"That's the thing about gambling," J.B. said, speaking with the voice of experience. "You never figure on losing."
Vinnie looked up at his old nemesis. "How come you waited twenty-five years to get even, J.B.?"
"In the first place, I never made the connection between the fake and the Livingston heist. I was busy with other things at the time."
"Yeah. I remember your wife."
"In the second place," J.B. said, and Sheridan could hear the weariness in his voice, "I had a daughter to raise. I couldn't be settling old scores."
In her years as a private investigator, Sheridan had run into dozens of people who had stepped across the line between right and wrong. Some knew what they were doing and had no regrets; some knew what they were doing and had regrets. Others simply had no idea there was any such thing as right and wrong. Looking at Vinnie's face as he clutched his poker hand, Sheridan knew he had done wrong. But so did he. Not that he would have admitted as much if his hand hadn't been forced, so to speak.
"What about Bernard?" Sheridan asked. "Have you heard from him? Do you know where he is? It's possible, Vinnie, that the district attorney might work out a deal with you. You could turn state's evidence and give them Bernard."
Vinnie shook his head. "He'd kill me."
"Perhaps you should discuss this with the authorities," Richard said.
J.B. licked his lips. "Yeah, good idea. Vinnie, for God's sake, will you put down your cards?"
At that moment three men walked into the room. "Well, well, well," Richard said softly, and Sheridan, too, recognized them as the three who had attacked Richard on the yacht.
J.B. moved closer to D'Amours. "Call them off, Vinnie."
"I can't, they're not mine."
Sheridan's eyes met Richard's. "Bernard's men," they said simultaneously.
A dark heavyset man stepped forward. "No one needs to get hurt, but if anyone moves, the girl gets it first."
"Why is it always me?" Sheridan muttered. But she knew it was a small point: the men looked professional and ruthless. Once they had what they wanted, they would undoubtedly kill her, Richard and J.B. and maybe Vinnie, too.
The speaker of the trio jerked his gun at J.B. "Drop it, nice and easy."
Surreptitiously Sheridan glanced at her watch. In three minutes Lieutenant Davis and his crew would arrive. She didn't want to be in a position to be taken hostage or killed in the cross fire or, for that matter, killed before the three minutes were up.
Apparently J.B.'s mind was operating in a similar vein. "No one has to get hurt here," he said, stepping behind Vinnie and sliding his gun to the floor.
Sheridan's eyes met Richard's, and she calmly willed him to know what she was thinking. We have to be patient… we can't do anything rash… Karate and judo had trained her mind as well as her body. She put into place the incredible self-discipline, the knowledge to know when to act… and when not to act. Until the three men moved within range, until they attacked, until they gave her the chance to disarm all three at once, there was simply nothing she could do… except be prepared for ten o'clock.
"You." The gun was waved at her now. "Get the necklaces and hand them to me."
Calmly Sheridan scooped up the two necklaces. "Think your boss'll be able to tell which is which this time?"
He didn't react: a professional.
"So you guys don't work for Vinnie," J.B. said. "Bernard's your man, huh? We stumbled into it this time, Sher."
Sheridan had no desire to move away from the table, Richard, J.B. or even Vinnie. They had to stay together. When the police arrived, she didn't want any one of them to be a handy hostage. She pretended her hands were shaking and dropped one of the necklaces on the table. The three thugs took one step forward. She smiled apologetically, scooping the necklace up again. "Sorry. I'm a bit jittery."
She saw Richard's eyebrow lift. It was a small gesture, but one that renewed her confidence.
"Yeah," the thug said. "Hand 'em over."
But it was ten o'clock. The police kicked open the door, and as they swooped into the room, J.B., Richard and Sheridan acted in unison and dove under the table. Being professionals, J.B. and Sheridan knew when to duck. Being Richard St. Charles, Richard knew Sheridan. A half second later Virmie joined them.
Being professionals of a different sort, the three thugs knew when not to shoot. They lowered their guns and went quietly.
