“No? The fact that she even came into this world was Burke Castleton's fault. And he didn't stick around to help raise her, did he? Who knows how she might have turned out if she'd had a loving home and a father who cared? What's more, when she did find her roots, no one tried to make her welcome. None of you accepted her. She knew you all hated her. What do you think that does to a person? None of you even gave a damn when she died until you found out she had left the shares to someone outside the families.”
Nick almost lost it then. He forced himself to put down the remainder of his sandwich very carefully. “When you're drawing up your list of people you believe hated Crissie Masters, don't include me. I never met her, remember?”
“So what? You probably wouldn't have been any kinder to her than the others were. She was an outsider.”
“You know what you are? You're a bigoted, narrow-minded, totally biased little fool who is automatically against anyone who makes more money than you do.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“You're making me lose my temper, and I haven't done that in a long time.”
“Don't worry, it's just a right-wing, knee-jerk reaction to what you perceive as a threat to the privileged upper classes. And don't get any ideas about getting out of that chair and coming over here to manhandle me. I'll call the cops. I've been abused enough this evening.” But Phila didn't look like the victim of abuse; she looked as if she was almost enjoying the blazing light of battle in her eyes.
“What's the matter, Phila?” he challenged softly. “Aren't you going to put your arms around me and offer me a bit of comfort and understanding the way you did Ruth Spalding when she attacked you?”
“I feel sorry for Ruth Spalding. I don't feel any pity at all for you. You're a Lightfoot. You don't need any of my comfort and understanding.”
Nick bit back an oath and watched in amazement as Phila reached for a sandwich. The battle with him had obviously whetted her appetite. He watched her take a huge bite and wondered what the hell he was going to do next. Things were spinning out of his control and that he was unaccustomed to.
“Phila, let's take this from the top. One way or another, you're going to have to make some decisions about those C&L shares you inherited.”
“One way or another,” she agreed, reaching for another sandwich. “But I'll make my own decisions. I've been doing that for a long time, Lightfoot. I'm real good at it.”
“You are really irritating is what you are.”
She smiled, showing a lot of little white teeth. “You haven't seen anything yet. Good night, Mr. Lightfoot.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, caught himself and stopped immediately. “We need to talk.”
“Not tonight. I'm tired. We've talked more than enough this evening. Go.”
He knew there was no point forcing the issue further now. She was too wired from the aftereffects of the confrontation with Ruth Spalding and the short battle she had just conducted with him. Nick knew when to stage a strategic retreat. He got to his feet without a word and started for the door.
“Thank you for the sandwich, Mr. Lightfoot,” she called after him, her tone sarcastic.
“Anytime,” he said dryly, his hand on the front door-knob.
“And thanks for trying to fend off Ruth Spalding,” Phila added softly, no longer sarcastic.
He said nothing, stepping out into the night and closing the door quietly behind him. He had the feeling Phila wasn't accustomed to anyone trying to fight her battles for her.
It was then he realized there probably was no man in her life, at least not at the moment.
That thought cheered him up for some reason as he climbed into the Porsche and headed back toward the Holloway Park Motel.
CHAPTER THREE
Nick stalked into his motel room, then turned around and stalked back out again when he realized that he was in no mood to sleep or watch television. He headed for the flashing promise of a neon sign that signaled a tavern across the street.
Five minutes later, ensconced in a booth with a beer and a hamburger, he gave himself over to brooding.
He could not seem to get a handle on Philadelphia Fox, and that worried him. What worried him even more was the fact that he was attracted to her.
It made no sense. She was definitely not his type, although after the fiasco of his marriage he had never been quite sure what his type was.
But his father had taught him to admire courage and his mother had taught him a grudging respect for compassion, and Nick had to admit Phila had shown both tonight when she had dealt with the Spalding woman. On top of that, he automatically gave a few points to anyone who had the guts to defy the combined forces of the Castletons and the Lightfoots. There was definitely more to Phila than met the eye.
Still, he did not normally get turned on by feisty, mouthy, left-wing types who had the arrogance to lecture others on matters of moral responsibility. Nick grimaced and pushed aside his personal reaction to the Fox. He knew he had to think with his head, not his balls. Too much was riding on his next move with Phila.
Unfortunately for all concerned, Phila was not the simple, straightforward opportunist Eleanor Castleton wanted to believe she was, that much was for certain. There appeared to be a steel core of something that looked suspiciously like integrity running through Phila's spine. Integrity combined with the bleeding-heart compassion of a true liberal always made for a volatile combination: warrior and saint.
Such people tended to be quite zealous in their approach to problem solving.
Such people were never really happy until they felt justice had been done on behalf of the weak and wretched of the earth.
Such people hired independent investigators to verify the true nature of what everyone else considered an accident.
Nick concentrated, seeking the right method for dealing with his quarry. He knew there had to be a way to get to Phila. It was just a matter of pulling the right strings.
