“I’ll be monitoring my cycle, taking my temperature each morning, so that hopefully I’ll know the day I ovulate.”

“And how long after that before you’d know if you conceived?”

“Two weeks.”

“I get giddy thinking about it.”

“Get giddy when I pee on a stick and it turns pink. Or blue. Or whatever it’s supposed to turn.”

Laughing, he kissed her soundly, then by tacit agreement, they headed for the elevator tucked discreetly under the stairs. “Race you to the top,” he said as he rolled his chair into the metal cage.

She jogged up the curving staircase and was there to meet him when he arrived. “You always win,” he grumbled.

“Those sprints up the stairs keep me in good shape.”

“I’ll say.” He reached around and smacked her on the butt.

Hearing their approach, Manuelo opened the door from inside Foster’s bedroom. “Can we skip the therapy tonight?” Foster asked. The aide smiled and shrugged, indicating he didn’t understand the question. “He’s faking that. I know he is. He knows damn well I’m talking about the therapy he puts me through and how I feel about it.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Spare me, Laura. Please.”

“Hey, I’ve got it just as tough tonight. I’ve got to review that union contract again. But I’ll come and tuck you in.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and continued down the wide hallway to her office.

But an hour later, when she went into Foster’s bedroom, Manuelo had done everything that needed doing. The drapes were drawn. The thermostat was set to his preferred temperature. There was a carafe of ice water and a drinking glass on his nightstand. The call button was within reach. He was sleeping, a book resting on his lap.

She turned off the bedside lamp and for the longest time sat there in the darkness, in the chair beside his bed, listening to his breathing. He didn’t stir, and she was grateful that he was able to sleep so well.

Eventually, she left him and went alone to the bed they used to share, wishing that her sleep could be that sound.

CHAPTER 7

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, GRIFF HAD A HITCH IN HIS BACK from sleeping on the soft mattress, which sagged in the middle. He denied that the chronic pain was a holdover from thirteen years of getting slammed into by tacklers-eighth grade through his years with the Cowboys.

His right shoulder also bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Over the course of his playing days, he’d had four fingers broken, one of his small fingers broken in the same place twice. The second time, he hadn’t bothered to have it set, so it had healed crooked. Assorted other gridiron mishaps and melees made getting out of bed every morning a slow process.

Fondly recalling the comfort of Marcia’s perfumed and silky sheets, he limped into the drab kitchen, boiled water for instant coffee, toasted a piece of bread, and washed it down with a glass of milk to chase the bitter pseudo-coffee taste from his mouth.

Before he forgot, he called the probation officer assigned to him. Jerry Arnold’s voice-mail recording had made him sound like a likable enough guy, and now his live voice sounded even friendlier and nonthreatening. “I was just calling to make sure you got the message I left yesterday,” Griff said after an exchange of hello-how-are-yous.

“Sure did. But let me repeat the info back to you, check to see I got it right.” He recited the address and phone number Griff had left.

“That’s right.”

“How about a job, Griff? Anything yet?”

“I’m seeing about that today.”

“Good, good. Keep me posted on any progress.”

“Will do.”

“Well, you know the conditions of your probation, so I won’t bore you with them again.”

“They’re etched onto my brain. I don’t want to go back to prison.”

“And I don’t want you to.” The bureaucrat hesitated, then said, “You were a hell of a ballplayer, Griff. A thrill to watch.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, good luck today.”

That chore out of the way, Griff headed for the shower. It had furry black stuff growing on the tile grout, but to his surprise the hot water was plentiful. He dressed quickly but carefully, choosing the best from the clothing Wyatt Turner had left in the apartment for him. He made a mental note to ask his lawyer where the rest of his stuff was being stored and how he could go about retrieving it.

Then he remembered that if the Speakmans came through with their down payment, he could go out and buy all new stuff. The thought made his gut purl with happy anticipation.

However, he wouldn’t know until after two o’clock today if they’d come through as promised. In the meantime, he had other errands to run.

He got to the walk-in medical clinic at eight-thirty and was out in under an hour. “How soon before I can pick up the lab results?”

“Three to five days.”

“Make it three,” he said, giving the nurse a wink and his best smile. Simpering, she promised to try. Obviously she didn’t follow Cowboys football.

From the clinic he drove to a branch of the public library-the one nearest his former Turtle Creek address. He doubted there was one in the neighborhood of his present apartment, doubted many of the residents in the area could read.

He arrived at the library only to discover it didn’t open until ten. A cluster of toddlers and young mothers-when had young mothers got so damn good looking?-had congregated at the doors waiting for them to open.

Moms and kids alike regarded him curiously. At six feet four he towered over all of them. The cut and bruise on his cheekbone, Rodarte’s contribution, drew their attention, too, making him feel particularly conspicuous among the Thursday Morning Story Time at the Library crowd.

Once the doors were unlocked, the moms herded their children to a far corner while he went to the information desk. The librarian smiled pleasantly and asked what she could do for him. “I need to use a computer. And I’ll probably need some help.”

Five years of advancement in computer technology equaled aeons. But the librarian patiently showed him how to access the Internet and do a Google search, and soon he was knee-deep in information on SunSouth Airlines and, more specifically, its owner.

First, he got an overview of Foster Speakman’s background. Starting in the 1920s with his great-great-grandfather, his family had amassed a fortune from oil and natural gas. As sole heir, Foster was bequeathed megamillions in addition to vast parcels of land in New Mexico, Colorado, and Alaska.

He held an MBA from Harvard Business School and was a polo player of renown. He had received countless citations and awards from business and civic groups for community service. Economic analysts lauded his courageous takeover and turnaround of the foundering airline.

If he’d been a football player, Speakman would have been the starting quarterback for the Super Bowl champs and voted MVP.

He and Mrs. Speakman-not Laura-were photographed attending various charity and social functions. One photograph accompanying an article in Forbes showed Foster standing tall and proud in front of a SunSouth jet, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a man who’d just conquered the world. He appeared robust and strong.

Which meant that somewhere between the time he’d bought the airline several years ago and now, he’d become paraplegic. Illness? Cataclysmic event?

While pondering the possibilities, Griff came across Elaine Speakman’s lengthy obituary. She had died after a valorous and lengthy battle with leukemia. No children had come from the marriage.

The widower had married Laura Speakman one year and five months following Elaine’s death.

Foster and Elaine had been well represented in the press. But Foster and Mrs. Speakman II were featured nearly daily-which explained his allusion to their being celebrities.