12
Later, after statements to police and listening to their usual lectures on private investigators, the temporarily reunited partners of Weaver Investigations joined Richard St. Charles for a drink on his yacht in San Francisco Bay. The night air was brisk, but they sat on the deck under the stars, the three of them drinking Scotch. J.B. had already called Lucy and told her all was well.
"Well, St. Charles," J.B. said, settling back in his chair, "don't you want to know if you'd have won that hand?"
Richard smiled. He was sitting in a chair kitty-corner to J.B. while Sheridan was on the deck, leaning against his solid legs and dreaming dreams. "Doesn't make any difference to me," he said.
"How the hell could it not make any difference? You stood to lose three hundred grand! Sheridan, what kind of man have you got yourself mixed up with?"
"One who isn't a compulsive gambler," she replied.
"All right, St. Charles, what if I told you I grabbed Vinnie's hand before we left and have it right here in my pocket?"
"I'd believe you."
Sheridan swallowed a laugh.
"Would you want to set up a little game? You start fresh, I'll play Vinnie's hand. We'll see what happens."
Before Richard could reply, Sheridan shook her head. "No way, J.B. At this point another poker game would be completely gratuitous. The police have Vinnie, and they think he's going to lead them to Bernard and testify against him. The case is closed."
"Who the hell's talking about a damned case? This is poker!" J.B. wailed. "You used to like a good game every now and then, Sher, and don't you try to pretend otherwise."
Richard sipped his drink, a mildly amused look on his face. "She's turning into a stodgy financial analyst again right before our very eyes, J.B."
"Financial analysts are not necessarily stodgy. I'm just trying to be practical. For heaven's sake, Richard, don't you think you've had your fill of poker?"
"I don't know," he said, pressing his knees more firmly and sensuously against her. "It might be fun to see what Vinnie was betting on."
"That's my man," J.B. said.
"But I won't start fresh." Richard fished five cards out of his pocket. "I've got my hand here."
"You two are hopeless," Sheridan muttered.
"And look who's talking," her father said.
Richard rubbed her shoulders, prompting untold sensations to course through her body. "J.B. has a point. I don't think we're any more hopeless than a woman who wears a getup like that to take on a bunch of crooks."
J.B. chuckled. "No one's ever dared to tell her that, St. Charles. All these years I've been trying to tell her she can't go around looking like she's in her pajamas—"
"The judogi allows for freedom of movement," she said loftily, "which came in very handy tonight when I had to rescue you, J.B. And if I'd had to take on those three thugs—"
"That's my daughter," J.B. said, "Bruce Lee II. She poses as a bore in penny loafers, but underneath she's ready to leap into her pjs and take on a roomful of bad guys with guns."
"It's all coming back to me," Sheridan said, "why I left San Francisco."
].B. reached over and patted her on the knee. "You did good tonight, kid." He turned to Richard. "Now about that hundred grand."
"Water over the dam, J.B.—unless you'd like to wager it on Vinnie's hand?"
If Richard hadn't had his knees pressed against her shoulders, Sheridan would have leaped up. "No! J.B., you can't take that kind of risk."
"That is a little steep, St. Charles. I mean, if I lose the hand, you know I can't come up with that
kind of cash. Besides, I don't owe you a dime."
"Fine," Richard said.
"Just like that?"
"Richard, he can't stand not knowing what's in your hand."
"I'd be glad to show it to him…"
"No," J.B. said. "This is too good…"
Sheridan regarded her father dubiously. "J.B., are you turning into a compulsive gambler?"
"All right, all right. Let's see what you got."
"If you'll recall," Richard said, his voice rough edged yet smooth, "I was the one who had called."
Muttering to himself, J.B. fished out the cards and turned them over on the table. A straight, king high. It was a good hand.
"Very nice." Richard turned his cards over one by one. "Seven of hearts," he said, "eight of hearts, nine of hearts, ten of hearts." He paused. "Jack of hearts."
Sheridan clapped her hands. "I don't believe it! Richard, you would have won!"
