Legacy of Sin

A Cerridwen Press Publication

www.cerridwenpress.com

Legacy of Sin ISBN #1-4199-0305-5 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Legacy of Sin Copyright© 2005 Nikki Soarde Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication: November 2005

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Cerridwen Press, 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

LEGACY OF SIN Nikki Soarde

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson Isuzu: Isuzu Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha DBA Isuzu Motors Ltd. Chevy: General Motors Corporation Crown Royal: Diageo North America, Inc. Neon: Chrysler Corporation Geo: General Motors Corp. Ray-Bans: Bausch & Lomb Inc. Cuervo Gold: Tequila Cuervo La Rojena, S.A. De C.V. Opium: Lanvin-Charles of the Ritz, Inc. Pillsbury Dough Boy: Pillsbury Company Ford: Ford Motor Company Chrysler: Chrysler Corporation Cheerios: General Mills, Inc. Molson Canadian: Molson Canada Molson Inc., a corporation of Canada; Carling O'Keefe Breweries of Canada Limited Captain Crunch: Quaker Oats Company Sugar Crisps: General Foods Corp. Birkenstocks: Birkenstock Orthopadie GMBH Corp. Colt .45: Colt’s Patent Fire Arms Manufacturing Co., Inc. Polo for Men: PRL USA Holdings, Inc. Vogue: Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. McDonald’s: McDonald's Corporation Converse: Converse, Inc. Kodak: Eastman Kodak Company Victoria’s Secret: V Secret Catalogue, Inc. Ferrari: Ferrrari S.p.A .44 Magnum: Smith & Wesson Inc. Grand Marnier: Societe Des Produits Marnier-Lapostolle Midol: Bayer-Roche L.L.C. Baileys: R. & A. Bailey & Co. Popsicle: Lipton Investments, Inc.

Novocain: H. A. Metz Laboratories, Inc. Mack: Mack Trucks, Inc. Coke: The Coca-Cola Company Vicks: Richardson-Vicks Inc.

Nikki Soarde

Chapter One Malibu, California Footsteps echoed through the dark, cavernous rooms. Each tap of those stainless steel stilettos against the tile struck Sloan’s eardrum like the crack of a gunshot. He slipped inside the master suite dressing room, plastered himself against the wall, and cursed silently. He cursed his ineptitude with a safe that he should have cracked in one minute instead of three. He cursed his own infatuation with sparkling stones and the warm glow of gold. And he cursed a target who refused to stick to her appointed schedule. He should have known Morgan Foster wouldn’t last a half an hour at the tedious Hollywood bash. Morgan hated to be anywhere that she wasn’t the center of attention. And the party that was celebrating the opening of Universal Studio’s latest tear-jerker chick-flick was destined to spotlight neither Morgan’s silicone-stretched bosom nor her bombshell-blonde dye job. Morgan hadn’t starred in the film, and Sloan knew that she continued to pout over the slight despite the film’s dubious shot at greatness. She should be thanking her lucky stars she had escaped association with the soonto-be bomb. Sloan had seen the screenplay, and in his opinion it had more in common with a housewife’s laundry list than it did with great dialogue. Mind you, that was hardly a surprise considering its source. Good old Arnoldo thought himself a great artist, but few of his screenplays approached Sloan’s blockbuster successes. But, unfortunately, Sloan Carver couldn’t write every single screenplay that was destined for the silver screen. He was good, but he wasn’t that good. And, God knew, he needed other things to occupy his time. Writing was his passion, but this was his distraction. Everybody needed a hobby, after all, and he had discovered that he had a penchant for picking locks and crouching in closets. And fondling some of the prettiest and most expensive baubles and trinkets known to man. The brassy tinkle of Morgan’s laughter crept in around the edges of the door. “And this is the master bedroom.” Apparently she was giving her guest the grand tour of her five-thousand-squarefoot mansion on the beach. “I see that,” offered a deep masculine voice. “The mile-wide bed was a dead giveaway.” Sloan groaned silently. Errol Trask’s ego rivaled some of the most self-infatuated men in history. It even rivaled that of his date. And Sloan didn’t look forward to hunkering down in a closet and listening to the duo stroke each other’s egos—and God knew what else—for hours on end. 6

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“It is rather large, isn’t it,” twittered Morgan. “It’s one of the biggest beds I’ve ever seen. I bet it could sleep a family of five.” Morgan laughed lightly. “I guess I did outdo myself a bit, but I just love things on a grand scale.” Sloan stared out the window that allowed a small flood of moonlight to spill into the enormous dressing room. He tried to count the iridescent points of light. He tried to find the face of the man in the moon. He tried to think about just about anything but what was transpiring on the other side of that door, but Morgan’s voice rivaled the screech of fingernails on a chalkboard. It would not be ignored. “I love all kinds of big things,” continued her witless monologue. “I love big diamonds, big houses, big cars, big beds, and big… Oh my!” Errol’s groan told Sloan more than he had ever wanted to know about Morgan’s seduction techniques. It seemed he wasn’t going to have to endure their inane banter after all. Sloan stuffed the small velvet sack into his pocket and muttered a few more choice epithets. Many of them were directed at the leading man who was playing out his role on the other side of the door. Errol had a wife at home. She wasn’t an actress, and tended to fade into the woodwork around her self-important husband, but she was pretty and sweet, and she was pregnant with their second child. She had no doubt declined an invitation to the party because of water retention and low back pain. This was how her husband repaid her for her sacrifices. Sometimes Sloan really hated this town. He hated what it stood for, and he hated the people who lived here. But no matter how tired he got of the egos and maneuvering, no matter how many times he had his work butchered by self-righteous directors and inept actors—regardless of all that, he couldn’t deny that this select section of real estate on the western seaboard was the best place for an ambitious screenwriter. Plus it had the undeniable benefit of providing a veritable smorgasbord of delights for his insatiable appetites—gemological and otherwise. For even as he lamented his poor timing and Morgan’s sexual dysfunction, he had to admit that this was the real reason he scaled walls and slipped through windows. If there hadn’t been a chance that Morgan might come home, he probably wouldn’t have bothered. For without risk there was no thrill. And without thrill…there was little else. The grunts and groans from the other side of the door were gradually accelerating and had taken on a feverish intensity. Sloan plugged his ears and resigned himself to another twenty minutes of carnal torture before the duo hopefully fell into a post-coital stupor that would allow him to slip out of the house unnoticed. Morgan’s voice startled him. “Hold on there a second, baby.” “Mmm?” groaned Errol. “You’re not gonna change your mind again, are you?” “Oh no,” she crooned. “I just thought you might like to try something a little…different.”

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“Different?” “I got a new toy on my last trip to New York, and I’ve been dying to try it out.” Errol’s chuckle was lascivious. “By all means. Bring on the leather.” “I just have to get it out of the dressing room.” Dressing room? Shit! Sloan was trapped. The moonlight illuminated a space that was far too neat and well-organized to afford an effective hiding place. “At least I’m pretty sure I stuck it in there,” added Morgan. “It’ll just take me a minute to find it.” He heard the rustle of bedclothes as she, no doubt, worked at extricating herself from her lover’s grasp. She was on her way, and she was going to be rooting around in search of her sleazy treasure. He had to get out. Without allowing himself time to think about the two-story drop that awaited him, he thrust open the window and used his pocket knife to slice open the screen. Thankful for the one smidgen of good luck, he climbed atop the low dresser that sat in front of the window and, just as he heard the latch click open, he squeezed himself through the window, feet first. Heart pumping and palms sweating, he dangled from the window ledge for an agonizing two seconds. The closet light flicked on and he let go. He hit the ground and pain rocketed from his ankle up through his groin and into his chest. But he barely took a moment to lie there and catch his breath, before forcing himself to his feet and hobbling quickly away. He heard a high-pitched scream and knew poor Errol would likely never get a glimpse of Morgan’s…new toy. Perhaps Sloan would send Mrs. Trask an anonymous bouquet of roses in the morning. He forgot about Errol, however, as he poured on the speed and hastily scaled the outer fence. He landed on the other side and the pain that sliced through his ankle brought on a fresh string of curses. But even as he ran, struggling through a haze of pain and shock, he acknowledged that despite the insanity of it all, he was here to stay. After all he had nowhere else to go. And the one place in the world where he might be welcomed again with open arms, was the one place he had no desire to be. The last place he ever wanted to go again was home.

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Chapter Two Owen Sound, Ontario, Canada “Just a little more, Mom,” pleaded Bree as she scooped up another helping of her mother’s meager dinner. “You need to eat.” “Where did you learn to be such a nag?” whispered Lydia through pale, chapped lips. She looked so frail lying there amidst the array of IV tubes—frail and as faded as the dull gray hospital walls. Not even the cheery sunshine that spilled in through the window could brighten her mother’s features. Or the stark reality of her illness. “I learned from the best,” retorted Bree. “Now if you take one more bite I’ll leave you alone.” She did sound remarkably like her mother had when Bree was a child. Lydia Hampstead had employed every tactic known to man in her efforts to cajole her only child into taking just one more bite of her sausage or her mashed potatoes. Under other circumstances, the sound of those same words falling from Bree’s lips would have struck her as comical. Today it struck her as cruelly ironic. “Are you sure this is meatloaf?” Lydia sniffed. “It tastes more like shredded leather.” Bree glared at her. “How on Earth do you know what shredded leather tastes like?” “I think that’s what Janelle used to put in her meatloaf.” She glared at the forkful of beef and cracker crumbs as if it were laced with arsenic. “She never could cook worth a darn.” Bree smiled even though her mouth felt tight. “All right, then. Let’s take a little trip back in time, shall we?” Lydia eyed her warily. “Back in time?” “Sure. Let’s pretend you and Daddy have been invited over to the Carvers for dinner.” Her grin was wicked. “And Janelle is serving meatloaf.” Lydia grimaced. “And this is how you’re trying to entice me to eat?” “You know that no matter how horrible it was, you always ate Janelle’s cooking. You could never stand to disappoint her.” Lydia tilted her head to the side and considered. “And where are our children? Where are you and Sloan?” Before Bree could formulate a suitably scathing retort, her mother held up her hand. “No, wait. Let me guess. Are you playing in a playpen in the corner of the kitchen? Fighting over the dump truck and pulling each other’s hair like always?” Bree set her mouth and said nothing. She and Sloan might have been friends almost since birth, and on-and-off lovers into young adulthood, but the length and depth of such a relationship only made thoughts of him all the more painful. Janelle and her son 9

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had been gone for years, but their betrayal still stung. Whatever had possessed her to bring up the Carvers at all? But then she thought perhaps she knew. In recent weeks Sloan had been slipping into her thoughts with alarming frequency. An idea had begun to take shape in her mind—a plan for bringing the errant son of Bay’s Haven home. At first she had hesitated, balked at the thought of expending any energy at all on the likes of Sloan Carver. But the more she thought about it the more she liked the idea. Besides, she wasn’t doing it for him, she was doing it for herself—and for her mother. Sloan owed her and it was finally time to collect. Lydia continued, “Or perhaps it’s years later and the two of you are out somewhere making up after another one of your knock-down-drag-out fights. Or…” Her smile widened. “Or maybe you and Sloan are down at the beach having a bonfire with the others.” Her eyes held a trace of wistfulness. “The Fearsome Foursome. You were all born within a few months of each other, and I swear, right from the cradle, you always seemed happiest when the four of you were together.” Bree’s chest felt tight. “Are you going to eat your meatloaf or not?” Lydia’s eyes wandered to the horizon that was visible outside her window. A sailboat flitted across the cold blue waters of Georgian Bay, but Bree doubted that was what her mother was seeing. “I know Sloan hurt you when he left, honey. But that doesn’t mean you should forget the good times. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still care.” “Bullshit.” Lydia arched her eyebrows, but said nothing. “If he cared he’d call or write, or return my phone calls or maybe even come to my wedding!” “Don’t be so hard on him. He’s hurting over things we can barely comprehend. Losing his father was—” “That’s no excuse for abandoning the people who love him, Mom. But then, of course, I suppose it runs in the genes.” “Janelle didn’t abandon me. She writes me letters all the time.” “Maybe so. But why doesn’t she call? Or even give you a return address so you can write her back?” Bree clenched her fists. “She doesn’t even know you’re sick, Mom. You have ovarian cancer and your best friend in the world is cavorting around Europe with a man half her age.” Lydia’s voice grew softer. “She grieved for Jonathan long enough. The way he died made it even harder to accept. She deserves a little happiness.” “That doesn’t give her the right to cut herself off from the people who love her!” Bree regretted raising her voice to her mother, but she was sick of Lydia making excuses for her friends. “And what about Marie and Lois?” she asked, referring to the mothers of the remaining members of the Fearsome Foursome.

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“What about them?” “They haven’t been in to visit you once since your admission.” “They’re very busy.” Bree shook her head in disgust. “You shared most of your life with those women. You practically raised your children together. Your husbands were all best friends, and together you built the Lakeside Auction House into a thriving business. That should mean something.” The four couples had been friends since long before their children were born. They’d shared everything from dinners to diapers and had even pooled their various talents to start up a business together. Unfortunately the passing of three of the husbands had sent ripples through the remainder of the group. Since their deaths the Auction House they had started together had prospered, but the friendships had floundered. “That’s enough, Sabrina. You can’t change who people are. I treasure my memories, both of your father and of our time with the others. I admit that sometimes I miss everyone, but why worry and fret over something you can’t change?” She took a deep breath. “I can’t make them come to see me. Just like you can’t make Sloan come home.” Under her breath Bree murmured, “Oh, I don’t know about that.” “What was that?” Bree growled at her. “Can we drop this please? I’m sorry I brought it up. We need to get back to the subject at hand.” Once more she held up the meatloaf. “So?” “Hey there, Chicky-Bree!” interrupted an irrepressibly cheerful voice from the doorway. Bree shook her head and smiled. “You’re early, Franki-Dee.” Francine Waters, the third and unarguably most vivacious member of the Fearsome Foursome, bounced into the room. Her blonde ponytail swung to and fro, and her short skirt flashed the world an unhindered view of a pair of long, shapely thighs. Unlike most women, Franki’s thighs were her best feature. At least that was what she told anyone who would listen. Bree disagreed, however. She thought Franki’s wide, lavender eyes outshone even those firm, milky appendages. Those eyes were truly windows to her soul, and Franki Waters’ soul had the intrinsic ability to buoy even the most dejected spirit. Franki stopped on the other side of the bed and checked her watch. “No, I’m not. I’m always early for everything, therefore I’m right on time.” Bree closed her eyes and nodded. “Right. How silly of me.” They had driven into Owen Sound together. Franki had dropped Bree off at the hospital and then headed out for her monthly trip to the mall to stock up on high heels and miniskirts. Franki was supposed to come back at six. It was barely five-thirty. Franki leaned in and pecked Lydia on the cheek. “How’s the patient?” “My daughter force-fed me hospital meatloaf.” 11

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Franki granted Bree a scathing look. “You always did have a mean streak, Bree.” She focused intently on Lydia and whispered her conspiracy. “I’m sure she never told you this, but she used to get a real kick out of torturing innocent creatures.” Bree’s mouth dropped open. “What?” “She used to deliberately entice hungry living things into her hands, skewer and pierce their tender mouths with sharp objects, and then set them free without so much as a Band-Aid to cover their wounds.” Bree grasped her head in her hands as if afraid it might fall off. “Fishing! She’s describing our fishing trips.” Franki sniffed. “I fail to see how giving it a neat little label makes such tortures socially acceptable.” “You’re hardly a vegetarian, my dear.” Bree had noticed the smile twitching at her mother’s lips. Lydia always enjoyed listening to the two best friends’ banter, and for her mother’s benefit she decided to play it to the hilt. “You spent just as much time down at the fishing pond as the rest of us.” Franki’s back went rigid. “I sunbathed while you guys baited those hooks with those slimy worms and tempted those poor fish to their doom. I only went along because there was nothing better to do in Bay’s Haven on a Saturday afternoon.” Bree snorted in disgust. “Don’t give me that ‘holier-than-thou’ crap. You love trout amandine just as much as the rest of us. And,” she added as an evil thought occurred to her, “you’re hardly one to cast stones when it comes to luring innocent creatures to their doom.” “Excuse me?” Bree held up her hand and splayed her fingers. She counted off on her fingertips as she enumerated, “Terry, Dylan, Eddy, Bob, Joe.” She held up the other hand. “Oscar, Michael—” “All right!” exclaimed Franki through a wide fuschia grin. “You’ve made your point.” She bent down to fluff up Lydia’s pillow. “But I don’t do it to torture them. I just love men.” She sighed deeply. “Lots of them. One at a time. In quick succession.” Lydia closed her eyes but her smile was wide. “I know you, Francine. You just get bored easily. One of these days you’ll find one to keep you challenged and occupied for a lifetime.” She opened her eyes and looked at her daughter. “Maybe you both will.” Bree grabbed her purse. “You have to stop trying to marry me off again, Mom. One short stab at matrimony was more than enough. I’m happy with my career and my life.” “And her friends,” added Franki. “Friends can’t give me grandchildren,” lamented Lydia. “Don’t sulk.” Bree bent to kiss her mother’s forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Lydia nodded, closed her eyes, and for a moment Bree stared at her mother.

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Everyone always said Sabrina was an eerie clone of her mother. As Bree hit her late teens, and eased into her twenties, the duo had often been mistaken for sisters. Bree had inherited her mother’s unruly chestnut waves, and tall, statuesque frame. Their strong jawlines, and delicate ski-jump noses might have been chiseled by the same talented sculptor. For years there had been but one remarkable difference—Lydia’s small, brown eyes were a stark contrast to the soft green depths of her daughter’s. However, despite the differences, both pairs of eyes sparkled with good humor and the simple joys inherent in being alive. Now, however, Lydia was a shell of the woman she had been. The chestnut mane had grayed and thinned from the endless stream of chemotherapy drugs that had also wreaked havoc with her skin and weight. When Bree gazed at those sunken features and lusterless eyes she feared she was glimpsing a snapshot of her own destiny. Franki grasped her hand and Bree allowed herself to be led out into the hall. “I know she looks terrible,” whispered Franki as they made their way back to the front entrance of the hospital. “But she’s a fighter. She’ll make it.” “No, she won’t, Franki.” They stepped out into blazing sunshine and the cool, tangy breeze that wafted in off the bay. “She’s dying, and I’ve accepted that.” “You’re just discouraged. It’s been a long haul. You—” “No!” Bree stopped beside Franki’s Isuzu. “Don’t whitewash it. I’ve struggled with this for months. The doctors were saying it all along, I just chose not to hear it.” Franki chewed on her lower lip, and Bree could see tears brimming in her eyes. She softened her voice. “I know you love her too, but it’s time we both face facts, and deal with the reality of it.” “I’ve never been terribly fond of reality,” argued Franki, her voice tight with emotion. “I much prefer my own little dream world.” “I know. And that’s part of what I love about you.” She turned away from the car to face the glistening waters of Georgian Bay. The water seemed to melt into the sky, giving the illusion of infinity. “But,” she continued, “there are advantages to accepting the inevitable.” “Advantages? What’s that supposed to mean?” Franki had rounded the car and stood beside her friend. “What could possibly be good about it?” “For one thing I’ve found a sort of peace. I don’t feel like I’m constantly fighting a losing battle anymore. Now I’m focusing on keeping her comfortable and making the most of the time we have left.” Franki kicked at a pebble, apparently unimpressed by Bree’s logic. “What’s the other thing?” “Having a deadline can be incredibly motivating.” “What on earth are you talking about?” Bree whirled around and yanked open the car door. “Get in and I’ll show you.”

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Franki rushed around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel. “I thought I was taking you back to your shop.” The engine revved to life and they roared out of the parking lot. “You are. I just wanted to make a little detour first.” “Is it very far out of the way? I’m getting kind of low on gas.” Bree’s gaze lingered on the blacktop that was being devoured by Franki’s frisky little Isuzu. “No,” she said on a sigh. “It’s not out of the way at all.”

***** The Isuzu crept slowly down the long, winding drive. Potholes and frost cracks pitted the ancient asphalt, but the driveway was in mint condition compared to the grounds that surrounded it. “Jesus,” whispered Franki as they pulled to a stop before the three-story Carver mansion. Her gaze swept across the tattered trim and curling shingles. Weeds infested flower beds that had once brimmed with petunias and prize-winning roses. The grass was knee-high and the hedges ragged. A poplar tree, apparently too old to withstand the brutal winter winds, had toppled and caved in the roof of the driving shed. As they got out of the car, it struck Bree that, much like her mother, this house was a wretched, anemic shadow of its former self. “I feel like the prince that came looking for Sleeping Beauty,” whispered Franki. “I had no idea it had gotten this bad.” “It doesn’t take a hundred years for neglect to take its toll.” Franki strolled along the flagstone path that was once lined with impatiens and alyssum. Now the colorful slate tiles were almost completely obscured by dandelions and mammoth thistles. She stopped at the front steps and turned around, her expression bleak. “Don’t they care? Mrs. Carver was born here, and Sloan might as well have been. It’s been in their family for generations, for God’s sake!” Bree smiled at the familiar tirade. It had been years since she had ventured onto this estate, but she had felt the same frustration, and those same questions had run around in her mind every time she thought about her former friend and his mother. No matter how hard she tried not to think about him, he kept creeping into her thoughts and her dreams, sort of like a pesky virus that her immune system couldn’t quite eradicate. “How can they just let it go like this?” continued Franki. “I don’t get it!” “Janelle has her new jet-setting lifestyle, and Sloan is hobnobbing with the rich and famous in Hollywood. What reason could they possibly have for coming home?” Bree made no effort to hide the bitterness in her voice. “Well then, why don’t they sell it? It’s a beautiful piece of real estate. I bet they could get two million for it. If not more!”

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Bree just shrugged. Franki shook her head. “I heard through the real estate grapevine that several agents have contacted Sloan about that very thing.” She reached down and plucked a purple snapdragon that had managed to survive amidst the carnage. “Apparently he refused to sell. I heard he even screamed at one particularly persistent agent, and insisted that no one was to set foot on the property without his permission.” “Didn’t they ask you to talk to him? Surely they all know you were friends.” “They asked. But I told them—” Bree held up her hand. “I’ve got a pretty good idea what you told them.” Franki flung down the flower. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it. It makes me crazy to think about it, so I try not to.” “Yeah, I felt like that too. I avoided asking questions that had no answers.” But no more. Bree was determined to get answers, no matter what it took. Or how much it hurt. She strolled down the path toward the house, but veered off to the left where the path branched off toward the driving shed. She kept walking and sensed Franki fall in behind her. The path continued until it ended at a steep embankment. Stone steps and a shattered wooden handrail led down to a rugged, rock beach. The waters of Georgian Bay pounded relentlessly against the shoreline, gradually wearing away the Carver legacy. Not that there was much left of it to erode. “Nothing about Sloan and his family makes sense,” said Bree above the pounding of the surf. “The Carvers helped build Bay’s Haven into the thriving community it is today. They were respected and well liked. Managing a bunch of jewelry stores wasn’t Sloan’s lifelong dream but the town meant something to him. He tried to do right by the people. He knew how many jobs Marquis Jewelry provided for this community, not to mention what the Auction House did for tourism. And he didn’t take those responsibilities lightly.” Sloan’s father had built the chain of jewelry stores up from the ground. Under his direction the business had flourished and grown. But conquering one business hadn’t been enough for Jonathan Carver. He’d found a new challenge in the Auction House, and with his help that too had prospered. His death had left behind a lot of holes for his son to fill. “Not long before Sloan left,” she said softly, “I remember him talking about maybe getting involved with the Auction House again. He wanted to pick up where his father left off. He’d stayed away from it because the memories were too painful. It took him that long to get past it.” She picked up a jagged piece of agate. The late afternoon sun glittered off a thousand opalescent edges. “He loved it here,” she murmured, as she studied the multi-faceted mysteries within that stone. And I thought he loved me. “I never thought he’d leave.” “I remember that conversation.” Franki’s voice was far away. “It was after a dance down in Goderich. That was one of the last times the four of us were together.” Bree nodded. “Two weeks later his mother took off with her new lover.” 15

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“And then he left a few days after that.” Franki bent down and picked up another rock, this one as smooth and flat as an Olympic discus. She tossed it across the waves with a practiced arm, and Bree watched in wonder as the stone skipped a half a dozen times before sinking to its watery grave. “He’s never been back,” said Franki bitterly. “And I hate him for that. I see his name on all those movie credits, and no matter how much I loved it when I started watching it, after the credits roll I’ve vowed to never see it again.” “He’s coming back,” whispered Bree into the wind. Franki looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?” “Do you remember those stoneware jars my father made just before he died?” Franki’s brows knitted slightly. “Yeah. I think so. I only saw them once but they made an impression.” She smiled. “The woman he’d painted on them bore a striking resemblance to your mother.” “That’s right. They did.” For a moment Bree lost herself in the memories of her father and his passion. It might have been years since she had seen the last series of ceramic jars her father had crafted, but it took little effort for her to picture the heavy stoneware pieces that were so typical of his style. He had often joked that he had big hands, and a big ego, hence it was inevitable that he turned out big pieces. He fashioned jugs and jars and pots, bold both in size and color. Although their form possessed their own brand of brutish grace, it was in their glazing and painting that Russell Hampstead expressed his love of elegance and beauty. The set of three jars had depicted a girl at the three stages of her life, as a baby in a cradle, a child on a swing, and a young woman in a wedding gown. The face had been conjured from his imagination, but the expressions—the dancing brown eyes and whimsical smile—those belonged to the woman he had loved for more than twenty-five years. His wife. “What happened to them, anyway?” asked Franki. “I don’t think I ever heard.” Bree dragged her mind back to the present and settled her gaze on her best friend. “They went up on the block at the Auction House less than a week after he died.” Franki’s eyes went wide. “Really? But…but that’s…” “Outrageous. It was done without our consent, but when we tried to get them back we came up against a brick wall.” Franki considered that for a moment, and then shook her head. “Okay, I get it, but what does all that have to do with Sloan?” “He’s going to help me get them back. He owes me that much.” Franki’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking, Bree? What have you got up your sleeve?” “Just trust me, Franki. If I know Sloan like I think I do, he’ll be home by the end of the month. And, whether he likes it or not, he’s going to pay me back for all those years of neglect.”

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Franki slipped her arm through Bree’s. “Why don’t we go out for a drink tonight and you can tell me all about it.” “All right,” said Bree with a sincere grin. “For the first time in weeks I feel like celebrating.”

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Chapter Three Malibu, California Sloan adjusted the ice pack on his ankle and leaned back in the upholstered office chair. The rich, chocolatey tones of a Louis Armstrong CD stroked his senses, and the faint pounding of the Malibu surf soothed his soul. He couldn’t deny his need to live near water. It must be in the blood. He picked up his coffee cup, but had to set it down again. Unexpectedly, his hand had begun to tremble. He silently chided himself for allowing thoughts of home to wheedle their way into his psyche. He made a conscious effort to concentrate on the music, and gradually shifted his mind to the task at hand. By the time he opened his eyes he had banished all those unpleasant memories, and his hands were steady. He reached for his coffee once more, and focused his attention on his laptop. He glared at the screen and willed the words to come. He took a sip of coffee, and set down the mug. He placed his hands precisely on the keyboard and… “Dammit!” He was just considering the ramifications of tossing the computer across the room when the doorbell interrupted his plans. He didn’t bother to get up, and he didn’t bother to yell. One minute later he heard the soft thud of loafers on the polished oak flooring of his studio. “Hey, Sloan,” called his partner. “You’re lookin’ awfully lazy this morning. I had to bring in your paper and your mail. And—” Craig Sternberg halted in his tracks. “What the hell happened to you?” “Rollerblading,” lied Sloan. “Shit, man,” groaned Craig as he settled his bony ass in the chair across from Sloan’s. “I keep telling you to take it easy. You do everything like you’re afraid there’ll be no tomorrow.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sloan tried to sound irritated, but actually he was fascinated by the observation. “Oh, come on, you know what I mean. How many speeding tickets have you got, anyway?” Sloan grimaced. “See? You drive too fast. You blade too fast. You ski too fast. Hell, you even go through women like underwear.” “I haven’t had a date in months.”

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Craig’s neat, blond mustache curled up along with his lips, and the skin around his hazel eyes crinkled. “Not for lack of trying.” “Celia will come around,” said Sloan easily. Celia Collins had turned up her nose at him at a party several months ago, and it had been as good as waving a red flag in his face. He knew once she consented to go out with him, his interest would sputter as quickly as it had been sparked. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time on her. You know you can have your pick of the starlets. If I was six-foot-two with one cute-as-a-button dimple, chiseled cheekbones, shoulders out to here, and a butt that just screams out to be squeezed…” “I’d really rather not know that you’ve thought about squeezing my butt.” Craig smirked. “I listen at parties, okay? Actually I think that’s a direct quote. But you see my point. You always take the hard road, my friend, and I have to wonder why that is.” Sloan chose not to address the implied question. “Maybe you could take a lesson from me, my friend. I may live life like it’s going out of style, but you live it like you’re afraid of it.” “True. I prefer not to take chances, and color inside the lines. I don’t have a death wish.” Sloan refused to dignify that comment. He maintained a stony silence. Craig lifted his long arms and stretched them far above his head. His cream-colored golf shirt with the faded ketchup stain on the pocket stretched across his narrow chest as he arched his back and groaned in ecstasy. “I’m still not quite awake.” “It’s almost ten,” chided Sloan. “You’re lucky you’ve never had to work in a factory and get up at five o’clock.” “Damn right. Why do you think I went into writing? I always wanted a job that had no dress code, and no clock to punch. This is what I came up with.” Sloan gazed down at his own faded jeans, and tattered U2 T-shirt. Maybe he had a point. “Coffee?” Craig regarded him skeptically. He walked over, picked up Sloan’s cup and sniffed. “You Canadians have a thing for physical hardship, don’t you? Frigid temperatures, wicked blizzards, and coffee that could strip the paint off a Chevy.” “You want some or not?” asked Sloan, his voice flat. “Yeah, fine. Whatever.” “Help yourself.” “You’re not going to serve your guest?” Sloan merely lifted his eyebrows in the direction of his ankle. “Wimp.” “Get me a refill while you’re up.”

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Craig grumbled and whined about it, but a few minutes later they were both sitting at the table with fresh, steaming mugs. “Did you hear about the latest robbery?” Craig tapped the front page of the paper he had tossed on the table. Sloan tilted his head and raised his eyebrows just a hair. “Robbery?” “Yeah. It looks like the Black Panther struck again.” Sloan raked his fingers through his messy black mane and smiled to himself. Hollywood couldn’t have just any cat burglar. Anyone who stole from the stars had to be special—not just a cat, but a super-cat. A sleek black panther seemed to fit the bill, so Sloan had planted that bug in Craig’s ear several months ago. As predicted, Craig had spread it along the star-studded grapevine, and it had tickled the fancy of the California elite. Within a week all of Hollywood and LA was abuzz with talk of the Black Panther Heists. “Really? Who did he hit this time?” “One of your favorite people in the world. Morgan Foster.” Sloan snorted. “Looks good on her. She needs to be taken down a peg or two. Her ego could displace all the water in the Pacific Basin.” “I guess she just missed him,” said Craig as he perused the article. “He slipped out a window when she came home early.” “Morgan left a party early?” “She claims she had a headache, and Errol was kind enough to give her a ride home.” Craig’s smirk turned lascivious. “I guess he dropped her off, and she was terrified to think she was in the house alone with the perpetrator.” “Yeah, I’ll bet she was. I bet she’d just love to get in the Black Panther’s pants. Right after she got into Errol’s, that is.” “Speaking of getting into somebody’s pants…” Craig reached for Sloan’s laptop. “Lemme see what you got.” “It’s terrible.” “You always say that.” Sloan sipped from his mug and tried not to look at his friend as he perused the dialogue. “This time it’s true.” But after a few moments of agonizing silence Sloan couldn’t keep his eyes averted any longer. Like a motorist passing a wreck on the highway, he just had to look. One of Craig’s eyebrows lifted as he read and he must have sensed Sloan’s eyes on him, because he chose that moment to read aloud, his voice a high, breathless parody of an overly ambitious soap queen. “You know how much I care for you, Michael. How much I trusted in you. And this is how you repay me?” He placed a hand to his breast and batted his stubby eyelashes.

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“You should never have trusted someone like me.” His voice dropped about four octaves. “I’ll disappoint you every time. “That’s not true!” he squealed. “You need someone to believe in you. I can be that someone. “Sylvia, please don’t…” Craig stopped and scowled at his friend. “What the hell is this? You been watching the daytime soaps again or something?” “Shut up. I’m in a slump. I knew it was bad. I was just about to delete it.” “Bad doesn’t do it justice. And this slump is starting to scare me. It’s been more than a month, and we’ve got a deadline on this one.” “I know!” If Sloan had been mobile he would have vaulted from the chair and crossed to the set of wide, bright windows that looked out over the azure waters of Malibu. He settled for slamming down his cup and sloshing coffee onto the table. “Don’t you think I know? I don’t know what’s wrong. I just can’t seem to focus lately.” Craig reached for the pile of mail that was stacked beside the newspaper. “You need a distraction, something to take your mind off your troubles.” “I don’t have any troubles. Other than a sprained ankle and a chick who is determined to ignore me, life’s great. I’ve got more money than I ever dreamed. Directors clamor for my scripts, and, contrary to the image of the reclusive writer, I get invited to all the best parties.” “It’s your charisma, Sloan. You suck people in like a black hole sucks in photons.” “Yeah. Whatever,” scoffed Sloan. But although he downplayed it, he knew Craig was only half-teasing. Few members of the Screenwriters Guild played an active role in the Hollywood social scene. He’d been told by numerous directors that he had the presence of an actor. Too bad he didn’t have the inclination. Or the ego. “And don’t forget,” continued Craig, “you’ve got the best partner in the free world.” “How could I forget that?” said Sloan dryly. Craig continued to shuffle through the assortment of bills and charity solicitations. Writers didn’t get fan mail. They got free samples. “You get anything more from that Deep Throat character?” asked Craig, sniffing a tiny packet of bayberry-scented shampoo. “Giving her a label like Deep Throat gives her far too much credit.” However, Sloan couldn’t help but squirm just a little at the reminder of the series of postcards he had received over the last few years. It had been months since the last one, and his efforts to put them out of his mind had been quite successful. The first one had arrived shortly after Sloan’s name had been plastered all over the tabloids in a mini-scandal involving an up-and-coming starlet and a paternity suit. The scandal was bogus, and there had even been a formal apology, but the publicity had been enough to etch his name into the minds of directors and movie buffs alike. Sloan 21

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had chalked up the first one to a fluke of the publicity and had thought nothing more of it. But the notes had continued to arrive, about once every six months. They were cryptic, but disturbing—disturbing because they always alluded to a new and extremely imaginative way for Sloan to meet the end of his career. They assumed it was a woman because she also liked to allude to new and innovative methods for severing Sloan’s gonads from the rest of his anatomy. One had involved a chain saw and wood chipper. Sloan tried to cross his legs, but got a shooting pain in his ankle for his trouble. “The cops ever come up with anything?” “Nothing,” said Sloan, his voice edged with bitterness. “I’m just a lowly behind-thescenes type guy. I don’t warrant the big investigations.” “Now, now,” soothed Craig. “I can see that it’s not a big priority. The chick’s not exactly stalking you. The postmarks are from all over the world. They don’t have much to go on.” “Still. It creeps me out to know that somebody out there spends time thinking about how long it would take for all the blood to leak out of my groin.” “I think she’s just a frustrated writer, and it’s all a big jealousy thing.” “You don’t think it’s some old girlfriend that I dumped?” “Nah. Anyone who really knows you, knows you’re not worth all that trouble.” “You’re a real friend.” Craig shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m here for you buddy.” He tossed down the shampoo sample and continued his quest. “Hey,” he exclaimed. “What’s this?” He held up a white envelope that glittered like it had been sprinkled with fairy dust. Sloan frowned and reached for it, but Craig snatched it back. He inspected the handwriting. “This has a Canadian postmark. In fact…” He held it up to the light and squinted. “I think it’s from Bay’s Haven. And I could swear it looks like an invitation!” Sloan felt an odd flutter in his gut. “Gimme that.” But it was too late. Craig had already sliced open the envelope. He withdrew a sheet of pale blue paper and Sloan could see the gold lettering glinting in the sunlight. “You ever hear of privacy, Craig? I think you just committed a federal offense.” “Oh, be quiet. You’re an invalid. I was doing you a favor.” His eyes continued to scan the script. “I hurt my ankle, not my hands!” Sloan noticed his hand had started to shake again. He gripped the armrest of the chair to hide his rising panic. “Now let me see that.” At last, grinning like an anorexic cat that just swallowed a chubby canary, Craig handed it over. “This is like an answer to prayer.” “What?” Sloan was having trouble concentrating on the text. His eyes scanned it, but had trouble focusing. “What do you mean?”

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“Are you kidding? This is just what you need to get you back on track. A hometown party in honor of the boy who made it big in Hollywood?” Craig tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. “I bet they give you the key to the city, and everything!” Craig stood and paced to the window. “It says casual, but what does one wear to such an affair?” “I’m not going.” Craig looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, you’re not going?” “Just like it sounds. I’m not going. I’m staying here.” He tapped the computer. “We have a deadline, remember?” “Bullshit. We’ll never make that deadline at this rate. You need to get away and get those creative juices flowing again.” Craig propped his hands on his miserly hips. “Besides, you can’t ignore something like this. They’re honoring you, for chrissake. You were born there. You can’t turn your back on these people.” To his amazement, Sloan managed to lift the coffee mug to his lips and take a long, deep swallow. “I left for a reason, Craig. It wasn’t on a whim. I had no intention of ever going back.” Craig stared at him and waited. After several moments he sighed in frustration. “You can’t leave it at that. Making a statement like that is like dribbling blood in a pool of hungry sharks.” Sloan cursed his unruly mouth. That had slipped out. He’d have to do some quick damage control. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to ditch the whole small-town scene, okay? I wanted to make it in the big times. Find adventure…you know. I’ve done it, and I don’t want to look back. It’s nothing more than that.” Craig’s eyes drilled into him. “All right,” he said slowly. “But if that’s all it is, then there’s no reason you can’t spend a weekend there, accept their adulation, and show your buddy all your old haunts while you’re at it.” “No.” Craig sat down and reached for the envelope again. He shook out a small RSVP card, picked up a pen and began to scribble. “What are you doing?” “I am informing dear Mrs. Middleton that Sloan Carver and guest would be happy—” He stopped and tapped his chin with the pen. Suddenly the pen speared toward the heavens. “No, honored to attend.” He bent back to his task. Mrs. Middleton? Who the hell was Mrs. Middleton? Sloan didn’t remember any Middletons living in Bay’s Haven. “I don’t know any Mrs. Middleton,” he said, knowing he sounded petulant, and not knowing what to do about it. “I’m not attending any party put on by someone I don’t know.” Craig scoffed. “You can do better than that. You attend parties like that all the time! And it says here that Mrs. Middleton is the coordinator of the Bay’s Haven Social Action League.”

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“What? Bay’s Haven doesn’t have any social action league. Whatever the hell that is, anyway.” “You’ve been away a long time. Maybe things have changed.” “I don’t think so.” Craig stuffed the card in the envelope and licked the paste. “What possible reason would they have for lying about something like that?” “I don’t know. Why would they?” “Jesus. You’ve been in California too long. You’re seeing spies and conspiracies everywhere. There isn’t a thief and a murderer hiding behind every rock.” “You might be surprised,” muttered Sloan. “What?” “Nothing. It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going! I don’t need any more problems shoveled onto my plate.” “You just got finished saying you don’t have any problems. I think a little upheaval is exactly what you need.” Craig looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve never seen you so unnerved. I kind of like it. Every artist needs to suffer a little to make their work worth its salt.” Suffer? Was he kidding? “I suffer enough just having you as a friend.” He waited a beat. “And I’m not going!” “Oh, you’re going,” said Craig with a smugness that set Sloan’s teeth on edge. “Because if you don’t I’ll tell my mother that you’re desperate to get married.” Sloan’s heart dropped to his knees. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Oh, yes I would. You’ll have blind dates lined up around the corner, and they’ll all be sweet, sensible Jewish girls who know a thousand ways to serve matzoh balls.” “You are the devil’s spawn.” Craig yawned grandly. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

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Chapter Four Bay’s Haven, Ontario Bree snuggled the hand-blown glass vase in a nest of black velvet. The vase’s spider-thin etchings and silver work picked up the sunlight and dispersed it into a million miniature rainbows. She stepped back and smiled. Miriam Porter provided Bree with some of her bestselling stock, not to mention some of Bree’s personal favorites. If this piece didn’t go within the week, Bree promised herself that she would eat some of her mother’s hospital meatloaf. The vase appropriately displayed, Bree took another step back and scanned the rest of her shop. Bronze sculptures and soapstone carvings lined glass shelves and strategically stacked orange crates. Christmas ornaments crafted of blown glass hung from the low ceiling. And one glass case was dedicated to jewelry, crafted from pounded gold and silver, and polished stones that had been plucked from the waters of the Great Lakes. Watercolor seascapes and acrylic renditions of local wildlife dotted the walls. A few abstract pieces rounded out the paintings, but they weren’t her best sellers. Bay’s Haven wasn’t about being on the cutting edge. It was about tradition and simplicity. It was about finding beauty in the world around you, and the history that had forged you. And Bree cherished and cultivated that attitude in her artisans, as well as in her own work. Bree had opened the Bree’s Way Gallery and Gift Shop four years ago when a space became available on the town’s main strip where gourmet food shops and restaurants were huddled beside craft markets and quaint four-star inns. She had seen an opportunity to take advantage of the small bayside town’s booming tourist trade. She looked for local artists and artisans who employed a variety of local textures and media, and her efforts had been well rewarded. The last two years she had seen a tidy profit despite the short season—enough to indulge her own passions during the slow winter season. Just like her father before her, Sabrina Hampstead loved to work with clay. She glanced at the shelf where her own hand-painted vases and bowls advertised her skills. They were her pride and joy and she loved and nurtured them like they were her children. They were a part of her—every single piece demanding a tiny sliver of her soul. Her father had poured his soul into his work as well, and she was determined to get those lost pieces of her father back again. The wind chimes by the front door alerted her to her first afternoon customer. She looked eagerly to the door, expecting a familiar face and the warm glow of shared 25

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memories. But while the two women who strolled into the shop were definitely familiar, they weren’t who she was expecting. And the smile she wore as she greeted them wasn’t entirely genuine. “Lois and Marie,” she said, offering the obligatory hugs. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been so long.” The barbs of sarcasm that pierced that phrase failed to prick her customers. Lois Elliott drew away from Bree’s arms and twisted her lips into her usual condescending smile. “I’m sorry, dear. But I don’t have a lot of call to shop in town these days. I tend to make a couple of trips to Toronto and London every month, and that generally satisfies my needs.” She sniffed and her tiny blue eyes peered out from beneath heavily penciled brows. Drooping jowls tugged at the corners of her smile, but it remained plastered on as if it had been painted on by a macabre clown. She waved a pudgy hand at the display in the window. “Still, you do put on quite a show, Sabrina. I hope you’re not wasting your talents here in Tiny Town.” “Oh, now Lois,” crooned Marie Waters. “You’re just partial to the big city hustle and bustle. Plenty of people like to come up here to shop in peace.” Much like her daughter, Marie was tall and willowy, and Franki had inherited her slender frame and perfect thighs from her. Franki and Marie also shared an impressive stature that topped Bree’s own five-foot-eight by a good two inches. However that was all that Franki had inherited from her mother. Other than their physical appearance, Franki and her mother had nothing in common. “Yes,” agreed Bree with a grateful glance in Marie’s direction. “I’m not the only one who prefers the twitter of birds and the pounding of the surf to the roar of car engines and subways.” “I suppose,” said Lois. She shifted her short, sturdy frame in the direction of the glass displays. “To each his own, as they say.” And she waddled off. Marie laid a liver-spotted hand on Bree’s arm. “How is your mother, Bree?” Bree’s smile was tight. “The same, I’m afraid.” Apparently Lois overheard the exchange. She spoke as she handled an exquisite glass rose. “We really should get out there to see her, don’t you think, Marie? Maybe in a few days, when the work at the house has been completed.” “Lois is having the gardens completely redone in an Oriental motif,” explained Marie. “Yes, and the pool needed a new fence and patio.” She sighed heavily. “A property that size needs constant attention. Sometimes it can be such a burden.” Bree did not roll her eyes. Lois Elliott was never satisfied with her home. The sprawling Tudor-style house that looked out over the bay from a hilltop vantage point, was constantly under renovation. Bree suspected that since Lois had been denied her dream of occupying a

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penthouse in Manhattan, she had decided to keep herself and her husband busy with a constant stream of landscapers, decorators and architects. “I’m sure you’re very busy.” Bree said dryly. “Whenever you get to the hospital I just know Mom’ll be thrilled to see you.” “It’s so sad how time gets away from you.” Marie was gazing out the window, as if she were looking into the past. “In the old days the eight of us were all so inseparable.” She settled a fond smile on Bree. “And then our children became such good friends. And now…” Now, you can’t find five minutes to spend with one of your best friends who just happens to be dying right under your noses, Bree finished for her silently. And then she chided herself for being overly judgmental. Out of those who remained from the four sets of parents, Franki’s mother was Bree’s favorite. She was sweet and kind and always ready with a hug and a listening ear. However, she was also mousy and spineless. Since her husband, Joe’s death, she had become little more than Lois Elliott’s lap dog—her constant companion and simpering sidekick. Marie drew a heavy sigh. “Now there’s barely half of us left to carry on the traditions. And even our children are scattered.” “Oh, Marie,” scolded Lois. “You’re getting morbid in your old age.” She set down a sculpture she’d been fondling. “Nothing lasts forever, you know. People die. People move on. It’s just the way things are.” “But for so many to die so young…” lamented Marie. “Well, you can hardly count Jonathan Carver in those statistics, can you?” said Lois with a sneer. “I mean, after all—” “Was there something specific you wanted?” interrupted Bree. She refused to rehash the tragedy of Sloan’s loss with these women. “Uh…yes,” said Marie, obviously picking up on Bree’s intent. “Lois wanted a housewarming gift for a new neighbor who just moved into the old Wilson place.” “That’s right.” Suddenly Lois swept up the vase Bree had so lovingly tended to just moments before. “I’ll take this. I can’t be bothered with any more trinket hunting today.” Bree had to hold herself back from snatching the masterpiece out of Lois’ pudgy fingers. “Uh, are you sure you want to spend so much on someone you hardly know?” It just about killed her to think of that delicate piece of art in the hands of someone who would treat it with no more tenderness than she afforded a casserole dish. Lois glanced at the price tag. “Oh.” Her eyebrows lifted high into the creases of her forehead. Bree’s hopes were kindled. “That is a little dear, isn’t it?”

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But then Marie threw a wrench into the works by injecting a dose of her ubiquitous sweetness. “But just think how pleased your neighbor will be when she unwraps such a lovely thing. She can’t help but be impressed by your impeccable taste.” “True,” said Lois with a slow smile. “You do have a way of looking at things, Marie.” She turned to Bree. “I’ll take it.” “Of course.” Defeated, Bree accepted it and walked heavily to the counter. “I’ll have it ready in five minutes.” Lois had just finished paying and had cradled her package under her arm when the wind chime tinkled again. This time, when Bree looked up she felt a surge of warmth. Lois Elliott, however, tensed visibly. “Troy.” The name dropped from her lips like a lead weight. “Mother.” Troy Elliott stepped back and held the door open for the two women. Lois and Marie wended their way through the displays toward the door. “It’s nice to see you, Troy,” said Marie as they approached. “I so rarely get down to the store. Selling all that jewelry and managing all those employees must keep you very busy. I just—” “You’re taking a rather long lunch today,” interrupted Lois. “I thought you chained yourself to that desk.” Troy’s lips set into a hard line. “You know me so well, Mother. I positively live for bondage. However, my secretary does have a key. The shackles come off once a day so I can eat and take a piss. Which is more than I can say for the apron string I can still feel wrapped around my throat.” Lois’s mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut again. “You just look for ways to hurt me, don’t you?” “I learned from the best, Mom.” Without another word, Lois stomped out of the shop. Marie eased past Troy, stopping briefly to touch his hand and try to communicate her sympathy with a smile. Troy smiled back. At last they were gone and he allowed the door to swing closed. He wilted against the wall. Bree chewed on her lower lip. “I’m sorry, Troy. I wouldn’t have asked you here if I’d known she would come in.” He waved away the apology. “Don’t be silly. I can handle her.” Bree raised her eyebrows. “All right,” he chuckled. “I can put up with her. Is that better?” “I thought it might have gotten better by now,” she sighed. “I guess I hoped it would.” Bree had never been clear on the origins of the feud that had developed between Troy and his family. Troy had always evaded her questions, and downplayed its importance. But Bree knew better. Whatever had come between Troy and his family ran deep. Deep enough for Troy to disavow any claim to a potential six-figure

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inheritance from his father’s share of Lakeside House. She had only gained that little tidbit by plying Troy with whiskey at his thirtieth birthday party. It had cost her an entire fifth of Crown Royal, and a half a dozen aspirins the next morning. “No way. My family wrote the book on holding grudges. We—notice I include myself in that pronoun—truly excel at hanging onto our anger and our enemies.” “How about hanging onto friends?” She extended her arms and with a smile he complied. She wallowed in the strength and warmth of familiar arms. He squeezed hard, in the intimate way of old friends. He pulled away and his eyes scanned first her and then the room. He nodded approval. “I don’t get in here nearly enough. The shop looks great, Chicky-Bree.” The incident with Lois already forgotten, she reached up to tousle his blond curls. “So do you, Troy-boy.” She held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down. “I heard talk down at the café that you started running marathons. I thought they were kidding, but obviously they weren’t.” Bree hated the fact that she had learned this little tidbit from a waitress instead of from Troy himself. “No, they weren’t kidding. I run eight clicks a day,” he said, striking a virile pose. His conservative blue suit stretched over well-developed shoulders. She even had a hint of the muscular thighs that hid beneath the razor-sharp crease of his trousers. “Not bad considering I waddled down the aisle to pick up my high school diploma, eh?” Bree shook her head. “You never waddled anywhere. You were always far too hard on yourself.” “Right,” he said through a grin. “I was just…husky.” “You weren’t even that. You just always compared yourself to a guy whose mother couldn’t cook and refused to buy junk food.” She refused to refer to Sloan by name. “And besides, it’s been ten years since you had an ounce of pinchable fat.” He held up a long, lean finger and his brown eyes twinkled with that old, familiar mischief. Even months of detentions and parental reprimands hadn’t been able to quell the irreverent spirit of the Fearsome Foursome, or keep them from pursuing their perpetual quest for adventure. “Pinchable.” He nodded sagely. “You hit the nail on the head there, Bree.” She laughed. “Carolyn?” “Mm hmm.” He dropped his hand and picked up a polished soapstone sculpture of a great blue whale. “When I met Carolyn she persuaded me that I’d get a lot more pinching if I had a little less that was pinchable.” “Ah, the power of sex strikes again.” “Where do you think I get all the energy to run those marathons?” “Here I thought it was those protein drinks.” He set the sculpture back in place and his voice took on a note of wistfulness. “I owe her so much. I don’t know where I’d be without her.” 29

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“I hardly think you need to worry about that,” said Bree with a poke to his ribs. “She adores you. And you’re a wonderful father. She’d be crazy to let you go.” Troy’s smile broadened. “All right. What do you want?” Bree laughed. “Nothing. It’s the simple truth. Speaking of fatherhood, how is that little monster of yours?” Troy’s eyes rolled back. “You have no idea how accurate that description is. David is eight going on thirty. He’s headstrong and completely fearless. He’s giving me premature gray hairs.” She didn’t bother to hide her grin. “Fearless, eh? Hmm…I just can’t imagine where he gets it.” Troy’s face remained deadly serious. “It must be some mutant gene of Carolyn’s because it couldn’t possibly be from me.” “Right. Of course.” Suddenly Troy turned around. “Enough about me and my idyllic suburban existence. You asked me here for a reason, and I think it’s about time I knew what that was.” To her surprise, he added, “It has something to do with Sloan, doesn’t it?” Bree’s eyes went wide. “You mean you’d guessed that before you got here?” “Call it kismet. There was just something about your voice on the phone. And I had a funny feeling that we were all going to be together again very soon.” She sat down on the bar stool she kept behind the counter. “Honestly, Troy, I wasn’t sure if I should pull you in on this, but I guess it’s a good thing I did. You obviously would have found me out sooner or later.” He crossed to the counter and braced his hands against the glass. “Why wouldn’t you have told me? You couldn’t possibly stage a reunion without me.” “No, of course not.” “So?” he asked when she said nothing more. “What’s the scoop here, Bree? What’s the big mystery? Did he finally call and you were afraid I’d be too pissed off to want to see him?” No doubt Troy harbored some resentment for his friend-cum-boss. Technically, Troy had worked for Sloan for the past eight years, and still the two had barely spoken. Only in very rare, and very dire instances had Troy managed to catch his boss for a person-to-person telephone conversation, and even those were frustratingly brief. Usually Sloan was “out” or simply unreachable for such chats. He said he trusted Troy to manage his stores. Implicitly. But the excuse seemed hollow. After a few maddening years Troy had simply accepted it. Bree wasn’t quite so tolerant. “No, no,” she replied. “He didn’t call. This was all my idea. And, in fact, he probably won’t be too happy about it all when he gets here.” Troy shook his head in confusion. “Okay, you’ve stumped me. Why won’t he be happy?” Then a slow smile spread across his face. “You’re tricking him into coming,

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aren’t you? I’m hurt that you pulled this off without me.” He managed a pretty good pout. “I had my reasons.” She shifted on her stool. “See…the thing is, my reason for asking him to come back indirectly affects you.” He stood there, waiting, and she knew she couldn’t put off telling him any longer. “And honestly, I’m not sure if you’re going to like it.”

