Free Rivals by Janet Dailey Page A

Friends, a beautiful home, gorgeous clothes, and an unquestionably successful career weren’t enough to fill the emptiness. Without someone to share them with, they meant little. But who?
    Instantly an image of Chance Stuart flashed in her mind. Suddenly she could see again that faintly wicked glint in his blue eyes, the raffish charm of his crooked smile, and that aura of virility he wore so casually. She smiled, realizing that he’d made a very definite impression on her—and wondered if she would see him again or whether it had been a line, forgotten minutes after it was said. Probably.
    Sighing, Flame returned the photo album to its place on the shelf, her fingers lingering for a moment on its worn, leather-bound spine. As she turned, her glance fell on the horn chair. That strange visit from Hattie Morgan had started this rush of memories with all her talk about family. How odd that it had taken a stranger to remind her.

5

    T he black marble and glass of Stuart Tower loomed tall and proud, adding its own bold statement to the progressive skyline of cosmopolitan Tulsa. Like everything else Chance Stuart owned, it carried his name, emblazoned in gold leaf to gleam in the sun for all to see. More than one had suggested, not entirely in jest, that he should take that scrolled S and put a line through it, turning it into a dollar sign, because everyone sure as hell knew that the name Stuart and money were practically synonymous.
    When the silver Jaguar wheeled into the entrance to the underground parking garage, the brash young attendant in the booth quickly sat up straighter, threw a one-fingered salute at the driver, then gazed after the car with a mixture of longing and envy. It rolled to a smooth stop in the space marked RESERVED, C. STUART. Chance stepped out and crossed to the private elevator. It made only one stop—on the twentieth floor, the offices of the Stuart Corporation.
    The elevator whisked him silently to the building’s top floor and opened its doors onto Molly’s office, the private entrance allowing him to avoid the public reception area and the many offices of the company’s various departments. As always, Molly was already seated behind her desk, guarding the door to his office, her chubby cheeks rounded in a smile of welcome when he walked out of the elevator.
    â€œMorning, Molly. Has Matt Sawyer arrived?” he asked, heading straight for his office.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œShow him in the minute he does.” Chance opened the door, then paused. “And let Sam know I’m here.”
    â€œRight away.” She reached for the intercom.
    Without waiting, Chance entered his office and automatically closed the door behind him, then crossed the bleached wood floor to his desk in the corner. He glanced briefly at the stack of telephone messages and letters waiting for his attention on the desk’s granite top. Turning his back on them for the time being, he walked to the smoke-tinted glass that enclosed two sides of the immense room.
    His corner office overlooked buildings that represented some of the finest examples of the Art Deco architecture so popular in the thirties. Once those buildings housed the offices of such oil giants as Waite Phillips, Bill Sinclair, and J. Paul Getty. Chance studied them briefly then lifted his glance to the city sprawled over the rolling hills of Oklahoma’s Green Country.
    Many had questioned his decision to make Tulsa his headquarters when he could just as easily have picked Dallas or Denver if it was a central location he wanted. Few knew of the affinity he felt for this city. It had come a long way from its humble cowtown beginnings, a wide spot along a dusty trail—and from its wild and rowdy days as an oil boomtown. All its rough edges had been smoothed. Now it stood sleek and sophisticated with its alabaster skyline, a high-tech city in a high-tech world. He and Tulsa had much in common. It was more than a