room, this time carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

As she started to look away, her glance was caught and held by another man standing on the far side of the room, a shoulder negligently propped against the claret-glazed wall. His hair was as black as the tuxedo he wore. And despite the languid pose, the overall impression was that of a lean and rangy black panther, coiled energy held in check, ready to spring at a second's warning.

He stared back. She took a sip of wine without tasting it, conscious only of the unexpected quickening of her pulse. She thought she knew everyone at the party, but who was he? She looked again, telling herself that her interest was strictly curiosity—and not believing a word of it. His gaze never left her as he nodded absently to the person with him and raised a crystal tumbler to his mouth. For the first time, Flame glanced at the petite blonde beside him. Jacqui Van Cleeve, the columnist. Who was he? Obviously someone of importance.

“The man with Jacqui, Malcom, do you know him?”

But Ellery replied first. “I believe I heard someone say he's here with Miss Colton.”

“Then it must be Chance Stuart,” Malcom concluded, still trying to locate the pair.

“I think I've heard that name.” But Flame couldn't remember where or why.

“I should think so,” Malcom declared. “In the last ten years, Chancellor Stuart has become one of the largest land developers in the country. He has an uncanny knack for being at the right place at the right time.” His expression grew thoughtful. “He's building that new resort complex in Tahoe. I wonder what he's doing in San Francisco.”

“I expect that is precisely what darling Jacqui is trying to find out,” Ellery surmised.

“My reason for coming here is hardly a secret, Miss Van Cleeve.” Chance Stuart let his glance slide briefly to the persistent blonde, recalling Lucianna's warning that the woman was known for three things: her sharp eyes, her sharp nose, and her sharp tongue. He had to agree—everything about her was pointed, including her questions.

“Call me, Jacqui,” she invited. “Everyone does.”

“Then let me explain again, Jacqui. I was on my way to Tahoe to check on my project there when Lucianna mentioned she was coming to San Francisco. I suggested she fly with me since it wasn't that much out of my way.”

“Then you aren't looking for more property?”

“I'm not here for that purpose, but I'm always looking.” He absently swirled the Chivas in his glass, listening to the melodic clink of the ice cubes against the crystal sides. “If you were on vacation and a hot story landed in your lap, would you ignore it?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Need I say more?” He lifted the glass to his mouth and tipped it, letting the cold scotch trickle and burn down his throat.

“You've known Miss Colton for some time, haven't you?”

“A long time, yes.” He lowered the tumbler, his glance automatically straying to the stunning redhead across the room. She had stirred his interest from the moment she'd walked into the room with a stride that had in it the faintest hint of a swagger, with quick rhythm that synchronized and turned graceful the supple movement of her body. And her shoulders, wide and straight, had been presented squarely in a manner that flaunted her serene confidence. She was a woman all the way through—all lace and legs.

“Would it be safe to guess that your on-again, off-again romance with Miss Colton is back on again?” the columnist queried slyly.

“I hate to disillusion you, Jacqui, but all this on-and-off business is the product of your profession. Over the years, our relationship has never changed.”

“I suppose you're going to try to convince me that you're just good friends.” She openly mocked the cliché.

“It doesn't make good press, does it?”

“Not if it's true.”

Ignoring that, Chance raised his glass and gestured toward the far side of the room. “Isn't that Malcom Powell?”

All the photographs he'd seen of the august lion of the retail world had depicted a somewhat stout and stern man. In person, he had a commanding presence, physically vigorous and trim despite that barrel chest.

“Yes, that's Malcom,” the Van Cleeve woman confirmed. “Truthfully, I didn't expect to see him here. Diedre told me that he'd returned from a business trip only last night.”

“Diedre?” He arched her a questioning look.

“His wife.”

“Is that her?” His gaze sharpened on the pair, irritation flickering through him.

“No, that's Flame—Flame Bennett.” During the brief pause that followed, Chance could feel the columnist carefully monitoring his reaction. “Gorgeous, isn't she?”

“Definitely.” He continued to lounge against the wall, for the moment content to enjoy his unobstructed view of the woman so aptly named Flame, conscious of the hot, smooth feeling that flowed through him.