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Chapter Five Craig crinkled up his nose and sniffed. “What’s that smell?” “It’s called fresh air, Craig.” He rolled down the limousine window and let the wind flirt with his hair. He breathed deeply the scents of his youth. “It’s called air without smog and pollution. We’re almost to the lake, and I can smell the water and…” Unexpectedly his stomach clenched. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the buttery calfskin upholstery. “And what?” This was ridiculous. It had been years. It shouldn’t still have such a stranglehold on him. He had to take control, and not allow his memories to consume him, and ruin his trip home. He pressed a hand to his gut. “And hay. Somebody’s done a cutting of hay already. That’s what that sweet, fresh-cut grass smell is from.” “Hey, man, you’re pale as a ghost. You carsick or something?” “I think it was that trout I had on the plane.” He wasn’t about to tell Craig that the scent of hay had hung thick and heavy in the fall air the day he found his father’s body. In fact, he hoped to keep reminiscing to a minimum for the duration of the trip. “So, are we close to your old house?” asked Craig eagerly. So much for idle wishes. “No. We won’t be going by it. It’s on the other side of Bay’s Haven.” “Well, you’ll have to take me out there later.” Craig stuck his hand out the window and played with the breeze. “They did say they’d have a rental car available for our use, right? I like a limo ride as well as the next guy, but they’re buggers to park at the minimall.” A smile tugged at Sloan’s lips in spite of himself. “Yeah. This Mrs. Middleton I’ve been e-mailing assured me she’d try and have something nice and sporty available.” “Like a Porsche or a Beemer?” Craig sounded like a toddler asking for a lollipop. “Hardly. I think we’ll be lucky to get a Neon or Geo.” “Ugh. You sure know how to spoil a guy’s fantasies.” “Hey man, I resent that. I make my living off of fantasies.” “True. But we’re not in Tinsel Town anymore, Toto. In fact I’ve never seen so much empty space. Hard to believe this is one of the most populated regions of Canada.” “Yeah.” Sloan gazed out across the endless fields dotted with quaint farmhouses, lone maple trees and stands of birches. He could just make out a hint of blue beyond the dense line of evergreens to the north. “It feels kind of empty after the sardine-land of LA and Burbank.”

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“I don’t know. I think I could get used to it. At least for a while.” Craig riveted an intense stare on his friend. “What the hell did you do for fun around here, anyway? Catch frogs, put them on rocks and watch them dry out in the sun?” Sloan laughed for the first time since they’d disembarked the plane in Toronto. “You’d be surprised how much fun that can be. But we did manage to get a little more…innovative when the need arose.” “Oh? Care to elaborate?” “Not particularly.” “Okay.” And Craig left it at that. For now. Fifteen minutes later the stretch turned down Killdeer Drive and rolled to a stop in front of Bay’s Haven’s finest guest house—The Wee Inn.

***** Across the street at the Eventide Café, a lone figure sat and sipped from a glass of imported beer. His eyes remained riveted on the long, black car as it vomited its passengers onto the street. The half-eaten club sandwich on his plate was suddenly forgotten. He had requested a sidewalk table, and lingered over his lunch for the sole purpose of catching a first glimpse of the return of Bay’s Haven’s prodigal son. The sight of Sloan hit him like a fist to the gut. When Bree had informed him of her plans he had sighed and smiled, and bent over backwards to play his role as the congenial family friend. He had honored her requests, but all the time he had secretly hoped it would all fall through. Sloan’s exodus had been a dream, his return a nightmare. “What does he know?” he whispered into the breeze. He gripped his glass a little harder for fear it would slip through his sweaty fingers. He hated this—the waiting and the wondering. The not knowing was the worst. He liked to know all the variables, calculate all the angles. And he liked to make a decision and act on it swiftly. But Sloan was a wild card in an otherwise well-ordered deck. Sloan might be completely ignorant of the secrets that haunted Bay’s Haven like restless ghosts in a ruined castle. He might be. And then again, he might not. Had Sloan’s mother followed through on her threats to tell him everything? Perhaps she had only hinted at things that could damage her as much as any of them. Perhaps she had only shared enough to ease her own tortured conscience. But if that was the case, how much, exactly, had she revealed? Or had it all been a grand bluff? The Carvers always were adept at lying. All of them. But if he didn’t know, then why had he left? And why had he come back?

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The questions were so thick that they clogged the airways and restricted the lungs. Questions and uncertainty could paralyze as surely as exposure. Something had to be done. He picked up his sandwich and tore off an enormous chunk. He chewed methodically. Sloan was still standing there, taking in the sights of his old hometown, his blackclad silhouette as trim and lithe as when he was eighteen. Resentment mingled with the uncertainty, coiling inside his stomach like a pair of hissing snakes. He pressed a hand to his gut, as if to still the writhing reptiles. But they would not be appeased. But what to do? How to proceed without undue risk to himself or the business? He drained the last of his beer and considered… For now, uncertainty was the enemy. He had to establish the extent of the threat. There had to be a way to discern exactly how much Sloan Carver knew, and from there the course would become clear. He would wait and watch. He would bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. And then he would decide. And then, if necessary, he would act. If all went well, perhaps Sloan wouldn’t have to die.

***** Sloan stood in the dappled sunshine beneath a weeping willow tree. He slipped his Ray Bans into place and let his eyes roam up and down the main drag of his hometown, surprised at the nostalgia that washed through him. A row of carriage lamps lined the worn cobblestone sidewalk. Beds of petunias and impatiens surrounded their polished black bases, and antique wrought iron benches invited shoppers to sit and admire the view of the bay that was visible at strategic points between the trees. He could make out the familiar signs that advertised everything from fudge to dried flowers. He thought the display in the front window of Simon’s antiques across the street hadn’t changed in the eight years since he’d been home. But several doors down he noticed a sign that was not so familiar—Bree’s Way. Bree. So that meant she was still here. And if she had stayed, did that mean all the others were here too? Of course, he knew Troy was still here, deftly managing Marquis Jewelry. But was Franki still selling cottages to doctors and lawyers who had no time to use them? Was Sloan the only one who had shed the trappings of their old life? And if so what did that make him? The only sane one? Or the only fool? “Hey, Lucy!” Sloan noticed a hand waving in front of his face. “Lucy?” “You know…in the sky with diamonds?” explained Craig. “You were on some trip. I must have asked you if you were ready to go in three times.”

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“Oh.” Sloan finally noticed that their bags had miraculously disappeared from the sidewalk. “Sorry. I was just—” “I know what you were. I go home sometimes, too.” Craig’s smile was warm and nostalgic, as he no doubt considered the throng of relatives he had left behind in New York. “Passover and Hannukah,” he mused as he motioned for Sloan to precede him into the front lobby. “I can never quite get through them without shedding a tear or two onto my mother’s ample bosom.” Sloan had to chuckle. “Only you would refer to your mother that way.” “Well she has one, you know. I’ll bet yours does too. Mind you I’m guessing, seeing as how I’ve never met, or even seen a picture of the woman.” Sloan’s good humor dissolved like the froth on a wave hitting the sand. But he managed to keep up a thin facade. “My mother’s breasts are none of your concern.” “Right. She has that European lover to look after them.” Sloan groaned and was thankful for the bright greeting of the hostess behind the desk. “Can I help you, sir?” Sloan’s Ray Bans remained firmly in place. “A room for Sternberg?” He had used Craig’s last name in a desperate attempt to remain anonymous for as long as possible. His caution did not stem from the fear of being recognized, and consequently mauled by a throng of arduous fans. Bay’s Haven was hardly littered with starry-eyed teens who idolized talented screenwriters, after all. His fears ran far deeper than that. The perky redhead tapped away at her computer, and soon they were being led up the stairs by a crisply pressed bellhop. Sloan finally removed his sunglasses to better view their surroundings. Plush Oriental runners muffled their footfalls as they proceeded down the narrow, winding hallway. Dark mahogany wainscoting and flocked wallpaper were accented by burnished brass fixtures and antique door pulls. Craig tossed him a surreptitious glance. “What did you say this place was called again?” “The Wee Inn.” “Uh-huh. Just as I thought. I was afraid the name would be all too accurate.” “Don’t judge a hotel by its hallways,” cautioned Sloan as the porter slipped a key into the lock of room 314. The door swung open and they stepped inside. Sloan watched Craig as his eyes swept around the lavishly appointed suite. A small sitting room complete with divan and Queen Anne-style secretary’s desk, was flanked by a pair of surprisingly spacious bedrooms. Two four-poster beds were visible through two sets of wide French doors. “Wow,” breathed Craig, obviously completely taken with the transition from the small narrow hallway to this mammoth executive suite.

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For Sloan, however, the decor was dwarfed by the intruder who sat on the far side of the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, as he lined the palm of the bellhop and motioned him out the door. The large, burly figure continued to lounge on the antique love seat. His size thirteen foot bobbed lazily, but he had fixed his small, close-set eyes on Sloan like a near-sighted prophet watching the arrival of the Antichrist. “Nice to see you too, Sloan,” he drawled. “It hasn’t been nearly long enough.” “Get out.” Derek Waters shook a head that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a prize bull. “Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” “You’re not that old, and you were never my friend. Now, I don’t know how you got in here, but—” “Do I make you nervous?” interrupted Franki’s younger brother. “No. You make me nauseous.” Derek grinned. “Ah. Here I thought we had come to an understanding.” “If you can call a restraining order an understanding, then I guess that’s what we came to.” The hulk crossed the room. “Don’t want to be rude to a guest, even if he is a friend of yours, Carver.” He extended a hand to Craig. “Derek Waters.” Craig shook it with a wary glance in Sloan’s direction. “Craig Sternberg.” Derek frowned. “Sternberg. That’s Jewish, isn’t it?” “Never could put anything over on you, Derek.” Sloan stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Now, at the risk of repeating myself—get out.” Derek ignored him. “Jews have always fascinated me. You know, all that stuff about Allah and those little hats…” He shrugged and glanced at Craig’s head. “You’re not wearing a beanie. Does that mean you’re not a devout Jew?” At the reference to Allah, Craig’s mouth had quirked into an unreadable expression. “I’m not sure what you mean, exactly.” “Well… Were you baptized as a Jew?” To his credit, Craig didn’t bat an eyelash. “No. I sort of skipped that part. And, no, I don’t actively practice Judaism. If that answers your question.” “So…does that mean you eat pork and everything?” “Everything but the hoof,” said Craig with an air of authority. “But only from kosher pigs, of course.” Sloan had to restrain a snort. “Really,” said Derek, obviously riveted. “That’s fascinating. But there’s one more thing I just gotta know.”

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“Yes?” He leaned in and whispered covertly, but loud enough for Sloan to hear. “Did you…you know…have your cap sized?” Craig blinked, apparently confused by the question. And Sloan decided it was high time to put an end to the twenty questions. “Can we get back on track here, Derek? You obviously didn’t come down here to brush up on your Hebrew.” Derek shifted gears like he was driving a Porsche. He whirled away from Craig and rammed a beefy finger into Sloan’s chest. “Damn right. I came here to tell you to stay the hell away from my sister.” “So, what else is new.” He took a step back, away from that accusatory appendage. “But I can hardly come home and ignore one of my oldest and dearest friends, now can I? Franki would shoot me right between the eyes if I didn’t talk to her at the party.” He groaned softly. “God, don’t tell me they invited you.” Derek sneered. “You think I’d come?” He stepped closer and Sloan could smell a recycled version of the Lakeside Diner’s famous garlic burger. “Don’t worry, I’m planning on giving that bash a wide berth. But if you hurt her again, you can rest assured I’ll be the one shooting you between the eyes.” “I never hurt Franki. Her crush on me was all in your head.” “You do live in a fantasy world, Carver. It just about killed her when you chose Bree over her. And then when you left like that, without a word…” His lips curled into a hideous sneer. “I don’t want to have to pick up pieces like that again.” He held up a stubby finger. “Francie just broke up with this flaky artist, and she’s real bummed about it. So she’s vulnerable. Don’t you be leading her on, making her think she’s got a chance with you again. She doesn’t need the heartache.” “You’re crazy, Derek. Franki has always known we’re just friends. Besides—” “Besides,” interrupted Craig. “This Franki doesn’t have a prayer. Sloan is very taken.” Sloan’s head swivelled around and his eyes silently queried his friend. But Craig didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he slipped an arm around Sloan’s waist and sidled in all snug and cozy. “And I’m extremely jealous.” Sloan’s revulsion was overshadowed by a sudden urge to laugh. Uproariously. However, despite his mirth, he managed to stay in character and maintain his decorum. As Derek looked on with mute astonishment, Sloan draped an arm around Craig’s shoulders. “Yes, and as to your earlier question?” Sloan bobbed his eyebrows and fought the unseemly urge to speak with a lisp. “I can personally vouch for the rabbi’s surgical skills. He does absolutely beautiful work.” Craig smiled demurely and Derek stepped back, looking like he had just been struck between the eyes with that fateful bullet. “Y-you’re kidding,” he stuttered. “That’s not 37

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possible. Y-you always had to fight ’em off with a stick. You c-could’ve had your pick of the entire cheerleading squad.” “Overcompensation. A common symptom of denial,” said Craig, and at that moment Sloan actually thought he could kiss him. Derek had been a burr in his butt for years before he left—constantly horning in on their fun, and accusing Sloan of leading his sister down the road to ruin, and then, of leading her on. There had been one particularly painful incident that had set the two at eternal odds. Just thinking about it made Sloan’s ribs ache. If this little charade managed to excise Derek from Sloan’s life, he was willing to sacrifice his stud-muffin image. At least to Derek. No one else in their right mind would believe it. Would they? “So?” Sloan continued. “Are you convinced that Franki is safe from my machinations?” “I…I…” Derek raked his fingers through his heavily gelled ‘do. “I guess. I just hope it doesn’t kill her to hear it. And Sabrina… Jesus Christ.” He looked stricken as he shifted his eyes to Craig. “Oh. Sorry.” “Sabrina will be fine.” With some difficulty Sloan extricated himself from Craig’s arm. He extended a hand. “Truce?” Derek recoiled from Sloan’s offered hand as if it dripped mucus. He skirted around the happy couple and headed for the door. “Uh, yeah sure. I’ll stay out of your hair while you’re here. And…” He stopped on the threshold. “And I won’t say anything to Francie. I’ll let you tell her.” “That’s awfully big of you.” You homophobic plebeian. “I appreciate that. Maybe you could just generally keep it to yourself…for now.” Derek’s eyes flicked from Sloan to Craig. Craig winked at him and Derek started as if Craig had poked him with a cattle prod. “Sure. Sure. Won’t tell a soul. So, anyway. Have fun tonight. I…uh…I gotta go.” He practically sprinted toward the stairs. The moment the door closed Craig doubled over in silent laughter that caused his entire body to shake. “Oh…my…God,” he gasped out between spasms, once he had made it to the divan. Sloan didn’t laugh at first but Craig’s giggles were infectious. He flopped down on the love seat and soon he was wiping tears of glee from his eyes as well. Finally, Craig got his breathing under control. “What an asshole!” He lay back and glared at the ceiling. “Did I have my cap sized!” he mimicked. “Christ—” He bit his lip and tossed a guilty look at Sloan. “Oh…sorry.” Sloan chuckled again. “The gay thing was inspired. I don’t know how to thank you.” Craig winked. “I could think of a few very innovative ways.” “Oh, shut up! You’re about as gay as Hugh Hefner.” 38

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“Maybe. But I’m a hell of an actor.” He sat up and plucked an apple out of the complimentary fruit basket. He polished it against his golf shirt and bit deeply. He continued to munch as he spoke. “If he’s typical of the people around here, it’s no wonder you left.” Sloan felt his smile slip. “He’s not. Most of the locals are intelligent, well-informed and tolerant. Derek is an aberration.” He held up a hand. “However, in his defense, he has likely never before encountered someone of the Jewish faith, nor of the homosexual persuasion. And to encounter both of those attributes rolled into one California-tanned package…” He spread his hands. “It’s small wonder he looked a little shell-shocked. And he does care a great deal about his sister.” He allowed his hand to fall back to the brushed velvet upholstery. “And I think he may have a point about Franki. But the thing is, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.” “You chose this…Bree.” “Sabrina. Yeah, I guess so. Although I never really thought of it that way. It just sort of…happened.” Craig continued munching and the silence hung. Sloan got up and crossed to the wide picture window that offered a passable view of the Bay. The pale gray cliffs of the Niagara Escarpment curved around to the west, and faded into the hazy blue horizon toward the north. Like the vivid blue waters of the bay, and the winds that sculpted the landscape, those cliffs had been there long before Sloan was born, and would remain long after he was gone. It was oddly comforting to know that there were things in this world that were constant and unchangeable. Certainly nothing in his life had ever been that reliable. “So, why did you leave?” asked Craig quietly. “You never did tell me.” Sloan closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I never intended to tell you, but thinking about it now, I guess I have to. Everybody in town knows about it and you’re bound to hear about it while you’re here. So I’d rather you hear it from me first.” “Okay. You’ve got my attention.” He opened his eyes and stared out across the water. “The year I turned twenty-two my father committed suicide.” Craig said nothing but Sloan noted that the crunching of the apple had stopped. “I found him. He had shoved a pistol in his mouth and blown his brains all over the walls of our shed.” Sloan swallowed the bile that was creeping up the back of his throat. “Shit, man. I…I had no idea. Now that you mention it, I never even remember you mentioning a father. I guess I kind of figured your mom raised you alone.” “I quite intentionally didn’t talk about him. In fact I try not to think about him at all, if I can help it. That way I thought it would just go away.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t really work, though, I’m afraid.” “Were you two close?”

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“Yeah.” Sloan couldn’t elaborate because of the sludge that had lodged in his throat. “Yeah, we were.” Craig stood and joined Sloan at the window. “But you said that happened when you were twenty-two. You didn’t come out to California for another four years. What happened?” “There was a bunch of stuff. For one thing I had taken over my father’s duties at Marquis Jewelers’ head office. I did a lot of the buying and oversaw all the stores…and I was miserable.” Craig’s mouth dropped open. “No kidding. You shopping for earrings and managing a bunch of whiny employees? That’s like Arnold Schwarzenegger playing a kindergarten teacher.” Sloan couldn’t smile. “We owned the chain. My great-grandfather opened the first store in 1901. I didn’t feel I could say no.” “You owned the stores?” Sloan nodded. “I’ve never heard of them.” “I’m not surprised. It’s strictly Canadian. My family felt very strongly about that.” Craig’s eyes had gone wide. “How many?” “A dozen, nationwide,” he said wryly, “with the head office in the grand metropolis of Bay’s Haven. There was pressure to move the office to Toronto, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. We’d had some employees for thirty years. And Bay’s Haven was our home.” He shrugged. It was as simple as that. Craig blew out a slow breath. “God, you must have been loaded.” Now Sloan smiled, but his face felt like it might crack from the strain of it. “We were comfortable. Besides the stores, my father had been quite successful in a number of areas.” “And you walked away from that.” “Not really. I walked away from managing it, and from our home, but the person I left in charge is good, and I trust him implicitly. Besides, I’m no idiot. I didn’t exactly renounce my inheritance or my claim to the profits. I’ve still got one hell of a bank account.” “And you make me buy the Happy Meals at McDonald’s.” “I’ve got to foster your independence.” The smiles that had spread over both their faces, gradually faded. “So, why then? Why did you leave?” “The turning point—the thing that made me decide it was time to leave—was my mother’s decision to…elope with this European gigolo. Once she was gone I had no reason to stay. I decided to go after what I really wanted.” “You’ve never approved of him, have you? Her boyfriend, I mean.”

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Sloan’s gaze returned to the surf and the misty horizon. “I’ll confess, in a way I hate her for that decision. She left me and everything she ever cared about without so much as a thought as to how it would affect me. How much it would hurt me. Maybe she saw it as her best option, and maybe it’s selfish on my part, but that’s the way I feel.” “And you haven’t spoken to her since.” Sloan felt his heart tighten in his chest. “No. Not so that it matters.” Craig tossed the core of his apple into a waste can in the corner. “I appreciate all that, Sloan. That’s a terrible story, and you have my sympathy. But something’s missing. You’re still not coming clean.” “What?” Sloan felt a tiny twinge of panic. Craig couldn’t possibly guess… “What do you mean?” “You left a town you supposedly loved. You’ve been away more than eight years and have never called or corresponded with anyone.” He stopped abruptly. “Or have you? Do you have any contact with this manager you mentioned?” Sloan licked his lips. This was a sore point, but it would take too much to explain it all to Craig. “Very little. We correspond occasionally, and otherwise I keep tabs on the business through an accountant. I gave him free rein. I don’t need to check up on him.” And he was my friend, he added silently, because that was too hard to say out loud. “See? You’ve gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to break off your ties. It doesn’t even sound like you’ve looked after the Carver homestead, and you obviously have no intention of selling it. You’re leaving something out. I don’t buy your story, and I can’t believe that the rest of them will either.” Sloan stared at him. He was right. They were going to demand explanations, and what was he going to tell them? He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them the truth. He needed something to satisfy the inevitable curiosity, something to stave off the questions and judgment. Something to smooth the way and make this as painless as possible for everyone involved. He needed… A slow, sly smile spread across his face. “What?” asked Craig suspiciously. “You’re right, you know. I don’t look forward to answering all those questions and facing those suspicious looks. But I think I know a way to avoid all that. It’s simple and neat. And I have you to thank for it.” “I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” moaned Craig. “Au contraire.” Sloan grabbed a trio of oranges from the basket and juggled them with his usual skill and dexterity. “You’re going to absolutely love it. And I know exactly what I have to do to persuade you.” He grimaced. “Mama?” Sloan shot him with his forefinger. “Bingo.” “I brought this on myself, didn’t I?”

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Sloan nodded, his expression regretful. “Your mother is a powerful weapon, Mr. Sternberg. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you point her in my direction.”

***** “How does it look?” asked Bree from the top of the stepladder. Franki propped her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. “A little to the left.” Bree shifted the Welcome Home Sloan banner a smidgen. “Perfect.” Bree climbed down, folded the ladder, and surveyed her handiwork. Bouquets of roses and lilies, snapdragons and freesia, adorned the tables. Balloons and streamers hung from battered wagon-wheel style chandeliers. The bartender was already behind the bar, washing glasses and sorting through liqueurs. “Was the bartender really necessary?” asked Franki. “I mean, considering…” “I decided to treat myself. I’m pretty sure that by the time this night is through everybody will need a good stiff drink or two.” Franki plopped down in one of the stacking chairs that were arranged around the dozen or so tables Bree had set up that morning. “This’ll be a sad affair compared to the parties he must be used to.” “This isn’t supposed to be an attempt to mimic a Hollywood bash. It’s supposed to be a cozy, intimate affair to welcome home Bay’s Haven’s favorite son.” Franki snorted. “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” Bree flicked her hair off her shoulders. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to embarrass our esteemed guest of honor by flubbing my lines, now would I?” “No. Of course not. That’s the last thing in the world we would ever want to do.” She rubbed her hands over her bare arms. It was barely the end of May, but already the heat had prompted most businesses to kick-start their air conditioners. “I still can’t believe he’s actually here. After all this time, all it took was throwing a party in his honor to lure him back.” “Never underestimate the power of the male ego.” Bree flopped down in a chair beside her friend. “Especially when it’s attached to an artist.” “I’ll keep that in mind when I’m trying to seduce him.” Franki chuckled when she said it but Bree didn’t laugh. The two remained silent for a moment, neither sure what to say. “Sorry,” whispered Franki. “My mouth was in overdrive. I was just kidding.” “Please don’t, Franki.” Bree reached for Franki’s hand. “Don’t do this to yourself. And to him. If that’s the way you feel maybe you shouldn’t come.”

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“I was just teasing, Bree.” She tugged her hand away and stood. She strolled over to one of the bouquets and inhaled deeply. “Really. I got over him years ago.” “Years ago? You wrote him another one of those anonymous cards just a few months ago.” Franki twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “I was feeling cranky. Those cards are just a good way to let off steam.” “Mm-hmm.” Bree couldn’t really be angry at Franki for sending those horrible letters. Sloan deserved to squirm a little. If threats of dismembered genitalia gave him a few sleepless nights, then so be it. God knew she’d lost enough sleep over him. “Well, okay, so I didn’t exactly get over him,” whined Franki. “But I did give up on him. He always loved you best…” “If that’s his best, I want no part of it. And neither should you.” Franki pulled a perfect pink rose out of the arrangement and held it to her nose. “So?” “So what?” “What did your spy tell you?” Bree attempted an innocent lift of her eyebrows. “Spy?” “Yes. I saw you whispering with Sheila, the desk clerk at the Inn. What did she tell you?” Bree feigned fascination with a stray thread on her shorts. “Come on. Dish it up or I’ll put itching powder in your underwear drawer.” Bree chuckled. “You would too.” “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Bree sighed. “All right, you caught me. Sheila told me he looks great. A real cool, Hollywood cat, from the five-hundred-dollar jeans and T-shirt, down to the fifteendollar Converse high-tops and the gold ring in his ear. He was so cool he couldn’t manage to take off his Ray-Bans to talk to the lowly desk clerk.” Franki’s eyebrows pulled together. “Did Sheila say he acted snotty?” “Uh, no,” hedged Bree, suddenly a little ashamed of herself. “Actually she said he was real sweet. I sort of added that part.” “Do you really hate him so much?” “I try to. I really try to.” “I don’t.” Franki’s eyes turned wistful. “I think he hated to leave. I think he was running away from something.” “That may be true, but it’s no excuse for turning your back on the people who love you.” “Well, maybe we’ll finally get the whole story tonight. Maybe he’ll explain everything.”

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Bree seriously doubted it, but she decided against sharing that with her friend—her friend who seemed so willing to forgive, even though she had probably suffered more than any of them over Sloan’s remorseless exit from their lives. Mind you, her turmoil had hardly been Sloan’s doing. She had suffered because his leaving had effectively put an end to the fantasy she’d cultivated for close to ten years— ever since her seventeenth birthday party when Sloan had gotten more than a little drunk and kissed her a little too hard and a little too long. For him the incident was lost in an alcohol-induced fog, but it was forever etched into the archives of Franki’s heart. Barely six months later Sloan and Bree’s friendship had evolved to the next level. They had finally slept together, and Bree had sensed something shrivel inside Franki when she shared her wondrous news. The foursome had remained intact—grown closer. Stronger. But Franki’s heart had cracked down the middle and never quite mended. Bree still marveled that Franki never seemed to resent her for stealing Sloan’s heart. But perhaps the fact that she had never been able to keep it for long, and had finally lost it forever, could account for the lack of animosity. Shared suffering did tend to overcome differences. “You said he was bringing a guest,” said Franki, suddenly more animated than she had been all afternoon. “Who’d he show up with? Anybody I’d recognize?” “No. He brought some guy. I think he said he’s like a partner. His name must be on the credits beside Sloan’s but I’ve never noticed it.” Franki stared at her for a moment. “Oh. Really? No woman in his life, then? Ain’t that…interestin’?” “Franki…” Franki merely batted her long, blonde eyelashes in bogus contrition. Bree stood up and stalked toward her. “I just might have to—” “Hello!” Bree’s lecture was interrupted by a jaunty voice and a deep throaty chuckle. “Bree, I swear you’re shooting fire out of those green eyes of yours.” Bree dragged her eyes away from Franki’s irreverent expression, and addressed the man who managed the hall. “Hi, Perry. You’re just in time to keep me from strangling my best friend in the whole wide world.” Perry Elliott shuffled his way across the room on a pair of short stubby legs. His five-foot-eight frame seemed to be mainly made up of a long egg-shaped torso that teetered on top of those unlikely appendages, making him look like he was always on the verge of toppling over. Bree hated herself for it, but whenever she saw him she couldn’t help but think of her childhood image of Humpty Dumpty. However, despite appearances, Perry seemed to have eluded dear Humpty’s tragic fate. If Perry sat on such a wall, he might fall and break something. But he would very likely sue the construction company for damages and win a million-dollar settlement. It didn’t matter what project or cause Perry Elliott undertook, it always worked out for him. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. And, of course, that extended to the estate auction business he was gradually taking over from his father. Since he had 44

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joined the organization, Lakeside House had expanded, drawing clientele from as far away as Florida and Vancouver, and raking in unparalleled profits. He stopped a few feet away and propped his hands on those ample hips. “Now what’s the trouble? I’d rather avoid having a felony committed in my fine establishment. Murder can be so bad for business, you know.” His eyes twinkled with good humor, but despite his jovial manner and relaxed attitude, Bree could never feel completely relaxed around him. No matter how hard she tried, and how much she wanted to get past it, her loyalty to Troy stood between them. “Oh, Perry, you know how infuriating she is,” teased Bree. “No jury would convict me. But for your sake, I’ll restrain myself.” “Gee,” groaned Franki. “With friends like you, who needs enemies.” Perry surveyed the room as he dug a hand absently into a bag of nacho corn chips. His gaze cruised over the streamers and tables, before finally touching on Franki. His eyes lingered there for just a moment, and he stuffed a chip into his mouth before returning his attention to Bree. “So? How does it look?” she asked. “Great. How many people are you expecting?” “Oh…couldn’t say an exact number. But there will be enough. I’m sure there’ll be no lack of excitement tonight.” “I might have to stop in and make sure everything’s going smoothly.” Perry dropped his gaze to his shoes, although Bree didn’t really believe he could see them over the bulge of his belly. “I have to say, I was a little surprised I didn’t receive an invitation.” Bree smiled uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Perry. I didn’t think you’d be interested. You and Sloan were hardly kindred spirits. In fact, I seem to recall a few nasty names and insults flying between you on occasion.” He smiled. “Sloan does have a knack for bringing out the worst in me. But, you’d think I deserved some sort of compensation for all those sleepovers when he and Troy would laugh and carry on until three in the morning.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. “So? How about making it up to me?” Bree chewed on her lower lip and then proceeded to lie through her teeth. “If you must know, it just tends to put a damper on a party when the owner of the place is home. We always had our best parties when our parents were away. Surely you can understand that.” He grimaced. “All right. You don’t have to beat me over the head with it. I’ll stay away.” Bree knew they were both skirting around the real issue. While Sloan and Perry had had their share of disagreements and tiffs, that particular tension had nothing to do with Bree’s reluctance to invite Perry. Not only would it screw up her plan for Sloan’s surprise, but coming to the party would involve Perry and Troy occupying the same

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space for a significant amount of time. And that kind of tension could dampen even the most boisterous party crowd. “How’s your mom doing, Bree?” asked Perry as he settled down in a chair that seemed barely able to hold him. “The same, I’m afraid.” “Is there any chance of her making it out to see the wayward son?” Bree’s smile felt unnatural. “I really doubt it. But maybe I can talk him into popping out there to visit her. She’s missed him, too.” “And his mother, no doubt,” said Perry with a mournful shake of his head. “She and Janelle always seemed the closest out of our mothers, and then she goes and takes off without a word…” “Like mother, like son, I suppose.” “I guess we’re all destined to follow in our parents’ footsteps, aren’t we?” “God, I hope not,” moaned Franki. “I’ve made a very conscious effort to be nothing like my mother.” Bree quirked a half-smile. “And you’ve succeeded admirably. But from what I remember, you’re father was quite the free spirit…and quite the flirt.” Franki tipped up her chin. “Are you implying, my dear, that I am a flirt?” “No, I would never imply that. I’d much rather say it outright. Franki Waters is a tease.” Franki’s jaw dropped but her eyes glittered. “Well, I never.” Perry laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes that remained fastened on Franki. “Now, that I sincerely doubt.” “How about your parents?” asked Bree, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and not really sure why. “Anything new with them?” Perry shifted his gaze back to her. “Oh, Dad’s still working himself to an early grave buying and selling things that used to be useful. Mom mentioned that she picked up a very nice piece in your shop the other day. She was quite impressed with your taste and your stock. She’s always liked you, Bree. She’s so glad you’ve made a go of that place.” “That’s high praise from someone of her caliber. Your mother’s taste is impeccable.” Bree’s face felt like it might shatter if she had to maintain the facade of sincerity another moment. Perry’s expression turned thoughtful, and for a moment Bree worried that she hadn’t lied as well as she thought she had. The last thing she wanted to do now was draw attention to her dispute with Lois and Vance Elliott. She had purposely not mentioned the vases to them for almost two years, in the hopes that they would forget she had ever had a complaint. She didn’t want to blow it now, by reminding their son of her resentment.

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“Yes, she certainly does. Although my father would heartily disagree.” “Their tastes are just different.” “Yes. In many things.” Perry glanced at his watch. “Speaking of my father, I should get over to Lakeside. There’s an auction tomorrow afternoon, and there’s always so much to do.” At last he eased himself out of the chair and drew himself up to his full, unremarkable height. “And I suppose I should let you two finish your preparations.” “Preparations? The hall is done,” said Franki, who was busily filing her fingernails. “Oh, I know you two will want to make yourselves beautiful for the man of the hour. Have to be at our best for the return of Mister Hollywood. Mister Popularity.” The sudden edge to Perry’s voice startled Bree. She bit her lip. She hated to hurt him, but she just couldn’t allow him to come and throw a wrench into her plans. “Perry, I’m really sorry but I just can’t—” He held up a hand. “No, no. Don’t be silly. I don’t know where that came from. I must need a sugar fix or something. Mother has me on a new diet, and it’s wreaking havoc with my moods.” He stood and started walking toward the doors. “You all just have fun tonight, and I’ll catch Sloan later.” “Thanks, Perry,” called Bree as he reached the entrance. “And thanks for the break on the rental.” He waved off the thank you and a moment later they heard the outside door bang shut. “Whew,” said Franki as she wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “Am I glad that’s over.” “What?” Bree reached for her purse. “What do you mean?” “He always makes me nervous.” She dropped the file into her purse and snapped it closed. “He’s so responsible and upstanding. If Sloan’s Mister Popularity, then Perry is Mister Pillar-of-the-Community. What with all his work with the Optimist Club and running a business, he makes me feel…I don’t know…inadequate.” “You intimidated by someone?” Bree shook her head. “I don’t buy it.” “All right. If you must know, he gives me the creeps. When he looks at me I feel like a two-bit whore.” “Oh, come on. That’s a little extreme. You’re worth a lot more than fifty cents. I bet you’d bring in at least a buck.” Franki’s only response to that was a muffled snort. The duo stepped out the door into late afternoon sunshine, and a silky breeze off the lake. Franki hugged herself despite the warmth. “I don’t know for sure what it is. Maybe I’m just nervous around someone who has so little sex appeal. It’s not natural. I bet the only woman he’s ever slept with is his wife.” Bree stopped in her tracks. “Perry’s never been married.”

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“Exactly.”

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Chapter Six “Are you sure about this?” Craig cast a wary glance at the heavy double doors. Loud music blared from inside the hall and a soft yellow light glowed from a bank of high windows. “Yup. This is the place,” said Sloan. “It hasn’t changed a bit. At least not on the outside.” Mrs. Middleton had asked them to arrive at nine o’clock in order to allow all the other guests to arrive first. She thought he might like to make a fashionably late entrance. Sloan had complied, but mainly because he figured that approach would shorten the amount of time he would have to spend under the spotlight. “That’s not what I mean.” Craig was hanging back, looking a little lost and forlorn. “Oh…” said Sloan with a knowing nod. “You’ve got stage fright.” “Despite what I said, I’m no actor. And even if I were, I don’t care one bit for this role.” “Don’t give me that crap. You should’ve won an Oscar for your performance this afternoon.” Craig closed his eyes and hung his head. “I’ll regret that moment of inspiration for the rest of my life.” “You can’t possibly be any more nervous than I am. Nobody knows you. You’re not the one that’s going to be held up for all to look upon in scrutiny and judgment.” Sloan felt the sweatiness in his own palms as he grabbed Craig’s sleeve. He started to drag him toward the doors. “Let’s go and get this over with.” Craig followed but continued to grumble. “See? Already you think you’re free to put your hands all over my studly body.” “Don’t forget you get to touch me too,” teased Sloan. “How about a nice slow dance to convince the crowd? You know how I love to dance.” “God. If you kiss me I swear I’ll slug you one.” “I’ll try to restrain myself.” He stopped with his hand on the knob. “Now, remember, don’t overdo it. We’re not supposed to be advertising this. We’re not proud of our…lifestyle.” He hesitated, suddenly realizing how difficult this was going to be. But he couldn’t back down now. “It’s supposed to be difficult to share with these people. We’re feeling awkward about it. They’re going to have to drag it out of us. Out of me, actually. Got it?” “Do you have delusions of director-hood, Sloan? Because you’re starting to sound like Spielberg.” “Got it?” repeated Sloan.

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“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I think I can do awkward,” said Craig ironically. “I might even manage anxious. In fact I think I might be able to throw up on cue.” Sloan ignored him and took the plunge. He pushed through the outer doors into a small foyer. The deep bass beat of Smashing Pumpkins pulsed from behind a second set of doors. Sloan could feel the vibrations in his gut. At least he thought that was what it was. It was difficult to distinguish the throbbing beat of a heavy bass from the legion of fluttering butterflies that had besieged his innards. He glanced at the vacant coat-check booth. The absence of an attendant didn’t surprise him. Few people sported jackets this time of year, and it would have been a waste of money. But still…something struck him as being out of place. “Don’t you think it’s weird that they didn’t send an escort to come get us, or at least meet us at the doors?” asked Craig. “I mean the party is in your honor.” “I don’t know. This is a small town, you know. My hometown. They probably figured I’m a big boy and I could find the place on my own.” “Mmm,” was all Craig said. But Sloan couldn’t deny that he, too, had thought it a bit strange in light of all the trouble they’d gone to to get him there. Sloan paused with his hand on the door. “How many people do you figure?” asked Craig. Sloan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe fifty or sixty, if she didn’t go overboard.” Craig blew out a slow breath. “I certainly hope she didn’t go overboard.” “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Sloan plastered a smile on his face as he pushed through the doors, expecting to be hit with the familiar heat of crowding bodies and the scent of booze and cigarettes. He burst into the room—and stopped dead in his tracks. The smile froze on his face and then cracked and broke. He just stood there. Staring. It took him a full minute to find his voice, and even then it took a nudge from Craig’s elbow to jostle him into action. “What the hell is going on?” he breathed. Sabrina Hampstead, looking lean and lanky in a black sheath of silk and shimmering satin, stood and held up what appeared to be a remote control. The blasting music instantly cut out, leaving behind a gaping void of silence. “What was that, Sloan?” Bree’s voice was laced with a disturbing combination of sexy innocence and sarcasm. “I couldn’t hear you over the party.” Sloan’s eyes fell to the remainder of the “crowd”. Franki and Troy sat at the same table as Bree, staring at him, their eyes silent and searching. He sensed Craig move just a little closer. He’d never been so grateful for his friend’s presence. “What the hell is going on?” he repeated. “Where-where’s the party? The-the people?” “We’re it,” said Bree with a cock of her head. “You didn’t actually think anyone else would show up, did you?” 50

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His stomach coiled into a knot. “Where’s Mrs. Middleton?” “Why, I’m Mrs. Middleton, Mr. Carver. Did I forget to tell you? I got married several years ago. I threw out the husband a couple of years later, but the name occasionally comes in handy.” Something inside Sloan iced over. He stared at her, and she stared back. “Fuck you, Mrs. Middleton.” He whirled around. “Come on, Craig. I think this party is over.” He had barely taken three steps when he felt a strong hand latch around his arm. “That’s no way to talk to an old friend, Sloan. At the very least you owe her a little respect.” Sloan stopped. “Take your hands off me, Troy. I don’t owe her anything. Or you, for that matter. She’s quite humiliated me. No doubt the whole town knows about this little setup and are laughing into their hats as we speak.” He ripped his arm out of Troy’s grip. “Let’s put the fancy-pants California upstart back in his place,” he sneered. “Okay, so it’s done. You’ve had your fun, but I have no intention of staying for the finale. I’m going home now.” “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” asked Bree from her place at the table. “Run away. I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to stay and face us.” “And who am I facing, exactly?” he asked, barely restraining himself from yelling. “Is this your idea of a welcoming committee? Because it looks more like a firing squad to me.” “We just wanted to see you. To talk to you. And I knew that a simple invitation wouldn’t work.” “Oh? And how do you know that?” “Because I sent you one.” For a moment her mask of anger and contempt wilted, and he almost thought she might cry. “You couldn’t manage to come to my wedding, Sloan. You didn’t even send a reply. Obviously you barely read the invitation, or you would have recognized the name Middleton.” Her face hardened again like a rose that had been dipped into liquid nitrogen. “I knew I’d have to go to extreme measures to get you to come home.” Sloan stared at her. Her wedding? Shit! There had a six-month period about four years ago when he had been so engrossed in his work that he had ignored any and all invitations that had come his way. He’d had no time and no patience for the usual Hollywood tedium. In fact he’d barely opened his mail. The little bit that did get opened had been thanks to Craig. His telephone had even gotten turned off because he’d neglected to pay the bill. That must have been when her invitation arrived. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Really. But he’d been so wrapped up in his work— and his pain. And there was no way he could have braved the borders of Bay’s Haven, anyway. She was strong. Surely she could withstand that little disappointment. Troy tugged on his arm. “Come on, Sloan. At least come in and talk to us. Despite everything, we’ve missed you.”

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Sloan turned to look at Craig. He shrugged. “It’s up to you. This is your show.” Sloan blew out a long breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He turned back to Troy, and thought his old friend looked good. Really good. Sharply dressed in pressed navy khakis, a crisp white shirt and sport jacket. From what he could see, Franki had chosen a simple black cocktail dress. Bree, however, was dressed to the nines in her second-skin gown and glittering earrings, her mahogany-colored hair swept up off her face with a few delicate tendrils caressing her cheeks. Her hair was fuller than he remembered. Her eyes more green. No doubt she had wanted to blow him away with how good she looked. It was working. “All right,” he said slowly. “We’ll see how this goes.” Troy immediately extended a hand to Craig. “Troy Elliott.” “Sorry,” muttered Sloan. “This is my…uh…partner, Craig Sternberg.” Craig and Troy shook cordially, and then the threesome crossed the room to the table. They all sat down, somewhat stiffly, and Sloan glared at the tablecloth. Franki cleared her throat. “Uh…would you like a drink? We’ve got a bartender and everything.” “Yeah, sure. Gimme a rye and Coke.” He would have preferred his whiskey neat. But in his current frame of mind he didn’t think that would be wise. “You got any Zinfandel?” asked Craig. Sloan shot him a look. But Craig winked and he felt the first tweak of a smile. Craig’s booze of choice was usually beer or tequila shots. He only drank wine with dinner, and even then he preferred a dry red. Obviously he was taking his role quite seriously. Franki sipped from her martini. “You’re looking good, Sloan. You almost look like you should be on the screen instead of behind it.” “Thanks,” he shifted in his chair, already a notch more uncomfortable than he’d been a moment before. “But I can’t act to save my life.” “You’re too modest,” muttered Craig. Sloan ignored him. “You look good, too, Franki. You all do. Hometown living seems to agree with you.” Troy set the drinks down in front of them, and Sloan reached for his gratefully. “So things are still good down at Marquis, Troy? You haven’t hit me up for a raise for a long time.” “You pay me well enough.” There was a chilly edge to Troy’s voice, and Sloan couldn’t blame him for it. Sloan paid him well, there was no doubt about that. Maybe too well. He had to admit to himself that some of it was guilt money for not communicating with Troy and the others, and he suspected Troy knew it too.

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Troy settled down in the chair next to Craig’s. When he spoke again his tone had lost its edge, and Sloan was thankful. “Yup, I’m still setting up security systems, and dealing with pilfering employees. It’s not exactly a thrill a minute, but it’s a living. It keeps steaks on the barbecue and Carolyn in Victoria’s Secret lingerie.” Sloan smiled. He remembered Carolyn. They’d been married three years before he left. He was glad to hear they were still together. “What about diapers?” he asked, grateful to have left the subject of the business behind. “Any little feet pattering around your place?” Then he slapped himself on the forehead. “Stupid me! I forgot. Carolyn was pregnant! I hope everything turned out—” “Yeah, yeah,” grinned Troy. “We have a little boy. David turned eight a couple of months ago.” “Wow!” Sloan was genuinely thrilled to hear that some of their crew had actually managed to procreate, and seemed to be enjoying it. Carolyn, staunch Catholic that she was, had insisted on foregoing birth control and trying for a family immediately. Troy had confided this to Sloan at the wedding, and while the idea scared Sloan spitless, just talking about it had made Troy’s face glow. “So, you’re a father.” He shook his head in wonder. “Your boys finally got the job done. For a while there I was starting to wonder.” To Sloan’s surprise, Troy’s smile slipped a notch. “Yeah. I guess they did.” Sloan sensed the note of tension in Troy’s voice, but decided now was not the time to pursue it. True to form, Franki jumped in. “It sounds like you have your hands full with life in Hollywood, too.” She gazed at him over the rim of her glass. “I bet you lead a very exciting life. You must do things out there that we can barely dream of. There was a little article on you in that Playbill magazine…you know after your last movie came out. It said you had taken up skydiving and Formula One racing.” “They exaggerated. I’ve done it a couple of times.” He shrugged. “I admit it was a rush, but not something I’d do on a regular basis.” “You’re a regular Evel Knievel,” said Bree. “Small wonder things got too dull for you around here.” Sloan decided it best to ignore Bree. Hostility and anger were emanating from her like the shock waves from an H-bomb. “Actually…” Sloan was startled to realize it was Craig who was speaking. “I think he takes too many risks. Last year he even asked about helping with some stunts in a movie we’d written.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Luckily the director laughed in his face. It’s like he’s always trying to find a bigger thrill. Or prove something. I’m not sure which. But I don’t think it’s healthy.” Sloan shot Craig a look. “Craig’s like an old mother hen. He thinks everybody should put foam padding in their bathtubs to guard against shower accidents.”

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“Now Sloan’s exaggerating,” said Craig with a sniff. “I’m merely an advocate for tub faucet airbags.” The group chuckled softly. “Besides, my motives for his safety are completely selfish,” added Craig softly, an odd smile haunting his lips. But then his eyes flitted to Sloan, his expression stricken, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. He swung his eyes to Troy. “Sloan Carver is my gravy train, you know. I’d hate to see it derailed.” Sloan marveled at Craig’s hidden acting talents. Troy’s eyes searched Sloan’s for a moment before he reached for a bowl of chips at the center of the table. He spoke slowly. “It sounds like you two have been friends for quite some time.” Sloan made a show of shifting again in his seat and tossing a nervous glance in Craig’s direction. “Yeah. We met about a year after I got to California and we hooked up shortly after that.” “We spend far too much time together,” added Craig. “It’s probably not healthy for two men to know each other that well.” He and Sloan shared a glance, and Sloan couldn’t deny the irony of that comment. Troy nudged Craig and his eyes glittered. “Oh, I don’t know. Sloan and I saw each other every day for more than twenty years—ever since we were babies. And I’m none the worse for wear.” “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Bree’s voice was tight and she had twisted a paper napkin so tightly it resembled a tattered rope. “Look what twenty-six years of friendship got us. A hasty goodbye and not one phone call since.” She glared at Sloan. “I’d say I’m some the worse for wear. You put us through the ringer, Sloan. You treated us like shit, and I’d like to know why.” Sloan felt sweat gather on his palms. “Bree,” soothed Franki. “I thought we were going to keep this light. I thought—” “Well, you thought wrong,” she shot back. “How can you two sit there and chat it up like nothing’s happened? Something did happen.” She shifted her gaze to Troy. “He abandoned a relationship that was deeper and more intense than you two even have with your siblings. He discarded us like so much trash, and I can’t overlook that.” She rounded on Sloan and he saw moisture glittering in her eyes. “I can’t overlook it and I can’t put it behind me. At least not until I know why.” Sloan stared at her and his stomach clenched. His misery was genuine, he wouldn’t have to pretend about that. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. None of you. I just—” “Sorry?” she ranted. “Sorry? That’s not good enough.” She erupted from her chair and paced to the center of the dance floor. Sloan just sat there, feeling impotent and helpless to ease the suffering he had etched into her face.

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She spread her hands and twirled around, her dress flaring at the knees to reveal smooth ankles and calves—to reveal silky skin he still tasted in his dreams. She stopped, her arms still outflung. “Just look at the show we put on for your benefit, Sloan.” “You deceived and humiliated me.” “True. But we did it because we missed you. We did it because we loved you, Sloan. Didn’t you care about us? Didn’t we matter?” “Of course you did,” he leaned forward and found himself shouting. “Do you think it was easy to leave you all behind?” He swept his gaze to Franki and Troy. “Leaving all of you was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life. Don’t you think I had my reasons?” “Then what were they?” said Franki. “Don’t we deserve that much?” He lowered his eyes to his hands, clenched on the tabletop. “Of course,” he said quietly. “It’s just so…difficult.” That was certainly the truth. Craig softly cleared his throat. “Maybe I should go.” Sloan nodded miserably. “Yeah. Thanks, Craig. Maybe you should.” The trio remained silent as Craig pushed away from the table and stood. He felt their watchful gaze as Craig stepped closer and leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Are you sure about this? This isn’t exactly the scenario you had in mind.” The idea had been for him and Craig to mingle among the teeming mass of guests. They had planned to be seen doing things that might appear suspicious for a pair of heterosexual male friends. The hometown crowd would gossip, and eventually deduce that therein lay the reason for Sloan’s defection. They had planned on rumor and hearsay. They had not planned on an intimate evening and a grand announcement that would demand intricate lies and a dissection of a completely bogus relationship. But there was no going back now. If anything, the need for the lie was greater than ever. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he whispered back. “Just wait for me back at the room.” Craig nodded and placed a hand on Sloan’s shoulder. It lingered there, just a little too long. Until at last he squeezed and let go. He straightened and after some pleasantries, excused himself from the hall. No one said a word.

***** Bree watched the exchange closely. Sloan had obviously found a good friend, and maybe that explained his change of heart. Emotionally speaking, he had apparently found an outlet, a way to cope with his separation from his mother, his home and his friends. And, physically, he certainly 55

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hadn’t suffered. When he had walked in, wearing that black, mandarin collar shirt and shimmering silver vest, with his slim-fitting trousers, black leather boots, and a diamond sparkling in his earlobe, she had immediately thought, Hello, Mr. Hollywood. He looked slick and polished, just as her spy had warned her. In him she saw barely an echo of the man she remembered—the man who had cringed at the thought of wearing suits to the office every day, and loathed the image-conscious upper classes he had been forced to deal with in the years he had managed his father’s business. At first glance he seemed to have forsaken everything he had once loved and believed in. She didn’t think she knew him anymore. Except for the eyes. She knew those eyes. His eyes were exactly the same as she remembered—the same blue intensity, the same mischievous twinkle. And when he’d looked at her his gaze had stirred things inside her that she had forgotten. Things she had believed to be long dead and forever lost. The door swung closed behind Craig, and the Fearsome Foursome were alone at last. “So?” she spat the word in an attempt to cover the vulnerability she was feeling. Sloan picked up his rye and Coke and drank deeply. He set it down, and tiny rivulets of condensation trickled down its sides. “I left because I was confused about some things.” “What things?” He raked clawed fingers through his hair and then scrubbed his hands down his face. “Come on, Sloan. Enough with the drama. We’ve waited eight years to hear this. I think that’s long enough.” “Sabrina!” Troy’s icy tone shivered over her skin. “Give him a break. Jesus. We drag him here under false pretenses, set him up for a big show, and then pull the rug out from under him.” He took a deep breath and shifted his eyes to Sloan. “Whatever he has to tell, it’s obviously difficult for him. Let’s at least let him do it in his own time.” “Thanks, Troy,” murmured Sloan, and Sabrina felt suitably humiliated. Sloan closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if he were gearing up for something, but then Troy’s soft whisper cut through the silence. “Does it have something to do with your partner?” Sloan’s eyes flew open, and Bree’s eyes riveted back on Troy. What the hell had he meant by that? He couldn’t possibly… That just wasn’t… Her mind stuttered at the possibilities. “How… What makes you ask that?” Sloan’s expression was verging on panic, and Bree knew that it was true. Troy shrugged. “I just got some weird vibes ever since you two came in. And then when I thought about it… Well, it just made sense.”

