Rivals by Janet Dailey

too farfetched, that the old woman was probably delusionary—if not senile.
    â€œWhat about your weekend?” she asked. “Did you have your usual complement of house guests?”
    His wife’s penchant for entertaining was legendary, and an invitation to the Powell family residence in the exclusive island community of Belvedere was highly coveted, both for the “in” status it implied and for the island’s balmy climate and scenic vistas of San Francisco’s skyline to the south and the famed Golden Gate Bridge to the west. Established by the old guard of affluent San Franciscans shortly before the turn of the century, to escape the summer fog, Belvedere had become renowned for its historic homes, narrow, winding roads, and beautiful gardens, and a life—typical of most island communities—that centered on the water, becoming the home of the elite San Francisco Yacht Club.
    â€œNot this weekend,” Malcom replied. “Like yours, mine was quiet. As a matter of fact, I took the boat out for a last sail.” The vessel he so casually referred to as a boat was a sleek forty-foot sailing yacht that had competed in the America’s Cup some years earlier. “The way my schedule looks these next few months, I probably won’t have another opportunity to take it out again before winter sets in.”
    Sailing was a topic of mutual interest. Their conversation revolved around it through the salad course. The waiter returned with the entrée and placed it on the table before Flame. “Veal with a green peppercorn sauce, this is one of my favorites,” she declared, directing a quick smile at Malcom.
    â€œDon’t you think by now I know what you like?”
    At that instant, Flame realized the entire menu had been selected on the basis of her personal preferences, everything from the choice of wines and the salad to the entrée and—“Then we must be having chocolate soufflé for dessert,” she guessed, trying to sound off-hand to hide the fact she was impressed that he’d cared enough to notice her likes—that he’d wanted to please her.
    â€œWhat else?” His look gleamed with confidence and satisfaction.
    She laughed softly, aware that her mood had lightened considerably, much of her earlier tension gone. She decided it was the combination of the excellent wine and food, the room’s rich, yet comfortable atmosphere—and, perhaps most important, Malcom’s subtle attentiveness to detail.
    Through the rest of the meal, both the anticipated chocolate soufflé for dessert and the coffee afterward, they chatted about business in general, with a few side trips into politics and the economy. It was this exchange of views and opinions, typical of most of their past luncheons together, that Flame enjoyed, the talk stimulating in a quiet sort of way and providing a diversion from the endless shop-talk at the agency—and the sniping gossip.
    â€œMore coffee?” Malcom started to reach for the silver pot the waiter had left on the table.
    She refused with a faint shake of her head, then smiled. “Need I say that the luncheon was superb.”
    â€œI’m glad you enjoyed it.” His glance ran swiftly over her, admiring in its assessment. “That particular shade of turquoise is an excellent color on you. It brings out the green of your eyes. You should wear it more often.”
    â€œIf you always serve up flattery after a meal, we’ll have to make it a point to lunch here more often, Malcom,” she declared, smiling as she folded her napkin and laid it on the table.
    â€œI’ll remember that,” he replied, then paused briefly. “Speaking of remembering, I have something I want to show you.” Pushing his napkin onto the table, he rose from his chair. Joining him, Flame walked back into his office. “For sometime, I’ve been considering expanding the line of furs we carry at