while the cool water helped clear his mind. As he slathered soap from the postage-stamp-size bar onto his flat midriff and let the suds trickle down his torso, the image of Eliza Chandler Edwards arose in his mind.
Lancelot Beckett had known his share of beautiful women—maybe more than his share; although, ever since he’d been left at the altar at the impressionable age of twenty-two, he’d made it a policy never to invite a repetition. At this point in his life he figured it was too late, anyhow. Any man who wasn’t married by his midthirties probably wasn’t a viable candidate.
All the same, it had been a long time since he’d met a more intriguing woman than Ms. Edwards. Skilled at reading people, he hadn’t missed the flash of interest that had flickered in those golden-brown eyes just before wariness had shut it off. Pit that against the physical barriers she’d erected and, yeah…intriguing wasn’t too strong a word. Her hair was not quite brown, not quite red. Thick and wavy, with a scattering of golden strands that had a tendency to curl, she wore it twisted up on her head and anchored down with some kind of a tortoiseshell gadget. Her clothes were the kind deliberately designed to conceal rather than reveal. He wondered if she realized that on the right woman, concealment was a hell of a lot more exciting than full exposure.
Oh, yeah, she was something all right. Everything about her shouted, “Look but don’t touch.”
In fact, don’t even bother to look. Which had the reverse effect. Did she know that? Was it deliberate?
Somehow he didn’t think so.
He adjusted the water temperature again, trying for ice-cold, but only getting tepid. Not for the first time he told himself he should have waited and let Carson do the honors. Car was two years younger and didn’t have quite as much rough mileage on him as Beckett did.
But he’d promised. As his mother had stated flatly, time was running out, and it was time to lay this business to rest once and for all. “PawPaw’s worried sick, and Coley doesn’t need that kind of aggravation.”
Ever since Beckett’s father had been diagnosed with emphysema, his mother’s main purpose in life had been to spare him anything more stressful than choosing which pair of socks to wear with his madras Bermudas when he got up in the morning.
She’d been waiting at the airport when Beckett had flown in more than a week ago. She’d hugged him fiercely, then stepped back to give him her patented Inspector Mother’s once-over. Nodding in approval, she said, “You do this one thing for me, honey, then you come back here and tell PawPaw it’s finished. Just find somebody named Chandler and hand over that mess of old papers and whatever else you think the Becketts owe them, then you can go back to chasing your pirates. Honestly, of all things for a grown man to be doing.” She’d tsk-tsked him and slid in under the wheel.
Beckett had tried several times to explain to his mother that piracy on the high seas was as prevalent now as it had been in the days when Blackbeard had plied his trade off the Carolina coast. No matter. To her, it was still a kid’s game. She’d wanted him to go into politics like his state senator father, Coley Jefferson Beckett. Or into investment banking like his grandfather, Elias Lancelot Beckett, and his great-grandfather, L. Frederick Beckett—the man who had started this whole bloody mess.
A few years ago he had fallen hard for a sexy marine biologist named Carolyn. Fallen hard but, as usual, not quite hard enough. After about six months he’d been the one to call it quits. He’d done it as graciously as he knew how, but Carolyn had been hurt. Beckett had readily accepted his guilt. Fortunately—or perhaps not—his work made it easy to run from commitment.
The payback had come a year later when he’d run into a glowing and very pregnant Carolyn and her professor husband at a jazz festival. He’d had a few bad moments as a result, wondering if he might have made a mistake. Family had always been important to him. Even seeing that old man today, rocking away the last years of his life at a roadside produce stand, had reminded him a little too much of his own mortality.
True, the Beckett men were generally long-lived, but what would it be like to grow old completely alone, with no wife to warm his bed—no kids to drive him nuts? No grandkids to crawl up on his arthritic knees?
His only legacy was a healthy portfolio and a small, modestly successful firm he’d built from practically nothing—one that included a two-room office in Delaware, a partner and a part-time secretary. His will left whatever worldly goods he possessed at the time of his death to his parents. Who else was there? Carson? A few distant cousins he’d never even met?
Cripes, now he really was getting depressed. Maybe it was all this humidity—he was coming down with a bad case of mildew of the brain, he told himself, only half joking as he crossed the bedroom buck stark naked to dig out a change of clothes.
On the other hand, it could be due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the lousy chili dog he’d bought at the airport. One cup of free ice water didn’t do the job.
Liza washed her hair and towel dried it before fixing supper. Then she did something she hadn’t done in a long, long time. She stood in front of the fogged and age-speckled mirror on her dresser and studied her naked body. James had called her classy. Any man in his right mind would call her clinically emaciated. Her hipbones poked out, her ribs were clearly visible, and as for her breasts…
Tentatively she covered the slight swells with her hands. Her nipples, still sensitive from the rough toweling, nudged her palms, and she cursed under her breath and turned away.
That part of her life was over. Fortunately, sex had never played that large a role. After the first year or so, she had done her wifely duty once a week, sometimes twice, and then even that had ended. They’d gone out almost every night, entertaining or being entertained, and by the time they got home, they’d both been ready to fall into bed. To sleep, not to play. After a few drinks James hadn’t been up to it, and she’d felt more relief than anything else.
Dressing hastily, she hurried into the kitchen. There was a Braves game tonight; they were playing the Mets. Next to the Yankees, the Mets were her uncle’s favorite team to hate. Once the dishes were washed she could retire to her room and look through those blasted papers. It wouldn’t hurt. The envelope wasn’t sealed, just fastened with a metal clasp. If it had anything to do with James, she would simply toss it, because that part of her life was over and done with. She had repaid as much as she was able, although she hadn’t been obligated to do even that much. She’d been cleared of all responsibility after James had made it quite clear before he’d died that she’d never even known what was going on, much less been involved.
His last act had been one of surprising generosity, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been brought in for questioning. Nor did the fact that she hadn’t known what was going on mean she’d escaped feeling guilty once she’d found out. She’d lived high on the hog, as Uncle Fred would say, for almost eleven years on the proceeds of James’s financial shell games. The beautiful house in North Dallas, the trips to all those island resorts that James always claimed were for networking. Like a blind fool, she’d gone along whenever he’d asked her to; although, for the most part, she hadn’t particularly liked the people he’d met there.
When the dishes were done, she turned out the light. Uncle Fred called from the living room. “Game time. You want to bet on the spread?”
“A quarter says the Mets win by five points.” She knew little about baseball and wasn’t particularly interested, but he enjoyed the games so much that she tried to share his enthusiasm.
“You’re on! I know you, gal—you like that Piazza feller that catches for ’em.” His teasing
