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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell

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Savoy Ranch

Tuesday afternoon

8

T
he room was more than a hundred years old, a symphony of brass and polished wood, thick Persian carpets and heavy draperies, brown leather couches so deep that only a fit man could get out of one without grunting. A wood fire leaped and licked at the huge hearth. Ward Forrest hadn’t changed any of the Savoy decor when he married Gem and united the Savoy fortune with the Forrest ambition. He’d even left the trophy heads on the walls—mule deer, bighorn sheep, elk, antelope, moose, bear, cougar. Though he’d personally shot bigger game, he’d never felt the need to stare at the results over coffee and brandy.

Ward went back to studying the contract-labor arrangements for the Savoy Hotel. Although it wasn’t well known, the conglomerate that owned the hotel was largely owned by one of the many arms of Savoy Enterprises. It was a belated—and probably too late—attempt to diversify from an entirely land-based business. Because Ward had insisted on overseeing every detail of the hotel personally, down to the kitchen
equipment, uniform sources for everyone from cooks to concierge, and security arrangements on every floor for every reason, the Savoy Hotel had taken up a large part of his working days. He would be glad when the damn thing was launched and he could stay home and go back to being semiretired.

The grandfather clock chimed repeatedly like someone humming the opening note for a choir of angels. The dog at Ward’s feet wagged its tail, dreaming along in key.

“You lazy old son,” Ward said, and thumped the dog fondly on its well-padded ribs. “Too fat to hunt and too old to care.”

Honey Bear opened one eye, slicked his tongue over Ward’s fingers, and went back to sleep. Ward smoothed his hand down the dog’s coat several times. He’d had a lifetime of Honey Bears romping at his heels: different dogs but the same sex, breed, and name, the same eager-to-please nature, and the same unquestioning love for the hand that fed them. Smooth coats, too. The older he got, the more he appreciated that silky canine warmth and reliability.

In his opinion, when it came to company on a lonely night a good dog was worth twenty women. Dogs didn’t ask fool questions, didn’t argue about how the ranch should be run, and didn’t throw a shit fit when they didn’t get what they wanted. His wife had done all that and more.

Being widowed had its good points.

“Ward? You back in your den?”

Rory Turner’s voice lifted Ward out of his reverie. “What took you so long?” he called out.

“Got here as soon as I could,” Rory said, yanking off his tie as he walked into Ward’s sanctuary. “Why don’t you just come to the meetings or wire me for sound?”

“Because I keep hoping my kids will grow up and get the fucking job done.”

Disturbed by the tone of voice, Honey Bear lifted his head and nosed Ward’s calf. Absently Ward gave the dog’s head a go-away kind of pat. Honey Bear took the hint and went back to sleep.

Rory knew better than to comment on the business abilities of his ex-wife or his former brother-in-law, so he just unbuttoned his shirt collar, shifted the shoulder harness he wore in or out of uniform, and settled into a chair.

“Well?” Ward said. “What happened?”

“Blow-by-blow, or leave out the sniping?”

“Jesus” was all Ward said.

“There will be two tables at the art auction—one Savoy, one Pickford.”

Ward’s mouth flattened at the Pickford name. Every time he thought of how his mother-in-law had finessed fifteen percent of the Savoy Ranch out of his control, he wished all over again that he’d known in time to change things. But he hadn’t, so now he had to live with “relatives” he’d rather bury than kiss.

“Do you want the tables together?” Rory asked.

Ward just gave Rory a look out of glittering blue eyes that hadn’t faded one bit in more than seventy years.

“Right. Opposite sides of the room, as requested,” Rory said, hiding his amusement. “Savvy surprised me,” he continued, calling Savoy by his childhood nickname. “He said he’d negotiated a more generous settlement in the Artists Cove development and would appreciate our support. Bliss started screaming that he couldn’t get away with that, Sandy Cove was sacred to her, that she’d see him in hell before it got developed, and stormed out. Meeting over.”

“What about the New Horizons offer?”

“We didn’t get to it.”

Ward shot out of his chair with a speed that brought a startled yip from Honey Bear. “Are you telling me that—”

“Yo, Dad, are you back there?” Savoy called from the front of the house.

Honey Bear stood, stretched luxuriantly, and started for the hall door to greet Savoy.

“Damn, I thought the nitpicking Pickford would keep Savvy longer than a few minutes,” Rory said, standing up hastily. “Cribbage tonight?”

“Unless I’m in jail for killing my stupid son,” Ward muttered.

