Aspen Gold (12 page)

Less than two months after it was taken, Bannon had married her sister. A year later Diana was dead. But not once in all these years had Bannon forgotten her. Sondra loved him for that--and she hated him for it, too.

Still, she knew she had gained his loyalty and his trust after she'd stood by him when all those questions were raised concerning the circumstances of her sister's death. If it wasn't for that nasty business, she was certain he would have forgotten about Diana long ago. In time, he would. In time, he'd belong solely to her.

Abruptly she set the framed photograph down and briefly laced her slender fingers tightly together. A second later, she reached over and pressed the intercom button, buzzing her secretary.

"Inform Warren I want to see him in my office."

"Yes, Miss Hudson."

With that done, Sondra rose from her chair and stepped away from her chinoiserie desk. She paused a moment, her glance traveling over the plush sitting area in her private office, the deep, overstuffed sofa and chairs, elegant but inviting. As always her eye was drawn to the Chinese painted panels on the wall and the pair of late-Qing jars on the Venetian table by the sofa

--visible symbols of her change in status.

She now owned her own real estate company. More than that, Hudson Properties, Inc., was one of the largest, if not the largest, in Aspen. Her roster of clients read like a list of Who's Who in society, politics, science, industry, state, and screen. It was a list she guarded jealously and expanded constantly.

But it wasn't enough.

She crossed to the corner windows and the view they commanded of the Aspen mall below, its thoroughfares paved with wine-colored bricks and strewn with trees, signature iron lampposts and planter boxes brimming with autumn flowers.

Slipping a hand partway into the pocket of her boxy wool suit jacket, she gazed at the collection of upscale boutiques, trendy galleries, and arty bookstores housed in buildings designed to resemble the old brick and stone edifices of Aspen's silver-rich past.

Idly she studied the people--a trim jogger in a designer sweat suit with a golden retriever at his side; a pretty blonde in stenciled suede pants and alligator boots from Smith's, no doubt; and a slender woman, easily forty, sporting a shopping bag from Nuages.

Money and power were the only things people respected.

Jerome Wheeler had known that in the late 1880's when he'd arrived in Aspen and set about transforming the rough, raw mining camp with more prospects than prosperity into the richest silver-producing area in the world, bending the town to his will, creating a place of beauty and culture by planting trees to shade its streets, constructing an opera house and a luxury hotel to rival any west of the Mississippi, bringing not one railroad but two into Aspen, making it a town with a sophisticated urban outlook, complete with electricity, streetcars, and telephones, turning Aspen into a place for eastern capitalists, touring royalty, and visiting dignitaries.

A half a century later, in the mid 1940's, Walter Papecke had come to Aspen and repeated the process, taking the sleepy mountain cow-town ghost town littered with abandoned, broken-down buildings and transforming it into a fashionable ski resort in the winter and a center of cultural and intellectual pursuits in the summer, attracting the likes of Albert Schweitzer to speak at the issue-based conferences at the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, Itzhak Perlman to play in the famed Music Tent at the Aspen Music Festival, and Ballet West to perform at the Aspen Dance Festival. Again, power and money had allowed Papecke to impose his rule.

Another fifty years had nearly passed.

Time for another to emerge and rule.

A light rap intruded on her thoughts.

Sondra turned to face the door as it opened and Warren Oakes walked through, a tall and tanned forty-year-old with the dark good looks of a fifties matinee idol--and all the surface charm of one, too. Unfortunately he lacked the class to make it in a world of high-rollers.

Still, he was useful to her, especially when she'd first started the agency almost ten years ago--a time when a sugar bowl of cocaine was almost a standard favor at Aspen parties and nearly every transaction included at least one glassine envelope of the white powder as part of the deal. Rather than personally involve herself in such activity, she'd left it entirely in Warren's hands.

A pipe bomb rigged to the Jeep of a local dealer in 1985 had marked the end of both the prominence and dominance of cocaine in the Aspen scene. But Warren still had his uses, both as a storehouse of potentially valuable information about the

"old" days and as a man who was strong enough to carry out her orders, yet weak enough to take them.

