Rivals (11 page)

When she sailed into the small outer office occupied by her assistant, the young blonde looked up from her desk, a look of relief rushing across her face. “Am I ever glad you're back.” Flame walked right by her and pushed open the door to her office, then froze in shock. “—The florist delivered some flowers,” Debbie finished lamely.

Some
flowers? They were everywhere! Not a foot of flat surface failed to have a vase on it, cascading with boughs of Phalaenopsis orchids. Haltingly, Flame entered her office, still stunned by the fragrant profusion of white orchids.

“Incredible, isn't it?” Debbie murmured from the doorway.

Flame turned, finally recovering her voice. “Who sent them?”

“There's a card on your desk.” Belatedly, the girl realized that the top of it couldn't be seen for the orchids. “I put it on the phone.”

As Flame crossed to the desk, it suddenly occurred to her that there was only one person she knew who would indulge in such extravagance. She snatched up the card and ripped it open, muttering under her breath, “So help me, if Malcom thinks—”

Then she read the message inside: “
Till next time we meet,
” signed
Chance Stuart
.

Stunned, she leaned against a corner of the desk and tried to catch back the incredulous laugh that bubbled from her.

“Who's it from?” Debbie asked as Ellery appeared at her shoulder.

“Is Flame back?” Then he saw the orchid opulence in the office. “Hello, what is this? Are you turning your office into a jungle paradise or did you get the FTD account?”

The telephone rang. “I'll get it.” Debbie hurried back to her desk in the anteroom.

“Isn't it incredible, absolutely incredible?” Still faintly awestruck and almost at a loss for words, Flame trailed a hand under an arching bough, its whole length strung with exotic white blooms.

“Who sent them—Tarzan of the jungle or Merlin Olsen?” Ellery wandered into the room, his glance centering on the card in her hand.

“Chance Stuart.” She was still trying to believe that.

Debbie poked her head in the doorway again. “Flame, there's a long-distance call for you from a Mr. Stuart. Line two.”

For an instant, her glance locked with Ellery's. Then she turned and tried to find the telephone again amid the tangle of trailing orchids. Locating it at last, she picked up the receiver and punched the button with the blinking light, conscious all the while of the silly flutters of excitement in her stomach.

“Hello.” She tried to sound natural, but who could when her office was inundated with flowers and the sender was on the line.

“Flame. Chance Stuart. How are you?” The rich timbre of his voice seemed to travel right through the wires, all lazy and warm with the potent smoothness of hot brandy.

Instantly her mind conjured up the image of his dangerous smile and his rakishly handsome face. “At the moment, I'm engulfed by cascades of orchids. They're everywhere—and they're beautiful.”

“I'm glad you like them.”

“I do.”

“I called because I happened to have an extra ticket for the opera on Friday. It's an excellent seat in the parterre…right next to mine. Could I persuade you to use it and attend the opera with me?”

Hesitating, Flame glanced at Ellery, aware that she had planned to go with him, but she was more aware of the way her first and only meeting with Chance Stuart had ended. He'd left the DeBorgs' party with his arm around the opera's guest diva.

“What about Miss Colton?” she asked with forced casualness.

“Lucianna will be onstage singing, I believe. But whether she is or not, I'm still asking you. Will you come?”

“I have made other plans.” She looked again at Ellery. He smiled wryly and motioned for her to accept. “But I think I can change them without any difficulty.”

“Good.”

After supplying him with her address and agreeing on a time, Flame echoed his parting words, “Till next time.” Then she hung up, her fingers lingering on the receiver for a moment, his card still clutched in her other hand.

“Do you know”—Ellery tilted his head back to eye her thoughtfully—“you have the very definite look of a woman in love?”

“That's ridiculous.” Yet her cheeks felt unusually warm. “I don't even know him.”

“My dear Flame, love is not an opinion. It's a chemical reaction. Either something happens between two people or it doesn't.”

“Are you talking about love or spontaneous combustion? Not that it really matters.” She shrugged. “Both can blow up in your face.” She'd had too much experience with such things to be guided by her own feelings. “I've found it's much safer to do a little testing first. It can save a lot of hurt.”

“Careful, my dear. Your scars are showing.”