“Not a chance. I’m the sheriff, remember? See you after dinner.”

The outer door closed behind Rory a few seconds before Savoy walked into the den. While everyone knew that Rory reported to Ward, everyone got along better if their noses weren’t rubbed in it.

“Hi, Dad,” Savoy said. He bent down and scratched the dog’s ears. “You, too, Honey Bear.”

The dog looked more enthusiastic than Ward did.

“Well?” the older man demanded.

Savoy gave the dog a final pat and sat down in the place recently vacated by Rory. If he noticed that the seat was still warm, he didn’t mention it. As for loosening his tie to be more comfortable, he didn’t have to. One of the perks of being the business head of the Savoy Enterprises was that he didn’t have to wear a tie. Ditto for a suit. His silk sport coat was soft and unstructured, like the sleek slacks that were the same toast brown of the leather chair he sat on.

“We’ll all be gathered around a fancy table Saturday night,” Savoy said. “With luck, none of the knives will be buried in anything but dinner.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No, but it’s damned ridiculous.” Savoy held his hand up, forestalling a lecture from his father. “Bliss will be there because she knows this is important to you. It would have helped smooth things along if Rory hadn’t been the messenger.”

“She should be used to it by now.”

“She isn’t. She never will be.”

“Too bad. She had her chance and she blew it when she divorced him.”

Savoy felt like asking when he had blown his chance to be his father’s confidant, but knew there was no point. The son had the clean blond looks of his mother, and however his parents’ marriage had begun, it had ended with indifference punctuated by contempt.

“What about the New Horizons offer?” Ward asked.

“Bliss walked out before I could bring it up.”

“Shit, boy, you could have romanced the Pickford contingent and then presented it to Bliss after she had a few drinks.”

“The last time I tried to cut a private deal with the Pickfords, you had a—”

“That was then,” Ward cut in. “This New Horizons deal is more important than anything I’ve ever done. I’d rather have Bliss on board, but if you have to get in bed with the Pickfords for a majority vote, then by God you will.”

“Or you’ll cut off my allowance?”

Temper burned along Ward’s cheekbones. “It could happen.”

“It could,” Savoy agreed.

Ward blew out a breath. “Hell, you’re just like your mother was. Sit there calm as marble and throw everything back in my face.”

“And Bliss is just like you, fast on the trigger. If you’d quit jabbing at her through Rory, we’d have a better chance of getting her cooperation on the New Horizons merger.”

Eyes narrowed, Ward drummed his fingers on his leather desk chair. He doubted that Savvy knew how important the merger was to the future of Savoy Enterprises and everyone who drew a corporate paycheck. To be fair, Ward hadn’t told his son anything beyond the obvious: the merger would benefit both parties.

But right now Ward didn’t feel like being fair. He felt like taking a bite out of something and his son was handy. “Get the Pickfords to agree to the merger or I’ll get myself a new chairman.”

“CEO,” Savoy corrected. “I’ve been studying the New Horizons offer. It calls for opening up parts of the ranch to development that we agreed years ago would remain in trust for future generations.”

“Does the phrase ‘land poor’ mean anything to a fancy Stanford business school graduate like you?” Ward asked sarcastically.

“Then donate it to—”

“You aren’t listening,” Ward cut in coldly. “Just like your mother, so sure that what she wanted was right and proper and the rest of the world could go to hell. Well, listen to me and listen good. The profits on all the agriculture on the Savoy Ranch don’t pay the fucking taxes on the crop-land. When we try to develop a piece of land to pay a dividend, we end up in court while three-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers argue over how many politicians can dance on the devil’s pitchfork.”

Savoy looked at his father’s stabbing finger and bit back a sigh. As long as he could remember, his father had complained about taxes and newcomers who wanted him to keep the ranch as a pretty landscape for suburbanites to admire. There was plenty of truth in Ward’s complaints, but that didn’t mean Savoy wanted to hear them all over again. The land was what it was. Taxes were what they were. Citizens would always line up to spend somebody else’s money.

“I believe I made some headway with CCSD on a conference call,” Savoy said when his father took a breath.

“Which wild-eyed bunch is that?”

“Concerned Citizens for—”

“Oh, them,” Ward interrupted, looking as disgusted as he felt.

“Yes, them. The group that has pro bono representation from one of the most expensive law firms in L.A.”

“Only because the four partners in that firm want a different governor of California than we do, because a different governor would nominate them and their buddies to fill judicial vacancies.”

