Chapter Fourteen

Mason eyed Vienna's wineglasses and knew she faced a challenge. Vienna had taken perhaps three sips of her Krug and the red Montefalco Rosso sat untouched. She was drinking iced water and had started chatting with the man seated at her right. The conversation was about an artist. Waiters cleared plates and served the entrée course. The meals had a country kitchen sensibility, in keeping with the theme established earlier with the finger food. Vienna sampled her red wine and parted a large puff pastry. She'd requested the duck pie. Mason bit into a wild mushroom ravioli and wished she was a better cook. Most of the time, at home, she made Chinese food, and there were only so many ways stir-fried vegetables could be dressed up.

As they ate, the conversation around them drifted from speculation on who had purchased the Wildenstein townhouse, probably Len Blavatnik, say no more. And whether Art Basel in Miami would be worth attending this year now that it had turned into such a spectacle. There was something grubby about all those clueless instant millionaires in their bug-eyed sunglasses chugging Red Bull and switching between iPhones while they hassled famous collectors for hints on what to buy.

"Have you ever been?" Vienna asked Mason.

"It's not my idea of a good time."

"I delegate," Vienna said. "One of my senior staff is an art junkie. I send him as a surrogate. He knows how to stay within budget."

"You don't want to see the works he's buying?"

"He e-mails pics with his BlackBerry." Vienna smiled. "I'm only going to see them when I walk through the building. The Blake collection is strictly business."

"What do you do for your own enjoyment?"

Vienna's gaze lingered on Mason's mouth before fitting away. She took more than a sip of wine. "I don't get a lot of time for hobbies."

"You adopt those horses," Mason said. "That's a very decent thing to do. If you ever need any help, you can call me."

"Thank you." Vienna moved a piece of food around her plate, then lowered her fork. She looked like she'd just found a cockroach in her vol au vent. "I gather I'm already in your debt."

If you only knew. Mason shrugged. "It's nothing. Rick helps me out, too."

"I didn't realize you look after my animals when he needs time out. You really ought to send me a bill for those days."

"Charge you for my services?" Mason couldn't keep her mouth from twitching. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Vienna reached for her wine, and drank carelessly this time, clearly rattled by the double entendre. Attempting to reply in kind, she said, "I'd hate to take advantage of you."

"Really? That's not my impression." Mason sliced open the artichoke heart accompanying her ravioli and slowly parted the folds. "You enjoyed yourself quite noisily the last time you... took advantage, if I recall."

The soft gasp was unmistakable. Mason guessed Vienna was trying to look cool and serene, but the tension in her shoulders showed in the deepening shadows above her collarbones. The pulse at the base of her neck beat more heavily. Her fingers were restive, tapping the table and rearranging the silverware. She fended off her unease with a brittle laugh. "You don't play fair."

"If you mean I don't play by your rules, then yes." Mason shook her head. "God, doesn't it get suffocating inside that straitjacket?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You weren't always such a conformist."

"We all have to grow up sometime, Mason. Even you."

"Ouch." Mason clapped a hand over her chest. "A low blow, my lady."

Vienna snatched up her glass. "Okay, enough foreplay. Let's cut to the chase. How much do you want for Cavender?"

Mason concealed her astonishment. Was she being invited to name her price? Vienna must be desperate to stave off the mutiny by her relatives. "For starters, I want you to stop sending that Italian over to my house with extra offers."

"I was trying to make it easy for you to sell."

"You think a wiseguy with a bullshit cover story makes it easier? He scares my horses, and we both know five million is a crazy price."

"The offer's for real." In an urgent whisper, Vienna begged, "Please, just take it. I know you need the money."

Mason met Vienna's overbright eyes. "Your duck pie's getting cold."

Vienna hacked at the pastry. "Do you have to be so damned stubborn?"

"If you don't want to live next door to me, why don't you sell Penwraithe?" Mason suggested blandly. "You're not there most of the time."

"Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Vienna tackled the wine once more. After a few angry gulps, she lifted her napkin and smothered a hiccup. Her voice was becoming frayed around the edges. "If you think I'm going to back off just because we had sex you're dreaming."

Mason knew from past experience that if she kept up the pressure, Vienna would steady her nerves with alcohol. At this rate she would be drunk before the dessert course. Casually, she dangled her bait. "Actually, if your terms were different, I'd probably accept."

