Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 05 - A Deadly Change of Luck Read Free Page A

sitting on his chest.  He collapsed on the floor, clutching his shirt collar.  His last conscious thought was that he really was the unluckiest man in the world.  He’d just won fifty-eight million dollars, and he was going to die of a heart attack before he could claim it.  It was just like his Death Valley dream, only it wasn’t a dream at all.  It was very real and he was going to be very dead.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter One
     
    I had an appointment to meet Fiona Oliviera at her real estate office early on Tuesday morning.  Fiona was about ten minutes late, so I waited in my car, listening to the radio until she arrived.  A classic rock radio station played a little louder than someone my age should probably listen, but I didn’t care.  I unconsciously tapped my foot to the beat.  The music took me back to the seventies, when I was a skinny teenager with nothing but horses on my mind. 
    My name is Devonie Lace-Matthews.  I live in Del Mar, California, with my husband, Dr. Craig Matthews.  I ’d made a decision a few years ago that I didn’t have the right temperament to have a boss or a customer, not because of any specific aversion to them, but because I will nearly kill myself t o perform to their expectations —or my perception of their expectations.  A minor heart attack and a stern order from my doctor to do somethi ng about the stress in my life prompted me to make a major life change.  In order to maintain my health and sanity, I dropped out of the rat race and opted for a simpler life.  I quit my job as a database administrator for a major telecommun ications company, sold my house and lived on a sailboat for a while.  Since I married Craig, I no longer live on the boat, but it is docked at our home and we enjoy it as often as we can.  To earn a living, I search out bargains at auctions and probate sales and do my best to turn a profit. 
    I’d nearly lost track of time, singing along with an old favorite, when an older Lincoln Continental came barreling down the boulevard and swerved into the parking lot, nearly hitting me broadside.  As it screeched to a halt, I wondered if I should just start my engine and go home.
    The woman driving the car shoved the heavy door open, banging it against the wall of the building she had parked next to.  She spent two minutes gathering armloads of folders and binders and her purse before she piled out of her car.  I opened my door and stepped out.
    “Are you Devonie ?” she asked, flustered and out of breath.
    I smiled.  “Yes.  And you’re Fiona?”
    “That’s me.  Fiona Oliviera.  Come on inside,” she said, dropping one of the binders on the ground, scattering the papers in all directions.
    I began stepping on the sheets to keep them from flying away, then picked them up as quickly as I could.
    “Thanks , toots,” she said as I handed her the crumpled stack of papers.  She smiled, exposing a gap between her front teeth that a Popsicle stick could fit through.  Somehow, she managed to squeeze her size ten body into size eight Capri pants.  It was a feat many women attempt ed , but not many achieve d .  She wore a low-cut tank top under a faded cotton work shirt that she tied snugly at her waist.  I don’t know why I thought I’d be meeting a professional woman in a conservative business suit when I made the appointment with her over the phone.  She definitely was not what I expected. 
    She unlocked the door and I followed her into the Fiona Oliviera Realty office.  She dropped her armload onto a desk and motioned for me to take a seat.  After plopping down in a chair o pposite me, she began spreading papers out in front of her.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her hair.  It was ash-brown and looked as though it had been curled with soda-pop cans, but not brushed out completely.  Something else was wrong with it.  Then I realized it was a wig, and it was slipping off to one side.  She noticed my stare.
    “What?