The Heart's Victory (6 page)

Intrigued, Lance studied her with more care. “And Kirk doesn't?”

“Enjoy it?” Her surprise was evident in both her eyes and her voice. “He lives for it, and that's entirely different. Enjoyment comes much lower on the list.” She tilted her head, and her eyes caught the flicker of the candles. “You didn't live for it or you couldn't have given it up at thirty. If Kirk lives to be a hundred, they'll have to carry him to the cockpit, but he'll still race.”

“It appears you had more perception as a teenager than I gave you credit for.” Lance waited until their steak Diane was served, then thoughtfully broke a roll in half. “You've always hated it, haven't you?”

Foxy met his eyes levelly. “Yes,” she agreed and accepted the offered roll. “Always.” Her silence grew pensive as she spread butter on the roll. “Lance, how did your family feel about your racing?”

“Embarrassed,” he said immediately. Foxy was forced to laugh as she met his eyes again.

“And you enjoyed their embarrassment as much as you enjoyed racing.”

“As I said”—he lifted his glass in toast—“you are perceptive.”

“Families of drivers all seem to have different ways of dealing with racing. It's more difficult standing in the pits than driving on the grid, you know,” she said softly, then sighed and deliberately shook off the mood. “I suppose now that you're in the business end of it, your family's no longer embarrassed.” Foxy bit into the crusty roll. “It's more acceptable, though you hardly need the money.”

“You took an oath to see that I do after tonight,” he reminded her. “You'd better eat all of your steak. Losing money takes more energy than winning it.”

Sending him a disdainful smirk, Foxy picked up her knife and fork.

***

The evening was still young when they entered the casino. Foxy found her indifferent veneer dissolving. The combination of elegance and excitement was too potent.

“Oh!” She took in the room with a long, sweeping glance and squeezed Lance's arm for emphasis. “It's fabulous.”

Clothes in a kaleidoscope of hues and the glitter and gleam of jewels caught her eye. There was a hum of voices in a hodgepodge of languages accented by the quick, precise French of the croupiers. There was a mix of other sounds: the click and clatter of the roulette balls jingling in the wheels, the soft scrape of wood on baize as markers were drawn in, the flutter and whoosh of cards being shuffled, the crackle of new money and the jangle of coin.

With a laugh, Lance tossed an arm around her shoulders. “Foxy, my love, your eyes are enormous and shockingly naive. Haven't you ever been to a den of iniquity before?”

“Stop teasing,” she demanded, too impressed to be properly insulted. “It's so beautiful.”

“Ah, but gambling's gambling, Fox, whether you do it in a plush chair with a glass of champagne or in a garage with a bottle of beer.”

“You should know.” Tilting her head, she shifted her eyes to his and smiled. “I remember the poker games. You would never let me play.”

“You were a very precocious brat.” He slid his hand up her neck and squeezed.

“You were just afraid that I'd beat you.”

His grin was quick and powerful. Guiltily Foxy admitted that she was glad to be there with him instead of with Scott. Lance Matthews exuded an excitement Scott Newman would not even understand.

“What big eyes you have,” Lance murmured as his fingers lingered on her skin. “What goes on behind them, Foxy?”

“I was thinking how furious I should be with you because of the maneuvering you did with Scott, and how guilty I am that I'm not.”

He laughed, then gave her a hard, brief kiss. “Too guilty to enjoy yourself?”

“No,” she said immediately, then shrugged. “I suppose I'm basically selfish and not very nice.”

Lance's mouth twisted into a grin. “Then we should suit each other well enough.” He laced his fingers with hers, then led her to a roulette table.

Seated, Foxy moved her attention instantly to the wheel as the tiny silver ball bounced and jumped. When it stilled, she watched the croupier scoop in the losing markers and add them to those of the winners. Foxy thought the table a Tower of Babel. As she glanced from face to face she heard lilting Italian, precise London-style English, low, guttural German, and other languages that she could not distinguish. Faces were varied as well; some old, some young, some bored, some animated, many carrying the unmistakable polish of wealth. But it was the face directly across from her that fascinated her.

