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FEBRUARY 2003
Risk versus return. What can be lost versus what can be gained. The essence of every critical decision. Invest in those dependable Treasury bonds yielding a slim but certain return, or throw caution to the wind and snap up shares of the high-tech start-up that could become next week's billion-dollar headline --- or, just as easily, a bankrupt memory. Marry the safe, stable person your parents adore, or run away with the lover who ignites body and soul with a single glance --- but lives only in the moment. Risk versus return. A simple concept that often imposes difficult choices. And, sometimes, terrible consequences.
Angela Day had chosen well in her business career. It was in her personal life where accepting the risks had proven catastrophic.
Until a few minutes ago the four-hour flight from Virginia had been silky smooth. Zero chop in the dark winter sky, which came as a relief because Angela hated to fly. So many times she'd heard the catchy stat about planes being safer than cars --- usually from amused colleagues sitting beside her when she made the sign of the cross over her heart as the aircraft began to roll forward on takeoff. But as the Gulfstream V banked hard left on its final approach into Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and hurtled through a nasty air pocket, the statistical crutch disintegrated --- just as it always did.
"Get this thing on the ground," she whispered, her fingernails digging into the arms of the plush leather seat, her stomach starting to churn. "Now."
On the way west a uniformed steward had attended to her every want, serving a delicious crab imperial dinner an hour into the flight and constantly topping off her crystal glass with a dry Chardonnay. She was accustomed to commercial aircraft and economy class, accustomed to flat Coke in plastic cups, stale pretzels, and uncomfortable seats beside infants who screamed at any change in air pressure. So, being the only passenger on a private jet as lavish as a five-star hotel suite was a welcome change, even if the luxury was a one-time-only offer made available for some as-yet-unexplained reason by a reclusive billionaire she'd only read about in the press.
But the pleasurable experience had been ruined somewhere over South Dakota, when one of the pilots had sauntered back to let her know in his gravelly, Chuck Yeager monotone that the landing might get a little dicey. A winter storm had blown in to northwest Wyoming a few hours ahead of schedule, and he wanted to make certain she was buckled in securely. He chuckled at her suggestion that he make a U-turn and beeline it back to the East Coast, then told her he'd see her on the ground. Hopefully in one piece, she thought. She tried to convince herself that "a little dicey" wasn't pilot-speak for "imminent disaster." Suddenly she missed economy class and its screaming infants. She glanced out the small window beside her into total darkness. Probably the side of some mountain we're about to slam into, she figured grimly.
Then the plane's two engines powered up, landing lights flashed on, and she was hurtling through a wall of white. "Oh, God," she murmured, digging her fingernails even deeper into the leather. A moment later, eerie blue lights appeared through the thick clouds and a snow-covered runway rose up to meet the aircraft. A hard bounce, a softer one, a deafening roar and they were taxiing through a blizzard, apparently under control. She let out an audible sigh.
"Welcome to Wyoming, Ms. Day. I hope you enjoyed the flight."
Angela looked up into the smiling face of the clean-cut attendant who had appeared from a door at the back of the cabin. "Thank you." She thought about telling him the truth --- how she wished Orville and Wilbur's mother and father had never met. "Everything was fine."
"Good. Well, it's 11 p.m. here in Jackson Hole. We'll be taxiing for a few minutes, and we'd like you to remain in your seat until the plane comes to a complete stop."
"As opposed to a partial stop?" She grinned but he didn't react. "You didn't really have to say all that stuff about me remaining in my seat, did you? After all, I am the only passenger."
"Regulations are regulations," he answered firmly, handing her the small makeup kit she had stowed in an overhead compartment. "The rest of your luggage will be taken care of for you."
"Have you ever met Jake Lawrence?" she asked before the young man moved off.
He hesitated. "I can't say."
She smiled at him. "Does that mean you don't know if you've ever met him? That you don't even know what Mr. Lawrence looks like? Or that you know what he looks like, but you aren't allowed to talk about him?"
The young man smiled politely. "I can't say. I hope you enjoy your time here in the Tetons."
Then the young man disappeared through the doorway at the back of the cabin. Angela's favorite meal was crab imperial, accompanied by dry Chardonnay. The movie on the way out --- Erin Brockovich --- was one of her favorites. The books and magazines on board were her favorites, as well. It was all too neatly packaged to be coincidence.
"Sorry about the bumps on the way down, Ms. Day." The pi- lot helped her slip into her long winter coat as she stood by the cock- pit door.
"I'm just glad we're on the ground," she said.
He opened the plane's outer door as a utility truck rolled a metal stairway up to the fuselage. "Well, enjoy your stay."
"I'm sure I will."
A bearded man in orange overalls hustled up the steps toward Angela, open umbrella tilted into the driving snow. "Welcome to Jackson Hole, Ms. Day," he called loudly over the roar of the idling jet engines, holding the umbrella above her head. "Careful," he warned, holding out his arm and helping her down the slick metal stairs. "Over there," he directed when they reached the ground, pointing toward a Ford Expedition that had swung out onto the icy tarmac.
As they neared the SUV, he handed her the umbrella, then jogged ahead and opened the passenger door. A moment later she was in- side and the cold, wind, and exhaust smell were gone, replaced by warmth and the soothing aromas of leather, tobacco, and coffee.
"Good evening, Ms. Day. Welcome to Jackson Hole."
Angela took a deep breath, then glanced over at the driver. He was a big man wearing a ten-gallon hat and a leather jacket with a thick wool collar. In the dim dashboard lights she thought she detected friendly eyes. Beneath his full mustache there was a wide smile.
