Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Joel's eyebrows lifted, but Sam was so wrapped up in his enthusiasm that he didn't notice. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! They got more orders than they could fill. People were sending money for add-on equipment that was only in the talking stages. One guy drove all the way to Albuquerque and lived in a trailer outside the company's offices while he waited for his machine."

  "My, my," Joel said, shaking his head. And then he looked thoughtful. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, you say?"

  Sam planted his hands on the edge of Joel's desk, then leaned forward eagerly. "In only three weeks. There's an incredible market, especially when you consider the fact that the Altair is primitive compared to what Yank has designed."

  Joel gazed down at the motherboard in front of him with admiration. "Yes, I can see that. And how much are you and Mister-is it 'Yankowski'? How much are the two of you asking for this design?"

  Sam sat down, hesitating. "We'd want some assurance that FBT would aggressively market the machine."

  "I understand."

  "And we'd like to be involved with the process."

  "Ah, yes. Heading up the project team, perhaps? Something like that?"

  Sam looked a bit surprised, but then he nodded.

  "And the price tag?" Joel inquired.

  Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. Susannah could almost see him pulling the number from the top of his head. "Fifty thousand dollars."

  "I see." Joel picked up a stainless-steel letter opener. "And how much yearly revenue do you think your computer could generate for FBT once the product was established?"

  "A few million, I'd guess," Sam said cautiously.

  "Ah." Joel looked thoughtful. "Could you be more specific?"

  "Maybe two and a half million."

  "Two and a half million? Are you sure about that number?"

  Sam had begun to grow wary. "I haven't done any research, if that's what you mean."

  "Could it be less?"

  "I suppose."

  "More? Perhaps three million?"

  "Possibly."

  "Two point eight million?"

  Sam stared at Joel for a few seconds and then slowly stood. "You're jerking me off, aren't you?"

  Susannah made a soft, barely audible gasp and rose from her chair.

  "Jerking you off?" Joel looked puzzled, as if he were trying to understand the meaning of the expression. "Now why would you think that?"

  Sam's jaw jutted forward. "Just answer my question."

  Joel scoffed. "Why would I be jerking someone off who wants to make this company two million dollars a year? That's nearly what FBT pays to have its garbage collected."

  Sam's complexion turned chalky.

  "You don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, Mr. Gamble. You have no idea of the value of what you're selling or of its worth to this corporation. It's obvious that you haven't done your homework, because if you had, you certainly wouldn't be wasting my time with this meeting."

  Joel had been toying with a panel of switches set into the top of his desk, and now he began to press them. Slowly he turned his head to look out the window. Sam followed the direction of his eyes and watched as the seven columns of water rising from the stone fountains outside began to still, one by one. Like God, Joel Faulconer could command the forces of the universe. The show of power wasn't lost on Sam.

  As the last column of water disappeared and the lake grew still, Joel resumed speaking. "I have no interest at all in someone who comes to me with a story about a bankrupt company making a profit of $250,000. I'm not even interested in a profit of two million dollars. Now if you had said you were going to make me a hundred million, I might have listened."

  "You son of a bitch."

  Joel's hand moved and all seven fountains once again sprang to life. "I'm not turning you down because you're crude and arrogant. I'm not even turning you down because you didn't have the common courtesy to get a haircut before you came to see me. I'm turning you down because you don't think big enough. Good day, Mr. Gamble."

  For a few seconds Sam didn't move. Then he snatched up the motherboard and began walking toward the door. Before he got there, however, he stopped and turned back to Joel. "I almost feel sorry for you, Faulconer. You're even stupider than I thought you'd be." Then he left the office.

  The blood had drained from Susannah's face and her skin was ashen. As Joel turned to her, he could clearly see her distress, but he didn't take pity on her. "I don't care how many favors you owe your friends. Don't ever impose on me like this again."

  "I-I didn't mean to impose," she said shakily. "I know he was unforgivably rude, but-" Joel's eyes gave her a look so imperious that she faltered. How could she defend Sam after what he'd said? But her father had been rude, too-deliberately baiting Sam.

  "It's just-you were rather hard on him," she finished lamely.

  "Are you actually defending him?"

  "No, I-"

  He tilted back his head so that he seemed to be looking at her from a great distance, and the acute hostility in his expression made her feel ill. She'd had the audacity to question her father's authority, and now she would be punished.

  Without saying another word, he punched a button on his intercom. "My daughter is leaving now. Would you please see her out."

  The endless winter of Joel Faulconer's disapproval had begun.

  Susannah had watched others endure her father's icy silences, but she had seldom had to endure one herself-and never one of this duration. As the weeks passed and the time for the wedding drew nearer, Susannah began to feel as if someone had placed a curse on her. Despite her repeated apologies and her attempts to restore her father's good mood, he remained silent and condemning.

  Cal had to be in Europe for several weeks on business, so he wasn't around to act as a buffer, and each day seemed to bring another last-minute crisis with the wedding arrangements. Twice she picked up the phone to call Sam Gamble and tell him how she felt about the way he had behaved, but both times she hung up before she dialed. It was infinitely better not to talk to him again. Infinitely better not to think about either his rudeness or his crazy enthusiasm for putting computers in people's houses right along with their stereos and television sets.

