Sweet Fortune

married.”
    “How do you know?” Vincent shot back. “What do you know about women and marriage, for crying out loud?”
    “I was married once.”
    Vincent's mouth fell open. “You were? What happened? Divorced?”
    “My wife died.”
    Vincent was obviously stunned that Hatch, whom he'd come to think of as a friend, if not the son he'd never had, had never mentioned his previous marriage before. “Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry, Hatch.”
    Sam met Vincent's eyes and said, “It was a long time ago.”
    “Yeah, well, like I said, I'm sorry.”
    “Thank you.” Hatch went back to studying the printout. “Stop worrying about your daughter. I'll take care of her.”
    “That's what I'm trying to tell you. She doesn't seem to want you to take care of her, Hatch. She's not exactly encouraging you, is she?”
    “You're wrong,” Hatch said gently. “She's been very encouraging in her own way.”
    Vincent gave him a dumbfounded look. “She has?”
    “Yes.” Hatch turned a page of the printout.
    “Dammit, how can you say that? What has she done to encourage you?”
    “She gets very nervous around me,” Hatch explained patiently.
    “I know, dammit, that's what I've been telling you. What in God's name…?” Vincent broke off, incredulous. “You're saying that's a good sign?”
    “A very good sign.”
    “Are you sure about that? I've got two ex-wives and neither Connie nor Lilian was ever nervous around me,” Vincent said. “Nerves of steel, those two.”
    “Jessie's different.”
    “You can say that again. Never did understand that girl.”
    “That's an interesting comment, given the fact that you intend to leave Benedict Fasteners to her.”
    “Yeah, well, she's the only one in the family I can trust enough to leave it to.” Vincent snorted again. “Whatever else happens, Jessie will do what's best for the firm and the family. That's the important thing.”
    “But she obviously has no interest in or talent for running Benedict Fasteners,” Hatch pointed out.
    “Hell, that's why I brought you on board. You're the perfect solution to the problem.” Vincent pinned him with a sharp look. “Aren't you?”
    “Yes.”

    At five minutes to seven Hatch carefully eased the new silver-gray Mercedes into a space on the street in front of Jessie's Capitol Hill apartment building.
    He got out of the car and automatically looked down to check the polish on his wing-tip shoes. Then he centered the knot on his discreetly striped tie and straightened his gray jacket. Satisfied, he started toward the lobby door.
    Hatch was very conscious of the sober, restrained elegance of his attire. He was careful about such details as the width and color of the stripes on his ties and the roll of the collars on his custom-made shirts. He did not pay attention to these things because of any natural interest in fashion, but because he did not want to accidentally screw up on something so basic. In the business world a lot of judgments were made based on a man's clothes.
    Hatch had grown up in boots and jeans and work shirts. Even though he had been functioning successfully in the corporate environment for some time now, he still did not fully trust his own instincts when it came to appropriate dress, so he erred on the side of caution.
    His wife, Olivia, had taught Hatch most of what he knew about the conservative look favored by American corporate powermongers. For that advice some part of him would always be grateful to her. That was about all he could find to thank her for after all these years.
    Hatch glanced at his steel-and-gold wristwatch as he rang the buzzer at the entrance of the aging brick building.
    When he had first bought the watch he had worried that it was a bit too flashy. He'd had the same qualms about the Mercedes. But both had appealed to him, not only because they were beautifully made and superbly functional but also because they represented in a very tangible way the success Hatch had made of his life. It was a success his father, a bitter, whining failure of a man, had always predicted would elude his son.
    When Hatch was in a philosophical mood, which was an extremely rare event, he sometimes wondered if he had fought his way to his present level of success primarily to prove his father's predictions wrong.
    The gold hands on the watch face told Hatch he was right on time. Not that it would do him much good. Jessie was inclined to be late whenever Hatch was due to pick her up. He knew from previous