Tender Triumph Read online

  "The banks will not cooperate," Ramon said tersely. "I have already met with them in Chicago and St. Louis."

  "But why, dammit?" Miguel burst out, abandon­ing all pretense of being the impersonally profes­sional accountant. His face was agonized as he looked at the coolly impassive features of the man he loved like a brother. "They loaned you part of the money to get them completed this far, why won't they loan you the rest to finish them?"

  "Because they have lost faith in my judgment and my ability," Ramon said, looking at the figures on the ledger sheets. "They do not believe I can be relied upon to see that the buildings are finished and their loans repaid. From their point of view, while my father was alive they received their one-million-dollar interest payments every month. He died, I took control of the corporation, and suddenly we are almost four months delinquent in our pay­ments."

  "But it is your father's fault the corporation has no money coming in to make the payments!" Miguel gritted between his teeth.

  "If you explain that to the banks, they reverse their original opinion and point out that while he was chairman of the board, I was still the president, and I should have taken steps to stop him from mak­ing these mistakes."

  "Mistakes!" Miguel exploded. "They were not mistakes. He planned it this way so that you would have nothing left. He wanted everyone to think that when he died, the corporation fell apart without him."

  Ramon's eyes turned hard and cold. "He had a brain tumor; he was not responsible for his ac­tions."

  Miguel Villegas stiffened in his chair, his dark, Spanish face glowering. "He was a miserable bas­tard, an egotistical petty tyrant, and you know it! Everybody knew it. He resented your success and he hated your fame. All that tumor did was make him finally lose control of his jealousy." Seeing the mounting anger in Ramon's expression, Miguel softened his voice. "I know you do not want to hear it, but it is the truth. You came into the corporation and in a few short years, you created a worldwide financial empire worth three hundred times what your father had made it. You did it, not him. You were the one the magazines and newspapers wrote about; you were the one they called one of the world's most dynamic entrepreneurs; you were the one who was asked to address the World Business Conference in Geneva. I was having lunch in a hotel at a table near your father's the day he found out about that. He was not proud, he was furious! He was trying to convince the men he was with that the conference had taken you as a second choice be­cause he could not spare the time to go to Switzer­land."

  "Enough!" Ramon said sharply, his face white with angry pain. "He was still my father, and he is dead now. There was little love between us while he was alive; do not destroy what little feeling I have left for him." In grim silence, Ramon concentrated on the ledger sheets Miguel had given him. When his eyes swept over the last entry, he glanced up. "What is this three-million-dollar asset of mine you list at the end?"

  "Not really an asset at all," Miguel said glumly. "I found the file among your father's private things at the house in Mayaguez. As far as I could tell, it is a loan you made to a Sidney Green in St. Louis, Missouri, nine years ago. He still owes you the money, but you cannot sue him or take any legal ac­tion to try to get it back now; under the law you have only seven years to file a lawsuit—that time has already elapsed.

  "The loan was repaid," Ramon said with a shrug.

  "Not according to the records I found."

  "If you dig deeply enough you will discover it was repaid, but do not waste any more of your time looking through the files. You have enough to do." There was a brief knock on the door, followed im­mediately by the appearance of Simon Galverra's elegantly groomed secretary.

  "The auditors from New York are here. Also, there are two local newspaper reporters asking to schedule interviews, and an urgent telephone call from Zurich."

  "Send the auditors into the conference room, and tell the reporters I will give them an interview next month; that will keep them out of our way. I will return the Zurich call later." Nodding, she retreat­ed, her skirt swirling around long shapely legs.

  Miguel watched Elise leave, his brown eyes admir­ing. "At least your father had good taste in secre­taries. Elise is beautiful," he observed in a tone of impersonal aesthetic appreciation

  Ramon unlocked the massive, carved desk and did not reply as he extracted three heavy files marked'' Confidential.''

  "Speaking of beautiful women," Miguel went on with studied nonchalance as he gathered up his papers, preparing to leave. "When am I going to be able to meet the grocer's daughter?"

  Reaching for the intercom on his right, Ramon pressed the button and issued instructions to Elise: "Have Davidson and Ramirez come up. When they arrive, send them into the conference room with the auditors." With his attention still on the files before him, Ramon said, "What grocer's daughter?"

  Miguel rolled his eyes in amusement. "The one you brought back from the States. Eduardo says she is reasonably attractive. Knowing how he dislikes American women, that means she must be extraor­dinarily beautiful. He said she is a grocer's daughter."

  "A grocer's—?" For a moment Ramon looked ir­ritated and blank, then the uncompromising line of his jaw slowly relaxed. His eyes, which had been cold and harsh, kindled with warmth, and his stern mouth was touched by an unexplainable smile. "Katie," he breathed aloud. "He is talking about Katie." Leaning back in his chair, Ramon closed his eyes. "How could I possibly have forgotten I have Katie here?" Regarding Miguel through half-closed eyes, Ramon said with wry humor, "Katie is the daughter of a wealthy American who owns a large chain of supermarkets. I brought her back from the States with me yesterday. She is staying with Gabriella and Eduardo for two weeks until we are married."

  While Ramon briefly explained that he was mis­leading Katie, and why, Miguel was slowly sinking back into the chair he had just vacated. He shook his head. "Dios mio, I thought she was going to be your mistress."

  "Eduardo knows she is not. He mistrusts all American women, and he prefers to think I will change my mind about marrying her. When he learns to know Katie, he will like her. In the mean­time, out of respect for me he will treat her as a guest in his home, and he will not discuss my past with her."

  "But your return is undoubtedly the talk of the village. Your Katie will be bound to overhear some village gossip."

  "I am certain she will, but she will not understand a word of it. Katie does not speak Spanish."

  Heaving himself out of his chair, Miguel shot a worried look at Ramon. "What about the rest of my family—they all speak English—and the younger ones may inadvertently give you away."

  "Only your parents and Gabriella and her hus­band remember their English," Ramon said dryly. "As of yesterday, your brothers and sisters know only Spanish."

  "Ramon, after this, nothing you ever do or say will surprise me."

  "I want you to be my best man."

  Miguel smiled somberly. "That does not surprise me. I always expected to be your best man, just as you flew back from Athens to be mine." He put his hand out across the desk. "Congratulations, my friend." His firm handshake conveyed his pleasure as well as his unspoken regret for Ramon's stagger­ing financial losses. "I will go back to work on your father's files."

  The intercom buzzed, and the secretary's voice announced that the corporation's two attorneys, whom Ramon had instructed her to summon, were now in the conference room waiting with the audi­tors.

  Still seated behind the desk, Ramon watched Miguel cross the broad expanse of thick gold carpet. When the door clicked shut behind him, Ramon let his gaze roam over his office as if he were seeing it for the last time, unconsciously memorizing it in all its quiet splendor.

  The Renoir landscape he had purchased for an exorbitant sum from a private collector was framed beneath a portrait light, its colors a vibrant contrast to the rich, walnut-paneled walls. He had put all his personal possessions up as collateral to obtain loans for the corporation before he discovered the full ex­tent of his father's