by Nora Roberts
“That isn’t—”
“I asked a direct question, Laura, and I’ll know if you lie.”
“All right, yes, but it doesn’t—”
“Love matters,” Margo said quietly. “We matter. Maybe that’s the whole point.” She released Laura and reached into her pocket, where she habitually carried her coin. “This matters.” She placed it beside Laura’s and looked at Kate, who rose and took her own out of her purse.
“It matters,” Kate agreed when the three coins sat side by side. “We’re still in it together. Have you told Mick, Laura?”
“No. And no, I don’t know if I’m going to, or how I’ll handle it. I can’t plan things out like you, Kate, or run on instinct the way you do, Margo. I have to do it my way. Which means, I suppose, maintaining illusions and waiting to see what comes. And my emotions are my responsibility.”
Then she smiled, traced a fingertip over all three coins. “A sign from Seraphina. Well, maybe it is. Maybe she’s telling me not to put all my dreams into one man’s hands this time.”
“Or she might be telling you that you can find that dream if you know where to look.” Margo draped an arm over Laura’s shoulders. “Either way, you can’t stop looking. It’s the same as jumping off a cliff.”
“I haven’t stopped looking.” She patted Margo’s hand before reaching for her coin. “And I think this calls for a celebration. Why don’t we get together tonight and open some champagne?”
“Talked me into it.” Kate pocketed her own coin. “I was coming over anyway. Poker night at the De Witts’.”
“That’s right.” Laura grinned. “Dad’s already rubbing his palms together. So, Margo, are you up for it?”
“I’ll be there.” Margo picked up her coin but held it. She hoped Laura wouldn’t put hers—or her dreams—away too quickly. “Maybe we can get Mum and Mrs. T a little drunk and play some poker ourselves.”
“I’m game. Why don’t we—” Kate broke off at the brisk knock on the office door. The customer who poked her head in seemed annoyed and impatient.
“Excuse me, but is anyone working here?”
“I’m so sorry.” All conciliatory smiles, Laura stepped over. “We had a small problem. What can I help you with?”
Michael had never been driven to a poker game in a limo, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Not that he hadn’t ever ridden in one before. After all, he’d worked in Hollywood for five years.
But to a poker game? It felt, well, pretentious.
Then again, as Josh had said when he came to the stables to fetch him, no one would have to worry about how many beers they knocked back.
Obviously at home in the plush surroundings, Thomas leaned back and tapped his finger on his knee in time with the aria playing on the stereo.
All Michael could think was that big limos, opera, and poker didn’t mix. And he began to worry just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.
“I’m feeling lucky.” Thomas wiggled his eyebrows. “I hope you two boys brought plenty of money.”
Which made Michael realize that his idea of plenty of money and Thomas Templeton of Templeton Hotels’ idea of plenty of money were unlikely to be in the same ball-park.
Jesus, he could lose his shirt, and his ego, in one fun-filled evening.
“My wife fell in love with a Tennessee walker you have down at the stables, Michael.” Thomas crossed his legs at the ankles and decided to see how much of a rise he could get out of young Michael Fury. “Maybe I’ll win him from you before we’re done tonight.”
“I don’t bet my horses,” Michael said easily, “or my friends. Nice watch, Mr. Templeton.” He flicked a glance over Thomas’s slim gold Rolex. “I could use a new watch.”
Thomas let out a bark of laughter and slapped Michael on the knee. “A boy needs his dreams. I ever tell you about the time I played seven-card stud for thirty-six hours? That was in Chicago in ’55. Now we—”
“Not the ‘thirty-six hours in Chicago’ story,” Josh moaned. “I’m begging you.”
“Shut up, Harvard.” Almost comfortable, Michael stretched out his legs. “Some of us haven’t heard it.”
Pleased, Thomas grinned at Michael. “Then I’ll tell you, and you can be afraid.”
It wasn’t such a bad ride after all. And things looked up when they pulled into the driveway of the multi-decked house on Seventeen Mile and the uniformed driver unloaded two cases of Blue Moose beer—a Templeton product—from the limo’s trunk.