"Hello, Sondra." He flashed his white teeth at her, all of them capped. "I didn't expect you to be here yet. How did things go this afternoon with the Arkansas chicken king and his plump little wife?"

"You mean the Atchisons, I assume." She thought of the coarse, ruddy-cheeked millionaire who had somehow managed to make a sizable fortune out of processing chickens for supermarkets across the country. A small flicker of contempt passed over her expression. "The poor man is under the illusion know-how still counts in this world when it's really know-who. He'd never even heard of the Mosbachers. Fortunately for him, his wife is a little smarter." She moved away from the windows.

"However, to answer your question, I think the afternoon will ultimately prove to be successful."

"Wonderful." Warren wandered over to the chair in front of her desk and sat down, crossing his legs and automatically smoothing the crease of his gray slacks.

"Did you get that copy of the guest list for tonight's party? I didn't find it on my desk."

"I have it right here." He reached inside his double-breasted blazer of navy wool and pulled out an envelope, then half rose from his chair to hand it to her.

Sondra removed the list from the envelope.

"Get me the fact sheet on that commercial block in downtown. I want to dangle it in front of Lassiter tonight. I think it may be big enough to interest him, but I'll need some specifics to give him."

"Your copy is in here." He tapped a folder on her desk top.

When she went to pick it up, her intercom line buzzed. She punched the button instead. "Yes, what is it, Susan?"

Her secretary's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Atchison is on line two.

He insists on speaking with you."

She glanced impatiently at the gold Cartier watch on her wrist, conscious of time slipping away. "Very well," she said curtly, then paused a moment to suppress any hint of irritation from her voice before picking up the phone. "Mr. Atchison, I didn't expect to hear from you so soon," she said with studied pleasantness.

"Ida and I have been talking things over since we left you," he said, his tone brusque, his accent thick. "We said we'd get back with you tomorrow, but we've decided we're going to take a little drive over to Vail and take another look at the place we liked so much there."

"I think that's a very sensible thing for you to do,"

Sondra replied smoothly through a tightly held jaw. "Buying a second home is a major decision, certainly one that shouldn't be made in haste. Vail does have a great deal to offer. After all, Jerry Ford goes there. Now Aspen, on the other hand, tends to be the playground for the Kennedys."

There was a long pause on the other end.

Sondra deliberately didn't attempt to fill the silence, letting all the subtle implications of her words sink in.

Warren Oakes sat silently, listening with amusement and grudging admiration. Sondra Hudson was a cool one. But for all her coolness, there was always an anger there, simmering below that smooth surface. He had a feeling it was that anger that fed her discontent--and her ambition.

"Ida did like that house you showed us on Red Mountain," he said finally. "You said the owner was asking three million five for it. Do you think he'd take an even three for it?"

Sondra smiled. "Possibly. That particular home has been on the market for a few months. If you like, I can draw up an offer for that amount."

"Do that."

"I'll do it immediately and have my vice president, Warren Oakes, bring it over to your hotel for your signature." It was never wise to allow a buyer, or a seller, to have too much time for second thoughts; deals could easily be lost that way. "I'd bring it myself, but unfortunately I have a dinner engagement tonight."

"That's fine. We'll be expecting him."

Sondra hung up and turned to Warren with a faintly satisfied air. "They're making an offer of three million on the Baxter place.

Draw it up and run it over to their hotel.

They're staying at the Little Nell."

"Will do." He nodded, invisibly shaking his head at her self-containment. If he'd been on the verge of making a sale this size, he'd be grinning from ear to ear--and sweating out the time until closing. But not Sondra. Never Sondra.

The stylist deftly smoothed a stray strand of blond hair in place, then spritzed to keep it there. "You have gorgeous hair," she told Kit.

"It has so much bulk and body you can do anything with it."

"I can thank my Swedish grandmother for that."

Kit sat with her eyes half closed, relaxing while the stringy brunette arranged her hair in a soft and classic upsweep.

"And you can thank her for the color, too, I'll bet." The stylist stepped back to survey her work, then announced, "All done, I think.

