Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  And then she hesitated. She wasn't going to get into the habit of using other people as a crutch simply because she couldn't solve her own problems. She returned to her office and flicked on her Blaze III. The light began to glow on the screen. For a moment, she regarded the machine with a mixture of love and bitterness. And then she lost herself in her work.

  * * *

  Long after midnight that same evening, Sam eased naked into the hot tub. The house that rose behind him was a stark ultramodern structure with a roof line that jutted at sharp angles like bats' wings against the night sky and held eighteen solar panels to provide energy. He and a team of architects had worked on the design for nearly a year, and it had taken another two years to build. Everything was the best. The interior held free-form couches upholstered in white suede and jagged-edged tables chiseled from rock-crystal selenite. The deck was made of marble and sculptured black granite. Rigidly geometric furniture constructed of cold-rolled steel glimmered faintly near the perimeter of the hot tub. The hot tub itself, made of black marble, was the size of a small swimming pool.

  He had settled into a ledge contoured to fit his body. Although he was tired, he couldn't sleep. As the inky water swirled around him, he gazed down at the lights in the valley below and pretended that they were stars and that he was hanging upside down in the universe. He let himself float, concentrating only on the surge of the waters and the feeling of rushing through unexplored space.

  He had more money than he had ever dreamed existed. He could buy anything he wanted, go anywhere, do anything. But something was missing. The water sucked at him and he raced deeper into space. Find it, a voice whispered. Look around you and find what's missing.

  He was only thirty years old, and he didn't want life to be safe and settled. Where were the challenges? The thrills? SysVal wasn't enough anymore. And neither was Susannah.

  A sound intruded on his thoughts. One of the doors that led out from the house to the deck had opened behind him. Susannah came into his line of vision. He watched with resentment as she pulled her silk robe tight and hugged herself against the night chill.

  "You couldn't sleep?" she asked.

  He settled deeper into the bubbling waters and wished she would go away.

  "Would you like me to get in with you?" she said softly.

  He shrugged. "Whatever."

  She unfastened her robe and let it slide from her shoulders. She was naked beneath. There was a momentary shift in the rhythm of the water as she settled onto the ledge next to him.

  "The water's hot."

  "One hundred and two degrees, like always." He arched his neck and laid his head back in the water, closing his eyes to shut her out.

  He felt her fingers on his arm. "Sam, I'm worried about you."

  "Don't be."

  "I wish you'd tell me what's wrong."

  His eyes snapped open. "You're what's wrong! Why don't you leave me alone?"

  For a moment she did nothing, and then she rose silently from the tub. Water glistened on her body. His eyes roved down over her small breasts, her waist, the soft auburn tuft. She didn't have any idea how hot she still made him. He grabbed her hand before she could move away and pulled her down. She lost her balance and landed awkwardly beside him.

  He pushed her back onto the ledge. "Open your legs."

  "I don't want to." She tried to twist away.

  "Open them, damn it," he insisted.

  "Sam, this isn't right. We need to talk. Sex isn't enough this time."

  She started to get up. He clenched his teeth and moved on top of her. He didn't want to listen to her. He wanted to get the fire back, the challenge, the thrill of conquest. Wedging open her thighs, he thrust hard and buried himself inside her.

  She wasn't ready for him and she winced, but he tilted up her hips and drove deeper.

  She dug the heels of her hands into his chest, trying to push him away. "Dammit, Sam. Don't do this!"

  He refused to let her up. The night-black water swirled around him like a witch's caldron. Steam rose from his shoulders as he arched his back and thrust again and again, cursing her in his mind. In the old days, she had made him happy… In the old days, life had been exciting… Everything had been new-the company-Susannah… In the old days, life had thrilled him.

  He cried out when he came, shuddering violently and falling heavily on her. With a hard shove, she pushed him off her body and rose from the tub.

