Children of Dynasty (4 page)

Rising on tiptoe, she kissed Charley’s cheek. “You run on. I haven’t got anything that won’t wait for another evening.”

He ran down the steps two at a time and slammed out of the foyer.

She stood on the landing for a long time, studying the relentless rain.

Rory rammed his Porsche through the gears on the way to his father’s house. Lightning flared, and the gutters ran full. Heading back to the scene of last night’s party, he wondered what he’d been thinking to invite Mariah. Curiosity, he’d told her, but after eight years, he’d expected she would be out of his system.

Nonetheless, on the terrace he’d immediately recognized the woman with spun-gold hair, and spiraled back to that long-ago summer, reverted to a raw kid raging with hormones … Seeing Mariah again had brought back the heady feeling of possibility, a sensation he thought he’d lost. Now, as he guided his 911 through puddles into the mansion’s drive, Rory wondered again what life would be like had he not made the boyish decision to give her up so easily.

Beneath the porch’s overhang, he brushed water from his sleeves and rang the doorbell. Years ago, he’d found out his key no longer fit the lock, but refused to admit he’d noticed.

Beyond the sidelight, Anna, in her usual uniform of dark dress and severe coif, opened the door. “Mr. Rory!” she said with a smile.

Once inside, he headed for the family room. In the two-story space, an Alaskan brown bear stood on hind legs, lips drawn back in a snarl. A rhino’s head hung above the fireplace, while a full standing lion with a black mane guarded the French doors.

Rory entered, his wet shoes squeaking on the slate floor.

His father emerged from the depths of a wing chair, his Oxford-cloth shirt open at the neck.

“Where’s Mom?” Rory asked. He’d always known there was something missing in his parents’ marriage, but usually when he was invited to dinner, he found them together.

Davis’s expression darkened, but before he could speak a door closed in the rear of the house. Someone came in from the garage, rapid footsteps pattering across the stone.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” His mother paused in the hall archway, her flaming hair backlit by the foyer chandelier.

Davis turned on his wife. “Where have you been?”

“Out.” She smoothed her pantsuit, frowning at some damp spots.

“Where?”

Rory went to the windows. Dusk was falling early, darkening the sea.

“Where I’ve been is none of your business.” Kiki’s tone dripped ice water in a manner Rory had never heard before.

“I’ll make it my business,” Davis threatened.

“Why would you care where I’ve been?”

His father suddenly laughed. “I don’t care; I just hope you’re preserving appearances.”

Rory hated hearing this. Though the gossip rags frequently suggested that infidelity was the way of his family, he liked to think things weren’t this bad. The saddest part was he thought his mother still cared for her husband and hungered for some sign he returned it.

He was sure of it when her defiant expression crumpled. Apparently close to tears, she said softly, “My bridge club went to afternoon tea at the St. Francis.”

Anna appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.

While the family suffered through the strained atmosphere and a meal of roast quail, wild rice, and baby peas, Rory thought that things hadn’t always been like this. As a child, he’d dogged his father’s steps with worshipful adoration, looking up to the man who taught him to sail and took him to construction sites. When he grew older, he continued to admire his father, until he realized he was expected to grow up to be exactly like him. That was when, despite his desire to be a builder, he determined to make it his own way.

Last night, Mariah had pointed out his inconsistency in going to work for DCI after vowing never to do so. He wondered if she could understand how times and circumstances changed. A few months ago, his mother had come to him and argued the case for his joining the family business.

“You know I can’t tell if Davis’s ideas are brilliant or demented. He’s getting on in years. You owe it to yourself … and to me … to look out for the family interests.”

He’d been forced to consider it. With Father growing older, working together might be a last chance for the kind of relationship Rory had dreamed of as a kid. And, though his long-suffering mother laid on the guilt, what cinched it was his boss’s suggestion that only at DCI could Rory learn things Takei could not offer in his smaller company.

So, he’d come into the business wary, yet at the same time eager. And for a while, he’d begun to believe his fears were unfounded. His father had been reasonably pleasant to work with, and if he were running around on his wife, Rory had seen no signs of it.

However, in the past month Davis had undergone a change. More driven, shorter-fused, he had treated Kiki with the kind of outright cruelty Rory had witnessed this evening. He also seemed especially focused on beating out John Grant, as if their rivalry were fresh instead of many years old.

When the family meal ended Kiki left them alone. Davis ushered Rory toward the library. Eight years ago, after driving a shamed and shaken Mariah back to the city from the yacht basin, dropping her off in front of John’s house without Rory having a chance to speak to her alone, his father had led the way to the same austere room lined with shelves of unread books.

“What were you thinking,” Davis had shouted, “taking up with John Grant’s daughter? If you got that little slut pregnant, don’t even think of running off to Nevada. I’ll make sure any marriage is annulled.”

Rory figured he could do it with the local judge in his pocket. Nonetheless, he fought back. “I’m not a kid. It’s not your place to dictate my personal life!”

“I’m your father, and that’s as personal as it gets. If you ever want to run DCI … “

“That’s your plan.”

“Or work anywhere in this industry, you’ll stay away from Mariah Grant.”

Rory had known there’d be trouble if their fathers found out they were seeing each other, but this was worse than he’d imagined.

“Why wouldn’t you want to merge our companies?” He dangled the carrot. “Think of the power.”

“I’ll do business with anybody but John Grant.” Davis’s face looked stony. “You put his daughter out of your mind.”

