Never Too Rich (38 page)

Back and forth he and Leo danced in front of their
rapt audience. Leo had strength and youth on his side, while Duncan
had the deft touch of a surgeon’s hands. More important, unlike
Leo, Duncan had been fencing for nearly twenty years now, and had
been taught by the late maestro Giorgio Santelli himself.

Leo battled with grim concentration. His lips were
pulled back across his teeth, his stretched grin that of an animal
hungry for the kill. Seeing an opening, he went for Duncan’s red
heart.

Duncan had been expecting just that, and locked
foils with him. Leo cursed, and Duncan laughed with devilish joy as
Leo tried unsuccessfully to free his weapon.

“
Well,
sport?”
It was
Duncan’s turn to taunt.

Leo didn’t reply; he was expending every ounce of
effort to fend Duncan off.

It was like trying to push a Sherman tank uphill.
Duncan couldn’t be budged. Leo’s arms trembled under the exertion,
and his foil quivered in a blur. His face turned beet red. “Damn
you, Cooper!” he managed to growl from between his teeth.

Duncan grinned.
“Qué será,
baby. You got what
you asked for.” Without warning, and seemingly without effort, he
pushed Leo back.

Leo lost ground but quickly recovered. He was
starting to get angry. What was it with Cooper? he wanted to know.
In the past, Duncan had never fenced with such furious
concentration, style, or skill. Had he been holding back, using
only a fraction of his skills? Or was he suddenly possessed of a
superhuman urge to win? It was as if he and the blade were one.

Leo’s adrenaline kicked in like a supercharge.
Winning fever was like a roar in his blood. He narrowed his eyes
and drew his lips back in a snarl. He could feel the power and the
glory shooting through his veins, could hear the clashing of steel
against steel with an otherworldly clarity, and the voices of
triumph calling.

Kill,
kill,
KILL! Here in the arena where
there existed no one but the enemy and himself. Where he brandished
his foil like a steel erection and made men tremble before him!

Fortified with invincibility, Leo launched an
aggressive new attack. Duncan had his hands full now, and this time
it was Leo who laughed. “Whatsamatter? You tiring, Cooper?”

“
Like hell I am!” Duncan managed to
grunt, then feinted sideways.

Leo was waiting. Ignoring the feint, he lunged past
Duncan, his blurring foil whistling through the air to draw
blood.

Slash!
Duncan felt, rather than saw, cold
silver steel slicing through warm buttery flesh.

The audience gasped collectively in disbelief.
Duncan’s cheek had been sliced open and was pouring blood.

There was a sudden tension in the sidelines now. The
silent thoughts of the audience could be felt as tangibly as if
they had been roared. How dared Leo Flood have the monstrous
effrontery to turn this ageless, time-honored gentleman’s game into
a bloody battle?

The wound didn’t deter Duncan; it roused some deeply
dormant mortal instinct, and he was like a beast coming awake. One
moment he was fencing with incredible skill, and the next he became
a blurring powerhouse. He whipped his foil with awe-inspiring
strength and speed. The gym was no more; the audience blurred into
nothingness. His foil had become a writhing, living silver dragon
breathing terrible sparks and awesome fire.

He came at Leo like a killing machine, thrusting and
lunging.

A sudden fear came over Leo as he fended Duncan off.
This was no mere offense. This had become a vindication, a cause, a
fight for honor.

Duncan’s living foil clashed and clanged and clashed
again, raining blow after blow faster than the eye could see. Time
and again it whistled past Leo’s face with bare fractions of an
inch to spare. Each time, the audience gasped, and Leo knew, for
certain and with disconcerting humiliation, that Duncan was toying
with him, that if he wished, he could easily slice him to bits.

Leo struggled to deflect another thrust. Again
parried a lunge. It was all he could do just to hold Duncan
off.

A giddy sense of savagery such as he had never known
had taken hold of Duncan. Cruelly now, he played with Leo. With
every other thrust or lunge, he brought his foil so close to Leo’s
face that the other man cried out. Yet the foil never touched skin.
The fury, virtuosity, and, yes, purity of Duncan’s moves were
astonishing; the audience’s gasps became sighs of appreciation.

