Rivals by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    Looking around her, Flame realized that this flat was the one good thing that had come out of her disastrous marriage. It was hers now. Although at the time, she would have willingly given it up along with anything else just to obtain a divorce. Fortunately, that hadn’t been necessary.
    The buzzing ring of the doorbell cut sharply through the morning stillness. Flame frowned at the black mantel clock above the white marble fireplace. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet. No one came to visit this early on a Saturday morning. Her friends knew how much she relished her weekend mornings—waking up at her leisure, dressing when she pleased, and going out if she chose. During the weekdays she adhered to a set schedule of appointments, meetings, and business luncheons, but the weekends when she wasn’t working on a rush campaign or on call, she spent strictly on impulse, shopping or sailing with friends, occasionally taking in an exhibit she wanted to see or simply lolling around the apartment and catching up on current novels. The evenings were different, usually with some private dinner party, social function, or benefit interspersed with concerts and theater performances.
    When the buzzer rang again, more strident in its summons the second time, Flame set her cup down on the glass top of the black lacquer and brass occasional table and ran lightly from the living room into the foyer, her bare feet making little sound on the honey-colored parquet flooring. Out of habit, she glanced through the front door’s peephole. On the other side stood an elderly lady, a pillbox hat of loden green perched atop a soft cloud of white hair. Despite the slight distortion from the thick glass, Flame was certain she didn’t know the woman.
    The woman started to ring the doorbell a third time. Flame pushed the tousled mass of her hair away from her face with a combing rake of her fingers and began unfastening the series of security locks and chains. In the midst of the third ring, she swung the heavy oak door open.
    â€œYes?” She glanced expectantly at the elderly stranger, certain she had come to the wrong address. Yet the avid stare from the elderly woman’s brightly black eyes inspected