The Heart's Victory

  during one of the qualifying races, a car had taken a turn badly and joined the boats in the water. Foxy turned from the window and watched Pam’s fingers fly over the keys. The table where she worked was strewn with notes and paper and cassettes. There was a unique organization to it all, but only Pam had the solution.

  “Are you going to the casino tonight?” Foxy asked. She felt restless and dissatisfied.

  “Mmm, no . . . I want to finish this segment.” Pam’s rhythm never altered. “You going with Scott?”

  Frowning, Foxy threw herself into a chair and draped her feet over the arm. “Yes, I suppose.”

  At the sulky tone, Pam sighed and stopped typing. Foxy’s long mouth was pursed in a pout, and her brows were drawn together over moody eyes. Russet curls tumbled without design over her shoulders. All at once, Pam felt very old.

  “All right.” She propped her elbows on her table and laid her chin on her laced hands. “Tell Momma.” Quite purposely, her tone was mild and patronizing. Foxy’s chin shot out. Met with Pam’s amused, affectionate smile, however, her defiance melted.

  “I’m being an idiot,” Foxy confessed with a self-deprecating laugh. “And I don’t know why. I’m absolutely crazy about Monte Carlo. It has to be one of the most romantic, exotic, perfect spots in the universe. More, I’m getting paid to be here. I even have a terrific-looking man dancing attendance on me, and I’m...” She drew a deep breath and swept her arms in a huge circle.

  “Bored,” Pam supplied. She lifted her cup, sipped cold coffee, and grimaced. “You’ve been left almost entirely in Scott’s company. Though he is nice, he isn’t the most stimulating companion. Kirk’s not available, I’m tied up, Lance is—”

  “I don’t need Lance’s company,” Foxy said too quickly. Her frown became more pronounced. Not having Lance Matthews to contend with was a blessing, not a problem.

  Pam said nothing for a moment, recalling the tempestuous kiss she had seen them exchange at the Indianapolis Speedway. “In any case,” she said carefully, “you’ve been deserted.”

  “Scott really is very nice.” Somehow, Foxy felt the statement defended both Scott and herself. “And he’s not pushy. I made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t interested in a serious relationship and he accepted it. He didn’t argue.” Foxy swung herself out of the chair and began to pace. “He hasn’t tried to lure me into the bedroom, he doesn’t lose his temper, he doesn’t forget the time, he doesn’t do anything outrageous.” Foxy remembered that both times Lance had kissed her, it had been over her protests. “He makes me feel comfortable,” she added tersely. She glared at Pam, daring her to comment.

  “My fuzzy blue slippers do the same thing for me.”

  Foxy wanted badly to be angry, but a gurgle of laughter escaped. “That’s terrible.”

  “You’re not built to be satisfied with comfortable relationships.” Pam twirled a pencil between her fingers and frowned at the eraser. “Like your brother, you thrive on challenges of one sort or another.” Shaking off a quick moodiness, she lifted her eyes and smiled. “Now, Lance Matthews . . . ”

  “Oh no,” Foxy interrupted, holding her hand up like a traffic cop. “Stop right there. I might not be looking for comfort, but I’m not looking for a bed of nails either.”

  “Just a thought,” Pam said mildly. “I seriously doubt he would ever make you feel bored or comfortable.”

  “Comfortable boredom begins to sound more appealing,” Foxy commented. “In fact,” she added as she headed for the door, “I’m going to thoroughly enjoy myself tonight. In all probability I’ll win a fortune at roulette. I’ll buy you a hot dog out of my winnings at the race tomorrow.” With a wink, she shut the door behind her.

  Alone, Pam allowed her smile to dissolve. For the next few minutes, she stared down at the typewritten page in her machine. Kirk Fox, she decided, is becoming a problem. Not that he has made even the slightest advance since his arrogant declaration the night of his party, she mused. He’s been much too involved with the races to do any more than vaguely acknowledge my presence. Pam ignored the annoyance the fact brought her and straightened a pile of blank typing paper. And of course, he’s had all those women hanging around him. Pam sniffed and shrugged and went back to her typing. With any luck, she thought as she attacked the keys, he’ll be just as busy throughout the entire season.

  Feeling guilty over her discussion of Scott, Foxy dressed with special care for the evening. Her dress was a stretchy black jersey that clung to her curves and left her shoulders bare. The neckline was cut straight, secured with elastic just above the subtle swell of her breasts. She swept her hair off her neck into a chignon, letting loose tendrils fall over her brow and cheeks. With the addition of a thin silver chain around her neck and a quick spray of cologne, she felt ready for the elegance of the Monte Carlo casino.

  Just as she was transferring the bare necessities into a small silver evening bag, a knock sounded on her door. With one quick glance around the hotel room, Foxy went to admit Scott. She found herself face-to-face with Lance Matthews.

  “Oh,” she said foolishly as she recalled her success in avoiding him since Indiana. Abruptly it occurred to her that she had never seen him in evening dress before. His suit was impeccably cut, fitting over his broad shoulders without a wrinkle. He looked different, if no less dangerous. He was, for a moment, a stranger: the Harvard graduate, the longtime resident of Beacon Hill, the heir to the Matthews fortune.

  “Hello, Fox. Going to let me in or do I have to stand out in the hall?” The tone, and the ironic lift of his mouth made him Lance again. Foxy straightened her shoulders.

  “Sorry, Lance, I’m practically on my way out.”

  “Prompt as well as beautiful?” There was an amused light in his eyes. “The two rarely go together.” He stepped forward and cupped her chin in his hand before she had time to start evasive action. “We’ll have to have a cocktail before dinner. The reservation isn’t until eight.”

