No More Mr. Nice

  No More Mr. Nice

  Renee Roszel

  Copyright © 1993 by Renee Roszel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc.; the agency can be reached at dca@doncongdon.com.

  To

  Lenore Hunter Roszel

  my enemy

  my friend

  my mother

  I love you, Mom

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  1

  “It is terrifying to care, of course, and the young man, whom I once heard say to the girl whose hand he was holding, ‘Shit. I think I love you,’ in the ominous tones of someone declaring that he was coming down with the plague, probably put the fear that accompanies loving as graphically as it can be put.”

  Merle Shain

  “Dammit! Hell had better freeze over soon,” growled Lucas Brand, a surge of rage washing through him. “I promise you, baby, before this month is over, Satan’s going to have one hell of a head cold.”

  He’d been warned he was fighting a losing battle, but he’d refused to listen. He’d beat the odds for years and had no intention of losing this time—not with millions of dollars at stake.

  But time was running out, and Lucas couldn’t remember being this tired in his life. Workdays—that had always been dawn till dusk for him—now stretched into twenty-four-hour shout-a-thons.

  He sat at his spaceshiplike work station, testing his latest model of what he’d come to refer to as the Force Feedback Glove from Hell, damning it to a life of mulching gardens—all it was good for—and also damning the fact that the clock was ticking toward the deadline, every second shoving him closer to defeat. He forcefully shut out the thought.

  Lucas just had to get this flawed piece of space-age junk to work. No one in the Virtual Reality software business had yet come up with a cordless, force-feedback glove. And he had only fourteen lousy days left to come up with the technology to mimic the feeling of solidity in his brilliantly programmed, streamlined, good-for-nothing glove. After all, he had assured Takahashi that his company could create a working prototype by the first of December. If he didn’t, he’d forfeit his chance at the contract of a lifetime.

  Not one to give up, he reached back into cyberspace and lifted a big orange molecule, squeezing hard. The experimental glove gave him the sensation that the imaginary thing was solid—for a second—then that solidity dissipated, as it had in every test up to now, and he felt nothing—dead, empty air. It was like losing the sense of touch, mid-fondle! Damned frustrating.

  “Confound you,” he bit out, flexing the gloved hand, or at least trying to. It still didn’t work right!

  “Takahashi’ll love this,” he jeered. “His bioengineers are moving a molecule in an unstable compound, the glove goes dead, the molecule drops into the wrong slot, and presto—instant nuclear holocaust.” His chuckle was sharp and mirthless. “Yeah, we’ve got this contract in the bag—if global extinction is the man’s goal.”

  He was hooked up to several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of computer equipment via his head-mounted display. Through the HMD he could see his Virtual Reality world, strewn with molecular structures invisible to the human eye. The goal of his VR program was, ultimately, to enable the Takahashi Pharmaceutical Company to move chemical bonds on molecules and “see” how the molecules might react.

  Not exactly a walk through the tulips, this was an opportunity to make history. Still, Lucas felt that with his own expertise and that of the two other computer geniuses in his company, he had as good a chance of conquering it as anybody currently in the VR field.

  The intercom buzzed. What did it take around here to get obedience—whips and chains? Didn’t everybody see he was under the gun? He needed time to think, blast it. What could be so all-fired important that his secretary would dare interrupt him?

  “Hell, Debbie!” he objected over the intercom. “I told you no calls.” Jerking off his head-mounted display, he ordered, “Tell Fletch and Sol to—”

  Debbie broke in with a meek clearing of her throat. “Mr. Brand, there’s a registered letter here for you. From a Mr. Roxbury. Should I—”

  “Roxbury?” Lucas interrupted, his preoccupation with business troubles suddenly short-circuited by a name out of his past.

  “Yes, sir. Norman V. Roxbury, Roxbury Enterprises.”

  Lucas set aside his HMD and stripped off the glove. Sweeping his gaze over his office, covered with printouts and wadded, discarded notes, he muttered, “Hell! After all these years, not now…”

  “Sir?” she replied with confusion.

  “Bring me the letter, Debbie. And hold those calls to Fletch and Sol.”