A fickler of triumph registered before Vienna's long lashes fanned downward to screen her reaction. "Everything is negotiable. I'm flexible on the timetable for the transfer of assets if that's a problem."

Mason produced the defeated sigh of a woman weary of the fight. "I'm leaving the fine print to the lawyers. To be honest, this madness has consumed far too much of my life, and for what?"

Vienna nodded. "I know what you mean."

"I just want to put it all behind me and move on." Mason sighed, in part because there was some truth in that admission. "I hate to say it, but you're probably doing me a favor."

Vienna's eyes were bright with concentration. She had her prey cornered and could see an end to the chase. Mason was counting on her wanting to make the kill in person. "You know, sometimes the principals can settle things more quickly themselves," she said, toxically sweet.

"Maybe." Mason allowed reluctance to enter her expression. Then annoyance, as though she knew she'd just given too much away. "But our families don't have a history of civility and cooperation."

As she'd expected, Vienna pounced. "You and I are adults and realists. I'm sure we can agree to put our differences aside in the interests of getting the deal done. Look at us now. Sitting together in public."

Mason smiled. "I guess we should stop meeting like this. People will talk."

Vienna's soft laugh sounded forced. She seemed to collect herself then, sitting up a little straighter and placing her utensils neatly together on her plate. "Mason I know this has been tough for you, and I'm not going to pressure you, but this process has taken over both our lives and you may not believe it, but I'm ready to call it quits, too. Enough is enough." She placed her small hand over Mason's, sending a shock of sensation up her arm. "That's why I'm making a good offer. Are you willing to accept?"

Keeping her voice low so that Vienna had to lean in to hear her, Mason said, "I guess it's inevitable."

Vienna studied her face, at first with a trace of suspicion, then with poorly smothered elation of an amateur poker player convinced she held the winning hand. Apparently she thought it was time to be generous. "What I said...about the livestock..." Her breath stirred the hair that fell over Mason's cheek. "I didn't mean any of it. I spoke in anger. I'm sorry."

Mason angled her head a little closer. Her lips brushed "accidentally" across Vienna's cheek. "It's I who should apologize. I had no right to storm into your office that day."

The hand on hers tensed, the fingers biting down. Mason drew back, but only slightly. They stared at each other as a waiter cleared their plates.

"You don't seriously believe I had anything to do with the plane crash, do you?" Evidently Vienna was working her way down a laundry list of possible deal-breakers.

Mason hesitated just long enough to seem unconvinced. "Associates like Mr. Pantano don't inspire confidence."

"Pantano's harmless," Vienna said. "My father rescued him from a bad situation, so he thinks he owes my family a debt. He gets a bit carried away at times, but he had nothing to do with the accident, I promise you that."

Mason could see her weighing the alternatives. Stop the discussion before it went sour, and leave the rest to her attorneys? Or reach an agreement now and have the staff write up the details? Predictably, her instincts took over. Vienna wanted more than a victory on paper; she wanted to force the surrender and prove to anyone who doubted it that she had the chops to run the Blake empire. She'd seen an opening and was circling Mason with predatory calm.

"Mason. You've been honest with me, so let me tell you something. I'm only doing this because my family won't let me get on with my life until I do. I don't want your business or your house, but you'll be better off if you sell to me before the banks force you to liquidate."

"That's probably true," Mason conceded.

Vienna picked up her wineglass, then set it down again, untouched. A note of impatience entered her voice. "So, let's talk plainly. What's it going to take?"

"Do you really need to ask, after our last conversation?"

Vienna took shelter in raised eyebrows and fake laughter. "I can see I sent the wrong signals that day. How ungentlemanly of you to tease me." She lowered both hands onto her lap, sandwiching them together. "I'm just thankful one of us had the good sense to leave the Berkshires before we did something we'd regret."

Mason knew she was supposed to pretend they were indulging in mere banter. But she wasn't going to let Vienna off so easily. "No, you're not. You're angry with me."

"Okay, I was a little annoyed. It would have been courteous for you to get in touch." Vienna shrugged. "But I'm sure you had more pressing matters to attend to."