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“Is that why you left?” asked Franki, her voice edged with disbelief. “Because you were…well…” “Gay. The word is gay. You can say it, Franki. It’s okay to say it.” But even Sloan seemed to have difficulty squeaking out the words, and the embarrassment that he seemed to be hiding tugged at her heart. “So, you are?” asked Bree. “Is that what you’re saying. And you left because you were afraid we wouldn’t be able to accept it?” He shook his head. “No. Like I said, I left because I was confused. I had started to figure out that something was wrong. Or it just wasn’t right.” He shook his head, and cast a furtive glance at Bree. “This has nothing to do with you, Bree. I need you to know that.” “I know,” she said slowly. “But while we were together, you certainly never gave any indication that you were confused.” She felt a smile tug at her lips and was strangely pleased to see him smile as well. “I loved you, and that made it easier. But after a while…” He shrugged again, obviously at a loss for words. They waited. “And then my mom left.” He choked up a bit at the mention of his mother. “And I admitted to myself how much I hated my work at Marquis.” His eyes turned pleading. “All of a sudden I just got this horrible case of claustrophobia. I had to get out, and figure out what I was all about. You know…where I needed to go.” “But it was so sudden,” said Franki. “You barely said goodbye.” “I’m sorry about that.” He drained his glass. “I’m afraid I was pretty messed up.” “Yes.” Bree nodded slowly. “I remember. For about a week before you left, all of a sudden you got real…I don’t know…weird. You didn’t show up at the office. In fact you hardly came out of the house. And the couple of times I did see you in that time you looked horrible. I remember thinking that you were fighting some weird flu bug, or insomnia or something.” “Insomnia’s pretty close. I hardly slept that week. I felt better once Troy agreed to take over Marquis, but it wasn’t enough. I finally figured out that I had to leave.” His eyes swept over the group. “And I did. I’m sorry that my decision hurt you guys, but I’m afraid I was so wrapped up in me that I couldn’t see anybody else. And then by the time I sorted out everything else, I kinda figured it was too late to try and mend fences again.” “So, it wasn’t that you were afraid we’d judge you,” asked Troy. “Because you know it wouldn’t have mattered. It still doesn’t.” “I do know that. But I still can’t help feeling awkward.” “You and Craig seem like a good match.” It was Franki’s voice, and Bree was sure she detected a note of bitterness in it. And then Bree was surprised to realize she felt a

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twinge of jealousy at the mention of his…lover? She used to be his lover. God, how did one deal with something like this? “Yeah. I guess.” Sloan looked at his hands. “We’re good friends, and we work well together.” “Next time I see him I’ll tell him how you gushed over him. I’m sure it’ll give him the warm fuzzies,” said Bree wryly. Sloan said nothing. He just kept staring at his hands, and Bree hated herself. “All right!” exclaimed Franki. “I think the interrogation is over. The big question has been answered to my satisfaction, and I think it’s time for some serious partying.” She grabbed the remote and hit a button. Amanda Marshall’s unique diamond-in-the-rough voice washed out into the room, stealing over their senses with messages of unity and undying love. Before Sloan knew what was happening Franki had dragged him out onto the dance floor, and plastered herself against him. His surprise soon melted into smiles, however, as Franki worked her hips against his, and worked up some of her usual cheerfulness. Sloan loved to dance and in no time he had lost himself in the music. Troy moved over beside Bree. “So, what do you think?” She kept her eyes on the duo that was swaying to the music, their bodies stuck together like peanut butter on pumpernickel. Sloan put Franki through her paces, with a gentle guiding hand in the small of her back and some subtle footwork that would have done Fred Astaire proud. It didn’t take much for Bree to recall that soft, but insistent pressure that could somehow transform her usual Jerry Lewis shuffle to a Ginger Rogers glide. She hadn’t danced with anyone since him. Not even at her own wedding. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think he’s been awfully hard on himself. And us, I guess. You know, making it more difficult than it has to be.” She chuckled. “But maybe Franki can loosen him up again.” “And how do you feel about all this?” Her head snapped around. “What do you mean? Maybe I don’t hate him as much as I thought I did, but this doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned.” “Maybe not as far as your plans for him, but can you deny that you still have feelings for him? You don’t hate him, Bree. And no matter what you’ve been telling yourself, you never did.” She set her jaw and turned away, refusing to answer. “Come on, I know how intense you guys were.” “We must have broken up a half a dozen times.” “Yeah. But every time you got back together…” He shook his head. “Holy shit! You could see the fireworks clear on the other side of the bay.” “You know the trouble with fireworks, Troy?” She kept watching Franki’s pointless flirting with her old friend. “They may be bright and beautiful, but they’re all flash and 58

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no substance. They’re over so quick. And then all you’re left with are empty casings and the smell of gunpowder.” “Maybe,” he said, thoughtfully. “But it seems to me that you tried substance. You found someone steadfast and reliable, and look where that got you.” “Mmm.” She preferred not to think about the wreckage of her failed marriage. There had been times when she’d blamed Sloan for that, but in her saner moments she admitted it was no one’s fault but her own. Troy sighed. “It’s just so hard to believe that he was questioning his sexuality back then. I mean, he was so intense about it. About everything. ” “Maybe it was all a cover. Or maybe he didn’t really know what was wrong, and he was searching. He was always sort of…restless.” “Yeah. Maybe all those stunts of his were his way of compensating…looking for a solution.” Troy leaned in and whispered over the music. “So, speaking of stunts, when are you going to drop the bomb?” “Later. I want to see if he’ll take a walk with me. This has to be handled very…delicately.” Troy snorted. “You can handle it any way you want, I still think you’re nuts. He may have pulled his share of stunts when we were kids, but there’s no way he’ll go for this.” “We’ll see about that,” said Bree as the music shifted into a pounding Bon Jovi hit, and Troy dragged her out onto the floor for a few spastic steps with Sloan and Franki. We’ll just see.

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Chapter Seven Troy leaned back in his chair and reached up to loosen his tie, only to realize belatedly that it was already lying on the table in front of him. Not terribly concerned by his mental lapse, he opened wide and yawned before slugging back what remained of his vodka martini. “Gee, Troy,” said Bree from her position behind Sloan. She’d been massaging his shoulders for the past few minutes and Troy wondered if she was aware of how natural they looked together. And then he wondered if Sloan was aware of it. “You better slow down. You and Sloan are already a notch past wasted.” Sloan frowned. “Wasted? We’re not wasted. We’re just pleasantly…” Sloan gazed at Troy through bloodshot eyes. “What are we, exactly?” “Twitterpated.” Franki laughed. “Where on Earth did you come up with that?” “It’s a word,” said Troy seriously. “I know I’ve heard it before.” “It’s from Bambi!” Sloan was barely restraining his giggles. “I think it’s when the animals are all getting ready to fuck each other in the spring.” “It’s a good thing you don’t write for Disney,” moaned Bree, her hands still working. “I can see it now…” She swept her hand in an arc. “Bambi Meets Godzilla.” “Been done,” retorted Sloan. “And brilliantly too. Short and to the point.” His eyes popped wide open. “Hey, how about, Bambi Does Godzilla?” He looked at Franki. “Sex and violence and small helpless animals on a grand scale. Whatcha think?” “I think this party is deteriorating rapidly, and we should all call a cab.” Sloan glanced at his watch. “Man, you guys would never make it in Tinsel Town. Most parties don’t start until 12:30.” “If that was supposed to impress us, it didn’t work.” Bree slapped Sloan on the head. “And we’re much too drunk, and much too happy to be offended.” “Happy?” Sloan grabbed Bree’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. “You mean happy to have me back?” “Yeah. That’s what I mean.” “And shouldn’t we get you back to Craig?” said Franki with a coy flutter of her eyelashes. “Won’t he worry if you’re out too late?” “Nah.” Sloan let go of Bree and pushed himself to a semi-erect, semi-stable position. “He probably won’t miss me. He’s usually zoned out by eleven. He sleeps like the dead and snores like a sick walrus.”

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“Ah, what a sweet thing to say about your lover,” crooned Franki. “I’m sure he’d love to know how you talk about him when he’s not here.” Sloan waved off her threat. “He already knows I bad-mouth him. It’s part of my charm.” “Oh, I’m sure you make it up to Craig in many imaginative ways,” Franki teased, and Troy thought she was, perhaps, a little too drunk. This could be extremely sensitive territory. Sloan squirmed visibly. “Yeah, well…” “He looks to be in pretty decent shape. Is he good in bed, Sloan?” She sashayed over to him, and he took a fearful step back. She traced a finger down his chest. “How exactly do gay men, you know, do it?” Her brows pulled together. “I mean I know the basics, but… For example, is there any foreplay? Kissing? Tongues? I’ve always been curious.” Sloan’s expression was deteriorating toward full-fledged panic. He took another step back. “If you don’t want to talk about it, maybe I could…you know…” She bobbed her eyebrows. “Watch.” “Franki,” warned Troy. “Cut it out. That stuff is none of your business. Leave him alone.” Franki pouted. “I was just kidding. Sheesh! Can’t anybody take a joke anymore?” “It wasn’t funny,” said Bree with a sympathetic glance toward Sloan. Sweat had already plastered hair to his forehead. “Come on, Sloan.” She grabbed his elbow. “We’re both heading in the same general direction. How about we share the cab that I asked to wait out front.” She glanced irritably at Franki. “Maybe Troy won’t mind calling another one. And maybe he can manage to get you home without strangling you en route.” Franki merely flipped out her skirt and plopped down in a chair, her chin propped on her hands. “I don’t know.” Troy glanced toward Franki but she was still smiling, completely unrepentant. “That’s a tall order.” Sloan allowed Bree to lead him toward the doors. He tossed a grateful grin in Troy’s direction. “I’m staying for a week or so. See you around?” “Sure.” And then they were gone. Troy glared at Franki. “That was inexcusable. You know how hard it was for him to tell us that, and you deliberately made him uncomfortable.” She sighed lightly. “I make no apologies. He deserved it.” “What? You’re punishing him for being gay?” “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Troy, he’s not gay!”

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Troy blinked stupidly, then shook his head. “Oh, Franki. Give it up, already. He’s been out of your reach for years. This is a bit pathetic.” Her features frosted over. “That is not what this is about. I just know, okay. He’s lying. I’m positive.” “Why the hell would he lie about something like that? Most people lie in order to stay in the closet, not fake coming out of it.” He clenched his fists, unsure as to why this was bothering him so much. “He’s doing it to cover up something else. That’s the only explanation. Something big.” “There’s a secret that’s bigger than homosexuality?” “It depends on your perspective, wouldn’t you say? It depends on what’s important. And it depends on the consequences of revealing said secret.” “What are you saying? You think he’s covering up a crime or something? You think he ran across the border to elude the authorities?” Franki perked up. “I hadn’t considered that. But it’s a possibility.” Her eyes drilled into his. “Right? Admit it, Troy. You know it’s well within the realm of possibility.” Now Troy squirmed in his seat. He looked at the doors where Bree and Sloan had disappeared. He didn’t want to look at Franki. He didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in what she was saying. Because the thing was, the scenario was all too plausible. Sloan breaking the law? It wouldn’t be the first time.

***** Sloan sat on the sand and gazed out across the bay. A silver-dollar moon hovered mere inches above the water and Sloan almost thought he could follow the shimmering trail across the waves until he was close enough to touch it—to snatch it from the sky and tuck it in his pocket. But, of course, that was pure fantasy. That would involve walking on water, and reaching a hand across the empty vacuum of space. That would involve doing the impossible, and, no matter how hard he tried, he had never quite managed to do that. “Sloan?” He felt a gentle hand on his. “Is something wrong? Ever since we came out here you’ve been awfully quiet.” They had walked along the shore until they found a soft, sandy spot just a few feet from the waterline. Heedless of the danger to their expensive attire they had settled down against a log to enjoy the view. He kept his eyes closed and focused on the gentle lullaby of waves lapping against the pebbled shore. “The booze is wearing off, and that always depresses the hell out of me.” Her hand remained on his. “Don’t you feel better now that it’s off your chest?”

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He shrugged. He didn’t want to lie anymore tonight. “I do feel better being out here with the waves and the stars…” He squeezed her hand. “And you. Despite appearances I did miss you, Bree. All of you. And it’s good to be home.” She was silent for a time, and he kept his eyes closed. He had just drifted off when her voice startled him awake. “Are you?” she asked. “What? Am I glad to be home? Of course.” “No. Are you really going home? I’m not surprised that you’re not staying at the old place. I mean, it must be filthy with dust. But I would have thought you’d at least check it out when you arrived.” “Oh, I might drive over there,” he lied. What was one more, after all? “Craig wants to see it, but I really feel very little attachment to it.” “How can you say that? It’s been in your family for generations. You grew up there.” “And my father died there,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “And my mother left it with barely a second thought. That house was her pride and joy.” He stood and walked to the water. He slipped off his shoes and socks and waded into the waves. It was still shockingly cold compared to the balmy surf of California. But the cold felt good. It, at least, felt real. He sensed Bree following him. “Is that why it’s been neglected?” “Yeah. It was her responsibility. And if she didn’t care enough about it to stay and take care of it, then I figured it wasn’t my job. The house is in her name, and I have no need for it.” “So, it’s her that doesn’t want to sell? Is that why you’ve been so adamant about not putting it on the market?” He looked down at his feet but they were hidden by water that had turned inky black in the absence of sunlight. “Do you ever see her?” “No.” The silence coated his senses like oil. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe. “Why?” she ventured at last. “I always thought you two were so close. I-I don’t get it.” “We had sort of a…falling out just before she…left.” “Right. You didn’t approve of this European lover of hers.” Sloan pictured the tall broad frame of his mother’s lover. He could easily picture those dark eyes set against a sun-baked Mediterranean complexion. He could see that lean hard mouth that curved into an arrogant smile. It was easy to picture the man who had haunted his dreams for the past eight years. Because, after all, Sloan had created him. “No, I didn’t. But no matter how I feel about him, I know it wasn’t his fault. I hated what she did. And then I hated how I treated her. And somehow it’s been easier not to face it…I guess.” 63

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She leaned into him and laid her head against his shoulder. Instinctively he wrapped an arm around her waist and wished for things that could never be. “That’s too bad, Sloan. I mean, about your mother, and about the house. That place was always so beautiful. Your mother took such good care of it, and it’s so sad to see it like that.” He needed to get off this topic. He didn’t want to talk about his mother or the house. He released her and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well, one of these days maybe I’ll see about getting it cleaned out and fixed up. You’re right. It’s a shame to let it rot.” “Maybe while you’re here?” she asked hopefully. “No. Not this time. I don’t have that much time. And I don’t really want strangers in there, you know? I’d rather do it myself.” She studied him, and he fought the urge to reach out and pull the pins from her hair. He wanted to see those chestnut waves spilling over her shoulders just like the moonlight was spilling over them now. Instead he whirled around and headed back to his shoes. “I really should get back. If Craig wakes up he’ll worry.” He cringed even as he said it. “I’m disappointed in you, Sloan.” Those few soft words struck him like a hammer. He took his time slipping back into his shoes, in order to give his emotions a chance to smooth over. “Well, I’m sorry if my lifestyle doesn’t meet with your approval. I suppose divorce is a socially acceptable shortcoming.” He turned to look at her. “My sins are a little less forgivable.” She fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” “No? Then what the hell do you mean?” “God! You’re more self-centered than I thought. And even more arrogant. Everything has to be about you, doesn’t it?” Sloan stepped back, reeling from the accusation. “Excuse me?” “You haven’t felt the need to ask me anything about my life. And I have to wonder if it actually never crossed your mind, or if you made a conscious decision to hurt me because of what I did.” “Well, I was the guest of honor, you know. And I’m so used to being the center of attention.” He felt defensive and inevitably that led to sarcasm. “Besides, I distinctly remember asking you about your shop and your pottery.” “Oh,” she sneered. “I stand corrected.” “I’m sure you’re used to that. Being wrong, I mean.”

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Even in the moonlight he could see the fire shooting from her eyes. She spun around and stalked away from him. “Shit,” he muttered, striding after her. He grabbed her arm. She whirled on him. “What?” “Don’t walk away from me,” he shot back. Her mouth dropped open in amazement. “That’s quite the ultimatum for you to be throwing at me.” “That was no ultimatum, and what the hell just happened here, anyway?” He threw up his hands. “I thought I was forgiven. I thought things were okay. I thought…” He shook his head in disgust and dropped his hands to his sides. “Forget it. I was an idiot to think bridges could be mended that easily.” “And I was an idiot to think you ever cared about me.” He could hear the tears in her voice. “I did care. And I do.” “You’re a liar, Sloan.” “I never denied being a liar. But I’m not lying about that.” “If you cared about me, how could you walk out like that, with hardly a word…” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I want to forgive you for that. I know you were in your own private hell, but still… And now you come back, and you still don’t seem to care. You never asked about my marriage. Not even about my mother.” Sloan felt completely overwhelmed, the emotions too varied and numerous to categorize. But there was no denying that there was one that overshadowed all the others—guilt. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He was just so tired of being sorry. “Tonight was just so overwhelming. I barely had time to think, and then the party was over and…” He sucked in a fortifying breath of damp night air. “If it’s any consolation I thought about you often over the years. And I thought about your mom. I hope my mom kept writing her.” “Yes.” Bree sniffled. “Not as often as she’d like, but she did.” “Good. At least that’s something. Mom valued Lydia’s friendship. I hope she knows that.” “I suppose she does, but it’s small consolation when your friend is a thousand miles away and you’re lying on your death bed.” Sloan blinked. Again. “What?” “Well, we never had a return address so Mom couldn’t write Janelle to let her know. But Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer about a year ago. It spread to her lymph and then to her bones. She’s got a few more months. If that.” Sloan felt his knees go weak. “Christ.” He took a step toward Bree but didn’t reach out. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

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“She’d love to see you.” “Yeah. Sure,” he choked out around a lump of grief that had congealed in his throat. “I’ll go tomorrow.” “You can bring Craig. I’m sure she’d love to see that you’ve found someone.” He frowned. “Really? She’d be okay with it?” “Facing death has a funny way of allowing you to see what’s really important. If you’re happy, that will be all that matters.” God, I’m a shit! He was going to expand his horizons of deception to encompass a dying woman. But then again, Lydia had been systematically deceived for years. He supposed this was the next logical step. “Okay, sure. I’ll bring him.” “Good. I’ll pick you up at ten.” “Ten? Craig will be a bear.” “All right. Eleven. But not one moment later. You owe me, Sloan. And don’t you forget it.” He nodded, and got the sinking feeling he was going to owe her for the rest of his life. However long—or short—that span of time might turn out to be.

***** Sloan and Bree headed back toward town, oblivious to the lone, dark figure that watched them from the shadows. He had followed them as they splashed along the beach, had watched them hold hands and embrace. He had heard them whisper and share their dreams and their pain. Vicariously, he had shared in their intimacy, using the only resources he had available to him—wiliness and stealth. He was good at it. He’d had plenty of practice. Close to twenty years of watching and listening and fantasizing had failed to sate a hunger that he could barely understand, but neither could he deny. It had failed to provide him with the one thing he truly needed. It hadn’t even come close. It had, however, resulted in the acquisition of something else he desperately needed, and could never have too much of. Information. Tonight was no exception. He still didn’t understand Sloan’s motives, or how much he knew, but perhaps he now had a way to find out. Tomorrow. The intruder slipped back into the trees and retreated to his lair. He had things to do before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. There was always so much to do, and it seemed like he shouldered it all himself. No one appreciated him. No one fully understood him. And no one cared about the sacrifices he’d made. But some day they would all understand. And they would look at him with the respect and admiration he deserved. Someday they would accept him and treat him as one of their own.

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And if they didn’t… Well, then, perhaps Sloan wasn’t the only one who would have to pay.

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Chapter Eight Sloan tugged on Craig’s shirt. “Come on, slowpoke.” “What’s that smell?” muttered Craig as they followed Bree down the long, sterile hallway. Sloan rolled his eyes. “You and your nose. It’s lunch. If you could have mobilized like a normal human being we would have been here and gone before they served the stuff up.” Empty lunch trays were being collected, but the odors of turkey surprise and weak coffee still lingered in the corridors. “I hate hospitals.” “You hate any place that doesn’t serve baked camembert and escargots.” Sloan wasn’t about to admit it but he was no fan of the disinfectant-saturated atmosphere either. Craig scowled. “I hate snails, and you know it.” He shuddered visibly. “And it’s not the food. I hate that underlying smell. I hate the feel. And they’re full of people with needles.” “No one is going to jump out of a closet and hold you hostage with a syringe at your throat.” “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Craig glanced warily at a woman in surgical scrubs who strode past them. “You ever see Terminator 2?” Bree stopped just outside the door to room 504. She turned and cocked an eyebrow at them. “Are you two always this amusing? It’s almost as entertaining as a dancing monkey.” Sloan cast a sidelong glance at Craig. “I’m not sure but I think we’ve just been insulted.” “No doubt about it,” said Craig. “I know abuse when I hear it.” Bree chuckled. “No. Really. It’s no wonder you two write so well together. Hearing you together brings to mind at least three of your movies.” “Good ones?” asked Sloan tentatively. “I hate to admit it, but they were all good. I tried like hell to hate them, but I never quite managed it.” “I’m glad to hear it.” Sloan frowned. “I think.” Bree smoothed a hand over the crisp white cotton of his shirt. Her touch sent tiny electrical currents shooting through him. Her hair was down today, and it floated about her face in a silky froth that begged for exploring fingers. “So?” she asked with a sympathetic smile. “Are you ready?”

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“I’m not,” lamented Craig. He turned his eyes on Sloan. “You sure about this? A shock like this might kill her. And I don’t want to be responsible for killing anybody.” “You’ve killed dozens of people,” argued Sloan, grateful for the distraction. “Only actors, and they don’t count. They’re not like real people.” Bree laughed. “You’ve got to come in, Craig. Mom will get such a kick out of this. It’ll make her day.” “It won’t make me feel any better if she dies laughing.” “Craig!” groaned Sloan. “She won’t bite. Now let’s—” Franki poked her head out of the door. “Hey dudes!” Bree seemed surprised. “Franki! I didn’t know you were coming.” She slipped out into the hall. “Well, I thought I’d do you guys a favor and pave the way. I hope you don’t mind, Bree, but I sort of filled her in on Sloan’s…activities.” “How did you know we were coming?” asked Sloan. “Bree phoned me this morning. I had to head out this way anyway, so I thought I’d pop by and ease her into it.” She laid a sympathetic hand on Bree’s shoulder. “Good thing, too. The news didn’t go over well. The poor thing cried a river.” “What?” asked Bree, apparently astonished. “Mom would never judge Sloan—” “No, no,” objected Franki. “She was upset because now she figures there’s no one left on the planet who will marry you. She’ll never be a grandmother.” Sloan chuckled and Bree glared at her friend. “You two would be no slouch in Vaudeville either,” he taunted. “You make a great straight man, Bree.” Craig clucked his tongue. “If you think she would make a good any kind of man, then you’re nuts, buddy.” Franki lifted her eyebrows. “That almost sounded like a compliment. If I didn’t know better I’d say Craig here was flirting. With a woman, no less.” Craig licked his lips, and Sloan found himself relishing his friend’s discomfort. Sloan had done his time under the interrogation spotlight. Now it was Craig’s turn. “Uh…maybe,” mumbled Craig as he struggled for a retort. “But even vegetarians can appreciate the aroma of roast beef, you know.” “Oh, so now she’s a hunk of meat?” Franki took a step toward Craig and slid a hand up his arm. “I suppose it’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about seducing women. Apparently you suck at it.” “I…j-jus…uh…” stuttered Craig. Sloan had never seen Craig stutter. Franki’s hand continued its journey until her fingers tickled the skin under Craig’s ear. “Such a shame,” she sighed. “Because even without a good pick-up line, with those big eyes, that tight little butt and a kinship with Hemingway you’d probably have them all swooning at your feet.”

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Suddenly Sloan reached out and grabbed Craig by the arm. He dragged him out of Franki’s reach. “That’s enough teasing, Franki. We’re here to see Lydia.” He turned to Bree. “Right?” Bree dragged her gaze away from Craig, and Sloan was afraid that she, too, had seen the parade of goose bumps that was still trailing down Craig’s arm. “Uh…yeah,” said Bree. “Are you coming back in, Franki?” “No. I have an appointment to show a house.” She spoke to Bree but her eyes lingered on Craig. “It has the most enormous bedroom that looks out over the lake. And the bathroom has a big Jacuzzi tub that just screams out for slippery, naked bodies.” She sighed. “If I weren’t all by my lonesome I’d snap it up myself.” “Bye, Franki,” said Sloan tightly. “Weren’t you leaving?” “Jealous, Sloan?” she asked with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s a one-man…uh…man.” And with a flick of her tiny miniskirt she pranced down the hall toward the exit. Her snicker echoed in their ears. “I’ll see you around, gals.” “Jesus,” groaned Craig. “She’s…” He sighed. “Yeah. She sure is.” Sloan would have to keep those two apart. Franki was a flirt, but this kind of thing was a bit blatant, even for her. She had been looking at Craig as if she’d like to devour him on the spot. The trouble was, he bore little resemblance to her usual taste in prey. So, unless her tastes had changed dramatically in the last few years, she was up to something. “You okay?” asked Bree with a conciliatory nod in Craig’s direction. “I’m sorry about her. She’ll flirt with anything with chest hair.” “Well then, why is she bothering me?” “Come on in.” She pushed the door open and Sloan and Craig preceded her in. Sloan’s good humor evaporated. The sight of Lydia Hampstead’s illness-ravaged features knocked the smile off his face like a well-aimed slap. She was propped up on a mountain of pillows, her head wrapped in the traditional post-chemotherapy turban, her eyes sunken and dull. If he had come into this room by himself looking for her, he would have walked right out again. He wouldn’t have known her. She reached for him. “Sloan. It’s so good to see you.” He crossed the room and gently grasped her hand. “Lydia…” Words eluded him, and he was startled to feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. She smiled and for a moment he could see a glimmer of the woman he used to know. Her hand squeezed his with surprising strength. “You’re looking good. So fit and tanned. California agrees with you.” He wanted to say something suitably complimentary in response, but nothing would come. “It’s all right, Sloan. You don’t have to tell me how wonderful I look.” She sighed lightly. “I already know.” She lowered her eyes. “And we wouldn’t want the compliments to go to my head, now would we?” 70

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Relief washed over him. “See, Sloan?” said Bree. “She’s still as feisty as ever. Not even radiation can put a damper on my mother’s cheerful disposition.” “Nonsense,” scolded Lydia. “I’ve had to fight off my share of depression, just like every other cancer survivor.” She shifted her eyes away from Sloan. “And you must be Craig.” Craig shuffled his feet like a ten-year-old. “Yes. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hampstead.” “It’s Lydia. And come a little closer so I can see you.” She extended a hand and Craig accepted it gingerly. She looked him up and down. “So you’re the one who’s looking after Sloan these days.” “It’s a full-time job, Mrs.—I mean Lydia. He’s a handful.” “So you do know him. I lost count of all the times his mother cried on my shoulder over worrying about that rapscallion.” Sloan’s stomach clenched at the mention of his mother. “I wish those two would talk,” continued Craig. “Maybe she could convince him to slow down.” “I sincerely doubt it.” Lydia shook her head. “She tried for more than twenty years. But I’m afraid he had too much of his father in him. And her too, actually.” Her eyes rested on Sloan. “When you walked in I almost thought it was Jonathan. You grow to look more like him every day, except around the eyes. You definitely favor her around the eyes.” “Sloan?” asked Bree with a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” “Huh?” “All of a sudden you went pale as a ghost.” His hands were clammy and his heart felt like a herd of stampeding antelope. “I’m fine. Bit of a hangover, I guess.” He addressed himself to Lydia. “No one else has ever mentioned a resemblance to her. That’s a bit of a surprise.” “It shouldn’t be. You also share her flare for language. She was always a wonderful letter writer. She still is. Sometimes her words bring me to tears.” “I’m sorry that she can’t be here in person.” “That’s all right. She has her life, and I’m glad she’s happy. I’m glad you both are.” He shrugged, at a loss. Bree filled in the void. “How was your lunch, Mom? Did you want anything?” Lydia considered the question. “Actually, yes. I would love a cup of decent coffee and one of those eclair things. All these visitors have lifted my spirits. I’m feeling quite decadent today.” Bree smiled. “Well, I’ll get right on it. It’s not often she actually makes a request.” 71

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“Why don’t I go?” offered Craig. “It’ll let you guys catch up.” “Actually,” interrupted Lydia. “I have a second request. I would like both Bree and Craig to tackle this little errand.” “Mom?” asked Bree. “What are you up to?” “I just want a moment alone with my best friend’s son. I don’t think that’s too much to grant a dying woman, do you?” “I hate when you talk like that.” Bree’s voice was tight and strained. “You shouldn’t. We both know it’s the truth.” She waved that bony hand at them and Sloan felt an unexplained surge of panic. What did she want? What couldn’t they talk about in front of Bree? “Now, scat. I want that coffee before I’m too weak to enjoy it.” “Craig?” asked Bree with an air of resignation. “Shall we?” Craig tossed a sympathetic glance at Sloan before trudging after Bree. “Pull up a chair, Sloan. You look like you might fall over.” He obeyed. He sat down, but trained his eyes on his hands. “I’m not going to scold you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m truly pleased to hear that you’ve found some happiness.” Sloan’s misery approached new and despicable depths. “Thanks,” he croaked out. “Craig’s…he’s great.” “I won’t deny that I’m a bit disappointed for Bree. I confess I had always entertained some hope that you two would find each other again.” She shrugged. “But I suppose that’s fate, for you. Always throwing curves at you when you least expect it. She’ll find her way eventually.” “Uh-huh.” The pit of despair opened a little wider. “Uh…was there something specific you wanted to talk about?” “Yes, actually. I wanted to talk about your mother.” Sloan closed his eyes and waited. “I know you two had some words before she left. Sabrina mentioned it, and Janelle alluded to as much in her letters.” He nodded. “Bree tells me it had something to do with this Armand. But I’m a little unclear on it all. I was hoping you could fill me in.” Sloan rubbed his hand along his jaw and began slowly. “He was over here visiting family, and she ran into him at the golf club. They hit it off right away. He swept her off her feet, and after a brief, and rather…heated goodbye to me, they took off for the Mediterranean the next morning.” These lies came so easily, like a pitch he had memorized for selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. “She told me she’d been feeling cooped up and restless. She said she needed a distraction. She’d mourned Dad long enough. She ignored my objections and belittled my concerns. She asked me to say her 72

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goodbyes to all of you for her and…that was it.” He shrugged. “That’s all there is to it, really. There’s nothing more to tell.” “Nonsense,” she said softly. “Please, Sloan. What really came between you and made you decide to leave?” He sucked in a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lydia, but even if there was more to tell, I really can’t see that it’s any of your concern.” The words came out harsh and he regretted that, but he was feeling cornered. But Lydia seemed unfazed. “I suppose that’s true. But Janelle was—still is, I hope— my friend, and you are Bree’s friend. Obviously whatever transpired between you and your mother contributed to your estrangement to the point that you’ve been driven to inhabiting different continents. I’d like to know why.” She coughed lightly. “I’d like to help.” He kept his eyes trained on his hands, and was startled to see a tear splash on his thumb. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m fine. And I’d rather not talk about it.” “Is it really so bad?” Bad? I can barely face myself in the mirror. How can I possibly face you? “It’s not that it’s so bad. It’s just very personal.” He met her eyes. “Kind of a family thing, I guess. I’d like to keep it that way.” “But why can’t you talk about it?” she pressed, and Sloan was amazed by her tenacity. He had never known her to push or force her will on anyone. But then again, he supposed facing death could make one a little less concerned with appearances and other people’s feelings. “Honestly, Sloan, I must urge you to believe that harboring hard feelings like this will only hurt you.” Her voice had turned brittle, and he almost thought she was on the verge of tears. “If you continue to hold it inside it will fester like an infection. Perhaps by sharing it you can purge yourself of these things before they consume you.” Her anxiety and persistence added to his confusion. What did she think he was hiding? She couldn’t possibly know the truth. If she did, surely she would have exposed him long before this. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say any more. There is nothing festering,” he lied. “And even if there were, my poisons are my own, if you don’t mind my saying so. Please don’t ask me again.” He was feeling stronger, vitalized by a trickle of indignation that had seeped into his veins. She lay her head back on the pillow, the fatigue and pain etched into her face again like cracks in crumbling granite. He thought she had finally decided to let it rest, but then a strained whisper cut through his thoughts. “Sloan…” She motioned to him to stand and lean in closer.

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He obliged, half expecting to hear some sort of deathbed wisdom, or perhaps a benevolent wish for his future. That wasn’t her intent. She grabbed his hand, and pulled him low to whisper. “Whatever you know, Sloan, whatever she told you, whether in person, or in a…a letter or a note or…whatever…” She stopped and he sensed a subtle question implied in those words. Had she? Had his mother left him something? He didn’t think so. But then again, he hadn’t exactly scoured the house looking, either. He had cleaned up the blood and eradicated all evidence of the events of that night. He’d created the European lover, made the necessary arrangements and explanations to the authorities, and hidden it all behind a smoke screen of lies and secrets. He’d been so anxious to leave all that pain behind that he’d barely even packed before taking off for California. He hadn’t touched anything that he hadn’t absolutely had to. Everything in the house was almost exactly as it had been that last night—the last time they had spoken. She might have left something. But in all the turmoil and confusion he had never thought to look. And he certainly couldn’t ask her. So that meant he’d have to search for it himself. But to go back in and touch those things again? To come face-to-face with those memories that he had spent eight years trying to turn his back on? He didn’t think he could do that, either. He looked at Lydia. She knew something. But what? And how? He could only pray that whatever she knew she would keep it to herself. It was his business. He intended to keep it that way. She studied him, but he said nothing. “Whatever it is that drove you away, I’m glad you refused to tell me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper that even he had to strain to hear. “Keep it to yourself. And go back to California as quickly as possible.” Stunned, he whispered back. “You’re telling me to leave?” She nodded, but the misery on her face was plain. “Your presence is hurting Bree. In more ways than you know.” He pulled back and said bitterly, “I’m sorry you feel that way. But Bree isn’t complaining, and I haven’t been home for a long time. I don’t plan to leave until I’m good and ready.” Lydia shook her head, her expression bleak. “Just like your father. Stubborn as a mule, and pigheaded to boot.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, as if in pain. “Just don’t let that attitude of yours get you into trouble. Be careful, Sloan.” She closed her eyes and sank back into the pillows. “Please, be very careful.”

***** “Daddy! Daddy! Watch me, Daddy!” Troy looked up from his novel just in time to see David careen headfirst down the water slide into the deep end of the pool. 74

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“David!” yelled Carolyn from just inside the sliding screen door of their ranch-style bungalow. “You know you’re not supposed to…” She blew out a breath that Troy could hear from the deck. “Oh, fudge. I don’t know why I bother.” “You better watch that foul mouth of yours,” called Troy. “The ladies who run the church bake sale will be terribly upset if they know that you take the name of their fudge in vain.” He trained his eyes back on his book, but he heard the patio door slide open, and the soft approach of those size-six feet. She straddled his lap and gently pushed down the book. She batted heavy black eyelashes at him and tucked a few strands of silky sable hair behind her ears. She leaned forward and the long, thick braid she always wore when she went swimming fell forward and tickled his stomach. She asked, “Would you rather I said, ‘Oh fuck’?” His mouth dropped open in feigned shock. “Good heavens! Such language from such a good little Catholic girl.” “I may be Catholic but I’m no little girl. And you didn’t answer the question.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind. But only if you meant it. As in ‘Oh, let’s fuck,’ or ‘Fuck you.’ But it would have to be…you know…sincere. So, what do you say?” She leaned in close and nibbled on his ear before whispering, “I say let’s go in the kitchen, clear off the table, and make mad, passionate fudge.” He laughed. “Now you’re talking. I’ll take chocolate over sex any day.” She leaned back and slapped his chest, but her retort never made it past her lips because at that moment a very wet and slimy little boy wriggled his way between them. “Can I invite Chantel over? Pleeease?” beseeched David’s I’m-so-cute-and-I-know-it voice. “Aren’t you a little young to be playing with girls?” asked Troy suspiciously. “I’m thirty-four and they still scare me.” David scowled. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a perfect rendition of one of his mother’s expressions. He was a tiny little clone of Carolyn. They both shared the same fine features and dark hair and eyes. They also shared a dusky complexion that after a few weeks of poolside frolicking, darkened to the color of a rich, mocha ice cream. Sometimes her beauty took his breath away. And rarely a day went by that he didn’t marvel that she had chosen him over all her potential suitors. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve either of them, and yet here they were, both of them accepting and loving him. Sometimes they loved him so hard it hurt. David continued to drip on his father. “Chantel’s not like a real girl. She’s my friend.” “Oh,” drawled Carolyn as she eased herself away from her men. “And I suppose I’m not like a real girl either.” “No,” said David brightly. “You’re my old lady!”

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Troy grimaced. “Now, where do you suppose he heard that?” She tossed an accusing glance in Troy’s direction. “I think it’s a very good time to invite Chantel over. I think I might need witnesses.” With a shriek of delight David leapt from his father’s lap. Chantel lived next door, and would arrive shortly. Which, judging from Carolyn’s expression, was a good thing. “She’ll be here soon,” he ventured. “You won’t have time to do anything that might necessitate cleaning up blood or bodily fluids.” “Oh fudge,” she said through a rigidly straight face. “I might have to resort to a nice neat drowning. The Pope does frown on such things, but still…” They heard the doorbell from inside the house. “My, that was fast.” She turned toward the door, but Troy was already on his feet. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “David wouldn’t ring the bell.” “Oh. Right.” “Don’t worry, I’ll get it. I was going to get a beer anyway.” He nuzzled his lips against her throat. “And you’re not an old lady. At least not yet. You’ve got a couple of years before you have to start thinking about tummy-tucks and facelifts.” “Gee,” she growled as he let go and trudged toward the doors. “I feel so much better now.” Feeling better than he had all morning—better than he had since awakening with a raging hangover headache that could crack glass—he plodded through the house. He reached the door and swung it open. His headache returned in a heartbeat. “What do you want?” “Gosh, it’s nice to see you too,” sneered Perry. “If you wanted a brotherly hug and an invitation to dinner then I suggest you visit the next-door neighbors. I’m fresh out.” Perry ignored the hostility, and pushed through into the house, uninvited. “You’re in a rare mood. Sloan’s return has obviously done little to lift your spirits.” “Sloan has nothing to do with this. You can irritate me all by yourself.” He closed the door, but hoped desperately that it would be opening again real soon. Perry sauntered into the living room and flopped down on the burgundy leather couch. He grabbed a throw pillow and examined the bold Navajo design. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the place. It’s…funky.” “Yeah, like you know funky from frumpy. And it’s not funky, it’s Southwestern. I’d offer you a tour, but I know you’re in a rush. So…” “Do you really hate us so much?” “More. I wish to God I had never been born into this family. Is that clear enough for you? Are you offended enough to leave now?” “I don’t offend so easily.” 76

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“Christ!” Troy threw himself into the matching armchair and propped his feet on a scarred pine and wrought iron coffee table. “Then what is it? You know how I truly abhor your visits. Let’s get this one over with.” “You said Sloan had nothing to do with this? I beg to differ. He has everything to do with it.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Why do you think he came back?” Troy rolled his eyes. In a bouquet of undesirable traits, Perry’s paranoia was the most pungent. “He came back because Sabrina invited him to a party. In his honor. Few people can resist that kind of adulation, and Sloan isn’t one of them.” “I don’t buy it. There’s something else going on. He ran out of here with his tail between his legs. He had to have a better reason than that for coming back.” He pointed a stubby finger at his brother. “He knows something. He denied it to Lydia today, but— ” “Lydia?” hissed Troy. “Why are you dragging her into this?” “I didn’t drag her anywhere. She was in it long before I came along.” “Maybe so, but I think she’s suffered enough.” He leaned forward and whispered. “For God’s sake, leave her out of it.” Perry waved away his objections as if they were so much secondhand smoke. “You’re such a sap, Troy. To you everyone’s a victim.” Troy drew in a deep breath but Perry cut off his retort. “Don’t worry, big brother. I didn’t browbeat her, and I won’t bother with her again. The whole thing was fruitless. He denied everything.” Troy’s relief was minimal. Perry continued, “He denied it, but I don’t buy it. Janelle must have followed through on her threats and told him.” “You’re crazy, Perry. If he knew about the operation why the hell would he have left?” “To protect his parents’ image? To protect his own?” He leaned forward. “And now why did he come back?” Perry was so caught up in his delusions that he didn’t give Troy a chance to answer. “Dad and I liked him far away, and out of touch. Now his return has us very nervous again. I think he does know the truth about the Auction House, and he’s tired of keeping quiet.” “You sound thoroughly rattled,” drawled Troy with approval. “But if you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking in the wrong place. You deserve to be nervous. You go into this kind of business—and I use that term loosely—and you better get used to looking over your shoulder. The lot of you have gotten away with this shit for too long.” “We’ve done more than get away with it,” gloated Perry. “Thanks to me and my ingenuity, we’ve thrived. The Auction House and all its facets are flourishing. And may 77

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I remind you that you are hardly untainted in this whole thing either, Troy. You’ve reaped a few benefits along the way. If not for me and my connections you wouldn’t have a son, and you just might not have a wife.” “Will you shut up,” whispered Troy, furious that Perry had managed to turn the tables on him. “What if Carolyn walked in?” Perry leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his ample thighs. “Exactly. If she found out the truth about what really went down at that fertility clinic you’d lose her for sure. You’d lose them both.” He lounged back in his chair, a smug smile twisting his lips. “Like it or not, you’re in this up to your neck, Troy-boy. And, just like always, I expect a little cooperation.” “I should have turned you all in when I had the chance,” he muttered. “You should have but you didn’t. You have your priorities.” He pulled a crumpled bag of nacho chips out of his breast pocket. “And I have mine.” He peeled open the bag and stuffed a few measly crumbs of cheese-drenched corn into his mouth. “Now tell me what you know about Sloan.” Troy dropped his head back on the cushion and resigned himself to the inevitable. He hated that he was bound to Perry this way, and he hated all that he’d been forced to do in the name of that obligation. But he hated the idea of losing his family more. He’d do anything to keep them. “His leaving had nothing—or almost nothing—to do with Janelle or the business or the Auction House.” He waited a beat. “He left because he’s gay.” Perry said nothing. Troy lifted his head and looked at him. “What?” asked Perry. “You heard me. He left because he was confused about his sexuality. He finally figured it out, I guess, because he and his friend are…together. Have been for several years. He says he’s very happy.” He tapped his fingers on the leather, and glared at his brother. “So? Is that a big enough reason for you?” Laughter erupted from Perry like a rude belch. “You have got to be kidding! You don’t mean to tell me you actually believe that shit.” Troy tamped down his temper. He was sick of hearing how gullible he was. “I trust Sloan. And besides, you should see them together. It’s spooky. They’re like this old married couple.” Perry wiped a tear out of his eye. “I don’t suppose you would know this, but back in the days when the four of you were in your prime, there were days when you and Sloan gave me the creeps. You knew each other so well you’d finish each other’s sentences. But I never suspected you two were humping each other. You just spent a lot of time together.” That finger wagged again. “You mark my words, Sloan is lying.” “Believe what you want,” said Troy through gritted teeth. “I really don’t care. But I’m telling you, the way they looked at each other, and touched…” He suppressed a

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shudder as images of Sloan and Craig in a torrid embrace flitted through his mind. “It convinced me.” “Maybe…” Perry tapped a finger on the arm of the couch, his gaze suddenly far away. “It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? And it would be so ironic.” “Ironic?” asked Troy, confused by Perry’s sudden change of mood. “Yes. You know. Satirical. Paradoxical. Rife with hidden meanings. Kind of like your marriage.” He grinned evilly. “Daddy!” called David from the back door. “Can me and Chantel have some of those barbecue corn chips?” Troy glared at his brother. “Sure,” he called. “I’ll bring ’em right out.” “Thanks, Dad!” “I think this conversation is over.” He stood. “Now, as you can see I have a family to look after.” Grudgingly Perry stood and headed for the door. “Right. You do and don’t you forget it.” He stopped on the threshold. “But remember what I told you. Sloan is up to something. Gay or not, he’s hiding something, and he damn well better not be planning on snooping around Lakeside House, or talking to people he has no business talking to.” Troy held the door. “Or what? What are you getting at Perry? I don’t take kindly to threats aimed at me, or the people I care about.” Perry stepped out into dappled sunshine underneath the birch tree in their front yard. “I’ll only say this—if you care about your friend, you should do your darnedest to find out where he stands in all this.” “I won’t interrogate him,” said Troy evenly. “I won’t be your stooge, either.” Perry went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “We’d like to know exactly what he knows and what he plans to do about it. He trusts you. He might tell you things he won’t tell anyone else. He tells you. You tell us. Once we know, perhaps we can deal with it in a civilized manner. Otherwise—” “Goodbye, Perry.” “You mark my words—” “I’ve marked enough of your words. And just in case you’ve forgotten, I’m loyal to my friends. And I make my own decisions about my future and the future of those I care about, so you can keep your empty threats to yourself.” Perry’s face set into a network of grim lines. “My threats aren’t empty.” Troy slammed the door. But the thing was, he believed his brother. He knew exactly how far his family would go to protect what they’d built. And he hoped to God that Sloan wasn’t planning on threatening it. Because if his family lost their empire, it would mean the end of Troy’s world as well.

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“Daddy!” called David from the kitchen. “Are you coming?” And Troy couldn’t face losing this. And he wouldn’t. Not even for Sloan.

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Chapter Nine “Is he okay?” whispered Bree. Sloan glanced at Craig who was quietly watching the world go by from the backseat. “Everything okay, Craig? You seem kinda blue.” Craig shrugged, his eyes never straying from the passing scenery. “My grandmother died of cancer when I was fourteen. I was just thinking about her.” Bree had noticed that as the afternoon wore on and Craig spent more time with her mother, he had loosened up, and in no time the two of them were chatting and joking like old friends. Apparently they had more in common than she imagined. “That’s right,” muttered Sloan. “I can’t believe I forgot.” “You’re not exactly the most thoughtful person in the world,” chided Craig. “Do you see me arguing?” Sloan shrugged. “But how about I make it up to you by buying you a latté at the café?” “Thanks, but…I’d kind of like to go for a walk on the beach.” He pulled his teeth over his lower lip. “Alone, if you don’t mind.” “Sure,” said Sloan. “Maybe I could take a nap. I still haven’t completely shaken my hangover from last night.” Bree perked up. This was exactly the opportunity she’d been waiting for. “Oh, come on, Sloan. Don’t be such a wuss. This would be a perfect opportunity for me to show you my shop.” To her surprise, Sloan didn’t hesitate. “All right. Sleep is overrated, anyway.” Twenty minutes later Craig was splashing barefoot along the beach, and Bree was leading Sloan through a detailed tour of her inventory. Luckily business was slow, so there were no patrons to distract them. Bree had dismissed her assistant and surreptitiously flipped the sign over to ”Closed”. She didn’t want to be interrupted. Bree studied Sloan as his eyes scanned her shop. “You’ve got some great stuff here, Chicky-Bree,” said Sloan as he took in the shelves and displays. “You might actually make it on Rodeo Drive.” “Right,” she snorted, hesitant to admit how much his praise meant to her. “No. Really. These prices seem pretty in line with the clientele here, but you could charge triple in LA.” “I have no interest in moving to LA,” she said tightly. “This is my home. Unlike some, I like it here.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an observation.” He sighed as he picked up a decorative bowl in a vibrant blue glaze with gold edging. It was one of 81

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hers. “Does this really have to be so hard? Can’t we get past the resentment and just get to know each other again?” Bree’s irritation fizzled. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just always a bit on edge after seeing Mom.” “She looks pretty good,” said Sloan. “No, she doesn’t. And she’d laugh if she heard you say that.” He set down the pot. “You’re right. She looks terrible. I guess I just don’t know what to say.” “She’s dying, Sloan. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.” “No,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I suppose not. But at least she’ll die knowing that you love her. That’s a lot.” “Yes. But it’s not enough.” He looked at her and frowned. “Maybe not, but it’s all you’ve got. There’s not much else you can do besides be there. And you should be grateful for the opportunity to show her that you care. Not everybody…” His voice faded off, and Bree knew he was thinking of his father. “That’s not what I mean. There is something concrete I can do for her. And I intend to do everything in my power in order to accomplish it.” Sloan sat down on a small bench beside the counter. “What do you mean?” She proceeded with the speech she’d rehearsed over and over in her mind for months. “My mother has lost a lot of things that are dear to her. She lost her husband. She lost her best friend. She lost her health. And she lost something else that was extremely precious to her.” Sloan eyed her suspiciously. “And what would that be?” “The series of jars my father crafted just before he died. The jars themselves weren’t that remarkable, but the glazing and the art that decorated them were some of his best work.” She waited a heartbeat before adding, “And they were his last. They were a piece of him and they should have stayed in the family—something for his wife and daughter to cherish and remember him by. But they were stolen from us.” She swallowed and speared him with her eyes. “And I blame you.” Perhaps that was overstating it, but she needed to shock him. She needed to get his attention and impress upon him how serious she was about this. It seemed to work. His eyes flew wide. “What? What the hell do I have to do with this?” “You don’t even remember, do you?” “Remember what? I vaguely remember those pieces, but I certainly didn’t steal them from anybody.” “They had gone to the Elliotts for auction. They refused to return them, saying they had a contract that guaranteed their access to all of my father’s work. They already had the pieces in their possession when he died, so I had to resort to legal maneuvering to

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keep them from being sold.” She pointed a finger at him. “You were helping me. You had promised to contact a lawyer and look into our options. I left it in your hands since I was quite occupied with Daddy’s funeral and then looking after Mom and his estate.” Sloan was gradually going pale as she reminded him of things he had obviously forgotten. But he had yet to utter a word. “I trusted you, Sloan. I had no reason to doubt that you would follow through on it. You gave me your word. And then, the next thing I know, you’re gone. No lawyer was ever contacted. And the pieces were auctioned two days after you left. I had no time to do anything.” Sloan’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly. “Shit.” “I know you said you were in turmoil at the time, but that’s no excuse. You could have told me you had too much on your plate, or that you just couldn’t handle it. You could have done—I don’t know—something!” “Shit.” His head sank into his hands. “You’re right. God, I’m sorry. But with everything that was going on…” He shrugged helplessly. “It completely slipped my mind.” “It wouldn’t matter so much, except that he kept back so few pieces for our enjoyment, and those were special. And now with Mom dying…” She sat down beside him and rested her hands on her knees. “I want them back. I want her to hold them in her hands before she dies. And I want them on my mantel after she’s gone. They’re all I have left of my father. They’re all I have left of us and what we shared. And I won’t take no for an answer.” He looked at her sharply. “What are you implying?” Again she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I tried for years to locate the buyers. I pleaded with the Elliotts to let me see their records so I could contact these people and try to buy them back. But they were adamant. Their records are extremely confidential. Some of these collectors are extremely wealthy and reclusive. Many of them don’t even show up for the auctions. They do everything by proxy. Many don’t want their names leaked, and nothing short of a court order would persuade the Elliotts to open their records.” He just kept staring at her. “You owe me this, Sloan. If not for you I would have had them in my possession for years.” “You don’t know that. Your father signed a contract, and getting them back was dicey, even then. Now tell me what the hell you’re thinking.” She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “I want you to break into their files and find that name for me. It’s only one name. I know they were sold as a set because Troy attended the auction. And then, depending on whether the person is amenable to selling, I want you to steal them for me.” Well, she had said it. There was no going back now.

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But he just kept staring at her and something indefinable passed across his features before he finally whispered, “You’re kidding, right? This is all part of the big joke on old Sloan. Lure him home, humiliate him at a bogus party, and then scare the shit out of him with a completely insane proposal like this one.” “It’s not a joke. I’m absolutely serious. And it’s not insane. I’ve thought it out. I know exactly where they keep those files. And we both know you can do it.” The color fled his face and his entire body vibrated with emotion, whether it was rage or fear she couldn’t say. But honestly, she didn’t care. He owed her this. Goddammit, she had loved him—more than she had ever loved anyone—and he had betrayed her and left her high and dry. He deserved to suffer a little bit for all that. And the jars would be the icing on the cake. “What?” he breathed. “What the hell would make you say that?” She allowed herself a nervous chuckle. “Oh, come on, Sloan. Is your memory really so short?” “Y-you mean those dares we used to do?” He licked his lips. “Those were just juvenile pranks. This is a felony we’re talking about!” “I hate to burst your bubble, Mister Model Citizen, but those juvenile pranks to which you so casually refer, were nothing short of breaking and entering.” “We never stole so much as a nickel.” “True. Your motives were much more noble. You kissed unsuspecting girls while they slept, and put itching powder in people’s underwear.” Sloan dropped his gaze to the floor, and clasped his hands tightly in front of him. Bree wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe they were shaking. “That underwear thing we did once, and it was all Franki’s idea. She wanted to get back at that guy for dumping her.” He sounded a little like a surly teen who was about to lose his privileges to the family car. “I know that. God, Sloan, you act as if I’m accusing you of something. I’m just as guilty as you and Troy.” The boys had been the perpetrators. They had picked locks and slipped in through open windows. They had done their dirty deeds, the likes of which included hiding car keys and rearranging refrigerators, along with the girl-kissing thing. Bree and Franki had been the lookouts, and had driven the getaway car when their nefarious accomplices had completed their mission of the evening. They had all sweated bullets during the raid and then laughed like lunatics when they were all safely huddled on a beach around a raging bonfire. They had toasted their incredible nerve and bravery with cheap beer, and a few hits from a shared joint. They were so cool, they made dry ice look hot. God, were all teenagers that stupid? “I’m merely reminding you of the facts,” she continued. “And there’s another fact that is indisputable.”

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He cast her a nervous glance. “What’s that?” “You and Troy did it together, but there was no denying you were the more talented burglar.” He winced at the term, and she felt oddly guilty. But she refused to give in to the urge to go easy on him. “You were good, Sloan. Damn good. I couldn’t believe the stunts you pulled off. And you were our leader. Back then none of us would have admitted it, but it’s the truth. You masterminded everything, and you were the one who got the biggest kick out of it all. And not only could I not ask Troy to break into his own parents’ things, but I wanted the best. And that’s why I brought you here.” Was it? she suddenly asked herself. Was that the only reason she wanted him back? Suddenly, with him sitting here, so close and warm, her skin prickled at the memories. Memories of warm hands and gentle sighs. No one else had made her feel that way—ever. So, were her motives really so unselfish? Or had she come up with the plan merely as an excuse—a ruse to lure him back to Bay’s Haven, and back into her life. Sloan vaulted from the bench and whirled on her. “So that’s what this is all about? This is why you staged this whole thing?” She nodded. “Christ!” He took a step back as if she had hit him with a sucker punch. “Do you know how insane this is? I did that stuff when I was young and stupid. I did it because I was looking for a cheap thrill, and it suited the purpose. I’ve gotten beyond that, and I have no interest in serving jail time so you can have a few pieces of clay on your mantel!” “Bullshit! You say you’re done looking for thrills? That’s a crock and you know it. Craig even complained about your constant quest for new adventures. You’re always looking for something a little more dangerous, a little more exciting than your last exploit.” She stood and pointed a finger at him. “And you won’t get caught. You’re too good. You must have hit twenty houses when we were nineteen, and no one ever came close to even suspecting you had been there. If you do this right, the Elliotts will never even know you’ve tampered with their files. You find the right one, write down a name and address and that’s it. You’re out of there, and no one is the wiser.” He licked his lips. “But then you want me to steal these things! What about that?” “Hopefully it won’t come to that. I’m willing to purchase them all square and legal. I’ll mortgage the house if I have to. But if these people refuse, or even if they hedge or stall me, I won’t stand for it. I have to have those things within the next few months. I have to have them before…” To her horror she found that she was battling tears. “Before Lydia dies,” he finished for her. “Yes.” She wiped impatiently at her eyes. “You saw her today. You saw how weak and fragile she is.” “That’s why you waited to ask me until I’d seen her. To get in the pity factor.”

