Die in Plain Sight Page 5

  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 develop
ment.” 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

  some 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.
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  “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?”