"Is everyone out here always so darn polite?"
"Why wouldn't we be?" he answered as a baggage handler placed her luggage in the back. "After all, this is paradise."
"Sure it is," she said, watching the snow whip past the window.
"Helluva night, huh?"
"Yes," she agreed, "especially when you'd rather crawl across hot coals than fly." She hesitated. "And you can call me Angela. After all the'Ms. Day this' and'Ms. Day that' on the way out here, I'm starting to feel like an old maid."
The driver shook his head as he shifted into first gear. "I don't think anybody's going to mistake you for an old maid."
He had a nice voice, she decided. Confident but not cocky. Strong but not overwhelming. Soothing, almost. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nuthin'," he said, guiding the SUV out of the small airport and onto a deserted main road already covered by two inches of fresh powder. "I don't want to get into any hot water."
"Tell me what you meant. I'll have to mention your remark to Mr. Lawrence if you don't."
"That wouldn't be very nice," he protested, picking up a coffee mug sitting in the console between them and taking a swallow.
She grinned. "Oh, I'm only kidding." She searched for a place on the dashboard to put her makeup kit down.
"Let me move all that for you." He put the mug back down, then reached in front of her and slid two revolvers and several boxes of ammunition out of her way.
"That's quite an arsenal you've got there."
"Hey, you never know what you're gonna run into in Wyoming. Yellowstone's only thirty miles north of here and every once in a while the grizzlies come down out of the park to see what's what. I have no desire to end up bear chow. That's not how I picture myself going out."
"Which would explain the .44 Magnum," she agreed, eyeing the larger gun now resting on the dash in front of the steering wheel. "Even though I assume most bears are hibernating, given that it's the middle of February."
"Well --- "
"But what about the long-barreled .22?"
"You sure know your guns."
"I've had some experience."
"Interesting. Well, the .22's for rattlesnakes. And before you say anything, no, there aren't any of them around this time of year, either." He hesitated. "The guns are my security blanket, just in case."
"Just in case what?"
"Just in case."
She glanced over at him, trying to see beneath the brim of his ten-gallon. "You didn't tell me your name."
"John Tucker," he answered, reaching across the console without taking his eyes off the road. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too." She could tell he was trying to be gentle, but she still felt immense strength in his grip. "So, what did you mean?"
Tucker smiled. "You're like a dog on a bone, aren't you?"
"That's one way to put it." She'd never been accused of lacking persistence.
"Uh-oh. Now I've gone and done it."
"Tell me what you meant."
"Jesus, just that you're an attractive woman. At least, what I can see of you. But saying something like that can get a man in a lot of trouble these days."
"It won't get you in trouble with me," she assured him. "At my age I welcome all compliments."
"Your age? I bet you aren't more than twenty-five, right?"
"I'm thirty-one."
"Really?" Tucker pushed out his lower lip and raised his eyebrows.
"Does that surprise you?"
"A bit," he admitted.
"It shouldn't. Jake Lawrence is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Would you really expect him to waste time on a business meeting with someone who's just a few years out of college?"
Tucker took another sip of coffee. "Right," he murmured softly. "A business meeting."
For a while Angela watched the snow falling in front of the headlights. "Have you worked for Mr. Lawrence very long?" she finally asked.
"Almost twenty years. I manage the working ranch where you'll be staying."
"Working ranch?"
"Yeah. We have about three thousand head of cattle here in Jackson."
"How big is the ranch?"
"Four hundred thousand acres."
Angela whistled. "My God."
"And Mr. Lawrence won't ever see more than a small part of it from the ground. Which is a shame, because some of the scenery is spectacular. He's been all over it in a chopper, but you can't really appreciate it from the air. You have to immerse yourself in something to truly appreciate its beauty." Tucker shrugged. "But Mr. Lawrence is a busy man. I suppose he doesn't have time for that."
Angela looked over at him again. "Are you from Wyoming, Mr. Tucker?"
"No. My father was in the military, so I moved around quite a bit when I was young. I'm from a lot of places. And please call me John."
"I bet you don't have many women come out here on business, do you, John?"
"More than you'd think," he said quietly.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing. Just reminding myself of something I need to take care of in the morning."
"Uh-huh." Angela relaxed into the seat. "So, what's the reclusive Jake Lawrence really like?"
"Can't say," Tucker replied.
Almost as if he'd been coached, Angela thought. "What is it with you people? Is everyone scared to death of him, or does he have all of you drinking some kind of secret punch? Cherry Kool-Aid with a kick?"
"Mr. Lawrence protects his privacy. I respect that."
Part Two:
Angela unbuttoned her coat. It was warm inside the Expedition. "He's worth more than most small countries, and I couldn't find a picture of him anywhere. Not even on the Internet. He's been linked romantically to some of the world's most beautiful women, travels constantly, owns many companies, and probably has thousands of employees. But no photo's ever surfaced. According to a couple of Web sites I checked out, the National Enquirer is offering a million-dollar reward for any credible photograph of him, but they haven't had to pay out yet. I would think one of you would snap a picture of him and get rich quick."
Tucker turned down the SUV's heat. "People are loyal to him."
"Loyalty usually fades at the prospect of collecting a million dollars."
"I don't know what to tell you."
"What does Mr. Lawrence look like?" she asked.
Tucker bit his lip.
"Have you ever seen him?"
Again, there was no answer.
She shook her head in disbelief. "You don't actually know what he looks like, do you?"
"Heads up!"
