Rivals by Janet Dailey Page A

our major stores.” Malcom stopped to close the doors to the dining room. “Naturally I’m concerned about maintaining the Powell reputation for quality. That’s why I’d like your opinion on this coat.”
    The request wasn’t unusual. In the past, Malcom had frequently consulted with her on such things, reasoning that she represented both ends of his market—the working career woman and the socialite.
    Her interest piqued, she followed when Malcom walked to the small conference table on the far side of the pine-paneled room. A luxurious dark fur lay across one of the chairs. He picked it up, then turned, draping it over his arm for her inspection. The instant Flame saw the dark, almost black, full-length fur, she felt as if the air had been snatched from her lungs.
    â€œMalcom, it’s exquisite,” she murmured and reached out to touch it, then darted a quick, dawning look at him. “It’s sable, isn’t it?”
    â€œRussian sable, yes. Try it on.”
    Needing no persuasion, Flame turned and let Malcom help her into it. As she ran her hands under the stand-up collar of the coat and down the front, letting her fingers slide through its thickness, she was certain there was no sensation quite like the sensual feel of a fur—soft, silken, and utterly luxurious. Nothing else could make a woman feel so feminine, so elegant—so incredibly alluring.
    Impulsively she turned to Malcom. “It’s stunning.”
    â€œOn you, it is.”
    His response was hardly effusive, but the look that blazed in his eyes more than made up for it. She swung away knowing she shouldn’t have invited him to notice, but feeling too recklessly glorious to care. She wrapped the coat tightly around her and hugged it, burying her fingers deep in its fur.
    â€œI have a suggestion.” The weight of his hands settled onto her shoulders. “Why don’t you wear it to the opera Friday night?”
    Briefly she allowed herself to be tempted, then sighed in regret. “I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right,” she said with a firm shake of her head.
    She hadn’t noticed the slight pressure that had drawn her back against him until she felt the warmth of his breath near her ear. She should have moved away from it, but she didn’t.
    â€œIt couldn’t be more right.” The pitch of his voice was low and caressing. “It belongs on you, Flame.” His lips moved against her hair, a feathery sensation gliding toward her neck.
    Instinctively she turned her head to deny him access. “Don’t.” The protest sounded weak to her as his mouth found the shell of her ear instead, the sensitive nerve ends reacting to the unexpected contact and unleashing a cascade of shivers.
    She hadn’t realized how vulnerable she was—how susceptible. She shouldn’t have spent so much time alone this past weekend, thinking and remembering how much she wanted to be loved, recognizing that there was no lonelier sound than laughter that was heard only by the one who laughed, that there was no hollower victory than the one celebrated by the victor alone. There was no such thing as independence when there was no one standing beside you; there was only loneliness. The touch of Malcom’s hands and the brush of his lips against her skin were reminding her of that all over again.
    â€œI want you, Flame.” His breath heated the side of her neck. “I have from the moment you walked into this office five years ago. I vowed then to make you mine. You belong to me, Flame. It’s time you admitted that.”
    She realized that she’d been ripe for this moment. And Malcom had set the stage perfectly with the wine and the food, the easy conversation and the sable coat that had reminded her she was a woman with normal, human needs. But could she trust him? Was it her needs he sought to fulfill? Or, like Rick, did Malcom want her to satisfy his own