  Her father finally forgave her, but only after he delivered a stinging lecture about imposition and disrespect. A newly cynical voice inside her whispered that he wouldn't have relented so quickly if he hadn't needed her to accompany him on a week-long trip to Paris. It would inconvenience him to entertain French cabinet members without an official hostess at his side.

  In Paris they stayed at Joel's favorite hotel, the Crillon, an imposing graystone edifice on the northwest corner of the Place de la Concorde. The evening they arrived, Cal appeared at their suite to escort them to a reception at the American embassy, located nearby on the Avenue Gabriel. Since Joel was present along with several of his aides, her reunion with Cal was warm but restrained. They had little time to talk during the reception at the embassy, but as they were leaving, Cal gave her a mischievous I've-got-a-secret smile.

  "We have some celebrating to do tonight," he said. "I've made dinner reservations for us at the Tour."

  Tour l'Argent was one of the most famous restaurants in the world, but as Susannah settled into the limousine, she felt restless and suggested they go someplace that wasn't quite so formal. Her mind drifted back to a rainy afternoon she had spent in Paris some years ago.

  "Would you mind going to La Coupole in Montparnasse? I know it's just a brasserie and we're overdressed, but it'll be fun."

  He gave her one of those skeptically indulgent looks she sometimes received from her father. "You're not in one of those crazy Montparnasse sort of moods, are you?" The creases at the corners of his splendid blue eyes deepened as he teased her.

  She sensed that he was excited about something, and she smiled back. He undoubtedly had a story he'd been saving for her about some brilliant maneuver he had pulled
off in his negotiations with the French manufacturers. He was so handsome, so perfect. Despite the difference in their ages, he was everything she could possibly want in a husband. They had common interests, similar backgrounds.

  Impulsively, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his in a fierce, possessive kiss. He returned the kiss for only a moment before he drew away and gave her a meaningful glance toward the back of the driver's head. Patting her on the knee, he began to speak about an incident that had happened at the reception.

  His rejection hurt her. Cal was a stickler about appearances, and most of the time she didn't mind. But they were in Paris. Couldn't he let down his guard just for the evening? As the neon sign of La Coupole came into view and Cal chatted about the embassy reception, she envisioned Sam Gamble sitting beside her in the limo. Sam-pushing her down on the plush seat and slipping his hands up under the skirt of her gown. Sam, discovering that she was naked beneath-naked, open, ready to receive him. With Sam, she could be another sort of woman, someone sexy and sultry, loose and wild.

  She firmly pushed the image from her mind. A few minutes later, as they walked into La Coupole, the conversation that floated between them was as light and aimless as a cloud of soap bubbles.

  For half a century La Coupole had attracted a diverse group of artists, intellectuals, students, and assorted eccentrics. Henry Miller had played chess with Ana‹s Nin beneath its lofty ceiling. Jean-Paul Sartre had eaten a late lunch with Simone de Beauvoir at the same corner table nearly every day. Chagall and Picasso had dined there, as had Hemingway and Fitzgerald. But as Susannah took her seat across from Cal, she thought of the legends she had heard of the brasserie's nascent days during the 1920s, when Kiki de Montparnasse, Paris's premier playgirl, had stuck a rose between her teeth and cavorted nearly naked in the fountain that sat in the center of the dining room.

  "The fountain was turned into a giant flower vase decades ago," she said. Cal looked up from the menu he had been studying. She smiled self-consciously and nodded toward the center of the room. "That giant flower vase was originally a fountain, but the restaurant had to drain it because the patrons kept swimming in it."

  He nodded politely and asked her if she would prefer lamb curry or fish. "Honestly, Susannah, I can't believe we're giving up duck at the Tour for such ordinary food."

  "The lamb curry will be fine," she replied quickly. As they waited for their order to arrive, she gazed around her, but the magic was gone and she could no longer recapture La Coupole of her imagination. Now she saw only a noisy dining room full of ordinary people. There was no sign of a Modigliani or a Camus. No one who resembled Josephine Baker was walking through the door leading a pet lion cub on a diamond-studded leash. Where are you, Kiki de Montparnasse? she thought. I wish I could see a woman free enough to jump into a fountain without thinking about what people would say.

  Cal reached across the table to take her hand. "I had planned a more romantic setting to tell you this, but I may not have another chance." With his thumb, he covered the diamond on her engagement ring. It was exactly one carat because both of them had agreed that a larger stone would be ostentatious. Less is always more.

  "It's actually your father's surprise, and you're going to have to pretend to hear it for the first time when he announces it, but it's so extraordinary that I wanted to give you a chance to prepare yourself."

  "Our mysterious wedding present?" she asked. He nodded and his smile broadened.

  Ever since the engagement, Joel had been hinting at a spectacular gift. She had overheard part of a telephone conversation he'd had with one of his attorneys, and told Cal that she suspected Joel was deeding them the charming vacation house he owned on Maui. It was a valuable piece of property, and both of them had been moved by the possibility of such generosity.