“Aren't you going to ask me about her?” The instant the faintly challenging question came out of Jacqui Van Cleeve's mouth, Chance knew she'd give him a complete rundown on Flame Bennett. She made it her business to collect every scrap of information—whether rumor or fact—on every person remotely important. And when a person had that much information, they could never resist sharing it.

“I was always told it wasn't polite for a gentleman to ask questions about a lady,” he countered smoothly.

Her short laugh had a harsh and grating ring to it. “I have heard you accused of many things, Chance Stuart, but being a gentleman was never one of them. Granted, you have all the manners, the polish, the clothes of one, but proper, you're not. You're too damned daring. Nobody's sure what you're going to do next and you move too fast. That's why you make such excellent copy.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

Again he felt the speculation in her study of him. “It will be interesting to see how you fare with Flame.”

“Why do you say that?” He glanced at her curiously.

“Because…she's a woman of such contrasts.” Her attention swung away from him, centering on the subject of their discussion. “She can be as fiery as the red of her hair—or as cool as the green of her eyes—and that quickly, too. I suppose that's part of the fatal attraction she has for men. You always see them fluttering around her like moths. She lets them get only so close and no closer.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure, but no man seems to last with her. It isn't even a case of off with the old and on with the new. No one sticks around long enough to be old. But there again you have the contrast. These romantic flings of hers are too few and far between. Therefore, you can't call her wild. Her behavior is definitely unconventional.” After a fractional hesitation, she added, “Of course she was married briefly about nine years ago. Supposedly, it was one of those young marriages that simply didn't work. At least that was the official line at the time.”

“And unofficially?”

“Truthfully? I never heard anything to make me think otherwise,” the Van Cleeve woman admitted. “A failed marriage has made more than one woman wary of trying again. It could be as simple as that or it could be her career.”

“What does she do?” Currently, careers were fashionable among socialites. But in his experience, Chance had found that the women were rarely more than dilettantes, dabbling in photography or modeling, owning art galleries, antique stores, or exclusive little dress shops invariably managed by someone else.

“Flame's a vice-president with the Boland and Hayes advertising firm,” she replied, then added, “Of course, it's common knowledge that she has to work for a living. Even though she comes from one of San Francisco's founding families, there is little or no money left. No doubt a humbling experience, but I can assure you she's never suffered any hardship as a result. Like anywhere else, it pays to know the right people.”

“Like Malcom Powell,” Chances guessed.

“She handles his advertising account personally. And—there's been a lot of speculation lately about what else she might handle
personally
for him.”

He detected something in her voice that raised his suspicions: “You don't believe it.”

“No,” she admitted. “By the same token, I don't believe Diedre when she insists that Malcom takes a fatherly interest in Flame. But what else can a wife of thirty-five years say? Believe me, if a father eyed his daughter the way he does Flame, he'd be subject to arrest. He wants her, but he hasn't had her.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“If Flame was having an affair with him, she wouldn't try to hide it. It isn't her style.” Jacqui frowned, as if aware she wasn't making herself clear. “I guess what I'm trying to say is—if Flame cared enough to get involved with a married man, then she wouldn't let herself feel any shame or guilt.”

“What about the other man with her? Is he her latest fling?”

“Ellery Dorn? Hardly.” She laughed, then explained. “Ellery is every married woman's choice for a walker when her husband isn't available. He's handsome, witty, charming—and gay. Surprised?” She shot him a knowing glance. “Not to worry. Few people ever guess that about him. That's what makes him so ideal.”

“Then he's nothing more than a safe escort.” Mentally Chance filed that little piece of information away along with all the rest. The more he learned about Flame Bennett, the more intrigued he became.

“They're good friends as well. As a matter of fact, Flame is probably closer to Ellery than anyone else. Of course, he's a vice-president in the same agency, so I'm sure the fact they work together has something to do with that.”

“Probably.” With a little push of his shoulder, he straightened from the wall. “Speaking of walkers, Lucianna is bound to be wondering what happened to me. I enjoyed the chat, Jacqui.”

“So did I. And from now on, I'll be watching your progress with more interest.”

“Not too closely, I hope.” He winked at her as he moved away.

2

W
ithout
being obvious, Flame watched as Chance Stuart leisurely wound his way through the guests. He was tall, taller than he'd first appeared. She found herself liking the way he moved, like an athlete, all smooth coordination and easy grace. He certainly had the body of one, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, with lean, hard muscle in between.