The Golden Chance (3 page)

She did not believe what he said for a moment. “You said you were going to try very hard not to screw up.”

“I gave it my best shot.” He looked hurt that she would think otherwise.

Phila grew more alarmed. His best shot, she sensed, would never be this ineffectual. “You never answered my question about who they'll send next.”

“I don't know what they'll do. That's their problem.”

She put her glass down on the table and eyed him narrowly. “That's the end of it as far as you're concerned?”

He shrugged. “I don't see that I have much option. You've made it clear you don't even want to talk about the shares.”

“You're not the type to give up this quickly,” Phila stated.

His eyes widened. “How do you know what type I am?”

“Never mind. I just do and you're not acting true to form at the moment.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, but I am very curious about what you're up to.”

“Yeah.” His smile came and went again. “I'll bet you are. And I'm equally curious about what you're planning to do. But I guess we'll both find out all the results eventually, won't we? I'll look forward to hearing about whatever trouble you manage to stir up, Phila. Should make for an interesting annual meeting. Too bad I won't be there to watch you in action.”

“Why won't you be there? You're a Lightfoot. Don't you hold stock?”

“I still have the shares I was given when I was born and the shares I inherited from my mother, but they're a long way from constituting a controlling interest. I haven't paid much attention to them lately, anyway. For the past three years I've let my father vote my shares.”

“Why?”

“It's a long story. Let's just say I've lost interest in Castleton & Lightfoot. I've got other things to do with my life these days.”

Phila's fingernails drummed a quick staccato on the arm of her chair. Mentally she flipped through a variety of possibilities she had not yet considered.

Crissie had never mentioned this particular member of the clan. Maybe that was because he was estranged from the families for some obscure reason. He was certainly implying as much when he claimed he no longer voted his shares at the annual meeting. If that was the case, Phila told herself with a sudden rush of interest, she might find him very useful.

“If you're no longer involved with Castleton & Lightfoot, just what are you doing with your life these days?” she asked bluntly. Almost immediately she sensed she had made a tactical error. The last thing she should do was show any interest in him. She should have been more subtle. But it was too late to take back her words.

Nick seemed unaware of any blunder on her part. “I'm running my own business in Santa Barbara—Lightfoot Consulting Services. I just agreed to get in touch with you as a favor to the families. But the bottom line is that I'm not really sure I give a damn how much trouble you cause Castleton & Lightfoot. Have fun, Phila.”

But he did not rise from the sofa and head back out into the heat, Phila noticed.

“What does Lightfoot Consulting Services consult about?” she asked.

He gave her an unreadable look. “We provide advice and information to firms trying to open overseas markets. A lot of companies want a cut of the world pie, but they don't have the vaguest idea of how to do business in Europe or the Pacific Rim countries.”

“And you do?”

“Some.”

“Would you still be working in the family firm if you hadn't shot yourself in the foot three years ago?” Phila demanded.

“I didn't exactly shoot myself in the foot three years ago.”

“You said you screwed up badly.”

“It was more like a family quarrel. But to answer your question, yeah, I'd probably still be with the firm if things hadn't happened the way they did. In fact, I'd still be running Castleton & Lightfoot if I'd stayed.”

“You were running it?” She frowned.

“I'd just gotten myself appointed CEO the year before I walked out.”

“This is getting more and more weird. Why did you walk out if you'd just gotten appointed chief executive officer? What are you doing down there in California? Why did you do anybody the favor of contacting me? What is this all about?”

A slight, oddly tantalizing light appeared in his eyes. “I've told you what this is all about, Miss Fox. I am no longer with the family firm. I got a phone call from the one person connected with Castleton & Lightfoot who still speaks to me on occasion, and I agreed to talk to you as a favor to her. I've talked to you. End of favor.”

“And that's the end of the matter as far as you're concerned?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't believe you.” Something was very wrong here.

“That's your prerogative, Phila. Have dinner with me tonight?”

It took a minute for the invitation to penetrate. She looked up at him blankly, aware that her mouth had fallen open. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. It's too late to start for California this evening. I'm going to be spending the night here in town. I just thought we could have dinner. After all, I sure as hell don't know anyone else in Holloway. Unless you have other plans?”

She shook her head slowly as the light dawned. “I don't believe this.”

“What don't you believe?”

“You aren't really going to try to seduce me in order to get back those shares, are you? I mean, it would be such a trite, old-fashioned, dipstick dumb sort of approach. Also a useless one.”