“The point is,” Savoy said evenly, “that CCSD is receiving high-level free legal advice on the ways and means of forcing delays in development.” He reached into his sport coat and pulled out a folded sheaf of legal papers. “This is their latest—and probably last—proposal before we let the courts sort it out. Bliss won’t like it, but she’ll sign it. She just had to throw a public fit.”

“Bottom line. What’s in it for us?”

“We get to develop the hills above Riker and Artists Cove at forty percent of our original proposed density. The remainder of that parcel, approximately fourteen hundred acres, becomes Savoy State Park, the newest jewel in the California State Park system.”

“That’s the best you can do? We give up a half a
billion
dollars worth of prime beachfront property and in return we get to develop a handful of houses with an ocean view you need fucking binoculars to see?”

Savoy leaned forward and put the proposal on his father’s desk. “You forgot the hefty tax write-off. Here’s the profit/loss I did.”

Ward’s fist slammed down on the papers. “That’s bullshit!”

“It’s a way of not being in court when New Horizons wants to close the merger. You know how wary Angelique White is of any negative publicity.”

Ward went still. “You’re blackmailing me.”

“No. Bliss is. She’s the one who cut the CCSD deal that left Artists Cove intact.”

“Bliss did this?
Bliss did this?”

“Like I said, you really should stop jabbing at her with Rory. I squeezed another seven percent density out of CCSD. Take it or leave it.”

“That’s not a deal, it’s a hose job!” His fist slammed onto the table.

“It’s the best deal we’re going to get. Think of the positive publicity if we make the gesture of donating an incomparable piece of California history and landscape to—”

“Fuck that. I’d rather think about how long Blissy will last without money.”

“I take it you agree to the deal?”

Ward’s mouth thinned. “Hose job. Yeah, do it. And if you see your sister, ask her how she likes paying her own bills.”

Newport Beach

Tuesday evening

9

s
ome women made a dinner ring out of the wedding or engagement diamonds left over from past loves and lusts. Bliss Savoy Forrest had a splashy diamond pin created from the postmarital jewelry. She also had frown lines between her eyes that no amount of expensive shots could wholly erase. She’d reverted to her maiden name of Forrest after her first divorce, and had kept that name through three more husbands, but she hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be in Rory Turner’s bed. What really pissed her off was that she didn’t know if he thought of her in any way but as a rich man’s spoiled daughter.

Blue eyes narrowed, she tapped a manicured nail on the kitchen counter of the oceanfront condo she leased. She had several such homes-away-from-no-home scattered throughout California, plus one in New York, London, Hawaii, and Aruba for those times when only a complete change of scene would lift her spirits.

Now, for example. She would turn fifty soon. No matter how many
nips and tucks, shots and peels and ego-boosters she paid for, the mileage showed. The half-century mark was coming at her like a freight train from hell. If it wasn’t for her money, she wondered if any man would even buy her a cup of coffee.

The ringing phone startled her. She grabbed the receiver, grateful to have something to concentrate on besides unhappy thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Bliss. Buzz me up.”

“Rory?” she asked, though she knew his voice all too well.

“No, it’s frigging Santa Claus. Ring me up. It’s cold down here.”

“I’m out of gin.”

“I brought my own.”

“I’m not dressed,” she said.

“I’ll take off my clothes.”

Without really intending to, Bliss found herself smiling and punching the button that released the lock eight floors down. She and Rory were divorced, but they weren’t exactly strangers. She wondered if the blue lonelies had ambushed him the way they had her.

When the elevator opened, she was waiting in the doorway.

“You’re dressed,” Rory said, giving her a lazy, masculine once-over.

Bliss hoped he couldn’t see through the baby-blue silk wrapper she wore to the carefully hidden surgical scars and insecurity beneath. It was so damned unfair that men got distinguished and women got old.

“You don’t have any gin,” she said, looking at his empty hands.

“Since when have we ever told each other the truth?”

Before she could change her mind, he walked by her and into the front room. Thirty feet ahead, a wall of glass showcased the darkly lustrous Pacific Ocean. Occasional searchlights stabbed across the breakers. A strong southwest wind was piling up twelve-foot swells. Salt spray made a fine mist that haloed everything, even the streetlights.

“Nice view,” he said as he always did. Then he added, “Must cost you a bundle.”

Bliss raised her eyebrows. That comment was new. “I’ll ask my accountant.”

“Then you have one. Good.”

“An accountant?”

Rory turned and faced her. “Yes.”

