Stroke of Fortune (12 page)

She nodded and sipped from her water goblet. “Well, is there?”

“'Fraid so. Though if you ask any one of the Mercados, you can bet they'll tell you they made all their money in that paving and contracting business they own. From what I understand, Ricky's still more in the legit end of the business. It's Frank Del Brio who's next in line to take over as mob boss, after Carmine.”

“Carmine. That's Ricky's uncle?”

“Right.”

“They're all members of the country club?”

“Right again. The Mercados have been members for generations now. They conduct more of their business here than I would like. But they're very generous. The club receives major endowments from them on a regular basis. Truth is, a lot of what you see when you look around this place was paid for by Mercado money.”

Josie was shocked. “Mafia money?”

“That's not what I said.”

“But—”

“The money the Mercados give the club is always what you could call clean money. It comes from Mercado Brothers Paving and Contracting, or from Carmine's personal bank accounts.”

“But still—”

“Josie. Your naiveté is showing.”

Naive. It was the same thing Rose had called her that afternoon.

Flynt must have seen her expression change. “What's wrong?”

Of course, she couldn't say. She'd sworn she wouldn't and she meant to keep her word. “Nothing. Just…life, I guess.”

“You look sad.”

She picked up her napkin from her lap and patted it against her mouth. “Well, I'm not.” She slanted him a playful look. “What's for dessert?”

Another waiter appeared to clear off their plates. Flynt asked to see the dessert cart. They split something sinfully chocolate, which was the best part of the meal, in Josie's opinion.

Once the dessert plates were cleared away, Flynt leaned close across the table. “See? Coming here wasn't so painful, was it?”

She only smiled at him. He was right. It hadn't been bad at all.

“Ready to go?”

“Well, I could use about five minutes to put on fresh lipstick, if that's okay?”

He told her where to find the nearest ladies' room. She picked up her small beaded bag and slid out of her gilded blue chair. She had to walk past several tables where wealthy club members sat, eating their big cuts of prime rib and their slightly tough veal. Diamonds glittered at the throats of the women, and
the men wore expensive suits and watches that cost more than Josie had made in the past year.

But she didn't feel anxious. She didn't feel less than them. She knew she looked good and she carried herself well. If things worked out between her and Flynt, she could get along in this world. She was smart and she learned fast. In a few years they would think of her as one of them.

Now, if Grace Carson would only hurry up and realize that.

She went through an archway and found herself in a sort of hallway with a wall on one side masking off the luxurious dining room she'd just left. On the other side, sets of arched French doors led out onto a patio. Josie turned toward the ladies' room, which was down at one end, and right then, the door opened. A man came out. He had mussed hair, a crooked tie—and lipstick smeared across his mouth.

It was Frank Del Brio, the up-and-coming Texas mob boss.

Josie gaped. Frank Del Brio didn't miss a beat. He straightened his tie, and he raked his wild black hair back into place with splayed fingers and quickly rubbed the telltale red smudges from his mouth. He clicked his tongue in a rude way and gave Josie a wink. Then he went on by.

Josie hesitated to enter the ladies' room. What would she find on the other side of that door? Nothing too embarrassing, she hoped. She stood in the aisle
for several seconds, thinking she'd give whoever was in there an opportunity to make herself presentable.

Finally, it just got too silly, lurking in that hallway, waiting for…what? She wasn't quite sure. She continued on to the door and pushed it open.

In the glass and marble confines beyond, Josie found one woman—fully dressed, thank God—standing at the mirrors. The woman was small, maybe five-two or so, with a short mop of carrot-red hair. She wore what a lot of the staff at the club wore, a black skirt and white shirt. She was freshening her lipstick, looking very cool and collected.

Too bad her skirt was only half-zipped.

She must have realized the problem, because she set the lipstick down, turned from the mirror, and gave Josie a long, slow, insolent look as she reached behind herself and did the zipper up the rest of the way.

Josie glanced down and saw the name tag pinned above her left breast: Hello, it read. I'm Erica.

When Josie met the woman's eyes again, a too-friendly smile had replaced the insolent stare. “Hi.”

Josie nodded and kept walking, thinking she wouldn't like to tangle with that one. She entered the first stall. When she came out, the redhead named Erica was gone.

 

They were back in the Cadillac, headed toward town, when Flynt suggested, “Want to stop in at the Saddlebag for a drink?”

Josie sent him a fond look. He didn't want the evening to end any more than she did.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Well, I guess I should say that
you're
welcome to a drink. I'll have my usual.”

“I'd love to stop at the Saddlebag for a drink.”

So they went to the quiet, dim bar out on Gulf Road a few miles east of town. They took one of the tables not far from the bar itself. Flynt order his club soda and Josie had a 7-Up and he reached across the table and she put her hand in his.