“I'll cover them up with powder,” she replied, then looked around the room at the profusion of orchids, again overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. “What am I supposed to do with all these?” she wondered out loud.

“Enjoy them, my dear,” Ellery offered dryly. “Simply enjoy them.”

Flame shot him a glance of wry amusement. “You know, Ellery, I'm almost convinced you're a romantic masquerading as a cynic.”

He smiled and winked slyly. “Just like you.”

His reply startled a laughing breath of instinctive denial from her. But Ellery paid no attention to it as he strolled out of her office. Flame shook her head in mock exasperation and turned to the nearest vase of orchids, a vague wistfulness for shattered illusions entering her expression as she breathed in their fragrance, the card from Chance still in her hand.

7

L
anterns
gleamed from the ornate wrought-iron gateposts that marked the entrance to the courtyard of the imposing War Memorial Opera House. Its towering arched windows blazed with lights, announcing to the world the fall opening of the opera. Outside, sleek limousines, Rolls Royces and Mercedeses lined Van Ness Avenue, while notables gathered inside.

The cultural event signaled the advent of San Francisco's social season. Everybody who was anybody, along with those who wanted to be somebody, attended the gala. They came to see and be seen—to the eternal delight of every couturier around the globe. And they were all there, de Ribes silk brushing against the taffeta of Ungaro, Valentino velvet rubbing shoulders with the satin of St. Laurent. Adding to the dazzle of it all were the glittering diamonds, the gleaming rubies and sapphires, and the sparkling emeralds that adorned the fingers, wrists, throats, and ears of the opera's patrons.

When Flame arrived on the arm of Chance Stuart, notice was duly taken of the high sweep of her hair, the diamond clusters at her ears, and the strapless sheath gown of de la Renta ombrebeaded silk crepe topped by a matching bolero jacket with long sleeves and wide shoulders. But it was her escort, clad in black evening attire, who stirred their interest with his dark good looks, electric blue eyes, and naughtily wicked smile. For once Flame was the one who received the green glances of envy. And she accepted them with pleasure.

A flashbulb went off, its bright flare of light momentarily blinding Flame. She help up a hand to shield her eyes and blinked rapidly to clear them. “I think I'm going to be seeing spots in front of my eyes all evening, especially after the gauntlet of paparazzi we ran outside.”

“I don't blame any photographer for wanting to add a picture of you to his private collection,” Chance murmured, his glance running warmly over her.

Her smile mocked his highly flattering but untrue statement. “I have the feeling they were more interested in the devilishly handsome man I was with.”

“Devilish—is that how you see me?” The grooves in his lean cheeks deepened, suggesting amusement but stopping short of a smile.

“In some articles I read about you recently, it was suggested that you have the devil's own luck…and, the way your smile can evoke the most wicked thoughts, it occured to me you might have traded in your tail and horns for a black tuxedo tonight.”

He held her gaze, his look becoming decidedly intimate, shutting out everything else around them. “Maybe that explains it, then.”

“What?” She was surprised by how breathless she felt.

“A devil's always drawn to fire—the hotter the better.” His mouth slanted in a smile. “This could prove to be one helluva night.”

“Flame, darling.” Jacqui Van Cleeve pounced from the crowd. Flame swung her attention away from Chance, more disturbed by his suggestive comment than she cared to admit, and focused it on the society columnist, dressed in a slightly outrageous charcoal and pink floral gown of silk damask with a back bustle that seemed singularly appropriate to Flame, considering how much Jacqui's tongue already wagged. “I missed you at the Guild's pre-performance dinner gala. Ellery assured me you would be here tonight. Of course, there's no need to explain your absence now. I can see why you weren't there,” she declared, turning to Chance. “Welcome back.”

“Jacqui.” His dark head dipped in acknowledgment as he gave her one of his patented smiles. “You are very eye-catching this evening.”

She laughed, the large bangled hoops at her ears swinging with her movements. “I definitely don't blend into the wallpaper—unless it's Victorian.” She paused, her eyes sharpening on him with a knowing air. “I honestly wasn't sure San Francisco would see you again. I'm glad I was wrong.”