Uneasily she crossed her arms over her D-cup chest. He wasn’t smiling. His brown eyes didn’t have the edgy gleam that came when he was deliberately getting in her face. If anything, he looked tired. New lines on his forehead, new gray in his hair, new wrinkles in the clothes covering his lanky body. The veins stood out on the back of his hands as he shrugged off his jacket and dumped it over the back of the nearest chair. His movements were tense.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You really out of gin?”

She looked in his eyes for a long moment and saw what she’d never found in any other man except her father—confidence. All right, arrogance. But in both men, not without cause. In their lifetimes they had accomplished more than most men.

“Tonic?” she asked.

“Lime?”

She nodded.

“Tonic and rocks,” he said. “Thanks, Blissy. One way or another, it’s been a long day.”

Her smile was weary, wary, and real. They had a lot of history together. Some of it was good. “Coming up. Sit down and kick off your shoes. Have you eaten dinner?”

“Not yet.” He sank into a sleek Italian leather chair and began rubbing his face the way he did when he was worn out.

“Want an omelet to go with the gin?” she asked.

He looked up suddenly. “Would you cook for me?”

“Sure.”

“How’d I let you get away?”

“You didn’t. I did it all by myself.”

He smiled faintly. “Oh, yeah. It’s coming back now.”

Bliss retreated to the kitchen before their brittle, unstated truce could blow up in her face. She didn’t feel like fighting with anyone right now. Even her fiery ex. She was as tired as he was, tired of many things. Most of all, she was tired of being alone.

Rory listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, sighed, and toed off his shoes, enjoying the peace while it lasted. With Bliss, it was never long. But then, he was never bored. If he could have found a
woman that he wanted more, he’d have married her and written “the end” to the part of his life that had included Bliss. But he hadn’t found anyone and he’d decided he wasn’t going to.

Whatever Bliss’s faults, he loved her. A lot of the time he even liked her. He sure didn’t want to watch while her father plucked off each of her beautiful feathers and shoved them up her pampered ass.

She didn’t understand her father. Rory did.

“You awake?” Bliss asked quietly.

He opened his eyes. “More or less.”

“Here,” she said, handing him a glass of ice and mostly gin, just enough tonic to make the lime taste good. “Kill or cure.”

He took a sip, blinked at the burn, took another sip, and sighed with pleasure. No one made a drink like Bliss. Somehow she knew when to be liberal and when to be light on the booze.

“Fantastic,” he said, lifting the glass in a silent toast to her. “Want to get married again?”

She did a double take, laughed hesitantly, and retreated to the kitchen. “Would the aliens who stole the real Rory Turner please bring him back?” she said. “This one is scaring me.”

“Hey, I wasn’t that bad as a husband, was I?”

“You want validation or eggs?”

“Eggs. Want me to make toast?”

“It’s toasting.”

“Damn, you’re good.”

He took another healthy sip of the drink and felt his nerves begin to uncurl. As he did, he thought it was funny how Ward, for all his shrewdness, hadn’t noticed how upset his former son-in-law was. But Bliss, who was rarely shrewd about people, had seen his edginess right off.

Score a first for Bliss. Maybe getting older really did turn people into adults. Finally.

“Want to eat there or in the kitchen?” she called.

“Kitchen.”

He stood and walked in his stocking feet to the cool tile floor in the kitchen. There was nothing awkward or slow about his movements. One of the things he had done as sheriff of Moreno County for the past fifteen years was to get rid of the doughnut-gut brigade. Any man—or
woman—who wanted to rise under his command was as fit as their fifty-four-year-old boss was.

He slid into a chair whose cushions were striped in orange and gold and lime. The omelet Bliss set in front of him on an elegantly simple white plate was light, fragrant with some exotic cheeses, and filled with chunks of ripe tomato and tender ham. Fresh chives were scattered across the top. He picked up a fork, cut off a mouthful, and bit in. Heat, textures, and something spicy zinged his tongue.

“Oh, man,” he said, forking in another mouthful. “Sure you don’t want to get married again?”

“That’s it. I’m calling the
Enquirer
to come and interview my alien.”

“Yeah, well, before they get here, think about it. We had more going for us than most.”

Silently she refreshed Rory’s drink, poured a mild gin and tonic for herself, and waited for him to get around to whatever it was that had brought him to her door in the first place. Though she would have undergone torture rather than admit it, she loved watching him enjoy her food. Cooking was her one domestic accomplishment. That and sex.