Slowly Leo was running out of steam. Beads of
perspiration, first a trickle and then a downpour, rolled
relentlessly down his forehead, stinging his eyes and blurring his
vision. He was breathing heavily and concentrating with such fierce
absorption that tears formed in his eyes. His foil began to feel as
if it weighed a hundred pounds. His arms and legs grew leaden.

The audience could feel the match drawing to a
close. Breaths were held; eyes watched unblinkingly.

And still Duncan came furiously at him.

Leo cursed. It was incredible. Was there no stopping
Duncan Cooper? It was as if the longer the match continued, the
stronger and more powerful he became.

Leo Flood knew that he couldn’t keep his wearying
defensive up very much longer. Soon he would have no energy left to
ward Duncan off. He had one more chance, one last-ditch chance to
win. But it would have to be swift. And it was now or never!

“
Son-of-a-bitch!” he growled, and
valiantly drew on his last reserves of strength. Deflecting
Duncan’s foil, he lunged in a feint and aimed for the
heart.

Duncan wasn’t fooled for an instant. Almost casually
he slid the thrust away and swung upward. The two foils locked, and
in one smooth motion Leo’s was torn from his hand.

With a clatter, it fell to the floor.

Leo started after it, but Duncan’s voice stopped
him.
“Touché,”
he said softly with a smile.

Leo froze and looked down at himself. Duncan’s foil
was resting precisely in the center of his uniform’s red heart.

The audience applauded, then dispersed, everyone
going back to his business.

Duncan lowered his foil. “Not bad, Leo,” he said
quietly.

Leo chuckled without humor. “But not good either.
You fenced better than anyone I’ve ever seen.” He paused. “You’re
bleeding pretty badly, sport.”

Duncan touched his cheek, glanced at his bloody
fingertips, and shrugged it off. “It’s nothing.”

Leo tilted his head. “There’s just one thing I want
to know. You could have cut me open half a dozen times, Cooper. But
you didn’t. Why not?”

Duncan stared at him. “I didn’t feel the need to,”
he said coldly. “Drawing blood isn’t the point. There would have
been no sport in it.”

He stood there a moment longer and then started off
across the polished floor.

Leo’s voice stopped him. “Cooper!”

Duncan turned around and looked at him
questioningly.

“
Don’t forget. Before you go, be
sure to leave me your ex’s number. She won her backing fair and
square.”

Duncan nodded. “Just remember one thing,” he said
quietly. “Ex-wife or not, Eds is very special. You don’t draw blood
from her.” His eyes held Leo’s. “Is that understood,
sport?”

Chapter 40

Thursday morning.

“
Rise and shine! Breakfast time!”
Ruby announced cheerfully as she busted into Edwina’s darkened
bedroom. She marched efficiently about, drawing aside the floral
chintz curtains. A flood of bright spring sunshine dazzled the
room, made rainbows of the collection of crystal animals on the
nightstand.

Edwina moaned and turned over. “Leave me be, Ruby,”
she cajoled into her pillow, her ruffled pink sleep mask still
covering her eyes. “I was up half the night reading.”

“
Humph!” Ruby stood there, hands on
hips. “Probably one of those novels I’d be ashamed to be seen with
on the subway.” She clapped her hands sharply.
“Up-up-up!”

“
Oh, Ruby! Just give me ten
teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy more minutes?
Please?”

“
It’s ten-thirty and you’ve got a
phone call.”

“
Well, just tell ‘em to call back!”
Edwina wailed. “I need my beauty sleep!”

“
Seems to me what you really need
is money,” Ruby mumbled dourly.

“
Money?” Edwina said, suddenly as
alert as a bloodhound spotting a bird. “Did I hear someone say . .
.
money?”
She shot up into a sitting position and sent her
sleep mask skimming across the room like a Frisbee. Unprepared for
the blinding sunlight, she let out a gasp and shielded her eyes
with a cocked arm.

“
Figured that would get you up,”
Ruby chuckled.

Edwina scowled with indignation. “Then there isn’t a
call?”

“
There’s a call, all right,” Ruby
said calmly.

“
Well? Who is it?”