  "Susannah…"

  She spun around, steam coming from her body. Her light gray eyes blazed with fury. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

  Naked and fierce, she stood over him. She was silhouetted against the sky, her head in front of the moon, so that a halo of silver light had formed around her wet hair and spilled down over her shoulders. Water sluiced like quicksilver over her skin. As he stared at her, her entire body glowed with an eerie moon-induced incandescence. She looked both holy and profane.

  He hated the strength he saw there. The strength and power and courage that hadn't been there when they had first met. When had she gotten ahead of him? How had she learned secrets he didn't know?

  A dam of emotion burst from inside him, and he shouted at her. "Why should I worry about how you feel? You don't care about me!"

  She stared down at him, the moonlight forming an unearthly aurora behind her. "You don't even know what you want."

  He wanted that click he used to feel, that sense that she would fill in his missing parts, that she would give him some of her serenity, polish off his rough edges, soothe his impatience. He wanted her to take away his fear of death. He wanted her to relieve his boredom, offer him a fresh challenge. Make life exciting again. And she wasn't doing it.

  He rose from the hot tub and angrily slicked the water from his body with the flat of his hand. "If you haven't figured out what's wrong by now, I'm not going to explain it to you."

  "You'll have to make peace with yourself," she said flatly. "I can't do it for you."

  His anger swelled. "I should have known you would try to make it my fault. What's happened to us is your problem, Susannah. Yours, not mine."

  He turned to stalk away from her, but he hadn't finished punishing her for not being able to help him. Spinning back around, he made a final cruel attack. "I'm warning you right now. You'd better not be playing any games with those birth control pills."

  Her hand spasmed at her side. "You bastard."

  Water was glistening on her cheeks, but he didn't know if it was from the hot tub or because she was crying. "If you get pregnant, I'll leave you," he said viciously. "I mean it."

  She spun away from him and stalked toward the house, her robe lying forgotten on the deck.

  "Things had better start changing around here," he shouted after her.

  But she had disappeared inside, and he was left alone with himself.

  Chapter 22

  FBT had been caught with its pants down. All of its sophisticated forecasting tools, its graphs and charts and leather-bound strategy statements, its legions of MBA's and Ph.D.'s and decades of experience, hadn't been able to predict the public's growing fascination with the personal computer.

  Personal computer. Just the name made the FBT executives cringe. What kind of name was that? It sounded like a douche, for godsake.

  As the seventies had come to an end, the executives had kept themselves busy smiling and harumphing and doubletalking the press, referring to stable product line and the fickleness of the consumer products market. They had talked about FBT tradition, waxed poetic over the majesty of their giant mainframes and those eye-popping profits listed in crisp black ink in their annual reports. And the more they had talked, the more they had qualified and quantified away, the more the world's business community had laughed behind their backs at them for having been so woefully left behind by a bunch of wild-eyed kids.

  For Cal Theroux it had been unbearable.

  He was the one who had given FBT back its self respect with the launching of the
Falcon 101 in January of 1982. It had been his baby from the beginning, and its success had given him the final leverage he needed to consolidate his power within FBT. Now Cal was riding the small computer's success all the way to personal glory.

  On the other side of the office, his secretary was unpacking the last of his personal effects and arranging them in the bookshelves. She had been at the task for some time, and he was growing impatient. The ceremony that marked his appointment as the new chairman of FBT would begin in less than an hour, and he wanted a few moments to himself.

  "That's enough for now, Patricia. When my wife arrives, send her in."

  His secretary nodded and left.

  Finally alone, Cal allowed himself the liberty of sliding back in his chair and contemplating his imposing surroundings. Some men were obsessed with sex, others with wealth. But for Cal, power had always been the ultimate prize.

  He stroked the polished malachite top of the chairman's desk and touched the panel of switches that controlled the FBT fountains. Since the grounds were crawling with members of the press, he suppressed the urge to manipulate the switches as he had seen Joel do so many times. Even Paul Clemens had not been able to resist toying with those seven fountains during his reign as FBT chairman following Joel's death. They were the final symbol of command, and now they belonged to Cal.

