mellow wood furnishings gave the place the opposite of a hospital feel. A big bed, overflowing with pillows and comforters in rusty shades of brown, looked like a gigantic toasted marshmallow, and seemed out of place in a sickroom. In its billowing center, looking small, pale and pitifully insignificant, lay the white-haired man to whom Lucas owed so much—Norman Victor Roxbury.
Lucas winced. Norman had seemed like a jolly, robust Santa Claus when Lucas had been fourteen. Now, he appeared a gray shadow of his former self. Even frail and ill, however, he still smiled his familiar, gentle smile. Lucas felt a rush of memories—how old Roxbury had taken him by the shoulders that day long ago, squeezed and said, “Let’s talk, my boy,” He gulped hard, recalling the compassion of the man; the way he’d instilled hope in Lucas’s broken heart, and the desire to try to make something of himself. Damn. He’d forgotten how much he’d loved—He stopped himself. Sentimentality had no place in his life. Lucas had to take a hardnosed stand, and not allow that elfish grin to sway him. There was too much at stake.
Assuming the deceptive smile he exhibited in business confrontations, he made quick work of the distance to the bed to shake the patient’s hand. “They stuck you in a pretty nice room, Norman,” he kidded halfheartedly, feeling like a jerk as he looked into those old, twinkling eyes. Why did the man have to be so obviously pleased to see him? It had been years, but he could still feel the bond. If anybody in Lucas’s life had been there for him when he’d needed somebody, it had been Norman Roxbury.
Lucas realized, with a sense of depression, that this refusal he was going to have to make would be tougher than anything he’d had to do in a long, tough career.
Roxbury’s smile broadened as he replied, “All it takes to get a fancy room like this, my boy, is to donate a wing to the hospital. They’ll treat ya pretty good, every time.”
Lucas managed a chuckle, reminding himself he was a survivor, not a sentimental fool. He’d make Norman understand his problem. The old man wouldn’t die from the disappointment. You didn’t die from being disappointed. Lucas, himself, was proof of that.
Troubled by what he had to say, but knowing it had to be said, he plunged ahead, his features reflecting his serious state of mind. “Look, Norman, I don’t have much time, so—” He halted, catching movement in a far corner of the bedroom. A slender woman was standing there, partly hidden by a towering ficus. She had straight, sandy blond hair that hung to her shoulders. Wispy bangs skimmed eyes that were focused on him. When Norman noticed Lucas had seen his other guest, he said, “Ah, yes, meet Mrs. Glen. Jessica. Pretty name, but for some reason, she prefers Jess.”
Lucas nodded, his half smile reflexive. It interested him to note that she mimicked his nod, but when she returned the friendly expression there was a remoteness about it that seemed to say she was as hesitant about this meeting as he. Strange, he thought, as she turned away to pour liquid from a silver pitcher sitting on a marble-topped commode. Before Norman spoke again, she moved silently across the rust carpet with the glass and handed it to Roxbury. Without another glance at Lucas, she seated herself in a nearby Queen Anne chair.
She’s shy, Lucas decided. But something nagged. It wasn’t only that. There’d been more to her look. She crossed her ankles, and he noticed that the skirt of her slim, brown suit had a slit up the front, revealing very long legs. Good legs. He glanced back at her face and caught her narrowed gaze on him—a gaze that seemed unaccountably provoked. Or was it? He couldn’t be sure, for as soon as their glances met, she looked down at Mr. Roxbury, who had cleared his throat.
“Sit down, my boy,” Roxbury said, indicating another antique chair that was placed strategically nearby. Lucas was hesitant. He hadn’t intended to stay long enough to sit. Reluctantly, he acknowledged he should spare a few minutes. He owed old Roxbury that much. All the while, in the back of his mind, Takahashi and his hundred-million-dollar demand loomed. He took the proffered seat, primed to explain his deadline, and to add his assurance that he would do whatever was asked of him—only later.
Not even attempting to relax in the spindly chair, Lucas