The Winning Hand (22 page)

Another deck stretched along the back, accessed by atrium doors in a quiet blond wood. No dark colors here, she thought. Everything would be light, fresh. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure as she looked
beyond the deck to the sparkling waters of the swimming pool.

She let the Realtor expound on the wonders of the kitchen, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the custom-made cabinets, the granite counters. And was charmed by the cozy breakfast area tucked into a bay window. That was for family, she thought. For lazy Sunday mornings and rushed school days, for quiet, late nights and cups of tea.

She would enjoy cooking here, she thought, studying the range, the double ovens, the mirror black cooktop. She’d always been a plain and pedestrian cook, but she thought she would like experimenting with recipes, with herbs, sauces.

The maid’s room and laundry area off the kitchen were easily as big as her entire apartment in Kansas. Darcy didn’t miss the irony, or the wonder of it.

She’d put a trestle table in the dining room, she mused. That would suit the tone and go well with the small tiled fireplace for chilly desert nights. Watercolors for the walls, soft bleeding tones.

She’d learn how to entertain, have intimate, casual dinner parties as well as sparkling, sophisticated ones. Loud, bawdy, backyard barbecues. Yes, she thought she could be a good, and what was better, an interesting hostess.

She toured each of the four bedrooms, checking views, space, approving the builder’s choice of random-width pine for the floors, and the bright jazz of contrast tiles scattered in amusing patterns among the neutral colors of the baths.

She knew she goggled at the master suite, and didn’t care. The two-level area boasted its own private deck, fireplace, an enormous dressing area with closets large enough to live in and a bath that rivaled the one at The Comanche with a lagoon-sized motorized tub in an unexpected clay color.

The treated skylight above it cut the glare while offering a dazzling view of desert blue sky.

Ferns, she imagined, in copper and brass pots; crowded together, all lush and green. She would jumble them on the wide ledge behind the tub and every bath would be like swimming in a secluded oasis.

The tower was octagon shaped, generous with windows. The walls were cream, the floor tiles the color of stone. Her workstation would go there, she decided, facing the desert. Not a desk, but a long counter, perhaps in a sharp, deep blue for contrast. It would have dozens of drawers and cubbyholes.

She needed to go shopping for a computer system—a fax, a desktop copier. Reams of papers, she thought with a giddy burst of joy.

She would put a love seat on the other side of the room and create a small seating area, and she’d want shelves there, floor to ceiling, for books and small treasures.

She would sit there, writing hour after hour, and know she was a part of everything around her.

The Realtor had been silent for the past several minutes. She’d been in the game long enough to know when to sell, and when to step back. The potential buyer didn’t have much of a poker face, she mused, already imagining the tidy commission.

“It’s a lovely property,” the Realtor said now. “A quiet, settled neighborhood, convenient for shopping but tucked just far away enough from the city to offer a sense of solitude.” She offered Darcy a bright smile. “So, what do you think?”

Darcy pulled herself back and focused on the woman. “I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“It’s Marion. Marion Baines.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Baines—”

“Marion.”

“Marion. I appreciate you taking the time to show me through.”

“Happy to do it.” But she felt a little hitch in her stomach, a sign of a sale slipping away. “It might feel a little large for your needs. You did say you were single.”

“Yes, I’m single.”

“It might seem a bit overwhelming, but empty houses often do. You’d be amazed how it all comes together when it’s furnished.”

Darcy had already seen it come together as she could picture it furnished, perfectly, in her mind.
“I’ll take it.”

“Oh.” Marion’s smile faltered, then spread. “Wonderful. I’m so pleased you want to make an offer. If you like we can use the kitchen to fill out the paperwork, and I can present your offer to the sellers this afternoon.”

“I said I’d take it. I’ll pay the asking price.”

“You—well.” Something in that fresh face and youthful eyes had her hesitating. Even as she ordered herself to keep her mouth shut and close the deal, she found herself speaking. “Ms. Wallace, Darcy … I’m contracted to represent the sellers, but I realize this is the first time you’ve bought property. I feel obligated to mention that it’s usual to make an offer of … somewhat less than the asking price. The sellers may accept it, or counter.”

“Yes, I know. But why shouldn’t they get what they want?” She smiled and turned back to gaze out the window. “I’m going to.”

It was so simple really, she discovered. A few forms to be filled out, papers to be signed, a check to be written. Earnest money, it was called. Darcy liked the sound of it. She was very earnest about the house.

She listened as home loans were explained to her, fixed interest rates, balloon payments, mortgage insurance. Then decided to keep it simple and pay cash.

When the settlement date was set, she breezed out to her rented car, thrilled by the knowledge that in thirty short days she would have a home.

The minute she was back in her suite, she grabbed the phone. She knew she had to call Caine, ask him to represent her interests in the settlement or recommend a local real estate lawyer. She needed to choose an insurance company and take out a homeowner’s policy. She wanted to shop for furniture, to pick out dishes and linens.

And oh, she’d forgotten to measure the windows for the plantation blinds she wanted.

But first she wanted to share her news and excitement.

“Is Mac—Mr. Blade available?” she asked when Mac’s assistant answered the phone. “It’s Darcy Wallace.”

