Rivals (46 page)

She was surprised that he'd given in so easily. She'd expected him to press her for an answer. She wondered why he hadn't as he walked out of her office. Was he that confident she would ultimately accept? Did it matter if he was? He couldn't possibly have guessed the reason she was contemplating meeting him.

Chance had barely left her office when Ellery walked in. His glance ran over her, quick with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Did you think I wouldn't be?”

“I wasn't sure.”

“I promise you, Ellery, I'm not about to fall apart simply because I saw him again.” She walked back to her desk.

“What did he want?”

Her mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “He wants me to have dinner with him tonight so we can talk.”

“You refused, of course.”

“Not yet.”

For several seconds Ellery was silent, studying her with a probing eye. “Some devious wheels are turning in that head of yours.”

Flame smiled. “He's made his first move. He's going to try to win me back. He convinced me once before that he loved me, why shouldn't he think that he could do it again? What would happen, Ellery, if I let him think he might succeed?” she wondered aloud.

“Do you know what you're saying?”

She ignored his question and continued to talk out her stream of consciousness. “If I strung him along, he wouldn't dare contest the will—or make any overt move to get control of Morgan's Walk. And think of the time it would gain me.”

“Stuart isn't a man to be easily tricked.”

“I know.” She shrugged that off. “But he'll also expect me to play hard-to-get. And that won't be difficult at all.”

“This isn't a game,” Ellery warned.

She turned her overtly bright green eyes on him, the devil of malice in them. “Yes, it is. It's called ‘deceit'—I learned it from an expert.”

Flame deliberately waited until nearly six o'clock to call Chance and accept his invitation. When he offered to pick her up, she refused. “We can dine at your hotel,” she said. “I'll meet you in the restaurant at eight.”

In the hotel's multitiered dining room, Chance observed Flame's approach as the maître d' escorted her to his table. He paid little attention to the way heads turned when she passed, for he was wholly absorbed by the striking picture she made coming toward him, dramatic in a high-necked black-and-white suit in a spotted silk moire. The lofty way she carried her head and the confident swing of her square shoulders came naturally to her, like the fiery gold color of her hair. That they created a stir and caught the eye was purely incidental. She'd done more than that to him, though. She'd settled much of his restlessness of spirit, she'd aroused his masculine instincts to possess and protect. He hadn't realized how much of either until she'd walked out. He wanted her back. He had to have her back. Chance was as single-minded in this as he was in getting Morgan's Walk.

When she neared the table, he stood to greet her. Her glance swept him coolly as she murmured a greeting, then let the maître d' seat her in the chair opposite him. The waiter arrived instantly to ask if she would like something from the bar. Her hesitation was momentary, her glance running to the glass of scotch before him, then she ordered a glass of chardonnay.

Once they were alone at the table, she finally met his gaze with a look of studied indifference. “I believe this is a first,” she said. “No peach champagne and no orchids.”

“I didn't think it would be appropriate.” He scanned the strong modeling of her features, looking for a break somewhere in the reserve she'd thrown up against him. But he couldn't penetrate the green mystery of her eyes, so cool and aloof to him now. He would have preferred to face the fire and temper she'd shown him in her office rather than this air of tolerance and disinterest.

“You were right. It wouldn't be.” Then her attention was pulled away from him as the waiter returned with her wine. She thanked him with a smile—the first Chance had seen on her lips since he'd kissed her goodbye the morning he left for Texas—the morning that had signaled an end to the rare happiness he'd known. When she faced him again, all trace of the smile was gone. He felt a sweep of hot anger and immediately clamped down on it, recognizing it would get him nowhere with her.

He lifted his glass of scotch in a toast. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” She held her wineglass, as if unprepared to sip from it until she knew the answer.

“For coming tonight.”

“Chance Stuart—humble?” she mocked. “I find that extremely difficult to believe.”

He took a drink of his scotch, the burn of it in his throat matching his own emotional rawness. But he'd learned long ago not to let such feelings show. “I received my notice that you're seeking an annulment.”

