Rivals (5 page)

“Must I?” Again there was that petulant note in her voice, but when Lucianna stepped from the limousine, her feet were once again wedged in red pumps.

Their individual suites were located on opposite ends of the same floor. When they emerged from the elevator, Lucianna paused, angling her body toward him and idly running her fingers up the edge of his jacket lapel, her dark eyes bold with invitation. “This business meeting of yours can't take much more than an hour, can it? I have a magnum of Taittinger's chilling in my room.”

Chance let his gaze linger on the pouting fullness of her lips. She was a sensual woman, practiced in pleasing him. Two hours ago—maybe even less—it would have been a foregone conclusion that he would spend a satisfying hour or two in her bed. But he couldn't summon any interest in the thought now.

“Another time,” he suggested.

A hint of regret was in her smile, yet her look was thoughtful. “There always is with us, isn't there?”

“Yes,” Chance agreed, recognizing that each time they parted it was with the certain knowledge that they would meet somewhere again, sometimes by design, sometimes not.

“Till then.” She rose up to kiss him, old patterns reasserting themselves in the warmly delving contact. Chance responded automatically, his mind preoccupied with his impending meeting with Hattie.

The instant he turned from Lucianna to walk down the corridor to his suite, he forgot her, his thoughts centering wholly on Hattie Morgan, dominating them as she had once dominated him. But no more. That had ended long ago.

Or had it? A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he realized that again she had commanded him to appear and he had obeyed the summons. This time, however, it had been voluntary. He had to find out what had brought her to San Francisco. He'd always believed that nothing short of death would ever persuade her to leave Morgan's Walk. Obviously he was wrong.

He inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn. When he opened the door, he heard the soft music playing in the background, the soothing symphony of strings, like the lights left burning in the sitting room, courtesy of the night chambermaid. Stepping inside, Chance closed the door behind him and started to slip the room key into his pocket, then checked the movement.

Hattie sat in the room's wing chair, facing the door—and Chance. His glance skimmed her, taking in the mink-trimmed traveling suit from another era and the sensible low-heeled shoes on her feet. The blue-white of her short hair lay in soft waves about her face. At first glance, she looked like everybody's favorite aunt, but a closer look revealed the stiffness of her spine, the unbending set of her shoulders, and the gloved hand that gripped the handle of her cane like a royal scepter.

“You're late.” It was more a condemnation than disapproval that threaded through her husky voice.

“So I am.” A muscle flexed along his jaw as Chance remembered the eight-year-old boy who had once winced from the lash of her tongue, confused by the venom in it and the hatred that burned so blackly in her eyes. He glanced at the companion chair, angled to face Hattie's, then moved away from it, walking over to the suite's small bar. “It's obvious I'll need to have a talk with the concierge about letting strange women into my room.” He picked up a decanter of brandy and splashed some in a snifter. “How did you manage it, Hattie? Did you convince him you were my sweet old aunt?” Chance mocked cynically as he scooped up the glass, cradling its round bowl in his hand.

“It was much simpler than that,” she retorted. “I merely bribed the chambermaid to let me in. I've never had to resort to lies to get what I want. I'm not a Stuart.”

He smiled at the gibe, feeling no amusement at all, only a cold anger as he wandered over to stand nearer to the room's center. “You have yet to tell me, Hattie: to what do I owe the displeasure of your visit?”

With satisfaction, he watched her lips tighten into an even thinner line. “You're very confident, aren't you?” she observed. “You think I have no choice but to leave Morgan's Walk to you.”

“It galls you, doesn't it?—the thought of Morgan Walk passing into the hands of a Stuart. But you're bound by the conditions set down in your own inheritance of the land. On your death, it must pass to a blood relative. If there is none, then it all becomes the property of the state of Oklahoma. But that condition doesn't come into play, does it?” Chance paused, taking a short sip of the brandy and letting its smooth fire coat his tongue. “It's a pity you didn't have children of your own, Hattie. Then you wouldn't be faced with leaving it all to a nephew you despise.”