It felt lovely. Absolutely right. The two of them, here in the dimness, holding hands across the scratched cocktail table, listening to Shania Twain not too loud on the jukebox and hearing the click of pool balls in the back room as somebody took somebody else at eight ball.

She told him about Frank Del Brio coming out of the ladies' room with lipstick on his mouth and his tie undone, and about the woman named Erica, too.

Flynt shook his head. “I'll talk to Harvey. I think I remember that little redhead. A waitress. Clawson, I think it is. Erica Clawson.”

“Flynt, I'm not trying to get the poor woman fired.”

“Don't worry. I'm not having her fired just because she and Del Brio have something going on. I'll just make a note of it to Harvey. He can keep his eyes
open. And he can warn her that the hanky panky in the ladies' room is to stop as of now.”

“I do mean it, I don't want to see her lose her job…”

“But?”

“Well, I sure didn't like her much. Something real phony about her, you know? She gave me the evil eye when I first walked in on her, and then, out of nowhere, she put on this cute, sweet smile.” Josie shivered. “It was downright creepy.”

He was grinning at her. “But you don't want her fired.”

“Well, now, Flynt, even a mean girl's gotta eat. Is that a slow song I hear on the jukebox?”

His hand tightened around hers. “Dance?”

“Oh, yes.”

He stood and he took her in his arms. There wasn't much of a dance floor, really, just a wide space between the tables. But Josie didn't care and Flynt didn't seem to, either. He cradled her close and they swayed to the music.

It was heaven, just being in his arms. For so long she hadn't dared to dream he would ever hold her close again. But here they were, on a small square of floor at the Saddlebag, together, touching in all the tempting ways people could touch in a dance, a sexy, slow love song leading them on.

When the song ended, she lifted her head from his
shoulder and looked up at him. He looked down at her and there was nothing else in the world right at that moment, but her eyes meeting his eyes, the two of them in some soft, hazy place, with their arms around each other.

He lowered his mouth and captured hers and she sighed, opening to him, aroused in the deepest, truest way. She felt utterly his, and so glad of that fact.

Another slow love song started up and they were dancing again—well, kind of swaying to the music, anyway, and kissing as they swayed. Nobody in the bar seemed to care or to notice, which was another good thing about the Saddlebag. Folks tended to mind their own business there.

After a while that second song ended. Flynt pulled away enough to look into her eyes again. He whispered her name.

She heard the question in it and nodded.

He took her hand and led her out of there.

T
hey stopped at a convenience store on the way into town.

Flynt went in alone and came out with a brown paper bag. Josie knew what it contained. And she knew what he was thinking, that he'd see to it there was no chance she'd end up pregnant this time around.

When he got back in the car, he leaned across the console and kissed her. Then he looked at her, a probing kind of look. She waited for him to ask the question he'd promised he wouldn't ask again.

But then he only gave her a tender smile, moved back behind the wheel and started up the car.

She wanted to check on her mother. He went into the house with her and waited in the front room while she looked in on Alva.

“Sound asleep,” Josie told him when she emerged from the tiny hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I'll just write her a quick note.” She got a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote that she'd gone back to Carson Ranch, that she'd stop by tomorrow for an hour or
two in the afternoon. She propped the note against the saltshaker on the kitchen table.

They returned to the ranch, where they found Grace asleep in the rocker in Lena's room, a novel open on her lap, a small lamp still lit beside her, her reading glasses slipping down her nose.

Flynt set the brown bag he'd brought from the convenience store on the low table by the door. Then he went to his mother, bent close to her and whispered, “Ma.”

Grace started and jerked upright, her eyes popping open. “What in the—” She looked at her son. And then she looked at Josie, standing a few feet away. When her gaze moved back to Flynt, something happened in her face, a softening. “Oh,” she said, as if someone had just given her some crucial piece of information and she was accepting it, acknowledging that she'd heard and understood. “Well,” she said quietly. “I guess I'll go on to bed now.”

“'Night, Ma.”

Grace closed her book, slid her reading glasses into their case and pushed herself from the chair. She looked right at Josie. “I suppose things tend to work out, after all, don't they?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carson. If you let them, they do.”

“You'll call me Grace now, won't you?”

Josie nodded. “I will.”

Grace whispered another good-night and left them.

Josie turned to Flynt. He was perhaps five feet
away, near the chair that still rocked a little in an echo of Grace's presence there. He held out his hand.

With a small, glad cry, she went to him, reaching toward the hand that reached out to her. He caught her fingers in his, gave a tug—and she landed right where she wanted to be: in his arms.

“A kiss,” he whispered into her upturned face.