Now she took a sip of her wine. “I suppose you intend to fight it.”

“If I thought it would do any good, I would.” By his definition, stalling was not the same as fighting.

The cool curve of her lips challenged. “Don't you mean—if you thought it would get you Morgan's Walk, you would?”

“Flame, I didn't ask you here tonight to talk about Morgan's Walk.”

“Really?” Skepticism riddled her voice.

“I want to talk about us.”

“There is no ‘us,' if you're referring to you and me.” She paused, a glint of derisive amusement appearing briefly in her eyes. “Of course, by ‘us' you could also be referring to me and Morgan's Walk.”

“Once before I told you I made a mistake in not telling you Hattie Morgan was my aunt—and that Morgan's Walk would have been left to me if she hadn't learned about you. And I made a mistake in not telling you I wanted that land. But that wasn't my biggest mistake,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “My biggest one was wanting both. I was greedy, Flame. When I said I loved you, that wasn't a lie. If there wasn't a Morgan's Walk, I'd still want you for my wife.”

Something quick and surprised momentarily flickered in her expression, then a wary doubt set in as she eyed him steadily, searching his face. Within seconds, her glance fell to the wineglass, a cynicism edging the corners of her mouth.

“That's a safe thing to say, isn't it, Chance? It almost sounds convincing. There's just one problem—there
is
a Morgan's Walk. There always will be. So that situation will never arise.” She lifted her glass, her eyes mocking him. “Aren't you lucky?”

“How can I be when I lost you both?” he reasoned smoothly.

“Perhaps you're right,” she conceded, her glance running over him again. “But it isn't over, is it? You can still contest Hattie's will. Who knows? Maybe you'll even win.”

He sat before her, dark and elegant in his tailored navy pinstriped suit and pale silk tie, the soft candlelight throwing the planes and hollows of his sculptured face into sharp relief. Tonight, perhaps more than any other night, he had the look of a gambler, a man who dared to do what others only dreamed. He was a man who lived on the edge of danger and enjoyed the view. But she wasn't swayed by that as she'd been before, reminding herself that gamblers were notorious for cheating and conning people.

“I don't plan to contest the will, Flame. It wouldn't accomplish anything for either of us, except to tie up the title in the courts for years and cost a fortune in attorney fees.”

She relaxed a little, aware that a court fight was a battle she couldn't afford to wage. That was the advantage Chance had over her; he could outspend her ten thousand to one and not miss a penny of it. At the same time, she didn't dare trust that he truly meant what he said.

“Plans can always change, though, can't they?” she challenged, aware that her only hope was to be able to stall Chance long enough to give Ben Canon time to get the estate settled, a process the Oklahoma lawyer was doing his best to expedite.

“It's possible,” he agreed, “but highly unlikely.”

“I notice you didn't rule out the possibility,” she said.

“I don't rule anything out. And I'd like to persuade you to do the same.”

“Me?” She frowned, unsure what he meant by that.

He looked at her, something strong and vivid—and unsettling—in his gaze. “Hasn't it occurred to you that I might be telling you the truth, that I might honestly be in love with you, and I would have wanted you for my wife whether you'd been Hattie's heir or not?” As she started to reply, he cut her off. “I don't want you to answer that, only to consider it as a possibility. Nothing more. Otherwise we'll end up arguing all night. Why don't we call a truce? I won't try to convince you to change your mind about me if you won't bring up Morgan's Walk and the way I tried to deceive you over it. Agreed?”

Flame hesitated, not entirely sure that was wise. Yet to refuse might indicate a vulnerability on her part. “Why not?” she said. “At least it will guarantee a quiet dinner.”

Chance smiled at that. “I think we'll be able to find something to talk about.” He picked up the menu. “Speaking of dinner, why don't we decide what to order. I'm told the rack of lamb here is excellent.”