But both of them knew that she had never been able to have children as a result of injuries received in a riding accident in her youth. He had a dim memory of an argument between his father and Hattie. In it, his father had shouted obscenities at her and taunted that she was only half a woman, twisted with jealously and bitterness because she would never have a child born of her flesh. It wasn't until he was much older that he knew what that meant. By then, he'd learned that Hattie's hatred went much deeper than that.

“Morgan's Walk means nothing to you.” It was more a assertion of fact than an accusation.

“You're wrong, Hattie,” he said softly. “I have many memories of the place where I lived for eleven years…the place where my mother died. Her body wasn't even cold before you threw us out.”

“I threw out a range wolf and his cub. But for my sister, I would have done it much sooner.” Not a flicker of remorse showed in her expression.

“And you never let any of us forget that either. You couldn't even let my mother die in peace,” Chance recalled, along with all the bitterness.

“Others may be fooled by your fine clothes and fine airs—or your beguiling smile—but not me. They may marvel at your ability to spot a weakness and move in, but I am well aware that you were born with the cunning and the instincts of a wolf. Do you think I don't know what you intend to do with Morgan's Walk? A Stuart ultimately destroys everything he gets his hands on.”

Chance slowly rotated the snifter in his hand and absently studied the swirling, amber-brown liquid in the bottom. “Some things deserve to be destroyed, Hattie,” he said, neither affirming nor denying her accusation. “A place that's known only hatred is one of them.” Lifting the glass, he bolted down the last swallow of brandy.

Her gloved fingers tightened their grip on the cane. “Morgan's Walk will never be yours,” she declared in a voice hoarse with anger.

Amused, Chance cynically arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Short of murder, there's no way you can prevent me from getting it. Like it or not, Hattie, I am your only kin—your only choice for an heir.”

“Are you?” There was a smoothness, a smugness in her expression that he hadn't observed before. “I wouldn't be too sure about that.”

Chance was instantly wary, and smiled to hide it. “Is there some significance to that remark?”

“Merely that you may not be my last remaining relative.”

“Am I supposed to believe that?” he mocked.

“It happens to be true.” Her cool statement reeked of confidence.

He studied her with a long, considering look. “It's a nice try, Hattie. But if there was anyone else, you would have mentioned them long ago.”

“Perhaps I just found out about this person myself.”

He didn't wholly believe her, but he didn't like the gleam in her eyes either. He started to ask how she'd found out about this so-called relative, then remembered the meeting she'd had this very morning with the crafty old lawyer Ben Canon, and checked the impulse, asking instead, “Is that what—or should I say, who?—brought you to San Francisco?

“I thought you should be the first to hear the news…and I wanted to see your face when I told you. You see—” She paused again for emphasis and rose from her chair, briefly leaning heavily on her cane. “—I know how much you were counting on getting Morgan's Walk. I never underestimate the greed of a Stuart. You would be wise not to underestimate the determination of a Morgan to stop you.”

“I'll remember that.”

When she started toward the door, Chance walked over and opened it for her. The cane ceased its rhythmic tap on the floor as she paused short of the threshold, a hard satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “This is one time when I have truly enjoyed seeing you, Stuart.”

“Then you'd better enjoy the feeling while it lasts, Hattie,” he returned, his mouth forming a cold smile.

“I intend to.” Again the cane swung out in advance of her stride.

In three steps she was by him and out the door. For a grim second, he stared after her stiffly erect form, then closed the door on her. Turning into the room, Chance hesitated a split second, then crossed to the telephone and dialed the number to Sam's private line.

As before, the call was answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Chance.” He identified himself and glanced briefly at the door. “It looks like we may have a problem, Sam.”

“Hattie,” he guessed immediately.

“Right. She claims another relative exists, one who will be the heir to Morgan's Walk.”

“What?! My God, Chance, you don't think it's true, do you?”

“I don't know, but I intend to find out.”

“She could be bluffing.”

