Free The Best Way to Lose by Janet Dailey Page B

never owned the company before.”
    A little shock seemed to vibrate through Pilar. It wasn’t possible. According to the will, the bulk of Elliot’s shares had come to her.
    “In case you haven’t counted them lately”—Trace looked straight at her when he spoke—“between the shares my father left me and the ones I received from my mother’s estate, I hold the majority of shares in the Santee Line.”
    “Well, yes … that’s true.” The attorney nodded a dazed confirmation. “But—” He was plainly at a loss for words.
    It was not resentment of his ownership that smoldered behind the calm facade Pilar showed him. After all, he was Elliot’s son, so it was natural that he should inherit control of the company. It was a distrust of the capricious whims that ruled him, and his lack of respect for the established order of things. She saw the gleam in his gray eyes that issued a challenge and amusement. Trace Santee was enjoying the discomfort he was creating.
    “How typical of him,” Pilar thought, “to arrive unannounced and throw everyone into confusion—stirring up trouble.” She quietly seethed, conscious of the heated tempo of her pulse. He sat crookedly in the chair, a pose of lazy indolence with one arm stretched on the table to idly turn a pencil in a circle.
    Cunningham hunched forward in his chair and turned his bald head in the direction ofthe end chair. “You have never taken any interest in the operation or management of the company before, Trace. Naturally the members of the board are surprised by this apparent turn-around.”
    “It’s been four or five years since the company has issued any dividends to the shareholders.” Trace seemed to throw that out as a reason while he eyed the interim president through the tops of thick lashes.
    “In the past,” Pilar said and heard the huskiness in her voice, “you never bothered to attend any of the previous shareholders’ or directors’ meetings. This is rather a sudden concern about the financial status of the company, isn’t it?”
    “But in the past”—he paused, eyeing her steadily, yet with that gleam of mocking amusement that had taken on a harsh note—“my father ran the company, Mrs. Santee.”
    He picked up the pencil, and tapped the eraser end on the table. The little gesture seemed to draw to a close any further discussion of this subject. The lazy pose was thrown off as he straightened in the chair and rested his forearms and elbows on the table. With the action, the control of the meeting seemed to flow to him.
    “I don’t know how these procedures are conducted, but”—his cool, challenging gaze swept the table—“maybe we should begin by installing a new president.”
    The brief silence was broken by the attorneyas he sat down in the empty chair next to Pilar’s, relinquishing his authority over the proceedings. Nervously he cleared his throat, conscious that the others were looking to him. “Dale Cunningham has been acting as interim president,” he said. “I believe the general opinion has been that the position would become permanent. Elliot thought very highly of his management abilities.”
    “I have one quarrel with Cunningham taking over as president of the Santee Line,” Trace stated, apparently indifferent to the tension in the air. “He hasn’t been on the river in twenty years or more. He’s lost touch with the business and the changes it’s made.”
    No one commented on his assessment of Cunningham or his lack of endorsement. Payne Forrestown studied the documents on the table in front of him, giving them a pretense of attention, and asked the question no one else wanted to voice. “Is there someone you would like to suggest for the post?”
    “Me.” The slow smile that spread across the bluntly chiseled features held no humor.
    Forty-five minutes after Trace had walked into the conference room, the meeting was concluded. It had been awkward for everyone except Trace. So Pilar wasn’t