The Heart's Victory

by Nora Roberts

  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.

  “Starting pitcher for the Red Sox.” His eyes dropped to the elegant curve of her neck as she threw back her head and laughed.

  “I bet you’ve got a whole bagful of pitches.” She sighed with the pleasure of laughter. “You never told me how much I won in there.”

  “Hmm?” Lost in the flicker of moonlight in her hair, he listened with half an ear.

  “How much did I win in the casino?” she repeated, pushing dancing curls from her face.

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “Fifty, fifty-five thousand francs.”

  “What?” The one syllable was half laugh, half choke. “Fifty-five thousand? That’s—that’s more than ten thousand dollars!”

  “At the current rate of exchange,” Lance agreed carelessly.

  “Oh, good grief!” Her hands flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes grew impossibly wide. “Lance, I might have lost!”

  “You did remarkably well.” Amusement was back in his eyes and in his voice. “Or remarkably poorly considering your desire to lose.”

  “I had no idea I was gambling with that kind of money; I never would have tossed it around that way. Why . . . you’re crazy!” Helplessly she began to laugh. “You’re a lunatic. Certifiable.” She dropped her head to his shoulder as her laughter floated warmly on the quiet night. When he brought his arms around her, she made no protest. “I might have lost, you know,” she managed between giggles. “And I might easily have fainted cold if I’d have found out how much those chips were worth while the wheel was still spinning.” Taking a deep breath, she lifted her brilliant eyes to his. “Now, it seems I’ve added to your already disgusting fortune.”

  “The winnings are rightfully yours,” he corrected, but Foxy stepped back horrified.

  “Oh no, it was your money. In any case . . . ” She paused, distracted, and plucked a daisy from a clump of grass at the foot of the sea wall. The champagne was still flowing. “In any case,” she repeated as she tucked the flower in her hair, “you wouldn’t have expected me to make up your losses.” With this logic, she began to walk again, holding out a hand for his. “Of course,” she began on a new thought, moving away before Lance could take her hand. “You could buy me something extravagant.” She whirled back to him with a smile. “That would be perfectly aboveboard, I believe.”

  “Is there anything particular you have in mind?”

  Her footsteps clicked on the sidewalk as she continued to circle away from him. “Oh, perhaps a pack of Russian wolfhounds.” Her laughter drifted. “Or a line of those marvelous horses with the sturdy legs . . . Clydesdales. Or a flock of Albanian goats. I’m almost certain they have goats in Albania.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a sable?”

  “Oh no,” she answered. She wrinkled her nose and, either by accident or design, moved just out of his reach. “I don’t care much for dead animals. I know! A pair of black Angus so I can start my own herd.” The decision made, she stopped. Lance slipped his arms around her. “You will be sure to get one male and one female, won’t you? It’s very important if you want things to move along properly.”

  “Of course,” he agreed as his lips traced her jawline.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this.” Foxy sighed as her arms encircled his neck. “I’m terribly glad you intimidated Scott.”

  “Are you?” Lance murmured, gently nipping at the pulse in her throat.

  “Oh yes,” she whispered and drew him closer. “And I’d very much like it if you’d kiss me now. Right now.” The last word was muffled as their lips found each other.

  They seemed to fuse together in one instant of blinding heat. The instant was an eternity. She tangled her fingers in his hair as if she could bring him yet closer when now even the breeze from the sea could not come between them. Her body had molded to his as if it had no other purpose. She could feel his heart beat at the same speeding rhythm as her own. Unnoticed, her shawl slipped to the ground as he explored the smooth skin of her back. Together, they began to taste more of each other. His lips tarried on her throat, lingering and savoring the sweetness before moving to trace her cheekbone and whisper over her closed lids.

  She discovered a dark, male flavor along the column of his neck. She wanted to go on tasting, go on learning, but his mouth demanded that hers return to his. The power of the new kiss pierced her like a spear of lightning, shooting a trembling heat through her every cell. With a moan, she swayed against him. Lance plundered her surrendering mouth, drawing more and more from her until she was limp in his arms. When his lips parted from hers, she murmured his name and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I don’t know if it’s you or the champagne, but my head’s spinning.” Foxy shivered once, then snuggled closer. Lance moved his hand to the base of her neck and tilted her face back to his. Her eyes were dark and heavy, her cheeks flushed, her mouth soft and swollen from his.

  “Does it matter?” His voice was rough as he tightened his grip to bring her closer. She did not resist, but stepped back into the fire. “Isn’t it enough to know that I want you tonight?” he murmured against her ear before his tongue and teeth began to fill her senses again.

  “I don’t know. I can’t think.” Drawing away, Foxy took two steps back and shook her head. “Something happens to me when you kiss me. I lose control.”

  “If you’re telling me that so I’ll play fair, Foxy, you’ve miscalculated.” In one quick motion, he closed the distance between them. “I play to win.”

