Rivals (24 page)

“Is this lettering on the vase?”

“My initials—M.R.M.—with the ‘M' in the center, of course.” She pressed her lips together, spreading the lipstick evenly, then reached for a tissue to blot them.

“M.R.M.?” Everything inside him went still, his gaze riveted to the lettering.

“Margaret Rose Morgan. That's what I was christened. Daddy's the one who gave me the nickname Flame when I was about a year and a half old. It stuck.” Smiling, she reached up and slipped the band from her hair, giving her head a shake to let the fiery strands spill forward. “My mother always thought I'd outgrow it in time.”

Her glance flicked to his reflection, expecting to encounter his answering smile. Instead, his expression seemed frozen, the muscles along his jaw tightly corded. Bewildered by his reaction, Flame turned sideways on the beach.

“Is something wrong, Chance?” She noticed the way his hand closed around the compact, his knuckles white. She wasn't certain he'd heard her. Then his gaze shot to her face, all icy blue and cold. “Chance, what is it?”

Immediately he looked down. “I just realized—I have nothing of my mother. Nothing at all.” He held the compact an instant longer then gave it back to her.

The compact had always been special to her. Yet, it was only now, with some invisible hand squeezing her heart, that she realized how very precious it was.

“Chance, I…” But she didn't know what to say.

His mouth quirked faintly in an attempt at a smile. “It doesn't matter,” he said, his expression now shuttered. His hand touched her hair, lightly fingering a red lock as if he was somehow distracted by its fiery color. A light rap on the door broke his absorption. “Yes?” There was a sharpness in his voice, making Flame aware of the hard tension hidden just below the surface.

“The telephone, Señor Chance,” came Consuelo's partially muffled and heavily accented reply. “It is for you. Señor Sam is calling. He say is
muy importante
he speak to you.”

“I'll take the call in the den.” He continued to study her hair for another full second before letting their eyes meet. Again his expression was unreadable. “It shouldn't take long.”

“All right,” she agreed, striving for lightness, recognizing that he didn't want sympathy. “It'll take me a few more minutes to finish dressing anyway.”

He let the lock of hair slide from his fingers, then drew his hand away, lightly touching her cheek in parting before he turned and walked from the master bedroom. Flame looked down at the compact her mother had given her those many years ago.

Rage, resentment, and the wretched irony of the situation all seethed inside him as Chance strode across the Spanish tiled floor to the massive teakwood desk. Dammit, he didn't want it to be Flame. She was the one untouched thing in his life. With her, he could almost forget everything. Dammit to hell—it wasn't fair! But when had life ever been fair to him? He looked at the jet-black phone on the desk and forced his fisted hand to unclench and reach for it.

“Yeah, Sam,” he said into the mouthpiece, deliberately shutting out all emotion.

“Chance, I'm sorry to call you like this, but…you have to know. We've learned the identity of Margaret Rose. Chance, it's Flame.”

“I know.”

“You do? How? When?”

“It doesn't matter.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, his mind racing now that he had refused to feel anything.

“Does she know who you are? Did she confront you with it? What has Hattie told her?”

“Obviously nothing.” He went through everything Flame had ever said to him. There was nothing that even hinted she was aware of his connection to Hattie. Why? Considering how much Hattie hated him, why hadn't she tried to poison Flame with it? He could think of only one reason: she hadn't had the opportunity yet. Which meant he had to make sure Hattie didn't get it.

“Could it be that Hattie doesn't know you've been seeing her?” Sam ventured.

“How could she?” He doubted that Flame would have mentioned him to Hattie. She wouldn't have any reason to. In this short period of time, it was logical to assume that any conversation between Hattie and Flame hadn't touched on private matters.

“Chance, what are you going to do? She's bound to find out.”

“Maybe not. Maybe I can prevent that.”

“How?”

But it was something he needed to think through first. “I'll talk to you later, Sam.”

