When he found a water spot on the suspect’s jacket sleeve, he knew immediately who the perpetrator was!”
She laughed delightedly. “I was afraid that was going to be terribly obvious, but the readers swallowed it.”
“Fans are always loyal,” he reminded her. His eyes narrowed. “I even forgave you for that rotten crack about McDuncan using the typewriter even with five keys missing because ‘he never used those particular letters, anyway.’“
She followed him out to the Ferrari, hurrying as a few large raindrops spattered down, and let him put her in the passenger seat, still laughing. “Sorry about that,” she murmured. “But John, you do push equipment to the absolute limit.”
He got in beside her, started the big engine and pulled out into traffic with the smooth motions of an old race car driver—a sport which John had dabbled in years ago.
“Old habits die hard, honey,” he reminded her. “When I went to live with my father and we started drilling for oil, we had to jury rig equipment to keep going financially. We could hold a car together with baling wire and hairpins.”
“And now you can afford a Ferrari and a Rolls,” she smiled. “And I’ll bet part of you misses those old days.”
He lit a cigarette. “Most of me misses them,” he admitted. He leaned back against the seat, weaving in and out of traffic lazily. “I used to have time to go riding early in the mornings every day—the way we did last week,” he added, glancing at her quietly.
She stared out at the night-lights of Houston glowing through the rain-streaked windshield. “And direct misguided tourists to snake-filled bunkhouses?” she said, trying to make a joke of it.
He laughed shortly. “Not exactly. I had her going for a little bit.”
“Until you mentioned that part about the ten-foot snakes,” she teased. “And the houseful of illegitimate daughters…”
“I used to have women running in and out of my house,” he admitted, his face thoughtful. “Before I married Ellen.”
She shifted restlessly in the seat. “And since?” She didn’t like hearing about his wife.
“I’ll be forty years old in September, Madeline,” he said, his tone strangely subdued, solemn. “The business takes up practically every waking hour, and I have to sleep sometimes. That’s what I meant, about missing the old days. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I had a lot of time.”
“You make yourself sound like Methuselah,” she grumbled. Her eyes traced his big body. “My gosh, you could run circles around most of your vice-presidents.”
“You’ve got that backward,” he said. “Most of them have kids. They stay active by playing with them.”
There was a bitterness in his tone, and she turned in the seat to look at his hard profile. “You want children, don’t you?” she asked, faintly shocked at the realization.
“Who am I going to leave Big Sabine and Durango Oil to when I die?” he asked quietly, turning into the parking lot under the building that housed his Houston apartment. “My cousin?” he added with a vicious glare in her direction.
She averted her eyes. “Then all you have to do is get married,” she said. The thought made her sick. John, married, with children.
He laughed shortly. “What a novel idea,” he said gruffly. “I can have it drawn up into a contract, can’t I?
X
number of dollars in exchange for a woman’s body and one male child.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, torn up inside at the cynicism in his voice. “You make it sound so cold-blooded.”
“It would be,” he replied as he eased the car into a parking spot and cut the engine. His face, in the dim lights of the parking garage, was harder than ever. “If I’m cynical, it’s because life’s made me that way.” He caught a strand of her loosened red gold hair and tugged at it idly. “I told you once that I didn’t mind paying for what I wanted. That’s true, within limits. But I’m not paying any woman
She laughed delightedly. “I was afraid that was going to be terribly obvious, but the readers swallowed it.”
“Fans are always loyal,” he reminded her. His eyes narrowed. “I even forgave you for that rotten crack about McDuncan using the typewriter even with five keys missing because ‘he never used those particular letters, anyway.’“
She followed him out to the Ferrari, hurrying as a few large raindrops spattered down, and let him put her in the passenger seat, still laughing. “Sorry about that,” she murmured. “But John, you do push equipment to the absolute limit.”
He got in beside her, started the big engine and pulled out into traffic with the smooth motions of an old race car driver—a sport which John had dabbled in years ago.
“Old habits die hard, honey,” he reminded her. “When I went to live with my father and we started drilling for oil, we had to jury rig equipment to keep going financially. We could hold a car together with baling wire and hairpins.”
“And now you can afford a Ferrari and a Rolls,” she smiled. “And I’ll bet part of you misses those old days.”
He lit a cigarette. “Most of me misses them,” he admitted. He leaned back against the seat, weaving in and out of traffic lazily. “I used to have time to go riding early in the mornings every day—the way we did last week,” he added, glancing at her quietly.
She stared out at the night-lights of Houston glowing through the rain-streaked windshield. “And direct misguided tourists to snake-filled bunkhouses?” she said, trying to make a joke of it.
He laughed shortly. “Not exactly. I had her going for a little bit.”
“Until you mentioned that part about the ten-foot snakes,” she teased. “And the houseful of illegitimate daughters…”
“I used to have women running in and out of my house,” he admitted, his face thoughtful. “Before I married Ellen.”
She shifted restlessly in the seat. “And since?” She didn’t like hearing about his wife.
“I’ll be forty years old in September, Madeline,” he said, his tone strangely subdued, solemn. “The business takes up practically every waking hour, and I have to sleep sometimes. That’s what I meant, about missing the old days. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I had a lot of time.”
“You make yourself sound like Methuselah,” she grumbled. Her eyes traced his big body. “My gosh, you could run circles around most of your vice-presidents.”
“You’ve got that backward,” he said. “Most of them have kids. They stay active by playing with them.”
There was a bitterness in his tone, and she turned in the seat to look at his hard profile. “You want children, don’t you?” she asked, faintly shocked at the realization.
“Who am I going to leave Big Sabine and Durango Oil to when I die?” he asked quietly, turning into the parking lot under the building that housed his Houston apartment. “My cousin?” he added with a vicious glare in her direction.
She averted her eyes. “Then all you have to do is get married,” she said. The thought made her sick. John, married, with children.
He laughed shortly. “What a novel idea,” he said gruffly. “I can have it drawn up into a contract, can’t I?
X
number of dollars in exchange for a woman’s body and one male child.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, torn up inside at the cynicism in his voice. “You make it sound so cold-blooded.”
“It would be,” he replied as he eased the car into a parking spot and cut the engine. His face, in the dim lights of the parking garage, was harder than ever. “If I’m cynical, it’s because life’s made me that way.” He caught a strand of her loosened red gold hair and tugged at it idly. “I told you once that I didn’t mind paying for what I wanted. That’s true, within limits. But I’m not paying any woman
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