Chapter 8
DIANA HAD BEEN GONE FOR three hours when Cole finally closed his economics textbook and shoved his notes aside. His shoulders ached from being hunched over his desk, and his brain felt saturated. There was no point in more studying; he was prepared enough to ace the final exam, but good grades had never been his goal. It was knowledge that he pursued, the knowledge he needed to achieve and enjoy his goals.
Absently, he rubbed his aching shoulders; then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, resting them, while he thought about his uncle’s letter. The letter had arrived in the morning’s mail, and the news was so good, so unbelievably good, that Cole smiled as he rotated his shoulders trying to work the kinks out of them.
Four years ago, a drilling company had approached Calvin and offered him a contract and ten thousand dollars for the right to drill a test well on Cal’s land. The first well hadn’t produced, but the following year they tried a second time for an additional five thousand dollars. When the second well failed to produce enough natural gas to make operation profitable, they’d given up and so had Cal and Cole.
A few months ago, however, a much larger drilling company had paid a visit to Cal and asked to drill in a different area of his land. Cal said they were wasting their time, and Cole privately agreed with him, but the two of them had been wrong. In the mail today was a letter from Cal that contained the staggering news that the new well was hugely successful and that the “money’s going to be pouring in.”
Straightening, Cole opened his eyes and reached for the thick envelope that contained his uncle’s letter and a copy of the contract that the drilling company wanted Cal to sign.
Based on Cal’s own calculations, he would make $250,000 in the next year—more money than the old rancher had netted in a lifetime, Cole knew. It was ironic, Cole thought with amusement as he unfolded the bulky contract, that of all the Harrisons who might have struck it rich over the years, Calvin Patrick Downing was the least likely to spend or enjoy the windfall. He was, by nature and inclination, a miser, and a quarter of a million dollars wasn’t going to change that.
Instead of spending two dollars to call Cole long distance and tell him the fantastic news, he’d sent him a letter and a copy of the contract by ordinary first-class mail. And the reason he’d sent Cole the contract, according to his letter, was because “the drilling company says these are standard contracts and they can’t be changed. I figure there’s no sense in paying a bloodsucking lawyer to read all this mumbo jumbo just so he can tell me the same thing, but you’ve got a law school right there at your university. Get one of those student bloodsuckers to look this over, will you—or else look it over yourself and tell me if you think Southfield Exploration has any tricks up their sleeve.”
That was Cal—thrifty to a fault. Cheap. Miserly.
Cal clipped coupons out of the newspapers, cut his own hair, patched his jeans, and dickered furiously over an extra penny per foot for chicken wire. He hated more than anything to part with a dollar.
But he’d handed over his first ten-thousand-dollar check for the test well to Cole so he could go to college.
And one year later, Cal had handed over his second check for five thousand dollars.
As a lonely, rebellious youth, Cole had often hitchhiked the forty miles to Calvin’s place, and there, with Cal, Cole found the understanding and warmth that his own father was incapable of feeling. Calvin alone had understood his frustration and believed in his dreams, and for that Cole loved him. But Calvin hadn’t just given lip service and encouraging words to Cole; he’d given him his money so that Cole could have a real future, away from Kingdom City—a bright, promising future with unlimited possibilities. For that, Cole felt a sense of loyalty and indebtedness that surpassed all his other emotions.
The contract that Cal had sent him was fifteen pages long, covered with fine print and legalese. In the margins, Calvin had penciled in some comments of his own, and Cole smiled at the wily old man’s astuteness. Calvin had dropped out of school after the tenth grade to go to work, but he was a voracious reader who’d educated himself, probably well enough to merit an honorary college degree. Cole, however, had no intention of allowing his uncle to sign these documents until they’d been reviewed by a competent, practicing lawyer—one who specialized in oil and gas leases. Cal was wily, but in this case Cole knew the older man was totally out of his league. After four years in Houston, Cole had heard, read, and seen enough to know how business really worked. He knew there was no such thing as a standard contract that couldn’t be changed—and he knew whose interests were usually protected by the originator of any contract.
Tomorrow, when Charles Hayward returned from his business trip to Philadelphia, Cole intended to ask Hayward for the name of the most prominent oil-and-gas-lease attorney in Houston. It was common knowledge that Cole’s employer had made his initial fortune in the oil business. Hayward would know whom Cole should consult about this contract, and he’d be willing to offer advice as well.
Unlike many of the socialites Cole had met in the course of his job, Charles Hayward was neither pompous, soft, nor filled with self-importance. At fifty, he was energetic, hardworking, blunt, and fair. He had exacting standards for everything, from his staff to his family to his horses. Those who fell short of his expectations—be it employees, hunting dogs, or horses—were soon gone from the premises, but he treated those who met his standards with respect. When he was home, he visited the stable every evening and strolled down the wide corridor dispensing carrots and friendly pats to each of the splendid horses who inhabited the ultramodern stalls.
