Tender Triumph

  * * *

  TENDER TRIUMPH

  JUDITH McNAUGHT

  * * *

  "Ramon, Do You Know How to Dance?" Katie Asked...

  They were surrounded by couples dancing, loud music blasting over the loudspeakers.

  Flinging his cigar away in a glowing red arc, he said tersely, "Yes, Katie, I know how to dance. I know how to swim. I know how to tie my own shoes. I have a slight accent, which you seem to think means I am backward and ignorant, but which many women find attractive."

  Katie stiffened angrily, and said very quietly and very distinctly, "Go to hell." Intending to walk away, she pivoted on her heel, then gasped in surprise as Ramon's hand clamped on her arm, jerking her around to face him.

  He gazed down into her stormy blue eyes and a reluctant smile of admiration broke across his fea­tures . . . "Katie," he breathed as his firm, sensual mouth descended to hers . . .

  A jolt rocked through Katie as his warm lips cov­ered hers in a lingering kiss ...

  * * *

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  Copyright © 1983 by Judith McNaught

  Cover artwork copyright © 1986 Franco Accornero

  Published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-61456-8

  First Pocket Books printing July, 1986

  10 987654321

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  * * *

  With love and gratitude to Janet Tait who had cheered for my triumphs, wept for my sorrows, and enriched my life with her friendship. And for Roger Tait who had never objected to the time all that takes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Standing in brooding silence at the windows of the elegant penthouse apartment, the tall dark man gazed at the panorama of twinkling lights fanning out across the dusky St. Louis skyline. Bitterness and resignation were evident in Ramon Galverra's abrupt movements as he jerked the knot of his tie loose, then raised his glass of Scotch to his mouth, drinking deeply.

  Behind him, a blond man strode quickly into the dimly lit living room. "Well, Ramon?" he asked eagerly. "What did they decide?"

  "They decided what bankers always decide," Ra­mon said harshly, without turning. "They decided to look out for themselves."

  "Those bastards!" Roger exploded. In angry frustration, he raked his hand through his blond hair, then turned and headed determinedly for the row of crystal decanters on the bar. "They sure as hell stayed with you when the money was pouring in," he gritted as he splashed bourbon into a glass.

  "They have not changed," Ramon said grimly. "If the money was still pouring in, they would still be with me."

  Roger snapped on a lamp, then scowled at the magnificent Louis XIV furnishings, as if their pres­ence in his spacious living room offended him. "I was so certain, so absolutely certain, that when you explained about the state of your father's mental health before he died the bankers would stand by you. How can they blame you for his mistakes and incompetence?"

  Turning from the windows, Ramon leaned a shoulder against the frame. For a moment he stared at the remaining Scotch in his glass, then he tipped it up to his mouth and drained it. "They blame me for not preventing him from making fatal mistakes, and for not recognizing the fact of his incompetence in time."

  "Not recognizing the—" Roger repeated furious­ly. "How were you supposed to recognize that a man who always acted like he was God Almighty, one day started believing it? And what could you have done if you'd known? The stock was in his name, not yours. Until the day he died, he held the controlling interest in the corporation. Your hands were tied."

  "Now they are empty," Ramon replied with a shrug of broad, muscled shoulders on his six-foot-three-inch frame.

  "Look," Roger said in desperation. "I haven't brought this up before because I knew your pride would be offended, but I'm a long way from being poor, you know that. How much do you need? If I don't have it all, maybe I can raise the rest."

  For the first time, a glint of humor touched Ra­mon Galverra's finely sculpted mouth and arrogant dark eyes. The transformation was startling, soften­ing the features of a face that lately looked as if it had been cast in bronze by an artist intent on por­traying cold, ruthless determination and ancient Spanish nobility. "Fifty million would help. Seventy-five million would be better."

  "Fifty million?" Roger said blankly, staring at the man he had known since they were both students at Harvard University. "Fifty million dollars would only help?"

  "Right. It would only help." Slamming his glass down on the marble table beside him, Ramon turned and started toward the guest room he had been oc­cupying since his arrival in St. Louis a week before.

  "Ramon," Roger said urgently, "you have to see Sid Green while you're here. He could raise that kind of money if he wanted to, and he owes you."

  Ramon's head jerked around. His aristocratic Spanish face hardened with contempt. "If Sid want­ed to help, he would have contacted me. He knows I am here and he knows I am in trouble."

  "Maybe he doesn't know. Until now, you've managed to keep it quiet that the corporation is go­ing under. Maybe he doesn't know."

  "He knows. He is on the board of directors of the bank that is refusing to extend our loan."

  "But—"

  "No! If Sid was willing to help, he would have contacted me. His silence speaks for itself, and I will not beg him. I have called a meeting of my corpora­tion's auditors and attorneys in Puerto Rico for ten days from now. At that meeting I will instruct them to file bankruptcy." Turning on his heel, Ramon strode from the room, his long purposeful strides eloquent of restless anger.

