Aspen Gold (24 page)

He glanced at her outstretched hand. Suddenly the moment felt incredibly awkward to Kit, somehow formal and distant. He lifted his gaze and looked directly into her eyes with an element of regret--or was that longing?

His fingers closed around her hand and she felt the strength of his grip, and the warmth of it. "Now that you're back in Aspen for a while, Kit, don't be a stranger."

"I won't." The assurance came easily as she reminded herself it was time she thought of Bannon as a friend. A dear friend, and nothing more. Yet, when she looked at his tanned and rawboned face--more intriguing than handsome--she felt the pull of old emotions. Emotions that didn't get their power just from memories. Somehow she'd have to find a way to deal with them.

Discovering she'd left her hand in his much longer than was necessary, she drew it free and flashed him a quick smile. When she turned to leave, she encountered the cool stare of Sondra Hudson.

She stood by the secretary's desk, straight and tall, the epitome of a professional and fashion-conscious businesswoman in a beige, tunic-length jacket of cashmere over the restrained black of a silk blouse and wool gabardine skirt. Her hair was smoothly coiffed, not a single platinum strand out of place, and the simple gold clips at her ears were her only concession to jewelry.

Kit knew all about images and she knew this was one that had been cultivated and crafted as carefully and completely as any in Hollywood.

So completely, in fact, that she had no sense of the woman beneath it. She marveled that anyone could exercise that much control over her feelings.

Yet, that was the only impression she was picking up from Sondra Hudson--of emotions suppressed, restrained, utterly controlled.

Kit knew she could never bottle her own up like that without going mad.

"Hello, Sondra." Kit nodded to her.

"Kit." Her lips curved in a warm line, but even that struck Kit as practiced. Then Sondra switched her attention to Bannon, her expression subtly changing, taking on an added warmth although her eyes kept their measuring look.

"I dropped by on the off chance you might be free for a few minutes."

She spoke with the familiarity of one accustomed to dropping in unannounced and being welcomed. Rather like a wife, Kit thought, then doubted that the two of them were at all suited. But what did she know?

Maybe Bannon had peeled through all those layers and found the woman beneath all that control.

"I'm expecting Pete Ranovitch,"

Bannon said with a glance at his watch. "But I'm free till he gets here."

"Wonderful."

"I won't keep you," Kit said quickly. "It was good to see you again, Sondra. Nice meeting you, Agnes," she added and headed for the door.

Sondra watched her walk out, tasting the jealousy that edged toward fury. She was overreacting and she knew it, but it didn't seem to matter. She resented any part of Bannon's past that didn't include her--and Kit Masters was part of that. A close part of it.

"What did you need to see me about, Sondra?"

She turned smoothly and smiled. "Laura."

Amused, he shook his head and stepped aside, letting her precede him into his office.

"What is it this time? Not her hair again?"

"Clothes. She needs some new winter things, Bannon. She's outgrown practically everything from last year." Sondra detected traces of Kit's perfume in the air. A loathsome scent.

"The jacket Laura was wearing this morning--the sleeves don't reach her wrists."

"Clothes, eh?" he said with a faint grimace.

"I guess I need to take her shopping."

"Let me." She saw his hesitation and pressed her advantage. "You know you don't enjoy going from store to store and waiting while Laura tries on clothes. But I do. It would be fun for me. And for Laura, too. Two girls loose on a shopping spree--we'll have a great time."

"I suppose," he said, still hesitant.

"Good. Then I'll pick her up as soon as school lets out today and we'll hit the stores."

A coffee mug sat on the edge of Bannon's desk opposite the padded leather chair.

Sondra noticed the smudge of lipstick on the mug's rim, the same shade Kit Masters had been wearing. Had they had a cozy chat over coffee, reminiscing about the past before getting down to business? The possibility didn't please her at all. "Who knows how long it will take to find the various things Laura will need? It would be best if she spent the night with me. That way we won't have to rush. We can take our time, grab a bite to eat somewhere, have a real girls' night out."

Warily he raised an eyebrow. "How much is this spree going to set me back?"

She tipped her head back and laughed in her throat. "I promise we'll be kind to your budget."