Quickly he summarized the basic facts. The woman had no job at present, she had just been through a courtroom trial, and she had lost her best friend. All in all, that added up to a lot of stress.
He remembered his initial impression of her, an idling engine that normally moved through life at full speed.
Maybe what she needed was a fresh focus, something to fill up the void in her life that had been left by the loss of her job and friend; something that would galvanize her natural sense of integrity and tap into the fire of both the warrior and the saint.
Nick sat for a long time, worrying the problem like a dog with a bone. The beer went down slowly and the hamburger disappeared bite by methodical bite.
When he had finished the hamburger he sat turning the empty beer bottle slowly between his palms. Philadelphia Fox was his ticket home, and he was not about to lose her at this stage.
It wasn't until he reached for his wallet to pay for the meal that he acknowledged the whole truth. He needed a way to keep Phila within reach not only because of the C&L shares she possessed, but also because some part of him was never going to be satisfied until he had gotten the Fox into bed.
Phila's fingers touched cold metal the next morning while she was rooting around in her drawer for a pair of panties. She paused, pushed back a spare nightgown and stared at the 9-mm automatic pistol she had bought the week before.
She hated the sight of the handgun. Talk about a death machine. She had a lot of gall hurling accusations at Nick Lightfoot because of the products his family manufactured when she herself was carrying a thing like this around. Owning the weapon violated every principle she had ever been taught about gun control.
But she was scared, and Phila was discovering that fear changed a few things. It hurt, though, to remember her grandmother telling her that her parents had never carried guns, not even into the terrible jungle where they had died.
Phila sighed. She was angry and depressed because she had given
in to the fear and bought the gun, but she knew she wasn't going to take it back. She covered up the pistol with the nightgown and several pairs of pantyhose.
Aside from her natural dislike of the thing, she was very uncomfortable with the automatic. The salesman at the sporting-goods store had shown her how to load the magazine, and she understood the necessity of removing the safety before firing. But she had never been able to bring herself actually to practice shooting the gun. It felt obscene and ugly in her hand.
Every time she looked at the automatic Phila could almost hear her grandmother's outrage. This country is running amok with guns. Every Tom, Dick and Harry has one. It's because of all that nonsense about winning the West. People act as if they've got to keep on winning it! They say they're protecting themselves against crime. What a ridiculous argument. The surest way to cut back on crime in this country is to get rid of handguns.
Matilda Fox had strongly supported gun-control measures. She had waged a personal, one-woman, ongoing war with the National Rifle Association as well as every congressman who had ever dared come out against gun control.
Her grandmother wasn't the only one Phila heard scolding her in her imagination when she looked at the lethal automatic. She could also hear Crissie Masters. If you're going to carry one, Phila, for God's sake, learn how to use it. Crissie had had a pragmatic approach to most things.
The knock on her front door distracted Phila from her reveries. She found the underpants she had been searching for, pulled them on and reached for a pair of gauzy cotton pants. It was going to be hot again today. It would get hotter here in Holloway as the summer wore on. Another depressing thought.
The knock sounded again, more demanding this time. Phila decided that since the gauze pants were turquoise, her yellow T-shirt would go nicely. She slipped into it as she called out to whoever was making the racket.
“Who is it?” These days she thought twice about throwing open a door without first checking to see who was on the other side. The scene with Ruth Spalding last night had increased her wariness.
“It's Nick.”
Phila didn't think twice about opening the door; she thought three times. Then, with a muttered groan, she went down the tiny hall into the living room and flipped the dead bolt.
Something told her that Nick Lightfoot was the kind who would either stand out there on the steps all day waiting for her to emerge or go fetch a cop and claim something was seriously wrong inside her house. Either way he would see her today. She braced herself as she opened the door, not certain how to handle him.
She stood blinking up at him in the bright morning sunlight. He was wearing a khaki shirt and a pair of jeans, and his hair was still damp from his shower. He looked good, she thought with some surprise. He was still much too large, of course, but there was something very appealing about him, nevertheless.
“Good morning.” His gray gaze moved over her with a delight that made her self-conscious.
“What do you want?” Phila did not particularly care if she sounded ungracious.
Nick held up a hand, palm outward. “I come in peace bearing gifts.” He waved a white paper bag in front of her.
“What's in there?” Phila asked suspiciously.
“After watching you devour my tuna sandwiches last night, I decided that food was the way to your hard little heart. I stopped at the fast-food joint next to my motel and picked up some breakfast. I figured the least you could do was make the coffee.”
“Why?”
“So that we can have something bracing to drink while we eat my food and discuss your summer vacation.” He flattened his palm against the door and pushed slowly, steadily inward.
With a groan of resignation, Phila fell back. “All right, you're in. What about my summer vacation?” She led the way into the kitchen and turned on the drip coffee machine.
“Sit down, Phila, I have a proposition to make, and I would very much appreciate it if you could manage to sit through my entire presentation before jumping on top of it with both feet.” He dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and began unpacking the egg-and-muffin sandwiches.