  “I know,” she replied and lifted a hand to his cheek. “I know that very well.” Turning, she walked back to the sea wall and breathed deeply to clear her head. She leaned back and lifted her face to the moon. “I always admired your unswerving determination to come out on top.” She lowered her face to look at him, but his was still shadowed by the palm. “I loved you quite desperately when I was fourteen.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment but bent and picked up her wrap. “Did you?” he murmured as he stepped from the shadows.

  Moonlight fluttered over her as she tossed windblown curls from her eyes. “Oh yes.” Relaxed, Foxy continued with champagne-induced honesty. “It was a wonderfully painful crush, my very first. You were quite impressive and I was quite romantic.” Lance was beside her now, and Foxy turned her head to smile at him. “You always looked so indestructible, and very often you brooded.”

  “Did I?” He answered her smile as he lay the wrap over her shoulders.

  “Oh yes. You had this single-minded intensity about you . . . You still do a great deal of the time. It’s terribly attractive, but it was more pronounced when you were racing. Then, there were your hands.”

  “My hands?” he repeated and paused in the act of reaching in his pocket for his lighter.

  “Yes.” Foxy surprised him by taking both his hands in hers and studying them. “They’re quite the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. Very lean, very strong, very elegant. I always thought you should’ve been an artist or a musician. Sometimes I’d pretend you were. I’d set you up in a drafty old garret where I’d take care of you.” She released his hands and pulled absently at her wrap as it slipped off her shoulders. “I wanted badly to take care of someone. I suppose I should’ve had a dog.” She laughed lightly but was too involved with her memories to notice that Lance did not laugh with her. “I was snarling jealous of all those women you had. They were always beautiful. I remember Tracy McNeil especially. You probably don’t remember her at all.”

  “No.” Lance flicked on his lighter and frowned at the flame. “I don’t.”

  “She had beautiful blond hair. It was clear down to her hips and straight as an arrow. I hated my hair as a child. It was all curly and unmanageable and such an awkward color. I was quite certain the only reason you kissed Tracy McNeil was because she had straight blond hair.” The scent from Lance’s cigar stung the air, and Foxy breathed it in. “It’s amazing how
naive I was for someone raised in a man’s world. Anyway, I languished over you for the better part of a year. I imagine I was a nuisance around the track, and you were very tolerant for the most part.” A yawn escaped her as she grew sleepy in the sea air. “After I turned sixteen, I felt I was quite grown up and ready to be treated as a woman. The crush I’d had on you became very intense. I’d find every opportunity to be around you. Did you notice?”

  “Yes.” Lance blew out a thin stream of smoke, and it vanished instantly into the breeze. “I noticed.”

  Foxy gave a rueful laugh. “I thought I was being so clever in my pursuit. You were always so kind to me, I suppose that’s why when you stopped being kind, it was all the more devastating. Do you remember that night? It was at Le Mans, the twenty-four-hour race,” she went on before he could answer. “The night before the race I couldn’t sleep so I walked down to the track. When I saw you going into the garage area, I was certain it was fate.” With a sigh, Foxy absently fingered the flower in her hair. “I followed you in. My palms were sweating. I wanted you to notice me.” Turning her head, Foxy met Lance’s eyes with a gentle smile. “As a woman. A girl’s right on the border at sixteen, and I wanted so desperately to get to the other side. And my feelings for you were very adult and very real, even though I had no idea how to handle them.

  “I was very nonchalant when I came in, do you remember? ‘Hello, how are you, couldn’t you sleep?’ You were wearing a black sweater; black always suited you. You were very remote, you’d been remote off and on for weeks. It only made you more romantic.” With a soft, low laugh, she lifted her palm to his cheek. “Poor Lance. How uncomfortable my adulation must have made you.”

  “Uncomfortable is a mild word for what you were doing to me,” he muttered. Turning away, he tossed his cigar over the wall and into the sea.

  “I wanted to be sophisticated,” she went on, not hearing the annoyance in his tone. “I had no idea how to make you want to kiss me. I tried to remember all the ploys I’d ever seen the heroine use in the movies. It was dark, we were alone. What next? The only thing I could come up with was to keep as close as possible. You were tinkering under the hood of the car, doing your best, I’m sure, to ignore me so that I’d go away and let you get on with it. There was just that one small light on, and the garage smelled of oil and gasoline. I thought it was as romantic as Manderley.” Foxy turned and grinned cheerfully while the wine made her remember. “Romance has always been my big weakness. Anyway, I was standing behind you, trying to think of what to do next, and I began to wonder what in the world you were doing to the car. I started to peek over your shoulder just as you turned around, and we collided. I remember you grabbed my arms to steady me, and my knees turned to water instantly. The physical part of it was incredible, probably because I’d never experienced it before. My heart started pounding,