“I can't take that gamble, Sam. The stakes are too high,” he replied grimly. “Get hold of Matt Sawyer. Tell him to drop whatever he's doing and get on this right away. If there is a second legitimate heir to Morgan's Walk, then Canon's probably the one who tracked this person down. Tell Matt to start working on that angle.”

“Will do.”

Chance paused briefly, then asked, “Is Molly there?”

“Sitting right here,” Sam confirmed, a smile in his voice.

His own mouth curved faintly in response to the image that flashed instantly into his mind of the sweet-faced woman who, only now at fifty-five, had started to count the strands of gray in her brown hair. Widowed and childless, Molly Malone had gone to work for him nearly fifteen years ago, starting out as a part-time secretary, girl Friday, and office cleaning lady. Somewhere along the line in those first few months, she had added mothering to her other duties. She ran his office staff now, some said with an iron hand, although she was still butter in his. Time clocks meant nothing to her. She worked all hours; “Whatever it takes” was her favorite line. She
lived
the Stuart Corporation—not out of loyalty to her job but because it was his. Chance knew that. Just as he knew that no woman could be more devoted to her son than Molly was to him—even to the extent of making his enemies her own. And of them she hated Hattie most of all—almost obsessively so.

He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “It's already after midnight there in Tulsa. I suppose she stayed to find out what Hattie wanted with me.”

“You got it.”

“Since she's there, tell her to get on the phone and start calling all the hotels in San Francisco until she finds the one where Hattie's staying. As soon as she does, relay that information to Matt. He's bound to have an investigating firm that he works with here on the West Coast. I want to know her every move—her every contact from the time she arrived to the time she leaves.”

“You don't believe that Hattie flew all the way out there just to see you, do you?” Sam declared with dawning awareness. “You think this alleged long-lost relative might live out there.”

“It's a possibility we can't overlook.” Without a break, Chance continued, “I'm flying out to Tahoe first thing in the morning. I'll probably be tied up most of the day with the architect and engineer going over the design problems we have on the main hotel and casino structure. I hope we won't have to make any changes that will affect the companion ski lodge and chalets. But you know how to reach me if anything comes up. Otherwise, I'll be back in Tulsa late Sunday night. Tell Matt I'll expect him in my office nine o'clock Monday morning with a full report.”

“Done.”

As Sam's parting “Take care” faded, Chance hung up the phone. For a moment he stood there idly studying the empty brandy glass in his other hand. Then he turned and started across the room, loosening the knot of his black tie and unfastening the collar button of his shirt as he went. At the bar, he reached for the decanter again and poured half a shot of brandy into his glass. With his fingers curved around the bowl, he picked up the snifter, then paused. Swiveling at the hips, he turned, slanting his shoulders at the wing chair that Hattie had occupied.

“You didn't really believe it would be over so easily, did you, Hattie?” he murmured. “You should have remembered the promise that eleven-year-old boy made you. Maybe you've seen the last of me, but Morgan's Walk hasn't.”

4

T
he
satin caftan whispered softly about her legs as Flame wandered into the black-and-white living room of her Victorian flat, absently nursing that first cup of morning coffee in both hands. With sleepy-eyed interest, she surveyed the casually intimate grouping of furniture around the zebra-striped wool rug, the eye-catching white-on-white motif of the overstuffed sofa repeated on the cushions of the dramatic horn chairs finished in gleaming black lacquer accented with solid brass.

There was an awareness that the room's decor was a subtle reflection of her own personality, the airy and open effect of white contrasted sharply by the dynamic and sensual impact of black. And Flame also knew that the sleekly contemporary look on the inside was at odds with the ornate gingerbread trim of the building's exterior. The turn-of-the-century house had supposedly been a wedding present from a doting father to his beloved daughter, like so many others that had been built on Russian Hill, so named after the cemetery for Russian sailors that had occupied its summit during the city's early history. Twelve years ago, the mansion's many rooms had been converted into spacious, individually owned apartments.