Judas Journey. Lee Roberts

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      “Rackwell,” she said. “That’s an odd name.”

      “After my maternal grandfather, who fought at Bull Run. My friends call me Rack.”

      She nodded toward the outer office. “The man with the glasses—he called you Rackwell.”

      Ramsey grinned. “Simpson? He’s the exception—but a friend, though.”

      She held out a hand. “I’m always glad to meet Jeff’s clients. I’m Marcia Stockton.”

      Her fingers were cool and soft. He held them a little longer than necessary. Then the meaning of her name hit him, and he released her hand. “Stockton,” he said. “That’s a well-known name in Texas.”

      “My father was Clint Stockton.”

      “I know.” Everyone knew about old Clint Stockton, he thought, one of the last of the early wildcatters who had pyramided a vast fortune. Oil money. There had even been a book written about Clint Stockton. Ramsey had read it. The old man had died two years before, leaving ten million dollars, more or less, to his only child, Marcia. And this was Marcia gazing at him with cool mocking eyes. Her left hand moved to the scarf at her throat and he saw the white glitter of the big diamond on the third finger.

      She caught his glance. “Jeff and I are to be married next month,” she said.

      Ramsey sighed. “That’s nice. All the best.” He turned and moved toward the door. Even without the engagement ring, he thought, she was out of his league and he was wasting his time.

      She stepped quickly past him, closed the office door and stood facing him with her back to it, the same little smile playing about her lips. Beyond the door, in the outer office, Miss Whitney’s typing stopped for a shocked second. Then it began again, slowly.

      Marcia Stockton said softly, “What’s your hurry, Rack? Did my name and the ring scare you?”

      “I’m not scared.” He gazed at her steadily, waiting for her next move. He was interested but wary.

      For the first time her gaze shifted from his. Black lashes lowered over white cheeks and she pressed her palms against the closed door. The invitation was unmistakable. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him roughly. A little sigh escaped her and her lips parted as they kissed. Then she pushed him away. Silently he reached for her again, but she shook her head and held him away. “No, not here.” She glanced at the door. “Remember Little Miss Snoopy out there.”

      “To hell with her.”

      She came against him. Minutes later they stood apart. Coolly she applied fresh paint to her lips. “Thanks, Rack. That helped.”

      “Helped what?”

      “The jitters I’ve got.”

      “Always glad to be of service.” He grinned at her. He was sure of himself now, on familiar ground. Maybe she had ten million dollars, but she was still a woman. He said curiously, “What gave you the jitters?”

      She shrugged carelessly. “Everything.”

      “Maybe a drink would help?”

      “Maybe.” She smiled. “Do you like me?”

      “That’s a silly question.”

      “You don’t know anything about me.”

      “I know enough.”

      “I’m really not a very nice person.”

      “Neither am I,” he said.

      “Are you married?” she asked. “Not that it matters.”

      “No.”

      She gazed at him thoughtfully. “Now what?”

      “I mentioned a drink.”

      “All right. In a bar—or at my place?”

      He didn’t hesitate. “Your place.”

      “Good.” She smoothed the red scarf and touched her hair. “Do I look all right?”

      “You look wonderful.”

      She stepped close and with a scented handkerchief wiped a corner of his mouth. “My, my,” she said reprovingly. “I do believe you’ve been kissing someone.”

      “Just an old flame,” he said, grinning. “Happened to meet her in a lawyer’s office.”

      “New flame,” she said, and opened the door.

      Miss Whitney gazed at them coldly and handed Ramsey the copies of the partnership agreement. He signed them below the signatures of Pete and Simpson. She folded them briskly, placed them in a long envelope, sealed it and tossed it into a wire basket on the desk. Ramsey saw the typewritten words on its face: Partnership Agreement—Simpson, Davos and Ramsey.

      Marcia Stockton said sweetly, “Good night, Miss Whitney.”

      Miss Whitney’s thin lips barely moved. “Good night, Miss Stockton.”

      Marcia took Ramsey’s arm and they went down to the street. She had a yellow Packard convertible at the curb beside a No Parking sign. “You drive,” she said.

      He got behind the wheel and they swung out into the late afternoon traffic. To Ramsey none of it seemed quite real; the yellow sunlight, the slanting shadows, the people on the streets, the cars they passed, the girl sitting quietly beside him.

      “By the way,” she said. “What’s your last name?”

      “Ramsey,” he said.

      “Rack Ramsey—a nice name.” She moved on the seat until her thigh touched his.

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