The Glory Game (64 page)

“So?” Rob challenged. “It's no concern of his whether I take out a lot or a little. And he had no business calling you. It's my money. I can do what I want with it.”

“Of course you can. It's just that … as Mr. Carstairs said, ten thousand dollars is a lot of cash to be carrying around. Rob, what are you doing with that much money?”

“Hey,” he protested, “what is this? How come you're checking up on me?”

“I'm not. I just don't understand why you need ten thousand dollars in cash.”

Agitated, Rob pushed away from the table and flung his napkin onto his plate. “In case you've forgotten, the season is Christmas. It never once occurred to you that I might be buying presents, did it?”

“With cash?” Luz persisted. “For heaven's sake, Rob, you have charge accounts and credit cards of your own. You could write a check for whatever you want to buy. It's foolish to carry around that much cash.”

“It's my damned money! And if I want it in cash, then that's my business! I don't tell you how to spend your money; don't you tell me how to spend mine! I'm not a kid anymore. I don't have to come running to you every time I want to do something.
If I want your advice, I'll ask for it. In the meantime, butt out.”

“I think you have had your say, Rob,” Raul inserted smoothly. “Sit down so we can have lunch.”

“And you!” He jabbed a finger at Raul. “You stay out of this, if you know what's good for you.”

“Rob—” Luz protested, then paused when he stalked away from the table. “Rob, where are you going? You haven't had your lunch.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Dismayed, Luz sank back in her chair and stared after him. “I don't understand him anymore. He's changed so much since …” She glanced at Raul and didn't finish the sentence. Yet it seemed that Rob had begun to display this irrational anger only after she and Raul had first gotten together in Argentina. “I suppose I was just as independent at his age, wanting to do things my way whether they were wise or not.”

“He is headstrong.”

“He was always moody, even as a child, but he never lashed out in anger like this. I think he's been pushing himself too hard lately. He spends nearly every waking minute at the stables either practicing or playing. Have you noticed?”

“Yes.”

“It's become too much of a strain on him, I think. We all crack under too much pressure.” She was troubled by his actions and tried to find excuses for it. “He really needs to slow down.”

As Emma joined them at the table, the cook brought out the fresh seafood salad. “Rob has decided he isn't hungry, so he won't be having lunch with us, Katie. You can take away his place setting,” Luz instructed.

“Our new team is playing a friendly game tomorrow afternoon against the Black Oak team. Are you going to come and cheer for us?” Raul asked.

“Of course.” She forced a lightness into her voice and pretended that nothing was wrong.

The next day, nothing seemed to be. Exuberant over the trouncing they gave the Black Oak team that had stolen the Kincaid Cup last year, Rob was laughing and slapping his teammates on the back. Luz even saw him locking a forearm
with Raul and giving him much of the credit for captaining the team to a win.

When Rob suggested celebrating their first victory at the clubhouse lounge, Raul declined and waved him off with his other two teammates. He joined Luz, and together they walked to the parking lot, where she'd left the car.

“How come you didn't want to go with them?” she asked.

“They will enjoy themselves much more if I am not there to listen to their bragging.” He smiled at her, fatigue around his mouth, then curved an arm around her shoulders to bring her closer until they walked hip to hip.

“Rob played very well, didn't he?”

“Better than he has in the past.”

“I wish I could have been a fly at the picket line between the second and third chukkars.” Luz laughed to herself. “Chet Martin must have been livid. If there's one thing he hates more than losing, it's losing to a Kincaid.”

“He was not happy,” Raul agreed.

As they passed the tennis courts, Luz noticed two players walking out of the webbed enclosure, rackets in hand and towels slung around their necks. She recognized Drew instantly, his trim tan body in tennis shorts. She felt a little tug of nostalgia, a touch of poignant regret. It surprised her. She saw him glance her way, and noticed the slight hesitation in his stride as their paths converged.

“Hello, Drew.”

“Luz. How are you?” He paused and mopped at the perspiration sheening his face with one end of the towel.