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She tensed. “I don’t want anybody’s pity, and neither does she. I just wanted you to see her, so you would know how earnest I am about this.” She hugged herself against the iciness in his stare. “We just want what’s rightfully ours.” “That’s debatable,” he whispered. “You don’t know how much she loved him. They were so devoted to each other.” She sank back onto the bench, and gazed at her right hand where her father’s wedding band glowed warm and bright. “To have him ripped away so suddenly like that…” A hairpin turn on rain-slicked road had claimed Russell Hampstead’s life. It had been snuffed out in a nanosecond of poor judgment and worse luck. His body had shattered like a piece of clay hitting concrete. And no amount of glue could put it back together. “I know,” he said quietly as he settled back down beside her on the bench. “God, don’t you think I know?” “And now I’m going to lose her too.” Her voice cracked. “At least you still have your mother. Or at least you could if you were willing to make the first step toward reconciliation.” She laid her hand on his. They were so close, and yet at that moment she missed him more than she had in the eight years since he left. “That’s something else I wanted to urge you to do, Sloan. Don’t throw that away. No matter how much it hurts to face her, it will hurt more to lose her and know that you could have told her you loved her one more time.” He was silent, and though he didn’t pull his hand from hers, his eyes were turned away. She took a chance and reached up to touch his chin, already stubbled with the day’s growth of beard. She tugged his face toward her, and was amazed to see a few unshed tears shimmering in those deep blue eyes. “Please, Sloan. We were such good friends once. We loved each other. Even if you were conflicted about your sexuality, you can’t deny that I meant something to you. Can you do this for me?” He swallowed. “I…I don’t know.” “At least think about it?” “It’s a lot to ask, but…” He sighed. “I’ll think about it.” She planted a soft kiss on his cheek, whispered against his skin. “That’s good enough. For now…that’s all I can ask.”

***** Craig tipped back the bottle of Cuervo Gold that he’d found in the tiny bar fridge. He drained the last of the tequila and lamented the lack of a worm. He stood at the window and gazed out over the shimmering silver-dollar leaves of a birch tree. He could just make out a few whitecaps in the distance. The walk on the beach had been therapeutic. He had allowed himself to remember those few treasured moments amidst the searing hot sand and gentle waves that lapped at the New Jersey Shore. 86

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At least twice each summer he and his grandmother had made the four-hour trek to their special oceanside hideaway. That had been their special time—their time away from the hustle and bustle of the busy New York streets and the crazy comings and goings of the family’s East Side delicatessen. There they had spent their time building whimsical sandcastles and discussing his school writing assignments, or ideas for the stories that he had to write just because he’d just as soon write as breathe. His grandmother had listened and encouraged…and understood. Her joy and vitality had coaxed a shy and uncertain Craig out of his stories and multi-faceted imaginary worlds, into the bright sunshine and vivid possibilities of the real world. Her death had been devastating. He had gotten over the pain of that loss, but his placid nature continued to long for that kind of raw enthusiasm and unrepentant independence. He had found that in Sloan. Sloan Carver lived life to the fullest, treating every day as if it might be his last. He did as he pleased and seldom gave a flying fig as to what anyone thought of him. Craig fed off that. He found strength and inspiration in his partner, and he suspected Sloan found stability and balance in him. He dropped the empty tequila bottle in the waste can, and was startled by a knock on the door. He knew Sloan had his key, so it couldn’t be him. Puzzled and curious he opened the door, and stared in shock. “Craig!” said Franki through a crimson smile. “Fancy meeting you here.” She had changed her clothes since the hospital. His eyes roamed from bare shoulders over a second-skin halter top in a vivid Caribbean blue. Denim shorts topped a set of legs that should have been illegal in all fifty states. There his eyes lingered. “Uh…yeah.” She tapped his shoulder. “Up here.” He managed to drag his eyes up to meet hers. “Oh. Sorry.” Her lips twitched but she didn’t quite smile. “Is Sloan here?” “No. Bree took him down to her shop.” “Oh. I wondered when she would—” She bit her lip. “What?” “Nothing. Can I come in and wait?” He hesitated. “I promise I won’t make a pass at you.” “Good, because you make a lousy guy.” He stepped aside to allow her in. She surveyed the sitting room briefly before draping herself over the divan. “Not bad. I’ve never been in this suite.” Craig tore open a package of honey-roasted almonds. He needed something to do with his hands. “You’ve stayed at this inn before? Even though you live close by?”

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“Oh…” She extended her hand and he shook out a half dozen nuts into her palm. “I didn’t exactly stay here.” Craig’s chewing slowed. “Oh.” She popped an almond into her mouth and crunched. ”So, tell me, Craig, how did you and Sloan meet, anyway? Gay bar? Wine shop? A lingerie boutique, perhaps?” Despite the playful delivery of the question, he stiffened. “It was a writer’s convention in LA. We hooked up at a screenwriting workshop, and the rest is history.” “You two just clicked, is that it? After five minutes you just knew?” There was a bitter edge to her voice that put him on the defensive. “It took a little longer than that. But once we started working together we—” “Do you love him?” Very slowly Craig set down the package of nuts. There was no other question, insult or insinuation that could possibly unsettle him more. “Pardon?” “You heard me. I’m an old friend of his. I care about him, and I’d like to know your intentions. That’s what I’m really interested in.” He snorted. “Yeah, right! You’re about as old-fashioned as a Ferrari.” She bobbed her eyebrows. “Maybe. But I do care about him. So…do you?” So, he wasn’t off the hook. If he’d been wearing a tie he would have reached up and loosened the knot. This lie came harder. Or maybe he did love Sloan. But not in the way she meant, and that was still a lie. “That’s very personal.” He cocked his head. “I’ll answer it if you will.” “Answer what?” “Do you love him?” Her whole body went rigid. “Of course I do. I’ve known him forever. He was one of my best friends for years, and in many ways he still is.” “That’s not what I mean,” he said, feeling an odd satisfaction with her obvious discomfort. She seemed to take such pleasure in making him squirm, it was about time the tables were turned. “Well then what do you mean?” “Your brother was here yesterday.” She blanched. “You’re kidding.” “No. And it seems that old-fashioned chivalry runs in the family because he was very concerned with Sloan’s intentions as well. He was worried because he was afraid Sloan’s appearance would rekindle your infatuation with your old friend. I believe the word ‘crush’ came up. And there was some mention of your being quite devastated when Sloan and Bree became an item.” “I’ll kill him.” “He seemed rather large and, I suspect, difficult to kill. Believe me. I thought about it.” 88

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She glared at him. “So, how did he take the whole gay thing.” She waved her arm in the air as if encompassing the entire phenomenon of homosexuality. “Pretty well, actually, considering he’s had about as much exposure to it as he has to classic literature.” He crossed his legs and let his wrist flop weakly. “I think he was more relieved than anything.” She stood and paced to the window. “He’s a moron.” “Yes, well, these things do tend to run in families.” She turned around slowly and eyed him like a panther stalking a deer. “You insulted me.” “Yes. I’m rather good at it.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “I’m good at a lot of things. Just ask Sloan.” Her expression relaxed. “To answer your question, I thought I did. But now that I’ve seen him I realize I was in love with a memory. A fantasy. He never loved me. We were good friends, but nothing more, and I’ve had to accept that.” He softened at the veil of sadness that had suddenly settled over her eyes. “It must have hurt to be so close to him, and then for him to pick your best friend over you.” “I was young and stupid. He and Bree were made for each other. I just couldn’t accept it. And it doesn’t help that I’m the type of person who always wants things I can’t have. My mom used to tell me I couldn’t have a cookie before supper. So I would cry and whine and cajole until I finally got it. Then I’d take two bites and throw the rest away.” She chuckled. “That’s kind of how I treat the men in my life, too. Maybe it’s a good thing Sloan had Bree.” Her gaze turned sly. “But I guess I was wrong about them, after all, wasn’t I?” “What do you mean?” “Well, obviously they weren’t meant for each other, since you two are.” Craig uncrossed his legs and shifted in his seat, once again uncomfortable with the deception. Here she was, baring her soul to him, and he was spewing lies like a politician. “Uh…yeah. I guess so.” She sashayed over to him and settled herself down on the love seat beside him. “So how long have you been gay?” “All my life. Most gay people are.” She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. When did you figure it out? Sloan was almost twenty-six. How old were you?” Her proximity and the scent of Opium, which hung around her like a seductive cloud, was making him a little lightheaded. “I always knew. Uh…right from puberty.” She frowned. “So you were never interested in girls.” “Never.” “Never peeked through any windows or copped a feel in the lunch line?”

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Was she getting closer? “No. Never. Only boys for me. Yup. That’s the—” “You are telling me you have never seen a woman naked?” “Nope. Not even in a magazine.” She flopped back against the arm of the sofa. “Well, then how do you know you wouldn’t like it? You don’t even know what you’re missing. I mean, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, sort of thing.” He shrugged, wishing Sloan would get the hell back to the room and rescue him from his unruly libido. “Most men never try a homosexual encounter and they swear they’re not interested. What’s the difference?” “Mmm.” She nodded. “I guess you have a point. Still…” He stood and walked to the windows. He glanced down at the street hoping for a glimpse of his rescue team. “You know, I can’t imagine what’s taking him so long. Was there something you wanted to talk to him about…” He turned to face her and his jaw went slack. She had stood up and was calmly untying the string that held her halter top in place. “Wh-what are you doing?” She said nothing, and a moment later the strings were dangling to her waist and she had begun to peel the clingy cotton material down like peeling the wrapper off a candy bar. He stood there, completely panic-stricken and paralyzed, as a pair of beautiful, firm, pale breasts were unveiled for his viewing pleasure. “Come here,” she commanded. He shook his head. “If you don’t come here I’ll walk over there and let the whole town see us.” He stepped a little closer and she met him halfway. She grabbed his hands. “I feel it my duty to educate you. Gay or not, every man needs to feel a woman’s breasts in his hands at least once in his life. And, since I think mine are passable specimens, I think it’s reasonable that I be the one to educate you.” His heart was pounding against the base of his throat, and his jeans had just become unbearably tight. “I really don’t think—” But she was already guiding his hands to her chest. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Think of it as a…science experiment.” She grinned evilly. At least he thought she did since he was having extreme difficulty focusing on her face at the moment. His fingers were resting lightly just below her collarbone. “All right, now, you take over,” she coaxed. “I won’t bite.” She let go of his wrists. “Honest.” He didn’t believe her, but he was hooked. He was panting like a Pavlovian dog but he couldn’t have walked away if she had suddenly mutated into Grandma Moses. So 90

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instead, he did the only sane thing any red-blooded, fully heterosexual male could do. He conducted his experiment. With both hands moving in sync he skimmed his fingers over the smooth creamy skin of her chest. When he reached the swell of her breast he traced the outer curve, marveling at the perfectly fluid lines and fullness. He cupped her lightly and whisked his thumbs over her nipples, pleased to see the response, even as he acknowledged what a bad idea this was. Sloan was going to kill him. But when he pressed a little more firmly, and massaged those soft pillows of flesh beneath his palms, the low groan that vibrated in her throat blasted all coherent thought from his mind. “You’re pretty good at this for a novice,” she breathed. “I’m in the presence of a masterpiece. You inspire me.” “Oh God. You do know how to talk.” She arched against him, and the next thing he knew his lips were devouring hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck and those naked breasts were grinding against his T-shirt. He pulled her in close and mumbled against her mouth, “I thought you weren’t going to make a pass at me.” “I lied.” She reached for his hand and pressed it against her crotch. “I’m good at it.” “Mmm.” He massaged her briefly before slipping his hand inside the denim. She had already undone the zipper. And then his. She kneaded him through his briefs, and her mouth did sinful things to his, completely distracting him from what his hands were doing. His fingers slipped through the nest of curls and dipped inside her. She was as wet and warm as a hot bath. “I guess I like girls,” he whispered against her throat. God, she smelled good. She giggled. “Yeah. That’s kinda what I figured.” A voice out in the hallway caught his attention. But his thoughts stalled. Something about what she had said… “Thanks, Bobby,” called the voice in the hall. “I guess it fell out of my pocket when I tipped you this morning.” “Sloan!” Craig’s hands recoiled. She just stood there, staring at him as Sloan’s key slipped into the lock. “Christ!” He stepped forward and pulled her halter top up to cover her breasts. “For God’s sake, get dressed!” A sly smile tugged at her lips as she pulled up her zipper. “Why? Afraid he’ll be…jealous?” And she laughed again. “Shit!” He turned around and stepped between Franki and the opening door just as she was tying the halter strings behind her neck. Sloan stepped inside, and barely glanced at Craig. “Oh, hi. I wasn’t sure if you’d be back yet.” His voice was dull, his posture listless. “I didn’t have my key, but luckily somebody found it out here in the hall, and turned it in—”

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“Hi, Sloan.” Franki stepped around Craig. The door clicked shut and Sloan registered her presence. “Oh. Hi, Franki.” He looked from her to Craig and back again. His face remained blank. “You two getting to know each other?” She tossed a sidelong glance at her victim. “You could say that.” Sloan barely seemed to hear her. He walked past them and settled himself gingerly on the divan. He leaned back and draped his arm over his eyes. “Sorry, guys, but I’m whipped.” Franki walked over and kneeled beside him. “Hangover?” she asked. “Not exactly.” She picked up his free hand and began to massage it. “Does this help? I know you used to love this.” “Mmm.” Craig felt invisible. He looked on in stark fascination as the woman who, not five minutes earlier, had been fondling him, now used those same hands to stroke and pet his best friend. Correction—his lover. His lover? Oh, shit! The full scope of what had just happened hit him. He’d been had. “Didn’t you say there was something you wanted to talk to Sloan about?” Craig failed miserably at keeping the irritation out of his voice. Her hands were working their way up Sloan’s forearm. “Oh, yeah. I did, but after our nice chat, it completely slipped my mind.” Craig stood by helplessly as she found Sloan’s biceps. “Man,” she whispered. “I don’t know how you can turn this down for a set of clumsy, male fingers.” Her hands drifted hypnotically from his arm to— “Sloan!” Craig said it loud enough to wake Sloan from his semi-comatose state. He had to do something because the fingers of Franki’s right hand had abandoned Sloan’s arm and begun to stray toward his abdomen. But that likely was not their final destination. Sloan sat up abruptly. “Wh-what?” Then he looked down at Franki’s beaming face, and groaned. “Franki! Quit it, already! Not only are you shopping in the wrong market, but the melons just aren’t ripe today.” “Huh?” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “It means I’ve got nothing that you can squeeze. I’m just not in the mood to deal with this today, okay?” She pouted. “But if you were in the mood…” He shook his head. “What if Bree was the one asking?” The words had the texture of a silken razor.

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He leaned forward and grasped her hands, his expression earnest. “I’m gay, and I’m taken. Bree and I are friends. Please don’t take this out on her and make a fool of yourself in the process.” She extricated her hands from his and sighed. “Whatever you say, Sloan. I can take a hint. I guess I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your own devices.” She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, and tossed back, “But you can’t blame a girl for trying, no matter how hopeless it may appear.” Craig was silently seething and wishing he could follow her out into the hall and… What, exactly, would he do? Throttle her to within an inch of her life? Or throw her to the floor and make love to her right there on the oriental runner? She snapped her fingers. “Oh! I just remembered what I had to tell you. We’re all invited to the Elliotts’ for a little barbecue.” Sloan stared at her. “Who’s we?” “All of the old crowd, spouses and…significant others included. Even my mom will be there. They’d love to have Lydia, but, well…” She fidgeted with her halter strings. “Even Troy?” asked Sloan. “Yup. Your homecoming is apparently a very big deal, Sloan Carver. It sounds like they’re killing the fatted calf and even allowing the prodigal son to return. Turning this down might be equivalent to turning down tea with the Queen.” “Is Bree going?” Her face fell. “I haven’t asked her yet, but I assume so.” He pondered it for a moment, and then flopped back onto the divan. “All right. I guess it’s a good idea, considering…” His voice faded away. “Good.” She swung the door open, and winked at Craig. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at five.” And she disappeared into the hallway. “Bitch!” muttered Craig as he stalked to the window. He watched the street, in the hopes of catching a glimpse or her. He wanted to make sure she really left. “Huh?” “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” mumbled Sloan, apparently already halfway down the road to dreamland. Craig didn’t push it. He had other things on his mind as he watched the woman with the legs to her throat and the devious, scheming mind, slip into her bright yellow Isuzu and drive away. She had used him, but he knew it mattered more than it should. He knew that it wouldn’t have mattered so much if he hadn’t started to feel more for her than merely the hunger of an undernourished libido. He heard Sloan’s soft snores and he knew that it wouldn’t have mattered so much if he hadn’t just let down his best friend. But, most disturbing of all, he also knew that no matter how much it shouldn’t matter, if Franki Waters wagged her fiery red fingernail at him again… Well, he’d always wondered how Pavlov’s dog finally met his end. Did he respond to the wrong 93

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bell, and run out in front of a steam engine? Or did he just eat one too many bowls of doggie kibble? Craig had the funny feeling that Franki had more in common with a speeding locomotive than she did with dog food. He sighed as he recalled the feel of that buttery smooth flesh beneath his fingers. But what a way to go.

***** Vance Elliott’s fingers caressed the broad, elegant lines of an early seventeenth century Louis XIV armchair. The colors of the silk tapestry upholstery had faded, and a few spots had been worn through, but the dark walnut scrollwork looked as rich and lustrous as the day it was carved. It was in mint condition and would reap top dollar at the next Wednesday night auction. “How much do you figure?” Perry had just sauntered into the preview room, munching on his favorite snack. Vance drew himself up to his full, lean six-foot two-inch height. At sixty-four he could still outrun, out-lift and out-play most men half his age. Except, of course, for his other son, he thought bitterly. Physically Troy Elliott was every bit the man his father was. It was a cruel irony that Perry, Vance’s physically inferior son, had inherited all of his father’s other traits. “Are you asking about this piece or the entire agenda?” responded Vance. Perry shrugged. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Antiques and fine furniture did not hold any particular interest for Perry. His passions lay elsewhere. “I just came in to tell you that we’re all set for the barbecue tomorrow night. As far as I can tell everyone is coming.” “Sloan is the only one that matters.” “I hope we’re not overestimating his importance. The gay thing would explain a lot.” “We can’t discount the possibility that Janelle followed through on her threats. Sloan may well know and merely be biding his time. You forget, Sloan is his father’s son. Jonathan Carver was a risk-taker, but he always weighed his options carefully before acting. And when he did act, he did so quickly, with stealth and precision.” Vance ran his fingers over the gold nail heads that held the tapestry to the chair’s frame. “Jonathan was intelligent, patient and tenacious. And I’ve seen those same traits in his son.” “You still miss him, don’t you?” said Perry in a rare reflective moment. “I do. Jonathan balanced out my reckless ambitions. He was a good friend, and I hated to lose him. His death was tragic,” he tossed a veiled glance at Perry, “and I feel that his son deserves the benefit of the doubt, and possibly an opportunity to follow in his father’s footsteps.” 94

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Perry stopped munching his chips, his expression pensive. “Are you sure he does?” “Does what?” puzzled Vance. “Deserve the benefit of the doubt.” “What are you talking about?” Perry shrugged, as if to negate the significance of what he was about to say. “I told you what I saw that night. I’ve never been as convinced as you that Sloan was blameless in her death.” “You misinterpreted what you saw,” said Vance firmly. “Your observations were colored by your envy of Sloan.” “I’ve never envied anyone,” growled Perry. Vance knew differently. “Sloan could never intentionally harm his mother.” But Vance had never quite been able to shake the whisper of doubt that had nagged at him all these years. “You’re convinced it was an accident.” “I’m not convinced of anything, but I don’t want to make any judgments based on assumptions and hearsay. That’s why I need to talk to Sloan myself.” “He left town so suddenly. What if it was because he was running from the law?” “If that’s the case then why was there no investigation into her disappearance? No suspicions?” “He covered his tracks too well.” Vance shook his head. “Bay’s Haven may not have a crack police force but I find it hard to believe they could be misled so easily.” Perry’s snort was filled with contempt. “Right, Dad. Whatever you say.” Vance turned away from his son and closed his eyes. Perry was his son and his partner, but they approached the business—and life in general—from completely different perspectives. He missed having a partner who shared his goals and his vision. He missed having friends he trusted and counted as equals. Occasionally the barriers fell and he allowed himself to grieve the loss of the two people that he had loved, perhaps more than anyone else in the world. “I’ll talk to him,” said Vance softly. “And I’m sure we’ll get this all straightened out.” “You have a lot to ask him,” replied Perry. “What if you don’t like his answers?” Vance ignored the cold glint in his son’s eye. “I refuse to speculate. I’ll deal with him as the circumstances demand, once I have all the information.” He forced a small smile even though his mind remained troubled. “I learned a few things from Jonathan, too. I intend to take this one step at a time, and weigh all my options.” He glared at Perry. “I don’t act rashly.”

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Perry crumpled the empty bag in his pale, doughy fist, and glared back at Vance. The message in his eyes echoed the words that Vance had heard too often from his son, No, Dad, you don’t act at all. But out loud he said, “Well, you know how I feel about it.” “Yes. You’ve made your opinions abundantly clear.” “And Mom agrees with me.” The fact that Perry and Lois often allied their forces against him irritated Vance beyond words. “Luckily, your mother has no say in the matter. She is impulsive, and sees only the bottom line of the bank account.” “What else is there?” snorted Perry. Vance dropped his gaze to the fluid elegance of the historic chair. He took in the intricate stitching and bold design of the tapestry. And then he surveyed the remainder of the week’s collection. Finally his eyes rested on the collection of porcelain and pottery that lined the shelves on the far wall. Therein lay Perry’s passions—and his father’s demons. After Russell Hampstead’s death, they had recruited a new artisan, but his work lacked passion. Ironically, that did not affect their price tag. He glanced back at his son. “If you don’t know, I can’t explain it to you, Perry.” The implications of that saddened him deeply. He turned and walked away.

***** Bree rested her wet hands on the lump of damp, shapeless mud. She gazed at it and took a moment to envision the clay coming to life. In her mind’s eye she could see the lean, graceful lines of a pitcher. It was there, sleeping, hiding within the formlessness. It merely needed her to draw it out and make it dance. She flipped the switch and the table slowly whirled to life. She took a deep breath and began the familiar routine of working and shaping the clay. The rough, wet mixture spun against her skin, sloughing away calluses and caressing her spirit. Gradually a form evolved. Her fingers moved with the deftness and skill that came from years of practice and dedication. And an ocean full of passion. Even as she poured her soul into the clay, her mind wandered. “I think you have clay in your blood,” laughed Russell as he watched over his daughter. She felt a surge of pride as her hands continued their work. “If I do, I got it from you, Dad.” “Oh…” His hand rested on her forearm. “Take it slow here. Be gentle with it. Don’t become impatient. When the walls get this thin, you have to treat it as delicately as spun glass.” “Do you think I can make it higher?” The vase seemed almost as tall as she, and yet she wanted to do more. Go further. “You’re never satisfied, are you, Bree? You’re always testing your limits.”

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“I want to be as good as you.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You’ve already surpassed my skills on the wheel, and you haven’t even finished college yet. You’ve developed a feel for the clay and a flare for form that I envy, Sabrina.” He flicked the switch and the table slowed its mindless spinning. “It’s beautiful just as it is.” “It could be better,” she grumbled, but secretly his words warmed her heart. He grasped her shoulders and swiveled her chair to face him. “It’s good to reach for the stars, but you must also learn the value of temperance and restraint.” His smile faded. “It took me too long to learn that lesson, and I’m afraid the price was too high.” A little unsettled by his tone, and uncertain of the message, she re-focused on her vase. “It will be perfect for one of Mom’s roses, don’t you think? Mom’s so happy that she can quit that job down at the store now, and spend more time in her garden.” “Mmm. Now that I’ve made a name for myself things are going so well. I’m so happy to be able to give you two all the things you deserve. Now that money’s no longer a concern, everything’s perfect.” His gaze drifted away but his expression didn’t quite match his words. “Everything’s just…perfect.” She drew herself back to the present, and the work in progress that swirled before her. Suddenly she raised her fist and plowed it through the mouth of the pitcher. She flicked off the turntable and glared at the ruins. She felt a tear drip off her chin. “I miss you, Daddy,” she whispered. She grabbed a towel and wiped the mud off her hands as she stood and strode to the window of her second-floor studio. The stars glittered above the treetops, and she could hear the rhythm of the waves like the faint strains of a distant lullaby. How was it that Bree had lost so much? The death of Russell Hampstead had cost her a father, a friend, a mentor and a teacher. His death had also left her and her mother to pick up the pieces and make their way with an inadequate life insurance benefit, and few marketable skills. Bree’s college degree in art history was almost worthless and she had lost her dream of making potting her life. She’d had to resort to retail work in order to help her mother make ends meet. Pottery had become a hobby and, only now, had she seen a glimmer of the dream’s return. Now she faced the loss of her mother. While Lydia had never shared her daughter’s passions, she had always been supportive and encouraging, and had loved her daughter to distraction. And Bree had lost a husband. This, of course, was the most negligible of her losses. She had tried to fill a void in her life with a marriage that merely expanded the emptiness to include two people instead of one. Looking back now, she had to admit to herself that the void she had been trying to fill had been left by none other than Sloan Carver. For years she had tried to negate the effect of his abandonment on her life. Sloan obviously didn’t care about her, so she 97

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didn’t care about him. But that had been a pathetic rationalization, and a blatant lie. The memory of her father’s words had made it all painfully clear to her. Her and Sloan’s relationship had been volatile but passionate, and now she knew why. Not only did they share an artist’s creative soul, but they shared the same driven, star-seeking nature. The same traits that had made their fathers fast friends had drawn them together. They both enjoyed a challenge. They both felt an innate need to test their limits and reach for the unreachable. They had different ways of expressing those traits and that difference had masked the truth from her. It had taken too long for it all to come clear to her. And now it was too late. Sloan had taken a different path, and while she could feel no regrets over decisions he alone had made, she couldn’t help but mourn the loss of yet another dream—the dream of sharing her life and her passions with someone who truly understood her, and whom she understood in return. She set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest. She had lost enough in this life. In light of all that, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and urgency toward her quest. Tomorrow she would press Sloan for a decision, and if he didn’t make the right one, she would press him some more. Bree would have those pieces of her father. Sloan Carver would help her. If he wouldn’t do it for her, maybe he would do it for his father, and for the memory of another friendship that had ended too soon, and too tragically. Sloan would agree to it. There were no other options.

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Chapter Ten “Hey there, kiddo!” said Sloan with a nudge to David Elliott’s ribs. “Where are you putting all that food, anyway? You got a hollow leg or something?” David only shrugged. He edged away from Sloan on the picnic table bench and continued to lick his ice cream cone. It was his second, and how he could possibly pack it in on top of two burgers and a hot dog mystified Sloan. As did his apparent aversion to Sloan’s presence. “David!” scolded Troy from the other side of the table. “That was rude. You should answer—” “Troy,” interrupted Sloan with a wave of his hand. “It’s okay. I was just teasing.” “Can I go swimming now, Dad?” asked David. Troy considered his son. “Okay, but you have to stay in the shallow end until your supper settles.” “Okay!” called the boy over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the enormous kidney-shaped pool in Vance and Lois’ backyard. The imposing edifice of the Elliott mansion loomed behind them, and before them, just beyond the pool and patio, a lush carpet of green stretched out toward the water. The lawn ended at a rocky bluff that towered sixty feet above the water line. The view was breathtaking, but few of the guests bothered to acknowledge it. Lois and Marie Waters were sorting through uneaten burgers and greasy paper plates. On the far side of the pool, Derek and Perry gesticulated at each other as they discussed some mysterious and undoubtedly dull subject. Derek’s buxom young wife was sunbathing beside the pool, a mere stone’s throw away from where Carolyn, Franki and Bree had settled themselves after the gluttonous picnic. The only member of the party who wasn’t readily visible was the lord of the manor. Vance Elliott had excused himself after dessert, and Sloan hadn’t seen him since. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Troy said as he watched his son drench the women with an enthusiastic cannonball dive that landed him squarely in forbidden deep water territory. The ladies shrieked, and Carolyn had to scramble to get away from her son who then tried to drag her in by her ankles. “He’s usually so energetic and outgoing. He’s usually great with strangers. I’ve never seen him act so shy.” “Maybe he knows he’s in the presence of greatness,” said Craig as he settled down beside Sloan. A multicolored Popsicle was already weeping all over his hand. “Genius like ours can be very intimidating.” “Do all geniuses wear a purple sugar mustache?” asked Carolyn who had strode up behind her husband.

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Craig examined his treat. “Purple dye is great for the synapses.” Sloan’s head made a soft thud as it hit the pine. He moaned in despair. Carolyn laughed. “Come on, Sloan. Where’s your sense of humor? Your friend is very charming.” Sloan lifted his head just enough to look Troy’s wife in the eye. “Then maybe you’d like to take him off my hands. He can’t be any more trouble than a herd of sugar-hyped toddlers.” Craig continued slurping, impervious to the insult. Sloan glared at him, but addressed himself to Troy. “If you guys ever decide that you want another infant just give me a call. I’ll ship him via Overnight Stork Express.” When Sloan shifted his eyes away from Craig he was startled to realize Carolyn had left. He looked around just in time to see her slip in through the back door of the house. He glanced at Troy. “Was it something I said?” “We did want more kids, but it didn’t work out that way. She’s still a little sensitive about it.” “Oh shit,” muttered Sloan. “It’s a good thing I only visit once a decade.” Troy smiled weakly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You couldn’t have known, and she’ll be fine. It wasn’t that bad.” “Don’t sell him short.” Craig was sucking on the wooden stick. “He’s an insensitive clod.” Sloan growled and Craig smiled a sweet, sticky smile. Troy stood. “I think I’ll go check on her.” As Troy walked toward the house, Sloan mumbled, “Thanks anyway, Craig.” “Don’t thank me too soon.” He swung his legs over the bench and stood. “I’m officially abandoning you, you insensitive clod. I see a child who needs a few diving lessons.” Sloan was stunned. “You dive?” Craig lifted his nose a fraction of an inch. “High school champ, two years in a row.” “Whew! And you went to high school, too.” Craig pointedly ignored him and ambled toward the pool. Sloan chewed on a grin as he watched his friend strip off his T-shirt and dive headlong into the water. Sloan felt strange sitting there at the table all by himself, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. His attention was riveted to Sabrina Hampstead, looking cool and sexy in that damn black one-piece that plunged down toward her navel like a giant arrow that said, “this way to paradise”. He closed his eyes and focused on the internal war he’d been waging for the last twenty-four hours. Bree’s request had left him reeling. And yet he couldn’t really say why. 100

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His nerve and his skills had improved dramatically over the last few years. Add to that the fact that the security at the auction house would likely be child’s play compared to some of the systems he’d breached. Add to that the fact that it was a worthy and passionate request from a woman whom he owed more than he could say. Considering all that, he had no good reason to refuse. Except, of course, for the fact that it scared him spitless. Despite all the emotional, intellectual and logical reasons against it, the thought of breaching the boundaries of the Lakeside Auction House, and rummaging through records that might have his parents’ names on them, terrified him. And this wasn’t the kind of healthy fear that got the adrenaline pumping and hyped him up enough to allow him to jump out of airplanes and drive cars at two hundred miles an hour in search of a fresh thrill. This was the kind of fear that made his palms sweat and his chest ache. Suddenly he jumped up and made a dash for the pool. “Hey, Sloan,” shouted Franki as he skidded to a stop beside her. “You finally gonna ruin that blow-drying job and get your hair wet?” “Believe it or not I let the wind dry my hair.” He grinned at her as he stripped down to his trunks and stepped out of his deck shoes. “And, I’m gonna do one better than just get my hair wet.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Bree. He didn’t answer. Instead he concentrated on taking a series of deep breaths, inhaling until his lungs felt so full that they might burst, and then exhaling until they felt as empty and shriveled as a popped balloon. Again. “Sloan,” said Craig slowly. “What are you up to?” Determined not to lose his focus, he picked up a pair of five pound barbells he had spotted sitting by the edge of the pool. He took one final breath that seemed to swell his chest to twice its normal size, held it, and then stepped off into the deep end. He sank to the bottom, sat down, and closed his eyes. His heart was pumping too fast. He willed it to slow down, willed his muscles to relax, willed his mind away from the water and the instinctive need for oxygen. He allowed his mind to wander. He thought of bonfires and beaches. Clambakes and bikinis. He imagined himself lying on the warm sand as the sun set and the evening breezes caressed his skin. He drifted on a sea that was so thick and viscous that he floated effortlessly on the soft swells. He— He felt the weights ripped away from him as anxious hands grasped his arms and dragged him to the surface. He broke the surface and gasped for breath. He fed his starving lungs with several doses of oxygen before turning angry eyes on his supposed rescuer. But Bree, who had dragged him to the side of the pool, was glaring back at him with a rage all her own. “What did you do that for?” he raved. “I wasn’t ready to come up!”

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“Damn you! You’re insane! You could have drowned.” She pulled herself out and wrapped a towel around herself with a flourish that spoke volumes. “I’m fine. I’ve stayed under longer than that plenty of times.” He did feel a little lightheaded, and his lungs were still burning, but that was to be expected. Her reaction was completely unwarranted. “You were turning blue, for chrissake!” He was startled to realize there were tears in her eyes. “I-I was not.” Franki draped an arm around Bree’s shoulders. “Yes, you were, Sloan. I was scared too.” He pulled himself out of the pool and stood, dripping, on the deck. “What on Earth would possess you to do something like that?” Bree flung the words at him. “I was just—” “Did what we talked about yesterday scare you so much that you thought you’d try and get out of it by killing yourself?” Bree couldn’t have hurt him more if she had shot him with a .44 Magnum directly to the heart. He took a step back, physically reeling from the blow. A moment after she said it her face fell and a hand flew to her mouth. “Oh damn! God, I’m sorry, Sloan. That…that was—” “He’s just a goddamn showoff,” yelled Craig from the other side of the pool in a flagrant attempt to defuse the situation. Sloan just kept staring at Bree, who was blinking back tears of confusion. Part of him wanted to reach out to her and tell her it was okay, wrap her in his arms and bury his face in her hair. Suddenly he wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything, but his feet had melted into the concrete. He couldn’t move. Craig continued, “He just has to be the center of attention. It’s annoying as hell.” “I thought it was cool.” David straddled the diving board, his eyes glittering with excitement. “He was down there for more than two minutes!” Sloan dragged his eyes away from Bree and turned toward the boy, grateful for the distraction. “Finally, the voice of reason.” His voice shook but he forced the words out anyway. “Finally, someone who appreciates guts and talent. What do you say I buy you another ice cream cone, Davey, my boy?” David’s face abruptly fell. He dropped his eyes to the water. “Uh, no thanks, I’m real full.” Sloan still felt off balance by the whole incident, and David’s attitude confused him further, but he was distracted by a hand on his shoulder. “You’re quite the daredevil,” said Vance Elliott. Sloan turned to look into a pair of bright hazel eyes set in a narrow, angular face.

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He eased himself out from under Vance’s hand, and turned to face his father’s best friend. “Yeah, well…” He shrugged. “I tend to get bored easily. Sometimes I have to make my own entertainment.” A slow smile spread across Vance’s face. “Hmm. Now, where have I heard that before?” The subtle comparison to his father did little to lift Sloan’s mood, but Vance didn’t seem to notice. “And you all seem to be enjoying yourselves?” “Yes,” said Sloan somewhat tightly. He reached for his khakis and slipped them on over his damp trunks. “It’s been a lovely afternoon. It’s good to have everybody together again.” Vance nodded as his eyes swept over the group. Sloan followed his gaze. David had sat down at the edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water and a cold soda in his hand. His eyes were riveted on Craig who was bouncing experimentally on the diving board. Bree and Franki had retreated to the far corner and settled down in a pair of lounges. Bree’s eyes were skewering him like fishhooks. He turned away from her to face his host. At last Vance rested his eyes on Sloan. “Yes. Reunions are always a good idea, and it’s especially good to have you back with us, Sloan. You’ve been missed more than you know.” His gaze never wavered. “Will you walk with me?” Sloan was startled by the request, but didn’t feel he could refuse his host. “Uh…sure.” He picked up his shirt and slipped it on. They began to stroll back toward the house. “You’re right,” said Vance on a sigh. “It’s been far too long since we did this. Of course it can never be the same as it was. Too many of us are missing.” He looked sharply at Sloan. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.” Sloan managed a serviceable smile. “Don’t be silly. There’s more missing than just my parents.” “Yes, there is.” They walked in silence for a few moments and then abruptly Vance added, “And I’m afraid that sad topic brings us to the reason I asked you here today. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.” Sloan stopped short and stared at him, unsure what to make of this development. “It has to do with your father.” Sloan felt his gut tighten. “To do w-with Dad?” “Yes. I’d like to talk inside, in my office, if you don’t mind. It’s rather important.” They had reached the patio behind the house. He motioned toward the back door, and Sloan felt oddly powerless to refuse. Actually trapped was the more apt description. “All right,” was all he said as he followed Vance inside.

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***** Craig had ceased his bouncing. He stood on the end of the diving board and watched as Sloan followed Troy’s father into the house. He had to suppress an odd fluttering of apprehension in his gut. Something about the older man bothered him. He just couldn’t say what. However, once Sloan was out of sight he was able to concentrate. He closed his eyes, lifted his arms, bounced once, slowly, to test the tension on the board. He repeated the action. On the third dip he inhaled deeply, swung his arms to add momentum, and when the board hit its apex he lifted off. He executed a single tucked somersault and managed to hit the water in a reasonable rendition of a textbook entry. He touched bottom, flipped over and pushed off. He erupted from the water to a cacophony of applause and whistles. Bree, Franki, David, and Derek’s wife—for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name—were all praising his acrobatic achievement. “Holy moly!” shouted Franki. “That was impressive. You’re quite the athlete! You’re a lot more…flexible than I thought.” “Franki!” scolded Bree. “Leave the poor man alone. He’s blushing.” “I am not!” He swam to the side of the pool and hooked his arms over the side, his eyes trained on the women as his body bobbed in the water. “It’s the sun. I burn easily.” Franki snickered. “Uh-huh. And I’m Snow White.” Craig snorted his opinion of that comparison. In a screaming-red bikini that covered almost as much skin as a piece of dental floss, she looked about as guileless as the wicked queen. “Such a shame,” continued Franki, “to see all that supple flesh go to waste.” Craig glared at her as she turned to Bree. “The old cliché is so true, isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve found Mr. Right—your kindred spirit, the man of your dreams—you find out he’s either married or gay. Or both.” Bree glared at her friend and Craig saw something pass between them. “You should really learn to play nice.” Bree’s voice could have frozen the pool. She turned and sauntered toward the house. “Or you’ll never even snag one of those elusive semi-desirable heterosexuals.” She passed Derek and Perry who had left their hideaway in the gazebo and were strolling toward the pool. “And you might even lose a friend or two, if you’re not careful.” “Sheesh. Everybody’s so touchy today.” Franki turned to Craig. “How about you? Do you have anything to be mad at me about?” Very deliberately, Craig turned away from her and looked at the boy who had wandered out onto the diving board. “What did you think of my little show, David?” “It was pretty cool. You and Sloan are—” He clamped his mouth shut. “We’re what?”

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The boy’s gaze flicked to his uncle and Derek who had settled down in a deck chair. “Nothing.” Craig heard Franki slip into the pool, but he made a point of ignoring her. “You really seem to like the water,” he continued to the boy. “And I saw you do one dive that showed a lot of potential. Would you like some pointers? I used to compete, back when I was a teenager. I even won once or twice. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.” “You don’t have any sleeves.” Franki’s whisper in his ear sent a parade of goose bumps down his arm, but he didn’t have the time, or the inclination to address her. He focused on David who seemed to be considering the idea. “If you come into the shallow end with me,” he coaxed, “I could show you how to do that tucked somersault. You can practice it under water before trying it out in a dive.” David chewed on his lower lip and his eyes flicked again to his uncle and Derek who had sat down beside him. Craig pushed off the side of the pool and approached the board. He grabbed the end and with one mighty kick pulled himself up until his chest rested on the vinyl. David backed up a step. “Come on,” he said through a grin. “I won’t bite. Sloan’s busy, and I don’t have anybody else to play with.” He held out his hand… And David scrambled away from him so fast that Craig was afraid he might fall and crack his head on the concrete. “N-no way,” sputtered David. “I…uh…” He blushed. “I mean, no thanks.” He continued backing away, his eyes as wary as if Craig were threatening him with a pistol instead of an outstretched hand. “David!” said Franki, her tone surprisingly harsh. “That’s no way to act toward a friend of Sloan’s who is trying to be nice to you.” “I just don’t want to, okay?” His eyes shifted to the house. “I don’t like diving.” “That’s not true,” argued Franki. “You dive at home all the time.” “Leave him be,” said Craig softly. “He didn’t exactly bite my head off. If he doesn’t want to dive, he doesn’t have to.” “Where’s Mom and Dad? I wanna go home.” “David, you should—” “Franki,” pleaded Craig. “Please…” She frowned at him, but didn’t have a chance to answer before Perry cut in. “Listen to him, Franki. Leave the kid alone.” Perry’s words slurred a little, and Craig suspected he and Derek had finished off a six-pack or two during the course of the picnic. Perry swaggered over to the group. “David’s finally showing a glimmer of good sense that obviously skipped a generation in his family.” Franki rounded on him. “What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

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“You know what it means. You all have such open minds that your brains have leaked out. David, here, has the good sense to keep his distance from an-an-an aberration like him.” He nodded toward Craig who was torn between rage and stark embarrassment. Franki burst out of the pool and stalked up to Perry. Considering the color of her face at that moment, Craig was surprised that he couldn’t hear the water sizzling on her skin. “Are you implying,” she shot back, “that Craig’s and Sloan’s sexual preferences somehow makes them second-class citizens, not worthy of an imperious Elliott’s coveted company?” “Oh, get off your high horse, Franki. You know most queers would give their left nut to have a chance to grope a cute little boy like David over there.” Franki took a step back, apparently struck dumb by Perry’s ignorance and bigotry. She sputtered, unable to find words, and Craig watched it all with an odd sense of detached surrealism. He wasn’t gay, and he didn’t take the insults personally. And yet, he felt a moral outrage that astounded him. He dragged himself out of the pool and wrapped a towel around himself. He deigned it wise to stay out of this battle that was being waged between people who had known each other their entire lives. “Leave Perry alone, sis,” slurred Derek from his deck chair. “He’s just feeling his beer a little. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” “The hell he doesn’t.” She plowed a finger into Perry’s Pillsbury Doughboy gut. “I always suspected you were hiding an arrogant-asshole personality behind that happygo-lucky facade of yours, Perry, but I guess I was wrong.” “No kidding?” Perry’s face contorted in rage as blood flooded his capillaries. “I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise considering how you’re wrong so much of the time.” Franki stepped away from him. “I won’t dignify that, Perry-the-Pear, but I was wrong about that. You’re not an arrogant asshole, you’re an arrogant, limp-dicked, bigoted, son-of-a-bitchin’ asshole, and I thank my lucky stars that I’m not related to you. I truly pity Troy, but I’m glad he had the good sense to sever his ties with this family. I’ll be sure and tell him that you’ve been poisoning his son with your prejudices and antiquated ideas. I’m sure it’ll give him all kinds of warm fuzzies to know that his decision to abandon you all was the right one.” “You’re a bitch,” breathed Perry. “A mouthy, fucking bitch.” Craig suppressed the urge to stride over to David and cover the poor boy’s ears. “Maybe so,” snapped Franki. “But at least I’m human. Sometimes I’m not so sure about you, Perry. People like you and your parents give the human race a bad name. I just—” “Franki!” Craig whirled around to see the two matriarchs standing at the edge of the concrete.

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“I can’t believe I’m hearing you say these things!” said Marie, wrapping her arms around her slender waist in apparent agony. “Believe it, Mother. Other than Troy, I’ve never liked the Elliotts. None of them. And I’m sick of pretending that I do.” Lois’ face reminded Craig of a vine-ripened beefsteak tomato. “We invite you to our home, extend food and hospitality, make you welcome, and this is the thanks we get?” “Oh, puh-lease. You people don’t do anything out of the goodness of your hearts. Everything you do is for you. You may manage to look benevolent, but there’s always a hidden agenda in everything you and Perry do.” Marie looked like she might faint, and Lois like she was about to explode, but Franki had no intention of letting up. “And I’m not sure what today was all about, but it certainly wasn’t about making Sloan and his lover feel welcome and at home in Sloan’s old hometown. I know for a fact that you share your son’s Philistine opinions of Sloan’s and Craig’s sexual preferences. You’d just as soon see them locked up on Alcatraz as munching burgers on your patio. So you had to have another reason for asking them here today.” Marie wrung her hands and moved a step away from Lois, apparently afraid of getting hit by flying tomato seed shrapnel. “Franki, please. For once in your life think before you speak.” “I’m just not sure what that reason is.” Franki finished without so much as a glance at her mother. Instead she graced Perry with an accusing glare. “You better get away from me,” he hissed. “Or you’ll really get a taste of my hidden agenda.” Franki whirled around. “Come on, Craig.” He was astounded when she grabbed his hand and dragged him along with her toward the bluff. “I need to work off some steam. I think a brisk walk on the beach is in order.” Craig followed her blindly, still a little dazed and confused by what had just happened. “I’ll have your things put in your car,” called Lois, her voice a barely restrained scream. “You don’t need to bother coming back through the house.” “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’d rather take a stroll through a meat locker. It’d be a hell of a lot warmer,” shouted Franki. They reached the edge of the bluff, and Craig was relieved to see that they were heading for a set of wooden stairs that hugged the face of the steep dune. Franki was still holding his hand as they descended the stairs, but when they reached the bottom he found the strength to wrench it away. “What the hell was that all about?” he seethed. Franki turned to him and propped her hands on her hips. “Gee, you’re welcome.” “And just what am I supposed to be thanking you for?”

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“For defending you! You certainly weren’t bothering to stand up for yourself. I don’t know how Sloan puts up with you.” “I’m great in bed,” he said dryly. “You can drop the charade, big boy.” She turned and marched toward the beach. “I know your secret, and you know I know.” He sprinted to catch up with her, and this time it was his turn to grab her arm and spin her around. “Exactly. I know that, so that’s why I can’t figure out why you went to all that trouble to stand up for my gayness.” “I did it because I can’t stand the whole Elliott entity. And I did it because I care about Sloan. And you. I couldn’t stand to see you humiliated, even if it is all a ruse.” “Bullshit.” “What?” “You don’t care about me.” “I do so.” He threw up his hands. “Oh, now there’s a moving entreaty. I’d almost be convinced if I didn’t know that you don’t care about anybody but yourself.” Franki’s mouth dropped open. “Well, considering you’ve known me for two whole days, I think that’s a pretty cheeky thing to say.” “If you care about someone you don’t manipulate and use that person for your own ends.” “Manipulate?” “You intentionally seduced me to prove your personal theory that Sloan and I were—” He censored himself, suddenly realizing how outrageous that would sound, but it was too late. Franki had picked up on it. “Were what?” She laughed. “You were lying. You’re judging me because I used my sexuality to expose your fraud? Well, that’s rich, Mr. I-Guess-I-Like-Girls-After-All. That’s really rich.” He took a step back in the face of her accusation. “Okay. You’ve got a point. It’s just that—” He clamped his mouth shut and turned around, unwilling to share that thought. He walked to the sparse shade of a willow tree that had managed to take root in the sand at the base of the bluff. She followed him. “It’s just that what?” He flopped down on the sand. “Nothing.” “Tell me.” He looked up at her as she towered over him, her sun-kissed hair whipping about her face, her breasts heaving, her complexion glowing from the sun and her recent fury.

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He dropped his gaze to his feet and mumbled, “I was really starting to like you. That’s what. And…and it hurt to realize it was all just a show.” He cleared his throat. “To realize that I was just a means to an end for you.” She said nothing, but he could almost feel the anger draining out of her into the sand. She sat down beside him. “And what do you think that end was?” she asked softly. “You wanted to confirm that Sloan was lying so that you could…” “Could what?” “You still want him, don’t you?” He hazarded a glance at her. “Derek was right. You do still have a thing for him.” She looked out over the waves. “That’s a horrible thing to say.” “Because it’s true?” She picked up a handful of sand and drizzled it into the opposite palm. “Do you go shopping very much?” Startled, Craig shook his head and scowled. “I shop the Internet whenever possible. I’d buy my groceries that way if I could.” She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “What does that have to do with it?” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Sometimes, when I’m looking for something really special—you know, like a dress or a pair of shoes for a wedding or a really high-class party—I’ll spend ages looking for just the right thing. Sometimes it takes weeks to find what I’m looking for. But sometimes I’ll see something right away…you know in the very first store I walk into. I’ll see it and think, Wow, that’s just perfect. But then I’ll think that I should really keep shopping in case I find something later that’s better, or cheaper…or something. I think if I act too quickly I’ll regret it, and I’ll have wasted my money. But you know what?” “What?” “I finally figured out that I’m wasting my time if I keep looking. Every single time, I end up coming back to that store and buying the dress that I saw in the first place. Because everything that I saw since, I compared to that one. No matter how elegant, or beautiful, or unique, every other dress that I see can’t measure up to the image I have in my head. Not because it’s not as good, or not as special. Just because it’s not that one. I finally learned my lesson. Now, when I see something I like, I buy it.” “That happened with Sloan?” She nodded bleakly. “I know it’s stupid, because I know he never returned my feelings. He always had eyes only for Bree. But one night he…” The waves licked at the sand and the stones and he waited for her to finish. “One night—it was my birthday, you see, and he and Bree had just broken up…again. Anyway, he got really drunk and he kissed me.”

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“And you saw fireworks.” “You ever hear of Pompeii? Mount St. Helen’s? Hiroshima?” He smiled. “It made those explosions look like a bunch of wet firecrackers.” “Ah.” She carved a heart in the sand. “All through school there was something special about him. It was like this natural charisma, this natural leadership thing…” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what it was, but everybody always wanted to hang around him. To be close to him.” Craig snorted. “You should see him at those LA parties. He’s like a big honeypot that draws people—mostly women—like bees.” She nodded understanding. “We were all friends, but I think each of us felt a special connection to him. He and Troy were best buddies, and did things together that I can’t tell you about because they’d kill me. Bree…well, that’s obvious. I guess I always felt a little bit like I was on the fringe. Until he kissed me that is.” She looked at him and her lips were trembling. “And it didn’t help that—” She cut herself off and turned to face the water. “What?” he urged, quietly. “Nothing. Forget it.” Craig wasn’t so sure. Her words had seemed reasonable, and yet he suspected they were inadequate to explain such a lifelong obsession. There had to be more, something bigger to compel her to hold on to Sloan for this long. “Come on, Franki. You’ve come this far. If you tell me what it is I’ll promise to share my deepest darkest secret with you in return.” She looked at him skeptically. “You have a deep dark secret?” “You’d be surprised.” One corner of her mouth quirked. “It’s really nothing so terrible. It’s just…personal.” “And you hardly know me, right? I guess Bree and Troy know all about it.” She shook her head slowly. “No. Believe it or not, they don’t. I’ve never told anybody else.” “Well, if you’re worried about keeping your secret, I’m a good bet. I live in California. Who would I tell?” Those lavender eyes turned as soft as violet petals. “It’s funny, but I think I’d tell you anyway.” “Why? Why would you trust someone who’s already proven himself a fraud and a liar?” She didn’t even smile. “I’m not sure. But I do.”

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He waited. And finally she spoke again, her voice barely audible above the breeze. “I’m a lot like my father.” The new tangent took Craig a little by surprise. “I wondered since you aren’t exactly following in your mother’s footsteps.” She smiled. “Exactly. I took after Daddy in every way that counted. We have the same sharp tongue, the same cheek bones…and the same wandering eye.” “Your father fooled around?” “Just a little. Every other weekend or so, I suspect.” “Ah.” “But even so, he didn’t like to see those same traits in his daughter. It seemed the more I was like him, the less he approved of me. And then one night, just after I’d broken up with yet another starving musician with no money and less talent, he went into a tirade about how I would get into trouble someday if I didn’t settle down with a nice guy, and make a decent home for my kids.” She looked at him and her smile was ironic. “As it happens Sloan’s name came up. Sloan seemed perfect to my dad. He was rich and smart. At that point he’d been managing the stores for a while. He seemed responsible, and ambitious. He had proven himself to be a good friend, and he and Bree obviously couldn’t make a go of it. So why didn’t I settle down with him?” Craig grimaced. “He fed into your fantasy.” “Uh-huh. I had almost gotten past Sloan, but then he said that, and…” She sighed. “And then of course he died a few weeks later.” “Shit.” Craig swallowed, almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. “Uh, how?” “In a lover’s bed, of course. He was on a buying trip, and just like always, he had a woman in every port. He had a massive post-fuck heart attack. His lover went out for a minute, and when she came back to the hotel room…” She shrugged. “It seemed fitting.” “And you’re still trying to please him,” added Craig. She leaned back in the sand. “I know it’s crazy. I know it. Daddy is dead, and Sloan was never right for me. But knowing it, and knowing it, are two different things. I’m nothing like my mother, or my brother. Daddy was the only one of the family I really connected with. And then he died and…” Her voice trailed away. “Believe it or not I understand. I loved my grandmother. I fit with her like I never fit with anybody else in my family. I think in a way, everything I write—at least a little of it—is for her.” “At least that’s something constructive,” she said bitterly. “I, on the other hand, just keep systematically destroying my relationships in honor of my father’s memory. I’ve tried to get on with my life. God knows, I’ve tried. I’ve gone through so many men I’ve lost count. But the thing is, I always look for the witty, outgoing, Type ‘A’ risk-takers. They almost always have dark hair, and drive flashy cars. Some of them have artistic flares, and they all love to dance.”