“Let's hear it.” Phila sat down in the other chair, unable to ignore the food any longer. She realized with some surprise that she actually was hungry this morning, just as she had been last night. That was a nice change. Her appetite had been off lately. The only meal she had been eating on a regular basis was dinner, and she usually had to down a couple of glasses of wine to work up enough enthusiasm for that.
“You are going to have to make decisions soon that will affect a number of people.”
“Castletons and Lightfoots.”
Nick's eyebrows rose behind his glasses. “This may come as a shock to you, Phila, but Castletons and Lightfoots are people, just like Ruth Spalding and the kids you put into foster care.”
“Do me a favor, okay? Don't try to make me feel charitable toward Castletons and Lightfoots. The thought of it nauseates me.” She picked up one of the breakfast sandwiches and sniffed appreciatively.
“You don't look nauseated.” Nick eyed her narrowly for a moment before continuing. “I think you should get to know us before you decide what you're going to do about the shares, Phila. I think you could put your mind at ease if you spent some time with the families. You'd realize we're all human, just like everyone else.”
“What are you suggesting I do? Hold a party and invite them to it?”
“I'm serious about this. Everyone's in Port Claxton now, and they'll be there for a few weeks. Sort of a summer tradition. Castletons and Lightfoots are very big on tradition. You could go over to the coast, too. You'd have a chance to get to know the families, ask questions and make an informed decision about what to do with your shares. You hold a lot of power. Don't you want to use it intelligently?”
“I already know a lot about the families. More than I really want to know, in fact.”
Nick's mouth turned grim. “You've judged us all and found us wanting, haven't you? And you've never even met any of us except me.”
The truth of his words made Phila feel uneasy. She concentrated on the second egg sandwich. “I just don't think I'd get any satisfactory answers by spending time in Port Claxton.”
“The Castletons and Lightfoots have their problems, Phila, and one or two family skeletons in the closet, but none of us are monsters. I think if you got to know us, you'd realize that. And you should realize it before you make any permanent decisions regarding your inheritance.”
She stared at him intently. “You know something? I tend to forget sometimes that you're one of ‘them.’ Probably because Crissie never mentioned you. You told me yourself you walked away from the clans three years ago. But it's beginning to dawn on me that every time you mention the families you include yourself in the group. You always say ‘us.’”
“What do you expect me to do? Deny I'm related to the Lightfoots? I can't do that. I've got the nose, you see.” He tapped it with an air of importance.
Phila surveyed his nose gravely. “Did the women in your family also get that nose?”
“We never found out. I was the only kid my parents had. The nose is from my father's side of the family.”
“And your mother?” Phila asked carefully.
“My mother was very lovely,” Nick said quietly. “She died seven years ago.”
“I see. I'm sorry.” Phila wished she'd kept her mouth shut.
“You've mentioned a grandmother, but what happened to your parents, Phila?” he asked after a moment.
“They died when I was very young.”
“Who raised you? Your grandmother?”
Phila nodded. “Until I was thirteen. Then she died.”
“Who raised you after that?”
“I went into foster care.”
Nick frowned. “Jesus, Phila. You went into one of those places? You didn't have any other family? No one who would take you in?”
His genuine shock was almost humorous. “Don't look so hor
rified, Nick. Lots of people wind up in ‘those places,’ as you call them. There are some very good, kind people running them. It's not so bad, given the alternative.”
“But wasn't there anyone?” he persisted.
“I think there are a couple of distant relations out there somewhere. But they didn't bother to come forward when they heard of my grandmother's death. My caseworker tracked down one of them, an aunt on my mother's side, but she said she couldn't possibly afford to take me in. She had her hands full with her own three kids, and her husband had just walked out on her.”
“Jesus,” Nick said again, making it sound halfway between a prayer and an oath.
Phila shook her head, smiling thinly. “You say that as if you can't imagine a world in which you would have been sent into foster care.”
“I can't,” he admitted. “As long as I can remember there's always been family around, Lightfoots and Castletons both. If something had happened to my parents when I was younger, the Castletons would have taken me in and raised me as their own. My folks would have done the same for Darren. There would have been no question about it. Hell, if anything happened to Darren and his wife tomorrow, I'd take their little boy.” He shrugged. “It's just understood.”
“Not everyone has an extended family clan like that, much less the financial resources to raise a relative's orphaned kid.”
“You think I'm a little naive on the subject, don't you?” he asked wryly.
“Not any more than I was when I first went into foster care.” Phila closed her eyes briefly. “I was so scared in the beginning. Then I met Crissie. She was the same age I was, but years older in some ways. She'd been through the wars. In and out of foster care most of her life. She preferred it to living with her mother, who tended to have the kind of boyfriends who abused helpless little girls.”
“Things must have been bad at home if she actually preferred foster care,” Nick said quietly.
“They were. At any rate, for some reason neither of us ever fully understood, she took me under her wing and helped me find my feet that first year; helped me to survive, in fact. I owe her, Nick.”