Tucker's arm shot across Angela's chest, pinning her to the seat as he slammed on the brakes. The tires grabbed the snow-covered road for a moment, then the SUV began to slide. In the high beams a hulking form materialized out of the storm, standing in the middle of the road like a statue, mesmerized by the bright lights bearing down on it.
Then the tires caught and the SUV skidded to a stop ten feet short of the form.
"Is that an elk?" Angela asked, breathless.
"Yup. A big male."
"A male? But it doesn't have any antlers."
"The males lose their antlers every winter and grow new ones in the spring. All deer species males do that. Antelope keep their antlers year-round."
"Then how do you know it's a male?"
"The shoulders. Look how broad they are."
"If you say so." After Tucker's arm slid from her body, Angela reached around and buckled her seat belt. "Thanks for catching me." "I should have reminded you to buckle up at the airport," he apologized, dousing the headlights and leaning on the horn. When he turned the lights back on thirty seconds later, the elk was gone, the only proof of its presence a disturbed line in the snow leading off into the darkness. "Like I said, you never know what you'll run into out here."
She hadn't come close to hitting the dashboard or the windshield despite the sudden stop. John Tucker was a powerful man. A few minutes later they turned off the main road and the snowy surface quickly gave way to clear, wet blacktop. "How is that possible?" Angela asked, leaning forward and pointing at the pavement as they approached a guard station. "Where's the snow?"
"Welcome to Jake Lawrence's world."
"What do you mean?"
"There are steam pipes buried beneath the road that prevent the surface from freezing," he explained, slowing to a stop as he waited for the guards inside the station to electronically open the gate that spanned the roadway.
"You're kidding."
He nodded to one of the guards as they passed the station. "No, I'm not. When your father is the original financial backer of the young genius who invents the software running 90 percent of all the personal computers in the world and leaves 40 percent of the company to you when he dies, you can do just about anything you want. No more worrying about the monthly mortgage. Instead of looking for ways to save, you start looking for ways to spend."
Several hundred yards past the guard station, the road turned steep, snaking back and forth through a thick pine forest as it climbed a mountain. Then bright lights appeared through the snow. Moments later Tucker pulled the Expedition to a halt beneath the porte cochere of the ranch's main lodge --- a four-story log structure brightly illumi-nated by powerful spotlights affixed to the eaves.
"Well, I hope you enjoy yourself here, Angela." Tucker held out his hand as a man who had emerged from the lodge opened her door, then retrieved her luggage from the back.
"Thank you." She took his hand, noticing this time how tough the skin of his palm was. It was the palm of a man who worked hard for a living. "Will I see you again?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. That's not up to me."
And then he leaned subtly toward her, and she knew what had happened. The light from the lodge had caught her eyes just so, giving him his first good look at them. She'd seen that same double take many times before.
"Well, good night, Angela," he said quietly.
"Good night."
She stepped out of the Expedition and followed the attendant into the lodge's foyer and down a long hallway into a huge room. The massive area was sixty feet square beneath a twenty-five-foot-high ceiling. The far wall was dominated by dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows, and the other three split-log walls were covered with stuffed animal heads, including those of several species not native to North America.
"So he kills for sport," she murmured. The words echoed in the stillness of the room.
As her words dissipated, a young woman wearing a maid uniform appeared from a side doorway and took Angela's makeup kit.
"Oh, thank you."
"This way, Ms. Day," the young man called over his shoulder, motioning toward a wide winding staircase that seemed to tumble into a far corner of the room like a rocky waterfall.
But, as Angela took a deep breath and prepared to climb, the attendant stopped beside the first step, pulled back a hinged picture mounted on the wall, and pressed a button. Moments later, he opened a door beside the button and ushered her and the maid into a small elevator. When the elevator opened on the fourth floor, he led Angela down another long hall to a cozy room dominated by a queen-size sleigh bed that seemed to be calling her name. It was almost midnight, which meant it was two o'clock in the morning back East. She hadn't realized until now just how exhausted she was.
"The bathroom is in there," the attendant explained, placing her bag down on a stand beneath a window, then moving to the bathroom doorway and flicking on a light. "If you need anything, simply pick up the phone on the table by your bed and wait for the operator. The kitchen is open twenty-four hours a day for your convenience," he said, moving back to the hall doorway. "Will there be anything else?" "What about tomorrow?" she asked, watching the maid disappear into the bathroom with her makeup kit, then reappear empty-handed. The woman then moved to the bed and began turning down the covers.
"What time should I be ready for Mr. Lawrence?"
"Your meeting with him is at three o'clock. We have instructions to allow you to sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, call us and we'll serve you breakfast here or downstairs, whichever you prefer."
"Which do you suggest?"
"Downstairs. The view from the dining area off the great room is fabulous."
"Unless it's still snowing."
"The storm should be past us by midmorning. It's moving quickly."
"How many other people are staying in the lodge tonight?" An-gela asked.
"You are the only guest."
"I see." Somehow she wished there were at least a few other occu-pants on the floor.
"Good night, Ms. Day," the attendant said, ushering the maid out ahead of him.
"Good night."
When they were gone, Angela slid the deadbolt across the door, then walked into the bathroom. After removing her clothes she stood before the large mirror above the double sink, gazing at herself. She was tired but she wanted to shower before curling up in the sleigh bed. Flying always made her want to take a shower. It was as if she needed to cleanse herself of the fear she'd endured.
She put her hands on the sink, and gazed at the face she had inherited from her parents. The wavy, jet-black hair of her Sicilian mother. The gold-specked green eyes of her Irish father and the long, thick eyelashes of her mother. Her mother's full lips below her father's thin nose. Her high cheekbones, slender face, and delicate chin.