“Oh, yes.”

She gave him her mouth and he plundered it, tenderly, sweetly, oh, so very thoroughly.

When he drew back, he slid a hand along her arm and captured her fingers again. He turned to pull her toward the door.

Josie cast a glance at the baby's crib. “Oh, wait,” she whispered.

So they tiptoed over there, together, just to make certain Lena was sleeping soundly.

She was. They stood over her, holding hands. At that moment, Josie felt such gratitude toward the dark-haired darling in that crib. Really, this child had made tonight possible.

Standing over the little angel now, Josie knew with certainty what the future would bring. She and Flynt would share a good marriage. They'd have several children. It would be all she'd ever dreamed of. Her sweetest, most impossible secret yearnings all coming true.

Yes, there would be another rough time to get through: when the results of that test came and the
truth had to be faced. But they would get through it; Josie just knew they would.

Hadn't they won Grace over? Hadn't they gone out to the Lone Star Country Club together, and hadn't it worked out just fine?

And most important, wasn't Flynt slowly giving up that terrible promise he'd made to himself after Monica died? Yes. He was smiling more. He was…happier.

He was learning to live—and to love—again.

“Lena's fine,” Flynt whispered.

“Yes, she is.”

“Come on.” He sounded urgent, hungry. She felt the same. He turned for the door, still holding tight to her hand, pausing only to grab the brown bag off the table as they went by.

 

His bedroom suite was as she remembered it.

He'd ordered it all done over when he got sober, a year after the accident that took Monica and their unborn child. The colors were masculine—strong, deep and rich reds and maroons, blacks and midnight-blues. The door from the hallway opened into the sitting area, with its black damask wing chairs and a sofa patterned in maroon and blue—the blue so dark it almost looked black. There were lamps with cloisonné bases and tables inlaid with jade.

Flynt pulled her in there, shut the door and turned
the latch as well as a dial beside the door. Soft recessed lights glowed overhead.

He backed her up against that door and started kissing her again. He kissed her mouth and then he trailed a string of kisses up to her temple, down along her cheek to her mouth again, where he lingered—but not for long.

Right away, his mouth went on the prowl once more. He kissed her throat with wet, sucking kisses. She moaned. He made an answering sound deep in his throat.

He dropped the brown bag. She heard it fall to the floor not far from their feet. His hands found the zipper at the back of her dress. He caught the tab and she heard that shivery, sizzling sound as it went down. She felt the air against her back. And then his hands were there, on her bare skin, caressing, driving her wonderfully crazy, so sweetly mad.

He took the sides of the dress and peeled it over her shoulders. At his urging, she slid her arms out. He took the dress down, working it over her hips until it fell to her feet—her little black panties going down with it.

When she stepped free of the fabric, he scooped up the dress and the little scrap of panties and sent them sailing toward a chair. It was a hot South Texas night, and she hadn't worn any stockings. The gorgeous sandals Mrs. McKenzie had talked her into buying looked good without them, anyway. So what she had
left right then were the sandals and a black bra that matched the panties—or at least, for about ten more seconds she had a black bra.

Flynt unhooked it and tossed it atop the rest of her clothes.

Which left her standing there, naked from the ankles up.

He took her mouth again, and her knees went to jelly. She clutched his shoulders and pushed at his jacket. He took the hint and let her shove it off his shoulders, catching it as it fell and sending it flying.

He breathed her name against her skin, over and over as his lips moved on her body. His mouth closed on a hard, aching nipple. She cried out. He sucked at her, deeply, and she arched her back, heat pooling in her belly, moving outward, turning her inside out, making her ready, so ready. For him.

He drew on her breast and he slipped a hand between them, stroking her stomach, so she gasped and moaned some more. And then that hand went lower.

He touched the tight pale curls at the place where her thighs joined. Oh, she just knew she was going to melt right there, just slide down to the soft carpet underfoot, her whole body gone liquid.

His mouth slid upward again to claim hers. She kissed him. And she put her hands on his chest, set her fingers to the task of unbuttoning his shirt.

It wasn't easy, but she managed it, kissing him the whole time. She shoved that shirt off his big shoulders
and then she pressed herself against him, her bare breasts to his fine, hard chest. Down below, he kept on tormenting her. His fingers moved lower still, parting her. She groaned into his mouth.

And then he broke the endless kiss they shared, pressing his forehead against hers as his hand continued, stroking fast and then slowly, a rhythm that drove her wild, that made her whole body burn.

She couldn't stay standing, couldn't hold herself upright. So she let go, just slid right down that door to the soft, thick carpet below. He went with her, bending to a crouch, then helping her, urging her to stretch out.

And to open her legs for him.

