Chapter Eight. "Mason, are you in for lunch?" Mason turned around, belatedly registering Mrs

"Mason, are you in for lunch?" Mason turned around, belatedly registering Mrs. Danville's presence in the library doorway. She wasn't sure how long the housekeeper had stood there unobserved. She'd been so preoccupied she hadn't noticed the usual discreet knock or Ralph's arrival. After she watched Ulysses deliver the Oscar Wilde quotation, Mason had thought about going down but she'd vacillated too long. Her infuriated neighbor had fed the temple and was almost at the gatehouse now, her loose red hair billowing as the wind picked up.

"I'll have something in my room," Mason said, checking the button at her collar. She could smell Vienna on her hands, a sensory trigger that rebounded painfully through her body, twisting her nipples and heating her groin.

An appalling thought crossed her mind. What if Mrs. Danville had returned from her weekly expedition to St. Paul's Church in Stockbridge and walked in on them? In her time the redoubtable housekeeper had seen it all, and she knew how to be discreet, but Mason preferred to spare her embarrassment.

"Dinner this evening at the usual time?" Mrs. Danville asked showing no sign that she'd noticed Mason's fuster.

"Yes. Just the household."

Mason stroked Ralph's head so she wouldn't fidget. Mrs. Danville always fed him before she departed for church and he napped near the kitchen fire if she left something cooking. He then stuck to the housekeeper's side for the rest of the day until she slipped him a succulent morsel or two. Mason pretended not to know about these treats. Officially Mrs. Danville frowned on indulging pets or children.

"I'll serve in the kitchen parlor, then?" the housekeeper asked.

No answer was necessary, but Mason adhered to the draconian script that governed their interactions. She was the head of the household and Mrs. Danville expected her to behave accordingly. "Yes, that will be fine, thank you."

"Mr. Pettibone brought in a side of venison," Mrs. Danville said, prompting Ulysses to tilt his head as though captivated by a siren song. He harbored a passion for the housekeeper that was not returned.

Cawing softly, he jumped down from Mason's shoulder to his perch, bobbing and puffing out his lustrous blue-black feathers. When this attracted only doggish wonder from Ralph, he lowered his head and spread his wings, making a gallant bow.

Immune to the display, Mrs. Danville continued, "I'm spit-roasting the haunch in collops."

"Excellent." The thought made Mason queasy. She would only eat the vegetables, but Mrs. Danville took no pleasure in cooking unless she could serve fine meat dishes and good wine, so Mason responded in the manner expected of her. "Have Mr. Pettibone open a Pommard."

Mrs. Danville consulted the notebook that swung from a cord at her waist. "Domaine de la Vougeraie?"

"Yes, by all means." Mason had a huge wine cellar to work through and once a bottle was opened she could offer it to her staff, since she avoided alcohol herself-she didn't want to become her father.

Mrs. Danville's lips thinned a little. "That bird is making a nuisance of himself again, dropping things through the kitchen window."

Poor Ulysses had chosen the wrong woman to try to impress with shiny objects. Mrs. Danville despised sentiment.

Mason offered her usual ineffectual deterrent. "I'll confine him for a few days."

"Thank you." Mrs. Danville flipped a page. As her index finger moved down the contents, Ulysses gazed longingly at the one ring she wore, a plain gold signet. "Miss Blake wishes to meet Dulcifal."

Mason froze. Had the two seen each other as Vienna was departing? If so, Mrs. Danville would have noticed her wearing Mason's shirt. Very little escaped her. "She asked you herself?"

"Mr. O'Grady informed me."

Surprised that the stable manager hadn't mentioned this unusual request, Mason said, "She can visit the barns tomorrow morning. I won't be taking Dulcifal out until after nine."

"Very well." Mrs. Danville dropped the notebook and smoothed her hands down her dark gray gabardine skirt. A woman of austere appearance and temperament, she normally wore the skirt with a crisp white cotton blouse and a dove gray cashmere cardigan buttoned all the way up. Today being Sunday, she had exchanged the cotton blouse for one in silk crepe with a dainty crocheted border of ivory lace. Her face was framed on either side with the soft reverse roll hairstyle she adopted for outings that warranted a hat. For dinner the hair would be drawn back up into the usual tight silver-white topknot and speared with the art deco comb her mother, also a Cavender housekeeper, had handed down to her.

