Inheritance (37 page)

Little sparks shot from her probing tongue all through him. Her hands grasped his buttocks and he felt the quick sharpness of her finger pushing into him and then he was hard again inside her; he was moving again inside her; and again Siey found a rhythm that could last, as far as he was concerned, forever.

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Of course he wouldn't say a thing like that, then or later, when, finally, he was pretty sure he couldn't get it up again even if he had the energy to think about it. Myma didn't seem tired—^Myma never seemed tired, whether she was teaching on Damton's tennis court or swinmiing in the pool or shopping all day for presents for her family somewhere in Nebraska or screwing all night in her little rented house in Jay's Landing. Crazy lady, he thought, and I'm crazy about her— but sometimes she scares the shit out of me.

He thought that every time he got to this very dangerous moment: three in the morning, sprawled on her bed in ecstatic exhaustion, his mind numbed with gratitude and satiety. And as always, he gathered caution around him like a winter coat and did not ask her to marry him or even live with him, though it did occur to him that there were advantages to knowing she was off the market and definitely his.

Later, later, later, he thought, but at the same time part of his mind was listening to the satisfied hum of his body, telling him to wrap her up and make sure of her. Caught between two pieces of contradictory advice, he fell asleep.

Myma Appleby was twenty-seven and had been a tennis instructor for almost ten years. She didn't mind that Clay was only twenty-one; he was taller than she: blond, handsome, with a neat mustache and a kind of permanent boyishness that led her to believe she could turn him into the kind of man she wanted. She'd just about given up hope of finding one.

The problem was, most men were afraid of her. They called her bold when they were being kind, and aggressive when they weren't. But Clay liked it when she took command. At first she thought he didn't have much backbone, and in that case he wouldn't be right for her at all, but then she decided it was just that he'd gotten so used to his sister making decisions that he pretty much took it for granted when Myma behaved similariy. He'd probably been looking for a woman like that all along, she reflected as she set her alarm, and then she, too, fell asleep.

She woke him at five in the morning so he could get to work on time. If it weren't for her, she thought, he'd likely lose his job and go wandering off with no real skills except chauffeuring and being a desk clerk, and how far would that

Judith Michael

get him? She had no idea what he'd do without her, especially since Laura was working eighty hours a week and spending the rest of the time with Wes Currier. Clay had nobody but Myma. "Rise and shine, darling. I'll fix breakfast."

"Just coffee," he mumbled, his head under the pillow.

Myma stroked his long, boyish back and felt a rush of tenderness for him. Men were so vulnerable, when you thought about it; terrible at the basic necessities like cooking and doing laundry and buying socks; they didn't even know how to eat property. "You'll need more than coffee," she said decisively. She ran her fingers through her straight black hair, pulled on a kimono, and went downstairs to the kitchen.

"What are we doing tonight?" she asked when he was at the table plowing through fried eggs and toast. 'There's a film at the—"

"Can't see you tonight," he said. "We can go to the movie tomorrow if you want."

A flicker of alarm appeared in her gray eyes. "I thought we had a date."

"Not that I remember." He looked up, worried. "Did we? I didn't think so. Anyway, it doesn't matter, does it? The movie'll still be there tomorrow night." He returned to his eggs. 'Terrific breakfast, babe."

"What are you doing tonight?'*

"Playing poker. Want to tie a ribbon around my arm for good luck?"

"Knights in armor did that before they went into combat.**

"Good for you. I didn't know you knew that."

"Are you going into combat?"

"Who knows? These guys are good. I may bet some real money."

"Does Laura know you're going to play?" His face tightened and she knew she had made a mistake. "Well, it doesn't matter," she said in a rush, adding carelessly, "Have fun and buy me something beautiful if you win."

