Texas Heat (4 page)

Billie tried not to show her dismay. Something as large as what Cary was talking about would require a great deal of money and expertise, not to mention luck.

“You wouldn't believe this man,” said Amelia. “He reminds me of Moss; he has a finger in lots of pies, all of them exciting!” There was an uneasy silence as Amelia looked from one face to the other. “Cary, perhaps you'd better tell them, right now, that you didn't marry me for my money.”

Amelia had caught everyone off guard, but it was so typical of her that Billie almost laughed. “Amelia, no one—” Her eyes were drawn to Cary, who had moved closer to his wife.

“That's what I call letting it all hang out.” He put his arm around Amelia's slim shoulders. “No, I didn't marry Amelia for her money; in fact, I'm not certain this lady isn't a gold digger herself. But I took my chances because I love her.” He sighed dramatically. “So if there's anyone to be concerned about here, I guess it's me.”

“What he means,” Amelia said, smiling mischievously, “is that he's worth about ten times more than any of us here. At least at last count.”

Billie sighed with relief and Amelia felt better immediately. It was important to her that Billie like Cary. “There's a difference in our ages, but Cary says it isn't important. What's important is the here and now, and the devil take the rest.”

“Amelia makes
me
feel young,” Cary said, grinning, as if that explained everything. “And now that we've gotten that out of the way, what do you say about something cold for a parched throat? It's a throwback to the old days when I didn't have two nickels to rub together. I talk about money and my mouth goes dry.”

 

They were all on the back patio sipping drinks, and none of them heard the car come up the drive. “Well, hello, everyone!”

“Susan!” Maggie cried exuberantly, jumping up to embrace her sister. “Suse, I'm so glad to see you. Almost everyone is here now.”

Cary, who had never met Suse or her husband, Jerome, was standing now and walking toward them, his hand outstretched. Amelia followed quickly behind her husband. Susan, who had lived with her in London as a girl was like a daughter to her, was only a year or two younger than Cary. Amelia felt it in every step she took. Yet she embraced her niece with genuine affection, her laughter real, her blue eyes sparkling. The introductions were made, and Amelia felt herself stiffen when Cary kissed Susan. But he immediately turned back to her and slipped an arm around her shoulder. He kissed her teasingly, lightly, below her ear. “I think I can detect a faint resemblance.”

Amelia let out her breath in a sigh. With Cary's arms around her, everything was all right. He was behaving the loving, dutiful husband. Now, why had she thought such a thing? she wondered. Cary was always affectionate, always demonstratively loving. She mustn't allow herself to bristle like that. He was so in tune with her, he noticed any change almost immediately. But she could have been mother to all of them . . . including Cary, the man she adored.

Billie had recently visited with Susan in New York, so
there was no urgency to push through the rush of kisses and hugs and fond hellos, promises to meet more often, and latest travel gossip.

When they'd all settled down again, Maggie said, “You look weary, Suse.” Her tone was fond and caring. It was true; Susan's normally fair, blond prettiness now seemed wan and pale, and her light eyes were rimmed with circles not even Estée Lauder could hide.

“She always looks that way after a tour.” Jerome's voice sounded slightly harsh, as if he were annoyed at Susan's fragility.

Billie frowned and Maggie could feel something building inside herself. Susan looked more than tired; she appeared ill. “Well, I have just the remedy, Suse,” said Maggie. “You sit between Mam and Amelia, and they'll pamper and pet you, and I'll get you whatever your heart desires. Name it—cold drink, something to eat?”

“Anything, as long as it's cold. Do you mind if I kick off my shoes?” Susan felt like crying.

“This is home, Suse,” Maggie called over her shoulder. Then all the women gasped when they saw how swollen Susan's feet were.

“It's flying,” Jerome interjected quickly. “Lots of people's feet swell from sitting too long.”

“You should never take your shoes off on the plane,” Amelia advised. “You'll never get them on again.”

“You fly first-class,” Billie said with concern. “Can't you reserve a bulkhead seat? Ask the stewardess for several pillows and prop your feet up.”

As Jerome spoke with Thad and Cary, it seemed to Maggie that he was forcing his smile, pretending a joviality he didn't feel. In the past few years Jerome de Moray had lost his robust, youthful appearance to a kind of overfed middle age. He wasn't fat, only threatening to become so. His clothing seemed one size too small, and his once boyishly pink cheeks now seemed florid. His sherry colored eyes had kept their intelligence, but his easy smile now seemed pinched and forced, as though his shoes were too tight.

Amelia reached out and patted Susan's knee. “Darling, don't you think it's time to cut back on these grueling tours?”

Jerome, standing across the patio, answered for his wife. “Not at all, Amelia. Susan always gets tired, but she recovers soon enough. She's such a perfectionist, you know. Every detail, every reservation, is arranged by her. Do you know she personally irons my shirts when we're on the road?”

Amelia snorted. She'd never cared for Jerome, and now that his early promise had faded—if one was to believe the critics—he was hanging on to Susan for dear life. Susan was the talent; Susan was the box office draw. Cary quickly moved to Amelia's side and pulled her up from the chaise. “They're playing our song.” He laughed lightly. “Let's show everyone that fancy dance step we learned in New York.” Cary led her to the open floor and whispered, “You were about to put your foot in it, my darling.”