“Now that’s a hell of a beer,” Michael said, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets and studied the wood and glass, the decks and gardens of the De Witt homestead. “And that’s a hell of a house.”
“Easy access to the beach, too,” Josh added. “Kate recommended the property to Byron before they got together.”
“Good call. It looks like her,” Michael decided. “Streamlined, classy, unique. Man, oh, man! ’65 Mustang. And it’s cherry too.” He walked over to the car, ran a loving hand over the fender. “What a beaut. And that ’Vette. First-round Sting Ray. Mmm, sweetheart, let me pop your hood.”
“We going to play poker or are you going to make love to inanimate objects all night?”
He shot a look at Josh. “Inanimate, my ass. Honeys like this have more personality and sex appeal than half the women you dated.”
“Shows that you haven’t met the women I’ve dated.”
“I dated some of them myself.” Michael strolled toward the front door, glancing over his shoulder at the cars, then at Josh. “Including your wife.”
Josh’s grin faltered and so did his feet. “You never dated Margo.”
“Didn’t I?” Enjoying himself, Michael climbed the short flight of wooden steps. “I seem to recall a couple of interesting evenings in France.”
“You’re just trying to psych me out.”
And it was working. “Ask her,” Michael said mildly.
Damned if he wouldn’t. His head reeling with visions he didn’t want, Josh reached around and opened the door. Two big yellow dogs raced forward and flung themselves at the newcomers.
“Nip, Tuck, sit.” Byron called out the order as he stepped into the wide living area. The dogs sat, butt to butt, and continued to vibrate. “You can put the beer in the kitchen. Thanks.” He motioned the driver toward the kitchen. “Think you brought enough?”
“We run out,” Josh said, “we send for more. Got food?”
“I whipped up a few things.”
Unable to resist two lolling tongues and two pairs of adoring eyes, Michael crouched and made friends with the dogs. “You cook?”
“How do you think he got me to marry him?” Kate stepped out, smiled thinly.
“You still here?” Josh moved over to tug her hair. “Go play with your own kind.”
She elbowed him away. “I was just leaving. But I want to say that the concept of the all-male poker game is a Neanderthal practice that I find insulting, particularly when it’s taking place in my own house.”
Being a wise man, Byron limited himself to rolling his eyes behind her back. But Michael didn’t have to live with her. He straightened, grinned.
“Yeah, yeah, tell it to Gloria Steinem and get lost.”
“I have no desire to stay and listen to a bunch of fools belch, snort, and tell lies about the women they’ve had.” Chin lifted, she snatched her purse from a chair.
“And I was going to tell Byron all about that night I picked you up on Fisherman’s Wharf and we—”
“Shut up, Mick.” Her brows drew together, her color rose. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait a minute.” Her husband made a grab, missed. “What night?”
“It was nothing.” She seared Michael with a look. “It was nothing.”
“Aw, sugar,” Michael murmured. “Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”
“Men are pigs,” she tossed back as she slammed the door behind her.
“Well, that got rid of her,” Michael decided. “Where are the cards?”
“Margo and Kate?” Josh eyed him narrowly.
“Can’t fault my taste, can you?” Michael tucked his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, where are the cards?”
“Men deserve their little rituals.” Susan stretched out on the long arm of the conversation pit in the family room. “Just as we deserve ours.”
“I don’t mind.” Snuggled back against a mountain of pillows, Margo nibbled from a bowl of popcorn. “Kate gets huffy.”
“Where is Kate?” Wandering to the window, Laura looked out. “She should be here by now.”
“Oh, she’d have waited to yank their chains before she left.” Margo shrugged and reached for the champagne. “She’ll be along. God knows this is better than poker and beer and a bunch of cigar smoke, but she’s got to make her point. Ready for a glass, Mum?”
Ann paused in her perusal of the videotapes chosen for the marathon viewing. “Well . . . maybe just a little one.”
