It was better than looking as if you’d been socked in the jaw, Devon thought.
What on earth had made her think of that?
Whatever the reason, she was glad of it.
For the first time in hours, Devon smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
AT A few minutes past four every Friday afternoon, end-of-week celebrants from Wall Street’s financial offices began pouring out into the streets. Lounges and bars filled up with regulars intent on getting the weekend off to a quick start.
Ryan and Frank, who had made a ritual of toasting the week’s end together since their university days, snagged the last pair of empty leather stools at the mahogany bar at The Watering Hole and exchanged friendly greetings with Harry, the bartender.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Harry said. “The usual?”
“Yes,” Frank answered, but Ryan shook his head.
“I’ll have a Coke.”
“A Coke?” Frank said, lifting his eyebrows. “What’s the matter, pal? Did that dame’s right hook rattle your brain?”
Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “It was a good shot,” he said grumpily. “Is there a mark?”
“A little shadow, maybe, right there—”
“Ouch!” Ryan drew a sharp breath just as the bartender put an ice-filled glass and an open bottle of Coke in front of him. He took an ice cube from the glass, wrapped it in his handkerchief and held it gently against his jaw. “Maybe this will help. I don’t really feel like trying to explain a lump on my jaw to my grandfather.”
“Ah,” Frank said, “now I get it. No booze because you’re making the long drive out to see the old man, right?”
“You’ve got it.” Ryan waggled his jaw carefully from side to side. “Can you believe that dame? She walks around, shows off damned near everything she’s got, then gets ticked off when a guy notices. Whatever happened to decorum?”
“Decorum?”
“Yes. Decorum. You know, less cleavage, less leg, less of everything on display.”
Frank’s brows rose just a little. “This from the man who once dated Miss November?”
True enough, Ryan thought with some surprise. When had he ever cared how much a woman showed? If she was good-looking, the more, the better.
His eyes met Frank’s. “It was Miss December,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you remember those little bells?”
Frank chuckled. “Man, do I ever!” Frowning, he peered at Ryan’s jaw. “That bruise is turning color. You’d better run up a tale Grandpa will buy.”
Ryan sighed. “The hell with it. If he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. He’ll probably tell me the girl gave me exactly what I deserved.”
“The old man hasn’t changed, huh?”
“Unlike the female of the species,” Ryan said with a fond smile, “my grandfather is always predictable.”
So was an evening in the Kincaid house, Ryan thought as Frank excused himself and headed for the lavatory.
Drinks first, in the old-fashioned sitting room. Bourbon for Ryan, seltzer for James since he’d given up whiskey on orders of his doctors. Then Agnes Brimley, his grandfather’s prune-faced housekeeper would call them into the dining room for a medically approved dinner of gritty brown rice, mushy vegetables and stringy chicken. Dessert would have the look, smell and texture of pulverized soap.
Then the old man would shut the door on both logic and the disapproving Miss Brimley, light up one of the ropy cigars that were his sole remaining vice, fix Ryan with a rheumy eye and deliver The Lecture of the Month.
The World and How Much Better it Had Been Seventy Years Ago was always the choice opener. Second would come Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated—even though in the five years Ryan had been running the development firm his grandfather had founded, he’d built it from being an east coast success to a national conglomerate.
But those were only warm-ups to James’s favorite lecture, which always began with the words, “Time is passing, my boy,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-two soon and that it was time he settled down.
Ryan smiled. And he would sit through it all without more than token protest. What would the pundits of high finance make of that? Ryan Kincaid, the man Time magazine had dubbed The Lone Raider, would endure the lectures for the simplest, most complex of reasons—because he loved his grandfather and his grandfather loved him, even if the old man would sooner eat nails than admit it.
His grandfather had raised him and Gordon both, after their parents’ messy divorce. Now, with Gordon gone, neither Ryan nor the old man had anyone else to care about.
“So, what about Sharon?”
Ryan looked up as Frank eased himself onto the stool again.
“What about her?”
“She can’t be thrilled to be without you this evening, considering how she fusses over our weekly boys’ night out.”
Ryan grimaced. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not talk about Sharon.”
“Problems?”
“Well, I forgot her birthday.”
“Which is why we ended up in Montano’s.”
“Yeah, but there’s more.” Ryan sighed. “I thought we understood each other. She didn’t want anything permanent and neither did I. Now she’s starting to talk about how all her friends are getting married and having babies.”
“I hope you told her you’re too young to end your life.”
Ryan lifted his glass, brought it to his lips, gazed into the dark liquid and then put it down again, untouched.
“The thing of it is, I’m not.”
Frank recoiled in horror. “What?”
“We’re pushing middle-age, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“At thirty-two?” Frank began to grin. “I get it. You’re anticipating Grandpa Kincaid’s lecture about Getting Married, Settling Down, and Producing Little Kincaids to comfort him in his old age.”
“There are times I almost think he’s right.” Ryan’s mouth twisted. “After all, my brother’s dead, and heaven knows his marriage didn’t produce any heirs.”
“Yeah. That was a fiasco, wasn’t it?”
“What else could it have been? Gordon got himself hitched to San Francisco’s own version of Jezebel.”
