Tender Triumph Read online

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  TENDER TRIUMPH

  JUDITH McNAUGHT

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  "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 hav