  Seconds later, Debbie, an attractive brunette, slipped through the double-doored entry to his luxurious, cluttered office. Padding across royal blue carpeting past a massive cherry desk, she halted by his VR work station, quipping, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

  It was a standing joke, since the VR station looked like a scaled-down version of the Starship Enterprise.

  Scowling, he groused, “Very funny, as always. Give it to me.”

  Extending an arm decorated with Native American jewelry, Debbie offered sympathetically, “Hope it’s good news, Mr. Brand.”

  “It’s not,” he muttered. “It’s a long-overdue bill.” He got up from the modular seat where he’d been crouched before a monitor displaying raw data. Seizing the letter, he warned, “Even if the place burns down around me, Debbie, no more interruptions this afternoon.”

  As Debbie hurried out, he tossed the letter onto his desk and grabbed up a printout that was lying across the corner of his work station. Scanning it, he searched for mistakes. After a minute, he realized his mind had drifted away. The letter was bothering him. Why now? Roxbury had waited fifteen years, and now, when Lucas had more at stake than he’d ever had before, now, Roxbury decided to collect on the debt.

  He stalked to the desk and sank into his leather chair, grabbing the letter and ripping it open. Inside was a single sheet of expensive, gilt-edged stationery. On it, in scrawled handwriting, was a message, short and to the point: “Lucas, my boy, I need a favor.”

  Lucas slammed the paper down. “Blast it to Hades.” Even though he’d known, someday, it would come, this was the worst possible timing. Yet no matter how bad the timing, it was a debt that had to be paid. He’d promised to honor The Summons when it came. Apparently, today was that day.

  Swiveling around, he jabbed the intercom button. “Debbie, get me Roxbury Enterprises. Norman V. Roxbury—”

  “Yes, sir.” Debbie sounded surprised. “I know about him. Isn’t he that philanthropist they call Mr. Niceguy?”

  Lucas inhaled, attempting to regain his calm. “That’s the one.”

  A few minutes later, he’d been informed by his secretary that Mr. Roxbury was at the Oklahoma City General Hospital, in the Roxbury Suite. Disconcerted that Roxbury was ill, but knowing that The Summons meant he had to make an immediate appearance, hospital or no, Lucas left, with Debbie staring after him, her chocolate brown eyes wide with astonishment.

  If he hadn’t been in such a foul mood, he might have found her reaction amusing. Debbie Windwalker had worked for him for five years. She’d repeatedly expressed concern over his obsessiveness and the fact that mentally he never left work. In all those years, she’d never seen him bolt from the
office with a mumbled excuse, leaving no phone number at which he could be reached. It was as out of character for him as it would be for the president of the United States to cheerfully, and for no apparent reason, surrender the Oval Office to the opposing political party.

  As Lucas headed toward the hospital in his chauffeur-driven limo, he wrestled long and hard with his conscience. True, he owed Mr. Roxbury a favor, and he planned to repay that favor in full, but Lucas’s software company had to come up with an economical Virtual Reality program before his six hungry competitors did.

  To make the strain worse, Takahashi was putting the screws to him, having notified him this morning that he was moving up the deadline. Hearing the bad news, Lucas’s board of directors was screaming for results.

  The pressure was intense, almost physically painful. But Lucas was used to business stress. It was the only kind of pain he allowed himself—pain that would ultimately bring him megaprofits for his efforts. Surely Norman Roxbury would understand his need to delay repaying the favor—whatever it was—for a short time.

  Lucas made a tough decision. He’d be gracious, but firm. He would be happy to do Mr. Roxbury any favor he asked. But not now. After the New Year, possibly. That way, he’d have this deal behind him, and he could make a little time to indulge the old man’s whims.

  Pushing aside nagging guilt, he took the elevator to the hospital’s top floor, dubbed The Roxbury Suite—an opulent apartment filled with expensive antiques. Its window-walls offered a panoramic view of the Oklahoma City skyline. The bronzes and russets of the late-autumn countryside beckoned from a distance. So the leaves are finally turning, Lucas mused. He hadn’t even noticed.

  Apparently his foul mood was etched on his features, since the head nurse was staring up at him with wide-eyed alarm.