"Thanks, babe. Talk to you soon." On his way out, he kissed her on the cheek, and a minute later, as he backed out of her driveway, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving that he hadn't given in to his mellow mood the night before. He wasn't ready to make a commitment. Most of the time he was

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happy as a clam, just the way things were. He still missed the excitement of stealing: scaling walls; moving like a shadow through other people's houses, as if he controlled their lives for a little while; he even missed picking pockets in the subway with Laura. But he'd stopped that small-time stuff a long time ago—not exactly when Laura stopped, but soon after. Everything seemed to peter out after she wouldn't share it with him, especially when she started saying things that made him feel . . . small, sort of . . . like he could do better things than rip off people who weren't there to fight back, or pick the pocket of some ass who didn't know enough to keep his wallet inside his jacket when he took the subway. Big deal, she kept saying sarcastically. My big hero. After a while it got to him, and he told himself he didn't want that piddling stuff anyway; she was right, he was meant for bigger things.

Of course, by then he was earning money, first in Philadelphia and then at Damton's. And thuigs were better at Dam-ton's than he'd expected. He got resdess for New York, and one of these days he'd get back there, but he was having an okay time right here. He was driving people around in classy cars he could pretend were his; he was working half-time on the front desk and helping with the payroll; he got along with Laura in their apartment, though he wasn't there a hell of a lot anymore; he had Myma whenever he wanted her; and then, a couple of months ago, he'd discovered some all-night poker games in Jay's Landing and nearby towns, organized by the chauffeurs, butlers, and chefs for the wealthy New York socialites who had vacation houses in the Adirondacks. Decent guys; most of them a lot older than him but willing to let him join in whenever he wanted. And they had respect for him; he could tell. After all, he was a chauffeur, too.

The only problem was, their salaries were double or triple his, and they played for higher stakes. But what the hell, he thought as he drove over the causeway to the island, when I get on to their tricks, and everything starts clicking . . . then diey'll see what I can do. Because I have it all figured out: Clay Fairchild is really going to clean up.

In the airline club at O'Hare, Currier found an armchair in a quiet comer, pulled the telephone to him and dialed Laura's

Judith Michael

number at Damton's. "I miss you. I called you from San Francisco last night but no one knew where you were."

"I was helping Kelly and John look for a four-year-old who stomped out of the dining room when his parents told him he couldn't have dessert. They didn't go after him because they said he needed to be taught a lesson—^I don't know what the lesson was supposed to be—and an hour later they couldn't find him anywhere."

"And you were annoyed."

She gave a short laugh. "Furious. That poor kid was at the marina, sobbing because he thought he'd have to sleep in a boat since his parents didn't want him back."

"Because he walked out of the dining room?"

"Because he didn't finish his trout with ravigote sauce, which was the reason he was denied dessert. Why do people do that to children? Why do they make them stuff down food they don't want and then punish them by taking away their love?"

"Damned if I know. Does a bloated stomach make a more lovable kid? I'm not an expert; I never fathered anyone. Did you cany him back with his arms around your neck and his head on your shoulder?"

"Yes; why?"

"Because I envy him."

Her low laugh came over the wire. "Are you still in S Francisco?"

"Chicago. I looked at the Salinger."

"Oh."

"It's in bad shape, Laura."

"We knew—^I knew that. It's been neglected for years. Did you find anything else wrong?"

"Not in a quick tour, we'd need to have studies done. How important is this to you, this particular hotel?"

"It's the one I want. I've seen reports on it, Wies; it's in a perfect location, there's a good maricet for what I want to do with it, and the basic structure is sound."

"You can't know that until we have engineering studies made."

"It was sound a little over a year ago; I told you, I saw reports on it. If all it needs is renovation— *'

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'Ten million dollars* worth. At a guess/'

There was a silence. "That's what we thought the purchase price would be."

"If the Salingers even want to sell. Tm going to have one of my staff sound them out."

"Wes, please don't do anything that connects me with it."

"Because the financing will come fix)m me? My dear, it doesn't bother me to be behind the scenes; I usually am when I finance a project. This is yours; the publicity should be yours. All I ask is that you make money."

"I don't want publicity. I'm going to be an employee of the corporation I'm forming to own all the hotels—"

Her voice abruptly stopped and he frowned. "How many hotels are we going to buy?"