The older woman was beautiful. Her hair was like white silk swept around a fine-boned oval face. The lines in her skin were far too much a part of it to detract from the beauty. Rather, they matured and gave character to what had once been a delicate elegance. Her eyes were like sharp green emeralds, but it was diamonds she wore at her throat and ears. They seemed more fire than ice. She wore flaming red silk with absolute confidence. Foxy watched in fascination as she lifted a long, slender black cigarette and drew gently.

“Countess Francesca de Avalon of Venice,” Lance whispered in Foxy's ear as he followed her gaze. “Exceptional, isn't she?”

“Fabulous.” Turning to Lance, Foxy was vaguely surprised to see him offer her a glass of champagne. As the stem passed from his fingers to hers she noticed the tidy pile of markers in front of her. “Oh, are these the chips?” Tracing a fingernail down the edges, she looked back at Lance. “How much do you bet at a time?”

He shrugged and cupped his hands around the end of his cigarette as he lit it. “I'm just along for the ride.”

With a laugh, Foxy shook her head. “I have a hard enough time with plain francs, Lance. I don't even know how much these little things are worth.”

“An evening's entertainment,” he said easily and lifted his glass.

Sighing, Foxy chose five chips and unwittingly bet five thousand francs on black. “I don't suppose I should lose all your money at once,” she said confidentially.

“That's generous of you.” Repressing a smile, Lance settled back and watched the wheel spin.

“Vingt-sept, noir.”

“Oh!” Foxy said, surprised, then pleased. “We've won.” Looking up, she caught the blatant amusement on Lance's face. His eyes, she realized, were more silver than gray. “You needn't look so smug.” She shook off her preoccupation and sipped the effervescent wine. “That was just beginner's luck. Besides”—she gave him a wicked grin—“it'll hurt more if I win a bit first.” Her gaze shifted to the two stacks of five markers on black, but as she started to reach for them, Lance laid a hand on her arm.

“He's started the wheel, Fox. You've let it ride.” Her face was so completely horrified, Lance dissolved into laughter.

“Oh, but I didn't mean...that must be over a hundred dollars.” A glance at the spinning wheel made her giddy, and she swallowed more wine.

“Must be,” Lance agreed gravely.

Foxy watched the ball bounce its capricious way around the wheel. She felt a mixture of fear, guilt, and excitement as the wheel began to slow.

“Cinq, noir.”

She closed her eyes on a shudder of relief. Remembering herself, she quickly drew the four stacks of five in front of her. As Lance chuckled she turned and gave him a haughty glare. “It would have served you right if I
had
lost.”

“Quite right.” Lance signaled for more champagne. “Why don't you bet on one of the columns, Foxy,” he suggested as he tapped the ash of his cigar into an ashtray. “You've got to take more than a fifty-fifty chance in life.”

She grinned and tossed her head. “Your loss,” she announced as she impulsively pushed five chips to the head of column one.

It was, as it turned out, his gain. With uncanny consistency, the stack of markers in front of Foxy grew. Once, she unknowingly lost twenty thousand francs, then cheerfully gained it back on the following spin. Perhaps it was her complete ignorance of the amounts she wagered, or her random betting pattern, or simply the generosity of Lady Luck, but she won, spin after spin after spin. And she found winning was much to her taste. It was a heady experience that left her nearly as giddy as the seemingly bottomless glass of champagne at her side. Lance sat calmly back and watched the flow and ebb and flow of her winnings. He enjoyed the way she used her eyes to speak to him, letting them widen and glisten on a win or roll and dance on a loss. Her laugh reminded him of the warm mists on Boston's Back Bay. Her pleasure in winning was engagingly simple, her nonchalance in losing charmingly innocent. She was a child and woman at perfect balance.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to bet some of this?” Foxy asked generously, indicating the stacks of markers.

“You're doing fine.” Lance twirled a stray curl of russet around his finger.

“That, young man, is a gross understatement.”

Foxy twisted her head quickly and looked into sharp emerald eyes. The Countess de Avalon stood behind her, leaning on a smooth, ivory-handled cane. It shocked Foxy momentarily to see that she was so tiny, no more than five feet. Imperiously she waved Lance to sit as he started to get to his feet. Her English was quick and precise, with only a trace of accent. “You have won resoundingly, signorina, and cleverly.”