“Just fine, thank you.” She saw the look he darted to Raul, catching the disapproval—or was it jealousy? She wondered if even though he didn't want her, he didn't want anyone else to have her either. “I don't think you've met Raul Buchanan. Raul, this is my—my ex-husband, Drew Thomas.”

“I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Buchanan.” Drew shook hands with him, very brusque in his manner. “My daughter tells me you're coaching Rob in his polo game.”

“I am.”

“Rob has improved tremendously,” Luz inserted. “I wish I had known you were here, Drew. They just played a ‘friendly' game with Chet Martin's team and beat them soundly. You could have seen for yourself how well he is playing now.”

“Where is Rob?”

“He's at the lounge, celebrating.”

Drew glanced in the general direction of the building. “Maybe I'll stop by and say hello to him.” But he sounded doubtful, aware that Rob didn't want to see him.

“He'll come around in time, Drew. I'm sure of it.” Luz wished there were something she could say or do to end this estrangement between father and son, but Rob tended to become very stubborn if he felt he was being pushed into something. Time healed, she herself had found out. “How is the baby? Tremayne, is it?”

Drew nodded, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Happy, healthy. He's a good baby.”

“I'm glad. A person can't ask for more.” She smiled at him with an odd tenderness that sprang from regret for all the things they'd had and lost. “You must be eager to go home to him. It was good seeing you again, Drew.”

“You, too, Luz.” He held her hand for an instant, clasping it warmly between his own. It was as if they were sealing a bargain to put the bitter acrimony of the divorce behind them. “Take care.” He glanced at Raul, “It was a pleasure meeting you. Be good to her. She's a fine woman.”

As Drew moved away, her gaze lingered on him. After a moment, she became conscious of Raul at her side and turned her head to look at him. “Despite all I've said about him to the contrary, Drew isn't a bad man. It just couldn't work for us, that's all.” Slipping an arm around his waist, she lightly hugged against him. The air she breathed smelled fresher and cleaner. She let her head touch his shoulder. “Let's go home, Raul.”

A cloud drifted across the face of a three-quarter moon as Rob whipped his car into the driveway, the radio blaring. His hand tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the loud music, his head and shoulders moving to the rhythmic tempo. He wheeled the car onto the side drive and headed for the garage in the rear.

A garage door gaped open, showing its empty car stall to Rob's headlights. He aimed the car into the slot and braked to a stop less than three inches from the back wall. He felt like a racecar driver. Rob bet he could do that, too. It required
timing, coordination, the ability to judge speed and distance. Hell, he had all that. He switched off the motor, automatically silencing the radio, and hopped out of the car.

The music continued to play in his head as he walked out of the garage, jingling the car keys on the ring hooked around his finger. Few lights were on when he looked at the house. It seemed silent and dead to him. Rob halted. The thought of going to his room and just sitting there made him pause. It would be a total letdown after the thrill of the game, the heady satisfaction of trouncing Martin's ass, and the victory revel at the club. He was feeling good, and he wanted to hold on to it.

Grinning, Rob tossed the car keys in the air and made a one-hand grab of them, then stuffed them in the pocket of his windbreaker. He turned away from the house and swung jauntily toward the stable. There was enough pure stuff in his stash that he wouldn't have to come down for a week if he didn't want to. But one toke, that's all he was going to have, and save the rest. It would be suicidal to burn up ten thousand dollars' worth in one night. He wasn't going to be stupid enough to get into a marathon smoking session, not when Raul expected him at the practice field in the morning.

Later, when Rob began to lose the euphoric feeling that charged his senses, his energy level remained high—too high to think of bed and sleep. He wondered if he should have taken that bottle of sleeping pills Jimmy Ray had offered him, then decided he'd been right to refuse it. He wasn't about to get hooked on sleeping pills the way Jimmy Ray was. Of course, the handler was old and needed his rest, while he could get by with a couple of hours of sleep if necessary.

Sometimes, he felt as if he didn't need sleep at all—like now. He glanced at the stash of cocaine he'd left on the counter. Hell, he had plenty, and what would it matter if he stayed up another hour or so? Humming merrily to himself, he walked to the counter and began mixing the magic potion of cocaine and ether.

