The Golden Chance Read Free

a large man, she realized, and that alone made her feel hostile. She did not like large males.
    “Thanks for the tea. I've been getting by on warm beer for the past hour.” Nicodemus Lightfoot reached for a frosty glass.
    The vibration of his voice sent a distant, whispered warning through Phila's nerve endings. She told herself she was imagining things. Her nerves had been more than a little frayed lately. But she had always relied on her instincts, and now she couldn't ignore the way his voice disturbed her senses.
    Everything about this man was too calm, too still and watchful, as if he could spend hours waiting in darkness.
    “Nobody asked you to sit out in front of my house for an hour, Nicodemus Lightfoot.” Phila sat down in a yellow canvas director's chair and picked up her own glass of tea.
    “Call me Nick.”
    She didn't respond immediately. Instead she examined him for a few seconds, noting the gold-and-steel watch, the blue oxford-cloth button-down that he wore open at the throat, and the snug, faded jeans. The jeans looked like standard-issue Levi's, but she guessed that the casual shirt had cost a hundred bucks or more. His type would wear hundred-dollar shirts with old jeans.
    “Why on earth should I call you Nick?” She took a swallow of cold tea.
    Nick Lightfoot didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he studied her in turn, his eyes thoughtful behind the lenses of his glasses. The window air conditioner hummed in the silence.
    “You're going to be difficult, aren't you?” he finally observed.
    “It's what I'm good at. I've had a lot of practice.”
    His eyes swept over the glass coffee table, spotted the stack of travel brochures. “Going on a trip?”
    “Thinking about it.”
    “California?” He flipped through a couple of the folders with their scenes of endless beaches and Disneyland.
    “Crissie used to say Southern California would be good for me. She always claimed I needed a taste of life in the fast lane.”
    Lightfoot said nothing for a few minutes, and Phila watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was a predator, she decided. His light gray eyes reflected little…only perhaps an unending search for prey and a cold intelligence. The thin lips, bold, aggressive nose and the high, blunt cheekbones made her think of a large animal. The heavy pelt of his dark hair was lightly iced with silver. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed. And he'd done some hunting in his time.
    There was an unconscious arrogance in the set of his shoulders and a lean but powerful strength in his body. She knew that his must be a smooth, prowling stride that ate up ground as he moved. He could stalk a victim all day if necessary and still have plenty of energy left for making the kill at the end of the hunt.
    “You aren't quite what I expected,” Nick said finally, looking up from the brochures.
    “What did you expect?”
    “I don't know. You just aren't it.”
    “I've had phone calls from someone named Hilary Lightfoot who sounds like she runs around in an English riding habit most of the time. Also, some from a man named Darren Castleton. He sounds like he's running for office. Where do you fit into the scenario, Mr. Lightfoot? Crissie never mentioned you. Frankly, you look like hired muscle.”
    “I never met Crissie Masters. I moved from Washington to California three years ago.”
    “How did you find me?”
    “It wasn't hard. I made a few phone calls. Your ex-boss gave me your address.”
    “Thelma told you where I was?” Phila asked sharply.
    “Yeah.”
    “What did you do to her to make her tell?”
    “I didn't do anything to her. I just talked to her.”
    “I'll bet. You say that a little too easily for my taste.”
    “No accounting for taste.”
    “You're accustomed to people answering questions when you ask them, aren't you?”
    “Why shouldn't she have been willing to cooperate?” he asked with the mildest possible expression of surprise.
    “I asked her not to give out my