Dinner proved to be more of an ordeal than Flame had expected. She'd forgotten how incredibly persuasive Chance could be when he set out to charm. More than once she'd caught herself responding to that seductive smile of his or that lazy glint in his eyes. Habit, that's all it was—an ingrained reaction to the same stimuli. But there was danger in that, even though such inadvertent responses also served her purpose by letting him think that, with persistence, he might succeed in winning her back.

When Chance suggested an after-dinner drink, Flame refused. Once she would have lingered, wanting to prolong their time together, but not anymore. Instead, she made her excuses to leave, explaining that she had an early day tomorrow and some work to finish tonight in preparation for it. She doubted that he believed her. Not that it mattered. If he chose to think she was running from him, that was all the better.

But Chance didn't make it easy for her to escape, insisting that he see her safely into a cab. She was obliged to wait while he summoned the waiter and signed the check. As she crossed the lobby with his hand resting lightly on her lower back, Flame was reminded of the time she'd gone up those elevators with him to his suite. She felt sick and angry all over again when she remembered the way she'd been taken in by all his smooth lies. Never again.

Outside in the night-cool, the doorman whistled for a taxi. But it was Chance who stepped forward to open the door for her when it drove up.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said and started to climb in.

The touch of his hand on her arm checked that movement. “I want to see you again, Flame.” It wasn't a request or a plea, merely a statement of his desires.

She looked at him, conscious of the quiet intensity of his gaze that had once made her believe he cared deeply about her. “I don't know.”

“I'm flying to Tahoe in the morning—to check on my project there,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

“In your jet? So you can spirit me off to some faraway place for a wildly romantic weekend? No thank you,” she declared with a firm shake of her head. “I've been through that before.”

“Then join me there,” he persisted.

She hesitated, then drew away from him and slid into the cab. Inside, she glanced back at him. “I'll think about it.”

He didn't like her answer, but, as she expected, he didn't press her for a more definite one.

The mirror-smooth lake reflected the sapphirre blue of the sky and the snowcapped peaks of the Sierras. But the postcard-perfect setting was marred by the belching roar of machinery and the rattling whir of riveters' guns as the construction crew raced to get the steel superstructure up and closed in before the first heavy snows of winter fell.

In a hard hat, Chance walked among the customary construction rubble on the high-rise hotel site, flanked by the structural engineer and the architect, and trailed by his on-site construction manager, the steel contractor, and his foreman. He stopped to watch a crane swing a steel beam into place, then questioned the architect about the number of cars that could be accommodated beneath the hotel's porte cochere, shouting to make himself heard above the racket.

A steelworker hot-footed it across the site, waving an arm to get their attention. Spotting him, Chance paused and waited for the man to reach them.

The steel contractor stepped forward to intercept him. “What's the problem?”

He looked at Chance and motioned over his shoulder in the direction of the office trailer. “There's a lady here wantin' to see Mr. Stuart,” he yelled his answer.

Chance lifted his head sharply and glanced at the trailer, everything tensing inside him. Flame. She'd come. Without a word, he walked away from the others and headed for the trailer, his stride lengthening and quickening as he neared it. He pulled the door open, his image of her vivid and bright, all his acute hungers revived.

He stepped inside and stopped short. “Lucianna.” He was angry, frustrated, the bitterness of disappointment strong on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course.” All warm smiles and glowing eyes, she came to him. He caught at her, his arms stiffening to prevent the kiss she wanted to give him. “Sam told me you were here. Now, don't be angry with him. He was thinking of you. This is a time when you should be with friends.”

“You should have called first,” he said tightly. “I've asked Flame to join me here.”

“Wonderful.” Lucianna shrugged her lack of concern and smiled. “When she comes, I promise I'll disappear without a trace.”

But Flame didn't come.

32

T
he
oatmeal knit of her long jacket flared slightly from the matching shaped turtleneck dress as Flame swept aggressively into Karl Bronsky's office at Thurgood Engineering, an eagerness in her stride that she didn't even try to contain. Her glance darted automatically to the drafting table in the corner, then fell on the rolled plans lying on the desk and finally lifted to the thin, tanned man coming around the desk to welcome her.