Take a look."

Opening her eyes, Kit studied her reflection in the brightly lit vanity mirror, ignoring the drab plastic cape that protected her gown. "It's perfect." She nodded in approval.

The brunette bent down to unfasten the cape, her reflection joining Kit's in the mirror.

"If Beau saw you looking like this, he wouldn't be so quick to chase other women," she said, referring to Kit's longtime love interest in the soap. "I watch Winds of Destiny all the time." She removed the cape and began folding it to return it to her case. "Truthfully, I don't know why you put up with that conniving, two-timing creep."

"What can I do? I love him," Kit replied in character as she reached for the pair of antique ruby-and-diamond earrings. Edwardian in design, the delicate drops were on loan for the evening.

"You can dump him, that's what you can do," the brunette told her. "He's no good and you're not going to be able to change him."

"I guess not." Kit hid a smile and fastened the first earring to her lobe, aware that the episode marking her departure from the daytime drama would air next week. "Maybe I should break off with him--this time, for good."

"You'll be a lot happier in the long run.

Believe me." The stylist gathered up her case and her oversize shoulder bag and headed for the door. "Have fun tonight."

"Thanks." She smiled at the brunette as she waved and sailed out the door.

Alone, Kit felt a tension work its way through her nerves, a tension caused by the certain knowledge Bannon would be at tonight's gala dinner. He and Old Tom had been ardent supporters of the American Cancer Society ever since a malignant tumor had taken the life of Bannon's mother. It was only logical he would attend.

In any case, it was inevitable she would see him while she was here, probably several times--not because he lived in Aspen, but because Bannon was the executor of her father's estate. Still, seeing him again would be difficult. It always was ... even after ten years.

All wounds eventually healed, but sometimes, when a wound was deep enough, it left a lingering ache that could last a lifetime, making it impossible to forget the cause of it. Brooding over it never helped.

On that mental reminder, she reached for the mate to the Edwardian drop on her lobe.

With the second earring in place, Kit rose from the velvet-cushioned stool and crossed to the bed.

The full-length cape that matched her strapless gown lay across it, a shimmering river of pale gold. A pair of opera-length gloves rested beside it, her only accessory other than the earrings she wore.

As she pulled on the first glove, there was a knock at her door, followed by the sound of John Travis's voice: "May I come in, Kit?"

"Of course. Come ahead." She reached for the second glove and glanced at the crystal clock on the bed table, reassured to see she was ready a full ten minutes early.

When she heard the click of the door latch, she turned to face it. John walked in, the sight of him triggering an awareness, an attraction that seemed to get stronger each time she was with him. She smiled, her gaze taking him in, the formal black suit offering a striking contrast to the deep gold lights in his hair.

"You look splendid, John T.," she declared, smoothing the second glove over an elbow. "Formal dinner jackets and cummerbunds suit you perfectly."

"Thank you." He inclined his head briefly at the compliment, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. "I saw the hairdresser leave and hoped I'd be able to catch you alone."

"You probably hoped you'd catch me indecently clad," she mocked lightly. "But you're out of luck this time, John T. What do you think?" She rested a hand on her hip in a model's pose, and executed a slow pirouette to show him the gown, then stopped to stand before him, a slim column the pale shade of twenty-four carats. "Do you like it?"

She looked refined, elegant, almost untouchable. He stepped closer, seeing the dusting of golden freckles she hadn't bothered to conceal with makeup. They took her out of the realm of a goddess and made her back into a warm, vibrant woman.

He kept her waiting while he pretended to inspect her with a falsely critical eye before he said, "It doesn't look right. Something's missing."

"You can't be serious." Frowning, she turned to look at her reflection in the mirror. "The gown is beautiful; it fits perfectly. There's not a thing wro--"

"Yes, there is." He lifted her right hand.

"You need this."

He wrapped the bracelet from his jacket pocket around her wrist and fastened the safety catch to secure it. For an instant, Kit stared at the delicate gold-and-platinum bracelet set with small white and yellow diamonds.