  “I’m Lucas Brand. Here to see Norman Roxbury,” he said, feeling bitter irritation over every second he had to spend away from his work.

  The woman nodded, her expression easing slightly as she led him through the living area into a huge bedroom. Rich, warm colors and mellow wood furnishings gave the place the opposite of a hospital feel. A big bed, overflowing with pillows and comforters in rusty shades of brown, looked like a gigantic toasted marshmallow, and seemed out of place in a sickroom. In its billowing center, looking small, pale and pitifully insignificant, lay the white-haired man to whom Lucas owed so much—Norman Victor Roxbury.

  Lucas winced. Norman had seemed like a jolly, robust Santa Claus when Lucas had been fourteen. Now, he appeared a gray shadow of his former self. Even frail and ill, however, he still smiled his familiar, gentle smile. Lucas felt a rush of memories—how old Roxbury had taken him by the shoulders that day long ago, squeezed and said, “Let’s talk, my boy,” He gulped hard, recalling the compassion of the man; the way he’d instilled hope in Lucas’s broken heart, and the desire to try to make something of himself. Damn. He’d forgotten how much he’d loved—He stopped himself. Sentimentality had no place in his life. Lucas had to take a hardnosed stand, and not allow that elfish grin to sway him. There was too much at stake.

  Assuming the deceptive smile he exhibited in business confrontations, he made quick work of the distance to the bed to shake the patient’s hand. “They stuck you in a pretty nice room, Norman,” he kidded halfheartedly, feeling like a jerk as he looked into those old, twinkling eyes. Why did the man have to be so obviously pleased to see him? It had been years, but he could still feel the bond. If anybody in Lucas’s life had been there for him when he’d needed somebody, it had been Norman Roxbury.

  Lucas realized, with a sense of depression, that this refusal he was going to have to make would be tougher than anything he’d had to do in a long, tough career.

  Roxbury’s smile broadened as he replied, “All it takes to get a fancy room like this, my boy, is to donate a wing to the hospital. They’ll treat ya pretty good, every time.”

  Lucas managed a chuckle, reminding himself he was a survivor, not a sentimental fool. He’d make Norman understand his problem. The old man wouldn’t die from the disappointment. You didn’t die from being disappointed. Lucas, himself, was proof of that.

  Troubled by what he had to say, but knowing it had to be said, he plunged ahead, his features reflecting his serious state of mind. “Look, Norman, I don’t have much time, so—” He halted, catching movement in a far corner of the bedroom. A slender woman was standing there, partly hidden by a towering ficus. She had straight, sandy blond hair that hung to her shoulders. Wispy bangs skimmed eyes that were focused on him. When Norman noticed Lucas had seen his other guest, he said, “Ah, yes, meet Mrs. Glen. Jessica. Pretty name, but for some reason, she prefers Jess.”

  Lucas nodded, his half smile reflexive. It interested him to note that she mimicked his nod, but when she returned the friendly expression there was a remoteness about it that seemed to say she was as hesitant about this meeting as he. Strange, he thought, as she turned away to pour liquid from a silver pitcher sitting on a marble-topped commode. Before Norman spoke again, she moved silently across the rust carpet with the glass and handed it to Roxbury. Without another glance at Lucas, she seated herself in a nearby Queen Anne chair.

  She’s shy, Lucas decided. But something nagged. It wasn’t only that. There’d been more to her look. She crossed her ankles, and he noticed that the skirt of her slim, brown suit had a slit up the front, revealing very long legs. Good legs. He glanced back at her face and caught her narrowed gaze on him—a gaze that seemed unaccountably provoked. Or was it? He couldn’t be sure, for as soon as their glances met, she looked down at Mr. Roxbury, who had cleared his throat.

  “Sit down, my boy,” Roxbury said, indicating another antique chair that was placed strategically nearby. Lucas was hesitant. He hadn’t intended to stay long enough to sit. Reluctantly, he acknowledged he should spare a few minutes. He owed old Roxbury that much. All the while, in the back of his mind, Takahashi and his hundred-million-dollar demand loomed. He took the proffered seat, primed to explain his deadline, and to add his assurance that he would do whatever was asked of him—only later.