"As did you." Mason paused. "How's that battle coming along, by the way? When Andy phoned us the other day, I thought he must have taken over."

She watched Vienna process this information and temper her response, staring unseeingly at the floral centerpiece on their table. The only sign of her anger was the fretful attention she suddenly paid to her napkin, jerking it tight before rearranging it on her lap.

"I know they say keep your enemies close," Mason continued. "But VP?"

"How I deal with my family is none of your business."

"If only they knew the lengths you've gone to already, to get me... exactly where you want me. I believe those were your words. And that you'd do whatever it takes."

Vienna sat very still.

"Forgive me," Mason continued. "I overheard you on your cell phone at Penwraithe that day, talking to your mother. It didn't seem like the right time to announce myself, so I went back home."

"And left before our...date," Vienna completed blankly. The dent in her sangfroid was evident. She moistened her lips and looked everywhere but at Mason, clearly trying to figure out how she could reclaim the advantage.

Mason saved her the trouble. "Yes, so getting back to whatever it takes, I've had some time to think about acceptable terms."

"And?" Vienna regarded her warily.

"You for a week. Complete possession. Anything I want."

"I'm sorry?"

"You want me to spell it out in more detail?"

"No," Vienna retorted, clearly convinced that Mason was messing with her. "Very funny." She adopted a smooth, unruffled tone. "Just give me the cold, hard numbers, Mason, and we can get this over with."

"I'm not interested in numbers, I'm interested in fucking you."

Vienna blanched. "Don't," she whispered. "Not here."

"You're right. This isn't the place." Mason dropped her napkin on the table. Normally, she wouldn't speak crudely to any woman outside of the bedroom, but she'd accomplished her goal. Vienna was thrown off balance and, from the looks of her nipples, turned on to boot.

The waiters were still clearing plates. After a civilized amount of time, they would serve dessert and coffee. It really wasn't done to leave a dinner party like this one until the cheese plates came out and people started escaping to smoke, but no one would be surprised by Mason's departure. Vienna, however, would be stuck here for the next hour, keeping up appearances. Brooding. Upset. Aroused.

Mason slid her chair back. "I think we're done. I'm going to skip dessert and drive back to Laudes Absalom. Are you coming?"

"Now?" Vienna cast a frantic look around the table.

"Need some time to think about it? Take twenty-four hours,"

Mason said with calm indifference. "I'll be at the apartment for a while before I leave. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Leaving Vienna blinking in disbelief, she moved around the table to murmur her apologies to their hostess. She explained that she'd become emotional thinking about Lynden and had probably overestimated her ability to be around others. She made a point of thanking Buffy for helping her and Vienna to move toward healing the rift between their families. Buffy seemed delighted and even dropped a kiss on her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, Mason could see Vienna watching her every move with a pinched expression. Both hands were in her lap and she kept glancing down.

She was text-messaging, Mason concluded, no doubt telling her attorneys to await her further instructions and ignore anything Andy Rossiter told them to do. With a polite nod in her direction, Mason left the party. As she waited for the doorman to summon a taxi, she weighed the odds and decided Vienna would arrive on her doorstep in NoHo in roughly ninety minutes. If Mason had already left by then, she could expect a petulant visitor tomorrow at Laudes Absalom.

Vienna banged on the door of the wrong apartment. The cool urbanite who answered had a perfumed pooch tucked under his arm and a Bluetooth attached to his head. When she described who she was looking for, he directed her to a corner loft on the top floor, adding, "She's not selling. I asked."

Lynden's condo was probably a light and gorgeous designer masterpiece, if the building was any indication, but Vienna didn't get to find out. Either Mason had already gone or she wasn't answering the door. Feeling light-headed, Vienna leaned against the wall and tried to decide if she was relieved or let down. The last thing she'd expected of this evening was to find herself outplayed. Mason was ready to sell, yet somehow she'd backed Vienna into a corner. She'd expected a fight to the bitter end, but not this. Did Mason seriously expect Vienna to trade sex for her signature?

Vienna thought about the plane crash. From all accounts, Lynden was a novice pilot. He'd attempted an emergency landing when he wasn't ready for prime time. No one was to blame for another spoiled white man with money thinking he was some kind of god and could live by different rules. The plane had engine failure in poor weather. An expert pilot could probably have landed it. Why was Lynden at the controls and not Mason?