  "You were right about the house," he told her.

  "I thought so."

  "Except you picked the wrong one."

  "Oh?" She took a sip from her wineglass. "It can't be London. He needs that for business. It must be the house at Pebble Beach, although it's hard to imagine him parting with it. He loves living on the golf course."

  "It's not Pebble Beach." Cal clasped her hand between both of his. She could not remember seeing him look so pleased. He chuckled and his blue eyes gleamed with triumph.

  "Susannah, Joel is giving us Falcon Hill."

  Chapter 7

  The next evening over thin stalks of white asparagus and glasses of finely aged Vouvray, Joel made the announcement that he was deeding them Falcon Hill as a wedding gift. He told them that he wanted to spend more time at Pebble Beach, that he no longer needed such a large house. And then, casually, he suggested that Susannah convert the guest house at Falcon Hill into something comfortable for him when he was in town.

  She had barely slept the night before, and now her heart felt as if it were shrinking in her chest. He was trapping her. Until that moment she hadn't realized how much she had been looking forward to living independently from her father. Why hadn't she guessed that he would want to continue to have her at his beck and call? Now, by giving them Falcon Hill as a wedding gift, he had made certain that her marriage wouldn't inconvenience him, that she would still be available to do his bidding.

  And then she was filled with guilt at her selfishness. Joel Faulconer had given her everything. He was the shining prince who had rescued her. How could she be so ungrateful? Throughout the rest of the meal she found herself thinking about debts of love and wondering how they were ever repaid. She loved her father very much, but did she owe him her life?

  Later that evening, when Cal took her to her suite, she tried to discuss her feelings with him. He drew her into his arms and rubbed her back as if he were comforting a child. "I think you're overreacting, darling. I know he can sometimes be domineering, but I'll be there to make certain he doesn't take advantage of you. Let's not cast a shadow over such an extraordinary gift. Falcon Hill is worth millions."

  "Is that all you can think about? How much Falcon Hill is worth?"

  He stepped away from her, his face mirroring his surprise at her outburst. And then his eyes grew as chilly as the silver streak that shot through his hair. "You've deliberately chosen to misunderstand me. I don't appreciate being snarled at."

  She pressed her fingertips to her temple. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just tired."

  "I'm tired, too, but I don't snap at you."

  "You're right. It was unforgivable."

  But Cal refused to accept her apology. Giving her a stony look, he stalked from her suite. Susannah felt the familiar tightness in her stomach as one more male chose to punish her with silence.

  She returned to San Francisco feeling as if something hard and cold had taken up permanent lodging inside her.

  After his confrontation with Joel Faulconer, Sam had jumped on his bike and headed for San Diego. Although he had a couple of friends there, he made no effort to contact any of them because he didn't want company. Instead, he played Breakout in the arcades, slept on the beach, and woke up at night with the cold sweats. All he could think about was what a prick Faulconer was. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't blot out the image of Susannah standing there watching her father make an asshole out of him.

  Day after day he got angrier with Yank. This was Yank's problem, not his. Sam was tired of playing father and mother to a guy who couldn't drive three blocks without getting lost. Yank should be out hustling his own design. But Yank couldn't see any further than his next hack, and Sam knew that his friend didn't have the most rudimentary understanding of the significance of what he was doing. And then one night while Sam was playing his dozenth game of Breakout, he saw Yank's hands in his mind-the incredible genius of those hands-and his anger dissolved.

  That was when he realized that Joel Faulconer was right about him. He hadn't even started to think big enough. He'd been so wrapped up in the idea of selling Yank's design to somebody else that he hadn't listened to the voice inside him telling him that
handing Yank's genius over to a fat-cat company went against everything he believed in.

  He got on his bike that same night and headed north. He was going to start his own company. No matter what it took, no matter what sacrifices he had to make, he was going to do it.

  And the closer he got to San Francisco, the more he found himself thinking about Susannah. He kept remembering all those leggy San Diego girls with their short shorts and those skimpy halter tops that outlined their nipples. Wherever he went, they had given him sexy come-ons, but even though many of them were more beautiful than Susannah, he kept thinking about how cheap they looked.

  He hated imitations. AH of his life he had been surrounded by inferiority-the shoddy little house he had grown up in, the incompetent public school teachers with no tolerance for a sullen, gifted rebel who had asked all the wrong questions, the father who spent every evening staring at the television screen and telling his son that he was a loser. For as long as he could remember, Sam had dreamed of surrounding himself with beautiful objects and exceptional people. And now, making the best microcomputer had become inexorably linked in his mind with having the best woman. By the time he reached the Valley, he was convinced that if he could have Susannah Faulconer, he could also have everything else that was missing from his life.

  The next day he quit his job and packed up the computer board, the television-everything he needed to demonstrate Yank's machine. That same afternoon he began to make the rounds of Silicon Valley electronics shops. No one was interested.

  By the second day, he was seething with frustration. "Just let me set it up," he told a Santa Clara store owner. "Let me give you a demo. It'll only take a few minutes."