She leaned forward until her lips almost touched the mirror, trying to be objective as she scanned her face for any signs of age lines or wrinkles. There was nothing, but she knew it wouldn't be that way for long. The physical signs of age were just around the corner.
She took two steps back and rose to her full, five-foot-eight-inch height. She was slim-waisted, and her thin upper body was dominated by large, firm breasts. She pivoted, took one of her buttocks in her fingers and squeezed. No dimples at all was an absolute impossibility under this stress, but there weren't many, and none at all when she stopped squeezing.
Her eyes focused on the tiny tattoo high on her hip. It was an etching of a colorful butterfly, its yellow and orange wings no more than an inch across. She'd gotten it near the end of her second year at Duke, at her future husband's urging and despite her own reluctance. He had taken her to a tiny parlor in downtown Durham one Saturday himself, trying to convince her to have the tattoo etched in a more prominent spot on her body as they'd driven from his apartment. On her shoulder, he kept saying, so he could see it when they went swimming or when she wore something strapless. But she had refused. Ultimately, she was glad she had kept the butterfly in a spot that even a skimpy bathing suit could hide.
Angela ran her finger slowly across the butterfly's wings. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the emotional pain she'd endured because of him, she didn't regret getting it because it reminded her of those times with him that had been good. So good. The best she'd ever known.
She turned back around so she was facing the mirror. She might be thirty-one, but by sticking religiously to a demanding exercise regi-men and a healthy diet, she'd kept herself looking pretty darned good. She leaned forward again and grimaced at the faint stretch marks on her lower belly. They were small, almost invisible, unless you knew they were there. But they were there, all right. And they were impossible to get rid of. She shook her head and moved toward the shower. Pregnancy had left an indelible scar.
The man on the other side of the bathroom's two-way mirror eased back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath as Angela Day disappeared into the shower. The pictures of her he'd been provided with a few hours ago hadn't done her justice. She was even prettier with nothing left to the imagination, her body only inches from his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, still picturing the butterfly tattoo. One way or another, he would get what he wanted.
Back to top.
Part Three
As promised, the view from the small dining area off the great room was spectacular. Less than a hundred yards from where Angela sat, a deep gorge fell away from the lodge, and in the distance she could see soaring peaks iced by a fresh layer of pristine snow. She shielded her eyes as the early afternoon sun momentarily broke through the storm's lingering clouds and a brilliant glare burst upon the landscape.
"Let me fix that, Ms. Day." The same woman who had taken Angela's breakfast order a few minutes ago closed the blinds over the window beside the table.
"Thank you."
"More coffee?"
"Please."
Angela watched as the woman freshened her cup with more of the delicious Brazilian blend, thinking about how easily she could get used to this life. After her midnight shower she'd slipped between the flannel sheets and fallen asleep right away. Next thing she'd known, it was nine o'clock in the morning. She'd tried to get up but the sheets had seemed to pull her back onto the comfortable mattress, and she'd fallen asleep again. Just before eleven she'd been able to get her feet to the floor, take another shower, and dress for her three o'clock appointment with Jake Lawrence. Now it was almost one, and the anticipation of meeting one of the world's wealthiest men was intensifying.
When the woman was gone, an elderly black man shuffled into the dining room carrying a tray ladened with plates. After setting the tray down on a highboy along one wall, he moved to the table and picked up the white linen napkin folded before her, preparing to place it in her lap.
"You don't need to do that." Angela caught his hand. "Let me have it."
"I really don't mind."
"No," she said firmly, slipping the linen from his fingers.
"As you wish." He moved back to the highboy and returned a moment later with a plate of blueberry pancakes and a small pitcher of maple syrup. His second trip from the highboy brought scrambled eggs and bacon, and the third a bowl of fresh fruit and a basket of warm biscuits. "Would you like anything else?" he asked with a wide grin.
"No, thank you. God, I'll explode if I make it through even half of all this."
The man picked up Angela's fork and handed it to her.
She shook her head. "Please don't --- "
"I'm not bitter, Ms. Day," he said. "So don't you feel guilty. It doesn't do anybody any good."
Angela looked up. "What do you mean?"
"If I were white, would you have allowed me to put the napkin in your lap?"
She hesitated. "No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He nodded slowly. "Well, don't hesitate to ring me if you need anything," he instructed, tapping a small bell on a far corner of the table as he headed back toward the kitchen.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
Angela looked up to see John Tucker standing in the doorway of the great room, pulling off dusty leather work gloves. She rolled her eyes, embarrassed by the forkful of blueberry pancakes she'd just put in her mouth and the strip of bacon she was holding.
"How in the world do you keep that slim figure of yours eating pancakes and bacon?" he wanted to know, sitting in the chair opposite hers and shaking his head as he surveyed the food. "Taking Mr. Lawrence up on his generosity, I see."
"This is a rare treat for me, I assure you." She'd been right last night in the SUV. Tucker did have friendly eyes. And in the light of day she could see a hint of mischief in them as well. "I usually start the day with half a bowl of oatmeal and two egg whites but, given all of the luxury around me, I decided to make an exception."
"I'll bet you don't eat your first meal of the day at one in the after-noon very often either." Tucker dropped his gloves and his grimy tan ten-gallon down on the white tablecloth. "I heard they were about to send someone up to your room to wake you."
"Someone?" Angela asked coyly.