"I hope so," he murmured dryly.

She laid a hand on his arm. "This will be good for her, Bannon. Laura needs to do girl-things--

like shopping for clothes, experimenting with hairstyles, or painting her toenails."

"I guess fathers aren't always good at that, are they?" His mouth slanted in a rueful line.

"Sometimes she needs a woman." Sondra kept her voice deliberately casual, content to merely plant the seed. "When bad weather comes this winter, I wish you'd let her stay with me.

She has her own bedroom at my place, with all her things in it, and she'd be able to play with her other girlfriends."

"I'll think about it."

"Laura likes me, and you know I care a great deal about her. I think I'd be good for her."

She paused a beat, then added, careful to keep her reproof mild, "You're raising her like a boy, Bannon. She's picking up your habits, your quietness. You don't want her to become too old and serious for her age. You want her to become a woman."

Bannon looked down at the hand that rested lightly on his arm, the slender fingers, the soft skin. He felt a growing loneliness, aware that a son would have grown along with him, but a daughter

... Sooner or later the day would come when Laura would follow a different path, when she would be closer to Sondra than to him. That was life--

part of the natural order of things. He couldn't prevent it even if he wanted to.

"You are good for Laura." He put his hand over hers. "I owe you a lot, Sondra. I'm grateful."

She pulled her hand back and looked at him, dark, cool, and quick. "I don't want gratitude from you, Bannon," she said with more heat than she'd intended, and instantly wiped it from her voice and eyes. "I'm only thinking of Laura. What's best for her."

He frowned, puzzled by that gust of intensity that had come from her. "You were angry just then. Why?"

"Because I don't want you to think I'm nice to Laura because she's your daughter. She's my niece, too. I care about her. It has nothing to do with you and me--our relationship."

"I know that."

"I hope so."

In the outer office, the front door shut with slamming force, the sound followed by quick-striding footsteps on the hardwood floor. Bannon lifted his head and glanced toward the connecting door. Sondra knew his attention was no longer on her, but on the client outside.

"I don't know why you waste your time with Ranovitch," she said critically. "The man's a loser."

His glance flicked to her. "I've known Pete a long time." That was all he said, then took her arm. "I'll walk you out."

Loyalty, Sondra thought, recognizing that unbendable streak in him. Bannon stood by his friends, good or bad, with a tenacity and faithfulness that never wavered. And no matter how she tried to twist that to her advantage, she never seemed to fully succeed. Not even today.

Gratitude. She despised that word.

The instant Bannon set foot in the outer office, Pete Ranovitch was on him. Haggard and hollow-eyed, a scruffy windbreaker over stained kitchen whites, he easily looked sixty although he was only nudging fifty. He waved a fistful of papers in Bannon's face, not giving him a chance to respond to Sondra's good-bye.

"Do you see this?" Ranovitch punched the paper in his hand, his voice rising to a shrill edge. "I got this in the mail this morning. The bastard Miller says I've got ten days to move out of my apartment. Can he do that, Bannon? I've still got another ten months on my lease. I suppose that doesn't mean shit."

"Take it easy, Pete." Bannon rescued the papers from the man's ever-tightening fingers and placed a hand on a narrow shoulder, guiding the man toward his office, feeling the tension and the tremors that had Ranovitch holding himself rigid. "Come on in and sit down. Give me a chance to see what you've got." Over his shoulder, he said, "Aggie, bring us some coffee. My pot's empty and I think Pete could use some."

"What I could use is a drink." Pete Ranovitch sank into the chair in front of Bannon's desk and rubbed a hand over his mouth, then caught Bannon's eye and waved off the look. "Don't worry. I'll settle for coffee. But it's shit like this that makes a man drink."

Withholding comment, Bannon smoothed the crumpled sheets and kicked back in his chair to read through them. Agnes came in with two cups of coffee and took the dirty mugs with her when she left, closing the connecting door on her way out.

Pete dug in his pocket for a cigarette, then snapped his lighter repeatedly trying to get a flame.

"Jeezus, now my damned lighter won't work." He jerked the cigarette from his mouth in disgust, his fingers curling around it and the plastic lighter. "Got a light, Bannon?"