  The door opened and his wife Nicole entered. "Hello, darling." As she walked across the carpet toward him, her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He knew she was awaiting his verdict on her appearance.

  She looked reed-thin and stylish in a black suit with tan piping. Her dark hair fell in a smooth page boy that formed identical sickles over her ears and revealed the small diamond studs he had given her last week for their third wedding anniversary. Although she was only thirty-four, faint lines had begun to appear near her eyes. It would not be long before he would have to arrange plastic surgery for her.

  "Take off the bracelet," he said, eyeing the silver bangle at her wrist with distaste.

  She obeyed him instantly. Nicole's dedication to pleasing him was one of the qualities he liked most about her. He had chosen well. Not only was she the daughter of one of the more prominent members of the FBT Board of Directors, but she had been in love with him for years, even when he was engaged to Susannah. At the time, however, Joel Faulconer's daughter had been the bigger prize. His jaw tightened. How he would love to see that bitch's face when he took office today as FBT's chairman.

  "It's a zoo in the lobby," Nicole said. "Half the world has shown up to watch you take office." She gazed around her at the well-appointed office. "I can't believe this has finally happened. I'm so proud of you, darling."

  As she chattered on, he watched the adoration glimmering in her eyes, and he could almost pretend that he loved her. But he wasn't a sentimental man, and he no longer believed that he was capable of that sort of emotion. The closest Cal had ever come to love had been with Susannah, and that had led to the greatest humiliation of his life.

  Even after six years, his stomach still churned when he remembered standing at the altar and watching her run away on that motorcycle. Instead of easing his desire for revenge, the passing years had fueled it. He had been patient for so long. While Joel was alive, the old man had prevented him from doing what needed to be done. In the years after his death, during Paul Clemens's reign, Cal's position had been precarious and he hadn't been able to allow himself the luxury of taking even the mildest risks. But with the success of the Falcon 101, all of that had finally changed.

  His intercom clicked on, interrupting the monologue Nicole had been delivering on the suitability of the dress she had chosen for the reception that evening.

  "Miss Faulconer is here."

  "Send her in."

  He could feel Nicole's resentment, and he smiled inwardly. His wife made no secret of the fact that she detested Joel Faulconer's daughter. But that was all right. His long-term friendship with Paige kept Nicole on her toes.

  The door burst open and Paige breezed in, carefree and beautiful, her skin golden from the sun. She greeted Nicole with a cool cheek-press and headed toward Cal. "I can't believe you made me come back for this hideous ceremony. Calvin. One of the photographers goosed me on my way in through the lobby. He had a great ass, but even I draw the line at body odor." She slid into his arms. "No tongue, sweetie. Your wife is watching."

  He brushed a suitably chaste kiss across her lips. Being with Paige was exhausting, but necessary. It was ironic that she, rather than Susannah, had provided the weapon that had allowed him to rise to his current position. From the beginning, Paige had hated the responsibilities that went along with the huge block of FBT stock she had inherited, and Cal had made certain he was always there to advise and comfort her. Within a year of Joel's death, Paige had given him her proxy so he could vote her shares in any way he wished. In return, he had promised not to burden her with the FBT responsibilities she detested. Heads, he won. Tails, he won.

  "You know I wouldn't have asked you back today if it hadn't been absolutely necessary," he said.

  She stuck out her lip in a playful pout. "But there are going to be speeches. I hate speeches."

  "Really, Paige," Nicole said stiffly. "Life can't always be one of your parties."

  "Who says?" Paige settled on the edge of Cal's desk and crossed her long legs. They were bare of stockings, he noted with disapproval. At least her raw silk suit was appropriate, although he doubted that she had bothered to put on a bra beneath it. He remembered with some nostalgia the time before Joel's death, when Paige had dressed conservatively and behaved with at least a modicum of dignity. That had changed within a year of her father's funeral-about the time he and Paige had made their agreement.