He thought about that for a while, meditatively studying the ivy growing from a red pot on a nearby table. When his eyes came back to Phila's, she did not like the cool intensity she saw in his gaze. She had the impression he had made a major decision.

“Miss Fox,” Nick said with a disconcerting air of formality, “just for the record, I would like you to know that if I tried to seduce you it would be because I wanted to sleep with you, not because I wanted to get my hands on those C&L shares.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes, trying to analyze, assess and categorize him. She had thought she had known precisely what to expect from any member of the wealthy, powerful Lightfoot and Castleton clans. But Nicodemus Lightfoot was refusing to fit into the mold she had prepared for him. That just made him all the more dangerous, she reminded herself.

But she couldn't get the idea out of her head that it might also make him all the more useful.

“If I had dinner with you, would you spill any juicy family secrets?” she asked.

“Probably not.”

“Then what would be the point?”

“The point would be that neither of us would be forced to eat alone.”

“I don't mind eating alone. I often eat alone.”

“You know something, Miss Fox? That does not surprise me. I eat alone a lot myself. Too often.” He got to his feet. “I'll pick you up at six. You know the local places. I'll let you make the reservations.”

He walked to the front door and let himself out into the late-afternoon sun. He did not look back once.

Phila took that as another danger signal. It was a minor point, that business about not looking back to see if she was watching him, but it was significant. Any other man could not have resisted one small glance over his shoulder to see how she was reacting to his sudden departure.

She knew that his having failed to do so was not a reflection of unconcern on his part; it was a matter of self-discipline. The man was obviously in complete control of himself and was accustomed to being in equal command of the situation around him.

The soft, husky roar of the silver-gray Porsche filled the empty street outside the house. Phila listened to the powerful car as it drove off and decided that Nicodemus Lightfoot was going to be a problem.

Maybe that was what she really needed, Phila thought suddenly. Maybe she needed a problem she could sink her teeth into. It might do a lot more for this vague sense of depression than a trip to California.

Foxes thrived on exercising their cunning, she reminded herself.

“I thought you'd better know, Hilary, that I phoned Nick and asked him to contact that Fox woman.” Eleanor Castleton did not look up from her plants as she spoke. She moved around the heavily laden tables of the greenhouse, her gloved fingers working with assurance amidst the deceptively delicate blooms and leaves.

“You called him?”

“Oh, yes, dear. I do call him occasionally, you know. I don't want him to think he's totally out of touch with the families. He is a Lightfoot, after all.”

“Did he agree to meet with Philadelphia Fox?” Hilary Lightfoot examined a small cream-colored flower. The bloom was amazingly innocent-looking, she thought, rather like Eleanor Castleton.

“Yes, dear, he agreed. Why shouldn't he?” Eleanor asked in the faintly astonished, slightly vague way that never failed to irritate Hilary.

Eleanor Castleton was in her sixties, but Hilary was certain she'd had that sweet, distracted, charmingly flighty air since the cradle. It went well with the faint traces of an aristocratic Southern accent.

“Nick hasn't been interested in family business for some time. I'm a little surprised he would get involved now,” Hilary Lightfoot said. It was warm and humid in the greenhouse and Hilary hoped she could get out before her clothes began to stick to her. She intended to drive into the village as soon as she finished this annoying little chat with Eleanor.

She was dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse and fawn-colored pants. A row of narrow wooden bracelets clinked lightly on her wrist. Her dark red hair was drawn straight back from her face and caught at the nape of her neck in a classic knot that revealed her patrician features to fine advantage.

The only ring she wore was her wedding ring, a simple band of gold. A woman who was thirty-five years younger than her husband had to be careful about appearances. Hilary had always felt a gaudy-looking diamond would have been tacky under the circumstances. Besides, she was not the gaudy type.

“Nick is family,” Eleanor said as she clipped a small, bowl-shaped leaf and discarded it. “He might have walked out three years ago, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about something as serious as this situation with Philadelphia Fox.”

“I doubt if there is anything Nick can do,” Hilary said. “I tried to call her and got nowhere. Darren has also tried. She refused to even meet with him. I don't know what you think Nick can do. Frankly, if she were susceptible to masculine charm, your son would have had those shares back by now, Eleanor.”

“You never know what will work with that sort of woman.”

Hilary smiled. No one could convey subtle contempt for the lower classes quite the way Eleanor Castleton could. “True, I suppose. But our best bet will probably be to let her come to the annual meeting and then offer to buy her out.”