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“Sloan clones,” said Craig wryly. She chuckled. “Yeah. I guess. But the problem was…” She seemed to struggle for the right words. “They came close, but not quite close enough. Just like with the dress, only the first would do. I wanted the original.” “And now he’s back.” Apparently she saw no need to restate the obvious. She said nothing. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to burrow out a custom-fit hole in the sand. “Bree and Troy seem to believe the ruse. I mean, about Sloan and me.” “Of course. They’re trusting people by nature. And they couldn’t see any reason why he would possibly want to lie about something like that.” “Don’t you wonder?” “Not really. I’m blinded by my obsession, I guess. Something happened back then that he doesn’t want us to know about, and I can respect that. Maybe I understand a bit better about secrets. I can leave it alone.” She shrugged. “They couldn’t. Especially Bree. She would dig until she found the answer, and he knows that.” “When did you first suspect he was lying?” “That night at the party. I danced with him, and his reactions gave him away.” “Ah.” He grinned. “I guess us guys are pretty lousy at reining that thing in.” “You won’t hear me complaining.” She tossed him a sidelong glance, her eyes flashing. Craig cleared his throat. “Well, at least Sloan can’t lay all the blame at my feet when his folly comes to light.” “Oooh…I’ve never heard the word ‘folly’ used in a regular conversation before. I do love the way you talk.” “Apparently, not enough.” “Craig…” “Forget it.” Damn! He hadn’t intended to say that, but it had slipped out in a vulnerable moment of intimate sharing. “Maybe we should get back.” “Why?” He shrugged, suddenly feeling more exposed than if he were standing center stage at The Roxy, buck-naked. “I guess I should apologize,” she said after a few more waves had marked the seconds. “You don’t have to.” “Good, because I don’t really want to.” He chuckled in spite of himself. “Did you ever win the Miss Congeniality award? Because if you did you must have bribed someone for it.” “Don’t you want to know why I don’t want to?”

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He sensed something in her voice. He turned to face her and realized belatedly that she had shifted a little closer to him on the sand. “Why?” “Because even though I had ulterior motives when I…did that, when we were in the middle of it…” To his amazement she blushed. He licked his lips, and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly thick. “You mean when I was touching you?” “Yeah. When you were touching me. And looking at me.” Her voice slipped into a range that tingled in his groin. “And kissing me. I…well, I didn’t hate it like I thought I would.” The mood evaporated. “Gee, thanks.” She snagged his hand. “No. That came out wrong. I meant that I was afraid that it would feel…wrong, somehow. Just like it always has before. But it didn’t.” Her hand stroked up his arm, and a legion of goose bumps trailed after it. “It occurs to me, Mr. Sternberg, that you are about as far from a Sloan-clone as I can get. You’re Jewish, blond, reserved. I think you’re a little unsure of yourself. I know you can throw out insults with the best of them, but I bet you use your wit to cover your shyness. You wear loafers instead of high-tops, for chrissake.” She considered him thoughtfully. “And I bet you drive a Ford.” “Chrysler.” “See?” “But I’m a writer. Like him.” “I’m sure you’re very creative, but I bet you do all the nitty-gritty stuff. You know, the spell-checks and the proofreading and I bet you make sure he doesn’t go off on crazy plotline tangents.” Her fingers had strayed to his chest. Her insights astounded him. He nodded dumbly. “I can see right through you, Craig Sternberg. And right now I can see that you’re more interested in me than you’d like to let on.” Well, it didn’t take a psychic to see that. Despite his best efforts there was no way he could conceal his reaction from her. He only had one line of defense left, and, feeble though it might be, he fell back on it. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you after what you did.” Her fingers stopped mid-caress. “Because I trusted you with things, and besides, you still owe me that secret.” “I could tell you now,” he said through parched lips. “That’s all right. I’ll take this instead.” Her fingers had strayed to his waistband, but there they stopped and she let out a heavy sigh. “No. That’s wrong. I don’t want this to be a joke. I do like you, Craig. It doesn’t make any sense to me, because up until now I’ve always dismissed guys like you with hardly a second glance. But somehow you’re different. I want you to trust me and, I think, maybe that’s a good sign.” She touched

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his cheek. “I want you to believe me. And if I can’t convince you, then I think I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” Maybe he could believe her. She definitely had a talent for trickery, but he could hardly cast stones. And at that moment he couldn’t find any trace of deceit in her eyes. He decided it was worth the risk. His fingers traced the same sensuous path they had followed the day before. “Would your daddy approve of me?” “Probably not.” She shuddered slightly. “I don’t think he’d approve of my sleeping with a Jewish homosexual.” He smiled. “I can live with that. But if you ever compare me to Sloan, you’re history.” His fingers followed the line of her bikini, over the swell of her breast, and down to the ‘V’ clasp at the front. “See, that’s the beauty of it,” she breathed as he unhooked the bikini bra and the tiny triangles fell away. “There really is no comparison.” He cupped her breast but apparently she had other ideas. She grabbed his wrist and guided it lower. He found the silky wedge of material and slipped his hand beneath it. As he stroked and separated, his mouth homed in on hers. His lips cruised over the luscious delicacies that still tasted like the ice cream they’d had for dessert—sweet and rich and decadent. “I’ve never done it outside before,” he mumbled as they both fell back on the sand that had been cooled by the shade of the tree. “I have a feeling I’m going to expose you to all kinds of new adventures.” She had already begun working at his trunks. “I think you’re right,” he groaned. He was gradually losing coherent thought, but he had one more thing he had to say. “By the way…” “Mmm?” “I hate dancing.” “That’s okay,” she murmured through a smoky smile. “So do I.”

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Chapter Eleven Sloan stepped across the threshold into another world. Vance’s office smelled of well-worn leather and spicy tobacco. Rich mahogany wainscoting lined the walls and a cherry wood desk sat in front of a wide bay window that looked out toward the bluff. A legion of books lined heavy oak shelves, alongside whimsical touches such as antique coffee grinders and oil lamps. The wall opposite the bookshelf was dotted with an array of black and white photographs in pewter frames. Sloan felt himself drawn to them. “So,” said Vance as he hitched a leg over the corner of his desk. “You’ve homed in on my favorite collection in the world, bar none.” “God,” breathed Sloan. “You’re all so young.” “Yes. Believe it or not we were as young as you once.” Sloan stared at the photo at the top left corner of the display. Four young men, their faces beaming with stupid grins, stood below a brand spanking new sign that boasted “Lakeside Auction House” in polished brass lettering. He felt Vance come up behind him. “That was taken the day before we held our Grand Opening Sale.” “How many years ago was it?” Sloan should remember, but at the moment the numbers eluded him. “Oh, Sloan,” chuckled Vance. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out, since we opened barely a year after all of you were born.” “Right. Thirty-two years. That’s amazing in a throw-away society like ours.” “Yes. That’s just it, isn’t it?” Sloan scanned the remaining pictures as Vance spoke. It was a photographic time line of all their lives. Pictures of him and the rest of the foursome as babies and teenagers mingled with photographs of their mothers lounging side by side on the beach. “That’s what we’re all about,” continued Vance. “We’re trying to preserve, not throw away, and I think people value that. They cherish it in a world where we buy new cars every other year and don’t mend socks anymore.” Vance chuckled. “Hell, we even throw away spouses when they get a little worn around the edges.” Sloan turned away from the pictures. “You’ve done okay in that area.” He sat down, and was swallowed up by the enormous leather wingback that faced the desk.

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Vance came back and leaned against the desk again, facing him. “Yes. Lois and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary not very long ago. I regret that we’re the only pair out of the group who beat the odds.” “Divorce didn’t claim those marriages,” said Sloan bitterly. “No, of course not. I’m afraid that didn’t come out very well.” Vance clasped his hands tightly in front of him. “Things went so well for so long. Our investments paid off, and the House prospered. We all had good friends and healthy, happy children. We had made good lives for ourselves. We all thought we had Lady Luck eating out of our hands.” “And then everybody started dying.” “That’s a rather stark way of putting it, but…yes.” Sloan shifted in his seat. “Dad told me once that the House was his idea. Was he just bragging, or was that right?” A warm smile lit Vance’s face. “No. It’s true. The concept came from him. I, however, claim to have made it sing. Your father definitely enjoyed beautiful things, such as jewelry and fine art, but his passion was for the entrepreneurial process and the risks inherent in starting a new business. I was the one with the passion for the old and the precious. He also had another business to run, so the majority of the planning and implementing fell to me.” “So, what exactly did he do?” “Well, as you know, he provided a very essential service—he came up with a good chunk of the initial investment. Even back then Jonathan was always eager to squander his family’s money.” “I would hardly call it squandering.” “Of course not. I was merely teasing. Jonathan was a risk taker, but he was always smart about it. And, of course, the Auction House turned out to be one of his smartest investments. After it took off he kept his hand in, though. He did some buying for us when he had the time, and always looked for new ways to expand the business, and inject a little excitement into all our lives.” “Mmm.” Sloan stared at his hands. “What…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, where did Russell and Joe fit in?” “Well, they both provided smaller contributions to the initial capital, but their roles were more key in other areas.” “Right. Bree’s dad helped with the restoration of pieces that needed work, and later his pottery was a big feature at the auctions.” “Yes. Russell’s work became synonymous with the Lakeside name, and as his renown grew, his pieces grew in value. And Joe Waters did most of the bookkeeping, as well as publicizing the auctions and recruiting bidders.” Vance stroked the glass-like surface of his desk with a long, deft finger. “People were drawn to Joe. He had a very forthright personality tempered by a cheerful disposition. Much like his daughter.”

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“Yeah. Franki’s definitely forthright. And Bree’s artistic like her dad.” Sloan found himself smiling, but then the smile slipped. “And now they’re all gone.” Silence hung in the air and Sloan became aware of the resonant ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. “I miss them more than you can know,” said Vance quietly. “They were the best friends a man could ask for. And, of course, our wives became friends…and then you kids, too. It seemed like a fairy tale come true.” He raked his fingers through dark hair that hadn’t yet begun to thin. “And then to lose them all like that, within a span of five years… I didn’t know if I’d get through it.” “Yeah, it must have been real tough for you.” Sloan regretted the bitterness in his voice, but it was already too late to take it back. “I didn’t mean to belittle your loss. And I can’t imagine the hell you must have gone through in the aftermath of your discovery. But I wanted you to know that they all—especially your father—meant a great deal to me.” Sloan studied the older man. “Is that why you asked me in here? To indulge in a little mutual pity party?” One side of Vance’s mouth curled up. “No. Of course not. But that was all a prelude to what I want to talk to you about.” Sloan waited. “You may not know this, since Jonathan died when you were still relatively young, but he had always hoped that you would take a part in the running of the House. He often commented to me on what a fine eye you had for art, antiques, jewelry—you name it. I know that he had often considered taking you on buying trips with him—” “Then why didn’t he?” Sloan startled himself with the fierceness in his own voice. “Why didn’t he ever include me? He knew I was interested. He knew—” “Sloan.” Vance held up his hands. “It was a little more complicated than you know.” “What? Complicated how?” Vance’s eyes drilled into him. “Are you sure you have no idea what I’m talking about? Are you sure you’re not just being coy with me, in order to try and lure me into saying something I shouldn’t?” Sloan shook his head in confusion. “What? What the hell are you talking about?” Vance considered his response at length. “Not everything your father brought back was obtained through…regular channels.” Sloan narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?” “Before I go further I need to know if you’re with us, Sloan.” “What do you mean, with us?” “Do you have a desire to fulfill your father’s wish and realize his dreams for your involvement here? There’s a place for you if you want it. Perry and I have shouldered

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the majority of the burden since I lost my other partners. We enjoy what we do, but occasionally it overwhelms us. I’d be honored to share our load and make Jonathan Carver’s son a part of what he built.” “Not to mention the money’s pretty damn good, too.” Vance didn’t blink. “I won’t deny it. I’m in this for love, but also for profit. I value my lifestyle, and intend to keep it.” “I’m doing just fine, thanks.” “That’s not an answer. I need to know.” The clock ticked three times. “Do you wish to follow in your father’s footsteps?” Unfortunately that last phrase undid the little bit of trust Vance had managed to establish thus far. “I want no part of anything my father did. I want no part of something that drove him to…” He swallowed the words that wouldn’t be spoken aloud. “Why do you think I left? Why do you think I never visited or called this goddamn town? I wanted to separate myself from everything my father ever touched.” Vance jerked his head back, apparently staggered by the vehemence of Sloan’s response. “I thought you loved your father.” “I did, but he abandoned me. He betrayed me. And I’ll never forgive him for that.” “You’re referring to his suicide?” Sloan glared at him. What the hell else would I be referring to? “And what of your mother?” “What does she have to do with this?” Vance tapped a finger on the desktop. “Her exodus was rather abrupt as well, don’t you think? The shift in topic stunned Sloan momentarily. It took him a moment to formulate his answer. “I suppose so. But even if I didn’t approve of them she had her reasons for what she did.” He wiped his palms on his pants. “And what would that be, exactly?” Sloan’s throat tightened. “To leave with her lover, of course.” “A lover that no one here ever met or heard of before the day she left.” Sloan vaulted from his chair. “I don’t quite know why we got onto this topic, but my mother is my business, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it. I’ve had enough of this…this…whatever this is. I’m leaving.” He whirled and headed for the door. “What are you afraid of, Sloan?” He stopped with his hand on the knob. “I’m not afraid of anything.” “That’s a lie. Everyone’s afraid of something. And you, for one, seem to be afraid to address the matter of your mother’s disappearance.” “She didn’t disappear.” He stared at the oak panels. “She left.” “That’s a matter of opinion.”

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Sloan’s fingers tensed around the doorknob. “I would really like to discuss this with you. Won’t you come back and sit down so we can talk like the old friends that we are?” Sloan’s knees had turned to jelly, but he managed to make his way back to the comfort of the chair. He sank down into it and the leather groaned softly in protest. His previous sensation of being trapped had escalated to the point of claustrophobia. “What do you want from me?” Vance ignored the question. “When was the last time you spoke to your mother?” Sloan resigned himself to answer. “A few months ago. We had a brief telephone conversation.” “Mmm.” The answer sounded doubtful, but he continued on as if he accepted it. “But that isn’t the only contact you have?” “No.” Vance nodded knowingly. “That’s right. She writes these letters. To Lydia and Marie. I presume to you. And, of course,” he waved his hand vaguely, “others.” Sloan nodded. “They’re beautifully written, by the way. Her penmanship was always so distinctive. And her talent for words…” Vance shook his head in wonder. “She has a real flair.” Sloan’s mouth felt as dry as Egyptian parchment. “I suppose that’s where I get it.” “Strange, though, that she never exhibited such talents before.” “She did write a few short stories.” He stared at his hands that had begun to tremble. For a fleeting moment he saw them covered, drenched, dripping in blood. He closed his eyes and banished those images to the world of his nightmares that was their home. “But she was shy about her writing. She never showed them to anyone.” “Mmm.” Sloan risked meeting Vance’s eyes. “Is this an interrogation? Where’s the spotlight and the ‘bad cop’?” Despite his bravado, Sloan couldn’t risk leaving. He had to know what Vance was getting at. He had to know what Vance knew. “And where is Janelle now?” “I think she’s cruising the Mediterranean. I don’t keep very close tabs on her. We didn’t part on the best of terms, you know.” “Ah, yes. You had a disagreement before she left. You told us all that much.” “And why shouldn’t I? I don’t have any secrets.” He got better at the lying, but it never got easier. Vance chuckled. “Of course not. None of us do.” A sliver of panic pierced his gut. “However, be that as it may, I have always found it curious that you two would part so bitterly. From what I know of Janelle’s and your relationship, you got along 119

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quite well. I know you were always closer to your father and his death was hard on your relationship, but you never spoke harshly to her. You even continued living with her despite the fact that you were well into your twenties.” “She hated being alone,” he whispered softly. “Sloan, how about watching a movie with me?” she would plead. “I’ll make popcorn balls if you’ll keep me company.” He smiled at the thought of popcorn balls that could have lasted nine holes at the Canadian Open. He recalled the day, not long after Jonathan’s funeral, that he had caught her crying into his breakfast omelette, and had held her and hugged her so long that the eggs charred to the consistency of ash and set off the kitchen smoke alarm. And the last time he had spoken with her: “I’m sorry, Sloan. I’m so, so sorry.” “Sorry?” he’d screamed. “What the hell good is sorry?” Vance remained oblivious to Sloan’s meandering down memory lane. The mention of his father’s name, however, dragged Sloan back to the present. “After Jonathan’s death I know you and your mother had a few disagreements and some tensions. But that was inconsequential. You shared a roof, and, to a reasonable extent, your lives. What prompted this astonishing turn of events?” “You know that answer.” Sloan wished his voice sounded more certain. “It was her affair. It happened so suddenly, and then to decide in a heartbeat to take off on an indefinite trip around the world?” The lies crowded in his throat like a wad of bubblegum. “I thought Armand was a gold-digger. I thought the whole thing was a huge mistake. I still do. And…” Vance leaned forward, his eyes searching. “And what?” “And I thought he was an affront to Dad’s memory.” “I thought you had come to hate your father.” “This is…different.” Vance’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “That’s believable, I suppose.” “I don’t really care what you believe.” “No?” Vance crossed his arms. “But perhaps you should.” “Are you accusing me of something?” “I think there was more to this supposed confrontation than you’re letting on.” “If there is, it’s my business. Not yours.” “If your disagreement had anything to do with Jonathan’s and her involvement with the Auction House then I think it is my business.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sloan felt as if he and Vance were talking at each other from alternate universes. “I’m afraid I remain unconvinced.” Vance’s eyes narrowed. “There are too many inconsistencies.” 120

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“Such as?” “Your level of anger with a father I know you adored seems out of proportion. To my mind his decision to take his own life fails to explain it. Most people get past such anger by this time.” He paused and considered—a sniper counting his bullets. “Your mother’s sudden decision to take up with an international gigolo strikes me as out of character and extremely unlikely. As does your subsequent rejection of her. She leaves without so much as a goodbye to friends that she knew for years. Then you leave in a similar, and also uncharacteristic manner.” His gaze never wavered from Sloan’s. “Your…explanations leave gaping holes that need filling. Those holes trouble me, Sloan. Deeply.” It seemed that Vance had some idea, or some theory as to the true reasons for Sloan’s estrangement from his parents. The source of such a theory puzzled Sloan, and the elevated level of Vance’s concern troubled him. But the possibility that it might be more than a theory—that Vance might actually know something, rather than just suspect it—terrified him. He spoke slowly. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want from me?” “I want to know what you and your mother discussed before she left. What did she tell you, Sloan? What caused the rift?” “I told you that. I don’t see why I need to repeat myself.” “Armand. You insist that he was the source of your argument.” Sloan stared at him, and tried to see through the insinuations. “If you want to ask me something, Vance, why don’t you come right out and ask me? All this dancing around the mulberry bush is making my head swim.” “I want to know if there is anything about your final encounter with your mother that you’d like to share with me? Perhaps you’d like to unburden your conscience to someone who…” He tilted his head. “Someone who understands and wouldn’t judge you. Or at least who wouldn’t judge you as harshly as, say, the authorities might.” Sloan felt sick. “Authorities?” But Vance said nothing, and Sloan made his decision. “No. There’s nothing.” Vance nodded once, his expression one of profound disappointment. He rounded the desk and sat down, leveling his gaze at Sloan. “All right, then. If that’s your decision, then I would suggest that whatever you and your mother discussed before her…departure, remain between the two of you. If you have any plans for acting on that information, or following through on her wishes, I strongly urge you to consider your own actions and vulnerability. I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect what’s mine. Please bear that in mind.” Sloan clenched his fingers. “You’re delusional, Vance. You want me to keep quiet about something, and I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Vance nodded approval. “Exactly. And therefore I have absolutely no idea what happened between you and Janelle eight years ago, either. Let’s just keep it that way.”

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Sloan still didn’t have a clue as to what secret Vance expected him to keep, but there was little doubt in his mind that Vance knew his. He knew. But how could he? Suddenly exhausted, Sloan dropped his head into his hands. “I’m still confused about all this, but you obviously think I’m lying about something, so I’ll promise to keep quiet about…whatever it is you have to hide. Your secret’s safe with me.” “As is yours,” said Vance gently. Sloan closed his eyes against images that once again threatened to overwhelm him. When Sloan opened his eyes again he found Vance standing before him. “I must ask you again, will you join Perry and me in continuing your father’s legacy?” Perry? He found it odd that Vance mentioned his name at that point. Did Perry know as well? The thought of someone else knowing Sloan’s secret sickened him, and merely added to the threat. Or perhaps that was exactly the intent. He felt an innate trust for Vance. Vance always kept his word, but Sloan wasn’t so sure about his younger son. If Perry knew the truth of what had happened that night, what would he do with the information? Sloan felt as if a series of concentric rings were being drawn on his forehead. And Vance Elliott held the pistol. In answer to the question, he shook his head. “I’m happy with my life, such as it is. And while I appreciate the offer, I can’t see my way clear to accept it.” “That saddens me. You would have been a valuable asset.” “I’m sorry,” whispered Sloan, but he wasn’t apologizing for the refusal. “I know you are,” said Vance gently. “I know you are.”

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Chapter Twelve Sloan tipped back the highball glass and drained the last of the Grand Marnier. He regarded the empty glass with regret. It had been years since Sloan had tasted the liqueur. It had always been a favorite of his. And his father’s. Since the tender of age of sixteen, whenever there was something to celebrate, or something important to be discussed in his family, Jonathan would pull out the amber bottle with the bright red seal, and pour out generous portions for himself and his son. His mother rarely indulged, usually leaving her men to their own devices while she headed out in search of much-needed female companionship. He vividly recalled the last time he had shared such a drink with his father… “So?” asked Janelle eagerly. “How was it?” Sloan speared the last piece of potato on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He crunched down into its half-cooked flesh and rolled his eyes in fraudulent delight. “A masterpiece,” he said through a tight grin. “It wasn’t…overdone?” she asked as she glanced ruefully at the still half-full platter of charred meatloaf and underdone potatoes. “No, no,” interjected Jonathan as he stood and carried his plate to the sink. “It was all perfect.” She beamed, her huge brown eyes sparkling. But abruptly her face fell. “I’m sorry there’s no dessert, but I realized too late that I had used salt instead of sugar in the peach cobbler.” “That’s okay, Mom. I’m stuffed,” lied Sloan on a sigh of relief. She stood and began to gather plates, but her husband stole up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Let us clean up. You’ve done enough.” Sloan snickered quietly. She’d done more than enough. “And aren’t you picking up Lydia to go see that movie you’ve been talking about?” Janelle glanced at the clock. “If I go now I’ll be a bit early.” Jonathan nudged her toward the door. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not as if you and Lydia ever run out of things to talk about. And, besides, I need to discuss something with Sloan.” “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that.” She pecked her husband on the cheek, and Sloan wondered what conspiracy the two lovebirds were cooking up.

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She grabbed her purse that hung on a hook beside the back door. “And actually it would be nice to have some time alone with her before Lois arrives.” “Lois is coming?” Sloan asked. “I thought it was just the two of you.” “Oh, Lois heard about it and invited herself along. One thing about Lois Elliott, she always gets her way. Marie is busy tonight so we don’t even have her around to dull Lois’s edge.” Jonathan opened the cupboard and pulled out a pair of liqueur glasses. “You’ll have fun anyway.” “Oh, I know. I always do.” She directed her words to Sloan. “And you have fun with Bree, later. But not too much. I want my grandchildren to be legitimate.” His mother winked at him, and he felt a hot flush of embarrassment. “Bye, Mom.” “Bye, sweetie.” And she was gone, leaving behind only the soft lilt of her laughter. Sloan leapt from the table and began foraging in the cupboard. “That was a fine performance, my boy. She never suspected a thing.” “Yeah, well, I’ve had lots of practice. When she wasn’t looking I slipped most of my stuff back onto the serving dishes.” Everything would be safely in the garbage and at the curb by the time the chef returned home. Janelle often bragged that her men were so considerate, always offering to do the dishes and clean up her messes. She never suspected the real reason for their urgent need to get her out of the kitchen. “What are you doing?” Sloan pulled out his hand and held up his prize. “Peanut butter?” laughed his father. “You usually go for the ham.” “I’m feeling adventurous today.” He reached for the bread and slathered on the creamy rich substance that would soothe his protesting stomach. “You want some?” “I don’t know. Does peanut butter go with Grand Marnier?” “Peanut butter goes with everything.” Five minutes later they were seated back at the table with their culinary creations and their aperitif glasses. Sloan sank his teeth into his sandwich and sighed. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?” “Actually it was your mother’s idea. She said you’ve seemed a little…distant lately. Maybe even a little depressed.” Sloan finished chewing and swallowed, but the peanut butter stuck to his throat even more than usual. He shrugged. “Don’t give me that,” chided Jonathan. “She’s not the only one who’s noticed. Obviously something is bothering you. You’ve never been one to hold out on me before. What is it?”

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Sloan gazed at the remainder of his sandwich, his appetite having suddenly abandoned him. “It’s nothing. Really. I’ll be fine. I just need a little time to…” Jonathan sipped from his glass. “Time to what?” Sloan lifted his eyes to really look at his father. The same intense blue eyes that he saw every day in the mirror stared back at him. “How come I’m in the hot seat? You haven’t exactly been yourself either the last few weeks. I heard Mom complaining that you’ve been neglecting the books, and even forgot to pay the hydro bill.” To Sloan’s surprise, Jonathan’s face darkened, and when he spoke his voice had an edge that startled Sloan. “We’re not talking about me,” he snapped. “Now, please answer the question.” Sloan frowned. It wasn’t like his father to be evasive, or to lash out. His own temper sparked in response. “All right. If you must know, I hate my job.” He took a healthy sip of his liqueur, and relished the spicy heat as it slipped down his throat. “There. I’ve said it.” “You hate it?” To Sloan’s surprise his father sounded neither surprised nor upset by the news that his only son had no taste for the family business. “I suspect that is not entirely accurate. I’ve seen the way you look at the rubies and the gleaming gold settings. There is no malice in the way you polish and care for our stock.” “Okay. I don’t hate everything about it,” he confessed. “The buying is okay. And learning the appraising end of it is interesting. And lately I’ve been helping some highend patrons with custom design work, but the day-to-day grind of managing all the stores, and dealing with employees is killing me.” Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “You crave a little excitement, do you?” Sloan sensed a breakthrough. He leaned forward. “Yeah. Like the buying trips you go on for the Auction House. Ordering cookie cutter jewelry out of catalogues and at conventions doesn’t exactly light my fire. Cruising the estate sales, bargaining with vendors and finding things hidden in old attics—now that sounds interesting. Why don’t I come along next month and you can show me the ropes?” Jonathan seemed to consider it and Sloan’s hopes were kindled. “I confess,” he began slowly, “I’ve noticed your interest, and you have a keen eye for such things. Not that it’s a surprise. You have the Carver taste for the beautiful and the fiery.” Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “In both jewelry and women.” Sloan tapped the table impatiently. His father continued. “It’s no secret that I’ve always hoped you’d continue on in my footsteps, both with the stores and with Lakeside House.” Sloan spread his palms. “Well then?” “It’s just that lately things have become…complicated. I had hoped to have you along on my trips months ago, but I’ve had to postpone your introduction to that end of the business.” “Complicated? What does that mean?”

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Suddenly Jonathan pushed away from the table and paced to the far side of the room. He gazed out through the wide picture window that looked out over the bay. Sloan’s confusion was mounting, but he didn’t know what else to say so he remained silent and sipped from his glass. Finally Jonathan turned around to face him. “I have to ask you to be patient, Sloan. I know that managing so many stores can be…tedious, and I can’t say that I haven’t shared your frustrations. But it’s necessary, and, in the right context, can be very fulfilling. You’ll just have to trust me that better things are still to come. But not yet. I have to ask you to wait a little longer.” Sloan groaned. “Christ! How much longer?” Jonathan crossed back to the table and laid a firm hand on Sloan’s shoulder. “Not too much.” He squeezed. “I promise you that things will be resolved soon, and when they are I’ll let you accompany me on my trips, and I’ll show you all sorts of wonders and excitement. This business has nuances and challenges that you’ve never imagined.” Sloan’s heart sped up. “Challenges?” Jonathan chuckled and resumed his seat. “Patience. It’s a virtue with more value than you know.” “Well…what about these complications you’re talking about. Can’t you let me in on that?” Jonathan shook his head, and Sloan thought he had suddenly grown very sad. “I can’t tell you about it now, but rest assured, Sloan, one way or another my difficulties will be resolved soon.” He drained the last of his liqueur. “And then you can get on with things.” He smiled but it seemed forced. “One way or another…” Within three weeks Jonathan Carver was dead, and Sloan had figured that was how he had finally decided to “resolve his difficulties”. Sloan had always assumed he had been conflicted about something internal, like perhaps an issue from his childhood he had never been able to share. It had never occurred to Sloan that a business problem could have led to his suicide. After all, they were hardly in the middle of the Depression. They had plenty of money stashed away. Even without the stores their lifestyle was secure. But now, considering Vance’s questions about things that his mother might have told him… His mother. She’d been a partner in every aspect of her husband’s life. They had no secrets from each other. So, if whatever had been troubling his father had stemmed from some sort of financial or business trouble, likely she knew about it. But if that was so, why had she never told him? He scrubbed his hands over his face and let his head flop back onto the cushions. He would likely never know. She certainly couldn’t tell him now. Dammit! Vance’s questions and the threat of exposure had Sloan teetering on the edge. There were so many questions. What the hell was going on? Why was everybody

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being so mysterious? Why had his parents kept things from him? What had they been involved in that had driven them to do these things? And why did they do this to him? He just wanted it all to stop. He didn’t want any more questions. He didn’t want to have to lie anymore, or pretend anymore. He felt completely overwhelmed and alone. No one knew what he was going through. No one. Was this how his father had felt at the end? Had he just wanted out? Sloan wiped his hands on his pants. The cold sweat soaked into the cotton, but nothing could wipe away the cold knot of fear in his gut. He heard a key in the lock. The door swung open and in stepped his ever-ready scapegoat. “Where the hell have you been?” he barked. Craig slammed the door closed and stood in front of it. “Gee, it’s nice to see you too.” “Cut the crap, Sternberg. I’m not in the mood for witty dialogue right now.” “Apparently. What are you doing in here anyway? Sitting in the dark and…” Sloan heard him sniff. “And drinking. I’m surprised I didn’t smell that booze out in the hall.” “You didn’t answer the question.” Craig flipped on the light switch and Sloan cringed as the photons pierced his retinas. “I was out,” said Craig as he flopped down on the divan. “And, lover or not, it’s not really any of your business. Besides, you’ve got no right to cast stones at me for disappearing. By the time Franki and I got back to the cars you had already left. Didn’t say a word to anybody. I would have been as good as stranded if it wasn’t for her. What the hell happened?” “I had something I needed to do.” He held up his glass to illustrate. Craig’s eyes opened a little wider. “You’ve been up here drinking—alone—all this time?” “Maybe,” he said defensively. Craig studied him. “You’re not quite drunk. That’s something.” “That’s right. You can’t go too fast.” Sloan felt his irritation evaporating as quickly as the alcohol. It was odd how Craig’s presence always had such a calming effect on Sloan. Maybe it was his damn level-headedness. When it wasn’t driving Sloan crazy it was keeping him anchored to sanity. Sloan continued. “This is an exacting science. You’ve got to keep up a slow, steady rhythm.” He leveled his hand and eased it up an imaginary slope until it hovered just before his eyes. “Achieve and maintain for maximum mind-numbing effect. That’s the idea. Achieve and maintain.” Craig leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “What did Troy’s father say to you?”

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“Nothing important.” He just set me on the edge of a precipice and gave me a little nudge. “Well, Bree was so mad she could barely speak. You’re gonna have some explaining to do.” “No, I’m not. We’re leaving in the morning.” In his drunken ruminations he’d almost forgotten about that. He was getting away. It wasn’t nearly far enough, but it was something. “I already made the reservations. The plane lifts off at 9:30.” He rubbed his temples. “And if I’m lucky the hangover won’t catch up with me until ten or eleven.” Where a moment before Craig’s expression had been concerned and sympathetic, now it switched instantly to disbelief and…anger? “You had no right to do that without consulting me!” Sloan’s head jerked back in shock. “Are you kidding? I’d have thought you’d be all too eager to leave this lovely world of faux homosexuality behind. I hardly thought I had to ask your permission.” “Well, you should have talked to me.” Craig vaulted from the divan and stalked to the windows. “I can’t leave.” Sloan tried to blink away the haze of confusion and alcohol. “What? What do you mean, you can’t leave?” “I just can’t, okay? Not yet anyway. I…” He shrugged, still staring out that damn window. “I’ll stay by myself if I have to. But I can’t walk away now.” At last Craig turned around. He stood there, with his hands shoved deeply in his pockets and his eyes riveted to Sloan’s chest. He looked…guilty. There was no other word for it. “Walk away from what? Will you tell me what you’re talking about? What happened after I left? You were gone an awfully long time, considering the barbecue was pretty much over when I took off. Wha—” Something struck him and his mouth froze mid-vowel. He blinked and slowly closed his mouth. “What did you say about Franki?” Craig’s eyes darted to his and a pale pink flush crept up from his neck. “Oh, shit,” mumbled Sloan. “She didn’t. You didn’t! Please tell me you didn’t!” “All right. I didn’t.” “Oh God. You did.” Sloan groaned and leaned forward to stem off a wave of nausea. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” “I think I have a vague recollection of the mechanics of it, yes.” “Don’t be cute.” “I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s your department,” said Craig dryly. “This is serious,” growled Sloan. “You’ve blown my story wide open. Franki’s not exactly known for her discretion. I bet she’s chatting with Bree about it over a bottle of

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wine as we speak. Now we’ve really got to get out of here before she spills our secret and the shit hits the fan.” “No.” Sloan pushed himself off the couch and took a couple of wobbly steps toward his friend. “What do you mean, no? You had your fun. You had those silky thighs wrapped around you once. You and half of Bay’s Haven. Now it’s—” “You son of a bitch! That’s a shitty thing to say about a woman who’s a friend of yours.” “That wasn’t an insult. It’s the simple truth. She’d be the first to agree with me.” Craig stepped closer, until he stood almost nose to nose with Sloan. “Well, then, I’m insulted. Lay off the easy-lay comments or you’ll have to stick your nose back on with glue.” Sloan staggered back, stunned. He felt like the rug had been ripped out from beneath him. Again. His levelheaded compatriot had disappeared, swallowed up by this strange new entity with the blazing hazel eyes and the fiercely jutting chin. “Are you nuts?” rasped Sloan. “You sleep with her once and you think you’re in love with her, or something?” Craig just stuck his jaw out a little further. His bony chest was heaving and his fists were clenched. “Surely you know why she seduced you.” “It couldn’t possibly be because she was attracted to me?” “Come on, Craig. You’re a nice guy, but you’re hardly her type. She came after you because she suspected I was lying, and she knew you’d be more vulnerable to her charms. I’m sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, but she used you, my friend. It’s as simple as that.” “She used me to get to you. Is that it? Someone like her couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like me.” “Oh, don’t whimper about it. You’re just mad because I bruised your ego a little. You’ll feel better once you’re back among the starlets and the sunshine.” “You know, sometimes I don’t really like you very much, Sloan. I hate it when you act the insensitive, superficial Hollywood clod.” “Maybe I’m not acting. Maybe I am an insensitive clod.” “I’m not going.” Sloan blew out a slow breath and reached for the liqueur. He poured himself another finger in the hopes that it would help dull his senses to this otherworldly encounter with this stranger who had once been Craig Sternberg. Over the last few days Sloan’s entire world had been tipped on its end, and tonight felt as if it was all slipping away into oblivion.

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He tossed back the contents of the glass, but when he looked at Craig nothing had changed. Craig’s shoulders were still rigid and his eyes were still shooting fire. And Sloan’s sanity was still in jeopardy. “Dammit to hell!” moaned Sloan in frustration. “What do I have to say to get through to you?” “Just why are you so desperate to leave all of a sudden, anyway? You’re just going to walk out on Bree? And Troy? You’re just going to keep right on ignoring them? Lying to them?” Sloan turned away. “You don’t have a clue as to where I’m coming from. You don’t know shit.” “Oh, I know shit. I know you, after all.” Craig grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap on tightly. “But what I don’t know is what’s happened to you over the last few days. I’ve never seen you drink this much. You look as used up as an old dishrag. You’re lying to people you supposedly care about. You won’t talk about your family, or even so much as drive past the house where you grew up. You’re treating me like shit, and yourself even worse.” Sloan clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to even respond to those accusations. Craig flopped down on the divan. “Well, I’ve finally found someone I really connect with. Believe it or not, I think Franki likes me for me. And I like her for her. I’m not a fool. I know why she came on to me at first, but we’ve talked about it, and I think we can get past it.” He cracked a sly grin. “Believe it or not, Sloan, I think you’re forgettable. And maybe—just maybe—I’m the one to help her do it.” Sloan felt himself soften. “It’s just that Franki has a tendency to use up men and toss them away when she gets bored. I just don’t want to see you hurt.” “And I don’t want to see you hurt. But you’re already in so much pain it just about kills me to look at you.” Sloan stiffened, but said nothing. “And I think you’ll regret it if you don’t come clean with these people, and figure out how the hell you’re going to get over whatever it is that’s eating away at you.” “I just need to get away from here.” “Then go. Run away. I’m not stopping you. But I’m not going with you, either. I’ll come back eventually, but not until I figure out where I stand with Franki.” “I thought I could count on you.” “Don’t give me that. I’d say I’ve gone above and beyond with this whole charade. But obviously it’s gone far enough.” “You just don’t want to play gay anymore,” said Sloan, but then he cringed at his own petulance. Why did the thought of leaving without Craig bother him so much? He was a big boy. He could go on an airplane by himself. But for some reason he just didn’t want to be alone with himself right now.

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“No, I just won’t watch you self-destruct anymore.” Craig paused and briefly considered the stars that winked at them from the Milky Way. “What happened today, Sloan? That thing at the pool was thoughtless and stupid, even for you. And then to take off without saying goodbye to anybody. What’s going on? What are you running from? What are you afraid of?” Sloan crossed the room in a heartbeat and grabbed the bottle. He stalked toward the door. “I’m not afraid of anything. And I don’t need your psychobabble self-help crap. I just need to go home. This isn’t home anymore, thank God. And whether you’re with me or not, tomorrow I’m getting on that plane.” “Where are you going now?” “Out. I need some air.” “Then leave the booze.” Sloan opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “Thanks, Craig, but I don’t need a mother. I need a friend.” And he slammed the door behind him. But on the other side of that door, when he was alone in the long, dim, empty hallway he leaned against the wall and willed his body to stop shaking. And then he willed his feet to move. Now, if he could just figure out where the hell he was going.

***** Craig stared at the closed door. He raked his fingers through his hair and muttered a few Yiddish curses. He really should go back to California. The deadline on this piece was looming. This contract, their reputations and their very livelihoods were at stake. It wasn’t worth jeopardizing it all for a sweet little piece of— No. He couldn’t even bring himself to think of her that way. His mustache curved with a slow smile. It had been one hell of an afternoon. Twice on the beach, and then back to her place for a co-ed shower to wash the sand out of all those pesky little nooks and crannies. Perhaps the sand itself was a nuisance, but the accumulation and subsequent eradication of the gritty irritant had given him no cause for complaint. They had followed that with a little pizza and Chianti on her terrace, which looked out over the lake. They had watched the moon come up and the stars pop out while they finished off the wine and shared more stories of misunderstood childhoods and unrequited loves. Despite all the logical arguments against it, maybe he was falling in love, as Sloan had suggested. His and Franki’s personalities couldn’t be more blatantly opposite. And yet he and Sloan had somehow managed to forge a lasting partnership. Maybe there was a lesson in there.

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And maybe he’d just had too much sun. The phone rang. He grabbed up the receiver. “Hello?” “Craig?” asked a familiar voice. “Yeah. It’s me, Bree. You looking for Sloan?” “If you mean that rude, inconsiderate, cowardly son-of-a-something that you’re sleeping with, then yeah. Is he there? Or have you already killed him and disposed of the body?” Craig winced at the reference to their relationship. But he wasn’t going to spill the beans. Let Sloan slug it out with her. “No. I let him live. I decided to let you do the honors. But he took off, and I don’t know where he went.” She muttered something decidedly unladylike. “What’s going on with him?” “Actually, Bree, I don’t like it. He’d been drinking. A lot. He’s upset about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong.” The other end was silent. “I think I know where to find him. Do you mind if I talk to him?” Craig was confused by the question, but then he thought he understood. She was afraid he’d feel threatened—as if she were trying to hone in on his territory with Sloan. “No. That’s okay,” he said thickly. “I think you’ve got a better shot at getting him to spill his guts than I do.” “Okay. Don’t worry about him. I’ll find him.” She hesitated. “And Craig?” “Yeah?” “I’m sorry about what happened at the Elliotts’ today. Franki filled me in, and I was just sick about it.” Apparently Franki had kept her word. Craig breathed a cautious sigh of relief. “Don’t worry about it. Just go find Sloan and make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.” She snorted. “I could never stop him before. Thanks, Craig.” And she hung up. Craig was just considering whether it would be a bad idea to go in search of Franki’s company again, despite the fact that he’d left her only an hour ago, when the phone rang again. Thirty seconds later he hung up, and stared at it. And a slow, sweet smile curved his lips. He got up and headed into his bedroom where he grabbed the spare blanket out of the blanket box at the foot end. He tossed it over his shoulder and strode out of the room. Still smiling. He exited the inn, and was soon ambling toward the beach, whistling You Are My Sunshine, and imagining the crackling fire and warm embrace that would be awaiting him up ahead. He wondered how she had talked her brother into making that call for her. And why. Derek probably didn’t even know who he had been talking to, the

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message had been so terse and brief, a quick recitation of a message to some anonymous acquaintance. Only Derek would fall for it. It took him less than five minutes to arrive at the designated spot. He stepped out of the trees onto the sand that was still warm from the heat of the day. The gentle lullaby of the waves greeted him, but no fire crackled, and no delicate fingers reached for him. “Franki?” he called. She must be late. She must have— Something struck him from behind. Pain rocketed through his head as he fell to his knees, grappling for a solid hold on consciousness as well as his supper. Nausea and vertigo held him hostage. He remained on all fours. He couldn’t even risk a glance behind him to catch a glimpse of his attacker. He managed to lift a hand and touch the back of his head where a bulge had already formed. He drew his fingers back, sticky with blood. He groaned out, “If you want money, I left my wallet in the room.” He sensed a presence beside him, and then a low, husky voice whispered in his ear. “I don’t want your money, you fuckin’ queer.” Craig tried to turn his head, but he didn’t get far. A vicious kick to his ribs sent him flying into a pile of stones and driftwood. His jaw cracked against a branch, and he felt something sharp pierce into his back. Raw panic clawed at his gut as he tried to right himself, but his limbs hung from his body like lead weights. He felt powerless. Helpless. He could barely move or speak. And no one was going to venture by to help him. “Why?” he whispered as the dark, shadowy figure approached. “What did I do?” The form blotted out the moon and the stars. “Did you think I’d just look the other way? Did you think I’d let somebody like you put her through that hell again? Did you actually think you’d get away with it?” Craig licked his lips and tried to shift his weight off the biting edges of the rocks and shards of wood. “I don’t get it. Get away with what?” His attacker grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. “Don’t play dumb, asshole,” breathed the man, and Craig caught a whiff of beer and…some other odor that was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite identify. He was finally close enough to see a face, but a black knit ski mask obscured the features. “I’m not playing,” he pleaded. “I don’t understand.” His feet finally had purchase and he wanted to run but his legs felt like molten rubber. “You don’t really need to understand, do you?” A gloved fist lashed out and rapped Craig across the mouth. The assailant let go and Craig sank to the sand. He felt a warm trickle on his cheek. “Please…” was all he managed to whisper. And then he hated himself for cowering like a child. The black-clad figure towered over him. “You people make me sick.” Craig caught a hint of a slur to the words. “Screwin’ each other in public bathrooms and kissing on

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the street. But even so, I can leave you be as long as you keep to yourselves. But not if you start stickin’ your dick into places where you’ve got no business stickin’ it. Franki needs a real man.” Franki. This was about Franki? “I-I’m not really gay,” he stuttered, as he held a hand to his bleeding lip. “It’s all a misunderstanding.” He heard a strained chuckle. He looked up and a fresh, hot fist of terror gripped his insides. The man was holding something—something that glinted in the moonlight. “Misunderstanding,” taunted the man. “I like that. You don’t know the half of it.”

***** Bree slipped out from behind the wheel of her car. Her sandaled feet sank into a thick shag of grass and clover. Dew immediately drenched her toes and a vicious wind played whip-and-tangle with her hair. Way up here, where the Niagara Escarpment soared a hundred feet above the Bay, the wind rarely rested. It blasted the limestone rock face with the constant barrage of fine spray and dust that had worn it down and smoothed it out over countless centuries. From this cliff you could see for miles. On a clear, sunny day you could swear you were gazing over the sweet, blue edge of infinity. At night there was no finer spot to listen to the distant crash of waves and contemplate the stars. The setting was rich and lush and beautiful. And she hated it. For years she had loved it. For years she and Sloan had considered this their special hideaway. They used to bring blankets and picnics up here for midnight snacks that invariably led to passionate feasts of flesh. Not even Troy or Franki had known where they met for their midnight trysts. It had been an isolated, magical, enchanted place where they had shared of their dreams and themselves. But then, in a heartbeat, all that had changed. She had come here tonight on a hunch, hoping with all her heart that she was wrong. But Sloan’s rental car blatantly advertised how well she still knew him. And when she crested the small rise and saw him sitting there, his feet dangling over the edge, his eyes trained on the star-studded horizon, a wall of memories crashed down on her. Her stomach clenched just as it had when she found him here twelve years ago. The night of Jonathan Carver’s funeral. She stopped at the top of the rise and watched him, taking a moment to study him in the moonlight. As she watched, Sloan drew up his legs, and planted his feet beneath him. He stood, but he didn’t turn to walk away from the edge. In fact— “Sloan!” she shouted. Startled, he whirled around to face her, and for a moment he teetered on the edge. A scream caught in her throat, and she watched in mute horror as he struggled to regain his balance and step away from the precipitous ledge.

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“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted as she ran toward him. “Jesus Christ! I almost fell.” As if to confirm the jaws of death that he had just escaped, he turned to look down at the bed of jagged rocks that would have surely been his final resting place. “Well, I’m sorry,” she stormed once she reached him. She grabbed his shirt and dragged him back a few more feet. “But you scared me, too. I screamed because I thought you were going to jump!” Tears burned her eyes but she refused to give in to them. He set his jaw and glared at her. But she noted that he didn’t deny it. She took a step back. “My God. You were! What’s happening to you, Sloan? Are you depressed about something? Surely nothing is that bad. Is it something to do with Craig? Or us? Or…” She clasped her hands together. “Or with what I asked you to do? If somehow I’ve opened up old wounds or—” “I’m not depressed and I wasn’t going to jump. I—” “But you were thinking about it!” His eyes glittered in the starlight. He said nothing. He moved to step past her but she caught his arm. “Please! Talk to me. You stopped talking to me the last time I found you here.” Even as she said it she knew it was true. Now that she looked back, she could see it so clearly. That was the day it all changed. In the years after Jonathan’s death, her relationship with Sloan had changed, the difference subtle but undeniable. They had continued to fight and make love. They had gone places and shared of themselves, but there had been something undeniably different about him. As if a little piece of him had been chipped away, and they no longer fit quite as well. Jonathan Carver hadn’t only ended his own life. Somehow he had also killed something in his son. And in so doing, had also ended any chance Bree had ever had at happiness. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He shook off her hand. “I’m sorry you worried and came out here for nothing. But I just needed some time alone.” She could smell the liquor on his breath and hear it in his voice. “No. I think that’s the last thing you need. You practically drowned yourself today, and now I find you, half-drunk—” “I didn’t try to drown myself, and I’m not half-drunk.” Even as he said it he swayed. “All right. I’ll amend that. I find you completely drunk, sitting on a precipice contemplating a trip to hell. I think you very much need to be with someone. You need to talk to someone, Sloan. Why not me?” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Hell, I don’t understand.” “Understand what? At least tell me the question, for God’s sake!”

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Something flickered over his features—something that could have been confusion, or pain, or indecision. Or maybe a combination of all three. His Adam’s apple bobbed once and then he whispered. “The question? The question is so simple. It’s the answer that screws me up every time.” At that moment his eyes lost their glaze and his body steadied. “The question is why?” He whispered it but the word echoed inside her ears like a drowning man’s call for help. She grabbed his hand and pulled him close, close enough that she could feel his heart pumping and his lungs straining. “Why what?” “Why did he do it?” he choked out. “Why did he leave me? Why did he leave us? I never had a clue that he was unhappy. I mean, sure he had his problems, but doesn’t everybody? Was it just a moment of anguish that made him snap? Or was it something inherent in him? Something in his genes that—” “You’re afraid he’s passed it on to you, aren’t you? You’re afraid that someday you’re going to end up like him. You’re afraid you’re going to have some strange, mysterious urge to take your own life, and you won’t be able to fight it.” He tried to push her away, but she just clung on tighter. “Is that why you pushed me away so long ago? Why you pushed us all away? Is that the real reason you left, and never called or came back? Not because you were afraid of rejection, but because you were afraid that you’d cause all of us the same pain as you felt when he died?” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don’t I? It makes so much sense. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.” She plowed ahead, heedless of the waves of tension that shimmered around Sloan. “You have to know how ridiculous that is. Suicide doesn’t run in families.” “I don’t know… I look like him. I act like him. Everyone always said how alike we were.” He sighed. “When I was a kid that used to make me feel so proud. So strong. Now it makes me sick.” He dropped his eyes, as if sharing this with her shamed him. “It terrifies me.” She squeezed his hand, even as his words squeezed around her heart. “I can see that. And I can understand it. But you have to convince yourself otherwise. You can decide your own destiny. He was just one man. One man with a problem that he couldn’t solve. You may never figure out what that problem was, but it doesn’t mean that you share it. Just look at your mother. She took a chance and found happiness. Maybe she didn’t make any friends doing it, but—” His laughter shocked her. “Sloan?” she asked as he swallowed his giggles and blinked back tears. He extricated himself from her grasp and shook his head vigorously. “I’m afraid you’re making judgments with only half the information, Bree. That’s not nearly all of it. That’s not why I left, and that’s not why I’m leaving.” “What? What do you mean, leaving?” “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve already booked the flight.”

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“But…you just got here. Surely you could stay a week and—” Then it hit her. “You cowardly bastard.” He blinked. “What?” “You weren’t even going to say goodbye, were you? You were just going to take off again.” “I would have said goodbye.” “Bullshit. And what about my request? And my mother? Were you just going to ignore me? Dismiss me like some pathetic Hollywood starlet who asked you for a part in one of your movies.” “I don’t do casting.” “Answer the question,” she snarled. “Are you going to do it?” “No. For a while there I considered it. But things have…they’ve changed. I just can’t. It’s too risky.” “And you never take risks,” she mocked. “Not like this.” But his voice caught, and she knew he was lying. He was covering something up, and that infuriated her. “Fine,” she shot back. “Take care of yourself. That’s what you’re good at, after all. Don’t worry about me, or Troy, or Franki. Don’t care about anybody, and don’t let anybody care about you.” She clenched her fists at her sides and put some more distance between them. “Go put a gun in your mouth, and blow your brains all over a wall for all I care. Just don’t expect me to come to clean up the mess.” She already regretted saying it. Even as it was coming out of her mouth, she regretted it. But she had never hated herself so much as she did the moment he turned away from her and whispered, “Fuck you, Chicky-Bree.” And then his shoulders hunched. And Bree felt herself melt. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his back. “Dammit, Sloan, I’m sorry. You always could set off my sparks like no one else.” His chest heaved once. “I miss him, Bree.” She felt the words reverberate through his body. And into hers. “It’s been twelve years. I thought it would be better, but it’s not. It was easier down there. I could almost forget. But coming back, seeing all of you, just knowing that the house is there…” He turned around and wordlessly closed his arms around her. He rested his cheek against her hair. “If I close my eyes I can still see it so clearly. I can smell the gunpowder and that stale, metallic scent of blood. I walked in that door, and it was like a freight train slammed into my chest. When I lost him it felt like I lost my whole world.” She blinked back the sting of her own tears, and then he muttered, “Shit. I’m sorry. I know you lost your dad, too. I’ve got no right to talk like my pain is bigger or stronger than yours.” 137

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She stopped him with a finger on his lips, and when she looked into his face she noticed a glistening trail beneath each eye. “You have every right. You were younger, and much more vulnerable. What you went through was different. Harder. I know that. I just wish…” Of their own accord her fingers moved from his mouth to trace the soft line of his brow. And then the hard ridge of his cheekbone. His eyes closed as he pressed his cheek more firmly against her palm. “What do you wish, Bree?” “I wish we could have shared things better. We were so young and earnest and eager to prove our independence. We weren’t afraid of anything, and we never thought anything could come between us. And then when our fathers died I think we didn’t know how to be vulnerable, or how to grieve. I think we kind of lost ourselves.” “And each other.” He murmured the words against her palm and a familiar shiver skittered up her arm. “Yes. And each other.” His grip around her waist tightened and her heart began to pound against her throat. She laced her fingers through his hair—first one hand, and then the other. But it took no coaxing from her to urge him to lower his head and settle his mouth over hers. They fell into the routine as easily as dancers who hear a familiar suite and their bodies move reflexively to the melodic lilt of the flutes. Her body melted against his, just as it had a thousand times before. Just as she had dreamed a thousand times since. His hand fisted in her hair, and his lips became more insistent, crushing hers in a desperate search for…for something that perhaps neither of them could identify. Coherent thought abandoned her as his hand cupped her breast, and she lost her will to look beyond anything but her body’s immediate demands for fulfillment. Only when he released her mouth to nip at her jawline, and press a kiss to the pulse at the base of her throat—only when he murmured against her skin did she catch her breath enough to speak. “What?” she breathed. “What did you say?” “I said, it seems like I’ve missed you forever. No one else has ever come close. I’ve wanted this back since the day I left.” Puzzled, she halted her hands where they were—bracketing his rib cage beneath his shirt. “What do you mean? I thought—” Her eyes flew open as realization hit. “Oh, Sloan,” she groaned. “I can’t do this.” He tried to pull her close again. She resisted but her resolve was weak. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why not?” “Craig!” she groaned. “I like him. How can you do this to him? And why would you want to?” Sloan looked down at her and smiled. “Very funny. I know Franki told you.”