"I feel like I just saved myself a hundred grand. I— Hey, wait a minute. Wait just a minute, St. Charles! That's not a jack of hearts! That's a jack of diamonds!"
Richard peered at the cards. "So it is," he said, then leaned back and grinned at J.B. "But I can pretend, can't I?"
"I don't know about you, Sher," J.B. said, "but me, I'm going home."
"That's a good thought," Sheridan said. "Where have you been sleeping in the meantime?"
"Oh. Lucille offered me a bunk at her place."
"Lucille!"
Even Richard's eyes widened.
"Yeah, sure. You know Lucille. She likes to keep track of where I am."
"You mean she knew all along?" Sheridan asked.
"'Course. Not every detail, because, well, for heaven's sake, do you know what my life would be like if I'd let that woman worry about me?"
"It's okay to let your daughter worry, but not your secretary. I can't believe she lied to me."
"Only because I told her to." J.B. patted her on the top of her head. "See you around, kid. It's going to feel good to sleep in a proper bed tonight."
It was Richard who pointed out, when J.B. had taken the launch back himself, that Sheridan had no way to get to the dock. "The launch service doesn't operate," he said, "at two-thirty in the morning."
In the soft glow of dawn they were lying side by side beneath the satin-covered down comforter on the giant bed in Richard's stateroom. The yacht seemed to undulate with them as they swayed in and out of sleep. It had been a long, long day. They had walked into the room with no intentions of making love until they had slept and digested all that had happened to them during the past few days. There had been no demands.
But there were desires, longings that had built throughout the afternoon and evening, so that their bodies had other plans. They needed release. They needed a few moments of abandonment. No words were spoken. Responding to unconscious signals, they removed their clothes, letting them fall where they may. And they came together at once. Richard lifted her hips, lowered her onto him, and they fell onto the bed, already joined.
Again and again Sheridan had pulled him deeper into her, wanting him to be like that always, a part of her, yet knowing that was impossible. He could never be a part of anyone. And neither could she.
In the stillness of the room, her body at last quiet, Sheridan willed herself to think and to speak. "I'm not going to hold you to what you told me earlier in the car," she said. "Adrenaline sometimes makes us say things we might regret later. Emotions tend to run high in a dangerous situation."
"Sheridan, don't patronize me." He didn't raise his voice. "I didn't say anything I would regret—ever."
"Richard, I'm not always the woman you've seen the past few days. Most of the time I'm—as J.B. so aptly put it—a bore in penny loafers. All I'm saying is, when our lives get back to normal, you don't have to love that woman. I'll understand." She licked her lips, cool and salty, tasting of him. "I'm returning to Boston tomorrow… today, actually. I have a job there, a life."
With his palm he touched the flatness of her stomach. He was the only man who had known both Sheridan Weavers. He had seen her in Boston; he had seen her in San Francisco. But it was the wild, brash San Francisco Sheridan he had claimed to have fallen in love with. She had long ago given up hope of finding a man who would love the two women she enjoyed being.
"I won't stop you from going back," he said.
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do. I haven't changed my mind. I'm in love with you. I don't give a damn if you want to stay at United Commercial, or move back here and work with J.B. or start your own agency or go into something else altogether. None of that makes any difference to me. You have to live your own life, Sheridan. We both do. But I also want us to have a life together." He rolled onto his side and smiled into her eyes. "If you need to stay in Boston, I'll adjust. It's an interesting city."
She looked startled. "You mean you'd move out there?"
"Lock, stock and barrel, darlin'. I'm in the position to do as I damn well please, and I will. But not until you've decided whether or not you want to stay out there."
"I don't know what to say." She averted her eyes from the intensity and love in his. "Richard… I'm not sure I'm in love with you. No, no, that's not it. I know, deep down, that I love you more than I've ever imagined I could love anyone. You're everything I ever dreamed about. But I'm not sure I love you the way I'm supposed to love you."
He laughed softly. "I have no complaints."
