Private affairs : a novel (26 page)

"Four."

"Now look, dammit, I've dropped from ten to five; you've come up one puny half-million. That is not good-faith negotiating."

"Four, Jim."

"Four and a half."

Matt pulled a typed letter from his briefcase and put it on the table, turning it around so Graham could read it. The only sound in the small diner was the tapping of the salt shaker in Graham's hand. "Shit. All ready and everything. Pretty fucking sure of yourselves. Borrow your pen?"

"You should read it before you sign."

"Do I know what it says?"

"Probably."

"Four and a half million for all capital equipment, subscription lists, advertising contracts, supplies, the works. Contract to be signed at such and such a date."

"Yes. But I'd like you to read it."

"Shit." Graham skimmed the letter. "Pen." Matt handed him one and he scrawled his name. "Congratulations," he said heavily. "Just got yourself a hell of a deal. Your boss promise you a bonus? A mink coat for your missus? A lady for your spare time?"

Matt put the letter away and stood up. "You'll be hearing from us." He hesitated. "I hope you get everything straightened out with your son."

"Bullshit, mister. You don't give a flying fuck what happens to me or my son." Turning his back, Graham drained his beer mug.

Matt waited a moment, then walked to the cash register, paid for their chiles and beer, and left the diner.

/ have never done anything like that in my life.

And the fact that James Graham had made his own mess, and then insulted the only buyer who'd shown up in ten months of frantic search-

ing, didn't change the reality that Matt didn't like himself at that moment; he wasn't even sure he recognized Matt Loveil—whom I've known intimately, he reflected wryly, for forty-two years.

He stood in front of the diner, realizing he had no way back to the airport. No taxis were in sight; he couldn't ask Graham. Well, he'd walk; he remembered the way they'd come. He started up the road. It was only a few miles; he had three hours before his plane, and a walk was just what he needed. He could work off some nervous energy, think about what he'd done—maybe even get acquainted with a Matt Lovell he'd never known before.

Nicole Renard was married and divorced before she was twenty-three; at twenty-four she met Keegan Rourke while skiing in Aspen; a month later she bought a sprawling ranch-style home in River Oaks, a few blocks from Rourke's; and by the time she was twenty-six her parties were as well-known there as in New York, where she owned an apartment in Trump Tower, and Aspen, where she stayed in Rourke's house on Red Mountain, across the valley from the ski slopes.

Six years later, when she invited Matt Lovell to her annual pre-Christ-mas party, she and Rourke had evolved gradually from lovers to friends. Occasionally they spent the night together, because they liked each other and it was relaxing to spend an undemanding evening with someone familiar—"Like an old bathrobe," Nicole would say, stretching lazily in bed. "We fit well and we haven't worn each other out"—but they didn't waste time on possessiveness or jealousy when Rourke had other women and Nicole other men. Still, the two of them, though thirty-eight years apart in age, had the special intimacy that comes from sharing identical ideas about getting and using the things of the world, and it endured even when they kept in touch only by phone.

So Nicole was the first outside Rourke Enterprises to know how well Matt had handled the Graham purchase. And Rourke was the first to know that Nicole planned to invite Matt to her December party. "He may not come," Rourke said. "As far as I know, he doesn't socialize here at all, except for business dinners."

"Perhaps he'll make an exception," Nicole said, and the first week in December she called Matt at Rourke's headquarters. "Pre-Christmas; my own tradition," she said in her husky voice. "I don't compete with office parties or cozy family gatherings; I give one glorious fete at the precise moment when everyone is dying for a party but dreading the official ones. Do say you'll come. I hear about you all the time, but we've never talked. Keegan monopolized you in Aspen, and I couldn't spring you from all the

politicos at that awful party at his house, though I certainly did my best, as you may have noticed. And I'm told my parties are memorable. You will come, won't you? My reputation as a hostess might depend on it. And I am so looking forward to really getting to know you. Please, Matt, do say yes."

"I'd like to," said Matt, intrigued by the contrast between her sultry voice and ingenuous outpouring of words. "I'm not sure I'll be in town."