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Suddenly the world went still. It seemed that even the crickets and the waves had paused in their incessant rhythms. Either that or she just couldn’t hear them over the crashing pulse of blood through her ears. “Told me what?” He rolled his eyes. “You like torturing me, don’t you? You know I’m not gay, or there’s no way you would have let it go this far.” “What?” she breathed, but even as she asked it, she knew the answer. And then she decided that no jury on Earth would ever convict her for doing what, very simply, had to be done.

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Chapter Thirteen “Jesus,” moaned Sloan as he reached for the alarm. The incessant beeping stopped, but the relief was short-lived. The clock told him it was already 6:35. He had barely a half an hour to get packed and ready before his ride to the airport arrived. It was bad enough to have a killer hangover, and then to be aroused at such an ungodly hour. But add to that the aches and pains that had plagued him through the night and now made him loath to move at all, and it was a surefire recipe for a really bad day. He winced as a cloud moved aside allowing a shard of sunlight to spear his eye. And then he winced again at the pain that radiated through his skull when he squinted. He groped for the ice pack. It was lukewarm but as it thawed it had sweated, and the moisture soothed, even if it was only a little. He held it gently to his eye as he gingerly pulled back the sheet and eased himself out of bed. Still naked, he padded to the washroom and examined himself in the mirror. Under other circumstances he might have been proud of that shiner. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on a valiant hero who had fought to protect the honor of a damsel. But unfortunately, his story wasn’t so honorable. In fact, it reeked of cowardice and scandal. He had no wish to spend the day making up stories, or explaining himself to a host of first-class flyers. He’d have to glue those damn Ray-Bans to his nose to avoid the questions, stares and snickers. Add to that his other misery… He shifted his gaze downward, to the true focal point of his pain. There was still a little swelling, but he doubted that she had quite managed to neuter him. She had sworn to do as much, as she towered over him, screaming obscenities, while he clutched his genitals and writhed in pain amidst the dew-soaked grass. Socking him in the eye and simultaneously landing a crushing blow with her knee hadn’t been enough for her. She had deemed it necessary to spend what seemed like hours informing him of his numerous transgressions, and imminent exile from the human race. He supposed he should count himself lucky. It could have been worse. He seemed to recall that she always carried a pocketknife in her purse. There could have been bloodshed. But once her tirade was exhausted, she had walked away without doing any further damage. At the time he had found it ironic that his physical pain had paled in comparison to the pain he felt at realizing how badly he had treated her. The best friend he’d ever had. Only one other had come close.

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“Craig!” he called out from the bathroom. “You got any aspirins in that portable pharmacy of yours?” There was no answer. Hardly a surprise, considering Craig didn’t believe that the sun rose much before noon. Sloan’s need for analgesics superseded his fear of reprisals however. He wrapped a robe around himself and tiptoed into Craig’s room. “Damn,” he groaned when he surveyed the empty bed. No doubt Craig had felt lonely and slighted by Sloan’s dressing down. He must have sought out Franki’s company again for the night. Sloan would have rolled his eyes if they hadn’t been threatening to squirt out of his head. He could hardly cast stones for making poor choices where women were concerned. One look inside his robe would have confirmed that beyond all doubt. He just couldn’t quite bring himself to look again. He scanned the room, and had just spotted Craig’s toiletry bag when a commotion outside drew his attention. He hobbled to the window and looked down into the street. A woman was screaming something, but he couldn’t make it out. She looked quite harried so he decided to expend the energy required to lift the sash. The frame gave way with surprising ease considering its age, and at last he could decipher her words. “…a lot of blood!” she was screaming. “On the beach, down by that huge driftwood pile.” Someone ran in the front door of the inn, but another man approached the woman. He was apparently trying to calm her and get some more information. His quiet words eluded Sloan, but the woman’s hysterics reached him easily. “No, no. You don’t understand. It’s not an animal. It’s a man. It must be a tourist because I’ve never seen him before.” Her hands blurred about her in a flurry of frustration and panic. “He’s kinda skinny, with blond hair, I think. I-I don’t know—” She dissolved into sobs and a set of icy fingers coiled themselves around Sloan’s spine. The man said something else that seemed to frustrate her further. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s hurt. And-and he wouldn’t wake up.” She uttered another heart-wrenching sob. “I’m not even sure if he’s alive.” Sloan stumbled back from the window, his pain forgotten and his vision blurred by terror. He dashed into his room and thrust his legs into a pair of loose, drawstring pants. He grabbed a T-shirt, and his deck shoes on his way past the closet. He fell into the hall as he struggled to get his shaking arms into the sleeves of his shirt. He didn’t bother with the shoes, even when he leapt from the inn’s front porch and ran down the gravel-strewn cobblestones of the sidewalk. They were still dangling from his fingers when he overtook the woman who was apparently leading the strange man toward her disturbing discovery. Sloan caught her with a hand on her elbow. When she whirled around her hair and eyes were wild.

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“I heard you say you found someone.” He had to work to keep his voice from squeaking in panic. “Blond hair, you said? Is that right?” “Yes. At least I think so. It was so hard to tell because…” Sloan’s mouth went dry. “Because why?” “Just come with us,” urged the man. “The ambulance is on its way.” Sloan trudged after them. He managed to keep up despite the lead weights on his feet and the pain in his groin. After a few minutes she veered off the road, through a thick grove of pine trees, and out onto the beach. She stopped and pointed. “He’s…over there. Behind the woodpile.” The other man said gently, “We’ll find him. You go back out to the road so you can catch the ambulance and tell them where we are.” She nodded mutely and headed back through the trees. Sloan was already slogging through the sand. He heard the other man race to catch him. They reached the woodpile, and Sloan felt a hand on his arm. “Sloan, wait, ” he commanded. Startled that the other man knew his name, Sloan turned to look at him for the first time. Recognition dawned slowly. “Mr. Cook.” His old high school English teacher, Ivan Cook, long since retired, and sorely missed by many students. “If you think this is your friend,” said Ivan, “why don’t you let me go first. Don’t put yourself through this again. It’s not worth it.” But Sloan turned away. “No. I’ve got to know.” Ivan accepted that in silence and, together, the duo picked their way around the pile of old logs and driftwood. On the other side Sloan caught sight of something that, at first glance, he would have thought was a pile of dirty rags. But then he stepped a little closer, and a muffled cry strangled his throat as he rushed forward and fell to his knees. “Craig,” he whispered. “Oh God, please. Please don’t…” He reached out to touch Craig’s shoulder, which was caked with dried blood and sand. “Please, Sloan,” said Ivan as he crouched down. He laid a hand on Sloan’s arm. “Try to stay calm.” But Sloan barely heard him, he was too focused on his friend. He thought he should assess the rest of Craig’s injuries. He should check for breathing, or a pulse, or some sign of life, but he found that he was too terrified to know. He noticed when Ivan pressed a finger to Craig’s throat, but he didn’t hear the verdict. Didn’t want to hear it. Refused to hear it. “Please don’t…” he whispered, closing his eyes against the pain. “Please don’t make me do this again.” He opened his eyes and forced himself to take in the pale, chalky skin, and closed, sightless eyes. “Because, this time, I don’t think I’ll make it.”

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***** “How is he?” asked Bree. Troy glanced at the ICU doors and shook his head. “Which one? Not that it matters. They both look like death warmed over.” Bree sat down beside him. The puffy, vinyl chair sighed with her weight, as if greeting an old friend. In too many ways she was. She hated that she knew these chairs and these hallways so well. She was far too comfortable here. It was a sad commentary on the direction her life had taken in recent years. “Well, is Craig going to be okay?” she asked at last. Troy shrugged. “The doctors aren’t saying much. The bruises on his face and body look bad, but no bones were broken. He was slashed up pretty good but none of the cuts were deep or life threatening. He did lose a lot of blood, but the head injury is the big worry.” He picked up his empty coffee cup and continued to pick away at the already ragged Styrofoam. “It’s been twenty-four hours, and he hasn’t shown any sign of waking up. I think that’s what worries them the most.” Bree couldn’t tear her eyes away from the doors. “And Sloan?” “He came out to use the bathroom about a half an hour ago. He walked right by and didn’t even look at me.” “Why don’t they send him home?” She turned pleading eyes on Troy, as if he had some control over the situation. “He hasn’t slept or eaten since yesterday. They should just send him home,” she said again. “They’ve tried. I’ve tried. But you saw how he was when they brought Craig in. He’s completely beyond reasoning with.” Sloan had staunchly insisted on being allowed into ICU to sit with his friend. The staff had insisted that policy would only allow brief visits. He had responded by blatantly defying them and taking up a silent vigil at Craig’s bedside. No amount of reasoning or threats had succeeded in moving him. He had calmly told them that if they wanted him to leave they would, quite literally, have to carry him out. The pain in his face and the set of his jaw had been so intense and compelling that they had let him have his way. At the time, Bree had seen the sense in it. Craig needed his friend, and Sloan desperately needed to be there. But now, after more than twenty-four hours of such a heart-wrenching display, Bree had begun to wonder how long it might go on. And she had begun to wonder what kind of toll it would take on Sloan if allowed to continue. Not that she cared what happened to Sloan. She didn’t. Not one bit. His deceit was unforgivable. His reasons didn’t matter. The fact that they had shared a profound moment on that bluff meant nothing. The fact that the sight of his battered features made her stomach clench merely meant that she regretted a rash decision acted upon in a moment of outrage. None of that mattered.

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She wanted nothing to do with him—didn’t want to hear his voice, or speak his name. So why was she spending every waking moment at her mother’s bedside…which just happened to be two floors above where Craig lay, battling a swollen brain, and Sloan sat, battling futility. “Have the police made any progress?” Troy shook his head. “Nobody saw anything. There was no weapon, or anything left at the scene.” He shrugged so heavily it made Bree’s shoulders ache. “They need Craig to wake up and tell them what happened. But I think they have their suspicions.” Bree dropped her head into her hands. “They think somebody targeted the social deviant.” “Yeah. Something like that. It’s outrageous, but it’s all they’ve got. He wasn’t robbed, and he didn’t have any enemies. Who could possibly want to hurt him? He didn’t know anybody.” “He knew me.” Bree’s eyes flew to the door. “Franki,” she breathed. “You almost gave me a heart attack. Where have you been? We’ve been scouring the countryside for you.” Franki stepped across the threshold. She looked her usual robust, sexy self in her high-cut shorts, and low-cut T. Her hair was pulled high off her face in a sleek ponytail and her lips shimmered a fiery red. She looked more like a woman ready to hustle up some action at the local pool hall than someone who had come to the hospital to ”visit a sick friend”. But upon closer scrutiny her red-rimmed eyes and the weight of her feet hitting the tile told a different tale. She sank into the chair beside Bree’s. “Have you two been here all this time?” “We’ve been in and out,” offered Troy, but then he chuckled mirthlessly. “God only knows why. Sloan is the one we’re really here for and he doesn’t acknowledge our existence. They won’t even let us in the unit for more than two minutes at a time.” Bree nodded her agreement. “It seems kind of pointless. But I guess…” Franki frowned. “You guess what?” “I guess that’s what friends are for.” Bree managed a weak smile. “I was just trying to convince myself that Sloan wasn’t my friend anymore. You know, after what he pulled. But I guess it’s not that easy to look away.” Troy got up from his chair and paced to the far wall. “I can’t believe how gullible I was. But I’ve never heard of anyone lying about something like that.” “Yeah,” said Bree. “He must have one helluva secret if feigning homosexuality looked better than telling the truth.” Troy turned away from them and jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. He mumbled. “Yeah. I guess so.”

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“So, you didn’t answer the question, Franki. Where have you been all this time? Did the cops find you?” She nodded. “Actually I stopped in and gave them my statement on the way over here. I saw Craig a few hours before, but that was all I could tell them.” She twirled a ratty tissue around her finger and to Bree’s amazement a tear spilled out of Franki’s eye. “How is he?” “Craig’s stable, but he hasn’t woken up yet. Sloan’s been sitting with him nonstop. He’s starting to look like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead.” “He probably blames himself,” whispered Franki. “He brought Craig here and coerced him into the whole charade. If it hadn’t been for that…” “We can’t start laying blame here,” said Bree. “The only one to blame is the person who did this. The last thing Sloan needs is guilt on his shoulders.” “I didn’t mean it like that.” Franki tugged on her ponytail and then dropped her hands to smooth out her shorts. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t be surprised if he felt that way. He’s isolated himself again. And I think it’s high time he started sharing more than lies with his old friends.” She stood and walked toward the door. “It’s a lost cause,” warned Troy. “I’ve tried talking to him, and he just won’t listen.” She stopped and turned around to face him. “But I have a secret weapon that you two don’t.” Bree frowned. “And what’s that?” “I already told you. It’s a secret.” She turned to go but then seemed to think better of it. “This may take a few minutes, but I think at least one of you should wait out here for him. I don’t think he should be alone when he comes out of there.” She disappeared and all they could hear was the fading tap of her heels against the tile. Troy leaned against the wall and stared at the empty doorway. “What was that all about?” “I don’t know, but I can’t stay. At least not right now. I promised Mom I’d come up and help her with her lunch.” It was true. She tried to ignore the little voice that whispered, You just don’t want to be alone with him, Bree. You don’t trust yourself with an exhausted, vulnerable puppy-dog-eyed Sloan. You decked him and now you feel guilty because he’s hurting, even though he hurt you first. You’re pathetic, Sabrina Hampstead. Absolutely pathetic. Troy nodded, motioned her toward the door. “That’s fine. I went into the office this morning, but I couldn’t work. I decided to take a few days off. I can stay and take the zombie home to bed.” “Are you okay, Troy? You seem to be taking this whole thing awfully hard. Taking time off work, and staying here last night ‘til all hours. Neglecting Carolyn and David… It’s just not like you.”

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“I just figure Sloan needs somebody. I’ve missed having him around, and I don’t want to blow this chance to show him that I still care.” He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “I wanted to talk to him anyway.” Bree studied him a moment, and decided Carolyn Elliott was a very lucky woman. A man who displayed that kind of commitment to an old friend who had abandoned him, had to be a dream when it came to showing his devotion to the woman he loved. Unwilling to dwell on another woman’s good fortune that just happened to highlight her own disappointments, Bree stood and stretched out aching muscles that had seen too little sleep and too much inactivity. “I sure hope he appreciates it. But keep in mind, he’s not going to be in any shape to talk about much of anything.” Troy grinned. “There are other ways for men to communicate.” She arched her eyebrows in silent question. “Male bonding. In other words, getting drunk. I figure he can’t refuse going to bed if he’s passed out cold.” “Ah. You’re almost as devious as Mr. Carver.” “Monkey see, monkey do.” Bree smiled at the truth of it as she grabbed her purse and headed for the door. She hesitated, her hand on the door jamb and her mind momentarily drawn to the hazy gray mist that shrouded the past. “Sometimes I wonder…” “Wonder what?” “Do other people experience so much pain and lose all the people they care about, Troy? I mean, all of us have lost a parent, or a friend, or something we really care about. And all in the last few years. Is that normal? Or are we just unbelievably unlucky?” He didn’t answer her, and she supposed there was no answer to that question. She headed for the elevators.

***** As Franki strolled into the ICU she donned a bold demeanor that she didn’t feel. She hated hospitals, and up until now her bravest foray into the bowels of Owen Sound General had involved visiting Lydia Hampstead. But those visits had rarely extended beyond the ten-minute mark, and she had almost always had Bree for company. Besides, although she liked and respected Bree’s mother, Franki felt no deep connection to the woman who had withered away to a shell of her former self. This was different. She had considered not coming. In fact she had spent hours trying to convince herself that she shouldn’t—that there were enough people hovering around with nothing to do other than worry and drink gallons of bad hospital coffee. And then she had found another mission that superseded this one. That had turned out to be pointless and troublesome. And once she had seen to that she had no other excuses.

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She had never felt such an aversion to a task. And she had never felt so compelled to do it. She stopped at the circular nursing station. Situated at the center of the openconcept room it acted as a hub, ringed by a dozen beds. “May I help you?” asked the craggy-faced receptionist. “I’m here to see Craig Sternberg.” The woman scowled, and the wrinkles deepened until Franki could almost feel them cutting into her own flesh. “As you can see, Mr. Sternberg already has a visitor. An unauthorized, and very stubborn…” She hazarded a glance in Sloan’s direction. “And very spooky one, at that.” Franki pulled herself up to her most regal bearing. She might feel like a five-yearold facing her first day of kindergarten, but she didn’t have to look like she did. “Actually that’s why I’m here. I know that he’ll leave if he knows I’m here to stay with Craig. That will give him a chance to sleep and eat, and maybe come back looking a little more human.” “What makes you think you can get rid of him when nobody else could?” “You’ll just have to trust me. But you have to promise that I’ll be allowed to stay if he leaves.” The receptionist snorted. “You’re lucky. Rita, his nurse, is an old softy. As long as you sit quiet I don’t think she’ll mind.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Honestly, I think she’ll be grateful. If he doesn’t shower soon he’s going to start to smell.” Franki relaxed at the token show of humanity in this inhuman place. “So I can go in?” “Mmm. He’s pretty stable and they’ll be moving him out of ICU in a few hours.” Franki waited. Finally the woman waved her hand toward a bed in the corner. “What are you waiting for? Go, already.” Franki tried to walk noiselessly, but the clicking of her heels was about as subtle as a drum roll. She should have worn other shoes. She should have worn jeans and sneakers and an old comfortable T-shirt. For once in her life she should have dressed sensibly. But she had wanted to look good for him. She’d wanted to look good for Craig. The tap of her heels stopped abruptly at the end of the bed. “Can I help you?” asked his nurse, her eyes wary. But the receptionist saved her the trouble of answering. “Rita,” she called from the desk. “Come here a minute.” With a final, wary glance in Franki’s direction, Nurse Rita left her post. And left Franki alone with her fears. She stared at him. Bandages seemed to swathe him from head to toe, and tubes sprouted from his limbs like a macabre fountain. He just lay there, looking pale and 147

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used up and helpless. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Not that she had expected him to. She didn’t know what she had expected. But she certainly hadn’t expected to feel such an intense, physical reaction—like a wrecking ball plowing into her gut. “Oh, Craig,” she whispered around the glob of emotion in her throat. “I’m sorry.” A sad bundle of soggy cotton stirred to life. “Franki?” croaked out Sloan. “What are you doing here?” Franki turned her attention to Sloan. He was almost as pale as his friend. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his complexion pasty. The only bit of color was the patch of black and blue that ringed his left eye. “You look like shit,” she surmised as she rounded the bed and planted herself in front of him. “Thanks. But I hope you didn’t come in here to cheer me up, because honestly, you’re lousy at it.” “That’s not why I’m here. You don’t cheer up people who are facing this kind of pain. That would be insensitive and pointless.” Sloan blinked his bleary eyes. “That-that’s right. I’m surprised that you—” He clamped his mouth shut and turned his eyes back to Craig. “You’re surprised that what?” “Nothing. I just appreciate the sentiment, that’s all.” “Don’t give me that crap. You were thinking that you’re surprised that I was sensitive enough to think about that. You think I’m a lot of fun, and maybe you think I’m smart, but you also think I’m shallow and self-centered.” His fists clenched, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. “I didn’t say that,” he growled. “You’re putting words in my mouth. You know how much I care about you, Franki. You’re just rationalizing again, coming up with elaborate reasons to explain why I never felt about you the way you wanted me to.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t blame you for saying that. Any other time it might have been true. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the last twenty-four hours, and I’ve come to the realization that I am shallow and self-centered, and, very likely that is exactly why you were never attracted to me like you were to Bree.” Sloan rubbed his temples with a pair of stiff index fingers. “I can tell that you’ve given this a lot of thought, but I think you deserve to talk to someone who isn’t sleep deprived and can concentrate on something for more than thirty seconds at a time. Why don’t we talk about this when Craig’s…better.” “You don’t understand, Sloan. I came to that realization, and now I want to do something about it. I’m here to relieve you. I want you to go home with Troy or Bree, have a shower, and some food, and curl up to sleep for about fifty hours. I’ll stay here and I promise I’ll let you know if anything changes.” He slumped back into the chair. “You don’t understand. I need to be here. Until his family gets here, I’m all he’s got. I can’t leave.”

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Franki knelt down in front of him, and covered his hand with hers. “No, you don’t understand, Sloan. This isn’t just for you. I need to be here. Please share this with me. I’ll go crazy if you shut me out.” Sloan frowned. “I don’t get it. I know that you two were…intimate. But a passionate one-night stand doesn’t mean you have to take on this kind of responsibility.” “You’re not listening. I’m not doing this because it’s my responsibility. I’m not doing it for you, or for Craig for that matter. I’m doing it for me. I want to be here. I need to be close to him.” Sloan’s blue eyes just kept drilling into her like truth-seeking lasers. Franki had to swallow and concentrate on keeping the tears out of her voice. “And I know how it looks, but it wasn’t a one-night stand. I feel more for him than even I understand. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.” Slowly, deliberately, like an eighty-year-old who had experienced the premature onset of rigor mortis, Sloan leaned forward and cupped her cheeks between his chilled palms. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Francine Waters?” She swallowed. “I don’t know. What do you think I’m saying?” “You know. You just don’t want to face it. But I think you have to. You have to say the words to make it real. I don’t think you’ve ever said them before. At least not so that you meant them. And I think it’s high time you did.” “Sloan…” she pleaded. “This is none of your business.” “Bullshit. Now, say it. If you say it, and mean it, I’ll go and leave you two alone. But otherwise you’re shit out of luck.” “All right,” she whispered. Sloan waited, his hands growing warmer against her skin while she screwed up her courage and tasted the words on the back of her tongue. They inched their way forward, a millimeter at a time, until they pressed against the inside of her lips. “I-I think I love him,” she sputtered. “I know it’s crazy. I mean, I’ve only known him a couple of days. But, somehow…I don’t know. We just clicked, and I feel different with him than I ever have with anybody else.” Once she got started she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I don’t know how else to convince you. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never been good with words like you. I—” He stilled her lips with his own. The kiss was brief and sweet. In it she tasted no lust or malice. Only understanding and friendship. “It’s all right,” he said softly as he leaned back and brushed a wisp of hair off her face. “I believe you. And I know you’ll take good care of him.” Franki risked a glance at Craig and took in the tubes and the monitors, the bandages and the pink tinge of blood. It all terrified her. But nothing frightened her

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more than the thought that it might all be for nothing. What good did the admission do if he never woke up? She’d never felt so vulnerable in her life. She smoothed her damp palms over her shorts. “I don’t know if I’m up to it. I’ve never been very good at sitting still.” “I think you’ll surprise yourself.” “He’s going to wake up. Right, Sloan?” She turned pleading eyes on her friend as he stretched out his back, and indulged in a wide yawn. “And when he does he’s going to be fine. He’ll be the same Craig I fell…” She felt herself blush. “He’ll be the same Craig.” “Yeah.” His lips curled in a weak smile. “At least, that’s the plan. Later, Franki.” And with that abrupt farewell he walked toward the doors, each step a torturous battle with gravity. She turned back to Craig and blew out a breath that she hoped carried all her fears with it. She cradled his limp hand in hers and whispered. “I’m here now, you Hebrew god, you.” But somehow the humor and the reference to their recent pillow talk seemed out of place. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead just as the nurse resumed her post. “So you’re the next shift?” asked Nurse Rita. “I guess.” “Okay. Just stay out of the way and I won’t sic security on ya.” She smiled, but her lips seemed ill-accustomed to the motion. Still clutching Craig’s hand, Franki pulled the chair a little closer and sat down. “What are his chances?” she asked quietly. “I mean, with being in a coma and the injuries and everything.” The nurse considered the question as she checked Craig’s pulse and gazed at her watch. “I wish I could say for sure, but head injuries are very unpredictable. Plus the fact that he lost a lot of blood, and that could have affected the oxygen supply to the brain. He might wake up and be fine. He might never wake up at all. And he might fall somewhere in between.” “In between?” asked Franki as she stroked Craig’s hand. “Well, some wake up and lose just a small portion of their cognitive function. But it’s so nominal that they can easily compensate. While others lose…well almost all of it—the memory, speech, reasoning. You name it.” Franki swallowed thickly and whispered, “You mean he could be a vegetable.” “You said it, I didn’t. But between you and me, some of them ain’t got nothing on a five-eyed potato.” “Oh.” She blinked back tears and squeezed the hand that had recently become so important to her. Why did she seem so determined to fall in love with things that she

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couldn’t have? “Please bring him back to me,” she prayed to a God she had never known. “Please bring him back and I promise I’ll be good.” The trouble was, she’d always been lousy at keeping promises. Especially that one. And she suspected God already knew that.

***** “So, what’s on the menu today?” asked Bree as she swept into the room, a fauxfinish smile on her face. Lydia regarded her suspiciously. “They haven’t brought it in. And why are you so chipper? What’s wrong?” Worry lines creased her forehead. “Is Craig worse?” “No, no. He’s the same. Don’t worry so much, Mom. You have enough on your plate without worrying about someone you hardly know.” “Don’t tell me who to worry about!” Bree was surprised as much by the vehemence of her mother’s words, as the tears that glistened in her eyes. “He’s a nice young man, and he obviously means a lot to Sloan. I’ll worry about him if I damn well please!” Bree couldn’t remember the last time her mother had exhibited such energy. “I’m sorry,” she soothed. “I just hate to see you so upset. It can’t be good for you.” “Don’t be silly. It won’t hurt me to worry about someone else for a change. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own little world of self-pity and suffering—” “Now you’re being silly. You’ve never been one to indulge in self-pity.” Lydia shifted restlessly against her mountain of pillows and lifted her gaze to the window where a gray, overcast sky was threatening rain. “I’m afraid you don’t know the half of it, sweetheart. I’m pretty good at keeping things to myself when I need to.” Bree began straightening and tucking. “Are you telling me you’ve got secrets?” she teased. But the lengthy silence that followed that question surprised her. “How about Sloan?” asked her mother, in a blatant attempt to switch topics. “He must be taking this pretty hard.” Bree’s hands stilled on the blanket. “Honestly, he’s a wreck. He looks almost as bad as he did the week after his father died. But Franki promised to get him to take a break and—” A soft mewling from her mother’s direction caught her attention. Bree looked up to see her obviously fighting tears. “Mom? What is it?” Lydia swallowed and wiped impatiently at her eyes. “I need to see him.” Even though that request didn’t really surprise her, her mother’s fragile emotional state did. “Uh…I’m sure he’d come up if I asked him. Maybe tomorrow morning after he’s had a chance to rest.” “No.” The word barely registered as a whisper, but there was no mistaking the determination behind it. “I have to see him now. Go down and try to catch him before he leaves the hospital.”

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“But…he’s exhausted. He hasn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. Surely—” “Please, Sabrina. I really ask for so little, but I’m asking you this now. I have to talk to Sloan before the day is out. I’ve been protecting myself and your father’s memory long enough. And I’m afraid Sloan has paid the price. There are things he deserves to know.” Bree felt like she was caught in a vortex. All she could think to say was, “Mom, I don’t understand.” “I know you don’t. But you will. I can’t say anymore right now, but…” She shook her head in mute frustration. “For now all you need to know is that I won’t be able to live with myself if I keep this to myself another day.” “What on Earth are you talking about?” “Please don’t ask me. I’ll explain everything to you later. But right now Sloan is the one who needs to know. He’s lost the most. I don’t believe he knows as much as they think. But maybe it’s time he did.” “They?” Bree’s head was spinning. “Knows what?” Lydia didn’t seem to hear her. Her gaze was far away, perhaps in another time. “He deserves the truth, and it seems like I’m the only one who is willing to give it to him.” Her eyes filled with tears and a few glittering jewels of sorrow spilled down her cheeks. “Just indulge me in this, and go catch him before he leaves. Now.” Bree just stood there, dumbfounded. “Sabrina!” Shaken and confused, Bree dashed from the room. She blasted on past the nursing station and ignored the elevators, heading straight for the stairs. A thousand questions ricocheted around inside her brain as she dashed down the stairs. What was her mother hiding, and what did she know? What did she mean about Sloan losing the most? And what did she mean about protecting Dad? She hadn’t come up with any answers by the time she reached the waiting room. She found it empty. She took a chance and peeked in through the ICU doors. She didn’t see Sloan, but she did see Franki sitting beside Craig, gazing down at the hand that she had sandwiched between her own. And despite the distance that separated them, Bree saw something in her friend’s eyes that made her breath catch in her throat. Franki Waters was in love. The thought simultaneously thrilled and devastated her. But even as she worried over the fate of Franki’s heart, Bree felt her mind drawn back to her mother’s cryptic statements and earnest entreaty. Not wishing to disturb Franki’s vigil she turned around and slipped back out of the room. Obviously Sloan and Troy had already left. She didn’t look forward to disappointing her mother, but she had no intention of hopping into her car and chasing after them, only to beg Sloan to come back to the hospital. Who knew where they might have gone, anyway? Troy had mentioned getting drunk. That could mean just about anything.

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She sifted through the options as she plodded back up the two flights of stairs that led to the oncology wing. She pushed through the doors and was almost bowled over by a nurse pushing a large cart loaded down with a frightful array of instruments and equipment. She stepped into the hall and realized that the nurse wasn’t the only one in a hurry. An entire regiment of medical staff—nurses, orderlies, doctors, and more—rushed about in a flurry of uniforms and lab coats. And they all seemed to be homing in on one particular room at the end of the hall. Her mother’s room. Panic paralyzed her. She wanted to run to the end of the hall and demand to know what was going on. But her feet seemed to have sunk three inches into the floor. She felt powerless to move her own body, let alone affect the outcome of the drama she sensed was being played out just on the other side of that door. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She had resigned herself to her mother’s death, but not now. Not yet. Her mother wasn’t supposed to be taken from her so abruptly. They would keep her comfortable, and with the help of reasonable measures like blood transfusions and medications, prolong her life until the cancer outgrew their ability to control it. Lydia Hampstead would slip into eternity while her daughter sat by her side, holding her hand and whispering words of comfort and farewell. That was how Bree had envisioned it. That vision was at once frightening and comforting. It was known, and it was in the future. This was now. She didn’t want to face now. Her heart continued pumping, and her lungs continued breathing. She blinked and swallowed. And when, at last, a few somber-looking staff members began to trickle out of the room, she forced herself to retake control of her body. She took a step. And then another. And, somehow, beyond reason, she made it to the door. Fully expecting to be confronted by a still figure shrouded in a hospital sheet, she pushed it open and peered inside. Immediately, the pair of nurses who were busily attending to her mother, riveted their eyes on the intruder. “Sabrina,” said Diane, one of several familiar nurses who had tended to her mother frequently over the past few months. Her dark eyes brimmed with both kindness and concern. “Come in, come in.” Bree took a deep breath and stepped through. Her mother’s face wasn’t covered with a sheet. It was, however, hidden behind a large oxygen mask. And her eyes were closed. “What happened? What’s wrong?” Diane gently took Bree’s elbow and guided her charge to the large vinyl chair beside the bed. “We’re not sure,” said Diane as she checked an IV line that hadn’t been in place when Bree left the room fifteen minutes ago. “But I came in with her lunch about five minutes ago, and found her in the middle of a seizure.” “Seizure? She’s never had a seizure before.” 153

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Diane pursed her mouth. “No. I know that. And we are very concerned about it. Especially since she hasn’t shown any signs of regaining consciousness yet.” Bree felt the world slowing down around her. “What does that mean? Have the tumors reached her brain?” But that didn’t seem possible. A CAT scan had been done barely two weeks earlier, and the tumors had shown no sign of spreading in that direction. “I’m afraid that’s a possibility. Sometimes these things don’t travel the expected, or predicted paths.” She adjusted the IV drip and then looked back at Bree. “When you were talking to her earlier did she seem herself? Was she at all distracted or disoriented?” Bree blinked. “Uh, not distracted exactly, but…” Diane waited. “Yes?” “But she said some things that didn’t quite make sense. And she seemed agitated.” The nurse nodded understanding. “Well, whatever the cause, we’ll know more in a couple of hours. The doctor has ordered a new scan to see what we we’re dealing with. On the positive side, she’s breathing on her own, and her heart rate is still steady. She might wake up any minute.” Or she might never wake up, finished Bree. “Is there anything I can do?” “You can sit with her as much as you like. And…” She sighed heavily. “And you can pray.” That wasn’t nearly enough. Bree couldn’t stand the thought of spending hours sitting beside a hospital bed, in an endless vigil. She could stay for a while. But if she sat with her mother around the clock, as Sloan had done with Craig, she thought she’d go insane. She needed to do something. She needed something constructive, something positive to focus on. As she watched the soft rise and fall of her mother’s chest, and listened to the reassuring beeps of the monitor she considered her options. By this time she had hoped to be helping Sloan with his plan for the big break-in. But now that seemed about as likely as her mother being healed by a twenty-firstcentury messiah. The idea of reacquiring the heirlooms had given her the illusion of being useful, of doing something toward helping her mother. If she couldn’t find a cure for her mother at least she could make her mother’s last days on earth more tolerable and possibly even meaningful. If Lydia didn’t wake up, however, all her pain and planning would have been for nothing. If her mother didn’t wake up there was nothing more that Bree could do for her. Sitting beside a bed while she withered away to nothing was small consolation for the loss of that dream. For the loss of her purpose. Bree blinked away a few unruly tears, and clasped her hands together as she considered the misery of all those around her—Sloan’s worry over the fate of his friend,

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and his determination to keep a secret seemingly at any cost; Franki’s hope turned to despair over the prospect of losing the first man she had truly cared about in a very long time; Troy’s fervent desire to rekindle a lost friendship and his continuing anguish over his alienation from a family that didn’t deserve him. Each of the Fearsome Foursome was embedded in their own private turmoil, with only a few meager sparks of hope to guide them forward. Was there anything she could do to help any of them? And possibly, at the same time, help herself? As she continued gazing at the profile of the woman who had raised and loved her, slowly, gradually the seed of an idea began to take root in her mind. And then a slow, gentle smile stole across her lips. There was something she could do. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but maybe it would be enough to give them all something to focus on besides their problems. She would stay with her mother a few more hours. But if Lydia didn’t wake up, Bree wouldn’t simply sit around and wait for the grim reaper to steal the last remnant of her childhood. She refused to sit around and play the helpless waif. She’d never been any good at it. She had people to see and things to do. And she intended to do them.

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Chapter Fourteen “What the hell were you thinking?” blasted Vance Elliott. Perry fell back in the face of his father’s wrath. He dropped into one of the leather wingbacks that faced his father’s desk. He hated the fact that he was relegated to the place of visitors and peons. He was no peon. He was a full partner in his father’s business. In fact with his ideas and vision, the House had flourished and expanded. The profits had tripled in the fourteen years since he had first taken an active role in the business. His father should be lauding him for his efforts instead of chastising him like an unruly child. He sat up straight and tried to address his father as an equal. “It would help if I knew what you were talking about.” “Don’t play innocent with me,” growled his father. “I know you, remember? I wiped and paddled your behind since the day you tore your way out of your mother’s womb. I’ve seen you plot and scheme from the playpen through to post-graduate school. I know exactly how your diabolical little mind works.” Perry’s head swelled just a millimeter at the compliment. “Exactly,” he said dryly. “I have so many brilliant ideas that it’s hard for me to pin down the one to which you are referring.” Vance heaved a sigh of disgust as he sank into his plush executive chair that should have belonged to Perry. He regarded his son with measured patience. “I had Sloan quaking in his boots. When I had him in here he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He still didn’t tell me what he knows, but he was so scared of what I knew that there was no way he was sticking around a moment longer than he had to. I’d have bet my eye teeth that he was getting ready to get the hell out of Dodge, and take the next plane back to that pseudo-civilization he calls home.” Vance pointed a regal finger at his son. “And then you went and messed it up. What better way to ensure he sticks around than to put his lover into a goddamn coma?” “He’s not his lover,” countered Perry, feeling slightly smug at getting the scoop on a piece of information ahead of his omniscient father. “I’m certain now that was a lie perpetrated to hide the real reason Sloan left.” But Vance stole his thunder by waving away the information as inconsequential. “That’s irrelevant at this point, isn’t it? And it’s hardly a surprise. Any way you look at it, they’re obviously good friends, and Sloan isn’t going anywhere as long as Craig is hanging at death’s door.” “I didn’t lay a hand on him,” grumbled Perry. “Don’t lie to me, Perry. I won’t tolerate it from you. Not anymore.”

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Perry just glared at his father. Let him draw his own conclusions. The deed was done, and regardless of who had done it there was no going back now. Vance huffed, obviously unconvinced. “Well, if you didn’t do it yourself, then you sure as hell paid or coerced somebody into doing it for you.” “Why?” shot back Perry as he sprang from his chair in a furious rendition of righteous indignation. “What motive could I possibly have to hurt some skinny Jewish writer who simply had the misfortune to hook up with Sloan Carver?” Vance tapped his fingers on the desk. “Perhaps you saw an opportunity to indirectly hurt Sloan, and thereby hurt your brother as well. Don’t think I don’t know how much you resented those two and the friendship they shared all their lives. Did you think I was blind to your social inadequacies? You never made friends easily. Never dated anyone longer than a week. And never showed any interest in changing your status as a social outcast.” “I had other things that were important to me.” Although he could feel his pulse skyrocketing, he managed to keep his voice even and under control. “Yes, I know.” Vance’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “I know all too well.” “Well, I’m sorry to be such a disappointment to you, Father,” he spat the last word out like he might spit out a chunk of rotten fruit, “but it seems to me, that out of your two progeny I’m the one who turned out the most like our distinguished patriarch. Maybe you don’t like what you see in me, because you see too much of yourself.” “You’re right about that.” Vance’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I see all the things in you that I would love to change about myself. I just wish you had inherited a little of my class and conscience along the greed and ambition.” “Oh, you’re a fine one to talk of conscience,” sputtered Perry as outrage and jealousy warred within him. He knew all too well the unspoken thoughts that his father was harboring. Golden Boy Troy had inherited all of his father’s desirable qualities. All that was good and virtuous in Vance Elliott had been siphoned directly into Troy’s bloodstream. Troy had inherited all the noble Elliott genes. It was ironic that the very things Vance loved about his oldest son were the things that had driven a wedge between them. Vance Elliott had fallen far short of Troy’s high ideals, and Perry suspected that secretly Vance thought better of Troy for it. Troy embodied everything his father had always wished he could be. Perry embodied everything he wished he wasn’t. Perry pointed his own accusing finger at his father. “You started on the road to The Dark Side long before I came on the scene. I just made it a little more profitable. That’s all. And now you judge me for doing exactly what you did? My only crime…” He spread his hands grandly. “I did it better.” “No,” said Vance slowly. “Not better. Our profit margin may be bigger since you came along, but at what cost?” Vance’s jaw muscles worked and his eyes drifted to the

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photographs on the wall. “Your way hurts people. I went along with it, and I accept that responsibility. But I’ll regret that decision for the rest of my life.” “You think you and your friends never hurt anybody before I came along? If that’s what you think then you’re deluding yourself, Dad. You hurt lots of people. Maybe not physically, but they hurt regardless.” “At least in the old days nobody died.” Perry kept his stony stare riveted to his father’s face. “You’ve bitched about that plenty over the years, but I’ve never seen you try to change anything. You like your house and your Mercedes and your pool and your collections too much to do that. Face it, Dad, you’re just as shallow and ruthless as I am. You’re just better at lying to yourself.” For the first time since the conversation began his father had no response. He made no lavish denials or fresh accusations. He just stared at those damn photographs like they were windows into the future instead of the past. After a few moments of strained silence, Vance dropped his head back onto the leather headrest and closed his eyes. “Dammit,” he whispered. “What are we going to do?” “It’s my mess,” muttered Perry, at once gratified by his father’s apparent acceptance of his words, and disgusted with himself for losing control. “It’s my mess and I’ll clean it up.” Vance lifted his head slowly and studied his son. “Are you admitting to having a hand in Craig’s attack?” Perry shifted in his chair and the leather squeaked. “Indirectly, yes. But I’m already taking steps to remedy it. I’m going to look after things right away.” Vance leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk. “I’ll leave you to it on one condition.” “Yes?” “Nobody else gets hurt. I’ve had enough of it. I won’t stand for anymore.” Perry stood and walked slowly to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and said over his shoulder, “It’s a little late to get sentimental now, wouldn’t you say?” He let a small smile curl his lips. “And don’t forget, I’m not the only one with a little blood staining my fingers.” “I never touched anyone,” whispered his father. “Yes, I know,” sneered Perry. “But that wouldn’t go far in a court of law, would it?” Vance’s face fell at the grim reminder. He almost looked like he might be sick, and Perry gloried in that. “Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together. All of us. If one goes down we all do. And I don’t think you’re any more ready to let that happen than I am.” With that he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

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He hurried down the hall, and quietly scolded himself. The entire Craig fiasco had been a mistake. He admitted that now. It had been a stupid plan borne of too much booze, too much bitterness, and too little self-control. His father was partly right. He had wanted to hurt Sloan—Sloan, Perry’s handsome, popular, successful antithesis. The man who had stolen his brother. He had seen an opportunity to make his brother’s best friend suffer. That much was true, but that wasn’t all of it. Not nearly. He had another, much more compelling reason for his actions. It had seemed so simple at the time, viewed through a beer-induced haze, but he hadn’t considered all the consequences. That wasn’t like him, and he intended to remedy the situation.

***** “Is there any more?” asked Sloan. He heard the slur in his voice, but wasn’t sure if it was due to booze or fatigue. He’d only had two beers. Maybe. Troy stood and sauntered to his fridge, his gait only marginally unsteady. He pulled open the door and peered inside. “Uh…yup. There’s beer, some leftover Riesling from a dinner party we had last week, vodka in the freezer, whiskey and more liqueurs than you can shake a stick at in the liquor cabinet.” “Why would I want to shake a stick at a bottle of Bailey’s?” asked Sloan. Troy lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Damned if I know. You’re the expert on words and idioms and all that shit.” Sloan dropped his gaze to his empty glass. “Funny, but I don’t feel like an expert right now. Not on words. Or women. Or much of anything.” Troy plunked another beer down in front of him. “Do I detect a note of self-pity?” Sloan shrugged and twisted off the top. He decided to forego formality and took a long pull directly from the bottle. “It’s not your fault,” ventured Troy. “What? Craig? You think I blame myself for what happened to him?” “Do you?” Sloan stood and walked to the patio doors so he wouldn’t have to face Troy’s scrutiny. “Maybe. A little. If I hadn’t brought him here he wouldn’t be in ICU, would he?” “No. But he might have gotten mugged in LA. Would it be your fault then for not bringing him here?” Despite his sour mood Sloan felt a grin tickle at his lips. Or maybe it was the beer. “You do the fatherhood thing pretty good.”

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To his surprise Troy didn’t smile. “Yeah, well, I try.” He lifted his own bottle of beer, but then set it down again without putting it to his lips. “Speaking of fathers, is Craig’s family on their way?” That question ripped away Sloan’s smile like a child tears gold paper off a Christmas present. He returned his gaze to the gray-shrouded landscape. The thunderheads were building—ominous, dark clouds swelling with their burden of moisture and energy. Soon a thunderstorm would rumble its way across the heavens battering plant life and sending children screaming to their parents’ beds. He used to love thunderstorms for that very reason, for the comfort and security of being nestled in between his parents under a cozy blanket, safe and sound while the rest of the world fell apart around him. But those memories were as distant and misty as the western horizon. Now it seemed like the world fell apart on a daily basis, and there was no one left to keep him safe. “Sloan?” prodded Troy. “Did you hear me?” “No. They’re not coming.” “What?” Troy sounded incredulous. “Why not? Don’t they care? I thought he said they were close and—” “I didn’t call them.” Sloan could feel Troy’s eyes on him like Superman’s x-ray vision. “Why not?” “Because he’s going to be fine. You don’t know his mother. She’d worry the warts off a frog. There’s no reason to put her through it. Because…he’s going to be fine. I’ll call her when he wakes up. I’ll…” He felt Troy’s hand on his arm. “You can’t face her, can you? Because you blame yourself.” Sloan ripped away and paced to the other side of the room. He grabbed his beer on the way past the table. “Why do you keep harping on the guilt thing?” “Because I think you’re drowning in the stuff and I think you need someone to throw you a life preserver.” Sloan tipped up the bottle and wished the alcohol was strong enough to sear his esophagus instead of just give him a case of the warm fuzzies. He shook his head and the Earth seemed to sway beneath him. “You’re crathy.” “I’m not crazy, and you’re too drunk to think coherently.” True enough. But at that moment the idea of coherent thought struck him as overrated. He had no desire to think clearly and fully grasp the circumstances he found himself in. In fact, Sloan had drunk more in the last few days than he had in the last year. “So?” he muttered. “You gave me the beers. I need something to numb me against your insane logic. So I feel a little guilty about sucking Craig into this. So what?” “That’s not all there is to it, and you know it.” Sloan set his feet a little wider apart to steady the Earth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 160

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“You still blame yourself for your father’s suicide.” If there hadn’t been a wall behind him, Sloan might have tumbled backward from the shock of that accusation. “What? Still? What makes you think I ever—” He shook his head, dumbfounded by the sheer absurdity of the idea. “Come on, Sloan.” Troy plunked himself down at the table with an air of exasperation. “I never said anything back then because I knew the wounds were still too fresh. But in the years after his death you walked around town like you weighed a thousand pounds.” “I’d lost my father, for chrissake. What was I supposed to do? Float around like a goddamn fairy?” “No, of course not.” Troy plowed his fingers through his thick, blond waves. “But it just seemed to me that there was more to it than that. It was the way you shut us all out. You still partied and hung out, but I could always tell that you weren’t really with us. Someone who is grieving is supposed to lean on his friends, share things and accept support. The fact that you closed yourself off to all that—to all of us—made me wonder if there was more to it than just grief.” Sloan’s only response was to slug back the rest of his beer. He didn’t want to acknowledge Troy’s allegations because that would mean acknowledging an entire menagerie of scary possibilities. Troy continued, undaunted by Sloan’s reticence. “I’m sure that’s hardly an uncommon reaction, but it doesn’t make it healthy. And it doesn’t make it right. You have to know how wrong it is to blame yourself. It…” Troy seemed to choke on the words. He turned his gaze to the gathering storm. “It was his decision. No one else’s. You have to accept that.” “I do,” muttered Sloan. “Of course I do. I just said that. I don’t feel guilty about Dad. Okay? Can we move on?” Troy shook his head in frustration. “What about Bree?” “Bree? How the hell did she get into this?” “I think that’s why you and Bree didn’t make it. I think you need to face that as well. I think you pushed her away because of the guilt of letting down your father. You thought you didn’t deserve her. You didn’t deserve happiness.” Sloan studied his friend carefully. “Are you sure you’re not projecting your own insecurities onto me?” Troy’s face remained carefully blank. “What does that mean?” Sloan let out a drunken snort. “Like you don’t know. You had a hell of a time accepting the fact that Carolyn wanted you. She had to practically beg you to marry her, and even then you doubted yourself, and her, at every turn.” Sloan had spent the hours after Troy’s bachelor party convincing his best friend that Troy Elliott could make Carolyn DeWitt happy. He’d finally succeeded, but Sloan knew Troy’s battle with insecurity and poor self-esteem couldn’t be won so easily.

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Troy took a deep breath and said without conviction, “This isn’t about me. It’s about you.” The defense was weak, but Sloan didn’t have the energy to pursue it further. Besides, Troy was right. This wasn’t about him. Suddenly a tidal wave of exhaustion washed over him. At that moment all he wanted to do was lay his head down on the table and go to sleep. The dark silence of blissful slumber beckoned to him like a Siren’s call, but he had to resist. He had to stay awake a little longer. He might be irritated with his friend and his crackpot theories, but those theories had their roots in friendship and a sincere concern for Sloan’s welfare. Sloan had to finish this conversation. He owed Troy that much. “All right.” He frowned at his beer. “What was this about again?” A grin flitted across Troy’s face. “You and Bree.” “Right. How I apparently pushed her away.” “Do you deny that you did?” Sloan had to force his brain into action. “Maybe I did. But maybe it was for her own good. Do I have to remind you, that from the day Bree and I started dating we couldn’t last longer than three months before we had a big blowout and broke it off. Maybe we didn’t make it because we weren’t right for each other. And maybe I was just trying to save us both the years of anguish it would have taken to figure that out. You ever think of that?” “Nice try, but no dice. For one thing, you’re not that selfless. And for another, that theory just doesn’t wash. You two may have fought like tigers, but even when your claws were out and your teeth were bared any idiot could sense the energy that crackled around you. Even when you hated each other, you loved each other.” Troy paused and swirled the beer around in his bottle. “And I think maybe she scared you too, because you were afraid that if anybody could see what was eating away at you, it was her.” “Well…” said Sloan with a resigned shrug, “if anything was eating away at me it wasn’t guilt. You’ll just have to trust me on that one.” Troy glared at him with those x-ray vision eyes again. “Okay. But what about now? What about in the years since you lost your mother?” Sloan swallowed a clod of alarm that had congealed in his throat. “Lost?” Troy didn’t blink. He just kept staring at Sloan, burning off the sheen of fancy lies and Hollywood glitter that coated his skin like a protective armor. He forced a chuckle but the sound was as hollow as his lies. “I didn’t lose her, I just misplaced her, that’s all.” Troy’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m serious, Sloan.” Sloan lifted his beer and slurped another few drops. “Well, I’m not. I don’t want to be serious. In fact I’m about as far from serious as you can get. And talking about my mother puts a strain on my silly quotient, even drunk. So, let’s not talk about her.” He

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plunked the beer bottle down and a little sloshed onto the table. He glanced at Troy’s beer. “You’re slowing down in your old age, Troy-boy. I remember the days when you could drink me under the table. You’re getting too respectable. I think you need me to corrupt you again.” Troy blew out a long, slow sigh. He traced a finger down the neck of the bottle. “You’re right, you know. I do miss you, Sloan. More than you can imagine. I’ve got all these great women in my life, you know? There’s Carolyn and Bree and Franki. They’re all sweet and smart and supportive, but…” He looked at Sloan and a host of indefinable emotions played across his features. “But I don’t have a brother or a father. I haven’t for years. And I haven’t had a best friend since you.” He stopped talking and the thunder chose that moment to announce its intentions. A great clap that rivaled the birth of the universe rolled toward them over the water, and brought with it a wall of water. Rain pelted the windows and drummed on the roof, the sound sad and infinitely lonely. Sloan had no idea what to say. “I miss having a drinking buddy,” continued Troy, “and somebody to complain to when the wife asks me to wash the dishes. I want to have a buddy who’ll come along when I take David fishing—” “I’ve given up fishing,” muttered Sloan around the knot of emotion that had formed in his throat. “So you’d sit on the shore and complain. Believe it or not I miss that too.” Sloan sniffled and gazed at his beer as if the answers to the mysteries of life and friendship could be found in the tiny bits of effervescence that floated to the top. “I miss all that too, but I don’t know what to do about it.” “That’s easy. Come home. You’re successful. You have a name now. You could write anywhere in the world. Why not do it here?” Sloan felt himself being tempted by Troy’s words. They tugged at him, teasing him with promises that could never be fulfilled. “Because you all remind me of too much.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Remind you of what?” To his own surprise Sloan exploded from his chair, but he lacked direction. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do with himself, so he just paced to the window and stared out into the tempest, his vision clouded by a mist that had nothing to do with the storm. “Of him. And of her. I miss them, too. God, you can’t know how much. And being here, and around all of you, just makes it hurt all over again.” Troy considered that in silence for a moment before saying, “I know you miss your dad, but your mom? You’ve never expressed any regrets over what happened. You still seem so angry at her. Are you sure she deserves that?” “Yeah, I’m sure,” he whispered as he leaned against the glass of the patio door. He knew it was insane but he had the odd sensation that his body was losing its cohesion. It must be a strange effect of the beer, but he felt about as solid as a puff of cotton candy.

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And he thought that if he just stepped out into the torrential downpour he would dissolve completely, leaving nothing behind but a sweet, sticky residue. “I hate her,” he heard himself say. “And I hate what happened. But I love her, too and I miss her. I want her back. I just can’t have what I want.” He closed his eyes and listened to the deep, rumbling echo of God’s mocking laughter. “Maybe you can, Sloan. Don’t be so quick to dismiss her. You need to make peace with her. And with yourself.” But Sloan barely registered Troy’s words. He couldn’t focus on anything at all, because at that moment the clouds rolled right in through the glass and enveloped him in their cool, damp cloak of darkness. He let it happen and wondered idly if this was how it had felt for her. To just slip into oblivion, never to return.