As Amelia fell into step beside her husband, Coleman raised the volume on the stereo. The music blared as they took center stage on the patio amid hoots of approval and applause.

After five minutes, Amelia collapsed onto the chair beside Billie, her face flushed. Cole wanted Cary to teach him the step and began to ape his movements. Amelia laughed as she watched them. “I hope you're the only one to see how frazzled that left me, Billie. I'm not as young as I used to be. My heart's going like a triphammer.”

“Cary relieved a bad moment. I saw it coming but didn't know what to do.”

“The man can read my mind. Jerome and I have had several arguments in the past about Susan. Cary was avoiding a scene. He never fails me.” Amelia lowered her eyes, then looked back up at Billie. “You see, I'm doing it again, trying to justify my marriage to Cary, always pointing out how wonderful he is. I don't know why I do it! Or is it myself I'm defending?”

“Why don't you just be you and let Cary be himself? I like him, Amelia. The man's in love with you; any fool can see it. Enjoy it; don't let old ghosts ruin this for you.”

“We do make our own hell, don't we. We make so many mistakes along the way. But I'm not wrong about Susan. She looks ill, doesn't she, Billie? It's not my imagination.”

Billie glanced at her younger daughter, seeing again the tired dark circles under her eyes, the yellow pallor, the puffiness around her ankles and fingers. “No, I'm afraid you're not. We should have a talk with her later on.”

“Easier said than done. Jerome isn't about to let his bird out of her cage. Over the years he's become an absolute dictator. I thought I liked him once, but that was when he was a young, blossoming virtuoso. I put down his temper and eccentricities to his being a genius. Now I think he's just spoiled and selfish. Oh, how I wish I'd been able to convince Susan that Peter Gillette was the man she needed, and not Jerome. But Susan and her ‘tidy' life couldn't bear up under the scandal of Peter leaving his wife and children for her. I tried to tell her it'd blow over in a matter of time, but she was so afraid, she jumped for Jerome as though he were a lifeline.” Amelia sighed, a frown creasing her brow. “I worry about her, Billie.”

“I know you do, but let's not worry now and spoil Maggie's wonderful party. It's getting late, isn't it?” She glanced at her watch. “Sawyer and Riley should have been here by now. Rand, too.”

“The plane was probably delayed. Rand was going to wait for them at the airport so they could all drive out together.”

 

The tall, wheat-blond-haired man lounged in his chair at the airport bar, drawing appreciative glances from passing females. Unabashed, he stared back at them, making his own assessments: too short, too tall, too skinny or fat, too much makeup. He disliked the kind of frizzled hair that seemed to be all the rage these days, or hair that was cut boyishly short. By the time he'd finished his second Bombay gin, he'd warded off one flagrant flirtation and had taken two more subtle ones under consideration before smiling his gleaming white smile that echoed in his coffee-brown eyes.

Rand Nelson hated airports and train stations almost as much as he hated to be kept waiting. He'd been waiting nearly three hours now for the flight from Japan via San Francisco. Even from this distance, his keen gaze could read the green-screened monitor declaring the two-hour delay from San Francisco. In two hours he could consume four more drinks and probably smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. He considered calling Sunbridge to alert them of the delay.

In some ways he was already regretting this trip. At the age of forty-three, he was old enough to know what he wanted and didn't want in his life. Mostly, he realized, he wanted life to go smoothly. Perhaps he'd remained a bachelor too long; perhaps he was too set in his ways. Rand wished he could pinpoint the time and place when he'd realized he'd achieved all of his major goals. He enjoyed his successes, savored each of them, but some instinct told him it was time to start winding down, time to stop and smell the roses. Bulging bank accounts, fingers in pies that didn't require his personal involvement, had allowed him to think about the pursuit of pleasure, doing something creative or having the choice of doing nothing at all.

The Bombay gin slid down his throat, crisp and icy. He'd learned to like his drinks American, that is, with ice and served in frosted glasses. There wasn't much of the Englishman in him. He supposed having Amelia for a mother and almost constant world travel had erased his tastes for warm beer and warmer liquor and endless days of London weather. Lord Randolph Jamison Nelson, Earl of Wickham, was a name and title that had little to do with the man; it was a name listed in the peerage and would be as long as there was an England, but it said nothing about himself.

Sawyer. Her name brought a vision of sunshine and energy and the sound of a girlish voice softened with a Texan accent. Slim, lovely, bright, intelligent, and only twenty-six years old. She was on the brink of discovering her abilities, of putting her education and her unique position as head of Coleman Aviation into effect. Her instincts for business were as sharp as her grandfather's and great-grandfather's had been before her; with little more than legal advice, she'd been successful in licensing the most innovative, lightweight personal aircraft in aviation history—and keeping the copyrights intact for Coleman Aviation to boot. Sawyer was hooked on achievement, and nothing would keep her from testing her abilities. The trouble had nothing to do with Sawyer's ambitions and success; in fact, he admired her for making the most of her talents. But he'd had enough of high-powered business deals. What would become of Sawyer and him if they married? He wanted to wind down, and she was just coming into her prime. Age was just a number, but they were two people at opposite ends of a rope.