They had champagne, popcorn, a platter of crudités, fresh fruit, three choices of dip, including white chocolate, and a stack of movies. The baby was sleeping in the nursery and her favorite women were here. Margo judged it the perfect girls’ night out.
“I’m going to do your nails.”
“I don’t want the fussing.”
Margo smiled at her mother. “It’s fun, Mum. I’ve got the perfect shade for you. Red Hot Lover.”
Ann snorted into her wine. “I won’t wear any such thing. As if I’d be painting my fingernails anyway.”
“Men go for it.” To tease, Margo leaned closer. “And Bob the butcher’s had his eye on you for years.”
“He certainly has not.” Her face flaming, Ann fumbled with the stack of tapes. “That’s nonsense. We have a good customer relationship. Nothing more.”
“He saves the leanest cuts for Miss Annie.” Margo fluttered her lashes, then laughed. “You should give him a break one of these days. Oh, Laura, stop worrying about Kate. She’ll be here.”
“I’m not worrying, just watching.” And thinking of Michael, she admitted. What was he doing? Why was it their paths hadn’t crossed once since the night before? But she made herself come away from the window and pour a glass of champagne. “What are we going to watch first? I vote for To Have and Have Not.”
“ ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve?’ ” Susan sighed, dipped a moist red strawberry into creamy white chocolate. “The world’s champion come-on.”
“World’s best brush-off,” Margo said, continuing the theme. “Bette Davis. ‘I’d love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.’ ”
“Best wrenching good-bye.” Laura said, getting into the swing. “Bogart to Bergman. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ ”
When Kate came in ten minutes later, they were in a heated debate over the ten most dangerous men in cinema history.
“Newman,” Margo insisted. “It’s the eyes. Cold or hot and incredibly blue. You watch The Long, Hot Summer, Hud, or—”
“Grant.” Susan sat up to make her point. “Dangerous because it’s unexpected. The charm undermines a woman’s defenses, and he has her.”
“Bogart,” Laura disagreed. “In anything. Raw, dangerous, elemental, a hero despite his instincts.”
“I can’t believe you’re discussing men.” Disgusted, Kate plopped down. “I just left those four baboons. Is that white chocolate?” She reared up again and used her finger to dip in. “And,” she continued, licking it, “they were already smug, superior, and sarcastic. Mick’s the worst. I can’t believe he brought up that time I ran into him on the wharf and we . . .”
“We?” Laura came to attention. “We what?”
“Nothing.” She should have filled her mouth, Kate decided, and began to do so. “It was nothing. He was home on leave and he looked sort of . . . interesting. We went for a drive, that’s all.”
“You went for a drive?” Laura repeated. “With Michael? That’s all?”
“Well, yeah, mostly.” Done it now, Kate thought, as every eye in the room focused on her. “Well, okay, so maybe I experimented a little, for a minute. Who’s in charge of the VCR?”
Before she could pop up to take charge herself, Laura clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Define ‘experimented.’ ”
“I let him kiss me . . . a couple of times. That’s it. Just that. Do we have Bringing Up Baby? I could use a laugh.”
“You and Michael necked in his car?”
“Not necked, exactly. I wouldn’t call it necking. Margo—” She appealed to her friend for help.
“No, a couple of kisses does not constitute necking. I necked with him, so I know this to be true.”
“You—” Laura choked, grabbed the champagne bottle. “You—”
“I give him a ten on both technique and style. And since that was a number of years ago, I can only assume he’s improved even that.” She laughed, got up to pop a movie in. “Now Mrs. T is trying to figure out if she should make a comment or a statement of any kind, and Mum is sitting there steaming over the idea that the disreputable Michael Fury has had his very tasty lips clamped on all three of her girls.”
“That’s just the kind of talk I expect from you,” Ann said with a sniff.
“And I’d hate to disappoint you. He’s one of the dangerous men, all right.” She leaned back and patted her mother’s knee affectionately. “Thank God for them.”
Chapter Seventeen
He wasn’t feeling particularly dangerous with the trash Byron had dealt him. He’d held fairly steady in the first hour of the game, keeping his bets conservative, even predictable, while he studied each of his opponents for their tells.