If only it were that simple. Mariah was his haven from the world and believing she felt the same kept him fighting.

“I don’t need your money or your company. I’ll change my major.”

“I’m paying the university.”

“I’ll get a scholarship.”

“A word from me, and the Stanford committee, or any other school, would lose your application.” Davis paced like a caged coyote. “You think you don’t need money? If you’re parking cars would John Grant’s daughter look at you twice?”

The windmill he jousted overwhelmed Rory. Even if he were willing to throw away his birthright, Mariah would still wear the albatross of Grant Development. Despite her youth, he could see her commitment to running the company would never falter.

With that decision eight years in the past, Rory was again in the library, determined to remain cool whatever happened.

His father went to the sideboard and poured single malt scotch without offering one. Then he moved toward his throne, an imposing high-backed chair of smooth reddish wood mined from South Africa’s ancient railroad ties. Years of habit dictated Rory take the opposite seat. Tonight he stood.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that between me and your mother.” Davis’s tone was familiar, political, as he cupped his drink in both hands, and swished it around.

Rory forced a shrug. “I’ve heard you fight before.” He paused. “Well, not like that.”

Davis’s expression sharpened. “Are your negative feelings about marriage based on our troubles?”

“Some are.” But an image of Elizabeth’s chocolate brown eyes, her face etched in lines of sadness when they had decided to end it made him go on, “Have you forgotten I’m divorced?”

Davis played deaf. “You know what an advantage marrying your mother was. The Mainwearing position helped assure DCI’s place in this city.”

Several times since Rory’s divorce, his father had pointed out a woman, discussing her potential advantages as though contemplating a corporate merger.

“Don’t even think of going there,” he cautioned.

“I’m afraid we have to.” Davis gave a tight smile. “Son, I’m talking about Sylvia Chatsworth. I know you’ve been seeing her.”

Rory could not deny that for the past few months, Sylvia’s black gaze had intrigued, but his father’s matchmaking made every instinct in him seize up. “I don’t love her.”

“You don’t marry for love but for the right reasons,” Davis plowed on.

“Sylvia and I have had good times, but I won’t make her my wife.” He grabbed the decanter, fumbled with the stopper, and poured a splash of single malt. “Marrying Elizabeth on the rebound was a disaster.” In the years between, he’d strengthened his walls, been unable to give Elizabeth what she deserved.

And Mariah … Rory drank to keep the words inside.

Seven years ago, he’d told her he loved her. That boy had fallen for her with his whole heart, bought the white house and the picket fence myth, mixed up somehow with believing he and Mariah could build a corporate empire together. Now, his failed marriage, and the poor state of his parents’ union, had made him a far different man.

He wasn’t sure what love meant anymore.

The political fundraiser was in full swing when Rory escorted Sylvia Chatsworth to the top of the Marriott. Beyond fan-shaped glass walls, the towers of the Bay Bridge marched toward Oakland. Tall buildings cast sunset shadows on the San Francisco streets where conventioneers and taxis mingled to their mutual advantage.

Rory already regretted keeping the date with Sylvia, arranged before he’d seen Mariah again, and before his father had tried shoving him toward the Senator’s daughter. He checked Sylvia’s vermilion leather coat and moved into the main room, savoring the fact that his parents were out of town for the weekend.

“There’s the heir to Grant Development again,” Sylvia said in an ugly voice, but his radar had already detected Mariah from across the crowded room.

He wished even more that he’d come solo.

She stood near the bar, a petite woman who could have looked fragile. Yet, the set of her proud head gave away her strength, that of a finely wrought saber. Rising young District Attorney Lyle Thomas, a burly blond who might have descended from the Vikings, rested a predatory paw on her arm. The man stood big enough to put Rory in his place if he gave in to a sudden irrational impulse to knock that hand off Mariah.

Even through his suit coat, Sylvia’s lacquered nails dug into his forearm. Rory felt certain that in her low-cut leather sheath she had every man in the room aware of her wide-set, generous breasts. Black hair made a smooth fall over her bare shoulders. Yet he thought she came up wanting beside Mariah’s trim figure in a tasteful black velvet tunic, her golden hair caught up at the nape of her slender neck.

After drinks and a buffet supper, an enthusiastic crowd greeted Sylvia’s father, the featured speaker of the evening.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” With a sharp sweep of the room, Senator Lawrence Chatsworth managed to look at each person. “I recognize all my many friends here this evening, and I can’t begin to tell you how much your support means.”

Takei Takayashi led a round of applause.

While Chatsworth warmed to the topic of national security, Sylvia slid a hand onto Rory’s thigh and whispered, “Bored yet?”

“Of course, but we ought to stay awhile.”

The fact was that he couldn’t have been dragged out of here. Repositioning his chair, he checked how Lyle staked his claim on Mariah and studied the pale shadow at the hollow of her throat. When he’d thought of seeing her again, he’d imagined the same girl, just a few years older.

But she was not the same; Mariah was more vivid than he recalled, more passionate … and suspicious, the way she’d asked if he invited her to the DCI party. Yet, how could he blame her? In her version of events, eight years ago he’d married another woman completely without warning. That Mariah had refused to talk to him for months before he exchanged vows with Elizabeth was no excuse in her view. Hell, they said peoples’ memories were so poor that even eyewitness accounts were unreliable. How could either of them be expected to have an accurate, much less dispassionate version of events? Especially after time had faded their colors and muted their sounds.