“
Some man by the name of. . .” Ruby
sighed and shrugged. “It was on the tip of my tongue, but I forgot
it now,” she said with a flap of her hand. “Anyway, whoever it is,
it’s not
him.
It’s his secretary.”

“
Did you ask her what he
wants?”

“
That’s no business of mine!”
Sniffing righteously, Ruby sailed back out.

Still shielding her eyes, Edwina groped for the
bedside extension phone. “ ‘Lo?” she mumbled into it.

“
Miss Robinson?” a Locust Valley
lockjaw inquired. “Miss Edwina G. Robinson?”

“
Yes.”

“
One moment, please, and I’ll
connect you with Mr. Flood.”

“
Who?”

“
Mr. Flood. Mr. Leo Flood.” The
secretary’s hushed voice made it sound as if she was talking about
God or the President, or both.

Frowning, Edwina speed-searched her mind. Now, where
had she heard that name before? Flood . . . Flood . . .
Flood!
Her tangle of frizzy red hair practically stood up on
end.
Hellzapoppin!
Not the Leo Flood whom
Fortune and
Forbes
agreed was worth a hundred zillion dollars! Then her
shoulders sagged and the tingling left her scalp. No, she thought
soberly, it couldn’t be. It had to be another Leo Flood—probably
some insurance salesman from Yonkers who’d picked her number out of
the phone book. Had to be. Because what would a zillionaire who had
never even heard of her be doing calling her?

A man’s voice came on the phone. “Miss
Robinson?”

“
This is she,” Edwina said stiffly.
If she’d come awake just for some salesman or survey taker, she was
going to let him have it—but good!

“
Let me introduce myself. I’m Leo
Flood, of Beck, Flood, and Kronin. Perhaps you’ve heard of
me?”

Heard of him!
So it
was
that Leo
Flood. But if you get a call from heaven, you don’t drop to your
knees and start kissing feet immediately. You inspect carefully for
corns and calluses first. “Yes,” she said cautiously, fighting to
keep her voice steady, “I’ve heard of you.”

“
Good. And you, I take it, are the
Edwina G. Robinson who used to be employed by Antonio de Riscal and
are considering forming your own firm.”

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. She could
hear his faint breathing on the line. Finally she managed a
whispered “Yes.”

“
Then you and I should meet. Since
I’m considering investing in fashion,” he went on, “and you’re
looking for a backer, it might behoove us to get together to talk
shop. How does lunch tomorrow sound to you?”

Lunch with Leo Flood!

But before she could get too worked up, a nasty
little green creature started whispering vile things in her
ear.

“
You weren’t,” she asked
suspiciously, “by any chance put up to this by R. L. Shacklebury,
were you?”

“
Who?” His confusion sounded
genuine.

“
Just a joke,” she said weakly,
sending the nasty little green creature scurrying. Everything
inside her was a sudden chorus of wonders.

Leo Flood interested in backing her! Oh, thank you,
God. Thank you, thank you.
Thank you!

“
Then I take it it’s a date?” he
asked.

“
Just give me the when and the
where, and I’ll be there,” she promised shakily.

“
My office on Wall Street? At
noon?”

She tried to reply, but her throat was clogged.

“
Miss Robinson? Are you still
there?”

She cleared her throat. “Y-yes,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes, I am. I . . . I’ll be there, Mr. Flood. I’ll—”

“
Good,” he said, cutting her off
before she could blabber on like a fool. “I’m looking forward to
meeting you. Sixty-nine Wall Street at noon tomorrow. See you
then.”

The traffic in the financial district was more stop
than go; she’d make it faster on foot.

At the corner of Broadway and Fulton, Edwina pushed
three crisp five-dollar bills through the payment slot, said, “Keep
the change,” and ducked out of the cab. In one hand she lugged the
giant portfolio into which she’d stuffed many of her fashion
sketches, and with the other she hung on to the shoulder strap of
her black glove-leather bag—a crime-stopper method of foiling
purse-snatchers.

She stood a moment on the corner, breathing deeply
and looking around to get her bearings. The narrow confines of the
downtown canyons trapped the cacophonous anguish of hopelessly
snarled traffic and amplified it unbearably: honks, sirens,
backfires—all punctuated by the shrill whistles of bicycle
messengers.