She'd thought about Tucker while getting dressed this morning, hoping this might happen. He would never grace the cover of GQ magazine, but he was attractive in a rugged way. He had wavy, dirty blond hair that fell to the bottom of the wool collar of the leather jacket he'd been wearing last night. His eyes were large and brown, and his face was broad and ruddy beneath a three-day growth of stubble --- a hint of gray rippling through the whiskers on his chin. He was a big man, too. Six three, she guessed, with wide shoulders and thick-fingered hands. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but she wasn't sure. Maybe he was older if he'd been Jake Lawrence's employee for twenty years.
Tucker had a natural swagger about him she liked, too. He'd am-bled into the room with one hand in the back pocket of his jeans, pulled the chair out with the toe of his muddy boot, and sat down like he owned the place. It was a swagger that told her he was confident he could handle whatever came his way. A swagger she was drawn to, as she had been drawn to another man's once before.
"Yeah, someone," he repeated with a slight smile.
"Not you?"
"Nope."
"Sure, cowboy," she said quietly so the help wouldn't hear, slowly raising one long, thin eyebrow at him. "I bet you wouldn't mind finding out what I wear to bed." It was a forward thing for her to say, but she already felt very comfortable with him, as if they'd known each other for a long time. She prided herself on being a quick and accurate judge of character, and he seemed honest and sincere. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve. "Come on. Tell me the truth."
He tried to hold back, but then chuckled and looked down. "No, I'm sure I wouldn't. But I'm not allowed upstairs without an escort."
"I thought you ran this place."
"I run the ranch, but not the lodge. The lodge manager is very careful about all that. Particularly with female guests."
"Oh," she said, thinking back on how the maid had appeared last night and accompanied her to the room with the male attendant.
Tucker dug into the basket of biscuits, grabbed one, and polished off half of it in a single bite. "So, how'd you sleep?" he asked through the mouthful.
"Like a baby. It's been a while since I slept eleven hours in one night. Usually I get six or seven. But it was as if someone had glued my eyelids shut."
"Happens to people all the time when they visit from back east. It's the elevation," he explained, shoving the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. "And all that wine you drank on the plane."
"I didn't drink that much. And, anyway, how would you know?"
"I have my sources."
"Well, it was the flight attendant's fault. He kept refilling my glass and thank God he did, because if he hadn't, I might not have survived the landing. It felt like I was on the space shuttle and we were re-entering the earth's atmosphere." She watched Tucker rummage through the bacon. "Do you treat everything as tenderly as you do your food?"
"Most of the time," he answered, finding a large, particularly crisp piece. He smiled suggestively. "But I can get rough when I need to."
"I'll bet." Something caught her eye and Angela leaned across the table to get a better look. "How'd you get that?" she asked, touching a long scar on the back of his wrist.
"I was wrassling a stray steer a few years ago," Tucker explained, holding up his hand. "I've got this thing by the neck and all of a sudden he turns and gores me."
"Jesus," Angela whispered.
Tucker chuckled. "I was the lucky one."
"What do you mean?"
"Cow killed the horse."
Angela shook her head as she reached for the fruit, filling a small bowl with wedges of fresh melon. "So what are you doing here? Why aren't you out roping steers?"
"Well, I --- "
"Couldn't wait to see me again?" she interrupted. "Even if you couldn't come upstairs to wake me."
Tucker slowly wiped biscuit crumbs from his mustache with the back of his hand. "That's a nice dress you've got on, Ms. Day," he said, avoiding her question. "Ver y chic. I'm sure Mr. Lawrence would approve."
"Thank you," she said, impressed that he'd noticed. He didn't seem like the type who would. "I bought it especially for the trip."
"It's nice, all right," he continued, "but you're gonna have to change."
"Why?"
"Your meeting with Mr. Lawrence is at the ranch's upper cabin, and there's only one way up to it other than by helicopter, which we don't have."
"How's that?"
"Horseback. And that dress would make the ride mighty uncomfortable, maybe even dangerous."
"I'm not getting on a horse," she said flatly. "No way."
Tucker shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you don't, you won't be meeting Mr. Lawrence."
An hour later, Tucker hauled himself up into a Western saddle strapped to the back of a huge black stallion, then leaned down and held out his hand. "Put your left foot in the stirrup and take my arm," he ordered. "And swing your right leg over the horse's ass on the way up."
"Lord," Angela murmured, careful to avoid the butt end of a rifle protruding from a saddle holster. Then she was behind Tucker and they were moving ahead when he dug his heels into the animal's flanks. Instinctively, she grabbed his wide shoulders. "This is no fun," she called nervously, swaying from side to side.
"What's your problem?" he asked with a smile, guiding the animal away from the lodge and out over an open field of pristine snow.
"I've never been on a horse before," she admitted, resting her face on his broad back. Again she became aware of that soothing leather smell. "It seems higher when you're up here than it does from the ground."
He laughed loudly. "You'll be all right. Just make sure you throw yourself clear if we go down."
She moaned.
"I'm only kidding. We'll be fine."
"Hey!" she yelled.
"What?"
Angela pointed at two men near one corner of the lodge who had just pulled up in snowmobiles. "I thought you said there was only one way to get around without a helicopter."
"Snowmobiles wouldn't do us any good."
"Why not?"
"You'll see."
Soon the open field stretching away from the lodge was behind them and the horse was climbing a trail that twisted through the thick pine forest covering the mountain. The trail grew steadily steeper and the trees sparser until they broke into the open. Then the trail quickly turned into a narrow, rocky path that seemed barely etched into the side of a vertical wall.