"I've only asked for your help with one."

"But others are on the horizon."

"Aren't there others of everything on your horizon? Isn't that how you got where you are?"

"How many hotels is your corporation going to own?"

"Four." There was a pause. Then, as if she had made a decision, she said, "Wes, I'll tell you all about it when we're together. Are you coming back soon?"

He waited for her to say she'd missed him, as he missed her, but she did not. "I'll be in New York tonight; I should be with you for dinner on Friday. Or—^I have a better idea. Why don't you meet me in New York?"

This time the silence lasted only a heartbeat. "I'd like that," she said easily.

Currier was amazed at the exultation that filled him; he felt like a schoolboy. But he kept his voice casual. "Friday afternoon, then. Meet me for drinks at five-thirty at the Russian Tea Room. Call my houseman with your flight number and he'll have my driver meet you and take you to my apartment and then the Tea Room. If you don't get a chance to call— ^

"Wes." She was smiling; he could hear it in her voice. "I can find my way. I'll be there."

"Friday," he said.

"Friday," she repeated, and when she put down the telephone she let out a long shaky breath. She had to take the chance; she had to tell him. She couldn't have secrets from

Judith Michael

Wes: they would be working together and he was going to trust her with twenty million dollars. For a start. And it would be all right. He was a businessman, and he'd just said, a few minutes ago, that all he asked of her was that she make money.

It wasn't true; he asked considerably more. But even that would be all right. Because there was excitement in Wes Currier. He was at the center of great events and had a part in shaping them on the worid stage. And that made all the greater the excitement of his desire for her. Maybe Tm ready for excitement, she thought. And a man who takes crooked people for granted. Maybe it's the perfect time for me to be honest.

But her shakiness came from something else, as well, and she knew it. She'd known it when she heard Currier talk about the Chicago Salinger. For all its problems, he'd decided it was worth pursuing. He wouldn't have talked about making studies if he thought studies were a waste of time, or if he thought the idea of buying the Chicago Salinger was a foolish one, or if he thought she couldn't handle it. He was taking it seriously, and that meant it was going to happen.

Owen, she said silently. We're going to buy back your hotel.

A hard October rain was falling when the taxi pulled up in front of St. James Tower, so Laura had no more than a blurred glimpse of the building before the doorman whisked her inside and into the elevator that took her to Currier's apartment. She was late—the plane had been late; traffic from LaGuardia had moved at an agonizing crawl—and she barely had time to unpack in his bedroom and wash up in his black and silver bathroom before it was time to leave. "Mr. Currier's driver will take you wherever you wish to go," the houseman said, helping her into her raincoat. "If you will wait here, or in the lobby, it takes him about five minutes to get here from the garage."

She had planned to walk crosstown to the Russian Tea Room, taking a few minutes alone before she met Currier to rediscover the feel of the city she had not seen in almost six years. But her lateness, and the rain, and the promise of a dry

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car with someone else to drive it changed her mind. "I'll wait here," she said, and as soon as he left to make the call she took an unashamed look around. The rooms were large and comfortable, with deep sofas around low, square coffee tables, and Italian floor lamps of stainless steel with black steel pivoting arms. Everything was modem, expensive, and almost unlived in. It needs some clutter, Laura thought, and some wrinkles in the cushions. But of course a good houseman would not permit that.

She looked into the dining room, its twelve chairs surrounding a gleaming table that would have been at home in a conference room, and then into the study. Currier's office, and once again into his bedroom. It was then that she felt her first moment of anticipation. Until now, she had been in too much of a hurry to think of anything but the plane circling the airport in the rain, the taxi driver changing lanes in a futile attempt to speed up, the need to wash and change quickly so she would not keep Currier waiting. But now, gazing at his sleek ebony bureaus and nightstands, and his wide bed beneath a black and white comforter, she shivered with the anticipation of change.

And then the houseman was in the doorway, saying the car was downstairs, and she turned to go.