that was stress. Of course it was stress. They’d always been careful—almost always. Although Jack, for all his polished charm, could occasionally be demanding, impatient and insensitive.
But it was over now, and she could get on with her life. Diana stretched her leg and wiggled her newly polished toes. Nail polish had been her favorite treat as a little girl. Her mother would polish her toenails and tell her it was because she was a princess, only she couldn’t tell anyone. And they would look at each other and smile, and when her father came home, Diana would huddle in bed and listen to the awful fights and think, I’m a secret princess. As soon as I’m big enough, Mama and I will go find our real home, and Daddy can’t ever go there.
Daddy had been killed when she was fourteen. By then she’d known she was no princess but only the daughter of a disillusioned flower child who lacked the courage to break away from her abusive marriage to an ex-hippy. Diana remembered her father chiefly for his long absences and his vicious temper.
“Girl, you are a mess! Get it together!” she growled softly to herself.
And she was going to, she really was. It would be awkward returning to the secretarial pool after months of working on the executive floor. For one thing it was a world-class rumor mill, and she herself would be the focus of an uncomfortable amount of gossip.
But before she made any decision she was going to have to help Mr. William K. Bradford, the senior partner and chief financial officer, sort out the mess Jack had left behind. And wouldn’t you know, he’d turned out to be the man she’d plastered with melted chocolate ice cream.
Since then she’d tried to avoid him, hoping he would forget the incident, or at least forget who ruined what had to be a custom-tailored suit and a designer tie. Not to mention the white shirt. Chocolate stains were impossible to remove.
She could only hope he wouldn’t remember her. He’d been wearing sunglasses. Maybe some of the ice cream had spattered those, too, and he hadn’t seen her clearly.
The trouble was, she’d seen him. Had a good look at him, from his broad shoulders to his thick, dark hair and his wonderfully irregular features. What was there about certain men that made them so heartbreakingly attractive? There were probably thousands of men who were more handsome. Hundreds.
Dozens, at least. She didn’t lose any sleep over any of them, while the very thought of having to work in close contact with Will Bradford was enough to make her break out in a heat rash. She hadn’t exactly led a sheltered existence. She did know the facts of life. She simply didn’t know how to deal with a man who made her think wicked thoughts so soon after her mother had died and she’d broken off with Jack.
So much for disapproving of her parents’ early lifestyle. If It Feels Good, Do It.
She’d done it, and it hadn’t even felt particularly good.
Huddling in the lopsided recliner her mother had bought at a going-out-of-business sale, she thought some more about William Bradford. He struck her as the kind of man who lived his life by a set of ironclad rules. She liked that in a man. Purpose. Discipline. Order.
From now on, Diana vowed, she would make rules of her own, rule number one being that she was in sole control of Diana Foster. From this day forward she would take complete responsibility for her own life.
Will was the last to arrive for the weekly dinner meeting in one of the smaller private rooms at the Texas Cattleman’s Club, an exclusive establishment formed originally so that a few wealthy cattle barons and some of the early oilmen could escape from their wives for a night out. As years passed it had served as a convenient cover for a number of covert operations. Of the small group of close friends, all were ex-military and had been involved in any number of operations that never hit the news. Thank God things had been quiet on that front lately. With Jack’s unexpected death, Will had had enough on his mind without having to fly off at a moment’s notice to rescue some poor unfortunate who’d blundered into trouble.
Between missions, the club served as a fund-raising organization for various charities that had arisen as the small town of Royal doubled and tripled its size. Will was, unfortunately, a member of the club’s committee whose duty it was to sift through the dozens of applications and choose a worthy recipient for the funds raised by the annual charity ball. He’d just as soon divide the take equally among the charities, but tradition precluded such a simple solution.
After nodding to a few of the older members dozing over their Wall Street Journals in the cigar, brandy and wax-scented great room, Will opened the massive oak door and closed it quietly behind him. “Evening, gentleman,” he greeted.
“Man, you look like hell.” It was Jason, foreign advisor and CIA agent, the youngest of the group, who passed judgment on him.
Sebastian, Jack’s son and newly appointed CEO of Wescott Oil, looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was obvious his father’s death and the new responsibilities had taken their toll. Gamely he grinned. “Things are that bad in your neck of the woods, huh?”
“Not bad. Shall we say…disorganized? If your father had suspected an OPEC spy of trying to infiltrate the company to gather information, he might have devised a similar plan for throwing him off track. Anyone ordered yet? What are we having?”
Their tastes were as varied as the men themselves. Keith Owens, owner of a computer software company, was still studying the bill of fare. Robert Cole, private detective with an old-money background, usually ordered seafood.
Will chose steak, medium rare, with a baked potato, no sour cream and a salad, which he didn’t particularly want but which he ordered anyway because at his age a smart man started thinking about health and his own mortality.
Pity poor Jack hadn’t started earlier.
Will hadn’t had time to stop by the club in more than a week. Since every man present was the son, if not the grandson, of a former member, this group was the closest thing to family he was ever apt to have. He asked after each man individually, then took a sip of the single drink he allowed himself each evening and said, “Want to tell me what all the snickers were about when I walked in?”
“What snickers? Oh, you must mean the bet. Seb has the dubious honor of heading up this year’s gala, and he suggested that since we’re all aging bachelors, we place a bet on which one will still be standing alone by the end of the year. Whoever wins can have the consolation prize of choosing the beneficiary,” Rob explained.
Will looked from one man to the other. “You’re not serious. Hell, I outgrew that kind of thing in prep school.”
Jason, the youngest member of the group, enjoyed his playboy reputation enough to pick up the challenge. “Not that I’m particularly interested in game playing—” he was widely known for his games with the fairer sex “—but I’ll win this one in a walk-away.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, old boy?”
Jason, his eyes alight with amusement, said, “Yeah, that about covers it.” It was widely known, as well, that Jason was allergic to marriage.
And while Will didn’t particularly want to win the consolation prize, marriage was definitely not in his future. Once had been enough.
“So, that’s settled,” Sebastian said, sounding vastly relieved. “Lets me off the hook.”
It occurred to