The view from the private dining room had been nothing com-pared to this. To her left Angela could reach out and touch the rock face soaring above them --- it made her dizzy when she looked up. To her right, the mountain fell five hundred feet straight down to the bottom of a canyon. Her heart rose into her throat once when the horse stumbled going over a large stone, but Tucker skillfully brought the stallion back under control. Now she understood why a snowmobile wasn't an option. It wouldn't have been able to negotiate this stretch of the trip.
As they moved ahead she watched her breath rise in front of her. She was glad Tucker had ordered her back up to her room to change into the clothes a maid had scrounged up for her at the last minute --- jeans, a wool sweater, a ski jacket, warm socks, and insulated boots. The sky had turned overcast again, and it was windy and much colder up here.
"So what do you wear to bed?" Tucker called over his shoulder when the path widened and became less treacherous.
She'd been lost in thought, enjoying the view despite the danger. It was as if they were on top of the world. "Depends," she answered, playfully tilting his ten-gallon forward.
"On what?" he asked, pushing the brim back up.
"I'll let you figure that out."
Tucker sighed, then laughed. "You're killing me, Angela."
"Uh-huh."
"Where did you fly in from?" he asked.
"Richmond, Virginia."
"Is that where you're from?"
"No. I grew up in North Carolina, near Asheville. That's in the western part of the state."
"How'd you end up in Richmond?"
The series of events that had led her to Virginia flashed through her mind. "A man," she answered curtly.
"I'm not one to muck around where I'm not wanted, but it doesn't sound like this guy ended up being your knight in shining armor."
"No, he didn't, and I like your rule about not mucking around where you aren't wanted." She hesitated. One reason she'd hoped to see Tucker again was to have the opportunity to ask him this question.
"Why were you so skeptical last night about my meeting with Mr. Lawrence being legit?"
"What are you talking about?" he asked innocently.
"Come on, John. I heard that sarcastic comment you muttered under your breath when we were driving from the airport to the ranch. You thought I didn't, but I did."
He didn't answer for a moment. "Look, Mr. Lawrence is one of the world's most eligible bachelors, and he likes the company of attractive young women. I'm not violating any deep dark secrets here. I've made this trip to the cabin before with a woman behind me."
Angela's pulse quickened and her cheeks began to burn. Though he had provided few details, her boss in Richmond had promised that this meeting was on the up-and-up, and that it could prove to be a tremendous opportunity for the bank and for her personally. "I assure you that's not what's going on here," she said stiffly. Ahead Angela sawthat the mountain was flattening out into a high meadow ringed by rock ledges. At the far end of the meadow was a small cabin, and beside it a helicopter, blades still slowly rotating. "I'm not that kind of woman, and I resent your assuming that I am." "Then I sincerely apologize."
Angela noticed several men milling around the front of the cabin. Most of them carried rifles slung over their shoulders, barrels pointing to the sky. "Apology tentatively accepted."
Tucker pulled back on the reins. They were still fifty yards from the cabin, but one of the men was trudging through the snow toward them. "Be careful, Angela," Tucker warned, his tone turning serious. "Jake Lawrence is a powerful man. He's used to getting his way."
"I can handle myself."
"You're late, John," the man called out in a heavy British accent.
"It's wonderful to see you, too, Billy boy," Tucker replied. "This guy's a real prick," he muttered over his shoulder.
"Ms. Day, I'm William Colby," the man announced as he neared them, looking past Tucker. "Please get down from the horse. We're be-hind schedule."
Colby had closely set eyes, and a wide, hooked nose that seemed out of place on his thin face. He was completely bald. Unlike the other men milling about the cabin, he wasn't wearing a blue knit ski cap --- or shouldering a gun.
"He's Secret Service via Scotland Yard," Tucker whispered. "Very British, very stuffy, and very --- "
"Very efficient," Colby finished, his aristocratic accent knifing through the cold air. "I'm very good at what I do, Ms. Day, which is why I run global security for Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Tucker runs a ranch."
"Confident chap, wouldn't you say?" Tucker grunted, helping Angela slide down from the horse.
She nodded subtly at Tucker from the ground. But, despite his slight build, there was an unmistakable aura of competence about Colby. A sense of purpose.
"Please take ten paces toward the cabin, Ms. Day," Colby ordered, signaling to one of his men.
"There's no need for all of that," Tucker assured Colby, swinging his right leg over the horse and dropping down into the snow. "She's clean. I checked."
"Stop right there, Ms. Day," Colby demanded as Angela completed her tenth pace.
Angela stopped and waited as the man Colby had motioned to pulled the weapon from his shoulder, handed it to another man, and jogged toward her.
"Hands behind your head and spread your legs," the guard or-dered gruffly.
"What?"
Tucker rolled his eyes. "Billy, don't --- "
"Do as you are told, Ms. Day," Colby directed, cutting Tucker off. When Angela complied, the guard frisked her, starting with her shoulders then moving down her arms.
Tucker shook his head. "You're an asshole, Billy."
"And you are a cowboy, Johnny," Colby retorted. "But we each have a job to do. So I won't tell you how to shovel pig slop, and you won't tell me how to protect Mr. Lawrence." The man frisking Angela had halted his search and Colby pointed at him. "Finish!"
"Easy," Angela warned when the man squatted in front of her.
"Dammit!" she shouted, stepping back quickly when he placed his hands on her knees, then began moving them up her inner thighs.
"She's not carrying a weapon, sir," the man reported to Colby.
"All right," he acknowledged. "Please proceed to the cabin, Ms. Day. Mr. Lawrence is waiting for you inside."
"Who's responsible for getting her back down the mountain?" Tucker wanted to know.
"You are," Colby snapped.
