Scent Of Roses. Kat Martin

a pair of black fabric high heels. “I just haven’t had much luck spotting them. Besides, not everyone needs a man in order to be happy. I’ve got my career. I’ve got friends like you and Jim. I have a perfectly acceptable life and that’s the way I intend to keep it.”

      “What about kids? Surely you want children. Having babies is a very good reason to find a husband. Unless of course, you’re one of those modern women who wants to get pregnant and raise a kid on her own.”

      “I’m not that modern, believe me.”

      And when she had first married her college sweetheart, Brian Logan, she had wanted children very badly. But Brian always said it was too soon. They needed to get their careers established. There wasn’t enough money. He just wasn’t ready to be a father.

      In the end, they had divorced before she’d had a chance to get pregnant. Now at thirty, her biological clock rapidly ticking, she had returned to using her maiden name and immensely disliked the idea of falling under any man’s thumb again. Which meant there was a very good chance she would never have a baby.

      “I’d love to have children,” Elizabeth said, “but not unless I stumble across the kind of man who is committed to the long haul. No more divorces. Not for me. And we both know men like that are few and far between. It just isn’t worth the risk.”

      Gwen didn’t argue. She knew Elizabeth’s views on marriage and no amount of discussion was going to change them.

      “Listen, I’ve got to run.” Gwen snagged her purse off the walnut dresser. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went.” She grinned. “I’m still holding out hope for you, Liz, whether you like it or not.”

      Elizabeth laughed. “I’ll call. I promise. But don’t get too excited. It’s just a date, nothing more.”

      “Yeah, right. See ya.” Gwen disappeared through the bedroom door and Elizabeth heard the front door close as she left the apartment. The women had known each other since high school. Since Elizabeth’s return to San Pico, they had become even closer friends.

      It was the only thing she really liked about the ugly little town. Nice people. Gwen Petersen was one of them. An image of Carson Harcourt, tall, blond and handsome, rose into her head. Carson seemed nice, too. She wasn’t completely immune to the notion of having a man in her life. Tonight might prove interesting.

      Six

      Elizabeth crossed the living room to answer the knock at her door. Carson stood on the small front porch, looking casually elegant in a pair of summer-weight tan slacks and light blue shirt, a navy blue jacket draped over one arm.

      “Ready?”

      “Let me get my purse.” She grabbed the black fabric bag that matched her high heels, locked the front door as they walked out, and Carson guided her down the walk to his silver Mercedes.

      “You look terrific, by the way,” he said as he opened the door and waited for her to slide into the passenger seat. “Great dress.”

      “I wasn’t quite sure what to wear. Fortunately, I had a very nice wardrobe by the time I left L.A. My ex-husband was a stockbroker with big aspirations. He wanted his wife to project the right image.”

      “Most of the women from here drive down to L.A. to go shopping.”

      Most of the women married to men with money, he meant. Elizabeth no longer cared about playing the role she had played as Brian’s wife, though she had to admit she was glad she had the appropriate clothes to wear tonight.

      The drive out of town to the farm didn’t take long. Carson parked his car in an immaculate four-car garage, but took her around to the front door to go into the house. The big, white, wood-framed structure with its wide porch across the front looked impressive and well cared for from the highway. Now she saw that the interior had recently been remodeled: new paint, new drapes, new furniture, which was a comfortable mix of overstuffed sofas and Victorian antiques, the oak floors adding a sense of elegance and charm. The molded ceilings were high, and an antique chandelier hung from the ceiling in the entry.

      The decorating had been professionally done, she was sure, probably a designer from L.A.

      “It’s lovely, Carson. Like something out of Better Homes and Gardens only more inviting.”

      “Thank you. I wanted a place that looked good but didn’t put people off.”

      He led her into one of two front parlors, where a bar had been set up. A member of the catering staff, a young man in black slacks and a starched white shirt, poured her a glass of chilled champagne, Schramsberg, a brand she recognized as coming from the Napa Valley, a fairly expensive California label.

      They talked as Carson gave her a tour of the downstairs portion of the house, including his modernized kitchen where the catering staff was hard at work, then on to his wood-paneled study. By the time they returned to the parlor, a long black stretch limousine was pulling up in front of the house.

      “Looks like they’re here. Three of the couples flew in on a twin-engine Queen Aire. I hired a limo from Newhall to collect them. Another is bringing the Castenados up from L.A.”

      “I gather you have an airstrip here on the ranch.”

      He nodded. “It isn’t big enough to handle a private jet, but it serves most other small planes very well.”

      “Do you fly yourself?”

      “I thought about taking lessons, but I really don’t have time.”

      They walked toward the foyer and Carson pulled open the leaded glass door, inviting his guests inside. The fourth couple arrived within minutes of the other three, the group varying in ages from thirty-five to sixty. Introductions were made all around, then Carson led his guests into the bar and drinks were served.

      Elizabeth was glad she had worn the black dress. The other four women had on equally expensive outfits, two wore sequin-trimmed pants suits, one a knee-length, ivory dinner suit, another a simple black sheath similar to the one she had on.

      They talked for a while, then Carson rested a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “If you ladies don’t mind, there are a couple of items of business that need to be discussed before we go in to supper. It shouldn’t take all that long.”

      He didn’t wait for their approval, just turned and started walking, all four males in the group following him down the hall toward the study.

      Elizabeth turned to the ladies, taking over the role of hostess. “Is this the first time you’ve been to San Pico?”

      “None of us have ever been here,” said one woman in a dinner suit, Maryann Hobson, who was married to a real estate developer in Orange County. “Though, of course, we’ve known Carson for quite some time.”

      “His home is lovely,” one of the other women said, Mildred Castenado, a tall, statuesque Hispanic woman whose dark eyes seemed to take in every detail.

      “Yes, it certainly is,” Rebecca Meyers agreed. Her husband was the CEO of a big pharmaceuticals company and Becky, as she had asked to be called, seemed a bright intelligent woman. “I particularly like what they’ve done with the molded ceilings.” Painting the walls a creamy beige and the moldings very white.

      “Have you known Carson long?” the fourth woman asked, silver-gray hair, thin lips and tight lines around her mouth. She was the eldest of the women, Betty Simino, wife of the senior member of the group.

      “We’ve been acquainted for several years,” Elizabeth said, not liking the assessing look in the woman’s pale blue eyes. “This is the first time I’ve been to his home. I agree with Mildred. The house is quite lovely.”

      “Carson used the designer I recommended,” Mildred said proudly. “Anthony Bass. I think he did a marvelous job.”

      “Yes, he did.”

      The conversation went