"I don't mean physically! Lordy, we have no problems there." She grinned, remembering, but quickly grew serious again. "That's not what I'm talking about. Richard, you're an independent man—you're whole and vibrant and alive. I don't see you as the other half of myself. And I wonder if I should."
"Why in hell should I be the other half of you, or you be the other half of me? We're not arms and legs, sweet love, we're people. Together, we're a man and a woman who love each other, nothing more, nothing less. That alone is magical. But we're not a part of each other. I love you as you are, Sheridan, but you're not a part of me. I don't want that. And yet I can't imagine my life without you."
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at him and touched his face. "I can't believe… that's exactly how I feel… it's wonderful, you're wonderful. Oh, Richard, I do love you!"
She hurled herself into his arms, and he caught her by the waist, rolling her on top of him, until his mouth found hers and they kissed madly, drinking in the joy and love and passion that was theirs. His hands smoothed from her buttocks, along her waist and up her back to her shoulder blades, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
"We'll never get any sleep this way," she murmured.
"Good. I never want to sleep. I want to stay awake the rest of my life and make love to you."
She laughed. "Sounds wonderfully exhausting."
"Doesn't it, though?"
His thumbs fit under her breasts, and he lifted her torso off his chest, holding her aloft. "You're so beautiful. You look so healthy, so confident. There's nothing I'd change about you, love, nothing."
Slowly, slowly, he lowered her toward him, but stopped when the soft flesh of her breast reached his lips. She could feel the imprint of each of his fingers on her back, as if they were searing her flesh, stamping her not with his ownership, but with the passion and promise of his love.
She cried out his name, and finally, with delicious precision, he brought the pink nipple into his mouth and teased it with his tongue, licking and stroking, until she was groaning with pleasure.
Then he lifted her higher, and his tongue and lips coursed down her stomach, the skin luminous and sensitive from their last bout of lovemaking, still alive, still ready to bum under the wet heat of his kiss. His hands slipped down to her waist, lifting her effortlessly and bringing her down in a rush of sensation, his tongue, lips and gentle teeth plunging into the dark center of her. Her flesh yielded to him. Her body throbbed with ecstasy.
Quickly, fiercely, lovingly, he grasped
her hips and brought them down onto his, and himself into her. She simply held on for a moment lost in time, reveled in the fullness of him inside her, the hardness of his body, his masculinity, his sensitivity.
But their bodies soon demanded more, and he moved inside her, pulsing, turning her to liquid. Her senses were heightened, dominating, refusing to let her mind complete a conscious thought. Acutely attuned to the body dancing in union with hers, until at last tiny explosions rippled through them both, filling the dawn and their lives with the joy of love.
Afterward the room shone with the light of morning, and they slept.
On the thirtieth floor of the United Commercial Insurance Building in downtown Boston, Donald Agnew was going over a stack of printouts at Sheridan's desk. His leather-bound appointment book was open beside him. He was wearing a tan chino suit and shiny tasseled loafers.
The telephone rang; he picked it up. "Donald Agnew… No, no, you have the right extension. Ms. Weaver is not in, but I'm sure I can help you." He swiveled in his chair, saw the dark-haired woman in the light-gray linen suit and black pumps and paled. "But perhaps you should call back in fifteen minutes. I'm sorry, it's impossible for me to talk now." He hung up and grinned sheepishly. "Sher."
"Hello, Donald," she said coolly.
"We didn't expect you back so soon."
He had her pull up a chair to her own desk, and they went over all that had happened since she had departed for San Francisco on the trail of her father. Which was precisely nothing.
United Commercial, it appeared, could function admirably without her. More to the point, so could Donald Agnew. But accustomed to the corporate hierarchy as he was, he cheerfully gathered up his belongings, left her with the printouts and shuffled off to his own windowless cubby.
With less relish than she had anticipated, Sheridan got back to work.
Richard had suggested she spend her first week back in Boston alone. "Pretend," he had said with a small smile, "that I don't exist." At the time Sheridan had appreciated his sensitivity and utter lack of possessiveness. Now she wasn't so sure. A week without Richard seemed interminable.
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