As time passed, he’d developed an increasing appreciation of Cole’s knowledge and his vigilant care of the horses, and that had eventually led to a kind of friendship between the two men. Often when Hayward paid his nightly visit to his beloved animals, he stayed for coffee and conversation with Cole, and slowly, he’d become a kind of mentor to the younger man, offering advice and insight on the two subjects Cole was most interested in: business and money.
When it came to those topics, Charles was incisive, brilliant, and perceptive. In fact, the man had only one blind spot that Cole had ever discovered, and that was his family. Hayward’s first wife and their only child had been killed in an airplane accident twenty-five years before, and his grief had been so deep and so prolonged that it was still a topic of whispered conversation among his friends when they gathered at the stable.
Seventeen years ago, he’d remarried, and his new wife had promptly given him a son and a daughter within two years. Hayward positively doted on his new wife, Jessica; he gave her and their children the very best money could buy, and he seemed to automatically assume that they either did, or would eventually, live up to all his hopes and expectations.
Cole could have told him he was wrong. In this one area, Cole could have offered his mentor some painfully enlightening examples of the results of overindulging children and trusting a faithless wife.
As Cole knew from personal observation and experience, Jessica Hayward was a beautiful, spoiled, promiscuous, amoral, forty-year-old bitch.
Her fifteen-year-old daughter, Barbara, was so awed and intimidated by her that the homely teenager was completely spineless—a born follower who had been rendered even more helpless by all the material goods that Charles showered on her, luxuries that she wasn’t challenged to earn with decent grades or anything else.
Doug Hayward was a completely charming, irresponsible, handsome sixteen-year-old, but Cole thought there was still hope for him. Despite his frivolous immaturity, Cole occasionally glimpsed Charles Hayward’s bluntness and some of the older man’s sharp intellect in Doug. His grades were average, but as he’d confided to Cole, his SAT scores were very high.
Cole glanced at his watch, saw that it was after eleven o’clock, and stretched his arms, stifling a yawn. He walked out into the corridor and took a last stroll down the long walkway to make certain everything looked all right for the
night.
Chapter 9
JESSICA HAYWARD STEPPED OFF THE treadmill in the workout room that was part of the master bedroom suite and grabbed a towel, looping it around her neck. Clad in thin white shorts and a clingy red-and-white tank top, she walked into the bedroom, feeling energized and restless and alone. Her husband wasn’t due home until the following day, but even if Charles had been there, he wouldn’t have been able to give her what she wanted.
She wanted sex . . . hot, rough, mind-drugging, demanding, passionate sex. She did not want the sort of lukewarm, polite, predictably boring sex that Charles called “making love.” She didn’t want to make love at all; she wanted to make madness. She didn’t want Charles . . .
She wanted Cole.
Furious with herself for helplessly lusting after an arrogant, disobliging, macho employee who was nowhere near her social equal, she went over to the bar built into the closet and took an expensive bottle of chardonnay out of the cooler. She opened it and poured some into a gold-rimmed glass; then she walked over to the windows that overlooked the back lawn and the stables off to the left. Closing her eyes, she conjured up a vivid image of Cole, his shoulders broad and heavy with muscle, his skin sleek with sweat as he drove into her with the tireless brute force she preferred most of the time.
Her thighs tightened involuntarily against the delicious recollections, and she tossed down the rest of the wine in her glass and turned away from the window. Tugging off the towel, she stopped long enough to run a brush through her hair; then she picked up the bottle of wine and another glass and brought them with her.
Her daughter’s bedroom door was closed, but a strip of light was visible beneath it, and Jessica moved cautiously along the hall, then down the back stairs.
Outside, the night was hot and sultry, heavy with the scent of gardenias blooming in beds along the path that led to the stable. Moonlight lit the flagstone path that wound through the oaks, but Jessica didn’t need it to find her way; she’d made this nocturnal journey many times in her dreams and often enough in reality. Balancing the bottle of wine and two glasses, she slipped in a side door of the stable, glad when the air-conditioning touched her damp skin.
Without bothering to turn on the main corridor lights, she walked quietly around the corner and stopped in his doorway. His back was turned, and she watched in anticipation as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. The soft glow of light from the lamp on his desk highlighted the rippling muscles of his shoulders and tapered back, and when he reached for the snap on his jeans, her breath came a little faster.
Perhaps that almost imperceptible sound alerted him, because he swung around and pinned her with a look that was at first alarmed and then annoyed. “You scared the hell out of me, Jessica!”
Jessica held up the glasses and wine bottle and strolled into his room as if she owned it, which she did. “I saw the lights on down here and since neither of us seemed to be able to sleep, I thought we could share this.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m tired and I don’t expect to have any trouble sleeping.”
“There’s no need to snap my head off,” Jessica said as she perched on the edge of his desk and crossed one long, slender leg over the other, letting her sandal dangle from her lacquered toes. “I haven’t seen you in ages, and I decided to come for a visit, that’s all,” she added as she leaned sideways and poured wine into both glasses.
“Really, that’s all?” Cole said sarcastically as his gaze took in her scanty tank top, revealing shorts, and seductive smile. Deliberately, he reached for his shirt, but she shook her head, her smile turning hard and determined.