They were good, he admitted, all three of them. This wasn’t any sucker’s game. They may have been the classy high rollers who normally gambled in palaces, but he had learned his skills aboard ship, where boredom could tempt a man to toss a month’s pay into the pot just to break the monotony.
At a card table, any card table, Michael knew a wise man studied his quarries, and his foes.
Josh flicked a thumb over his jaw when he had a solid hand, and his eyes went blank and cool when he was bluffing. De Witt tended to reach for his beer when he had a winner. And Templeton, well, Templeton was a cagey dog, but as the second hour got under way, Michael noted that the man puffed harder on his cigar when he prepared to rake in the chips.
Calculating, Michael discarded, drew into a pitiful pair of treys. He had a choice, considered the practicalities, and decided it was time to shake things up.
“There’s your ten,” he told Josh, flipping in his chips. “Raise it ten.”
“Twenty to me.” Absently Byron reached down to scratch one of his dogs. A sign, Michael thought smugly, that he had nothing. “I’m in.”
“Twenty.” Tommy knocked into the pot. “And ten more.”
“Out.” Josh tossed his cards down and rose to help himself to one of the fat sandwiches on the counter.
“I’ll see your raise and bump it twenty.”
“And you two can fight this hand out.” Byron pushed back, gulped his beer.
The boy had been bumping the pot since the deal, Thomas mused, and studied the pretty trio of ladies in his hand. Well, they would have to see what he was made of. “Your twenty, and fifty more.”
Michael’s eyes met Thomas’s over the cards, held steady as he pushed chips into the pot. “Fifty. And fifty back. Call or fold.”
Thomas studied his opponent, then wheezed out a breath between his teeth. “I’ll give you this one,” he decided and tossed his cards down. Well?” he demanded when Michael scooped back the chips. “What did you have?”
When Michael merely smiled and began to stack his chips, Thomas hissed out another breath. “You bluffed me. I can see it. You didn’t have shit.”
“A man has to pay to see, Mr. Templeton.”
Eyes narrowed, Thomas leaned back. “Tommy,” he said. “When a man bluffs me cold, he ought to call me by name.”
“My deal.” Michael
gathered the cards, shuffled. “Stud. Seven-card.” He grinned. “You in, Tommy?”
“I’m in, and I’ll still be in when you’re writhing on the floor and begging for mercy.”
Michael flipped in his ante. “A boy needs his dreams.”
Thomas let loose a laugh, then reached into his pocket. “Damned if I don’t like you, Fury. Have a cigar. A real one, not one of those girl smokes Byron puffs on.”
“Thanks, but I quit.” Still, he sniffed longingly at the clouds of smoke. “Anyway, those Cubans look too much like a dick.”
Josh choked on smoke, pulled his cigar out of his mouth. “Thanks, Mick. I’m really going to enjoy this now.”
Howling with laughter, Thomas slapped his hand on the table. “Deal the cards—and prepare to lose your shirt.”
During hour three, Michael took a pass and walked outside. He peed companionably with the dogs and watched the night-drenched sea.
“Hell of a spot, isn’t it?”
Michael looked back over his shoulder as Byron approached. “You sure picked one.”
“I was thinking I could put up a small stable there, at the edge of the cypress grove. Simple. Two stalls.”
“Two?”
“I figure solo’s lonely, even for a horse. I liked the look of that pinto mare.”
“She’s a sweetheart.” He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “You clear it with your wife?”
Byron’s eyes were mild and amused. “I know all kinds of ways around my wife. More, I assume than you do even after picking her up on Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“I was just rattling her cage. And yours.” He lifted his hands, palms out. “Never laid my hands on her. Hardly.”
Byron chuckled, shook his head. “I think we’ll just leave that particular door closed, but if you want to ride Josh about Margo, I’d find it entertaining.”
“I don’t want to have to fight him. He’s tougher than he looks. Loosened three of my teeth when we were twelve.” Michael checked them with his tongue. “And his old man’s liable to take bets on the outcome.”