***** Troy caught him as he crumpled. “Dammit,” he muttered as he draped Sloan’s arm across his shoulders and began to drag him toward the guest room. So much for his grand interrogation plan. Years of experience had taught him that booze tended to loosen Sloan’s tongue and impair his judgment. And Troy had hoped that, combined with Sloan’s fatigue and distraction over Craig’s fate, might be just the ticket to coax Sloan into unburdening himself of the secrets he had tucked away in that battered and abused soul of his. But Troy’s scheme had fallen to the effects of exhaustion and one too many slugs of the amber swill. Troy dragged him into the third bedroom that now served as a home office and guest room in times of need. A secretary’s desk in the corner housed his computer and a brass daybed heaped with a mountain of chintz-covered pillows hugged one corner of the otherwise empty room. He remembered a time when this room had been bursting with furniture. A bassinet, crib, change table, and chest of drawers all painted in vibrant colors, had barely fit within the meager four walls. Posters of smiling clowns and purring kittens had decked the walls, and a giant teddy bear had peeked out from his spot behind the door. All of that had filled the room with a sense of purpose, and their hearts with a sense of hope. But those things had long ago been relegated to the depths of the basement, and eventually sold off to the highest fertile bidder. Only the parade of grinning, yellow ducks that marched around the room on a strip of wallpaper border remained to testify to the loss of their dreams of a house that echoed with the laughter of a half dozen children. He settled Sloan on the daybed and pulled up the quilt. He tucked him in like a child, smiling as he recalled doing the same thing for his son…oh, about a million times or so. And then he thought how much he would miss it when David got too old to get a goodnight kiss from his old man every night.

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David. God, how he loved that boy. Carolyn often referred to their son as their surprise gift from God. They needed to be thankful for the favors they had been granted, rather than dwelling on the things they had been denied. He was a treasure to be cherished. Their miracle baby. Well, David was certainly a miracle, but not the miracle that Carolyn believed him to be. In a private meeting with the fertility specialist Troy had been given the results of his tests and he’d been told, point blank, that his sperm count was low. Very low. So low that even with “washing” and “concentrating” techniques, the chances of conceiving a child had been negligible. Of course they’d attempt it, but Troy needed to know the odds and make his decision accordingly. And so he had. He’d decided that Carolyn’s desire for children, paired with her strict Catholic upbringing, might just mean the end of their happily-ever-after. And so, with Perry’s help and his father’s money he’d made sure it happened. They’d lined a few palms and chosen a suitable donor—one who resembled Troy physically and wished to remain anonymous. Carolyn would never know that the child she carried had been fathered by another. She had gotten the only thing she’d ever really wanted in life, and still her Catholic conscience could remain clear. They had a child, and Troy kept his family and his life intact. It had been the best decision at the time—the only decision. But it had tied him to his brother and father in ways he’d never anticipated. Troy loved and cherished his son, wouldn’t trade him for a thousand cuddly babies in golden cradles. But, ironically, David’s very existence burdened Troy and had the potential to shatter his entire world. Sloan muttered something in his sleep and Troy wondered if he, too, had lost his soul somewhere along the way. What made a man abandon the home and the people he loved? And what made him lie about things no sane man would ever lie about? Considering the way Sloan had treated him, by all rights he should have come to hate Sloan years ago. But he’d never been able to bring himself to that point, and he still couldn’t. People shook their heads with wonder, saying that Troy had let Sloan walk all over him, but they couldn’t possibly understand. After all, how could he presume to judge his friend? Especially when he had his own set of sins to account for. Sloan may have disappointed him, but had he not told his own lies, and made his own omissions? In a strange way he had taken a comfort in Sloan’s fall from grace. It meant Troy wasn’t alone in purgatory. Now, looking down at the snoring, slobbering face of a man that Troy had known as long as he had known his own name, he knew he would do whatever he had to do to protect his friend. And his family. Maybe the truth didn’t really matter. Maybe forgiveness was the key. And maybe, just maybe, Sloan would do the same for him someday. Troy just hoped he would never have to find out.

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Chapter Fifteen Franki’s eyelids drooped, but she determinedly forced them open and trained them on her patient. His eyes remained closed, the lids so pale as to be almost translucent. A fine spattering of freckles peppered his nose. They had been virtually invisible before beneath his California tan, but now even the kiss of the sun couldn’t seem to camouflage his pallid complexion or the angry eggplant colored bruise over his eye. She touched his cheek and felt its warmth. Small comfort, but she would take what she could get. At least they had moved him out of ICU. The private room was hardly The Plaza, but at least it was quiet and it meant that she was left alone with him occasionally. She was thankful for the nurses’ reassuring presence, but still relished the brief reprieves from their watchful eyes. Unfortunately, however, now was not one of those times. One of the duty-shoe brigade had come in a few minutes ago to check his vitals, and she seemed loath to leave. Franki tried to ignore her as she bustled about the room. She tucked her legs up underneath her on the squeaky vinyl chair, and settled in to wait. She concentrated on the steady bleep of the heart monitor, but rather than keep her awake, the steady rhythm, coupled with her state of semi-exhaustion began to lull her to sleep. But just as her eyelids began to droop, Craig stirred and she snapped to attention. “Craig?” She glanced at the nurse but the woman just shook her head. “It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t get your hopes up.” Franki’s heart sank back to her toes and she slouched back into her chair. Her eyes were just beginning to droop again when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of the floor receptionist, a girl so young and bright it hurt Franki’s tired eyes just to look at her. “Mmm?” she mumbled. “There’s someone out in the hall who would like to see you,” whispered the girl. Franki unfolded her legs and planted her bare feet on the floor. “Really? Who is it?” “He says he’s your brother.” The thickness of the ice that instantly coated Franki’s heart rivaled the depth of the polar ice caps. “I don’t want to see him.” The girl’s mouth set in a grim line. “I really wish you would. He begged me to beg you to come out and…” She pursed her lips again. “And he looked like he might cry. I really don’t wanna see that.”

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Franki tapped a finger on her leg and glanced back at Craig. “Don’t worry,” said the nurse with a smile. “He’ll still be here when you get back.” Franki didn’t appreciate the humor, but she supposed that was true enough. Besides, maybe she needed to stretch her legs and loose a little bit of the tension that had built up over the last few hours. And there was no one better to loose it on. She stood and tugged her shorts down to cover a measly bit of thigh. “All right. Lead the way.” “He’s just outside,” said the girl as she led Franki toward the door. She stopped with a hand on the pull. “You can’t miss him.” “Right,” mumbled Franki as she followed her out. “Kinda like you can’t miss a woolly mammoth in your front yard.” She stepped out into the hall and there stood her favorite mastodon. “How is he?” Derek’s whisper could have put a trumpeting bull elephant to shame. He was wringing his hands and his eyes did, indeed, look a mite puffy. But Franki kept her heart as hard as the Canadian Shield. “What the heck do you care?” she hissed. “And what are you doing here, anyway? I told you I never wanted to see you again.” “Oh, come on, Francie,” pleaded her brother. “You didn’t mean it.” “Like hell I didn’t.” “I said I was sorry. What more do you want?” Franki noticed a small cluster of nurses strolling in their direction, and hastily tugged her brother toward the small waiting room at the end of the hall. “How about a full confession to the police?” Derek blanched. “You’re not serious.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Serious? Serious? You…could…have…killed…him.” She said the words slowly in an attempt to burrow through his four-inch-thick skull. She didn’t know where her mother had found the gall or the passion, but somehow Marie Waters had conceived her son out of wedlock. There was no way he shared all of Franki’s genes. “I didn’t mean it,” he whined. “I told you. I just drank too much, and what with all the stuff Perry was saying…” Franki’s mouth had opened a fraction in preparation for the delivery of a tonguelashing that would have sliced about three inches off Derek’s pecs. But his last comment froze her lips mid-scold. “Perry? What does Perry have to do with this?” He blinked and a pair of whale-tears leaked out of his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you?” Franki took a step back for fear that her proximity would tempt her to physical violence. “No. You just kept babbling on about how gullible I was and how you thought he was hurting me, and how could I do that with a scrawny little fag in the first place. All kinds of things that were just so sweet and caring they just about made me want to

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pick up the kitchen cleaver and slice and dice your skull.” She threw up her hands. “When have you ever known me to be gullible or naïve, Derek?” He shifted his eyes to the door as if hoping for rescue. “Hmm? You’re the one who believes that Mom and Dad only did it twice, and that Jesus was really an alien.” She couldn’t help herself. She stepped forward and grabbed him by his Molson Canadian T-shirt. “And you’re the one who believes everything that falls from Perry Elliott’s lips. God, I should have known he had something to do with this.” “He was just worried about you, that’s all. We both saw what you two were doing down on the beach and—” “You watched us?” She released his shirt and dropped her hands to her sides. She watched as color flooded Derek’s face until it veritably glowed. That was all the answer she needed. “God. You let him talk you into this, didn’t you? And you call me gullible.” “He didn’t tell me to do it. He just…” He shrugged and dropped into a chair. The metal supports groaned in protest. “He just said that guys like that should keep to their own kind. He said Craig might give you a disease or something. And he said it would serve him right if he got beat up someday. I’d had a lot to drink and—” “And it all sounded like The Sermon on the Mount to you.” His shoulders drooped and then they began to tremble. “I’m sorry, Francie. I-I just didn’t want you to get hurt again. I could never stop it before. For the first time I thought maybe I could help. I could do something. I was so drunk I don’t even really remember doing it. I just remember waking up in the car with a ski mask on my lap and-and a kn-knife on the seat,” he stuttered. “I was just up the street when I saw the ambulance come and take him away.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. He didn’t look at her. “I panicked. I ran. I didn’t know what else to do.” Franki sat down beside him and draped her delicate hand over his sausage-link fingers. He stared at their hands. “Ever since Dad died I felt like it was my job to take care of you and Mom. I just…” He swiped at his eyes. “I just never knew how. You always seemed so sad, and I just hated to see you cry. Even when you would date all those guys and prance around in your makeup and your fancy dresses, you still didn’t really seem happy. But I never knew what to say, or what to do to make it better. I still don’t. You were the one that was smart like Dad. I was just the big, dumb—” “Stop it!” she whispered, suddenly battling her own emotions. “You’re not dumb. I’ve never called you that, and you’re not, okay?” He nodded, but his chin barely lifted from his wide barrel chest. “You’re just… You’re just sweet. And maybe a little naïve. And protective.” She smiled as she recalled the day Sloan had invoked a curse on Derek’s head and sworn to

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hate him for the rest of his life. “Like that time you beat up Sloan for me when you thought he had dumped me for Bree.” Derek frowned, obviously confused. “But you yelled at me for an hour, and then didn’t speak to me for a month.” “I know. I couldn’t let you know this, but I thought it was sweet. It was nice to have someone who cared that much. We weren’t together and Sloan didn’t do anything wrong, but even though it was unintentional, he hurt me.” She quirked a half smile. “It was kind of nice to see him hurt a little bit, too.” Derek smiled, but a moment later it slipped off his face. “I hurt him, too, didn’t I? Sloan, I mean. I didn’t think about that part. If he…loves Craig…” He grimaced as if the words tasted of cod liver oil. Franki gripped his hand a little tighter. “He does, but not the way you think. I told you this before, but you were so distraught I don’t think you heard anything I said. He’s not gay, and neither is Craig. Remember that. And…” She licked her lips as she searched for the right words. “And even though you did something reckless and, yes, stupid, you should know that I appreciate the sentiment. Really, I do. But you have to stop listening to Perry. I’m not sure why, but I think he manipulated you into beating up Craig. I wish you wouldn’t talk to him at all. He’s bad news. You two have nothing in common. You’re nothing like him” “But he’s my best friend.” “Then get a new one.” He seemed to consider that. “So, you don’t hate me?” “No,” she sighed. “I don’t.” “But…what if he doesn’t wake up? You must really care about him to sit in there all this time. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do…” “He’ll wake up,” she declared. “And he’ll be fine. Jesus! I’ve never gotten anything else that I’ve really wanted. Surely Santa Claus will give me this.” “And what about me? Do you think I should really go to the police? I’ll do whatever you say. You know best. And…I guess I owe you.” Franki chewed on her lip again. “You should. I know you should. But…let’s wait a bit. Let’s wait and see what happens. The police will always be there.” She stood abruptly and smoothed out her shorts. “Now get lost. I’ve got a lover to tend to.” He pushed himself up out of the chair and trudged toward the doorway. He stopped on the threshold and said to the floor, “Do you love him, Francie? I mean, really?” “I don’t really know. Maybe. And I gotta admit, I’d kind of like a chance to find out for sure. But I do know one thing.” Derek looked at her and blinked big sleepy eyes. “What?” “He makes me happy. That’s a step in the right direction.”

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His face a mask of pain and regret, Derek nodded and turned around. His broad back disappeared out the door, and Franki blew out a breath of confusion and shame. For almost as long as she could remember she had scorned and despised her little brother. Gawky and stupid, he had never seemed to run out of new and innovative ways to embarrass and humiliate her. From the time he had scored the winning touchdown—for the other team—to the time he had burst into her office and discovered her and Joe Something-or-other in the midst of negotiating the final terms for the sale of his house. Derek thought she needed rescuing from Joe’s groping paws, and had come dangerously close to amputating the offending appendages—all three of them—before Franki had been able to calm him down, and rescue her client from the very jaws of a humiliating death. But no matter how clumsy and oafish, no matter how naïve and uncultured, no matter how much she tried to pretend that he was a distant cousin from some obscure Neanderthal branch of the family, she couldn’t change the fact that they were blood. And she couldn’t change the fact that his heart was in the right place and that he cared about his big sister. And maybe she didn’t want to change that. A clap of thunder boomed outside and she had the totally illogical feeling that Craig might be afraid and needed her. She gathered her thoughts back together and took a step toward the door, but drew up short. Bree had appeared in the doorway. She frowned in concern at the uncharacteristically hard expression on her friend’s face. “Bree? Is something wrong?” “Mom’s in a coma,” she said flatly. “Oh God, Bree. I’m sorry.” Bree’s expression didn’t change. “And I came down to talk to you about an idea I had to help Sloan.” Shaken by the odd pair of comments, and their straight-faced delivery, Franki sputtered, “Oh? Is-is that all?” “You can’t keep this to yourself.” Franki shook her head in confusion. “Keep what to myself?” “Derek.” Franki felt a ball of dread knot in her gut. “What do you mean?” “I heard him, Franki. He beat up Craig. He almost killed him. In fact Craig’s life is still in jeopardy. You can’t just overlook something like that.” “He’s my brother.” “And he’s my friend, but so are Sloan and Craig. We can’t just forget about it.” “I don’t intend to. I-I just—” “You just what?” Bree’s eyes were frankly accusing. “It wasn’t his fault,” she sputtered. “He was drunk. He doesn’t even remember doing it.”

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“Drunk? As if that’s an excuse? You can kill somebody, and as long as you’re not really in control of your faculties, it’s okay?” Bree’s voice had risen to a surprisingly passionate pitch. Not that she didn’t have every right to be angry. No doubt the stress of her mother’s condition, and the entire situation with Sloan and Craig were taking their toll on Bree’s fragile emotional state. That could bring out the bitchiness in just about anyone. If anyone ought to know it was Franki. Franki propped her hands on her hips, and glared at her friend, feeling her own surge of bitchiness, and reveling in it. “You’re a fine one to talk about scruples and morals, my dear. Lying to Sloan, faking that big party, and then asking him to commit a felony for you? You can hardly cast stones at me for wanting to protect one of my own.” “Will you be quiet! I told you that in confidence.” “Exactly. I kept your secret and now I expect you to keep mine.” Bree set her jaw. “You just can’t compare a few white lies to this. This is assault. This is a lot bigger than a simple case of a little secret between girlfriends.” Franki felt the wind seep out of her sails. “And Craig!” groaned Bree. “For God’s sake. You care about him. I can appreciate that it’s a difficult situation to be in—your brother versus your lover. But…you can’t honestly just let this go and pretend it didn’t happen!” Franki flopped down in the chair, defeated. “No, of course not. But even so, I refuse to lay all the blame on Derek’s shoulders. Perry is the one who maneuvered him into doing it. He’s the one I hold responsible. He’s the one who should pay.” Bree didn’t move. She remained in the doorway, tall and slender, and as graceful and immovable as an elm. “Yeah, I heard a little of that. But I don’t get it. Why would Perry want to talk Derek into this? What does he care who you’re sleeping with, or who Sloan’s sleeping with, for that matter?” Franki stared at Bree’s feet as she considered that question. Gradually, as she sifted through the layers of remorse and guilt over years of belittling and ignoring a kid brother who adored her, the rage that had been put on the back burner in the face of Derek’s tears and babbling, began to surface. The anger felt good. It sure felt a hell of a lot better than the absolute helplessness she felt sitting beside Craig, and watching him breathe. The anger made her feel like she was doing something. It was an illusion, but it was all she had. And it cleared her head. Certainly Derek had a reason to go after Craig. He had wanted to protect his sister. But Perry? He was a homophobic moron, but Derek was his friend. And to incite his friend to assault, and thus risk his safety in the process…all for the sake of putting a queer in his place? And if that was the case, wouldn’t he have picked Sloan, rather than a virtual stranger like Craig? What did he care if Craig took advantage of Franki? Surely, after what happened beside the pool, he’d love to see her get her heart broken, or better yet, get a raging case of HIV. Or maybe that wasn’t the right way to look at it. “Jealousy,” she whispered. It had come to her like a revelation in a bolt of lightning.

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“Jealousy? Perry? Of you and Craig?” Bree’s expression shifted to one of stark horror. “You don’t mean to tell me that you and Perry…” “No! Jesus, what do you think I am? He’s never touched me. But God knows he’s wanted to.” Bree stared at her, and then nodded slowly. “I had almost forgotten. He had a thing for you our senior year, and then for a couple of years after that. But that was so long ago. I figured he’d gotten over it.” “I thought so, too. But now that I think about it, there’ve been times over the years when I’ve caught him looking at me strangely, or he’s brushed up against me in the aisle at the supermarket…” Her voice trailed off as a shudder of revulsion passed over her. “Derek even mentioned that maybe I should go out with him. I laughed at him, thinking he was just desperate to set up his friend. And I just dismissed the rest as my imagination. But what if he asked Derek to ask me. What if…” Her voice faded away as the possibilities danced through her mind. “You think maybe he still wants you, and he saw Craig as a threat.” “I’m not sure,” she ground out from between clenched teeth, “but I intend to find out. As soon as Craig’s out of the woods I fully intend to march right up to the Elliott mansion and speak to him, even if I have to hack my way through that brick wall he calls a mother to do it.” Fleeting images of herself in black leather barreling over Lois Elliott and then standing over a drooling, pleading Perry with a cat-o-nine-tails, brought a welcome dose of satisfaction to her day. She caught a smile twitching at Bree’s lips. “Don’t bother.” “Huh?” “At least not yet. I have a much better way to get even with Mr. Perry Elliott, and I know just the man to do it.” “Sloan? But I thought he turned you down.” “I think, considering this new information, that I might be able to persuade him.” But then Bree’s smile faltered. “But eventually Derek is going to have to face the music for this. You have to promise me that.” “All right. If Perry gets a dose of justice, I guess Derek can take his lumps, too. But just let me wait and talk to Craig about it first.” She waited a heartbeat. “Okay?” Slowly, deliberately, Bree nodded. “Okay. But I have one favor to ask you in return.” “Favor?” “Don’t worry, Franki. This won’t hurt a bit. You might break a few nails, but I think, in the long run, it’ll be worth it.”

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Chapter Sixteen “Would you like some coffee?” asked his nemesis. Sloan rammed his hands in his pockets and stared determinedly out Bree’s kitchen window. The thunder had stopped, but the torrential downpour had completely undermined his threat to walk back to the Inn rather than allow himself to be pawned off on Sabrina. The Inn was barely five blocks down the road, but in his current condition—with a headache, and ringing in his ears that rivaled a twenty-one gun salute inside a mausoleum—he just couldn’t face all those huge raindrops pelting his fragile skull. Troy wouldn’t even give him a damn umbrella. He’d given Sloan the excuse that he had some things to attend to, and Carolyn was having guests at the house that morning. He refused to leave Sloan alone at the Inn, and Franki wouldn’t have him over at the hospital. So that left Bree. Troy had ushered him into the front door of Bree’s little one-and-a-half story cottage on the beach, and left. Troy had left him there like that, bruised and aching, alone and weak…in the den of a lioness. The whole thing reeked of conspiracy. What did she want with him anyway? His nuts were still raw from her last attack. Had Troy been coerced into luring him here so she could finish the job and castrate him completely? The thought brought on a fresh pounding behind his eyes. “Sloan? I really think coffee would help. And maybe some breakfast. I do a mean huevos rancheros.” His stomach rebelled at the prospect. “No, no. No eggs. But…” He regarded her suspiciously. “But I guess I’ll take the coffee and I don’t suppose you’ve got any Captain Crunch.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Caffeine and sugar. You haven’t changed.” She pulled open a cupboard door and began to take inventory. Sloan took in his surroundings. Knotty pine cabinets and granite counter tops gleamed beneath a clutter of small appliances, earthenware canisters, scattered cooking utensils, and a stack of dirty dishes that might have been left by a platoon of hungry marines. Bree seemed oblivious to the chaos. She continued perusing the contents of her cupboards. “No Captain Crunch, but how about some Sugar Crisp? It has some fiber and vitamins, but the sugar camouflages it so you’d never know it.”

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“All right,” he grumbled as he ambled into the breakfast nook and seated himself at the small glass-topped dinette table. He hated being able to see his toes while he ate, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. A moment later she set a bowl and a mug down on the placemat in front of him. Then dropped a pair of small white pills beside his bowl. “What are those?” “Drugs.” He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “You mean like cyanide or arsenic?” A smile peeked through Bree’s eyes. “Painkillers. I know you’ve got a killer hangover. I thought you could use them.” He popped them in his mouth and chased them with a scalding sip of strong black coffee. He dug his spoon into the sugared wheat puffs. “Why are you being so nice to me? Last time I saw you, you seemed to think I was the Antichrist.” She eased herself down into the wrought iron chair next to his. “I’m sorry about that.” He shook his head as he munched. “No. I had it coming. But I don’t get why it’s okay all of a sudden.” “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgiven you. But I felt sorry for you, what with Craig being in the hospital and all. And, I guess I’m not exactly faultless in this whole thing, either. I put you on the spot, and you panicked. I confess I still don’t really understand it all, but I shouldn’t be so hard on you either.” She took a sip from her own mug, and gazed at him from behind a lacy curtain of lashes. “Truce?” “What do you want?” To his surprise she chuckled. In fact she had to set down her mug for fear of spilling the stuff all over her white linen shorts. It took her a moment to compose herself, and when she finally spoke her eyes held a mix of sweet nostalgia and melancholy. And something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “You know me so well, Sloan,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “I don’t think anyone has ever known me like you did. You could always see right through me. I think that was why you used to make me so mad. I could never keep anything from you, and it made me crazy.” He allowed himself a grin. “I think it was mutual. It’s scary as hell to think that someone else can read your mind. It kind of puts a person on the defensive.” “Yeah,” she mused as she looked down into her steaming cup. “Maybe.” “So? What did you want? A back rub? Advice? Or maybe you’d like to meet Errol Trask. If so, I could probably swing it, but don’t get your hopes up for a sweep-you-offyour-feet romance. He only has three or four lines per movie for a reason.” He wasn’t sure why he was babbling on, but he had an odd sense of trepidation about this visit. He had a feeling that, whatever it was Bree was going to ask him, he wasn’t going to like it. “He’s got shoulders like Schwarzenegger, but the intellect of Elmer Fudd.”

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“I don’t want to meet Errol.” “Whew!” he said, digging in for another dose of empty calories. “Glad to hear it. I mean—” “Sloan. It’s about Craig.” His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His heart pounded against his chest, sending vibrations down his arm, and making the spoon tremble. He forced himself to swallow nonexistent saliva, and set down his spoon. “He’s… He’s not—” She rushed to cover his hand with hers. “No, no. Oh, God no. He’s fine. Well, not fine. I mean, he’s not awake, but he’s alive. I talked to Franki just before you got here. And he’s actually started to move around a bit more. She’s hoping that’s a good sign.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh. I should really get over there.” “Franki doesn’t want you there.” “But he’s my friend.” “And she loves him.” He nodded slowly. “Right.” He managed to shovel a spoonful past his lips and could almost feel his energy level begin to edge back up toward normal. “Well then, I should go talk to the cops. See if they know any more. I can’t believe that in a town this size they can’t come up with any leads on someone who would do something like this.” “Uh…” She plucked at a loose thread on her placemat. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips and waited. “I know who did it.” With a discipline and determination that surprised even him, he took a sip from his cup and gently set it back in its place. He appraised her with a steady gaze. “You do?” She nodded. “And you haven’t told the police?” “It’s…complicated. I wanted to tell you first, and decide where to go from here together.” “No. It’s not complicated at all. It’s actually very simple. You tell me and I kill him.” Bree rolled her eyes. “Is that a line from some Dirty Harry spin-off? You’re about as violent as Mary Tyler Moore on Midol.” Sloan ignored the jibe. He couldn’t blame her for reacting that way. Normally he would have agreed with her, but seeing his friend pummeled to within an inch of his life had awoken something inside Sloan that he’d never experienced before. When he’d found Craig, the primary emotion he had experienced had been raw terror—terror at the thought of losing his friend, and fear that maybe, at least in small part, he was to blame. But mixed in with that, in a significant proportion, was rage, a disturbing, primal, violent rage at the person who would dare attack someone that he 175

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cared about. And Sloan knew that, if focused on the right target, such a rage could be a deadly thing. “Fine,” he said with a forced nonchalance. “I won’t kill him. But I would like to know who it is.” He batted his eyes. “Please?” “Derek.” Sloan erupted from the chair, sending it crashing to the floor. “What? Derek Waters? Why the hell would he want to hurt—” His mouth dropped open as the possibilities hit him. “Franki.” Bree nodded miserably. “He’d been drinking, and he saw them together. He thought he was protecting her from Craig’s bi-sexual usury and depravity. Franki’s talked to him and he feels horrible about it.” “Horrible?” he raved. “Horrible? He’s got a little twinge of conscience-itis, and Craig may be a vegetable. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?” “Sloan, there’s more to it than that.” But he didn’t hear her. He didn’t want to hear her. “That stupid, pig-headed, ignorant—” He whirled on Bree and pointed a finger that unfortunately lacked the power to smite from afar. “When I get my hands on him, I swear I’ll…” “You’ll what?” Bree stood and planted herself in front of him, her green eyes blazing with their own brand of rage. “You’ll beat him senseless, and then get yourself thrown in prison? Or maybe you’ll strangle him and dispose of the body. Maybe you’d get away with it, but I hasten to remind you that he is Franki’s brother, and you can’t do that to her.” “I just want to talk to him,” he muttered to his feet. He felt like a scolded child and he resented her immensely for it. “I’ll just scare him a bit before I drag him down to the cop shop. I won’t really hurt him.” “Huh,” she snorted. “As if you could take him in a fistfight anyway.” He growled at her, but she waved away his irritation. “Besides, he’s not the one to yell at.” “What does that mean?” “You know how gullible he is. He was manipulated into doing the deed.” Sloan narrowed his eyes, sensing something big was about to drop into his lap. “So, who was it?” “Perry.” “Perry?” he repeated like an idiot. “Perry Elliott?” he said again, just to roll the name over his tongue and let it soak into his psyche. “Yes. We think he still likes Franki and was jealous of Craig.” “What? Why pick on Craig? Franki’s slept with a couple dozen guys over the last years. What’s so special about him?”

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“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “But whatever it is, Franki sensed it. Maybe Perry did too.” Sloan plowed all ten fingers through his hair, and held them there, tufts sticking up between his fingers like a dozen tiny horns. “All right,” he said slowly. “All right. Perry it is, then. Obviously the cops won’t be able to do anything if he merely suggested that Derek protect his sister’s honor. That leaves it up to me.” “And what do you propose to do?” “Him I can take. What better justice than to leave him just as bloody as his machinations left Craig?” Bree groaned. “God. Mister Macho strikes again. You disappoint me.” “Oh?” he growled. “So, what else is new? I seem to be so good at it. Why change now?” For a moment Bree looked chastened, but then she stuck on her defiant face again. “I thought you had more imagination than that, Sloan. Surely there are other ways to make someone pay, other than to pummel them with a pair of Paleolithic fists.” Sloan glared at her, sifting through a stack of rage and resentment, as he tried to figure out what she was getting at. And then it hit him. “You’re talking about your big request,” he said carefully. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re taking advantage of Craig’s situation to try and do a little manipulating yourself.” “That was uncalled for,” she hissed. “Was it? Do you deny that you’re suggesting that I go into the Auction House and relieve Perry and his father of a few choice trinkets…perhaps alongside that information you’re so anxious to get your hands on?” She continued glaring at him, hands propped on hips, eyes fierce, saying nothing. He glared back. “All right,” she said at last, her face tight and her voice tighter. “I admit it. But would it be so terrible if we both got something out of it? Vengeance for you, and a gift for my mother. Even if she never sees it, it will mean something to me.” He jerked his head back. “Why wouldn’t she see it?” “Because she lapsed into a coma yesterday. She may not wake up.” Sloan’s rage seeped out of him. “Christ, Bree. Why didn’t you tell me?” “You had other things on your mind. So, will you?” He considered. “I need information. I can’t go in there cold. I haven’t seen the place in years. I need floor plans, security information, everything. That’s no penny-ante operation. I can’t just crack open a window and fly in there like Peter Pan.” She bobbed her eyebrows. “You in green tights. I’d pay to see that.” He made a sound of disgust to cover his chuckle. “I’ve got all that,” she amended. “It’s in my room. Should I get it now?” 177

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“You’re kidding.” “No. I’m not.” She wasn’t. She’d been planning this for months. Of course she’d have everything ready to go at a moment’s notice. “So?” she prompted. “Should we get to it?” “You’re not going with me,” he warned. “I do this alone.” “Of course you do. I’m no idiot. I’d slow you down and make a mess of it. This is yours…if you want it.” Her body relaxed visibly, and she reached for her coffee cup. While he watched she took a languorous sip, and said over the rim of the cup, “So, do you, Sloan Carver?” And he had the odd sensation there was more to the question than met the eye. “Do you want it?” “Oh yeah,” he said through a grin, as the familiar rush of adrenaline scattered the last remnants of his worry and rage, and whatever else her words had kindled inside him. It felt good to have something to focus on again—a purpose, a job to do, a risk to take. “I want it, Chicky-Bree. I just need you to show me the way.”

***** Franki strode past the nursing station and headed to her usual post. She felt a little more comfortable now that she had showered and changed into something more serviceable. Her knees and one firm butt cheek peeked through the worn, tattered fabric of her oldest pair of jeans, but they were soft and comfortable, and there was nothing better for crawling around on all fours, scrubbing floors and wiping away cobwebs. She had an hour to spare before she met Troy over at the Carver place. Bree was meeting them there a couple of hours later, after she had finished with Sloan and checked in on her mom. Franki reached Craig’s bedside and ignored the disapproving glare of the latest edition of the stiff-and-sour nursing brigade. She bent low and kissed his forehead. Her lips lingered on the cool, smooth skin and she considered the irony of both her and Bree having a loved one held captive in the realm of dreams. She hoped they were dreaming. She couldn’t bear to think of him in the dark, all alone, and possibly afraid. She knew all too well what that felt like. Despite the buoyant, cheerful face she wore for the rest of the world, Francine Waters felt like she had been living in a dark, lonely place for the better part of her life. And now she sat beside the one person who had shed a glimmer of light into her dreary existence of hot tub antics and meaningless one-night stands. That had been a desperate search for something. She just hadn’t known what…until now. She despaired to think that the flame that had just barely flickered to life, might be extinguished before it got a chance to establish itself and burn just a little brighter. She couldn’t bear to lose him. Not when she’d just barely found him. 178

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Startled by the moisture that had accumulated beneath her lashes, she brushed away the tears and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “You have to wake up, Craig Sternberg,” she said with determination. “If you don’t, I’ll be really pissed. And believe me, you don’t want to see me pissed.” She rested her forehead against his tousled blond hair and whispered, “I have to go over to Sloan’s old place now. Just for a little while. I promised Bree I’d help her and Troy clean it up.” She groaned quietly. “It’s a gorgeous house. Or at least it used to be. You’ll have to come and see it when we’re done. Do you have any idea how much I hate that job? Cleaning, I mean. I think I’d rather scale fish than scrub a toilet. It’s all your fault, you know. Bree had this great idea to fix up the old place to make him feel better and take his mind off you. So, the least you can do is wake up, get off that lazy, scrawny butt of yours and help me scrub down a few walls. I mean—” “Don’t you ever shut up?” Franki’s head jerked back, her eyes wide with surprise, but Craig’s eyes remained closed. His breathing continued just as it had, and the heart monitor beeped incessantly. His nurse was poring over his chart and sipping from a cup of coffee. Obviously she hadn’t heard anything. Had Franki been hearing things? Had she finally slipped over the edge of the gaping pit of insanity? She licked her lips and whispered. “Craig? Did you say something?” “No. You imagined it.” She blinked in confusion and self-doubt, but then noticed a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Before she could stop it her hand shot out and slapped his shoulder. “You slimy, little—” “Hey!” His eyes flickered open. “Knock it off. I’m at death’s door, you know.” Finally the nurse seemed to notice the activity. She bolted from her chair and crossed to the bed. “Mr. Sternberg?” “Mmm?” he groaned. “Jesus, I feel like some maniacal homophobe took a switchblade to me and left me for dead.” Franki couldn’t suppress her grin. “Funny. That’s exactly what happened.” “Yeah, that’s real funny. Hilarious. A real laugh a minute.” “Mr. Sternberg,” chided the nurse who seemed disinclined to shed her dour mood. “I’m glad to see that you’re awake and fully aware, but I think you should try and relax. I have to inform the doctor that you’re awake, and then the police will want to speak to you.” The police. Franki’s elevated mood evaporated on a breath. Craig obviously remembered what had happened. He obviously remembered everything. “Relax?” Craig was whining. “I get the feeling I’ve been a bit too relaxed for quite a while. What day is it, anyway?” “Now who won’t shut up?” teased Franki. 179

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He glared at her, but then, to her surprise, his mouth eased into a smile. “Well, then, I guess we’re a perfect match.” Those few choice words speared her heart as surely as Cupid’s arrow. She tossed a pleading glance at the nurse. “Could we have a few minutes?” The matronly woman who had been the bane of Franki’s day now stood with her hands propped on her ample hips, and raked her eyes over Franki from head to toe. “All right. You’ve got five minutes, but you better not try any funny stuff.” Her lips broke into a grin. “A hospital can be a very lonely place. We don’t want to give the rest of the patients ideas, now do we?” And with that she whirled and walked away toward the central reception desk. “Ignore her,” whispered Craig. “Have your way with me. Please.” She laughed, and was surprised to find a few more tears crowding their way out of her eyes. “Don’t be silly. We have to wait at least until you get rid of your catheter.” “Oh,” he said with a grimace. “I guess that could put a damper on things.” But then she leaned in and languished a soft kiss on his lips. “What was that for?” She stroked his cheek. “For surviving, and waking up, and not abandoning me.” “Oh. Is that all?” His wan smile wrapped around her heart, but then she felt her throat tighten. “I’m sorry, Craig.” He frowned. “Sorry for what?” “Derek. I feel responsible for what he did to you. And I know that you’re going to have to tell the police all about it. But I just have to ask you to hold off for a few hours.” “What?” “Just to give him time to turn himself in. I know he should have done it sooner. But…he was so distraught. And, I know it’s no excuse, but he was drunk and—” “Franki!” His insistent tone startled her. “What?” “What are you talking about?” “What do you mean, What am I talking about? I assumed you remembered everything.” “I do. But I didn’t see the face of the person who attacked me. They were wearing a ski mask. They spoke in a whisper and it was so dark I didn’t even really get a good idea of build or anything.” Franki’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, shit.” “You’re telling me your brother did this?” “I…uh…I’m not sure.” “Franki…”

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“Oh God, please don’t hate me. I know what he did was terrible, and it just about killed me to see you lying here like this. I was so worried you might not make it, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But…but he’s my only brother and I just couldn’t bring myself to turn him in. He’s just such a big dope, and he let Perry talk him into it—” “God, will you be quiet.” She stopped her babbling. “Like I said, you talk way too much.” She could see the fatigue already glazing over his eyes. She should go and let him rest. He would need his strength when he relegated her brother to the status of jailbird and scum of society. She chewed on her lower lip and tried not to cry. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked softly. “What? The part about Derek turning himself in?” She felt his hand brush against hers. “No. The part about how you couldn’t stand the thought of losing me.” “Yeah,” she breathed. “I meant it.” “Okay.” He closed his eyes, apparently already exhausted. “Okay? Okay what?” “I won’t tell the police. I couldn’t stand to see you hurt like that. If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do.” Franki blinked stupidly. He couldn’t be serious. People just didn’t do that kind of thing. Derek deserved to be punished. Even she acknowledged that. She had hoped that Craig might give her just a little time to deal with things, but she hadn’t expected him to make that kind of sacrifice. At least, not for her. “Franki.” The nurse had returned and was holding a stethoscope to Craig’s chest. Against all logic, her tone had turned soft and conciliatory. “You have to go now. You’ve done your job, but now he needs his rest, and the doctor is on his way in to examine him.” “Oh…okay. I have to meet somebody, anyway.” “Franki,” rasped Craig around the thermometer that had invaded his mouth. “Tell Sloan thanks.” She frowned. “For what?” “For sitting with me.” She stared at him in shocked silence. Then whispered, “He’ll be in soon. You can tell him yourself.” He just nodded, and the nurse shooed her away. She turned around and walked slowly from the ward. Visions of mops and buckets and dust bunnies danced in her head, but, strangely, she couldn’t seem to keep the smile off her face or the bounce out of her step.

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In fact, she’d never felt better.

***** Carolyn leaned across the table and reached for his plate. “You hardly touched your steak. Are you feeling all right?” He smiled and batted her hand away. “Let me do that. You even did the barbecuing tonight. The least I can do is clean up.” She didn’t argue. She sat back down and reached for her wine glass. “All right. I suppose I’ll allow it.” He chuckled as he reached for her plate. “That’s awfully big of you.” She handed him David’s plate, which had been wiped clean in a record seven-anda-half minutes. He and a friend were already working it off at the basketball hoop in the driveway. “You didn’t answer the question,” she said over the rim of her glass. “Are you sick?” He shook his head and opened the dishwasher. “No. I’m just tired. I worked hard this afternoon.” Troy had already started the cleanup on his own. He needed something to do, and that seemed like as good a project as any. And as he scrubbed and straightened in that silent, old house that held so many memories, he had found his mind wandering over everything that had happened in the last thirteen years—over all his mistakes, and all his encounters with his family—and he had come to some conclusions and some decisions. They were disturbing, but they were long overdue. Now he just had to decide what to do about them. “And you’re going back tonight.” He tensed. “It’s important to me.” “No, no,” she said hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t mind that you’re doing this, but are you going to have help?” “Yes. Bree and Franki are meeting me there at eight or so. But the house is already looking better.” “I could get a sitter and help too.” Startled, he turned to face her, a plate dripping steak sauce onto the dishwasher rack. “You want to?” “Sloan’s your friend. So he matters to me, too. I’m glad he’s back in your life.” She grinned. “I’m just glad it turned out that I don’t have to worry he’ll steal you away from me.” He fought his own grin as he arranged the dishes for maximum exposure to the spray. “Nobody could ever do that.” And he meant it. He heard her chair squeak across the floor, and a moment later felt her arms around his waist. He straightened and turned around to rest his cheek on her hair. 182

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“So, do you want me to help?” she asked again. “No. Thanks for the offer, but…” “But it’s just for you guys. The old crew. The Fearsome Foursome.” She looked up at him. “Sometimes I envy you that kind of connection to your past. I have friends from high school that I see, but it’s nothing like what you four share.” “Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess we grew up together. Sloan’s the brother I should have had.” Suddenly, she pulled away. She grimaced. “I almost forgot. Perry called while you were out.” He felt a brief surge of panic. “What did you tell him?” “Nothing. I just said you were out. You don’t want him to know what you guys are doing?” Relief washed through him. “No. It’s a surprise for Sloan, and I’m afraid Perry might let it slip.” “Okay.” But he could see the doubt in her eyes. He hated to lie to her, hated it more and more every time he had to do it. And lately he’d come to hate himself. The lies had begun to grow, and take on a life of their own. They fed on each other and multiplied like rats in the dark. But it had gone too far. There was no going back now. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her, because then he’d lose her. And he’d rather hate himself with her beside him, than wallow in self-pity alone. “Besides,” he said with a playful tug on her braid. “Don’t you have some kind of committee meeting tonight?” Her face registered surprise. “Good grief, I almost forgot.” “No. You did forget. This year’s summer Bible School probably wouldn’t get off the ground if you didn’t have me to keep your schedule straight.” She huffed. “I may not be terribly organized, but I have other talents.” “Yes. I know.” He drew her to him again, and enclosed her in a strong hug. “You’re dedicated and passionate. You have an unfailing sense of what’s right, and you’re beautiful to boot.” “Yes. So true.” She ran her hands up and down his back. “You are extremely lucky to have me.” His response caught on his tongue when the patio door slid open and a sweaty David burst into the room. “Has it been long enough?” he panted. Troy checked the clock. “Five more minutes.” David had to wait forty-five minutes after eating before going into the pool. “Jesus!” he swore. “That just went up to ten,” said Carolyn evenly. “Oh, Mom!” 183

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“Do I hear fifteen?” David clamped his mouth shut. “And I expect to hear a plea for forgiveness in your prayers tonight.” He hung his head. “Yes, ma’am.” He slunk away, his shoulders heavy with the burden of guilt. As soon as he was out of earshot the two adults burst into giggles. “You are a formidable woman,” said Troy when he caught his breath. “I’m glad you’re on my side.” “It would go easier for you if you actually came to church once in a while.” He smiled, but it just felt like another lie. He let it slip away. “Sorry, honey. I’m beyond saving.” She shook her head and slapped his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyone can be saved. Nobody’s that far gone.” Abruptly she whirled around and opened the fridge. “I wonder if I have anything decent to serve them. Do you suppose Mrs. McAdam likes baked brie?” But she was muttering more to herself than to him and he was glad she didn’t expect an answer, because her last words continued to echo in his brain. Nobody’s that far gone. God, he hoped it was true. But deep in his heart, he knew it wasn’t.

***** Bree pushed away from the table and stretched. Her back ached and her eyes were gritty. A wide yawn pulled at her mouth. But despite her fatigue, she’d never felt better. “Don’t you think we’ve covered everything?” she asked as she tugged the old I’m with Stupid T-shirt from the waistband of her shorts. The thing had worn through at a spot on the left shoulder, and the pink clay stains had soaked indelibly into its fibers. Normally she wore it only during her sessions at the wheel, but had felt it a good choice considering her plans for the evening. And, of course, considering her companion. She smiled to herself. “Mmm.” Sloan’s gaze remained riveted to the floor plans laid out before him. “Are you sure this stuff is current?” “It’s a month old.” “Mmm,” he said again. Apparently not convinced. He looked different, she mused. He had lost that Hollywood gloss that had coated him like a cheap vinyl cloak when he first arrived. It had gradually peeled off in the aftermath of Craig’s attack, leaving behind a tattered remnant of the Sloan she knew. But now, as he had pumped her with questions, pored over the information and scratched illegible notes on a legal pad, gradually, almost imperceptibly, he had started to…well…glow. His clothes were rumpled and in disarray and his hair a mat of tangles

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from constantly being attacked by restless fingers, but his posture was keen and his eyes glittered like those of a four-year-old on Christmas morning. She leaned back against the wall and rubbed at the tension that had settled across her shoulders. “Don’t you trust me?” “No,” he said. “It’s not that. I do. It’s just that I’m used to working alone. I’m not used to relying on—” He stopped and his head snapped up. His Adam’s apple bobbed once before he averted his eyes and looked back toward the kitchen. “Uh…you got any more coffee?” “What did that mean?” she asked carefully, just as unsettled by his attempt to change the topic as by his actual words. “It means I want coffee.” He got up and headed to the coffeemaker. He picked up the carafe that was still half full of four-hour-old coffee. He poured himself a cup of sludge. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He took a sip and grimaced. He stared at the mug as if it held the secrets to the universe. “Sloan?” She pushed away from the wall and stalked over to him. She planted herself in front of him, so close she could smell the dark, burnt odor of his coffee mingled with the sweet, musky scent of his shampoo. He winced. “You’re not going to knee me again, are you?” “Answer the question, dammit. What did you mean by, ‘I’m used to working alone’?” “Just what I said.” “Working alone at what? When we were kids you always did this kind of thing with Troy. Now you write with Craig. That’s the only work I know of. What other work do you do?” Suddenly he shoved her aside. He stalked to the other end of the kitchen, and turned around to glare at her. “What is this? An interrogation? I’m doing you a favor here, you know. I—” “Bullshit. You’re doing this as much for yourself as for me. Now what have you been up to, Sloan Carver? Tell me, or I’ll take it out on those tender testes of yours.” “You wouldn’t.” He growled out the words, but there was a smile in his eyes. Feeling a little mischievous and overdramatic she sashayed across the room and resumed her position, mere inches in front of him. Quick as a cobra, her hand snaked out and latched onto his crotch. “Try me.” “Let go,” he commanded, although his voice had edged up a semi-tone or two. “Tell me or you’ll be singing so high only the dogs will be able to hear you.” Despite the ludicrousness of it all, a full-fledged smile burst across his face. “God, I’ve missed this.”

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The words took her off guard and she loosed her grip. “What? My hands on your balls or the insults and threats?” “Yeah.” Laughter surged up from her chest, but never quite made it to her lips. Something in the way he was looking at her diffused it like a pin bursts a party balloon. She released him and stepped away. His smile faded, but that incisive stare remained. “What do you think, Bree? You think I break into all those Hollywood mansions and steal their pretty little baubles in my spare time? You think I moonlight as a cat burglar?” Cat burglar. Something about that sounded familiar. It tweaked something in her mind that— “Oh my God. You’re him.” “I’m who?” “The Black Panther. The guy who’s been terrorizing Tinsel Town. I read about him in some Hollywood rag. His last heist was a few weeks ago. He stole some emerald or something from that airhead Morgan Something-or-other.” “It was a diamond-cut sapphire,” he said with a sniff. “And she didn’t deserve to own something that beautiful.” Bree found herself sitting in one of the dinette chairs. “Holy shit!” she breathed. “You’re a wanted man.” To her amazement he grinned. His dimple winked at her and his blue eyes danced. “You’d be surprised by how many.” She made a concerted effort to not find this humorous. “I don’t get it. You don’t need the money, Sloan. You were rich before you made it big in Hollywood. Why on Earth would you take such risks?” But even as she said it she knew the answer. “It’s simple. It makes me feel alive.” His gaze drifted to the darkening sky outside the window. There would be no breathtaking sunset over the bay tonight. The rain had stopped but the clouds remained. Instead of reflecting a swirling vortex of color, the choppy waters of Georgian Bay reflected the gunmetal gray of a low, angry sky. “When I’m in that dark, empty house, cracking a safe or rummaging through a freezer for the jewels that they’ve hidden in the ice cube tray, every nerve ending hums. I can see better, hear better, smell better. Sometimes I can almost taste the perfume the woman put on three hours earlier.” He turned to look at her again. “I need to feel alive, Bree. And I need to be something different than my father. I need to know that I’m not a safe, dependable, businessman in a blue suit. He traveled and got to see some interesting things and meet some interesting people, but basically that’s what he was.” His jaw muscles clenched briefly. “I need to know that I won’t end up like them.”

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Bree felt overwhelmed. Stunned. Although, strangely, not really surprised. Sloan needed to prove to the world—and to himself—that he wouldn’t end up putting a gun in his own mouth someday. He needed to know his life had taken a different path. But then something hit her. “Them?” For just a heartbeat Sloan’s face registered fear. But it passed so quickly she thought she must have imagined it. “Them. My dad. Your dad. God! Franki’s dad. All of them dead before the age of fifty-five. I plan to live, but if I don’t make it to tomorrow I’m not going to have anything left on my list of things to do. And I’m going to have enjoyed every damn moment of it.” “You enjoy risking your career, your reputation and your freedom just for the thrill of sneaking around in a dark house?” “Yes, I do. It’s my passion. One of them, at least.” In two steps he crossed to her and knelt in front of her on the floor. He placed a hand on her knee, and she felt an old familiar tingle at his touch. “What about you, Bree?” “What?” “Do you still have your passion? I’ve been away so long. I’m ashamed that I don’t really know that anymore.” “How do you know I have one at all?” she asked with a tongue that seemed to have swollen to three times its normal size. “Because I used to know you. And I know you couldn’t have changed that much.” His fingers crept up until they brushed over hers, which were resting quietly on her thigh. “So? Do you?” Feeling a little off balance, and like she had just had one too many glasses of wine, Bree grasped his hand and stood. “Let me show you.” She led him toward the back of the house and up the stairs to her studio. He followed quietly, and she found it strange that none of this struck her as odd. Sloan had just told her that he was, essentially, a criminal. She should have been outraged. She should be trying to convince him of the error of his ways, and coax him back into the fold of conformist society. But she neither felt compelled to do so, nor guilty for feeling that way. All she felt was a deep, burning warmth in the center of her chest. She pushed open the door to her studio and led him inside. She flicked on the light switch to expose the barely controlled chaos. She watched as his eyes roamed over the shelves of half-finished vases, pitchers and bowls. Several dozen vials of prepared paints and glazes dotted the shelves at irregular intervals. She had recently prepared a batch of “slip” for glazing, and her sieves were laid out neatly on towels to dry. Covered bins of the creamy slip were neatly arrayed under the worktable. However, the floor and table were spattered liberally with the evidence of her labors. In the far corner, sat the heart of her studio—the kiln, now cold and empty. Sloan awarded her a strange smile and then walked in.

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He crossed to the window that looked out over the bay. The sink beneath it was stained with a thousand different colors of glaze, and the taps crusty with dried-on clay. On the counter beside the sink, an array of brushes and potting tools sprouted from a pair of huge earthenware mugs. He fingered one of the brushes. “It’s soft,” he said absently, as if that surprised him. “I just cleaned them this morning.” He reached out and touched the ancient scale that she used to weigh out her balls. It was caked with the mud of a thousand creations. He scratched a little off, and tossed her a sidelong glance. “No. I haven’t cleaned that in a while,” she said in answer to his silent question. “It’s you.” She moved into the room and stroked her potter’s wheel absently, the cool smoothness of it comforting and familiar. “Me?” “Yeah. Rigidly organized and creatively chaotic, all rolled into one.” She chewed on her grin. “That’s me?” He stepped closer and took her hand. “Oh yeah. That’s you.” “It wasn’t Dad,” she said, her mood suddenly wistful. “He was always so organized… You know, everything in its place, and his studio always spotless. It used to make me crazy.” “And your work is different from his. It’s more elegant. More…lyrical.” Only a writer, she thought to herself. “Yes. His pieces tended to be larger and heavier. More masculine, I guess. He worked more with molds and coiling.” Once again Sloan’s eyes glided over the creations that lined the wall. “But still, you share his passion.” “Yes. I guess I do.” She was still holding his hand, but she felt no need to pull away. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” “What?” “Your passion helps to separate you from your father. My passion helps me to feel closer to mine.” “Is that all it is? Is that why you do it?” “No,” she said slowly as she considered things she had never really thought about before. “No, of course not. It’s so much more.” His silence compelled her to continue. “It’s the mystery of taking a piece of clay, setting it on the table, and not knowing what it will become. I dig my fingers into that cool, smooth mud, and I have absolute power over it, and it has absolute power over me. We don’t know where we’re going, but somehow we get there together. There’s something so basic and primal about the process, and the clay, and what it brings out in me…” Her voice trailed off and left only silence. Somehow silence was better.

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The words sounded crazy. They sounded all right, and all wrong. No words could come close to describing the creative process or how it made her feel. “Surely you must sense something of that in your writing,” she whispered. “Yes. But I think it’s different. Your work is more tangible, tactile. Sensual.” That word hovered between them for just a moment, before he spoke again. “The gratification is more immediate.” She turned her gaze to the wheel and nodded. “Maybe.” “Show me.” Her head swiveled back to face him. “What?” “I’d love to watch you work on something.” His request took her completely off guard. In fact the entire afternoon seemed a bit surreal, and she was having trouble remembering that there was a world outside these four walls. “But…you wanted to get some rest before you hit the Auction House.” “There’s plenty of time. And you don’t have to finish it. Just start…and see what happens.” Just start and see what happens. Good advice. That was exactly what she would do. She separated herself from him and walked over to her damp box. She sorted through the bundles of well-wedged clay—clay that had been lovingly worked and kneaded until it was smooth and free of bubbles and other imperfections. She ignored the bundles of stoneware and white porcelain. Finally, on the bottom, she found her last piece of red earthenware. It was the most common medium, and one of the easiest to throw. She unwrapped the moist ball and centered it carefully on the wheel. She hesitated. “You want to watch me use the wheel?” “Yes. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?” She nodded, surprised that he knew that. And pleased by it. She sat down on the old ripped office chair in front of the wheel. Methodically, she arranged herself and her tools. She dipped her fingers into the nearby jar of water and just as she was about to begin, she sensed Sloan move up behind her. She could feel the heat of his body radiating against her back. It prickled over her skin like a thousand tiny quills. She hit the switch and the table began to spin. She focused on the clay. Again, she dipped her fingers into the water and smoothed them over the cool, swirling surface. She squeezed the clay between her palms, curving it up into a cone that would release any remaining air bubbles. That done, she pressed it down, almost flat. She repeated the process, getting a feel for the clay, and allowing it to speak to her. Once it was centered and working to her satisfaction, she used her fingertips to gently form a hollow in the center, and build up the walls of her creation.