"There was a man hanging about the stables yesterday, by the way," Mason said. "I have no idea how he found his way into the grounds, but he's not to be let in again."

"Ah, the ruffian in the brothel creepers?"

"I didn't notice his shoes. Pantano is the name."

With a disdainful sniff, Mrs. Danville recorded this information in her notebook. "I can't image the fellow is acquainted with an honest day's work," she tonelessly observed, "yet it appears he is employed by our neighbor."

Shocked, Mason said, "By Vienna? Are you sure?"

"According to Mrs. Hardy he consumed half a beef Wellington last night, virtually single handed. And without a green vegetable."

Mason stilled her hands by clasping them behind her back. "In what capacity is Mr. Pantano employed, do you know?"

"One can only speculate. He has some business here on behalf of a family friend in New Jersey, or that's the story, for what it's worth."

Mrs. Danville was always miserly with information acquired from her contacts in the village, or directly from Bridget Hardy. The two housekeepers always gossiped after church and Mason knew exactly what must have changed hands that morning, apart from mutual dismay over Pantano's gluttony. If the Cavenders had venison, it would also be served at the Blake household this week, along with some vague explanation of its origins. Everyone knew the widowed Mr. Pettibone was enamored of Mrs. Danville and brought offerings of pheasant and venison whenever he and his son went hunting, and that Mrs. Danville shared this largesse. But the Blakes always acted as if dressed game fell from the sky. God forbid anyone acknowledge that the staff pooled resources between the two households.

Mason thanked Mrs. Danville and returned to her post at the window. She didn't buy the "family friend" bullshit for a minute. That bitch. She'd hired a Mafia thug to do her bidding. The veiled threat to Dulcifal now made sense, as did the lowball offer. Well, if Vienna thought she could trick Mason into selling Laudes Absalom for peanuts, she had another thing coming. Was that why she'd arrived on the doorstep earlier-Plan B: weaken the enemy's defenses by seducing her?

Aggravated, Mason put Ulysses in his aviary, dropped the stopper in her inkwell, and strode out of the library. Once she was upstairs in her room, she stripped off her clothes and turned the shower on. How she could have fallen for that blushing damsel act she had no idea. Those nervous looks, that quivering mouth. Disgusted with herself, she stood under the hot jets and scrubbed all trace of Vienna off her body. But she couldn't erase the memory of her. The soft cries of pleasure. The irresistible wetness and writhing pleas for more. Those eyes, as beguiling as the ocean, and just as treacherous. Mason should have known better than to believe what she saw in them, the craving that matched her own.

When would this enchantment end?

She sagged against the tile wall, every nerve end quivering. She never felt like this, she never pined and mooned over any woman. Only Vienna. Wanting her was like a sickness. At times she thought she was cured. Months would pass. A year. Life would draw her in. The symptoms would fade. But then she would wake from another of those dreams, fully aroused, desperate for release and capable only of seeing her. That face, that throat, that walk. And she would have to deal with the throbbing pressure between her legs, seeking release just as she was now.

Delaying the moment, Mason let herself drift into a favorite fantasy. Soft focus. A field of wildflowers. Vienna in a long clinging dress like a medieval virgin, her red hair rippling past her waist. Mason would kneel in front of her and pledge her loyalty. Vienna would bestow a token, her girdle. Mason would wear it off to war, all the while imagining her beloved sitting at a window, chastely awaiting her return. Finally they would marry and on their wedding night, Mason would be afraid to touch her bride in case she was rejected-that in seeing who she really was, stripped of her armor and sword, Vienna would not love her.

In her fantasies, Vienna always took over then, and Mason would find herself on the edge of exploding, afraid to move an inch. Vienna would barely touch her. Their lips would meet and Mason would know everything, see it all with such clarity. They were meant to be joined like this. She knew no other way to feel complete.

Gasping, she closed her eyes tightly against the hot spray of the shower and drove her fingers down hard, calling up the image that always pushed her over the brink. Vienna with her legs spread and her hands on Mason's shoulders, drawing her deeper, demanding, "Come. Come now."

And Mason did.