Sawyer had been in Japan and it had been almost two months since he'd seen her, time enough for Rand to think, to really face the fact that while he loved Sawyer Coleman, he was not in love with her. He hated to think of himself as capricious, and in his heart he knew he wasn't, but time had a way of changing people, often against their will. His time with Sawyer had been wonderful. They'd had so much in common, working on designs and specifications for her grandfather's aircraft. Common goals, loving the same people, seeing things the same way. But the goals had been won, and loving the same people and being involved in the same family wasn't enough. Now Sawyer had new goals to conquer, and she would embrace them the way she embraced all of life—with humor and gusto and a sense of adventure.

Rand ordered a fresh drink and lit the last cigarette in the pack. The minutes on the clock over the bar ticked away. Soon the plane from San Francisco would arrive. Soon he'd have to look into Sawyer's crystal-gray eyes. What would she see in his own?

Perhaps Sawyer would argue that he was “dropping out,” but Rand knew he wasn't. He simply wanted time to himself, to reap the rewards of his hard work. There were things he'd always dreamed about but could never find the time to indulge: fishing, hunting, and yes, even planting that garden and watching it come to fruit. Books, pleasure trips, refurbishing the four antique automobiles he'd collected. But most of all he wanted time for the people he loved, those involving relationships he'd been unable to develop as he'd run from one airport to the other.

Rand stubbed out his cigarette and paid his bar tab. His tip was overgenerous. If Sawyer had been here, she would have computed the bill and stuck the overage in his breast pocket. Sawyer did things by the book. Rebelliously, Rand placed another dollar on the table. A weary waitress working a dull shift on the Fourth of July needed a little extra. She'd probably missed her family barbecue in order to work today. All Texans went to a barbecue on the Fourth.

Crossing the terminal, he passed a monitor. The blinking words “at the gate” meant Sawyer's plane was in and she and Riley would be deplaning. His step quickened and he straightened his tie. Then he smoothed his tousled thatch of wheat-gold hair. If only he were happy to see her again, if only he didn't feel like a first-class rat. Worse, a coward.

She was beautiful, tall and slim as a fashion model. Men turned for a second appreciative glance; women envied her graceful, long-legged stride. Those incredibly long, shapely legs were bringing her closer and closer. Rand hardly noticed the tall young man beside her. This was Sawyer: brilliant gray eyes, clear pink skin, and generous smile that lit her surroundings. Bright and fresh, her skirt barely wrinkled, every sleek blond hair in place despite the intolerably long trip from Tokyo.

Sawyer stepped into his arms; her soft lips found his. He responded lightly, wishing his heart would stop its furious pounding, wishing she wouldn't look at him with such open-hearted love.

“I missed you, Rand. We have a lot of time to make up,” she whispered, then drew back and looked into his eyes. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her. “Riley!” she said. “We're almost forgetting you!”

“You must have grown a foot since I saw you last, Riley,” Rand said, stretching out his hand.

“He's cropping out at six feet and still growing; what do you think of that?” Sawyer beamed like a proud mother.

“It's uncanny how much like your father you are. You're even built like him.”

“I could hardly believe it myself.” Sawyer laughed. “He was just a little twerp when we saw him last, and now look at him! There's a picture at Sunbridge of Grandpap and Riley when he was this age. I'm going to hang a picture of you right beside them. I'm embarrassing you, Riley. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Riley smiled. “I'm used to you by now. I weigh in at one sixty; she usually mentions that next,” he said to Rand. “How are you, sir? It's been a while.”

“Too long.” Rand clasped the boy's hand. “I was awfully sorry to hear about your mother, Riley. This must be a difficult time for you.”

“Thank you, sir.” The grief was there, clouding the clear nutmeg-colored eyes, but the chin was firm, the voice steady.

Sawyer took a playful swipe at her cousin. “I can't wait till Grand sees you! She's going to flip out. You were a plump little sushi roll when she saw you last!”

“Come on, let's get your baggage,” Rand said. “Have you been embarrassing this lad all the way from Tokyo?”

“I don't mind.” Riley smiled. “Which way to the baggage area?”

Riley followed behind Sawyer and Rand, glad to be in the company of people as tall as himself. It had been getting difficult in Japan. Towering over almost everyone else brought attention to himself, and at the age of sixteen going on seventeen, being conspicuous was the last thing Riley wanted. He was tall like his father, and had become the butt of much good-natured ribbing. It always pleased him when comparisons were made to his father, and he took pride in the resemblance. He'd inherited his strong profile and well-defined nose from his great-grandfather Seth; and he knew his smile and thick crop of fine black hair, which bore a tendency to wave, also came from his American background. Only his eyes revealed his Oriental heritage. Because of his height and build, people often mistook him for Hawaiian. Sawyer told him not to fight it when his ancestry was mistaken. “Eventually, people accept you for
who
you are, not
what
you are,” she'd said. “People who matter, anyway.”