Was that what this was really about? Was Mason making their fight personal because she felt guilty and had to shift the blame somewhere? Vienna tried to think rationally. Mason had to know she would never accept such an absurd, humiliating condition to get the deal done. Become a sexual plaything for a week? It was outrageous. Mason was dreaming if she thought Vienna would barter her body like some medieval virgin, sacrificing herself for the good of her family. She had far too much self-respect.

Infuriated, she gave up ringing the doorbell and took the elevator back down to the street. Her mind felt thick with the effects of three glasses of wine, but she was sobering up and coffee would help. She was irritated that'd she'd consumed so much more than her usual small glass. Normally she was more careful, but tonight wasn't a normal evening.

She got into a cab, lost in thought. The driver was mercifully silent as they drove uptown, recognizing a New Yorker and sparing her the inquisition reserved for tourists. New York taxi drivers went to charm school these days and hers had obviously been awake for the session on how to get better tips. He switched off the rap music and called, "I got Brahms on CD. You like to hear that, ma'am?"

She played along. "Sure. Nice idea."

When they reached her building, he behaved with the gallantry commanded by a twenty-dollar tip, and paused to shoot the breeze with the doorman. Vienna hoped Marjorie would be asleep by now. She'd begged off Buffy's party because of a clash of events. She and Buffy were old friends and understood the give and take necessary at such times. Besides, Vienna's presence was decent compensation, as she only had time to attend a few events during the charity season now that she ran Blake Industries.

She let herself into the apartment, dropped her cashmere evening coat over a chair in the downstairs foyer, and peeped into her mother's bedroom. Marjorie was snoring happily, her face shrouded in the elasticized mask she wore each night to enhance the effects of her costly skin products. Vienna didn't know if this hallowed ritual actually worked, but Marjorie took no chances. She also spent weeks of every year in LA, having her face embalmed with mysterious treatments she described as "European." Despite regular Botox, she could still move her eyebrows. Vienna supposed that was something. Several friends had to resort to intervention when their mothers started overusing the needle. It got ugly.

She made a plunger of strong coffee and retreated to her room. Opening the French doors onto the wraparound terrace, she looked across Fifth Avenue to the familiar Central Park tree line. The Blakes took pride in their beautiful outdoor living space, a garden oasis that offered a tranquil escape from the noise and dreariness of the concrete world around them. Vienna could remember birthday parties here with her cousins and various children of her parents' friends. In hindsight, she realized the parties weren't really for her. They were events where adults socialized and competed.

She'd always wished she had a sister or brother to escape with, but her three closest cousins were all boys and older than her. They stuck together with Andy their ringleader. He'd always resented her, Vienna reflected, and he had no loyalty. Her father had rewarded him very generously for his mediocre work in the company, and there was even a time when Norris had considered a revision to his will, to provide Andy with his own shareholding. Vienna wasn't sure what had changed his mind, but he never mentioned the idea again after her brush with death the night of the ball. He probably didn't want her to feel she'd lost his trust.

Once Vienna was well again, life had returned to normal and her father had continued to fashion her into the son he never had, grooming her to take his place alone. Perhaps the most important thing he'd taught her was that power and responsibility go hand in hand. Most of the people she knew paid lip service to the maxim, but the Blakes took duty seriously. Vienna's name was her destiny; she knew that. Walking away, or giving up in the middle of a fight, was inconceivable.

She sat down at a small table beneath a vine-covered pergola and poured her coffee, wondering what Norris would have advised her to do about Andy. He'd become even more obnoxious of late, egged on by his mother. Since her divorce, Aunt Cynthia had far too much time on her hands and spent it making trouble. She spoke openly about her precious son taking over as president in the near future and had managed to establish a faction of supporters inside the company who reported direct to Andy. Vienna couldn't sack all of them.

The issue was leadership. When her father was in charge, no one would have dared go around him. Vienna had always imaged a scenario where she gradually took over his role, having him there advising her and maintaining a presence before he retired completely. But she'd found herself in charge overnight, forced to pick up the reins while she was so weighed down with grief she could hardly function. She'd often felt out of her depth and isolated, but she couldn't risk showing a lack of confidence with her aunts and cousins sitting around her like vultures, just waiting for her to make a mistake.

