and then removed a key, handing it to Lucky in a casual, offhand manner, when in fact it was a gesture of such trust that it brought tears to Lucky’s eyes.
“Here,” she said. “It’s the key to the front door. It’s an extra so you might as well keep it.” She shrugged and turned away, unwilling for Lucky to see the emotion on her face. “You never know when I’ll need rescuing again, and I don’t want you to have to crawl through any more windows and scare my damn cat.”
Lucky took the key and put it with her own door key. “Thank you, Fluffy. I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know that,” Fluffy said shortly, “or else I would never have given it to you. Now hurry! I’m starving.”
Lucky bolted toward the door.
“Oh, by the way,” Fluffy asked. “Where did you find work?”
“Club 52,” Lucky said. “I think I’m going to like it there.”
Fluffy’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her mispainted lips in concentration as she watched the beautiful young woman bounce out of her home with the enthusiasm of a young deer.
“Hmmm, so it’s to be the Chenaults.” And then she smiled, making her look younger than her true age for a moment. “That Nick Chenault is one fine man, my dear. You will know that soon enough on your own. Maybe this is fate. Maybe this is fate.”
But Lucky was gone. She didn’t hear Fluffy’s remarks, and if she had, would have pooh-poohed them as nonsense. The Houston women didn’t have much use for men.
But the die had been cast. Fate had already set events in motion that none of the players in this game could have predicted.
4
“N ick! I can’t remember the last time you came home for dinner.” Paul’s elation was evident as Cubby wheeled him out onto the patio. “Cubby, tell Shari to bring another glass. Nick can join me for an aperitif.”
“I’ve already got a drink, Dad,” Nick said, lifting a soda and lime. “I don’t want anything stronger. I may go back to the club later and it would only make me sleepy if I indulge now.”
Paul grinned. “You sound like an old man. What you need is a change of pace. Walter Warner’s daughter is home from Europe. Celebrating her third divorce, I think. She’s lethal but pretty. You should give her a call. She could be someone to pass time with.”
Nick didn’t answer. Paul gauged the extent of his son’s absent gaze across the manicured lawns of the estate, then frowned. Something else was bothering him. He could tell.
“You want to talk, Nicky?”
Nick sighed. A spurt of longing for the good old days came swiftly. Days when Paul Chenault had dealt with the problems and all Nick had to worry about was which car he could drive and how much he had to study for exams.
But those days were long gone. He’d been in charge of the family businesses far longer than he cared to remember. Yes, he wanted to talk. But how much good was it going to do? Sharing the information wasn’t going to make the problem go away.
Nick slowly turned and faced his father. It had been years since Paul had called him by his childhood nickname. But it was somehow endearing to know that sometimes his father must still think of him in those terms.
He set down his glass, and then pulled up a chair to face his father’s wheelchair.
“We do have to talk, Dad.”
“I’ll just wait in the—” Cubby began.
“Wait, Cubby. This concerns all of us,” Nick said. “You grab a chair too. We’ve got a problem on our hands.”
Paul’s expression turned serious. All thoughts of matchmaking were forgotten.
Nick leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked his father in the face. Then realizing how harsh the question was going to sound, gave his father’s thigh a comforting pat before he began.
“When I went down to Las Vegas Metro, the detective in charge let me read Charlie Sams’s confession.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”
Nick nodded.
“Then why?”
Nick inhaled slowly. This
“Here,” she said. “It’s the key to the front door. It’s an extra so you might as well keep it.” She shrugged and turned away, unwilling for Lucky to see the emotion on her face. “You never know when I’ll need rescuing again, and I don’t want you to have to crawl through any more windows and scare my damn cat.”
Lucky took the key and put it with her own door key. “Thank you, Fluffy. I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know that,” Fluffy said shortly, “or else I would never have given it to you. Now hurry! I’m starving.”
Lucky bolted toward the door.
“Oh, by the way,” Fluffy asked. “Where did you find work?”
“Club 52,” Lucky said. “I think I’m going to like it there.”
Fluffy’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her mispainted lips in concentration as she watched the beautiful young woman bounce out of her home with the enthusiasm of a young deer.
“Hmmm, so it’s to be the Chenaults.” And then she smiled, making her look younger than her true age for a moment. “That Nick Chenault is one fine man, my dear. You will know that soon enough on your own. Maybe this is fate. Maybe this is fate.”
But Lucky was gone. She didn’t hear Fluffy’s remarks, and if she had, would have pooh-poohed them as nonsense. The Houston women didn’t have much use for men.
But the die had been cast. Fate had already set events in motion that none of the players in this game could have predicted.
4
“N ick! I can’t remember the last time you came home for dinner.” Paul’s elation was evident as Cubby wheeled him out onto the patio. “Cubby, tell Shari to bring another glass. Nick can join me for an aperitif.”
“I’ve already got a drink, Dad,” Nick said, lifting a soda and lime. “I don’t want anything stronger. I may go back to the club later and it would only make me sleepy if I indulge now.”
Paul grinned. “You sound like an old man. What you need is a change of pace. Walter Warner’s daughter is home from Europe. Celebrating her third divorce, I think. She’s lethal but pretty. You should give her a call. She could be someone to pass time with.”
Nick didn’t answer. Paul gauged the extent of his son’s absent gaze across the manicured lawns of the estate, then frowned. Something else was bothering him. He could tell.
“You want to talk, Nicky?”
Nick sighed. A spurt of longing for the good old days came swiftly. Days when Paul Chenault had dealt with the problems and all Nick had to worry about was which car he could drive and how much he had to study for exams.
But those days were long gone. He’d been in charge of the family businesses far longer than he cared to remember. Yes, he wanted to talk. But how much good was it going to do? Sharing the information wasn’t going to make the problem go away.
Nick slowly turned and faced his father. It had been years since Paul had called him by his childhood nickname. But it was somehow endearing to know that sometimes his father must still think of him in those terms.
He set down his glass, and then pulled up a chair to face his father’s wheelchair.
“We do have to talk, Dad.”
“I’ll just wait in the—” Cubby began.
“Wait, Cubby. This concerns all of us,” Nick said. “You grab a chair too. We’ve got a problem on our hands.”
Paul’s expression turned serious. All thoughts of matchmaking were forgotten.
Nick leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked his father in the face. Then realizing how harsh the question was going to sound, gave his father’s thigh a comforting pat before he began.
“When I went down to Las Vegas Metro, the detective in charge let me read Charlie Sams’s confession.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”
Nick nodded.
“Then why?”
Nick inhaled slowly. This
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