He stood at the wrought-iron rail of the loggia overlooking the bay and the golden resort far below. His stance was that of a man lost in thought, his head drawn back, his gaze fixed on some distant point at sea, and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his slacks. Flame paused, wondering if he was still thinking about his mother, then continued to him. He didn't hear the dull click of her sandaled heels when she walked up behind him—completely unaware of her presence until she touched his arm.

Then he turned, that familiar, lazily intimate look immediately darkening his eyes the instant he saw her—that look that always caused those crazy tumblations of her heart. She smiled, realizing that everything was all right again.

“Your phone call must not have taken very long.”

“No.” His gaze wandered over her face as if intent on memorizing every detail. Then he bent his head, his mouth brushing over her lips before settling onto them with a driving need that had her leaning into him, supported by the encircling crush of his arms. She felt an edge of desperation somewhere—whether from her or from him, she couldn't tell. But it was there, a part of this desire to be absorbed wholly into one another. When the strain for closeness became too much, his mouth rolled off her cheek to the lobe of her ear, his breathing as heated and heavy as her own. “How long have we known each other?” he murmured.

She had to think—which wasn't easy when all she wanted to do was feel. “Three weeks.”

He lifted his head, framing her face in his hands. “Yet I can't imagine my life without you in it.”

“I know. I feel the same.” She was a little surprised by how easy it was to admit that.

“Are you certain of your feelings as I am?”

She searched and found not a trace of doubt. “Yes.”

“Then marry me. Now. Today.”

If she had bothered to try, she could have come up with a dozen valid reasons not to rush into another marriage. But none of them—not the short time she'd known Chance, not her career—was strong enough, singly or combined, to override the fact that she loved him and, more importantly, he loved her.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“You're certain.” He studied her closely. “I know women like to have big, elaborate weddings. If you want to wait for that—”

“No.” She shook her head, as much as his cupping hands would allow. “I've had the white satin gown and veil before. I don't care about the trimmings this time, Chance. Your love is more than enough.”

“I do love you, Flame,” he stated firmly. “Promise you'll remember that.”

“Only if you promise to remind me,” she teased.

“I'm serious, Flame. I've made my share of enemies over the years. No matter what anyone might tell you about me, I do love you. And I intend to go on loving you for the rest of my life.”

“Darling, I'm going to hold you to that—and to me, for the rest of
our
lives,” she declared confidently, joyously.

Sid Barker kept the pay telephone pressed tightly to his ear as he mopped away the perspiration on his forehead and upper lip with his already sodden handkerchief. Damn this tropical heat, he thought, and wished for a tall, cold beer. At the continued silence on the line, he started to swear at the Mexican operator for not putting his call through, then he heard the muted
brrring
on the other end, answered immediately by a familiar voice.

“Yeah, it's Barker,” he said and darted a quick glance at the door not ten feet away. “I managed to locate them in Mexico—finally. But you've got a problem. I'm here at some sort of government building—and they just got married.” He anticipated the shocked and angry response he received—and the doubt. “It's true, I swear. I was standing close enough I could have been a witness…. How could I stop it?” he shot back in sharp defense. “I didn't know what was going on until it was too late. I thought he was just taking her on a little sight-seeing tour of the village to show her how the other half lived—the ones who clean his expensive hotel rooms and wait on his rich guests.” The resentment faded as his voice grew more thoughtful. “Maybe I should have guessed something was up when I got word his private jet had taken off. Less than three hours later, it was back. I figure now that he had them pick up a ring for her. You should see the rock she's wearing.” There was movement at the door as a pair of beaming government officials escorted the newlyweds out of the room. Barker cupped his mouth to the receiver, speaking in a hushed rush. “They're coming out now. I've gotta go.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hung up and walked briskly from the building to his rental car, guarded by a pair of enterprising Mexican boys.