"Can't you give her a ride to the airport in the chopper, Billy? I'll have somebody from the lodge take her luggage out there."
"We aren't going directly to the airport when Mr. Lawrence is finished with Ms. Day."
"I'm waiting inside, then."
"You'll wait out here," Colby declared, "where I can keep an eye an you."
Tucker let out a frustrated breath. "Then I suppose I'll have to re-sort to other means of warmth." He pulled a flask from a saddle bag, unscrewed the top, and brought it to his lips.
"Go on, Ms. Day," Colby ordered, watching Tucker take several healthy gulps from the flask.
"I'll be here," Tucker called after her, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. "Don't worry."
Angela followed the man who had frisked her to the cabin, then skirted around him as he held open the door and gestured for her to proceed. The door closed behind her and for a moment she could see little as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Despite the overcast sky, it had been bright outside with the snow cover, and the only light inside the cabin came from the glow of a low fire.
"Hello, Ms. Day."
Angela's eyes flashed in the direction of the voice. She could barely discern the outline of someone sitting in a large chair in a corner of the room away from the fireplace.
"I'm Jake Lawrence." The figure stood up and came toward her out of the darkness. "Let me help you off with your coat. You'll melt in here if you keep it on."
He was right. It was warm inside the cabin. Very warm. She'd noticed the heat as soon as she'd stepped through the door. Her thoughts flashed to Tucker's cynical view of this meeting. Perhaps there was a reason the room was so warm.
"It's nice to meet you," Lawrence continued, taking her hand. Lawrence's hand was as smooth as Tucker's had been rough. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Lawrence."
"I appreciate your coming all the way out here from the East Coast on such short notice, Ms. Day. I know it was inconvenient, but this arrangement worked out best for me. And I wanted to get together with you as soon as possible. So, thank you."
"Certainly," she replied. She'd promised herself she wouldn't beimpressed with Jake Lawrence, but now, in his presence, she found it difficult not to be in awe of him. He was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world. Earning interest on interest faster than he could spend it, and influencing the decisions of world leaders from behind the scenes. She'd grown up digging for nickels and dimes be-neath the cushions of the double-wide's ratty sofa. "I appreciate all the hospitality your staff has shown me, especially John Tucker's." She felt Lawrence's hand subtly contract around hers at the mention of Tucker's name. "I like John," she continued. "He's one of those people you trust right away, you know?"
"John is a good man," Lawrence agreed quietly, his demeanor chilling slightly. "A dedicated employee."
"I have to tell you I was nervous coming up here on horseback, particularly when we got to the narrow part of the trail. But it was no problem for John. I get the feeling he could handle almost --- "
"Yes," Lawrence cut in curtly, "we are fortunate to have a man like Mr. Tucker managing the ranch."
For a moment there was no sound in the room except the crackle of fire.
Angela cleared her throat. "Well, I just want you to know that I've been treated like a princess since boarding your plane in Richmond yesterday," Angela said.
"Standard operating procedure." Lawrence slowly allowed her fingers to slip from his. "Especially for a creature as lovely as you."
"Thank you," she murmured self-consciously, glancing up. Lawrence was about the same height as Tucker, but he was slimmer, so he seemed taller. Instead of a flannel shirt, dusty wool-collared jacket, frayed jeans, and muddy boots, Lawrence wore a stylish white turtle-neck sweater, pressed, pleated pants, spit-shined brown boots, and a sharp, fawn-colored Stetson. His face was intricately sculpted and, when he smiled, small lines formed at the corners of his mouth and a distinct dimple appeared in each cheek. His smile was warm, but his dark, dead eyes were decidedly not. Though she didn't get a long look at them, she saw instantly in the large black pupils that he was a man who expected immediate compliance with his orders, was accustomed to and comfortable with wielding power, and had little tolerance for opposing opinions. She found herself pulling down the zipper of the borrowed jacket. He was used to getting his way, Tucker had warned.
"Let me take that for you," Lawrence offered, slipping the jacket off her arms from behind. "If you don't mind, please remove those wet boots, as well." He hung up her coat in a nearby closet. "Leave them by the door," he suggested, returning to his chair.
She slipped out of the boots, then followed his gesture and padded to a couch along the wall near his chair.
"Have some coffee," Lawrence offered, nodding at the pot and cups arranged on a long, low table in front of the couch.
"Thanks. I will." She poured herself a cup, then sat back. After the cold ride up the mountain, the coffee tasted delicious.
"I'm sorry if Bill Colby and his deputies offended you in any way. I asked him not to put you through the standard inspection routine, but he's very thorough."
"Thorough would certainly be an accurate description," Angela agreed.
"The thing is I have to be very careful," Lawrence explained, his voice measured. "You must understand my situation. It's difficult for me to trust anyone. There are people who, for various reasons, wouldn't mind seeing me dead."
"I'm sure you're safe here with that personal army of yours camped outside."
"I'm never completely safe, Ms. Day."
It sounded paranoid but maybe when you had more money than God --- as the Wall Street Journal had once described his multibillion-dollar net worth --- there really was such danger. "Of course, all that money allows you to own a place like this."
"Money does provide me certain luxuries others don't enjoy," Lawrence replied evenly.
For the first time Angela thought she detected irritation in his voice, and it occurred to her that few people probably ever challengedJake Lawrence. After all, what would be the point? There could be no upside in making an enemy of him. Perhaps now wasn't the time to let her trailer park bitterness rear its ugly head. Or allow her penchant for putting a poor little rich boy in his place boil to the surface either. "I'm sure you deal with circumstances and pressures I could never under-stand, Mr. Lawrence."