The face was handsome, the hair and eyes dark, as far as Vienna could tell from the degraded sepia image. She tucked the photograph back inside Colette's letter, disturbed that everywhere she looked she saw Mason Cavender. She'd just spent the past two hours trying to shake herself free of Mason's touch, but her body refused to be soothed into denial. She had bruises along the inside of one thigh where Mason's belt had dug in. Her throat wore the purple evidence of teeth. And the flesh Mason had invaded was exquisitely tender.

Vienna wasn't used to roughness. Her lovers, not exactly a legion, were too considerate to leave her sore. She never felt their impression inside her body afterward. Her stomach hollowed at the thought and she was instantly, infuriatingly wet again. Her nipples hurt. She couldn't swallow properly. Her thoughts were chaotic. She even entertained the idea of going back to Laudes Absalom and dragging Mason upstairs. Maybe, if they spent all night getting their fill of each other, they could get this inconvenient physical attraction out of their systems.

The thought was tempting, but not because she could convince herself that a night of limitless sex would end her infatuation. The real reason was less palatable by far. She felt cheated. That frantic coupling in the great hall hadn't been nearly enough. Vienna wanted more. She yearned to explore every smooth, firm contour and hidden recess of Mason's body, to feel every quiver of arousal. Mason was so responsive. So passionate. Vienna was both unnerved and fascinated by the dormant self Mason had awakened in her, a sexual being unfettered by common sense or duty, driven only by desire. Even now it strained restlessly within, like a wild thing wanting to return to its mate.

She'd seen the same compulsion blazing darkly from Mason's eyes and it had thrilled her. She recognized that need, she'd glimpsed it in veiled flashes since the first time they'd met. But this time was different. This time Mason didn't hide it, or couldn't fight it. Vienna loved that she had the power to inflame her, to make her betray her better judgment and ignore her reservations. And she had plenty of those; after all, she still blamed Vienna for her brother's death. Part of Vienna found that hard to endure and wanted to prove Mason wrong in her assessment. But the Blake in her cold-bloodedly assessed this new turn of events. She now had an extra weapon in her arsenal; the question was whether to use it. Imagine how completely she could defeat the last of the Cavenders if she also struck a blow to her heart.

Vienna cradled her head in her hands, repelled by the thought. A realization struck her then, a certainty she could not escape. If she did such a thing, if she seduced Mason into an affair and then discarded her, the heart more deeply wounded would be her own. Vienna stopped breathing. For several seconds she thought she was about to faint. Disbelief crowded her reasoning. No, it wasn't possible. She could accept that she was physically drawn to Mason. There'd always been a heightened awareness between them. But she refused to believe that the attraction was also emotional.

She decided she must be experiencing some kind of post-orgasmic elation. Brain chemistry was notoriously susceptible to hormones. Given the way hers were raging, she couldn't trust a single impulse she had, let alone an epiphany about her feelings for her enemy. Next thing she would be seeing the image of Christ in a can of beans.

Besides, Vienna didn't have to sink so low as to take her fight to the bedroom. Everything she'd worked for was coming to fruition. She could beat Mason cleanly, and that was the way she wanted to end this nightmare. The feud between the Blakes and the Cavenders had been personal for decades, but Vienna had never felt personally attached to their destruction. For her, the task was a business matter. She had a huge, complex corporation to run and couldn't afford to waste time on the family obsession. The Cavender issue was a distraction, one other family members were not above using as a lever. She was sick of hearing about the Cavenders, and in the end her father had been fed up, too. In his final days he'd offered her a piece of advice. Finish it and move on. Don't let it eat you alive.

The words weighed on her, for all they said about the choices he'd made and the regrets he seemed to have. Since childhood he'd been single-minded in his determination to live up to his father's expectations. Vienna knew how much it had pained him to "fail." He never stopped talking about Blake senior's deathbed wishes. Even dying of pneumonia in his eighties, the old man had the Cavenders in his sights. He blamed them for his illness. Cavender dogs kept coming over to Penwraithe, chasing the Blake cats. He was chasing an offender one day and had gone after it with his rife. That was when he fell and broke his hip. He'd caught pneumonia in the hospital.