Come to think of it, the sex hadn’t been at all domestic. Not with Rory. She’d had other men, but none of them had been as good for her as her ex, damn him. She couldn’t live with the man and couldn’t stop thinking about living with him.

Marriage.

Again.

What if he was serious?

What if he wasn’t?

“You’re biting your thumb,” Rory said.

Guiltily she put her hand behind her back. She gnawed on her thumb only when she was feeling unusually insecure. And only Rory noticed it. She didn’t know whether that irritated or enraged or reassured her. All three, probably. Just one of the many things about their relationship that kept it from dying a simple, painless death by indifference.

In silence Rory finished the omelet, ate the toast she’d brushed with olive oil and herbs and a hint of cheese, and carried his plate to the sink. With the economical motions of someone who was used to cleaning up after himself, he soaped the dish, rinsed it, and set it on the rack to dry.

Then he scooped up everything else in the kitchen that she’d used to prepare his meal and began washing them, too.

Bliss wanted to gnaw on her thumb again. She didn’t know what was on Rory’s mind, but she knew she wasn’t going to like hearing about it. What intrigued her was that he wasn’t eager to tell her, either.

“Spit it out,” she said when he began cleaning the counters with a soapy sponge.

“How much money do you go through every month?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You just send the bills to Ward and he pays them.”

“Not all of them. I have a trust fund from Mother and Grandmother.”

“How much is it?”

“What the hell is this all about?” Bliss asked.

“Concerned Citizens for Sane Development.”

“Shit. I knew it. You came here to chew on me for Daddy.”

Slowly Rory shook his head. He dumped the sponge in the sink, dried his hands on a towel in the same cheerful colors as the dinette chairs, and went to stand close to her. Very close. Close enough to smell the perfume she always put on at night after her shower. He wondered how many other men had stood like this, scenting her, wanting her, and then peeling off one of her silk wrappers and diving in. But thinking about that would just piss him off.

“You may or may not get to keep Artists Cove.”


Sandy
Cove. And I’ll keep it.”

“Maybe. And maybe Savvy will cut a deal with the Pickfords.”

“Then I’ll raise the kind of holy hell that will make the kind of headlines Daddy doesn’t like.”

Rory just shook his head wearily. He knew Ward could just stall signing the Artists Cove compromise until the merger was complete. Then he could tell his daughter to go to hell. And he would.

“You think Daddy’s going to beat me on this one, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you came here?” She crossed her arms defensively. “You never used to like singing in the I-told-you-so choir.”

“I came here to find out how much cash you have that isn’t attached to your father.”

“Interest on the trusts. A few investments.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why? Is he threatening to cut me off again?”

“He hasn’t ever threatened that and you know it.”

“I know it’s always there, like a gun at my head. If that isn’t a threat, what is?”

“Then why do you keep poking at him?”

“Because I’m an adult and I shouldn’t have to run to Daddy for money!”

“Try living on your income.”

She made a disgusted sound. “Saint Rory. Why should I live like dirt? He never did. All he did was marry into Savoy money and he had the world at his fingertips. I’m a Savoy by
birth
. I deserve better than to be kept at heel like Honey Bear.”

The corners of Rory’s mouth turned down. “The blood thing again. Jesus, Blissy. Maybe if Gem hadn’t rubbed Ward’s nose in her wealth and bloodlines, they’d have had a marriage instead of an armed truce.”

“The only people who sneer at bloodlines don’t have any.”

“As usual, this is going nowhere.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re too much like your father. That’s why you drive each other nuts.”

“Just because I don’t spend my life saying ‘yes, sir, whatever you say, sir’ doesn’t mean—”

“We’ve been around this track,” Rory cut in, turning away. “Thanks for the omelet.”

Bliss hesitated, then stretched out a hand he didn’t see. Hastily she withdrew it. “Rory.”

He turned toward her.

“I…” Her voice died. She began gnawing on her thumb. “Oh, hell. Is he really mad?”

“He’s really determined. Different thing entirely.”

“He wants to develop the Savoy Ranch in his own image, a monument for the ages.”

“Maybe. And maybe he just wants to make enough money to keep all the Savoy-Forrests in beachfront condos. The deal you cut with CCSD will cost half a billion in land alone, not to mention what the developed property would be worth.”

“But the tax write-off—”

Rory’s laugh wasn’t humorous. “Blissy, you should talk to that accountant of yours. If we can’t develop the ranch, we won’t have any profits to write off taxes against. If you don’t sell off or develop big chunks of the land, all that Savoy wealth everybody is busy spending won’t amount to a fart in a tornado.”

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