  "I haven't bothered you for months," he said. "You know I wouldn't have asked you to fly in if it hadn't been absolutely necessary."

  She regarded him evenly. "You couldn't miss having your picture taken with me today of all days, could you, Calvin? A photograph for all the world to see of Paige Faulconer symbolically passing on the mantle of her father's power."

  Sometime Paige was smarter than he gave her credit for. He always tried to remember that.

  Nicole fluttered near the doorway, obviously reluctant to leave the two of them alone. "I'm supposed to meet Marge Clemens. I'm afraid I have to go."

  "I'll be down in a few minutes," he told her.

  She had no choice but to leave. As the door shut, Paige regarded him with cynical amusement. "Poor Nicole. Doesn't she realize that if we had wanted each other, we would have done something about it long ago?"

  She slid down off the corner of the desk. In a manner that was too offhand, even for her, she said, "I'm cutting out of the FBT dinner early tonight."

  "Any reason?"

  "Susannah sent me an invitation for some sort of party SysVal is holding." She tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear and wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "I decided to stop by."

  Cal kept his voice carefully neutral. "You've received lots of invitations from Susannah over the years. I don't remember that you've ever been inclined to accept one. Why now?"

  "I'm in town."

  "The only person who detests Susannah as much as I do is you. Why now?" he repeated.

  She hesitated for a moment and then, withdrawing a folded white card from her purse, passed it over for him to read. It was an invitation to a party SysVal was holding to celebrate having reached half a billion dollars in sales for their fiscal year. Handwritten at the bottom of the invitation in Susannah's neat script was the message, "How long are you going to keep running away from me, Paige? What are you afraid of?"

  Paige snatched the card from him and shoved it back in her purse. "Can you believe it? That prissy bitch actually thinks I'm afraid of her."

  "She's very successful," he said calmly, even though the word tasted like poison in his mouth. "Probably the most prominent female executive in the country today."

  "And I ended up
with FBT and all of Daddy's millions. Well, tonight I'm going to rub every one of them in her face."

  The enlarged Blaze logo that took up much of the back wall was the first thing that caught Paige's eye as she entered SysVal's soaring lobby. As she stared at the logo, she thought of how much her sister had accomplished in six years, and she was so filled with envy that she felt dizzy. Her eyes darted through the crowd. When she saw no sign of Susannah, she forced herself to relax. If only she hadn't shown Cal the invitation, she could have backed out, but now it was too late.

  A bar was set up off to the left. As she made her way toward it, she noted that SysVal's party guests favored denim and old running shoes. The beaded white satin gown that had looked so stunning at the FBT dinner she had just left was distinctly out of place here, but she didn't care. She had never been the sort of woman who needed to dress like everyone else to be comfortable.

  Most of the guests were drinking beer, and the bartender had trouble finding the champagne she requested. While she waited, she thought about checking into a hotel instead of returning to Falcon Hill. The furniture was under dust covers and the house still bore the faint, sweet smell of death. Falcon Hill carried too many memories of that year when she had tried so desperately to make a home-running around baking pies and planting herb gardens like a demented Betty Crocker. She had even worn her sister's clothes. In the end it had been meaningless. She still hadn't been able to make her father love her.

  She blinked her eyes hard and wished she hadn't come. After all of these years, why had she given in to the impulse to see her sister tonight? Maybe if she hadn't felt so rootless and alone after that horrible scene at her Malibu beach house three days ago, she would have tossed Susannah's invitation into the trash where it belonged.

  She had actually thought she'd found Mr. Right. He was a documentary filmmaker, and they'd been seeing each other for six months. She should have realized that he was more interested in having her finance his new film than in everlasting love, but she had steadfastly ignored all of the warning signs. God, she was stupid. She had even been planning a wedding in her head.