Eleanor gave a small shudder. “I can't bear to think of an outsider at a C&L meeting. I'd much rather clear this up beforehand, wouldn't you? We'll see if Nick can accomplish anything.”

“You really believe Nick can accomplish what Darren and I couldn't?” Hilary asked, forcing herself to keep her voice at a smooth, polite level.

“Nick has his own way of doing things,” Eleanor said vaguely. “Hand me that watering can, will you, dear?”

Hilary picked up the metal vessel and handed it to the older woman. For a moment their eyes met. Hilary looked down into Eleanor's slightly vague pale blue gaze and thought she caught a glimpse of something that could have been steel. It wasn't the first time she had seen that expression, and it never failed to disturb her. But in the next instant it was gone, replaced by Eleanor's relentlessly distracted air.

“Thank you, dear.” Eleanor maneuvered the spout of the watering can along a row of pots. “Mustn't let these new Nepenthes get dry. They're coming along so nicely. See how well the little pitchers are starting to form? Where's Reed today?”

“Playing golf.” Hilary examined the delicately shaped leaves at the base of the plant Eleanor was watering. They were as innocent-looking as the fragile flowers.

“It seems he's always playing golf these days, or else he and Tec are busy fiddling with their guns out on the firing range. He wouldn't even talk to Darren about the Fox woman.”

“My husband is enjoying retirement,” Hilary said coolly. “He's earned it.”

“I suppose so,” Eleanor said softly. “But you know, dear, I never thought Reed would ever stop taking an interest in the firm the way he has. Castleton & Lightfoot was his whole life for so many years. He and Burke put everything they had into the company. It just doesn't seem right that Reed shows so little concern with company business these days.”

“Reed trusts me to look after things for him,” Hilary said coolly.

“Yes, of course he does, dear. And rightly so. You're doing an excellent job as CEO. An excellent job, indeed. Would you hand me that little trowel? No, not that one, the other one. Going into town?”

“I've agreed to have lunch with the new chairwoman of the Port Claxton Summer Theater Guild.”

“Oh dear. I suppose the guild will be wanting more money from C&L this year.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I do think we've given enough to that group over the years, don't you? I was very disappointed in that production they put on last summer.”

“
War Toys
?”

“It painted the military in a rather uncomplimentary light, didn't you think? Not to mention the business interests that are connected to the military establishment. We don't need that sort of theater here in Port Claxton.”

Nor were the good people of Port Claxton likely to be treated to another play with a strong antimilitary theme in the near future, Hilary thought wryly. The Castletons and Lightfoots had made no secret of their reaction to
War Toys
.

Last year's guild chairman must have been temporarily insane to have authorized the production of the play in the first place. Then again, perhaps it hadn't been insanity, Hilary decided. Perhaps it had been a final, defiant stab at artistic freedom by the outgoing bureaucrat.

Hilary hoped the chairman had enjoyed thumbing his nose at the guild's largest contributor, because Port Claxton's struggling summer theater program would be paying the price for a long time to come. The new chairwoman would no doubt be scrambling today to apologize for the mistakes of her predecessor. Hilary did not look forward to lunch.

“I believe I'd better ask Tec to run out to the nursery for me,” Eleanor said as she frowned over a tray of greenery. “I need some more sphagnum moss for my
Dionaea
leaf cuttings.”

“I'll tell him you want to see him.” Hilary turned toward the greenhouse door just as it burst open.

“I've got one! I've got one! I've got one!” An excited five-year-old boy dressed in a striped polo shirt and jeans came rushing into the greenhouse. His light brown hair was cut cute and short and his small face already showed the promise of the chiseled good looks he had inherited from his father.

Eleanor Castleton smiled down at her grandson. “What have you got, Jordan?”

“A dead fly.” Jordan opened his palm to reveal a plump, moribund housefly. “Can I feed one of the plants? Can I? Can I? Can I?”

“
May
I,” Eleanor corrected gently. “Yes, dear, I think we can find one hungry enough to eat your fly. Let's see, what about this little
Dionaea
? It hasn't eaten in ages.”

Hilary watched in reluctant fascination as Jordan carefully dropped the now-dead insect into the open leaves of the Venus's-flytrap. The small carcass rolled across the trigger hairs and, with a speed that made all three onlookers blink, the spined leaves snapped shut. The fly was locked inside.

“Wow,” said Jordan. “Wow, wow, wow. Did you see that, Hilary?”