  Not even attempting to relax in the spindly chair, Lucas asked, “How’ve you been, Norman?” As soon as he’d uttered the question, he chuckled humorlessly. Obviously fatigue and his preoccupation with work were to blame for such an inane remark. A man in a hospital bed wasn’t likely to be in perfect health. “Sorry, I assume you’re not here for the haute cuisine.”

  Norman’s laugh was more delicate than Lucas remembered, but the man was in his seventies, after all. Suddenly Lucas had an unruly craving to turn back time, for the old man’s sake. He wished Norman were stronger—and maybe a little less happy to see the boy he’d helped so long ago. As he soberly watched, Roxbury took a sip of the water Jess Glen had given him. When he moved to set it on his beside table, his gnarled hand trembled. “Afraid it’s practically a cliché, my boy. Fell and broke a hip. Then a pesky stroke complicated matters. I’m doing fine, but the doc says I have to stay laid up here for two or three more weeks to get strong enough for physical therapy.”

  Lucas experienced a stab of sadness, but squelched it, murmuring the obligatory, “I’m sorry.”

  Norman chuckled again, apparently unaware of Lucas’s unease. “Well, if you’ve got to be laid up, I suppose this isn’t such a rotten hole.” He smiled, seeming to take his misfortune in stride. Lucas mused again that Norman Roxbury had the kindest smile. He’d forgotten what gentleness radiated from the old man. He caught himself, and cursed silently. Blast it. That smile could make a strong man crumble and children believe in miracles. It could draw a person in to buy whatever wares he was selling. Let the buyer beware, Lucas cautioned himself.

  Norman was truly kind, wholly good; but right now, Lucas couldn’t afford to be affected by his sweetness. He had to keep his wits about him, be single-minded and resolute. Besides, he wouldn’t really be refusing Norman. He’d only be postponing the favor—whatever it was. He needn’t feel defensive or guilty�
��not even in the face of that grandfatherly grin.

  So what, if Lucas had been orphaned and left in foster care, and had been angry at the world, getting into minor skirmishes with the school and the law? So what, if Roxbury had come along with his Mr. Niceguy program, helping kids like him gain the incentive to stay in school and turn their lives around? So what, if he’d paid for Lucas’s college education, only requiring the promise of doing him “a favor” one day, in return? He wouldn’t be manipulated by that smile. Bottom line, he had people to answer to, a business to run. That smile be damned.

  “My boy,” the old man said, drawing Lucas from his rationalizations. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Lucas went tense, but didn’t interrupt. Maybe the favor wouldn’t require his immediate attention. Maybe it would be a bequest of money to some charity or other. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say no. He waited for Norman to explain.

  “You remember the Thanksgiving Dinner and Retreat you attended some twenty-two years ago?”

  Lucas nodded, apprehension clenching his gut. Thanksgiving was only a week away. Not now, his mind demanded, as though he could manipulate the slant of this conversation by force of will. Not now, dammit!

  “Well, my boy,” Norman was explaining in his raspy voice, “as you can see, I’m not going to be able to handle my Mr. Niceguy project this year. So, I was hoping you could take over for me, with Jess as your assistant.”

  Lucas’s hopes plummeted, but he didn’t speak immediately. He had to phrase his refusal as kindly as possible. While he worked it out in his mind, he flicked a glance at the woman and noticed she was again staring at him, biting down on her lower lip. Her expression was taut, and her fingers were beating out a rapid rat-a-tat on the purse in her lap. He couldn’t tell if she was worried that he would turn her boss down, or that he wouldn’t.

  “Lucas?” Norman prompted. “What do you think, my boy? Can you help me out next week?”

  The moment had come to gently let the old man down—at least for the time being. Pushing back another sharp twinge of guilt, he gave Norman Roxbury his most persuasive grin, positive the old guy—being a businessman himself—would understand about deadlines that involved millions of dollars in profits. “You know I’d be more than happy to help you, Norman—at any other time. Right now, I’m involved in a deal that’ll keep me occupied for the next several weeks. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”