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noticed. And I knew that if you had Littlefield and your father to worry about, you would never be in the mood."
        He laughed, cupped and. kissed one of her breasts. "What did the bastard want?"
        "I really don't know," she said. "You're to call him back. He left his home number in case you didn't get in until after five."
        "The hell with him," Tucker said, falling back against his pillows.
        Elise sat up and ran her hands through her long yellow hair, combing it into dozens of bright banners. "You'd better call him, Michael. Maybe something has happened to your father. He could be sick or hurt."
        "Unless the old goat died," Tucker said, "I don't want to be bothered by Littlefield."
        "That's cruel," she said.
        It was, and it hurt. "But it's also true."
        "Call him back anyway," she said, tucking her bright hair behind her ears. Her ears were like delicate shells. "When you are finished with him, I'll have a drink ready for you." She waited, watching him closely. The reflection of the bedside lamp made a star in the center of each green eye. "You know, maybe your father has seen the light at long last."
        He laughed.
        "No, really. Maybe he's willing to let you have your inheritance."
        "Fat chance," Tucker said. "The old man never softens his stand once he's taken it. He just gets more adamant than ever. The only way I'll get what my mother left me is to fight him from one court to the next." There was uncontrolled bitterness in his voice, and his dark eyes hardened when he thought about his father.
        "You've gone through a couple of courts already," she said. "And you're no further ahead."
        "Sooner or later," Tucker said, "I'll get a judge who is not impressed with my father's name and money. An honest judge. And the old man's high-powered, high-priced lawyers will finally make a mistake…"
        She said nothing.
        He looked at her, knew pretty much what she was thinking, sighed loudly. "Oh, hell… I guess there's always the slim chance that he's sick. And if he's sick enough, he might decide it's time for him to give in on a few points." He got up and put on a dark blue silk robe. "I'm going to need that drink when I get back."
        "It'll be here," Elise said.
        He went down the hall to the den.
        
        Albert Littlefield, his father's most trusted attorney, had a wire-thin, reedy voice that never failed to irritate Tucker. It was not a whine, as it might have been had it come from any other man, but somewhat of a sneer. It went well with Littlefield's lean, cold, patronizing, negatively aristocratic appearance and manner. "Michael, I'm so glad you called back. How have you been?"
        They had been on opposite sides of too many courtroom battles for Tucker to feign friendship with Littlefield. He found it difficult to be even minimally polite with the man. "What do you want?"
        "I'd like to see you tomorrow," Littlefield said.
        "About what?"
        "I have a proposition for you, Michael. A very fine offer from your father."
        "Give it to me now."
        "On the telephone?"
        "Why not?"
        "Well, it's quite a compromise on your father's part," the attorney said. "I would think the least you could do would be to come around to my office and hear it. Besides, it isn't really suitable stuff for the telephone. We're talking here of quite complicated terms, large sums of money…"
        "I'm not interested in compromises," Tucker said. "I simply want what is mine, my inheritance. I want the old man to stop interfering with my mother's wishes."
        "Have you forgotten, Michael, that it was your mother's last wish that your father maintain control of your estate and use it with his own greater fortune to increase it until such a time as you-"
        Tucker almost gritted his teeth. When he spoke, cutting off Littlefield, his voice was strained. "When my