Suddenly fire flashed in the air. In that fraction of a second of reaction, his horrified glance darted to the canister containing the highly volatile ether. And in the next, he saw flames leaping over his jacket sleeves. Petrified, he stared at them in shock as they crawled up his arms.

The heat searing his flesh seemed to break the grip of terror. Backing blindly away from the workbench, he slapped at the fire, his hands flailing wildly. But it greedily licked over the material, spreading rapidly to consume it all. The fire was everywhere. He could feel it crawling up his back, and he tried to take the jacket off, but the flames burned his fingers. Raw, animal sounds of panic roared around him, coming from his throat.

Terror-stricken, he ran to the door. “Jimmy Ray!” he screamed as he fought with the lock, finally getting it turned. He burst out of the burning tack room and staggered into the wide walkway between the rows of stalls. “Help!” he screamed hoarsely, holding his flaming arms away from his body, horrified by the stench of scorched flesh and aware it was his own. “Jimmy Ray! Help me!”

He lunged toward the side door at the end of the corridor. Outside, he turned to the stairs leading to the groom's quarters above the stable. The fiery heat was consuming him. His hair. His hair was on fire, he realized, and the bloodcurdling screams were his. Suddenly, he knew he'd never make it to the door.

Roll. That's what he was supposed to do. Roll and smother the flames. He threw himself onto the floor, screaming his agony and mindless of the frightened whinnies of the horses. He tried to roll, but he bumped into something. Fire danced all around his eyes, eating up the scattered straw. The hay bales. He had one last conscious thought as the flames ignited the bales stacked along the wall.

Something disturbed her. Turning, Luz drowsily opened her eyes. The other side of the bed was empty. She heard a noise in the room and looked toward the sound. She could barely make out Raul's shape in the darkness. He appeared to be dressing. Leaning over, she flipped on the bedside lamp, then squinted against the glaring light.

“What's the matter? Where are you going?” She frowned as she watched him fasten the waistband of his pants. He seemed in a hurry.

“Something has frightened the horses.” Quickly, he pulled on his boots and grabbed his shirt. “Hear them?”

The instant he said that Luz realized it wasn't the muted night cries of a bird she was hearing, but the muffled, shrill
neighs of the horses. She flung back the covers and reached for her robe at the foot of the bed. When Raul left the room, she followed him, pulling on the robe and tying the sash as she went.

The trees and shrubs around the pool and the garage roof blocked the stable from view as Luz hurried out of the house after Raul. She smelled smoke, but it wasn't until they had rounded the garage that she saw the flames leaping from the tack-room window. Cursing in Spanish, Raul grabbed her and shoved her back toward the house.

“Call the fire trucks.
De prisa!”
He waited while she backed away from the sight to make certain she obeyed. When he saw her turn and run back toward the house, he headed for the burning stable.

The panicked screams of the trapped horses rent the night, but his first thought was for the groom who lived above. There was no sign of the thin man outside the building. Raul raced to the side door and pulled it open, thinking Turnbull might be inside trying to get the horses out. Flames mushroomed with a crackling roar, their intense heat driving him back.

Shielding his face with an upraised arm, he tried to see inside, but he had only vague impressions of wooden stall partitions burning and a blazing ball of flame in the corridor where the hay bales had been stacked. Ignoring the wild drumming of hooves and wrenching screams of the horses, Raul turned away from the fire-blocked door and raced up the outside stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

“Turnbull!” He pounded on the door at the top. When he tried the knob, the metal burned his hand. Using the tail of his shirt for protection, he tried it again. The door was locked. Bracing himself against the stair rail, he kicked at it. On the fourth try, the door gave with a splintering rip of wood and metal.

At the sudden inrush of air, flames exploded, and he reeled from their blasting heat, retreating down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Raul backed away from the building. Fire engulfed it, silencing the screams of the horses. Sweat poured from him as he sucked in air, breathing with difficulty, half suffocated by the oxygen-stealing flames. He stared helplessly at the burning building, hearing the wail of approaching sirens and knowing the trucks would arrive too late to save anything.