The heavy damask drapes at the bedroom windows were partially closed, shutting out much of the afternoon sunlight. Maxine paused inside the doorway, struck by the unnatural stillness in the room. Unconsciously she held her own breath as she listened for the sounds of breathing on the ornately carved four-poster. The pink satin of her quilted bed jacket trimmed with eyelet lace emphasized the pallor of her crepey skin, pinched and gray with pain. Pity swept through Maxine, followed by an instant hardening. Hattie Morgan was getting just what she deserved.

Moving silently, the thick rubber soles of her sturdy work shoes making little sound on the hardwood floor, Maxine approached the huge bed that dominated the small room. Hattie had slept in this room ever since she'd left the cradle more than eighty years ago, even though the spacious master bedroom right next door had gone unused for more than sixty of those years. Maxine had always wondered at that.

She glanced hesitantly at the woman, then picked up the brown plastic container of prescription pills from the nightstand. She checked the capsules inside, trying to decide how many, if any, were gone.

“You're always snooping around, aren't you?” The caustic accusation shattered the stillness.

Maxine turned toward the bed. “I thought you were resting.” With forced calm, she set the container back down on the nightstand.

“Then what are you doing in here?” A glaze of pain clouded the usually sharp eyes. “I heard the phone ring. Who was it?”

“Mr. Canon. He's still on the line. But I didn't want to disturb you if—”

Hattie released a scornfully loud breath of disbelief and held out an age-gnarled hand. “Give me the phone, then leave the room.” With lips pressed tightly together, Maxine lifted the phone from the nightstand and placed it on the bed next to Hattie, then turned away. She stiffened in resentment at Hattie's parting shot: “And I'm not so drugged that I won't be able to tell if you listen in on the extension.”

As the housekeeper moved away from the bed, all Hattie could see was a shadowy dark figure. She could feel the excruciating pressure at the back of her eyes obscuring her vision. She was frightened by it and the dimness of her new world. As she waited to hear the door close behind Maxine, she wondered which was the hardest to bear—the pain or the fear. Interminable moments passed before Hattie heard the distinctive click of the downstairs extension being hung up. She felt for the telephone beside her, fingers closing around the receiver and lifting it to her ear.

“Yes, Ben, what is it?” She spoke harshly, fighting to keep the inner panic at bay.

“They're here in Tulsa,” came the reply. “He brought her back with him.”

“It's true then,” she said, her voice strained by the fervent hope he would deny it.

“Yes. She married him.”

“She promised me—” Hearing the frantic edge in her voice, Hattie abruptly broke off the rest of the sentence, realizing it no longer mattered what Margaret Rose had promised her. “We'll just have to see what we can do about it, won't we?” she said with forced bravery.

“Right,” Ben Canon replied, an offer of encouragement in the response.

A few minutes later he rang off and the line went dead. Briefly Hattie felt that way inside as she hung up the phone. But she couldn't quit. She couldn't let Stuart win, not when she'd fought so long and so hard—not when she'd come so close. She groped for and found the old-fashioned bell pull next to the bed. She yanked on it impatiently and called, “Maxine. Maxine!”

Almost immediately she heard the muted sound of running footsteps in the hall outside her room.

The door burst open. “Are you all right, Miss Hattie?” Concern laced the housekeeper's voice. “Shall I call the doctor?”

“No,” Hattie snapped. “Get me Charlie Rainwater.”

“But—”

“Now!” She snapped again. When the door swung shut with a resounding click, Hattie sagged back against the pillows and muttered dejectedly to herself, “How could you be such a fool, Margaret Rose? I thought you were smart enough to see through him.” She closed her eyes and pressed a hand against them, trying to suppress the blinding pain in her head.

Her position remained unchanged until she heard the scuff of booted footsteps approach her door nearly fifteen minutes later. She brought her hand down and lifted her chin up, jutting it forward at an aggressive angle.

“Come in,” she responded in answer to the rap at her door, not letting any of the pain or fear creep into her voice. Pride wouldn't let her permit Charlie to see that she might be beaten. He believed in her. He had all these many years.

He paused beside the bed. “Maxine said you wanted to see me.”