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contemporary side table standing against the wall to the right of the room’s entrance. “The telephone, sir.”
    Chance immediately spotted the brown receiver lying on the table next to the telephone and nodded briefly to the waiter. Dodging the overhanging boughs of the bittersweet branches that sprouted from the celadon vase in the center of the room, he walked over and picked up the receiver. “Hello—”
    Before he could identify himself, a voice on the other end of the line broke in. “It certainly took you long enough, Stuart.”
    Chance stiffened, instantly recognizing that distinctive, raspy-edged voice that carried both the sound and the sting of whiskey, its tone as critical and malevolent as always. “How are you, Hattie?” he murmured tightly, feeling the old slow burn of anger and bitter resentment. He had stopped calling her Aunt Hattie nearly thirty years ago.
    â€œObviously still alive,” came the challenging retort. Without any effort, he had a mental picture of her standing before him, gnarled fingers clutching the gold head of her cane, black eyes gleaming with hatred, white hair curling about a face lined by years of embitterment. Not once could he remember Hattie smiling at him—or even looking at him with anything that passed for approval. “I’m at your hotel,” she announced. “I’ll expect you here in precisely thirty minutes.”
    The imperious demand was followed by a sharp click as the line went dead. For an instant, Chance remained motionless, frozen by the icy rage that swept through him. Then he quickly hit the telephone’s disconnect switch, listened for the dial tone, and punched the numbers to Sam’s private line.
    The call was answered on the first ring. “Yeah, this is Sam. What have you got?”
    â€œSam, it’s Chance.”
    â€œChance.” The surprise in his voice was obvious. “I was going to try to reach you as soon as I heard from—”
    â€œHattie just called me. She’s here in San Francisco.”
    â€œSo that’s where she went,” Sam murmured, the familiar loud squeak of his office chair coming over the line as he leaned back in it.
    â€œWhat’s going on out there?” Chance demanded.
    â€œThat’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam replied, then sighed heavily. “I know she had a meeting with old Ben Canon this morning. She was closeted in his law office for about two hours. When her driver came to pick her up and take her back to Morgan’s Walk, he was told she’d taken a cab to the airport. We’ve been checking the passenger lists of every flight that went out of Tulsa today.” There was a slight pause. “I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
    â€œHow did she know where I am?” Chance frowned, giving voice to the questions going around in his head. “And—why would she want to see me?”
    â€œAnd what’s her meeting with Canon got to do with this trip?” Sam added. “Chance, I don’t like the sound of it. I’d like to believe that maybe she finally wants to make peace, but I can’t buy it.”
    â€œNeither can I.” A grimness settled through him. “It could be Canon found out that I own the holding company that just bought up the Turner land.”
    â€œIt would take a corporate genius to unravel that ownership and trace it back to you. Ben’s shrewd, but his knowledge of corporate law is as antiquated as he is.”
    Chance couldn’t disagree with that. “There’s no point in speculating why she’s here. I’ll know firsthand in another twenty-five minutes,” he said, checking his watch.
    â€œCall me back as soon as you can.”
    â€œI will.”

    Hearing the click on the other end that signaled the breaking of the connection, Sam Weber slowly returned the receiver to its cradle, then leaned back in