"There's nothing I can't handle." He waved, as though swat-ting at a fly. "But enough about me," he said. "Let me hear about your background."
Angela ran her tongue along her upper lip. She'd noticed a strange flavor to the coffee, not an unpleasant taste, but one she didn't recognize. She glanced over into Lawrence's dark eyes, barely visible beneath the brim of his Stetson. She was thinking again about Tucker's inference that this wasn't a legitimate business meeting. That Lawrence had other motivations.
"Something wrong?" Lawrence asked, watching Angela place the cup down on the table.
"No."
Lawrence grinned. "It's Irish whiskey. My staff knows that I always take Irish whiskey in my coffee. I should have warned you."
"No, no, it tastes good." A remote cabin. Heat turned way up. Whiskey in the coffee. An army of men outside. John Tucker had known Lawrence for twenty years. How could she have doubted his judgment? She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Well, if that's what Jake Lawrence has in mind, he's going to be very disappointed.
"Please tell me about yourself, Ms. Day."
"Do you mind explaining why I'm here?"
"We'll get to all of that," he assured her. "But I want to hear about you first."
At eight thousand feet even this small amount of alcohol in the coffee was affecting her. She could feel it seeping into her system. "I'm a vice president at Sumter Bank, which is headquartered in Richmond, Virginia," she began. "I make loans to Old Economy manufacturing and retail companies mostly in Georgia and Alabama. That's my territory, so I travel down there quite a bit. Sumter isn't as big as the New York banks but, with thirty billion in assets, we're not small either. We certainly wouldn't have been able to get that big just making loans to companies in Virginia. I've been with the bank for almost six years, and in my current position for four." She watched Lawrence pick up a glass resting on a small table beside his chair. "But you already know all of that."
He froze, the glass just short of his lips. "What do you mean?"
"A man like you wouldn't fly a nobody like me across the country without a purpose. And purpose implies a certain level of knowledge."
"You're starting to sound more like a lawyer than a banker, Ms. Day."
"The flight out here was obviously arranged with me in mind. Crab imperial for dinner, Erin Brockovich for me to watch, the books, the magazines: all my favorites. Same with my room at the lodge: my favorite shampoo, my favorite soap, little Brach's peppermint candies by my bed instead of the standard hotel chocolates. You researched me. Candidly, it was a little unnerving."
"Of course I researched you," he answered. "Actually, it was a woman on my staff who did all the legwork," he admitted. "She pre-pares me for all my meetings. Preparation is one of the most important success drivers. Wars are won or lost before they're ever fought, and the deciding factor is always preparation."
"I didn't know we were talking about war."
"Don't kid yourself," he replied quickly, nodding at the door. "Every day there's an economic war going on out there. Everybody is constantly battling for their piece of the pie."
"Yes, and some people have bigger forks."
Lawrence smiled. "Keep taking me through your background, Ms. Day. You said you worked for Sumter Bank in Richmond."
"Yes, a bank you own 8 percent of, Mr. Lawrence. Which, I have to believe, has something to do with why I'm here." She saw that he was about to speak up. "I checked Free Edgar and the 13-d filings," she explained, anticipating his question. "The 13-d is the report that requires investors like you to inform the Securities and Exchange Commissionthat he or she has acquired 5 percent or more of a public company. There were a couple on file. You're up from owning 6 percent of Sumter two months ago." She shook her head. "I did a rough calculation. As near as I can tell, you've got about $450 million tied up in Sumter stock."
"Actually, it's closer to $490 million. Almost five hundred."
"Wow." Angela couldn't help reacting aloud. It wasn't just the amount of the investment that impressed her. It was the fact that Lawrence would invest that much in one stock. She assumed his financial advisors would keep him widely diversified, so even the liquid portion of his net worth had to be huge if he could devote almost half a billion dollars to a single investment. Even if he was using margin.
"I've spent $490 million so far," he continued, "but you are correct in that my investment is only worth $450 million. The stock has dropped a few points over the last couple of months, even as I've been buying. Usually, the price of a stock rises as word gets out that I'm accumulating. The press calls it the 'Lawrence Effect.' My in-vestment bankers are curious about why the Lawrence Effect isn't kicking in this time. I always said hell would freeze over the day an in-vestment banker didn't have an explanation for something. Maybe it has. I don't know. I hope I never find out. But I do know I'm down $40 million."
Down forty million. The amount was mind-boggling.
"I don't like losses, Ms. Day. In fact, I hate them. Even small ones like forty million."
"Do you mind if I ask why you're so interested in Sumter Bank?"
"Not at all. Sumter has a strong market position in the Southeast, and the Southeast is one of the fastest-growing regions of the country. Its earnings, and therefore its share price, have a lot of room on the upside."
"But Sumter's shares already trade at almost two times book value, even with the recent decline in the stock price you mentioned. Isn't that pretty good for a bank? I mean, it's not as if we're going to discover a cure for cancer or invent the next white-hot wireless device. When you get right down to it, bank stocks are pretty boring."
"You have your opinion," he replied stonily, "and I have mine."
Angela cleared her throat, realizing how arrogant she must have sounded. Jake Lawrence and his people were probably in and out of world stock markets on a minute-by-minute basis, trading millions of dollars worth of securities every day. She executed a couple of transactions a year in her tiny portfolio. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence. I --- "
"Don't ever be sorry, Ms. Day. It's a certain sign of weakness."
She looked up and saw that he was smiling.
Excerpted from SILENT PARTNER © Copyright 2005 by Stephen Frey. Reprinted with permission by Fawcett Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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