  Foxy backed up, then noted with disgust that the action only brought Lance farther into the room. “You’ll have to run that by me again.” She lifted a hand to the one on her chin but found it unbudgeable.

  “We’ve nearly an hour before dinner,” Lance stated simply. His eyes roamed her face with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps you’ve an idea how we might pass the time.”

  “You might try a few hands of solitaire,” Foxy suggested evenly. “In your own room. Now, I’d like my face back.”

  “Would you?” Amusement was smooth and male in his tone. “Pity. I’m quite taken with it.” With the barest of pressure, he brought her an inch closer as his gaze dropped and lingered on her mouth. “Newman sends his regrets,” Lance said softly as his eyes moved back to hers. “Something—ah—came up. Do you have a wrap?”

  “Came up?” Foxy repeated. She found no relief when her chin was released as his hands moved to her bare shoulders. She felt the temperature of the room rise ten degrees. “What are you talking about?”

  “Newman discovered he didn’t have the evening free after all. It’s a pity to cover up such elegant shoulders, but the nights here can be cool in June.” They were closer than they had been a moment before, but Foxy didn’t know how he had contrived it. His hands were still light on her shoulders.

  “What do you mean, didn’t have the evening free?” she demanded. She started to back away but his hands tightened on her shoulders slightly but meaningfully. The mockery in his smile caused her temper to soar along with her heart rate. “What did you do? What did you say to him? He’s much too polite to break a date without telling me himself. You intimidated him,” she finished hotly, glaring into Lance’s smile.

  “I certainly hope so since that was my intention.” He confessed to the crime so easily, Foxy could only splutter. “Fetch your wrap.”

  “My—my . . . I certainly will not!” she managed in a choked voice.

  “Suit yourself.” Lance shrugged and took her hand.

  “If you think I??
?m going out with you,” Foxy began as she tugged furiously at her hand, “you’re not running on all your cylinders. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Fine.” Lance’s hands spanned her waist. “I find the idea of staying here very appealing.” Before she could move away, he lowered his mouth to the gentle incline between her neck and shoulder. Her skin trembled.

  “No.” Hearing the waver in her voice, Foxy fought to steady it. The room was already swaying. “You can’t stay.”

  “Room service is excellent here,” Lance murmured as he caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth. “You smell like the woods in spring, fresh and full of secrets.”

  “Lance, please.” It was becoming very difficult to think as his mouth roamed over her skin, leaving a soft trail of quick kisses.

  “Please what?” he whispered. Lightly he rubbed his lips over hers. His tongue teased the tip of hers before she could answer. Foxy could feel the quicksand sucking and pulling at her legs. Desperately she pushed away from him and filled her lungs with air.

  “I’m starving,” she said abruptly. She considered the statement a tactical retreat. Hoping to hide her vulnerability, she brushed casually at the curls that rested on her flushed cheeks. “Since you frightened off my escort, I suppose I should make you pay for my dinner. At a restaurant,” she added hastily as he cocked a brow. “Then you’ll have to take me to the casino as Scott was going to do.”

  “My pleasure,” Lance replied with a faint bow.

  “And I,” she said, feeling stronger with the distance between them, “shall take pains to lose as much of your money as possible.” Lifting a thin silk shawl from the bed, Foxy tossed it over her shoulders and flounced from the room. She managed for nearly an hour to remain cool and aloof.

  ***

  Moonlight spilled over the Bay of Monaco. A breeze that had been born far out to sea drifted easily into shore. It carried its own perfume. The terrace of the restaurant was canopied by stars and palm fronds. Music floated by the secluded table, but it was too soft for Foxy to distinguish any words. Only the melody flickered like the lights of the twin white candles on the tablecloth. Between these was a red rose in a slender vase. The murmur of other diners seemed more a backdrop than a reality. Foxy was finding it difficult to maintain an indifference to an ambience that called so strongly to her romantic soul. Above all else, she wanted Lance to see her as a mature, sophisticated woman and not a silly child who melted at soft music and starlight. Still, she trod carefully with the iced champagne. So far she had managed to keep the conversation impersonal and safe.

  “I noticed the car gave Kirk a bit of trouble yesterday.” Foxy speared her steamed shrimp and dipped it absently in its sauce. “I hope it’s been worked out.”

  “An engine ring; it’s been replaced.” As he spoke Lance watched her over the rim of his glass. There was a light in his eyes that had Foxy doubling her guard.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it? So often it’s a tiny thing, a twenty-five-cent part or an overlooked screw that can be the deciding factor in a race where hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake.”

  “Amazing,” Lance agreed in a somber tone that was belied by his half smile.

  “If you’re going to laugh at me,” Foxy said as her chin tilted, “I’ll simply get up and leave.”

  “I’d just bring you back.” With narrowed eyes, she studied Lance for a full minute. Her prolonged examination did not appear to disturb him as he kept his eyes steady on hers. His mouth was still curved in an annoying half smile.

  “You would, too,” Foxy conceded with grudging admiration. Chivalrousness was simply not one of Lance’s qualities, and Foxy knew that she had had enough of chivalrousness for a while. “And if I kicked up a scene that landed us both in a cell, you wouldn’t be a bit bothered . . . not as long as you had your way.” She sighed and shook her head, then took a sip of wine. “It’s hard to gain an edge on a man who’s so utterly nerveless. You drove that way. I remember.” Her mouth moved in a pout as she looked back in time. “You drove with the same single-minded intensity as Kirk, but there was a smoothness he still lacks. You stalked; he charges. He’s all fire and thrust, you were precise and ruthlessly steady. There was an incredible ease in your driving; you made it look simple, so effortless. But then you raced because you enjoyed it.” Foxy twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers and watched the starlight play on the swirling wine.

  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 shou
ld 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.