“You called him?”
“Oh, yes, dear. I do call him occasionally, you know. I don't want him to think he's totally out of touch with the families. He is a Lightfoot, after all.”
“Did he agree to meet with Philadelphia Fox?” Hilary Lightfoot examined a small cream-colored flower. The bloom was amazingly innocent-looking, she thought, rather like Eleanor Castleton.
“Yes, dear, he agreed. Why shouldn't he?” Eleanor asked in the faintly astonished, slightly vague way that never failed to irritate Hilary.
Eleanor Castleton was in her sixties, but Hilary was certain she'd had that sweet, distracted, charmingly flighty air since the cradle. It went well with the faint traces of an aristocratic Southern accent.
“Nick hasn't been interested in family business for some time. I'm a little surprised he would get involved now,” Hilary Lightfoot said. It was warm and humid in the greenhouse and Hilary hoped she could get out before her clothes began to stick to her. She intended to drive into the village as soon as she finished this annoying little chat with Eleanor.
She was dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse and fawn-colored pants. A row of narrow wooden bracelets clinked lightly on her wrist. Her dark red hair was drawn straight back from her face and caught at the nape of her neck in a classic knot that revealed her patrician features to fine advantage.
The only ring she wore was her wedding ring, a simple band of gold. A woman who was thirty-five years younger than her husband had to be careful about appearances. Hilary had always felt a gaudy-looking diamond would have been tacky under the circumstances. Besides, she was not the gaudy type.
“Nick is family,” Eleanor said as she clipped a small, bowl-shaped leaf and discarded it. “He might have walked out three years ago, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about something as serious as this situation with Philadelphia Fox.”
“I doubt if there is anything Nick can do,” Hilary said. “I tried to call her and got nowhere. Darren has also tried. She refused to even meet with him. I don't know what you think Nick can do. Frankly, if she were susceptible to masculine charm, your son would have had those shares back by now, Eleanor.”
“You never know what will work with that sort of woman.”
Hilary smiled. No one could convey subtle contempt for the lower classes quite the way Eleanor Castleton could. “True, I suppose. But our best bet will probably be to let her come to the annual meeting and then offer to buy her out.”
Eleanor gave a small shudder. “I can't bear to think of an outsider at a C&L meeting. I'd much rather clear this up beforehand, wouldn't you? We'll see if Nick can accomplish anything.”
“You really believe Nick can accomplish what Darren and I couldn't?” Hilary asked, forcing herself to keep her voice at a smooth, polite level.
“Nick has his own way of doing things,” Eleanor said vaguely. “Hand me that watering can, will you, dear?”
Hilary picked up the metal vessel and handed it to the older woman. For a moment their eyes met. Hilary looked down into Eleanor's slightly vague pale blue gaze and thought she caught a glimpse of something that could have been steel. It wasn't the first time she had seen that expression, and it never failed to disturb her. But in the next instant it was gone, replaced by Eleanor's relentlessly distracted air.
“Thank you, dear.” Eleanor maneuvered the spout of the watering can along a row of pots. “Mustn't let these new Nepenthes get dry. They're coming along so nicely. See how well the little pitchers are starting to form? Where's Reed today?”
“Playing golf.” Hilary examined the delicately shaped leaves at the base of the plant Eleanor was watering. They were as innocent-looking as the fragile flowers.
“It seems he's always playing golf these days, or else he and Tec are busy fiddling with their guns out on the firing range. He wouldn't even talk to Darren about the Fox woman.”
“My husband is enjoying retirement,” Hilary said coolly. “He's earned it.”
“I suppose so,” Eleanor said softly. “But you know, dear, I never thought Reed would ever stop taking an interest in the firm the way he has. Castleton & Lightfoot was his whole life for so many years. He and Burke put everything they had into the company. It just doesn't seem right that Reed shows so little concern with company business these days.”
“Reed trusts me to look after things for him,” Hilary said coolly.
“Yes, of course he does, dear. And rightly so. You're doing an excellent job as CEO. An excellent job, indeed. Would you hand me that little trowel? No, not that one, the other one. Going into town?”
“I've agreed to have lunch with the new chairwoman of the Port Claxton Summer Theater Guild.”
“Oh dear. I suppose the guild will be wanting more money from C&L this year.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I do think we've given enough to that group over the years, don't you? I was very disappointed in that production they put on last summer.”
“War Toys?”
“It painted the military in a rather uncomplimentary light, didn't you think? Not to mention the business interests that are connected to the military establishment. We don't need that sort of theater here in Port Claxton.”
Nor were the good people of Port Claxton likely to be treated to another play with a strong antimilitary theme in the near future, Hilary thought wryly. The Castletons and Lightfoots had made no secret of their reaction to War Toys.
Last year's guild chairman must have been temporarily insane to have authorized the production of the play in the first place. Then again, perhaps it hadn't been insanity, Hilary decided. Perhaps it had been a final, defiant stab at artistic freedom by the outgoing bureaucrat.