  When he returned, his thick black hair was slight­ly damp from a shower, and he was wearing Levi's. Roger turned and watched in silence as Ramon fold­ed the cuffs of his white shirt up on his forearms. "Ramon," he said with pleading determination, "stay another week in St. Louis. Maybe Sid will contact you if you give him more time. I tell you, I don't think he knows you're here. I don't even know if he's in town."

  "He is in town, and I am leaving for Puerto Rico in two days, exactly as I planned.''

  Roger heaved a long, defeated sigh. "What the hell are you going to do in Puerto Rico?''

  "First, I am going to attend to the corporation's bankruptcy, and then I am going to do what my grandfather did, and his father before him," Ramon replied tautly. "I am going to farm."

  "You're out of your mind!" Roger burst out. "Farm that little patch of ground with that hut on it where you and I took those two girls from... ?"

  "That little patch of ground," Ramon inter­rupted with quiet dignity, "is all I have left. Along with the cottage on it where I was born."

  "What about the house near San Juan, or the villa in Spain, or the island in the Mediterranean? Sell one of your houses or the island; that would keep you in luxury for as long as you live."

  "They are gone. I put them up as collateral to raise money for the corporation that it cannot repay. The banks who loaned the money will be swarming over everything like vultures before the year is out."

  "Dammit!" Roger said helplessly. "If your father weren't already dead, I'd kill him with my own two hands."

  "The stockholders would have alre
ady beaten you to it." Ramon smiled without humor.

  "How can you just stand there and talk as if you don't even care?"

  "I have accepted defeat," Ramon said calmly, "I have done everything that can be done. I will not mind working my land beside the people who have worked it for my family for centuries."

  Turning to hide his sympathy from the man Roger knew would reject it and despise him for it, he said, "Ramon, is there anything I can do?"

  "Yes."

  "Name it," Roger said, looking hopefully over his shoulder. "Just tell me and I' 11 do it."

  "Will you loan me your car? I would like to go for a drive alone."

  Grimacing at such a paltry request, Roger dug in his pocket, then tossed his keys to his friend. "There's a problem in the fuel line and the filter keeps clogging, but the local Mercedes dealer can't take it in for another week. With your luck the thing will probably quit in the middle of the street to­night."

  Ramon shrugged, his face wiped clean of emo­tion. "If the car stops, 1 will walk. The exercise will help me get into condition for farming."

  "You don't have to farm that place and you know it! In the international business community you're

  famous."

  A muscle clenched in Ramon's jaw as he made an obvious effort to control his bitter anger. "In the international business community, I have been party to a sin no one will forgive or forget—failure. I am about to become its most notorious failure. Would you have me beg my friends for a position on that recommendation? Shall I go to your factory tomor­row and apply for a job on your assembly line?"

  "No, of course not! But you could think of some­thing. I've seen you build a financial empire in a few short years. If you could build it, you could find a way to save a piece of it for yourself. I don't think you give a damn anymore! I—"

  "I cannot work miracles," Ramon cut in flatly. "And that is what it would take. The Lear is in a hangar at the airport waiting for a minor part for one of the engines. When the jet mechanics have fin­ished with it, and my pilot returns Sunday night from his weekend off, I will be flying to Puerto Rico." Roger opened his mouth to protest, but Ramon silenced him with an impatient look. "There is dignity in farming. More dignity, I think, than in dealing with bankers. While my father was alive, I knew no peace. Since he died, I have known no peace. Let me find it in my own way."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The huge bar at the Canyon Inn near suburban Westport was packed with the usual Friday night crowd. Katie Connelly glanced surreptitiously at her watch, then let her gaze slide over the laughing, drinking, talking groups, searching for a particular face among them. Her view of the main entrance was obscured by the profusion of lush plants sus­pended from macrame hangers and the tiffany lamps hanging beneath the stained-glass ceiling.

  Keeping the bright smile fixed on her face, she re­turned her attention to the knot of men and women standing around her. "So I told him never to call me again," Karen Wilson was saying to them.

  A man stepped on Katie's foot while stretching around her to get his drink from the bar. In the process of reaching into his pocket to extract some money, he jabbed her in the side with his elbow. He offered no apology, nor did Katie really expect one. It was every man, and every woman, for themselves in here. Equal rights.

  Turning away from the bar with his drink in his hand, he noticed Katie. "Hello," he said, pausing to flick an interested glance over her slender, curving figure draped in a clingy blue dress. "Nice," he concluded aloud as he considered everything about her, from the shining reddish blond hair tumbling around her shoulders, to the sapphire blue eyes re­garding him beneath long curling lashes and deli­cately arched brows. Her cheeks were elegantly curved, her nose small, and as he continued to sur­vey her, her creamy complexion took on a becoming tint of pale rose. "Very nice," he amended, un­aware that the reason for her heightening color was irritation, not pleasure.

  Although Katie resented him for looking at her as if he had paid for the privilege, she could not really blame him. After all, she was here, wasn't she? Here in what was, despite what the owners and patrons preferred to think, nothing more than a huge sin­gles' bar attached to a tiny dining room to give it dignity.