“What can I say? I was drawn back like a moth,” he replied, his glance sliding naturally to Flame, the glitter in it as much as his words indicating that she was the reason he'd returned.

She tried not to look as pleased as she felt. And she tried, too, not to let her expectations rise too high, something she'd fought all week. But it was proving to be very difficult, especially now that she was with him and discovering all over again that his company was every bit as stimulating as she remembered.

“I can see you deserve your reputation for moving fast,” Jacqui observed in a low murmur.

“I've never found anything to be gained by waiting,” Chance countered smoothly. “Have you?”

“No,” she conceded, then cast a reporter's eye over the be-jeweled crowd around them. “They really dragged out the rocks tonight, didn't they? It's amazing how easy it is to tell who's wearing the real thing. All you have to do is look for a burly bodyguard hovering nearby—one with an unsightly bulge in his jacket.” She paused, a smile breaking across her face. “This reminds me of the time I attended some exclusive charity ball in Dallas. There was a woman there, positively draped in diamonds. I made some remark that I thought it was a bit much. And this sweet little Texas gal informed me in this drawling accent of hers, ‘Jacqui, honey, when it comes to diamonds, less is not necessarily better.' If tonight's any indication, I'd say the sentiment seems to be universal. Look.” She laid a hand on Flame's arm, drawing her attention to the slender blonde near the arched windows, dressed in a Lacroix creation that was all froth and chiffon. “There's Sandra Halsey. Isn't that a divine gown she's wearing?”

“It is,” Flame agreed.

“She had it flown in on the Concorde for the occasion. Talk about conspicuous consumption,” Jacqui declared, then paused, her lips thinning in faint disapproval. “I do wish someone would tell her to stop sprinkling her conversation with French phrases. It's so terribly déclassé.”

“And déclassé isn't?”

But Jacqui Van Cleeve was completely impervious to the light gibe. “No. We stole it from the French too long ago. Now it's as American as sabotage. Would you both excuse me? I'd swear she's wearing the Halsey rubies and Claudia vowed they would never touch her neck. Wouldn't it be something if those two finally settled their feud after all this time? Then she was off, her bustle wagging like the tail of a bloodhound hot on a scent.

Smiling faintly, Flame turned to Chance. “In case you haven't noticed, the only difference between our Jacqui and an ordinary newshound is the diamond-studded collar she wears. Other people's secrets are her stock and trade, printable or not.”

“No doubt many that people wished she didn't know.”

“That's putting it mildly,” she murmured, and wondered to herself what Jacqui knew—or thought she knew—about her.

It was a question that grew stronger when she noticed Malcom Powell coming toward them, his stride unhurried. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since she'd walked out of his office on Tuesday. She met his glance, conscious suddenly of the aura of power he exuded. He didn't like being denied anything he wanted. She watched as his gaze sliced from her to Chance, then back again, the look in his eyes hovering somewhere between a demand and an accusation.

“Hello, Malcom,” she greeted him first, keeping her voice cool but pleasant.

“Flame.” He inclined his head briefly, the strands of gray in his dark hair catching the overhead light from the chandeliers and giving it a silvery cast.

“I believe you met Chance Stuart last week—” she began.

“Yes, at the DeBorgs',” Malcom confirmed and extended a hand. “I wondered if you would fly back to catch Miss Colton's performance.”

As they gripped hands, Flame felt the tension in the air—like that of two adversaries meeting for the first time and quietly sizing each other up.

“For that among other things,” Chance replied.

“Oh?” There was a challenge in that single sound from Malcom but Flame missed it, distracted by the odd feeling that she was being watched.

“Where's Diedre? Isn't she with you?” Flame asked, instantly using the inquiry as an excuse to scan the crowd and locate the party staring at her.

“The wind mussed her hair. She went to the powder room to repair the damage.”

But Flame only heard the first part of Malcom's explanation as her glance initially swept by the man in the navy suit, then came back to catch his watchful gaze fastened on her. His face, there was something familiar about its hard, pointy lines, yet she couldn't place who he was or where she had seen him before. Abruptly, almost guiltily, he turned and walked away. His lack of formal attire prompted Flame to wonder if he was part of the building's security. But security usually wore black suits.