Hilary hoped the chairman had enjoyed thumbing his nose at the guild's largest contributor, because Port Claxton's struggling summer theater program would be paying the price for a long time to come. The new chairwoman would no doubt be scrambling today to apologize for the mistakes of her predecessor. Hilary did not look forward to lunch.
“I believe I'd better ask Tec to run out to the nursery for me,” Eleanor said as she frowned over a tray of greenery. “I need some more sphagnum moss for my Dionaea leaf cuttings.”
“I'll tell him you want to see him.” Hilary turned toward the greenhouse door just as it burst open.
“I've got one! I've got one! I've got one!” An excited five-year-old boy dressed in a striped polo shirt and jeans came rushing into the greenhouse. His light brown hair was cut cute and short and his small face already showed the promise of the chiseled good looks he had inherited from his father.
Eleanor Castleton smiled down at her grandson. “What have you got, Jordan?”
“A dead fly.” Jordan opened his palm to reveal a plump, moribund housefly. “Can I feed one of the plants? Can I? Can I? Can I?”
“May I,” Eleanor corrected gently. “Yes, dear, I think we can find one hungry enough to eat your fly. Let's see, what about this little Dionaea? It hasn't eaten in ages.”
Hilary watched in reluctant fascination as Jordan carefully dropped the now-dead insect into the open leaves of the Venus's-flytrap. The small carcass rolled across the trigger hairs and, with a speed that made all three onlookers blink, the spined leaves snapped shut. The fly was locked inside.
“Wow,” said Jordan. “Wow, wow, wow. Did you see that, Hilary?”
“Yes, Jordan, I saw it.” Hilary took one last glance around at the lush-looking plants that filled the greenhouse. Some were in hanging baskets, a few aquatic species floated in aquariums, others were planted in rows of boxes that covered the workbenches.
Eleanor Castleton had developed a very interesting collection of pitcher plants, flytraps, sundews, butterworts and bladderworts. They all had one thing in common: they were carnivorous.
Nick walked into the brightly lit diner behind Phila and took in the surroundings with a sense of resignation. The place was classic: red vinyl seats in the booths, wood-grained plastic-laminated tables with c
hrome legs and a long counter with stools that appeared to be a size too small for the people sitting on them. Loud waitresses in grease-stained uniforms that were also a size too small scurried between the tables. The open doorway to the kitchen revealed a smoky, sizzling grill filled with meat that dripped fat into the flames. The classic decor was capped by a stunning view of the parking lot.
“This is the best you could do?” Nick asked Phila politely as he followed her to a booth.
“This is it,” she answered cheerfully. “Best place in town. Everyone eats here on Saturday night.”
“This is Friday night.”
“Which explains why we didn't have to wait for a table,” she concluded smoothly. “I recommend either the chicken or the steak. Anything else is liable to entail a certain risk.”
“I'll bear that in mind.” Nick gazed idly around the room again before bringing his attention back to the woman sitting across from him. He smiled. Being with Phila was like sitting in a lot full of parked cars and finding himself next to the one vehicle that had its key turned on in the ignition.
Tonight Phila was dressed in a pumpkin-colored silk blouse and a pair of jeans belted with a sliver-and-turquoise-studded strip of leather. He was learning that Miss Fox favored bold colors. They went well with her air of restless energy.
A waitress came by to take their order for drinks. Nick asked for scotch and was not unduly surprised when Phila ordered a prim white wine. The drinks came immediately. He gazed around the busy restaurant for a moment, thinking.
“What's the matter, Mr. Lightfoot,” Phila purred as she examined her menu. “Not accustomed to such fancy surroundings?”
“I've eaten in worse.” He opened his menu. “I've also eaten in better. Tell me, Phila, what made you decide to accept my invitation for dinner this evening?”
“I figured we might as well get it over with. The suspense was killing me.”
“Get what over with?”
“Whatever approach you plan to use to convince me to give back the shares.” She studied the menu with a small frown, as if having a tough time choosing between a baked potato or fries.
“I told you, I've already given it my best shot.”
“Hah. I don't buy that for a minute.” She glanced up. “What are you having?”
“The special.”
“You don't even know what it is yet. You're supposed to ask the waitress.”
Nick shrugged, unconcerned. “I'll take my chances.”
“I told you it would be risky.”
He smiled faintly. “I'm good at taking risks.”
Phila scowled and snapped her menu shut. “Suit yourself. I'll have the chicken. As usual.” She put her elbows on the table, folded her hands together and rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. Her hazel eyes regarded him broodingly. “So tell me, Nicodemus Lightfoot, how long have the Lightfoots and the Castletons been in the business of building death machines for the government?”
“Since before you were born, little girl.”
She blinked. “You're not even going to deny it?”
“Well, technically they're electronics and instrumentation products, not death machines. Some people think of them as a kind of technological insurance, a way to balance power in the world. In fact some people might even say C&L is a very patriotic company. But I suspect the definition of a death machine is in the mind of the beholder.”
“Castleton & Lightfoot makes the kind of electronics and instrumentation used in fighter planes and command posts, from what I've been able to determine. It designs to order for the military establishment. That means you build death machines. It also means that C&L is intimately involved in some cozy financial arrangements with the Pentagon.”