Vienna had only vague memories of that stressful period. She was six years old and sometimes sat at her grandfather's bedside holding his hand. She remembered the funeral because it was the only time she'd ever seen her father cry. Looking back, she realized that the wedding incident, when Mason disrupted the celebrations on her horse, must have rubbed salt in her father's fresh wounds. The episode had occurred less than a year after his father's death. Norris was still grieving and had shouldered the entire responsibility for running the family business. Vienna knew now how alone he must have felt.

His two sisters, in the Blake tradition, had received cash settlements from the family trust and shareholdings that would revert back to the company when they died. In exchange, the company would pay cash to their beneficiaries. For six generations, the Blakes had used this system to avoid boardroom battles. Ownership was not diluted across numerous descendents. Instead, eldest sons made out like bandits and everyone else had to content themselves with adequate wealth and very little influence. That was her father's other failure, Vienna reflected. No son. He never mentioned his disappointment to her or to Marjorie, but he didn't have to.

Henry Cavender had never missed a chance to rub his face in it. For that reason, as much as the wrongs of the past, Norris had been consumed with hatred for their neighbor. Desperate to ensure that there was nothing for his rival's son to inherit, he'd all but wiped the Cavenders out. There was little left for Vienna to do to complete his life's work but nail the lid on the coffin. She owed him that, and the day couldn't come soon enough. She wanted the deal done and was willing to pay a premium just to get the Cavenders out of her hair.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have gone after the company at all; it was worthless. And the house was an even worse proposition, given the repairs it would need if she didn't demolish it. But Laudes Absalom symbolized victory even more than the Cavender Corporation. Once the Blakes owned the property, her ancestors could sleep easy in their graves, knowing justice was finally done.

Vienna wasn't planning to rip Mason off. She didn't care if she had to pay twice what the place was worth, so long as she could present a fait accompli at the next family gathering. Her two aunts, whose lifetime shareholdings gave them votes on the Blake board of directors, would hold her feet to the fire until she delivered, and her cousin Andy saw his VP position as nothing less than president-in-waiting. He constantly overreached and ran his own loyal clique of staff, who did their best to make Vienna feel irrelevant in her own company.

Vienna hadn't expected to find herself fighting battles on two fronts the day she took over Blake Industries, but her aunts thought Norris had made a huge mistake vesting his ownership entirely in her. They didn't want their shares repurchased by Blake Industries, and instead had plans afoot to transfer the holdings to their sons. Vienna knew an internal power struggle was inevitable, and to win it she needed to be free of the Cavender problem. Only Mason stood in her way.

Hence Pantano.

The move was clumsy, but it was a means to an end. Mason needed cash, and five million for that property was a good offer. Vienna had wanted to make it easy for her to accept by starting the bidding high. Unfortunately Pantano had taken it upon himself to try for a better deal. That was the trouble with enforcers of his ilk, it never crossed their minds that some people wouldn't just grab the money and run. One lousy million-Vienna was surprised that Mason hadn't set her dog on him. She only hoped he'd been convincing about buying the place for a boss back in Jersey who needed to lie low for a while. If Mason thought Vienna was the real buyer, she'd never sell.

She got up and made herself another espresso. Having a machine in the study meant she could work without interruption when she needed to. As she sipped the coffee she pondered her options once more. She had just instructed Pantano to go back tomorrow and put the real offer on the table. She was willing to go to eight million if Mason continued to hold out.

But what if Mason sent Pantano packing again? Vienna would be a fool not to use all means at her disposal to get what she wanted. She had no doubt that Mason desired her. Hopefully she hadn't blown her chances of closing the deal by running out on her after their encounter. She smothered the memory of Mason's words: Do you ever wonder how things might have been? Her drawn face and hurt stare still stabbed at Vienna. Mason hadn't even tried to hide her emotions. She'd exposed herself, just as she had that day in Vienna's office, only this time Vienna had taken a shot.

She knew her callous remark about the promise rings had hit home. That was her intention. She'd set out to trivialize the intimacy they'd just shared and had expected retaliation in kind, not that pained stare of betrayal. Not the jarring accusation of cowardice. And certainly not a message delivered by a raven. When the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.

Her prayer, for as long as she could remember, was to ruin Mason Cavender. She'd always known there would be a price to pay. But she never realized that money would be the least of it.