Bannon tossed him a book of matches from the center drawer. Two strikes and the match flared. Pete held the flame to the tip of his cigarette with a trembling hand, then blew out a quick puff.

"Can he do it, Bannon? Can he throw me out?" He sat forward in his chair, turning the matchbook over and over in his fingers. "In that letter, he says I broke the lease. He says I was four days late with my rent money--"

"Were you?"

"Yes, but I'd called him. I'd told him I'd have it for him as soon as I got my paycheck. He said it was no problem. I paid it just like I said I would, then he does this!" He puffed jerkily on the cigarette, his head bowed.

Frowning, Bannon slipped the letter behind the accompanying sheets that had been stapled together.

"Is this the lease?"

"Yeah, I thought you'd want to see it." He took another hasty drag on his cigarette, then tapped the ash from it into the bronze ashtray on Bannon's desk. "I leased the place from him over a year ago, and he's got his rent every damned month for it, too. Just how much is a guy supposed to take, Bannon? I've been busting my ass, working two jobs, tending bar nights and cooking days, thinking maybe now I'll be able to start putting money aside so I can finally get a restaurant of my own. I've been here in Aspen for thirty years. Hell, I was here before Harry Miller. I remember when he was nothing but a bookkeeper, doing tax work on the side.

Then he started his own business--and started investing.

Hell, I hate to think how many people I watched get rich along with Aspen. I saw them get all the breaks and I kept waiting and struggling, thinking it's gonna be my turn next. But it never is. Something like this always happens." He paused when he saw Bannon flip through the last page of the lease. "Well? Can he kick me out?

I paid the damned rent."

"I know." Bannon sighed grimly and glanced through the lease again, even though he already knew what it said. "I wish you had let me look at this lease before you signed it, Pete. According to this, he can evict you and sue for the remaining ten months'

rent."

"You're kidding." The cigarette dropped from his fingers. "For crissake, tell me you're kidding."

"I wish I was--"

Pete flung his hands in the air, ash flying from the cigarette. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Where am I gonna go? You know there's nothing here in Aspen I can rent, and with my hours working two jobs, I can't be driving back and forth from Basalt or Glenwood Springs. I'd be better off sleeping in my car." He jabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. "You know why he's doing this, don't you? He's made a deal with that motel on the highway. Instead of renting his crummy apartments for twelve hundred dollars a month, he can rent them for two, three, or four hundred dollars a night to those damned skiers.

The greedy--"

"Hold it." Bannon held up his hand to shut off the flow. "I said--he can do it. But maybe we can persuade him that he doesn't want to."

"Doesn't want to? Harry Miller, not want to collect three hundred dollars a night? Fat chance," Pete Ranovitch snorted as he pushed out of the chair.

"It's worth a try, isn't it?"

"Sure, but ..." He frowned uncertainly.

Bannon motioned him back into the chair and reached for the phone. "Sit down and drink your coffee while I call and see if he's in."

He dialed the number on the letterhead. "Harry and I have locked horns a couple of times in the past. We understand each other."

Pete studied the hard, almost stubborn set of Bannon's features and slowly sank back into the chair. "But if he's got the right--"

"Sometimes a man can be within his rights and still be wrong, Pete," Bannon said, then swung the mouthpiece up. "Is Harry in?" he said into it.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Bannon."

"One moment." Muzak played and Pete lit another cigarette, his gaze clinging to Bannon, his fingers never still, toying with the cigarette, the dead match, in a betrayal of nerves.

"Harry Miller here."

Bannon recognized the brusque voice even without the identification. "Harry, it's Bannon."

"I must say this is a surprise." He sounded a bit amused, and a bit curious.

"It shouldn't be. Pete Ranovitch came by my office to show me a letter he received from you."

"Ranovitch. I should have known he'd come to you.

He always could count on you to bail him out of the tank, couldn't he? Well, I hope he brought along a copy of his lease."

"He did."

"Then you know I've acted in accordance with the terms and conditions of it."

"I'd like you to reconsider your position, Harry."

"What is this? A personal appeal, Bannon? Look, I know the man's had trouble.