  "Where's your drink?" he asked, lazily reexamining her beautiful face.

  "I don't have one," Katie replied, stating the per­fectly obvious.

  "Why not?"

  "I've already had two."

  "Well, why don't you get yourself another one and meet me over in that corner? We can get ac­quainted. I'm an attorney," he added, as if that one piece of information should make her eager to snatch a drink and leap after him.

  Katie bit her lip and deliberately looked disap­pointed. "Oh."

  "Oh, what?"

  "I don't like attorneys," she said straight-faced.

  He was more stunned than annoyed. "Too bad." Shrugging, he turned and wended his way into the crowd. Katie watched him pause near two very at­tractive young women who returned his considering glance with one of their own, looking him over with blatant interest. She felt a surge of shamed disgust for him, for all of them in this crowded place, but especially for herself for being here. She was in­wardly embarrassed by her own rudeness, but places like this automatically made her feel defensive, and her natural warmth and spontaneity atrophied the moment she crossed the threshold.

  The attorney had, of course, forgotten Katie in an instant. Why should he bother spending two dollars to buy her a drink, then put forth the effort to be friendly and charm her? Why should he exert him­self when it wasn't necessary? If Katie, or any other woman in the room, wanted to get to know him, he was perfectly willing to let her try to interest him. And if she succeeded sufficiently, he would even in­vite her to come to his place—in her own car, of course—so that she could indulge her equal, and much publicized, need for sexual gratification. After which he would have a friendly drink with her—if he wasn't too tired—walk her to his door, and allow her to drive herself back to wherever she lived.

  So efficient, so straightforward. No strings at­tached. No commitments made or expected. To­day's woman, of course, had equal rights of refusal; she didn't have to go to bed with him. She didn't even have to worry that her refusal might hurt his feelings. Because he had no feelings for her. He might be slightly annoyed that he had wasted an hour or two of his time, but then he would simply make another selection from the numerous willing women available to him.

  Katie raised her blue eyes, again scanning the crowd for Rob, wishing she had arranged to meet him somewhere else. The popular music was too loud, adding its clamor to the din of raised voices and forced laughter. She gazed at the faces around her, all different, yet all similar in their restless, eager, bored expressions. They were all looking for something. They hadn't found it yet.

  "It's Katie, isn't it?" An unfamiliar male voice spoke behind her. Startled, Katie turned and found herself looking into a confidently smiling male face above an Ivy League button-down shirt, well-tailored blazer and coordinated tie. "I met you with Karen at the supermarket, two weeks ago."

  He had a boyish grin and hard eyes. Katie was wary and her smile lacked its normal sparkle. "Hello, Ken. It's nice to see you again."

  "Listen, Katie," he said, as if he had suddenly devised a brilliant and original scheme. "Why don't we leave here and go somewhere quieter."

  His place or hers. Whichever was closest. Katie knew the routine and it sickened her. "What did you have in mind?"

  He didn't answer the question, he didn't need to. Instead he asked another. "Where do you live?"

  "A few blocks from here—the Village Green Apartments."

  “Any roommates?''

  "Two lesbians," she lied gravely.

  He believed her, and he wasn't shocked. "No kid­ding? It doesn't bother you?"

  Katie gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. "I adore them." For just a fraction of a second he looked revolted, and Katie's smile widened with genuine laughter.

  Re
covering almost immediately, he shrugged. "Too bad. See you around."

  Katie watched his attention shift across the room until he saw someone who interested him and he left, slowly shoving his way through the crowd. She had had enough. More than enough. She touched Karen's arm, distracting her from her animated con­versation with two attractive men about skiing in Colorado. "Karen, I'm going to stop in the ladies' room, and then I'm leaving."

  "Rob didn't show up?" Karen said distractedly. "Well, look around—there's plenty more where he came from. Take your pick."

  "I'm going," Katie said with quiet firmness. Karen merely shrugged and returned to her conver­sation.

  The ladies' room was down a short hall behind the bar, and Katie worked her way through the shifting bodies, breathing a sigh of relief as she squeezed around the last human obstacle in her path and stepped into the relative quiet of the hallway. She wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappoint­ed that Rob hadn't come. Eight months ago, she had been wildly, passionately dazzled by him, by his clever mind and teasing tenderness. He had every­thing: blond good looks, confidence, charm and a secure future as the heir to one of St. Louis's largest stockbrokerage firms. He was beautiful and wise and wonderful. And married.

  Katie's face saddened as she recalled the last time she had seen Rob… After a marvelous dinner and dancing they had returned to her apartment and were having a drink. For hours she had been think­ing of what was going to happen when Rob took her in his arms. That night, for the first time, she was not going to stop him when he tried to make love to her. During the last months he had told her a hun­dred times, and shown her in a hundred ways, that he loved her. There was no need for her to hesitate any longer. In fact, she had been about to take the initiative when Rob had leaned his head back against the sofa and sighed. "Katie, tomorrow's paper is going to have a story about me in the society section. Not just about me—but also about my wife and son. I'm married."