Nick nodded. Things were falling into place quickly. “I get it,” he said gently. “You're one of those.”
“One of what?”
“You're,” he paused delicately, “shall we say, of the liberal persuasion.”
Her answering smile was grim. “If you think I'm bad, you should have met my grandmother.”
“A flaming-pink, radical left-wing anarchist, right?”
“Let's just say she didn't care for the idea of the world being run by your kind.”
“My kind?”
“Aristocrats with everything but the title. Too much money and too much power. She felt very strongly that having both power and money corrupts.”
“So does a lack of either. Show me ten people who don't have enough money and power to control their own lives, and I'll show you nine dangerous human beings. The tenth is probably a wimp.”
The vibration in the air around Phila was almost palpable now, and there were sparks in her eyes. Her engine was definitely shifting into gear.
Having all that feminine energy focused on him was doing things to his groin region, Nick discovered—things that hadn't been done in quite a while. He could tell that Phila had no concept of how she was turning him on, and that was as amusing as it was frustrating.
“Is that how you justify having been born into a privileged class? You pretend you're more noble than those who aren't as wealthy as you are? That you wouldn't stoop to some of the things a poor person might have to do in order to survive?”
“There seems to be some misunderstanding here. The Castletons and Lightfoots are not Rockefellers or Du Ponts. When you look at me you're only looking at second-generation money and I, personally, haven't even had that for the past three years.”
“Now I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Look, Phila, I don't know what Crissie told you, but the fact is my father, Reed Lightfoot, and his buddy, Burke Castleton, were a couple of shitkickers who got an education in the Army when it turned out they showed an aptitude for electronics. When they got out of the service they had some big plans and big ambitions and the advantage of an inside view of the way the military works. They built C&L from the ground up. They were lucky. Their timing was good, and they turned out to be as shrewd about business matters as they were about electronic design.”
“And they were smart enough to get into the death machine business,” Phila finished with satisfaction.
Nick discovered he was enjoying the new enthusiastic gleam in Phila's eyes. He wondered if the expression was anything like the one she would have when she was lying naked under a man.
The prospect made him feel a little light-headed while the rest of him began to feel heavy and tight. He realized just how long it had been since he had genuinely anticipated going to bed with a woman. He could remember the date clearly: September twenty-fifth, four and a half years ago. It had been his wedding night. Things had gone downhill from there until the divorce eighteen months later.
There had been one woman since his marriage had ended, another shell-shocked veteran of the divorce wars who had been as terrified of the singles scene as Nick. They had consoled each other for several months in what had become a safe and comfortable, if totally uninspired, relationship.
It had been a healing time for both of them. Neither had been looking for or expecting to find a great love. Five months ago Jeannie had put an end to the affair, saying she was ready to search for something more substantial and meaningful. Nick had been vegetating in peaceful celibacy ever since.
Until tonight. Tonight everything was changing. Tonight he was relearning the simple masculine joy of sexual anticipation.
With an effort, he pushed his sensual feelings aside and concentrated on looking for the key to Philadelphia Fox.
“To be perfectly truthful,” Nick said, swirling the scotch in his glass, “I used to have a few questions myself about all the military contracts Castleton & Lightfoot handled. That was back when I was involved with the firm, of course.”
“Really?” Phila looked skeptical. “What happened when you asked those questions?”
“I was told I was in serious danger of becoming a left-wing liberal establishment dupe,” he said dryly. “I was also called a coward and poten
tial traitor to my country. Among other things.”
Phila's shocked expression was priceless. It warmed Nick to the core because it told him he was on the right track. To catch a wary little liberal Fox, one used bait that was bleeding from the heart.
“How dare they call you that just because you stood up to them?” Phila demanded, instantly indignant on his behalf. “Is that when you left Castleton & Lightfoot?”
“Yeah. Right about then.”
“You had a falling-out with the families over the business of making death machines?”
“That wasn't the only problem,” he felt obliged to confess. “There were other things going on at the time.”
“What other things?”
“Do you always get this personal this fast in a relationship?”
She immediately settled back against the vinyl seat and put her hands in her lap. “We're not talking about a relationship. We're talking about business.”
“I don't want to talk about business tonight, Phila. Not unless you want to discuss those shares.”
“I don't.”
“Then we're left with a relationship discussion.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Are you going to try to seduce me after all?”
“Are you in a mood to be seduced?”
“No. Absolutely not, so don't get any ideas.” She waited a beat and then, drawn inevitably back to the bait, asked, “Did you really walk away from Castleton & Lightfoot because they make military electronics?”
“As I said, there were a lot of things going on at the time besides that argument.” He had her now. He was certain of it. The pleasurable sense of anticipation increased. The bright, glittering little Fox was hooked. It would take skill and subtlety to close the trap, but Nick looked forward to the challenge. “Let's talk about something else.”
“I'd rather talk about what made you decide you wanted Castleton & Lightfoot to get out of the death machine business,” she said.