"Keegan said you didn't socialize in Houston, but just this once I hoped you would. After all, there aren't many pre-Christmases in a year. It's a special occasion for me; it might be one for you, too. And Keegan will be here, in case you're worried about not knowing anyone."

"I'm not worried," Matt replied. "I know you."

"You'll know me better after the twenty-first."

As it turned out, Matt knew a few other guests, but most of those who crowded into the three wings of Nicole's ranch house were like a tossed salad of professions, ages, and life-styles Matt had not expected to find. Television actors, actresses, and newscasters, jazz musicians, stockbrokers, European couturiers, interior designers, and songwriters mingled with oilmen, real estate developers, bankers, resort owners, Olympic swimming medalists, and a magazine publisher who flew in from New York for the party.

They shouted greetings and introductions and wove in and out like dancers, drifting into one pattern and then another. Champagne and hot spiced wine were served in all three wings that extended from the central living and dining room that curved around a swimming pool beneath a domed skylight. Nicole had converted one wing to a huge playroom where guests found games of jacks, marbles, hopscotch, dominoes, pinning a beard on a life-size cardboard politician—a new one every month, Matt learned—a Ping-Pong table, ring toss, and a full swing set. "It's the most popular place in the house," Nicole told Matt when she showed him around. "People tend to scoff, then they sneak up here and have the best time they've had in years."

Everyone had heard of Matt. Word had gotten around that Rourke Enterprises had a new executive and that Nicole—"wouldn't you just know Nicole would be the one to do it?"—was the first to get him to come to a Houston party, so when she introduced him he was met with open curiosity and appraisal. The women approved his looks, the men approved his starting out at the top, and they all offered congratulations and urged him to call them if he needed anything.

"Which means they'll call you," Nicole laughed. "They like to think

men like Keegan and those close to him can do anything, get around laws and ordinances, swing votes. ..."

"I can't," Matt said.

"But if they want to think it, why stop them?"

By the time they were in the living room again, and she had left him to greet new arrivals, Matt stood alone, wondering about her guests, and her house. It was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen, furnished with elegant sophistication instead of the hard masculinity of Rourke's office.

"She's very good," Rourke said at Matt's elbow.

Matt turned. "I didn't see you come in."

"You were in the playroom. Superb house, isn't it?"

Matt nodded. "Where does she get her money?"

"Real estate."

"In Houston?"

Rourke chuckled. "In the course of three generations, her family has bought several blocks near the Place Vendome in Paris, a good part of Gray's Inn Road in London, scattered buildings around Columbus Circle in New York, and in downtown Perth and Sidney, Australia. And Nicole is a shrewd investor; she manages her money well. The chandelier, by the way, is a Waterford; the stained glass lamps are Tiffany, and the ones with glass shades painted in country scenes are Handel. Good investments."

Someone called Rourke and he excused himself. Matt contemplated the room, remembering the others in the house. No personality, Elizabeth had said. But that had been the Nicole who decorated Rourke's office. This Nicole had used soft textures and bright colors that glowed beneath a sparkling chandelier and glass lamps. Extremely beautiful. And good investments.

The evening was chilly—a cold wave, Houstonians called it, since the temperature had dipped below forty—and fires burned in the living room and dining room and the guest rooms and Nicole's bedroom and study in another wing. Guests sat on silk hassocks, velvet couches, and crewel-worked armchairs. Their voices carried through the house. Matt walked through the rooms, stopped by guests who had heard of him and wanted to meet him, to find out what he was doing for Rourke, and what Rourke was involved in these days. He was invited to speak to three business groups, to join a luncheon club, and to appear as a guest on a television talk show. When someone finally praised "Private Affairs," he felt relieved, as if at last he was sharing something with Elizabeth.