As if she could have done anything else right then.

His hand kept on, as he kissed his way downward, his tongue sliding along her throat, leaving a trail of hot wetness that the caress of the air made cool. He lingered briefly at her breasts, taking one and then the other into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the nipples, drawing so deeply that she felt as if a thread of pure desire had pulled itself taut from the place where he kissed her down into the melting hot center of her sex.

And then his mouth moved lower still. His tongue trailed over her navel, dipping in briefly, then down…and down….

He settled himself between her legs. She didn't object—why should she? His kiss, his touch—it was all
that she wanted. All she'd secretly yearned for through the long months just passed.

He said her name. She opened her eyes, looked into his.

And he lowered his head and kissed her—kissed her in that most secret of places. She let out a cry, clutching for him, her fingers sliding through his silky brown hair. And she called out his name, once and then again and then again and again.

The whole world seemed to expand. There was heat and brightness behind her eyes. And then the wonderful, hot pulsing of release began.

He kept his mouth on her, until the ripples of completion faded. Then he lifted his head once more and, once again, she was looking down the length of her own naked body and into those blue, blue eyes of his.

And then she couldn't bear it, meeting his gaze right then. With a sigh, she turned away. She felt…shy at that moment. And also lazy and very naughty and extremely satisfied.

He moved, gently disentangling himself. He rolled to the side and sat, his back to her. With a long sigh, she turned her head his way again and watched as he swiftly and rather ruthlessly began stripping off the rest of his clothes.

“Flynt.” She reached out, touched the tender place at the small of his back.

He sent her a hot glance over his shoulder.

She didn't have anything to say to him, really. She
just wanted the contact again, to feel his eyes meeting hers. He gave her that, then turned back to his task, yanking off his boots and socks, and slacks and briefs.

At last he was naked, too. He turned back to her, bent over her, put his mouth on hers again.

More kisses. Endless kisses. Kisses she needed to give—and to get. They had so many kisses to make up for. So many kisses missed. Almost a year's worth of kisses, really, that they should have been sharing, since the last time they'd loved.

And then he took his mouth from hers. She forced her heavy eyelids open, feeling drugged with loving, and made a questioning sound.

“I want you in my bed.”

He didn't seem to require an answer, but she nodded anyway.

He grabbed the brown paper bag he'd dropped earlier and, scooping her tight against his broad chest, rose to his knees and then all the way to his full height.

He carried her to the big bed across the room and laid her down on the dark coverlet. It took him only a moment to deal with the contents of the bag.

She reached out and pulled him down into her eager arms. He entered her in one smooth thrust. She cried out, but only with pleasure, with pure happiness.

He lifted up on his elbows as he pressed more deeply into her down where their bodies were joined. “Josie,” he whispered, his voice ragged with need.

“Yes. Oh, yes…”

They shared another long, intimate look, and then his mouth came down and they were kissing again.

He moved within her and she wrapped her legs around him, seeking his rhythm, finding it, going with him. He tried to go slowly; she could feel him holding back, trying to make it last, to make it good for her sake.

She let him do that for a while, moving with measured care, not letting this heat between them get too out of hand. But she knew he couldn't last that way.

She didn't want him to. She wanted him wild and hungry and completely hers. She wanted him to give himself up to this wonder between them, as she had done, back there by the door.

She touched the side of his face. He braced up on his elbows again, his eyes burning into hers. “What?” The word was rough—still controlled, but barely.

She smiled at him. It was a brazen, knowing smile—and then she lifted her head and captured his mouth again, bucking against him at the same time.

That did it. With a guttural moan, he pushed into her hard. She took him, all of him, everything he could give.

After that, the world seemed to spin away into nothing but heat and wetness and mutual need. They rolled across the bed together, wild and so eager, holding on tight.

Finally he stiffened. She felt him pulsing into her. He threw back his head and pressed into her so deep. She held on tight, her own pleasure cresting, a thousand stars exploding behind her eyes.

 

For a time, they just lay there, still joined, arms and legs all tangled together, his breath warm and sweet across her cheek, the sweat of their lovemaking drying on their skin. It seemed she could feel his heart beating in time with hers, so fast at first and then gradually slowing.

He kissed her temple. “Cold?”

She smiled against his shoulder. “A little, I guess.” Outside, the night was hot and close. But in the air-conditioned comfort of the Carsons' huge house, the temperature wasn't much over seventy.

“Come on. Let's get under the covers.”

“Mmm.” She rolled off the side of the bed and pulled back the coverlet. They both climbed in and he gathered her close again.

“Tired?”

She made a soft noise that meant yes and closed her eyes.

 

She came awake slowly. It probably wasn't that much later. The recessed overhead lights were still on, very low.