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simple tastes.”
    “Sure. That's why you drive a Porsche and drink scotch.”
    “Having simple tastes does not imply a lack of standards,” Nick said blandly. “I also like beer. Now, where were we?”
    “I'm not sure. I think you were trying to get the story of my life so you could figure out how to use it to convince me to turn over the shares. That's your way, isn't it? You're sneaky.”
    “You flatter me.”
    Phila tilted her chin aggressively. “Not likely. I wouldn't go out of my way to flatter a Lightfoot or a Castleton. In fact, I think it's time we put our cards on the table.”
    “What makes you think I'm holding any cards?”
    “Because you're the type who always keeps an ace up his sleeve. Now, then why don't you just be straightforward with me, Mr. Lightfoot? And whatever it is you're going to offer or threaten, you can rest assured I'll give you a straightforward answer in return.”
    “And that answer will be no, right?”
    “Right.” Phila's eyes were alight again with the promise of battle. She started to say something else but stopped abruptly, her gaze going to the door behind Nick. The gleam went out of her eyes instantly, to be replaced by a wary, almost nervous expression. “Oh, damn,” she said very softly.
    Curious, Nick glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he was about to encounter an irate boyfriend of Phila's. What he saw was a thickly built woman in a faded, tie-dyed cotton dress. She must have been around forty but she was wearing her thin, graying hair in braids that hung to her waist. Her face was singularly lacking in character, showing no signs of maturity or past beauty. She wore no makeup to compensate for the unusual lack of color in her skin and lips. Her small eyes took in the crowd in one glance and alighted on Phila. She started down the aisle of booths.
    “Friend of yours?” Nick asked, turning back to Phila.
    “No.”
    “Trouble?”
    “Probably.” Her fingers were clenched around the edge of the table.
    Nick wasn't sure what to expect of the coming confrontation. The last thing he wanted to get into was a cat fight between two women. Nor did he want to see Phila get hurt. “Does this by any chance involve a man?” he asked.
    Phila's gaze met his. Her eyes were bitter. “In a way. Her name is Ruth Spalding. Feel free to leave.”
    “Not yet. I'm hungry, and here come our salads.” He glanced at the waitress who was bearing down on the booth at the same rate of speed as the woman with the braids. With any luck the salads would get to the table first.
    They did—or rather, Phila's did. Ruth Spalding spotted the tray and leaped for it with a muffled cry of rage. She seized one of the platefulls of iceburg lettuce, swept it off the tray and hurled it straight at Phila.
    Nick managed to reach out and intercept the heavy plate before it struck Phila but the lettuce, together with its blue-cheese dressing and cherry tomatoes, cascaded down over her bright pumpkin blouse. Phila did not move. She simply sat staring at Ruth Spalding with an expression of resigned sorrow in her eyes.
    “ Bitch . Lying, scheming bitch.” There was an ugly mottling of red in the Spalding woman's thick face now as she screamed at Phila. Her eyes were feverish with hatred. “You lied, damn you. You lied and they came and took the children away. Those kids were all we had. He loved those children. And now they're gone. Now my husband's gone. And it's all your fault, you rotten, lying whore!”
    Phila was shaking as she slowly got to her feet. Nick saw the fine trembling in her fingers and he slid out of the booth to stand beside her. He was startled by the fierce, protective instincts that were suddenly surging through him. Nobody else in the restaurant had moved, but all eyes were on the scene taking place in front of them.
    “I'm sorry, Mrs. Spalding.” Phila spoke with a calm gentleness that amazed Nick. She took a step toward the heavy woman. “More sorry than I can