The Cavender deal was her first big test and she knew she had Mason on the ropes, that crazy condition notwithstanding. Should she take for granted her inevitable surrender, or should she strike now by raising the stakes? If she withdrew her offer, the whole house of cards would come down. The bank would call in their loans and the Cavender Corporation would be bankrupt. Either way, Vienna couldn't lose.

Mason was just playing chicken with her. Like all Cavenders, she was unpredictable. They were governed by their emotions and therefore prone to impulsive behavior. Tonight was the perfect illustration. Mason knew the end was imminent; in her own words she'd admitted she wanted to get it over with. But instead of making a graceful exit, she'd decided Vienna should suffer a little, too. Sipping the hot coffee, Vienna turned her face toward the breeze and willed her senses to snap into alert mode. She needed to think lucidly but her mind felt spongy and sluggish. By contrast, her limbs were tense and her breathing was too rapid.

There was nothing about Mason that warranted girlish swoons or romantic illusions; she was Vienna's stark opposite, a shameless womanizer. But the mere thought of spending a week as her lover made Vienna's pulse hammer out of control. She needed a cold shower.

Mumbling, "Get a grip on yourself," she pushed off her Jimmy Choo pumps and allowed her feet to settle on the cool brick cobblestones.

By now Mason was probably halfway to the Berkshires. Vienna knew she should be close behind, making the three-hour drive in the middle of the night so she could reclaim the advantage. Her father would have been knocking on the door at Laudes Absalom in the middle of the night to get this deal signed. He always did whatever it took. That was the Blake way.

Vienna drained her coffee and got to her feet. She could go tomorrow, she decided, unzipping her dress with a moan of relief. She wasn't going to fall for Mason's ticking bomb ploy. After adding the gown to a stack of clothing to be cleaned, she took off the Cavender Diamonds, dropped the necklace distastefully on her night table, and marched into the bathroom. Her mother was expecting her to tag along for a terrifying brunch with some charity committee types at L'Absinthe the next morning. Then Vienna was supposed to help her choose between several Oscar de la Renta designs for the Whitney Gala. By the time they found shoes to match, it would be late afternoon, and then she had a meeting with Darryl Kent over her aunts' latest legal machinations. She wouldn't get to Penwraithe until the evening.

Twenty-four hours. What then? Was Mason planning to walk away from the deal and self-destruct? No, even a Cavender wasn't that crazy. Vienna had increased her bid a week ago, making an offer Mason couldn't refuse: an even more inflated price for the corporation and a fat-out crazy amount for Laudes Absalom. If the deal got any richer there would be howls of outrage once her aunts saw the figures. She had to get Mason to sign.

Bothered by the thought, Vienna pinned up her hair and removed her makeup. A day wouldn't make any difference. The time limit was a game. Vienna adjusted the shower temperature and stepped beneath the soothing jets of water, trying not to hear Aunt Cynthia's voice accusing her of procrastination. She soaped herself and watched white, fluffy suds roll down her legs and gather around her toes. Was she delaying the coup de grâce? If so, why?

Mason's face drifted before her, the eyes darkly glowing, that mouth too close for comfort. In those final moments at Buffy's, with Mason's breath on her cheek, Vienna had wanted to turn her head and take the kiss that always thickened the air between them. She could feel Mason's body summoning hers. Like a phantom in a dream, it reached for her, and Vienna felt she had no choice but to reach back.

Was that the real reason she was standing here making excuses for herself? Was she afraid of her own weakness? Vienna scrubbed her back and shoulders angrily. It wouldn't be the end of the world if she accepted Mason's terms. So what if she had to swallow her pride? She would spend a week enjoying herself sexually and get what she wanted. Why the hesitation? Did she doubt her ability to keep the necessary emotional distance?

Vienna's hands shook as she turned off the water and dried herself. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image branded inside her eyelids: Mason, tearing back her white shirt, exposing those breasts, taunting her to shoot. That wretched woman had always been able to destroy her peace of mind. If she had any sense she would hand the deal over to her cousins and tell them to wipe Cavender off the map. But instead she was going to drive to Penwraithe tomorrow knowing anything could happen.

Worse still, a traitorous part of her hoped that it would.