sort of fellow he is. I'm not too impressed, I must say." He sipped at his drink and raised his eyebrows at Lilah in a manner that managed to be superior without being condescending.
T.S. hated the fellow on sight. He pegged him at once as a CEO or president of his own company, one who had started with inherited money but then made a huge success out of—probably doubling or quadrupling—the family fortune. Now he was in his early fifties, all tanned and exercised into good health, probably with one wife behind him and a newer model floating around somewhere. Plus a girlfriend, three secretaries and a legion of toadying employees. T.S. knew the type well. What was he doing at Lance Worthington's party? Surely he had better investments of both time and money to make. Especially if he moved in that world of old money that intimidated T.S. so much—the same world Lilah had grown up in.
It was the one thing, T.S. reflected sadly, that might conspire to keep them apart. All that money. Or a man like Albert. In a sudden flood of insecurity, he silently directed his hostility toward Albert.
If Lilah thought Albert's presence at the party was odd, she tactfully kept silent. But she could sense T.S.'s discomfort and looked so uneasy that T.S. relented. He decided that he would be gracious and attempt small talk after all. "Wonder where our host is?" he asked their new companion.
Albert shrugged, bored, and T.S. took it as a personal insult. "Probably in the back bedroom," Albert finally replied. "He seems to be spending a lot of time there."
As if on cue, Lance Worthington appeared in the back hallway, a familiar blonde on one arm. "There he is," T.S. nodded toward the darkened interior. "And he's got that woman with him. Red dress."
"Sally St. Claire," Lilah murmured. "Although I'm sure that's a nom deplume of sorts. It would be the perfect name for the madam of a bordello."
"You know Sally?" Albert inquired a little too casually and T.S. knew at once that he had a more than passing familiarity with Sally St. Claire's more intimate attributes. T.S. had interviewed people for a living for thirty plus years and picked up a few pointers on the inability of humans to keep silent when it would greatly behoove them to do so.
"We've been spotted," Lilah murmured sweetly. She turned away, but it was much too late. Lance Worthington made a beeline across the apartment, brushing rudely past other guests in his haste to reach what he thought was the wealthiest trio in the room.
"Mr. Hubbert. Ms. Cheswick... I'd given up hope!" The producer was maniacally animated, his eyes wide and his lips smacking nervously between sentences. He fidgeted beside them and tugged at his tiny chimpanzee ears. "Silly of me. I thought you'd backed out or something." Unwilling to let anyone answer, he continued with his rapid patter. "I see you've met Mr. Goodwin here. He's one of my most generous backers, aren't you Al? In for nearly twenty points. We're talking about a healthy six-figure investment, but don't worry." He patted Albert's hand and failed to notice the wincing reaction the gesture provoked. "You'll find it's a good bet, indeed."
The producer turned his attention to Lilah and T.S., darting glances between the two as if not sure which one had the most money and so deserved the most of his attention. "Don't be put off by the… uh, exuberance, shall we say, of the party," Worthington ordered with mock seriousness. "We all like to let our hair down now and then." He gave a laugh that sounded far more unpleasant than even he had intended, for he hurried on before anyone else could react. "It's all quite legitimate," he assured them, though no one had suggested otherwise. At least not out loud. "Just take a look at those men in the pit, as I call it. Some of the more respected names in city industry are here." He began to point out each man, citing his position and the amount he was investing in the play. T.S. was appalled at his vulgar breach of etiquette. He also wondered why these otherwise successful men, these "captains of industry" as Lance Worthington declared, would be sinking from $50,000 to $200,000 apiece in something as risky as a musical about Davy Crockett's life? It just didn't add up.
"Enough about that," the producer finally declared, winding up his four-minute speech on the lucrative nature