A few minutes later dinner was served at ten round tables, with ten people to a table, and Matt found his place card beside Nicole's. He knew none of the others at the table so he listened to the talk about sports and

politics, ski resorts and real estate, European fashions and American designers. Nicole watched over it, heading off disputes, introducing a new subject before the current one flagged, now and then leaving her chair to check on the conversations at the other tables. In the foyer between the living and dining rooms, musicians played waltzes and show tunes; waiters glided in and out refilling wine glasses and bread and butter plates.

Everything was done with a perfection that came from experience and attention to detail. From the pheasant pate with brandied apples to the white chocolate mousse and espresso, each course was presented on a different pattern of china, each wine in a different pattern of crystal. Where does a woman put six hundred place settings of china and glassware? Matt asked himself. Then he noticed round cut-glass can-dleholders, four to each table, with candles flickering deep within them; a round cut-glass vase beside each candleholder, with miniature sprays of balsam and red berries, one beside each candleholder, and gold-handled fruit knives at each place. Behind the fruit knives were the place cards: curls of white bark from aspen trees, with guests' names written in a bold script.

Matt admired it as a job superbly done. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. He finished his coffee and dessert, then, groaning inwardly because he had been unable to resist the amaretto truffles, he excused himself, strode the full length of the playroom and then back, to stand at the side of the dining room, watching those who were still eating.

"Lonely?" Nicole asked, coming to stand beside him.

"Recovering," he replied with a smile. "If I hadn't stood and stretched after that meal I wouldn't have been able to get up for a month."

She did not, he noted with approval, make a coy comment about his staying for a month; she merely returned his smile, giving him another chance to admire her beauty. Her black hair was loose and frizzed—each time he saw her it was different—making her face seem smaller and as clear and pale as fine china; her strapless dress was white silk, sinuously molded to her body; around her neck, like a fabulous collar, lay an eight-strand necklace of ebony and ivory. A red camellia nestled in her hair, matching her lipstick: her only dashes of color. "Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked, and she might have been asking about the party or looking at her.

"Very much," Matt answered, letting her decide which he meant. He glanced about the room. "It's quite a collection of people."

"Which surprises you."

Embarrassed, he said, "Am I so obvious?"

"Less than most men. It's one of the reasons I find you interesting. But

you are puzzled about me and you didn't expect to be. Am I right? My house has surprised you, my dinner has surprised you, my guests have surprised you."

"You've been watching me."

"I watch all my guests, to make sure they're happy. You've spent the evening trying to categorize me and put names to the things I own. The rug in the library, by the way, is a Bakhtiari." She laughed. "I'm sorry, Matt; I'm taking advantage of your expressive face. But I like it; I prefer a man who shows his emotions even when he's puzzled because I don't fit into simple categories."

He shook his head. "Unfair. I don't always look for easy explanations."

"Come, now. Men do."

"You pride yourself on knowing enough about men to know that all men don't."

She laughed. "Clever man. Another reason I find you interesting. Not many men are."

"How many have been?" Matt asked curiously.

"I don't keep count," she said, smiling. "Do you, with women?"

"Yes. It's a very small number."

"Ah. Lucky as well as clever. What would you like to know about me?"

"What would you like to tell me?"

She gave a low laugh. "Nothing right now. Someday, when the time is right, I'll tell you the history of the Renards. I'm ahead of you there; I already know yours. Matt Lovell, the brightest star in Keegan Rourke's galaxy."

"An exaggeration. Keegan must have been under a spell. Was it yours?"

Still smiling, she shook her head. "Keegan has been free of my spell for years. You impressed him without sorcery. And why would you need it? You do very well on your own."

"Only a fool turns down help when it's offered."

"Even demonic?"

"If he can control it."

"Ah. A confident man. No wonder Keegan trusts you with one of his biggest jobs."

"If he does. I'm still on trial."

"And covering the whole southwest. Hardly a small stage."

"Hardly a small critic. Keegan isn't easily satisfied."

"Are you?"

"Easily satisfied? No."

"The winners of the world never are. I sympathize with you; Keegan isn't easy to work for. But the rewards make it worthwhile."

"You don't mean money."

She gave a small shrug. "Many people make money. It's harder to get power and influence."