“Hello, Ms. Wallace. I’m sorry, Mr. Blade’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”

“Oh … no, thank you. If you could just tell him I called.”

She hung up, deflated as the image in her head of driving him out to the house and telling him it was hers faded. It would have to wait.

She buried herself in work instead, pushing herself toward the end of the book. If her luck held and the agent she’d contacted wanted to see more, she intended to be ready.

When two hours had passed and he hadn’t returned her call, she resisted the urge to pick up the phone again. She made herself coffee, then spent another hour tweaking an earlier chapter.

When the phone rang, she pounced. “Hello.”

“Darcy. Deb said you called earlier.”

“Yes. I wondered if you could spare an hour. There’s something I want to show you.”

There was a hesitation, a humming kind of silence that had her shifting in her chair.

“I’m sorry. I’m tied up here.” In his office Mac sat at his desk and realized the first step away was the hardest. “I’m not going to have any time for you.”

“Oh. You must be busy.”

“I am. If anything’s wrong I can send the hotel manager or the concierge up.”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” The cool formality of his voice made her shudder. “Nothing at all. It can wait. If you have time tomorrow …”

“I’ll let you know.”

“All right.”

“I have to go. Talk to you later.”

She stared at the phone in her hand for several seconds before replacing it slowly on the hook. He’d seemed so distant, so different. Hadn’t that been mild irritation in his voice, an underlying impatience?

No, she was imagining things. Finding her hands gripped tightly together, she swore at herself and separated them.

He was just busy, she told herself. She’d interrupted his work. People hated to be interrupted. It was her own sense of disappointment—which was foolish—that was making her overreact to a very natural incident.

He’d spent the whole of last evening with her, she remembered, had made wild, almost desperate love to her under the stars. No one could need a woman so much in the night then flick her off like a pesky gnat the next day.

Of course they could, she admitted, and pressed her fingers to her eyes. It was naive, even stupid to pretend it couldn’t and didn’t happen.

But not with Mac. He was too kind, too honest.

And she loved him far, far too much.

He was just busy, she insisted. She’d taken up huge amounts of his time over the past two weeks. Naturally he would need to catch up, to concentrate on business, to take some breathing room.

She wasn’t going to sulk about it. Darcy straightened her shoulders, tucked the chair back in place. She would concentrate on work herself, and take advantage of what was going to be a long, solitary evening.

She worked for another six hours, remembering to turn on the lights only when she realized she was working in the dark. She drained the pot of coffee and found herself stunned when she came to the end of her book.

Finished. Beginning, middle and end. It was all there now, she thought giddily, all inside this clever little machine and copied onto a small slim disc.

To celebrate she opened a bottle of champagne, though it was a bit of a struggle, and drank an
entire glass. With reckless abandon she poured a second and took it to the desk with her to start refining the draft. She put in twelve hours and went through half a bottle of the wine, which she counteracted with more coffee. It was hardly a wonder that when she finally tumbled into bed she was chased by odd and jumbled dreams.

She saw herself in the tower of her new house, alone. All alone and crowded there by mountains of papers and an enormous computer. Through the window she could see dozens of scenes flip by, like a fast-forward through a movie. Parties and people, children playing, couples embracing. The noise—laughter and music—was muffled by the glass that surrounded her.

When she pounded on it, no one heard her. No one saw her. No one cared.

She was in the casino, sitting at the blackjack table. But she couldn’t add up her cards, couldn’t calculate the math. Didn’t know what to do.

Hit or stand.
Serena, elegant in a mannish tux, watched her impassively.
Hit or stand,
she repeated.
You have to make the choice, then deal with it.

She doesn’t know how to play.
Mac stepped up beside her, gave her a brotherly pat on the head.
You don’t know the rules, do you?

But she did, she did. It was just that she couldn’t seem to add the cards. There was so much at stake. Didn’t they understand how much was at stake?

Never bet more than you can afford to lose,
Mac told her with a cool smile.
The house always has the edge.

Then she was alone again, stumbling along the arrow-straight road through the desert and the lights and colors of Vegas were trapped behind the rippling waves of heat, floating there. No matter how far she walked, she couldn’t get any closer.

Dust rose in a cloud as Mac drove up, his hair streaming in the wind.
You’re going in the wrong direction.

But she wasn’t. She was going home.

He reached out, touched her cheek in an absent, avuncular gesture that made her cringe.
You don’t belong here.

“Yes, I do.” Her own furious shout woke her. Sitting up in bed, she was stunned by the raw and genuine extent of her anger. She seethed with it, forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

The sun was bright on her face because she’d forgotten to draw the drapes the night before.

“No more bedtime champagne for you, Darcy,” she muttered, rubbing her face as if to rub away the edges of the dreams.

Noting it was already nine, she gave in to impulse and grabbed the phone. Serena answered on the second ring.

“It’s Darcy. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

“No. Justin and I are just having our first cup of coffee.”

“Are you busy today?”

“I don’t have to be. What did you have in mind?”

Darcy stood back, nervously twisting her fingers as Serena walked through the first floor of the house.