“Yes, Jordan, I saw it.” Hilary took one last glance around at the lush-looking plants that filled the greenhouse. Some were in hanging baskets, a few aquatic species floated in aquariums, others were planted in rows of boxes that covered the workbenches.

Eleanor Castleton had developed a very interesting collection of pitcher plants, flytraps, sundews, butterworts and bladderworts. They all had one thing in common: they were carnivorous.

Nick walked into the brightly lit diner behind Phila and took in the surroundings with a sense of resignation. The place was classic: red vinyl seats in the booths, wood-grained plastic-laminated tables with chrome legs and a long counter with stools that appeared to be a size too small for the people sitting on them. Loud waitresses in grease-stained uniforms that were also a size too small scurried between the tables. The open doorway to the kitchen revealed a smoky, sizzling grill filled with meat that dripped fat into the flames. The classic decor was capped by a stunning view of the parking lot.

“This is the best you could do?” Nick asked Phila politely as he followed her to a booth.

“This is it,” she answered cheerfully. “Best place in town. Everyone eats here on Saturday night.”

“This is Friday night.”

“Which explains why we didn't have to wait for a table,” she concluded smoothly. “I recommend either the chicken or the steak. Anything else is liable to entail a certain risk.”

“I'll bear that in mind.” Nick gazed idly around the room again before bringing his attention back to the woman sitting across from him. He smiled. Being with Phila was like sitting in a lot full of parked cars and finding himself next to the one vehicle that had its key turned on in the ignition.

Tonight Phila was dressed in a pumpkin-colored silk blouse and a pair of jeans belted with a sliver-and-turquoise-studded strip of leather. He was learning that Miss Fox favored bold colors. They went well with her air of restless energy.

A waitress came by to take their order for drinks. Nick asked for scotch and was not unduly surprised when Phila ordered a prim white wine. The drinks came immediately. He gazed around the busy restaurant for a moment, thinking.

“What's the matter, Mr. Lightfoot,” Phila purred as she examined her menu. “Not accustomed to such fancy surroundings?”

“I've eaten in worse.” He opened his menu. “I've also eaten in better. Tell me, Phila, what made you decide to accept my invitation for dinner this evening?”

“I figured we might as well get it over with. The suspense was killing me.”

“Get what over with?”

“Whatever approach you plan to use to convince me to give back the shares.” She studied the menu with a small frown, as if having a tough time choosing between a baked potato or fries.

“I told you, I've already given it my best shot.”

“Hah. I don't buy that for a minute.” She glanced up. “What are you having?”

“The special.”

“You don't even know what it is yet. You're supposed to ask the waitress.”

Nick shrugged, unconcerned. “I'll take my chances.”

“I told you it would be risky.”

He smiled faintly. “I'm good at taking risks.”

Phila scowled and snapped her menu shut. “Suit yourself. I'll have the chicken. As usual.” She put her elbows on the table, folded her hands together and rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. Her hazel eyes regarded him broodingly. “So tell me, Nicodemus Lightfoot, how long have the Lightfoots and the Castletons been in the business of building death machines for the government?”

“Since before you were born, little girl.”

She blinked. “You're not even going to deny it?”

“Well, technically they're electronics and instrumentation products, not death machines. Some people think of them as a kind of technological insurance, a way to balance power in the world. In fact some people might even say C&L is a very patriotic company. But I suspect the definition of a death machine is in the mind of the beholder.”

“Castleton & Lightfoot makes the kind of electronics and instrumentation used in fighter planes and command posts, from what I've been able to determine. It designs to order for the military establishment. That means you build death machines. It also means that C&L is intimately involved in some cozy financial arrangements with the Pentagon.”

Nick nodded. Things were falling into place quickly. “I get it,” he said gently. “You're one of those.”

“One of what?”

“You're,” he paused delicately, “shall we say, of the liberal persuasion.”

Her answering smile was grim. “If you think I'm bad, you should have met my grandmother.”

“A flaming-pink, radical left-wing anarchist, right?”

“Let's just say she didn't care for the idea of the world being run by your kind.”

“My kind?”

“Aristocrats with everything but the title. Too much money and too much power. She felt very strongly that having both power and money corrupts.”

“So does a lack of either. Show me ten people who don't have enough money and power to control their own lives, and I'll show you nine dangerous human beings. The tenth is probably a wimp.”

The vibration in the air around Phila was almost palpable now, and there were sparks in her eyes. Her engine was definitely shifting into gear.