Rivals (49 page)

“Yes.” His glance ran quickly over her.

This close, Chance noticed the long sweep of her lashes and the curvature of her mouth—and the small lines at the lip corners, which made her—when she chose—look willful and steel-proud. Her breasts were pressed to his chest so he could feel the quick beat of her heart and the quick in-and-out run of her breathing. Her face was set against him, yet he sensed she was disturbed and uncertain—she who seldom was. There was no doubt in his mind, though. He needed her. For him, she was the softness and the endlessness, the fire and the green, cool depths.

“I need you, Flame,” he murmured and kissed her, his mouth coming down hot and firm. Taken by surprise, or suddenly willing—Chance wasn't sure—but she kissed him back, deeply.

Then she pulled herself away and backed up, moving out of his reach. “You're good, Chance,” she declared, her voice still husky with the level of her disturbance. “You're very good.” She wondered how she could have forgotten, even for a moment, that the man was an expert at seduction. “But it isn't going to work, not a second time. Because I know it isn't me you need; it's Morgan's Walk.”

“That's a separate thing.”

“Is it?” She took the newspaper clipping from her pocket—the one with the photograph of Chance with Lucianna—and handed it to him. “I can see how heartbroken you are over losing me.”

He shot a look at it, then brought his gaze straight back to her. “This means nothing. Lucianna is an old friend. You know that.”

“Then let her console you. I'm sure she's good at it.”

“Dammit, Flame—” He took a step toward her.

She brought him up short with a cold “I think you'd better leave, Chance. You've had your dinner and you've had your conversation, but you're not going to have me.”

He hesitated. She saw the indecision warring in him, the impulse to press his point—and to take advantage of the vulnerability she'd shown him. Then he appeared to change his mind, crumpling the newspaper clipping and tossing it into the fire.

“I'll go,” he said. “We'll settle this another time.”

She knew better—because there wasn't going to be another time. But she didn't tell him that. She let him walk out of the parlor believing that she would meet him again somewhere, sometime. But there was no more need for that. She'd gained the time she wanted.

When she heard the front door close behind him, she turned to the fireplace and watched the flames leap greedily to consume the crumpled paper. For an instant, the grainy photograph of Chance and Lucianna, arm in arm, stood out sharply. In the next second, it was all black char.

34

T
wice
after she returned to San Francisco, Chance attempted to contact her again, but Flame had been tied up in meetings on both occasions and hadn't bothered to return his calls. She knew that sooner or later he'd realize she was deliberately avoiding him, but she hadn't had time to concern herself with that.

Every spare hour—every spare minute—of her days had been taken up by meetings, phone calls, and long discussions with Karl Bronsky and an associate of his, Devlin Scott. The results from the test borings had come back, proving the northern dam site was definitely viable. But Flame no longer regarded it as a weapon with which to fight any condemnation proceedings initiated by Chance. The northern dam site had become the cornerstone for a daring new plan—a plan she had discussed with no one except Karl Bronsky and Devlin Scott, a plan she had constantly reviewed and refined on her own until she felt it was ready. Even now she hadn't told Karl all of it—certainly not the most critical part.

Deciding that she was as fully prepared as she would ever be, Flame made the final call that would either set her plan into motion or put her back to square one.

“Hello, Malcom. It's Flame.”

“If you're calling to cancel our lunch on Thursday, you realize this will be the second week in a row you've done that.”

“I'm not.” Their Thursday luncheon was the farthest thing from her mind. “I have a business proposition I'd like to discuss with you.”

“A business proposition.” A note of alertness entered his voice. “Regarding what?”

“It's personal. It has nothing to do with the agency,” she said. “And I'd prefer to show you, rather than try to explain it over the phone.”

“When would you like to meet?”

“Anytime,” she said. “In fact, the sooner the better.”

“What about this evening?” Malcom suggested. “I have a six o'clock meeting, but I should be free by eight. I'm spending the night at my apartment in town rather than drive home to Belvedere. We could meet there at, say, eight-thirty.”

With no hesitation, Flame replied. “Eight-thirty it is.”

When she hung up, her assistant contacted her on the intercom. “You have a call on line two, Flame, from a Mr. Canon in Tulsa. Do you want to take it or shall I tell him you'll return the call later?”

“I'll take it.” She immediately picked up the phone and pushed the button on the blinking line. “Hello, Ben.”

“I just received a call I thought you might be interested in.”

“From whom?” She frowned curiously, certain Chance wouldn't be calling him.

“A local real estate agent. He wanted to know if there was a possibility the new owner of Morgan's Walk would consider selling it. It seems he has a party in Texas—Dallas, supposedly—who's interested in the property.”

“Really?” she murmured, suddenly angry. “You can bet Chance is behind this.” It irritated her that Chance would think she was too stupid not to see through this ruse.

“I'm sure of it,” Ben agreed. “He knows you would never sell to him. More than likely he's hoping you'll sell the land to somebody else to spite him—especially if the offer is generous. Which I'm sure it will be.”

“What did you tell the agent?”

“Basically nothing.”

“Call him back and tell him—” She checked her first angry impulse in favor of another thought. “Tell him you don't think the new owner is interested in selling, but to have his Dallas party contact me personally, and indicate you think I could be persuaded if the price was right.”

“If that's what you want, I'll do it.”

“It is.” She smiled faintly. “There's more than one way to string Chance along.”

Malcom Powell's town apartment on the eighteenth floor of the sleek steel-and-glass high-rise was small by society's standards, but definitely luxurious. A single spacious room combined the living and dining areas with an elaborate entertainment center. The decor was modern in its approach while possessing classical overtones—Malcom collected marble obelisks and Bierdermeier wood furniture. Done in a study of grays, the color scheme was designed to draw the eye to the panoramic view of the city and its glitter of night lights.