“Resoundingly, Countess,” Foxy returned with a wide smile, “but accidentally rather than cleverly. I came determined to lose.”

“Perhaps I will change my strategy and come determined to lose,” the countess commented. “Then I, too, might have such an accident.” She gave Lance a slow, thorough, and entirely feminine appraisal. Foxy felt a tickle of jealousy and was completely astounded by it. “You appear to know me; might I return the pleasure?”

“Countess de Avalon.” Lance gently inclined his head. “Cynthia Fox.” Foxy took the extended hand in hers and found it small and fragile. But the quick study the green eyes made of her was full of power.

“You are very lovely,” the countess said at length, “very strong.” She smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “But even ten years ago, I would have lured him away from you. Never trust a woman of experience.” Dismissing Foxy with a mere shifting of the eyes, the countess gave her attention to Lance. “And who are you?”

“Lance Matthews, Countess.” He brought the offered hand to his lips with perfect charm. “It's an honor to meet you.”

“Matthews,” she murmured, and her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I should have seen from the eyes, the ‘devil-take-it' look. I knew your grandfather quite well.” She laughed. It was a young, sultry sound. “Quite well. You've the look of him, Lancelot Matthews . . . You're named for him. Very appropriate.”

“Thank you, Countess.” Lance's smile warmed. “He was one of my favorite people.”

“And mine. I saw your aunt Phoebe in Martinique two years ago. A singularly boring woman.”

“Yes, Countess.” The smile became grim. “I'm afraid so.”

With a regal sniff, the countess turned to a fascinated Foxy. “Never relax for a moment with this one,” she advised. “He is every bit the rake his grandfather was.” She laid her hand briefly on Foxy's, and squeezed. “How I envy you.” She turned and walked away in a flash of red silk.

“What a magnificent woman,” Foxy murmured. Turning back to Lance, she gave him a wistful smile. “Do you suppose your grandfather was in love with her?”

“Yes.” With a gesture of his finger, Lance signaled the croupier to cash in his markers. “He had a blistering affair with her, which the family continues to pretend never happened. It was also complicated because they were both married. He wanted her to leave her husband and live with him in the south of France.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Intrigued, Foxy made no objection when he drew her to her feet.

“He told me.” Lance set her shawl around her shoulders. “He told me once he'd never loved anyone else. He was over seventy when he died, and he would still have left everything to live with her if she had permitted it.”

Foxy walked slowly through the casino with Lance unaware of how many pairs of eyes watched them; a russet-haired beauty and the man with the dark, brooding attraction. “It sounds so wonderfully sad,” she said after a moment. “But I suppose it was dreadful for your grandmother, knowing he loved someone else all those years.”

“My dear, innocent Fox,” Lance said dryly. “My grandmother is a Winslow of Boston. She was quite content with the Matthews merger, their two offspring, and her bridge club. Love is untidy and plebeian.”

“You're making that up.”

“As you like,” he said easily.

“Let's not take a cab,” she said as they stepped outside. She tossed her head back to the stars. “It's so beautiful.” Smiling into his eyes, she tucked her hand in his arm. “Let's walk, it isn't far.”

They ignored the light stream of traffic and walked under the warm glow of street lamps. Champagne spun pleasantly in Foxy's head and lifted her feet just an inch from the sidewalk. The countess's warning was forgotten, and she was completely relaxed. The walk under the slice of moon and smattering of stars seemed to occur in a timeless realm, full of the scents and mysteries of night.

“Do you know,” Foxy began and spun away from him, “I love palm trees.” Giggling, she rested her back against one and smiled at Lance. “I always wanted one when I was little, but they don't do well in Indiana. I had to settle for a pine.”

Moving closer, he brushed curls from cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. “I had no idea you were so interested in horticulture.”

“I have my secrets.” Swirling out of reach, she leaned over a sea wall. “I wanted to be a skin diver when I was eight,” she told him as she peered out into the dark sea. “Or a heart surgeon, I could never make up my mind. What do you want to be when you grow up, Lance?” She turned back to him, and the wind caught and pulled at her free curls. Her eyes were speared with laughter.