“They wereDaddy’sfriends.”
“The Phelans introduced you around Philly.The Goodmans did it in Scarsdale.The Andersons were your entree in Southampton.Those were my contacts.”
“They were St.George contacts.I made the initialphone calls.I made the trip arrangements.If favors were paid, they were paid to Daddy.He was the one who began dealing with those people twenty-some years ago.They were St.George clients long beforeFacetswas conceived.You call them your contacts.I call them my contacts.We can stand here arguing about it, or you can get out of here and give me some air.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”he asked, working harder to appear complacent.“I’d be careful if I were you, Pam.You forget that Pamela St.George Originals are part ofFacets.”
“Only if I want them to be.”
He shook his head.“Whether you want it or not.Remember that standard contract you signed when you started working?It gaveFacetsthe right to your name.”
“It did not,” she said, but she pulled her robe tighter.
He saw it as a nervous gesture and took heart.He also took a leisurely look at the curves she’d inadvertently emphasized.“Check it out.You’ll see I’m right.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist.“It gaveFacetsthe right to any and all pieces I made while in the company’s employ.I take my name, my skill, and my following with me when I leave.”
He shook his head slowly.“I think not.”
“I read it carefully, John, and I had a lawyer read it after me.If that contract givesFacetsthe right to my name, then it’s been altered.Not that I’d put that past you.You did it before, with Little Lincoln and Cutter.”
“Cutter.”The name alone dented John’s composure.
“Don’t bring him into this.”
“Why not?You owe him.You stole Little Lincoln.”
John wasn’t about to confirm or deny the claim.“From what I understand, he doesn’t need it.He’s earning big money.”
“Little Lincoln was his legacy from Daddy.”
“Little Lincoln is barren.It isn’t worth two cents.”
“Then that’s poetic justice, I’d say.”
“And Cutter?”John shot back, determined to catch her in a trap of her own making.“What does he say?”
She stared at him without saying a word.
“You’re seeing him behind my back,” he accused, his anger rising.It was always that way when it came to Cutter Reid, right from the first, when Eugene had dragged him off the streets and shown him the kind of care and compassion that John had always wanted.
Pam’s eyes were cold.“I see lots of people behind your back, because if you found out who they were, you’d try to control them, too.At some point it won’t work, John.I’m getting older and smarter.If shrewdness was what I lacked, I have a fine teacher in you.”
“I told you not to see him.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a sudden snap.“Way back in December that time, you told me that if I ever saw him again, you’d have him canned from the mine and run out of town.”She stood straighter.“You made the threat, then without waiting to see what I’d do, you carried it out.”She started to tremble.“Only you weren’t satisfied with firing him and making him leave.You beat him, too.You beat him, then went at him with a belt that left horrible, ugly gouges all over his back.You almost killed him, John.”
The murderous look in her eyes might have unsettledhim if he hadn’t been so furious.“I should have.I should have known he’d come crying to you.”
“He wasn’t crying.Cutter doesn’t cry.He survives.He did it when he was a kid.He did it when you left him for dead.And he’ll do it again, if need be, because that’s the way he is.He’s far stronger, far more of a man, than you’ll ever be.”
Without thinking, John lunged.He had no idea what he intended.Red fury drove him on.A flash of silver stopped him before he reached her, though.It was a long, wide kitchen knife.A butcher’s knife.And it was in her hand, pointed at him.
“Don’t you touch me,” she warned.
He straightened, but he didn’t back off.She wouldn’t use the knife.At least he didn’t think so.“Relax, Pam.”
“And don’t tell me what to do.”