But Flame took little note of either when she arrived at the apartment promptly at eight-thirty. After inquiring politely about his earlier meeting, she wasted no time on pleasantries.

“Do you mind if I use the table for these plans?” Without waiting for his reply, she crossed the floor of pearl-gray marble to the lacquered dining table.

“Not at all.” Malcom followed at a more leisurely pace, then watched with curious eyes as she removed a set of drawings from her large leather portfolio case and spread them on the table. “Can I pour you a drink?”

She started to refuse, then noticed the glass in his hand. “Gin and tonic.” When he returned with it, she set the drink aside without taking so much as a sip from it, and opened her attaché case instead, taking out the booklet that contained the summary and analysis of Chance's proposed development.

“After I talked to you this morning—” Malcom observed her actions but didn't step up to the table to look at the material she set out “—I initially thought you wanted to talk to me about setting up your own agency, but something tells me I was way off the mark.”

“You were.” She threw a quick smile at him. “As you know, I recently inherited some property in Oklahoma. This—” She indicated the site plans and drawings on the table. “—is what Chance Stuart planned to do with that land.”

Moving up to stand beside her, Malcom glanced briefly at the plans, then angled his shoulders toward her, his gaze intent in its study of her. “As I recall, you inherited the property
after
you left him.”

“That's true.” It wasn't easy, but she managed to meet his gaze squarely, pride asserting itself despite the bitter blow it had been dealt. “And I think it's obvious by the amount of thought and work that's gone into these drawings he had planned this project long before he met me. As you can see from this site plan, he's already in possession of these parcels. All he lacked was the valley.”

“And that's why he married you.”

“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it, and at this point Malcom deserved to know the truth about Chance—about everything. “I'd like you to look this over for me, Malcom, and tell me what you think honestly of the project.”

He looked at her at length, as if trying to discern the motive behind her request. Finally he simply nodded. “All right.”

When he took a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses from the inside pocket of his charcoal-gray business suit, Flame picked up her glass and wandered over to the living room area, leaving him to study the information without looking over his shoulder. Oddly enough, she didn't feel nervous. Impatient, yes. Determined, definitely. But nervous, no. She knew precisely what she wanted, why she wanted it, and what she would do to get it—with no second thoughts and no regrets.

She resisted the urge to pace the room and sat down instead on the soft leather sofa facing the dining table and Malcom. She sipped at her drink, tasting none of it. She made a concerted effort not to stare at him, yet she was aware of his every move, the recessed lighting overhead reflecting off the streaks of gray in his dark hair with each tilt of his head.

The waiting became unbearable. Still, she didn't move from the sofa, the ice in her drink turning to water. When she thought she couldn't stand the tension anymore, Malcom took off his reading glasses and paused to take one last look at everything on the table, then turned in her direction.

“Well?” She prodded him for some comment without budging from the sofa, unconsciously holding her breath.

“I think Stuart would probably have set the real estate world back on its heels again—and pocketed millions in the process,” he said, then paused. “Or am I assuming too much when I said ‘he would have'?”

“No, you're not.” She got up from the sofa and walked over to the dining table. There, she opened the portfolio and took out another set of drawings. “This is the development I want to build.” She spread them out on the table, covering the ones she'd taken from Chance's office and ignoring the sharp look of surprise Malcom gave her. “As you can see, the concept is virtually the same as his. The placement of various things has been changed. The dam site is located farther north on the river, opening this valley, which lends itself perfectly to a thirty-six-hole course and a hotel/country club with ample room for condominiums and town houses to be built around it, as well as a landing strip for private aircraft. Changing the dam site also necessitates a change in the location of the resort hotel and marina, moving them over to this area. Actually, it's a better location than the one he had, since it gives the marina protection from the prevailing winds in the area. And”—she had difficulty keeping satisfaction from creeping into her voice—“changing the dam site also means that most of the land Chance owns is left—literally—high and dry.”

“You're serious about this,” Malcom realized.

“I have never been more serious about anything in my life,” Flame stated. “However, I should point out the site for the resort hotel and marina is outside the boundaries of Morgan's Walk. Seven individually owned parcels make up the site, including the valley area that will be flooded once the dam's in place. Naturally, that land will have to be acquired as quickly as possible.

“Why are you doing this, Flame?” he asked quietly—almost too quietly. “It's more than the money you might make, isn't it?”

“Chance still wants my land. The mere fact that he married me to gain control of it proves how determined he is to get it. He isn't going to stop just because that attempt failed. He'll try and keep trying until he succeeds. He already holds the mortgage on Morgan's Walk. I received a call from my attorney today advising me that I'll probably be receiving a very lucrative offer to buy the ranch—supposedly from an investor in Dallas. There's no doubt in my mind that Chance is behind it. When I turn that down, he'll simply call the mortgage due. If I should be successful in obtaining a loan somewhere else—which won't be easy—more than likely he'll buy it up, too. He's going to do everything in his power to squeeze me out. If all I do is fight a holding action, ultimately I'll lose. Which leaves me one alternative,” she concluded. “I have to beat him at his own game.”

She caught the glimmer of new respect and admiration that appeared briefly in Malcom's look. Then he smiled, ever so faintly. “And maybe get a little revenge in the process.”

“That's part of it, too,” she admitted with candor.

“And this business proposition you mentioned on the phone—where do I fit in your scheme of things?”

“I need a partner.” She didn't bother to add that he had to be someone with power and financial credibility, regarding that as a given. “I
might
be able to put this development together by myself, but we both know how difficult—if not impossible—it would be, especially if Chance finds out. But with the Powell name and money behind me, even Chance Stuart would find it hard to go up against you.”