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She pressed and molded, and lost herself in the poetry of form and movement. She had almost forgotten that Sloan was there. But then he rested his hand on her shoulder, and a gentle warmth spread out from his fingers. The walls molded to her will. The form thinned and stretched, taking on a shape and a life of its own. Elegant. Graceful. She courted it and it drew life from her, and it gave back so much more. The freshness and excitement of a new beginning infused her with energy. And perhaps Sloan’s presence did as well. And then his hand trailed down her arm, over her fingers, and touched the clay as it whirled beneath her hand. “It’s rougher than I thought,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. “Mm-hmm. When I throw regularly my skin gets rough and callused.” “I can’t imagine any part of your body feeling that way.” As if to test the theory, he brought his hands to her face. She felt the cool dampness of the clay on his fingers as he traced her cheekbones and cupped her jaw. “See?” he murmured. “As soft as the petals of a water lily.” She smiled against his palm. “Only a writer…” “No. Only me.” He traced a line down her neck to the delicate skin at the base of her throat. “And you,” he murmured. She nodded and her hands fell away from the wheel as she tilted her head back and succumbed to the inevitable. His mouth claimed hers without hesitation or preamble, and his hands slid down to cup her breasts through the flimsy fabric of the T-shirt. But they both quickly acknowledged the impracticality of their respective positions. Growling in frustration, he let go of her just long enough to pull the chair back, clear of the work area. And she needed no coaxing. By the time he rounded the front of the chair she had stood, her hands eager to express the feelings that she had been denying ever since she had first laid eyes on him in that damn empty hall. She fumbled with the drawstring at his waist. “This is a mistake,” she mumbled as the knot gave way. “It always is.” His hands had already slipped beneath her T-shirt and unsnapped the clasp at the front of her bra. His thumbs grazed over her nipples, sending shock waves shimmering through her. But then he stopped abruptly, and she looked down to see that his finger had gotten caught in a tiny hole in the fabric of her T-shirt. It dotted the ”i” in Stupid. He grinned down at her. “But we just never seem to learn.” And he grabbed the material and pulled. The thin cotton tore as easily as tissue paper, and she found herself giggling as he ripped away the last remnants of the ratty fabric. “I’m not the Incredible Hulk, you know,” she groaned as his teeth raked across her breast and his hand sneaked under the waistband of her shorts. 190

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“Right.” He lifted his head until they were, once again, face to face. He arched one eyebrow and his fingers slipped beneath the whisper-thin fabric of her panties. “And I’m not ‘stupid’.” She laughed, suddenly feeling as free and uninhibited as a nineteen-year-old. She grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it over his head, forcing him to withdraw his hand. “This means war, you know,” he snarled, as he mercilessly pushed her shorts down over her hips. “Right.” She reciprocated. And there they both stood, breathing hard, hearts pounding, their clothes puddled around their ankles. His body hadn’t changed. It was still lean and lithe. Perhaps a few more hairs had dared to invade the baby-smooth skin of his chest, and his tan seemed deeper and richer than she remembered. But in every other way he was exactly as he had been before. She remembered him with her mind, and with her emotions and with her body. Every nerve ending hummed, and every follicle seemed to be standing at red alert. Every inch of her ached to touch him, but she held back, savoring the excitement and the electricity that charged the air between them. He leaned forward until she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. “Is the front door locked?” “No,” she breathed. “Perfect.” He reached for her, but she was too quick for him. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pivoted around, pushing him down into the chair that she had just vacated. She stepped out of her clothes and straddled him, settling down to seat herself on his knees, as a deep, satisfied laugh rumbled out of him. “You always did like to be in control,” he said as he massaged her breasts and began peppering kisses over her chest and throat. “And you always did like to tempt fate.” She cupped his sex, the meager distance between their bodies allowing her access and heightening the sense of expectation. She stroked and savored until he pulsed and throbbed against her palms, and his hands had stilled their fevered explorations. With a slow, lazy indolence that had her squirming, he cupped the back of her head and drew her mouth to his. As she continued to torture him with her hands, he invaded her mouth with his tongue, and parted her sex with his fingers. Involuntarily she moved against his hand, urging more and deeper explorations. Low groans of satisfaction mingled with tiny pleading whimpers. She wasn’t sure who said what, she was so lost in the sensations. Their voices became background music—a soft, sweet song of intimacy. He devoured her with kisses that blended together, one melting into the next as he withdrew and rejoined, barely giving her a chance to catch her breath or moan his

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name. He slipped two fingers inside her, and his thumb caressed the slippery pea of flesh until she throbbed with expectation. But he was the one who urged, “Now, Bree. Please.” It took only a nod from her to acknowledge the request. He cupped her bottom and lifted her off his knees. She closed her eyes as she settled over him, sheathing him inside her in one slow, smooth motion that seemed to fill a void inside her that she hadn’t even realized was empty. She laced her fingers through his hair and locked her eyes on his. “If you run away again I’ll kill you.” He nodded, his expression grim. “I know.” And then he bracketed her hips between his hands and she rode him. Their bodies pumped together in a rhythm as old as time and as fresh and exciting as a virgin’s first kiss. The boundaries of their bodies blurred, she lost track of where she ended and he began. She felt herself climbing toward a precipice, and just when she thought she couldn’t bear it a moment longer he touched her center with the pad of his thumb, and she shattered into a thousand pieces. She melted over him and felt his body go rigid beneath her as her contractions kneaded and massaged him to his own explosive climax. Spent and damp with sweat, she wrapped her arms around his back, savoring the smooth plane of skin, the hard ripple of muscle, and the pounding of his heart against her chest. “It’ll never work,” she mumbled against his shoulder, tasting his sweat. “I know.” He stroked her back and kissed her neck, and an aftershock shuddered through her body. “But that’s never stopped us before.” “We’ll be fighting again inside a week.” “And then we’ll make up. And it will all be worth it.” She pulled away and looked down at their damp, naked bodies as hopelessly intertwined as their lives and their dreams…and she smiled. “Yeah. I think it will.”

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Chapter Seventeen Bree pushed against the thick oak door. It gave way grudgingly, groaning and squeaking on its hinges as if it were playing a part in some Fifties horror flick. If not for the lights that burned inside the enormous foyer and throughout the rest of the house, she might have shivered a little. But she was feeling far too good to let a little case of the creeps get her down. “Hello?” she yelled, her voice echoing against the marble and oak. “In here!” It was Franki’s voice, but the acoustics were so bad, Bree had no idea where it was coming from. “Where’s here?” “The library.” Bree closed the door behind her and stepped further into the house. Before her a staircase swept in a grand arc to the second floor which housed the bedrooms, several bathrooms, and the room that had served as Jonathan Carver’s office. Bree knew that Sloan had never quite managed to make that room his own. He had told her once that, even four years after his father’s death, he could smell Jonathan’s cologne in the supple leather furniture and hear his voice in the soft whisper of the ceiling fan. Bree, however, had always doubted that Jonathan’s ghost haunted any one room of the stately old home. If his spirit lived on anywhere, it was in his son’s heart. She looked to her left. An enormous formal living room boasted a wide array of antiques and original artwork. High-backed chairs and couches in polished walnut and heavy silk brocades surrounded a polished marble fireplace. Beside it, a wrought iron rack still brimmed with logs and kindling that was probably so dry by now it might burst into flames if she so much as shot it a fiery glance. She glanced toward the dining room to her right where a dozen chairs upholstered in a rich burgundy velvet, still surrounded the heavy cherry wood table. She had eaten in that room only once, on the night of Sloan’s twenty-first birthday. Jonathan and Janelle had entertained them all royally. They’d pulled out all the stops, even convincing Janelle to hire a caterer to serve them champagne and canapés, rack of lamb and crème caramel. Jonathan had looked on his son with such pride, speaking wistfully of the unbridled recklessness of his own youth, and his hopes for his son’s future. Little did they know the truth of what he hid in his heart. Bree blinked and when she opened her eyes again she saw the rooms without the gleaming varnish of sweet memories. Years of neglect had robbed the house of its proud and regal air. The chairs and tables were in disarray. Paintings listed drunkenly

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on the walls and the shattered remains of two gilded mirrors and several Chinese vases littered the floors. Dust and cobwebs coated it all like a misty, gray shroud. She shifted her gaze to the hallway that stretched toward the back of the house. She scolded herself for wasting valuable time and marched on through the opulent foyer, past the formal rooms that she had always thought gave visitors a false impression of what and who the Carvers really were. The marble ended and her feet padded across softly polished strips of maple. The walls, covered in a rich flocked green, muffled her footsteps, and the burnished brass fixtures cast it all in a soft golden relief. The hall led to another, smaller foyer. Several doorways opened onto the room, and the library was one of them. “There you are!” moaned Franki from behind a stack of leather-bound tomes. Hundreds of books littered the thick Persian carpet, and Franki appeared to be in the process of sorting and organizing in order to get them back onto the proper shelves. Heavy oak shelves lined every wall of the library, stretching from the floor to the top of the twelve-foot ceiling. Only a bank of trellised windows and the wide double doors prevented the shelves and their contents from completely encircling the room. “I heard you come in ten minutes ago. Whatcha been doing?” “Just taking a stroll down memory lane,” she said easily as she sauntered into the room. Troy’s head popped up from behind the camel-back couch. “Well, your meandering can end right here. Just plunk your fanny down anywhere and start sorting. But watch your step. There was some broken glass. I cleaned it up and vacuumed as best I could, but you never know.” Bree she settled down beside Franki. “Did someone come in here and trash the place?” “Must’ve,” said Franki absently. “It would take an earthquake to shake all these books down. And I don’t think we’ve had any around here in about thirty years.” “The lock on the back door was broken,” said Troy. “Probably some kids out looking for action found it and figured it would be fun to break some vases and toss a few books around.” “Damn kids,” said Bree, her tongue planted firmly in her cheek. “Surely their parents should know better than to let them gallivant all over the countryside unsupervised.” Franki snickered. “Right. We would never have done anything so…juvenile.” Bree caught herself smiling in spite of the carnage that surrounded her. “Those were the days, weren’t they?” “Yeah. Now we’re old and responsible and have to spend our time cleaning up other people’s messes.” “Stop whining,” scolded Troy. “This’ll go much better if we try to stay as cheerful as possible.”

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“I still don’t know why we couldn’t just hire somebody.” Franki sneezed as she picked up another book and brushed off the coating of dust. “God knows Sloan can afford it.” “I told you,” said Bree as she inspected a first edition Hemingway. “Sloan said he didn’t want strangers poking around in his family’s things.” “Since when did he get so sentimental?” “Come on,” pleaded Bree. “It’s the least we can do, considering what he’s doing for me right now, and what with Craig laid up in a coma.” “Oh, I almost forgot.” Something in Franki’s tone set Bree’s radar on alert. “Yes?” “He woke up.” Bree blinked. “You’re kidding.” She didn’t bother waiting for a response. “When?” “About six hours ago.” “You little—” “Now, now. Be nice or I’ll abandon you and Troy and let you fight off those sabertoothed dust bunnies all by yourselves.” “Why didn’t you call me?” ranted Bree. “Sloan deserves to know. Jesus! He should have known before he headed out tonight.” “I tried to call you.” Franki huffed in indignation. “But first nobody answered, and then I got this endless busy signal. And there wasn’t time to drive out myself before Sloan left. How come you didn’t answer the phone, anyway?” Bree opened her mouth as a snappy retort formed on her tongue, but abruptly she shut it again. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “Let’s get back to work. I’ll just tell him as soon as he gets back.” She had dusted off three books before the heavy silence caught her attention. She looked up to see Troy and Franki staring at her. “What?” A slow grin spread across Franki’s lips like a cherry red stain. “You were doing it, weren’t you?” Bree lifted her eyebrows. “Doing what?” “You know. The nasty dance. The horizontal mambo. Slap and tickle. Take your pick. You and Sloan just fell off the wagon, directly into the sack…again.” “You’re nuts. We were just concentrating on the job, that’s all.” “Come on, Bree,” laughed Troy. “It’s written all over your face.” She turned away from them to set the books back on the shelf. She wasn’t sure why she was fighting this. It couldn’t stay a secret for long, especially considering how well Troy and Franki knew them. But, still, she had savored the secrecy. She didn’t want this time to be just another one of their copulate-and-separate cycles. She wanted this time to be different. They were older now. More mature. Surely they had grown up enough to make it work. Hadn’t they?

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“Am I crazy?” she breathed at last, voicing fears to her friends that she’d been afraid to acknowledge herself. “I mean…we haven’t spoken in eight years. He left with barely a word. I shouldn’t trust him. Since he’s back I don’t know what’s going on in his head half the time. If we do anything we should do it slow. Take our time and get to know each other again. And yet we spend…what?…three days together and wham! We’re humping like a couple of hormone-saturated teenagers again.” She flopped down on the couch, sending up a cloud of dust. “I don’t get it,” she whispered. “I just don’t get it.” Franki walked over to her and settled herself gingerly beside Bree. She draped an arm around Bree’s shoulders just as Troy joined them. He sat down on the other side and picked up her hand. “You don’t have to get it,” said Troy. “There’s no rhyme nor reason to this kind of thing. I think you two are just destined to be together. It’s as simple as that.” “There’s absolutely nothing simple about it. In fact I don’t see how it could be more complicated.” “You can work through just about anything if you love each other.” Bree sniffled and looked up at Troy’s liquid brown eyes. “It sure seems like you and Carolyn have it all figured out.” Only one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “We’ve had our share of complications. But so far we’ve managed okay.” “Yeah,” snorted Franki. “And now look at me and Craig. I’ve got absolutely no idea where that’s gonna go, but I’m sure as hell planning on finding out.” She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. Bree sighed. “So you’re saying I should just stick it out, do my best, and see how far it goes.” “I guess.” Troy squeezed her shoulders. “That’s all any of us can do. And you and Sloan have a history. A lot of shared experiences and memories. That’s worth a lot.” “Plus there’s the obvious,” added Franki. “Obvious?” Franki rolled those lavender eyes. “You love each other, silly. It just don’t get any better than that.” She uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again. Bree looked down at her hands. “Yeah. I hope so.” Suddenly Franki sprang from her seat. “Cheer up already. You’re boinking one of Hollywood’s hotties.” She grimaced and crossed her ankles. “Now, I hate to break up this little soul-sharing session, but I gotta go pee. Is there a toilet that works in this joint?” Troy chuckled. “I turned the water back on so we’d have water to wash with, but I think the lights are broken in both the main floor baths.” “Shit. Okay, I’d rather not pee in the dark. I’ll check upstairs.” She took a moment to collect herself and then bolted for the stairs. “With a little luck the seat will be down.” 196

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Bree laughed. “She seems happy, despite the bladder control problem, that is.” “Yeah. Craig is good for her. It’s about time she found a new obsession.” “Yeah. I let myself forget how hung up on Sloan she was. I hope this isn’t just another obsession, though. I hope she didn’t just latch onto him because he happens to be connected to Sloan.” “No. I shouldn’t have used that word. I don’t really believe that’s what it is. But I do think that she had to see Sloan again in order to let go of him. It’s easy to get hung up on a ghost—on an image of someone. Maybe seeing him again was just the therapy she needed. And maybe Craig just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” “Yeah. Maybe.” Bree slapped her thighs. “Well, enough of this procrastinating. There’s work to be done, you know.” Troy blew out a breath. “Yeah. I know. And we haven’t even looked at the bedrooms or the kitchen yet.” Bree craned her neck to peer out of the library toward the huge country-style kitchen on the opposite side of the foyer. She could just make out the gleam of the copper pots that still hung from a rack over the central island that housed a six-burner gas stove and double sink. Janelle’s pride and joy. And her family’s nemesis. “This is a big job,” Troy was saying. “I don’t know if we can manage it without help.” Bree’s response caught on her tongue when she noticed Franki standing in the doorway. Her face was waxen, her eyes wide and staring. “Franki? What is it? What’s wrong?” Franki licked her lips and her expression was an odd mix of anxiety and puzzlement. “I’m not sure. But…” Troy reached her side and grasped her hand. “Your fingers are like ice.” She turned to look at him. “I found something in the master suite bathroom.” Bree felt a strange surge of uneasiness, like a cold damp breeze blowing on the back of her neck. “What?” “Blood. It looks like it was cleaned up but they didn’t get it all and some of the stains wouldn’t come out. There are pale, faded stains all over the bathroom tiles, and the bedroom carpet. It looks like…” Bree’s mouth went dry. “Like what?” prompted Troy. His voice was low, but Bree could hear the tremors. “I think there was a lot of it. It almost looks like somebody died up there.”

***** Sloan flicked on the small flashlight and played it over a sea of richly upholstered chairs. His feet sank into the plush burgundy carpet that stretched from him to the dais

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at the front of the room. Only the podium stood there, alone in the center of the stage, a stately, silent sentry with nothing to guard. He had come here with his dad countless times to watch the auctions and see how the pieces that Jonathan had picked out fared on the block. He would ask Sloan to predict the final price of a given piece, and Sloan would take a wild stab. Ninety percent of the time he would be within a few hundred, and his father would beam with pride. He had a natural eye, Jonathan would say, a real feel for the finer things in life. He would go far. Sloan fought the tightening in his throat. If only his father had warned him that he’d have to get there on his own. He turned and headed for the curtained-off area to the side of the dais. He had breached the exterior security system with little difficulty. It was a quality, up-to-date system, but Sloan had the advantage of having encountered it before. He’d been able to bypass it without shutting it off. And now that he was in the building, the security was minimal. Only a few locked doors stood between him and his goal. There were security cameras, but the ones in the auction room were turned off during the off hours. The ones in the storerooms at the back of the building would need to be tended to once he was ready to peruse those contents and pick out a few choice morsels to ding the Elliott pocketbook for maximum effect. But for now his destination was the main office—Vance Elliott’s domain. And he needed only to pick a single, deadbolt lock to gain access to his carefully guarded secrets. He pushed past the heavy, velvet curtain and headed down the dark hallway. His black sneakers padded noiselessly across the carpet. All he could hear was the furious pounding of his heart and the whoosh of his blood as it rushed through his head. The adrenaline had kicked in the moment he scaled the fence and crawled under the manicured hedges that decorated the front of the building. He didn’t expect it to abate until he arrived safe and sound back at Bree’s house. She said she’d meet him there shortly after midnight, as she had an appointment to keep. When he asked what on earth she was doing at such an ungodly hour, she had just smiled and said it was a surprise. He had merely shrugged and accepted it. He had briefly entertained the notion that she had another lover somewhere, but that was ludicrous. Her good luck kiss had dispelled any trace of doubt. He reached the set of doors at the end of the hall. The door to his left led to the backstage area where the pieces were set up just before presentation on the dais. Straight ahead lay the expansive storeroom that he planned to visit very shortly. And to his right was the office. He pulled out his tools and knelt before the keyhole. He inserted the picks and closed his eyes. The tumblers clicked and protested, but within two minutes they sighed in submission. With his leather-clad hand, Sloan turned the knob and slipped inside. He lifted the flashlight and scanned the room that boasted an array of antique furniture that Sloan couldn’t take the time to identify. Finally, his eyes rested on a gray

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metal filing cabinet in the far corner. It was as incongruous with the rest of the decor as a pair of Birkenstocks in a closet full of slingbacks and stilettos. He crossed the room, and with the flashlight clamped between his teeth, tugged on the top drawer. Locked. He was about to reach for his tools when he thought better of it. Instead he pulled open the top desk drawer, and a flash of silver caught his eye. He picked up the small key and tried it in the cabinet lock. It clicked and the drawer eased open. Sloan smiled to himself and slid his hand deeply into the pocket of his black jeans. He pulled out the small slip of paper where Bree had scrawled all the necessary specifics. He checked the dates on the front of the cabinets and breathed a sigh of relief. The records seemed to go back a full ten years. He had feared that he might have to go in search of ancient files packed away in old cardboard boxes in the back of the storeroom. Thankfully he had been spared that particular anguish. He located the correct drawer and pulled it open. It took only a few moments of pawing through the labels to get a feel for the way the files were organized. It took less than five minutes to find the appropriate records. He withdrew the folder from the cabinet and opened it carefully, spreading the contents out over the top of the pristine surface of the desk. With the flashlight once again clamped between his teeth he sorted through the list of items that had been sold during the week in question. At last he came to the set of clay jars crafted by the artisan Russell Hampstead. They had gone to bidder number 1472 for the eye-popping price of ten thousand dollars. He blew out a low whistle of amazement. Russell had obviously been at the apex of his career. He felt a small surge of pride for Bree’s sake. But with it was mixed a generous helping of grief for the ironic and tragic timing of his death. He determinedly refocused on the task at hand. He had to identify the mysterious bidder. A little more searching revealed the stack of receipts for that day’s sales. He finally found the one in question, but even that was made out merely to the mysterious bidder number. No name or other identification was in evidence. Damn. He raked his fingers through his hair. There had to be a file somewhere that matched up the bidders to their numbers. Vance must have done it this way in order to further safeguard his clients’ privacy, although the reason why the purchase of a bunch of artwork and antiques needed high-level security eluded him. Perhaps it had something to do with income tax. People went to great lengths to protect their money. He continued flipping through the files. He went through every drawer in both the cabinet and the desk, but the search proved fruitless. He was beginning to get anxious. He had hoped to be out of there by now. Very simply, he didn’t like to stay in one place too long. Luckily, this wasn’t like a house where someone might decide to come home at any minute. But, still, his nerves were jangling. Where would he keep that information? Sloan racked his brain as his eyes continued to scan the office. They swept across the shelves of books and walls lined with

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photographs and paintings. He had a fleeting image of Vance’s home office. Might he keep it at home? Sloan groaned at the thought of dragging this out another few days while he figured out a way to break into the Elliott mansion. But then his eyes rested on an enormous seascape painting on an interior wall. “It can’t be that easy,” he whispered as he glided across the carpet and shifted the picture aside. He smiled slyly as he lifted the painting off the wall and set it gently on the desk. He returned his attention to the safe and muttered, “Oh, Vance, I thought you had more imagination than that.” He pulled out a tiny microphone and set of earphones. He put on the headset and placed the mike against the steel. He held his breath as he spun the dial and listened for the telltale fall of the tumblers. It took five minutes, and by the end of it his face was slick with sweat, but finally the last tumbler fell into place and the lock clicked open. The heavy door swung open easily and Sloan shone his light inside. He pulled out a portable fireproof file box, and a large ledger. Since the file box had a lock on it, he opened the ledger first. “Jackpot!” he exclaimed in a barely restrained whisper. The ledger held the answer to Bree’s prayers. Row upon row of bidder numbers accompanied vital statistics like names, addresses, telephone numbers and even occupations. Sloan’s eyebrows lifted in amazement. Some of the clients hailed from as far away as Japan and Australia. The recipient of the Hampstead family heirlooms, however, was much more accessible. Vancouver was hardly around the corner, but a couple of hours in an airplane would have her on this poor gentleman’s doorstep. Of course, she would need an escort. And he knew just the guy to do it. A sudden wash of giddiness accompanied thoughts of the last few hours spent in Bree’s company. But even as a slow smile stole across his lips and he felt the rest of his body respond accordingly, he acknowledged that now was not the time to dwell on the recent rekindling of their affair. He had plenty of time to take stock, and sort through the intricate web of emotions they had woven around themselves. With a little luck, he had a lifetime. He focused his attention on the ledger and jotted down the necessary information. He stuffed it into his pocket. But then his eyes wandered to the locked box. What other juicy bits of information were hidden away in there? Sloan knew he had no good reason to snoop…other than the fact that he wanted to hurt Perry Elliott. Somehow the mere act of violating the family’s personal belongings soothed his soul. He’d just take a peek in the file, and then help himself to a few of those delectable goodies out the back. Whatever he lifted tonight, however, he had no intention of keeping. Tonight his choices would be made purely on monetary value, rather than his own personal tastes or sentimentality. Unlike most of his acquisitions, these would be fenced and sold. And perhaps he would distribute the proceeds to some worthy charity. Perhaps he’d buy Craig’s mom a new set of dishes for her dairy cupboard. Hell, maybe he’d buy her a

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whole new house. He’d have to bribe her with something to forgive him for not calling her after Craig’s accident. But, dammit, Craig was going to wake up. And then he’d smooth things over with his mother for Sloan. Craig was good at that—smoothing things over, and making things fit where they hadn’t fit before. He had to wake up, because Sloan couldn’t lose that. He wouldn’t. He pulled out his tools and was just about to pick the lock on the box, when, on a whim, he tugged on the lid. It gave way easily. No one had bothered to engage the mechanism. He flipped it open and tugged out a handful of files and a worn journal. He took them over to the desk and scanned them with his flashlight. Within moments the usual rush that he felt when a job came together, faded. It was gradually displaced by an odd sense of unease, and then the first twinges of alarm. He flipped through a few more records and found himself fighting for control over his skyrocketing heart rate and accelerated breathing. He opened the journal and read a few random entries. He didn’t hear himself murmuring over and over, “No, no. That can’t be it. That can’t be.” He swallowed a trickle of bile that had slid the wrong way up his throat. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Bree.” He pawed through the records until he found one labeled with Russell Hampstead’s name. He sucked in a long, slow breath before easing it open and perusing the contents. His mouth went dry, but inside he was screaming. “How could you? How could you do this to us? Damn you. Damn all of you!” Ten minutes later the files had been stuffed haphazardly back into their compartments and the safe slammed closed. At last he staggered outside, and realized he had forgotten to put the picture back on the wall to cover the safe. Not that it mattered. Not one bit. Sloan had learned their despicable secret, but he had no intention of keeping it. He was through with keeping secrets, and suddenly it didn’t matter who he took down with him. He hopped in his car and burned rubber as he peeled out of the driveway. He had one thing to do before he confronted his father’s oldest and dearest friend. And then, after he’d done that… Then what? The answer screamed over and over in his head. Why fight it anymore? He was his father’s son. And his mother’s. He’d tried to deny it for too many years. There was obviously no point in denying it. There was no point at all.

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Chapter Eighteen Sloan pulled up in front of the house and stared. Somebody had turned on the lights. Was he hallucinating? No. There were cars in the drive as well. He focused his attention on the vehicles. They looked familiar. But his brain was so fuzzy. He couldn’t seem to remember… He felt as if he’d downed a fifth of whiskey in the last half hour, and yet he hadn’t touched a drop. He felt muzzy and confused from the torrent of outrage and the ideas that swarmed through his head like black flies buzzing around a deer—biting and nipping, ripping away flesh and stripping away sanity. He just kept staring at the blazing, glaring lights and tried to will them away. He couldn’t face people just now. He couldn’t have people in his house. Not now. Not tonight! He had to go in there and look…for something. What was it again? Maybe if he went inside he’d remember. And then, against his will, he did… “Sloan?” she lisped through lips that looked as pale and bloodless as marble. He licked his own lips that had gone as dry as chaff. He looked down at the knife he held, clutched in his fist. Cold metal gleamed through a slick coating of red. He didn’t remember picking it up, and yet there it was. He looked back at her. “Mom?” he rasped. “Why?” “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as tears dribbled off her chin and blood wept from her fingertips. Slowly. Too slowly. Like the last few drops from a bottle of merlot. “Sorry?” he whispered as he felt himself falling into an unfathomable rage. It paralyzed him. He knew what he had to do—what he should do—but his feet wouldn’t move. All he could see was the blood as it continued to drip, forming a gruesome puddle around her feet. Her blood. His father’s blood. It all mingled in his mind in a gory mix of pain and confusion. “Sorry?” he said again. “What the hell good is ‘sorry’? That doesn’t mean anything!” She nodded weakly and a fresh set of tears glistened in her eyes. “You’re right. I-I should have stopped it. I tried. Really, I did. But…I didn’t realize…” She swayed and he shed his paralysis. He stepped forward to catch her. She looked up at him as her blood soaked his clothes and ate through his soul. “I love you, honey.” Her eyes fluttered closed. Then the panic set in. “Hold-hold on, Mom,” he sputtered through his own tears, which had finally sprung to his eyes. “I’ll call an ambulance. It’s not too late.” God, it can’t be too late. She just shook her head, and as he laid her down and reached for the phone he heard her whisper, “Maybe not. Maybe it’s not too late. It’s all there.” “What?” he said absently as he punched in those three life-saving numbers. “All what?”

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“You only have to look…” But that was as far as she got. Those were the last words he ever heard her speak. He wrenched himself back to the present, and pried his gloved hands off the steering wheel. His knuckles ached from the strain, and his head swam. What the hell had she meant? “You only have to look”? It was nonsense. For years he had dismissed it as the ramblings of a woman peering over the edge of eternity. But considering what he had found tonight, maybe he had been wrong. Maybe she had meant something by it. The question was, what? Maybe he could find the answers in there. Slowly, methodically, feeling as if he were slogging through molasses, he opened the car door and stepped out into the cool night air. He could hear the distant crash of waves and smell the moisture in the air. He cast one pained glance at the driving shed, and thought that he should have had that thing demolished the day after his father’s death. But part of him had wanted to keep it as a reminder, as a testament, or some twisted memorial to his father’s last moments. He trudged up the flagstone walk. It had been years since he’d walked these paths and smelled these smells. He looked at the front of the house where he had grown up, laughing and playing and loving, and thought he should have felt something. At least he should have felt something other than horror and fear. He pushed through the front door and stepped into the foyer. He glanced around, taking in the sorry state of the place in a single glance. None of it was strange to him. It was exactly as he had left it. He stopped and listened, and identified the source of the voices. He set off down the hall.

***** Bree hugged herself against an internal chill. “It doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “Somebody must have hurt themselves here recently. Maybe the kids who trashed the place.” She perked up as that possibility took shape. “Right? One of them cut themselves on the mirror glass and went upstairs to clean up.” Franki didn’t look at her. “If that was it they must have sliced an artery.” “Come on, Franki. You know how bad a little blood can look when it’s dribbling on the floor.” “From the foyer, all the way up the stairs, into a bedroom and a bathroom?” Bree shot to her feet. “What the hell are you implying?” “Nothing,” said Franki, obviously fighting tears. “It just doesn’t wash, Bree. If it was kids they would have hightailed it outta here the second somebody got hurt. They

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wouldn’t have stuck around and then tried to clean up the mess in a house where nobody lives!” Bree whirled on Troy. “You’ve been awfully quiet.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.” His mood had gone somber from the moment they stepped into the bathroom to inspect Franki’s findings. Then when they had found the poorly hidden evidence of a blood trail that tracked through half the house he had turned almost catatonic. “Well,” said Bree in exasperation, “I can’t believe you guys. You’re his friends, and you obviously think he did…something terrible.” Franki chewed on her lip. “It’s just that…it would answer a lot of questions.” Bree didn’t want to address that. She knew all too well what questions Franki was referring to. They had been so easy to ignore…up until now. “I never told you this, but…” Franki’s voice was barely a notch above a whisper, “But my mom went to the police once after Janelle disappeared.” “She didn’t disappear.” Bree swallowed thickly. “She left.” “Whatever. Anyway, I pushed her and finally she looked into it.” When she didn’t continue, Bree focused on her. “Obviously nothing came of it, because I never heard about any investigation.” “She said they listened politely, but essentially ignored her. She said they told her they’d look into it. But…” She shrugged. “I guess they didn’t find anything, because nothing seemed to come of it. They never even talked to anybody.” “They obviously accepted Sloan’s explanation. Then so should we.” She just shrugged. “Dammit, Franki! I—” “What the hell is going on here?” Bree started at the sound of Sloan’s voice. She turned around to see him standing in the doorway to the library. He was dressed all in black, from black runners to a pair of black gloves that sheathed his hands like a second skin. Even his face was smudged with blacking. He had come directly from the Auction House, not even bothering to clean up. And…why had he come here? They were supposed to meet back at Bree’s. Then she looked at his eyes. They were bright. Too bright. In fact, he looked angry. “I said,” he shouted. “What the hell is going on?” Bree didn’t know what to say and was relieved to hear Troy’s voice close behind her. “We came to clean up the place. It was supposed to be a surprise.” Sloan blinked slowly. “Well, thanks but no thanks. I want you out. All of you.” Nobody moved. “Now.” His whole body was shaking. “Did you hear me? Get out!” “Why, Sloan?” Troy took a step toward his friend, and Bree was grateful that he seemed to be taking charge of the situation. “Why don’t you want us here?” 204

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“Do I need a fucking reason? This is my house. I can kick you out any time I damn well please. I didn’t ask you here. I don’t want you here. I just—” “What have you got to hide?” interrupted Franki. She had curled her legs up under her on the couch, and was watching Sloan with wary eyes. Sloan froze. “What? Hide? What are you talking about?” “Where is Janelle?” added Franki. “Where is she, Sloan?” His eyes darted from her to Troy and then to Bree. She saw something there that tugged at her heart. But it also frightened her. What she saw was panic. “Right now she’s…she’s in Italy. She and Armand—” “Cut the crap.” Troy’s voice was strangely soft, yet compelling. “Stop lying to us, Sloan. You have to come clean. You have to tell somebody, and it might as well be your friends. The people who care about you.” “What the hell are you getting at?” “We found blood, Sloan,” said Bree. He needed to hear those words from her. She walked over to him and touched his hand. She could feel the warmth of his body, even through the calfskin. “A lot of it. It…it looks bad.” “It looks like somebody died here,” blurted out Franki. “And nobody’s seen or heard from Janelle for years.” Sloan stared at her. “What are you saying?” “Did you kill her?” asked Franki. Sloan jerked his hand away from Bree and took a step back, as if Franki’s words had physically hit him. “Is that what you think?” “What are we supposed to think?” The tone of Troy’s voice sent a little shiver down Bree’s spine. “People have had suspicions for years. She disappears, and then within a few days you take off for another country. Nobody sees or hears from either of you—” “But what about the letters,” he squeaked. “She’s written all those letters. In-in her own hand, for chrissake.” Bree felt an icy ball settle in her stomach. He sounded so desperate. Almost pathetic in his attempt to convince them. “You could have forged her handwriting,” Bree heard herself say. “You’re very accomplished at that sort of thing. And those letters—they were so beautifully written. Thinking about it now they don’t really sound like her. They sound like you.” He took another step back. “Get out. Didn’t I tell you to get out? I don’t need to put up with this shit in my own house!” “The cops have to know,” said Troy evenly. “If you don’t tell us what happened, that’s what we’ll have to do. It’s time to give up your secrets, Sloan. They’ve been a weight around your neck long enough.” “Fine. Go ahead. Call the cops. You won’t get anywhere. They won’t listen to you.”

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He sounded so sure of himself. So certain. And his voice had suddenly lost its edge. It had turned calm. Icy. “Why won’t you tell us?” she pleaded. “We want to help you.” “Nobody can help me. You’ve all got your own problems,” he said bitterly. “And they just got real big.” He raked his eyes over the group. “Now what do I have to do to get rid of you? I have things I need to do.” “We’re not going to overlook this,” said Troy. “For your mother’s sake, and for yours we can’t.” “Please.” Suddenly his voice turned pleading, and that disturbed Bree still more. “You don’t understand. You can’t possibly understand.” “We want to understand,” continued Troy. “And we want to help you, but we can’t if you won’t tell us the truth. If you won’t acknowledge responsibility for—” “It wasn’t my fault!” he shouted, tears suddenly springing to his eyes. “She—” He clamped his mouth shut. “She what?” coaxed Troy as he took another step toward Sloan. “Did she antagonize you somehow? Tell you something that made you angry? Did you argue? I know you two were both very passionate about a lot of things. I’d understand if things just…got out of hand. Maybe—” “She slit her own goddamn wrists!” The words slammed into Bree, knocking the breath out of her, and sending the blood rushing from her head. The entire group fell silent. They stared at Sloan, standing there, looking belligerent and tortured. His fists clenched, relaxed and clenched again, his shoulders remained set in a rigid line and his eyes…his eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “Did you hear me?” he rasped, but no one answered. “I came home early from a buying trip to Chicago. My flight had gotten in around eleven, and by the time I got home it was two a.m. I walked in and found her bleeding in the front foyer. Blood had trailed her down the stairs, for chrissake. She’d done it upstairs in the bathroom, and then thought she’d take a little fucking stroll!” A single tear leaked out of one eye. “I came in and there she was, standing there, soaked in blood, looking as pale as a ghost. The knife was on the floor by the door—like she’d brought it down with her and dropped it.” “Sloan,” whispered Bree as she stepped toward him. But he shook his head and stepped back, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of being touched. “She’d done it wrong, you know.” “What?” asked Troy. “She’d cut them the wrong way. If you’re serious about it you slit them lengthwise, along the artery. But she had done it crosswise. That way it severs the tendons and the wrists contract. You still bleed but the contraction slows it. Draws it out. The doctors

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gave me the whole spiel. That was how she managed to survive long enough to come downstairs.” “So…she had a chance?” But he didn’t seem to hear her. “I just stood there, looking at her. I couldn’t believe it. How could she do that to me? First Dad and then her? It was crazy! She was crazy.” He let out a strangled chuckle. “Hell, maybe we all are.” “She must have been sick with grief over your father,” whispered Bree. “She needed help.” “She wasn’t sick,” he snarled. “Don’t give me that crap. That’s a cop-out. She had a choice. And she chose not to think about me at all.” “She wasn’t rational. You couldn’t expect her to think logically. Anyone who considers suicide isn’t really responsible for their actions.” But rather than comforting him as she’d intended, her words seemed to agitate him further. “Are you saying she didn’t really have a choice? Like it was inevitable or something?” Bree shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. I’m just saying—” “How long did you stand there?” interrupted Franki. “Did you help her? What did you do?” “Nothing. You’re right. I stood there way too long!” he shouted, and Franki flinched in the face of his fury. “God, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I have nightmares about it? If I had acted more quickly, it might have been enough…” His voice dropped to a strangled whisper. “It might have made the difference.” Silence settled over them like a thick woolen shroud. “I live with that every day,” continued Sloan. “The guilt of it. I never told them about the time lapse, but I always worried. It probably wasn’t criminal negligence, because it was only a matter of minutes. At least I think it was. It might have been longer. Time sort of…” He closed his eyes for a moment, and Bree shuddered to think what he might be seeing. Then he opened his eyes and continued, “But I never asked, and they had no way of knowing. At least I didn’t see how they could.” He cast a despairing glance at Troy. “I don’t know how but that’s what Vance knew. That’s what he threatened me with. I couldn’t take that chance.” “Damn,” whispered Troy. “Jesus. I can’t believe it.” He closed his eyes and muttered in apparent agony, “Damn him.” “I’m sure the delay wasn’t significant,” said Bree. “You can’t take responsibility for her death.” “Maybe. But I’ll never really know, will I? I’ll never know if I could have saved her.” “Oh, Sloan…” whispered Bree, but it was so soft, only she heard it.

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“Did she leave a note?” Franki’s voice had lost is accusing edge. “Did she say anything?” His strained chuckle startled Bree. He was on the edge of something, and she felt powerless to keep him from slipping over the precipice. “I asked her why, and she said she was sorry. And that she loved me. What a crock. If she cared about me, if she was really sorry, she wouldn’t have done it.” He glanced back down the hall toward the foyer, as if he could see her standing there, bleeding and dying before his eyes. “What a fucking crock,” he whispered. “After that I sort of snapped out of it. But by the time I got myself together, and managed to call an ambulance it was too late. The damage had been done.” “Why didn’t you tell anybody?” asked Bree. “Why did you keep this to yourself and come up with such an elaborate deception to fool everyone? What did you think we would do? Disown you, or judge you just because…” Her voice trailed away because she was loath to say the words. “Because both of my parents offed themselves? I had a great-grandfather who hung himself, too. Just after that big stock market crash in the thirties. Did you know that?” The misery seemed to be tattooed into his soul. “No. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t stay in this house and see her face here every day. I couldn’t face that, and I couldn’t face the guilt of letting her down like that. I worried that the cops would figure out that I had waited, that I had been negligent. I couldn’t face the possibility of prosecution and prison. And then the business felt like a prison. It had for years already. I couldn’t stand it a moment longer and I couldn’t face a whole town that knew what had gone on here. I couldn’t face their pity. I had to come up with the lie to protect Mom’s reputation, and I had to get away and start fresh.” “So the police knew.” “Yeah. They didn’t care what I did, as long as they didn’t have a case to worry about. There was almost no investigation, it was so clear-cut, and they agreed to keep the events confidential. They were great about the whole thing.” He looked at her and a strange smile played over his lips. “But they’re not going to be happy tomorrow.” “What?” Abruptly Sloan’s posture stiffened. “I told you my story, now get out, like I asked. If you’re my friends you’ll do that.” “No.” The force of Troy’s response startled her. Sloan narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, no?” “You’re obviously upset. And it’s about more than your mother. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.” Franki sprang from the couch. “Craig’s awake! I completely forgot to tell you. We should go see him. Right now. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?” She glanced hopefully at Bree, but Bree doubted that the idea would work.

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Sloan raked his hands through his hair and muttered something that Bree couldn’t understand. Then he dropped his hands and looked at Franki, measuring his words carefully, as if afraid that if he spoke too loud he might shatter. “That’s…that’s great. But I’ll see him later. You should call his mom. He’ll want to see her. You should do that right now.” “I did already. She was going to catch a flight immediately. She might even be there by now.” Sloan closed his eyes. “You didn’t answer me,” continued Troy. “What upset you so much, and then led you here tonight? Did something happen over at the House?” Sloan’s eyes flew open. “You knew about that? You knew what I was up to?” “Of course. We all did.” “But Vance and Perry are your family. How could you let me do that to them?” Troy’s jaw muscles worked. “They don’t deserve my loyalty. They stopped being my family a long time ago.” “Did you find the information?” asked Bree, suddenly realizing she had completely forgotten about the one thing that had been so important to her just a few short hours ago. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Sloan stared at her, and something flickered in his eyes. “Yes and no.” “What does that mean?” “It means I don’t want to talk about this now. It means I want to be alone! Why is that so much to ask? I’ve been alone for years. What’s another few goddamn hours?” “We’re not leaving,” said Troy. Sloan studied him. “Do you know?” Troy replied slowly, his expression strangely static. “Do I know what?” Sloan stared at him long and hard, and then abruptly turned around and walked out. Bree blinked in confusion, as she heard Sloan’s feet on the stairs. “What’s he doing?” Franki rubbed her arms as she walked to the doorway and peered out after him. “What’s wrong with him? He’s giving me the creeps.” “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Bree asked Troy. “Why the hell would I know?” The tightness in Troy’s voice shocked her. She felt her own anger begin to bubble. This situation was intolerable. They should simply grab Sloan and drag him out of there. Who knew what he was up to upstairs. Troy was right. There was something wrong with Sloan. He was upset about more than just finding them in his house. And why had he come here tonight, anyway? Something had happened. But what? And why did he want them to leave?

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“I don’t know,” she shot back at Troy. “Sloan asked you. He seemed to think you knew something. It must have something to do with your family.” “They’re not my family,” he growled. “That was low.” “Well, I’m sorry. But I’m grasping at straws here.” “Well, I-I don’t know, okay? I try to know as little about what my father and Perry do, as possible.” “And why would that be?” Sloan had appeared in the doorway once again. He looked calmer, but tired. Exhausted. Troy focused on him. “Because…” He hesitated briefly. “That’s my business.” Sloan stared at him for a moment, his chest rising and falling just a little too rapidly. “Fine. Whatever.” He reached a hand behind his back and appeared to stuff it in the back pocket of his jeans. “But now you have to go.” “Look, Sloan…” Suddenly Sloan’s hand came back into view and Bree let out a tiny yelp of surprise and shock. Troy took a step back, his face drained of color. “What the hell?” In Sloan’s right hand dangled a large, black pistol. It looked vaguely familiar to Bree, but she couldn’t say where she had seen it before. “What are you doing?” she breathed. “I’m trying to convince you that I’m serious about this.” “You’re threatening us?” But instead of answering, Sloan lifted the gun and examined it. “This is the weapon Dad used. An old Colt .45. A classic.” His fingers traced the barrel. “Just stuck it in his mouth like a big, black Popsicle.” He smiled, and the sight sent an icy chill down Bree’s spine. “If you think we’re going to leave you alone now, you’re nuts!” challenged Troy. “Am I?” asked Sloan. And then, abruptly, in a flash of movement that Bree couldn’t even follow he raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Bree screamed and the floor wavered beneath her. Troy lunged for Sloan but it was too late. Or, at least it would have been if the gun had been loaded. “Jesus Christ!” screamed Troy, as he wrenched the gun from Sloan’s hand. “What are you trying to do?” “Prove a point,” said Sloan evenly. “If I really wanted to kill myself you couldn’t stop me. I brought the gun in to give to you. To prove that I have no intention of harming myself. But I need to be alone. I haven’t been in this house since the week she did it. I’m finally ready to go through some of her things. But I need to do it alone.” Bree’s heart rate had gradually settled back to a manageable racing beat. “And it has to be tonight?”

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“Yes. It does.” Bree sighed. “You have to know where we’re coming from, Sloan. Where I’m coming from. I know the kind of struggle you’ve had over your father’s suicide. And now to hear that you had to face the same thing with your mother…” She floundered and Troy finished her thought. “You look like hell and you’re acting strange, Sloan. We’re worried.” “I know,” said Sloan with strained patience. “I know. I’m acknowledging that. And I appreciate your concern, but you have to believe me when I tell you not to worry. I’ve had eight years to deal with this…unsupervised.” He managed a slightly more sincere smile. “I think I can manage one more night.” She and Troy looked at each other, and finally Troy nodded. But Franki was the one to speak. “All right. I’m convinced. Sloan doesn’t need a babysitter, and I’ve got places to be.” The words were flippant but Bree could easily hear the tremor in her voice. She headed toward the doorway. “At least I’ll be spared the scrubbing spree.” Bree and Troy followed sedately, and Sloan managed another weak smile. “Thanks for the sentiment, guys. I’ll hire a cleaning crew eventually. If I decide to keep it.” “Those kids really did a number on the place,” said Franki. She stopped beside Sloan and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s a shame. It deserves better.” “It wasn’t kids.” Franki lifted her eyebrows. “It was me. I flew into a rage and trashed the place.” He shrugged. “I guess I had some issues.” Franki’s lips didn’t even begin to curl into a smile. Instead she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Bree could hear her whisper. “I miss her, too.” “Thanks,” he murmured as he hugged her back. Franki let go and headed out the door as Troy stepped forward and held up the gun. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again I will personally plug you one with my fist.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” “Sloan, I…” Troy’s jaw worked as if he were formulating something to say, but nothing came. Instead he simply shook his head, turned away and exited the room in silence. Bree took her turn. She stepped forward and touched Sloan’s black-smudged cheek. “You didn’t have to face it alone. I wish I could understand why you thought you did.” “Even I don’t understand it. But I’m glad to have you with me now.” He raked his gloved hands through his hair. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, and you can decide then if you still want to be with me.” “Why wouldn’t I?”

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He just smiled and shook his head. “Tomorrow.” She enclosed him in a hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek, but despite the contact, she still felt as if he were a thousand miles away. She let go and left the room, hoping desperately that he would find a release from whatever it was that was holding him hostage. She stepped out into the night air, where Franki and Troy were waiting for her. “What do you think?” asked Franki. “I trust him,” said Bree with conviction. “He just needs some time.” Troy fidgeted and looked down at the gun he still held. “All right. You two go.” “What? What about you?” “I’ll drive away, but I’ll sneak back. I won’t let him know I’m here. But I just wouldn’t feel right leaving quite yet.” Bree nodded approval. “Okay. Maybe that’s a good idea.” She looked at Franki. “But there’s no way I can sleep. I know it’s long past visiting hours, but how about we crash the hospital. We can check on our respective invalids, and see what’s what.” Franki’s eyes lit up at the prospect. She waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe they’ve taken out his catheter by now.” Bree laughed as she led her friend away by the hand. “You’re a real hussy, you know. A real one track mind.” “Is there something wrong with that?”

***** Sloan stood at the front door and watched the cars drive away. When the last of the taillights disappeared he breathed a sigh of relief, stepped back inside and closed the door. He took a deep cleansing breath, taking a moment to savor the solitude before he headed up the stairs. He shut himself off to the memories of the blood that had stained these stairs. He didn’t let himself remember the cloying smell of it, or the sight of her pale, waxen complexion. He tried to block out the faces of the police officers and paramedics who had swarmed over the house. They had tried to be kind and offer some comfort along with their endless questions and routines, but he had seen the truth in their faces. He was the guy whose family made a habit of committing hara-kiri. He was the guy who made a habit of finding the bloody remains of his parents. The suspicion was subtle but unmistakable. It had crossed his mind that if the police were suspicious, then surely they wouldn’t be alone. Others would begin to wonder. He would have to face stares and whispers, and strained silences. He would always wonder what his neighbors and friends were thinking. Obviously he had been right. It had been just another reason for him to make his home elsewhere.

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It had all happened in the middle of the night, so no one had seen the cop cars or ambulances in his driveway, and unlike the metropolises of Toronto and New York, here the local media enjoyed their sleep. None of the attending professionals had lived within the finite confines of Bay’s Haven. Besides, they were bound by professional ethics of confidentiality. He had specifically asked that the information be kept confidential, and they had complied. His scheme to concoct a fictitious affair, and compose the letters, had struck him on the drive home from the hospital the next morning. He’d spent the next few days cleaning up the house, composing letters…and then, on his way out the front door, he had looked around and realized it was all wrong. He couldn’t leave the house like that—looking so clean and perfect. The house needed to mirror the destruction of his family. Of his world. He had set down his bags, and systematically gone through and wreaked his revenge on the ghosts of his ancestors by dismembering and mutilating their heirlooms. Their home. He didn’t want it to be his home anymore. He didn’t want it to be anybody’s home anymore. And up until tonight he had succeeded. He gained the second floor and tried to decide where to look first. The master suite bathroom would be the very last room on his list. He merely had to close his eyes to recall the images of the crimson-spattered walls and the blood-slicked floor. He had no need to be confronted with the physical reminders all over again. The master bedroom had suffered a few grisly decorator touches as well, as his mother had sauntered through on her way downstairs to greet her son. He decided, finally, on his old room. If his mother had wished to leave anything behind for him to find, then that was the most logical place. Besides, that was the one room that hadn’t been turned upside down by his frenzy of cleaning and subsequent destruction. If she had left something for him in her own room, he no doubt would have found it. His room, on the other hand, had remained essentially vacant during that time. He hadn’t even slept in his own bed during those mind-numbing nights of grief and rage. He had slept on the library couch, and then had left with the clothes on his back and one bag full of essentials. He struck out down the hall, and pushed open the third door on the right. He flicked on the light and stepped through. He instantly experienced a wash of nostalgia that stole his breath. He had slept in that bed for more than twenty years. He had read books there, and dreamed there. And he had made love there—to Bree. There had been others but she was the only one he could remember. He had fought colds and the flu there. Propped up on pillows, sniffling and whining, he had let his mother feed him chicken soup and rub Vicks into his chest. His dad had brought him catalogues, and comic books and rigged up the television. Jonathan Carver had taught his son how to play chess on top of those finely quilted covers. And with that he had learned so much more than merely how to protect his king, or sacrifice a pawn. He had learned his father’s love. 213

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He shook off the melancholy and headed for his dresser. The stroll down memory lane was painful and pointless. He had things to do. He began rooting through drawers, and pawing through old T-shirts and underwear. He worked his way through the chest of drawers and armoire, ignoring the familiar scent of cedar and Polo for Men that had been one of his mother’s yearly Christmas gifts to him. He found nothing. He straightened and stretched neck and shoulder muscles that had gone rigid with tension over the past few hours. His eyes wandered over the rest of the room, and finally rested on his bed and nightstand…and something struck him. Something was wrong. There was something missing. He crossed the room and sat down gingerly on the bed in the hopes of disturbing as little of the ancient dust as possible. He stared at the nightstand that he’d had ever since he was a boy. Other than a small reading lamp and the requisite layer of dust, the surface was bare. He’d never been that tidy in his life. And then he realized why it nagged at him. Ever since he was a child he had kept a journal. He’d never been terribly organized about it—often months at a time would pass between entries—but he’d always had a notebook ready and waiting at his bedside in case the urge struck him to write something down. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to shake, even considering his affection for his trusty laptop. He still kept a notebook by his bedside in California. It always sat out, ready for his pen and his thoughts. And the one that should have been sitting on this particular nightstand was missing. He reached for the drawer and snapped it open…and there it was, his journal, safe and sound, and seemingly undisturbed, except for the fact that he knew that he had not put it there. He flipped it open and skimmed through until he found the last entry. The one in his mother’s handwriting. Dear Sloan, How do I begin? I wish I had your way with words. Maybe, somehow, pretty words would make it all a little easier. Heaven knows I’ve sugar-coated it in my mind for long enough. I should have told you years ago. I should have told you after Jonathan. I know how his suicide weighed on you. It has haunted me as well, but for different reasons. Because, you see, I knew why. I should have shared that with you sooner. Perhaps it would have cushioned the blow, alleviated the guilt that I knew you felt, and the worry. It put a distance between us, but I felt helpless to remedy it. Because I was afraid. I was afraid of your judgment, and perhaps your rejection. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, and I let that overshadow my responsibilities to you. The responsibility of the truth. But now I’m through being afraid. I’m through thinking of myself and protecting your father’s memory. In plain English, Sloan, your father was a thief. But, as odd as it may sound, I don’t want you to think less of him because of it. He came from a long line of thieves. It was in the blood, just

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as he saw signs of it in yours. And, in his defense, he never stole from anyone who couldn’t afford it, and he never stole out of need. He felt strongly about that. He never wanted his obsession with excitement and adventure to hurt anyone. Perhaps that is a rationalization on the grandest scale, but it was a tenet that he honored, and believed in strongly. Lakeside House was a fencing operation for your father’s acquisitions, and Vance, Russell and Joe were all partners with equal knowledge of the operation. I make no excuses for them, or for us—the wives who silently allowed, and even supported their endeavors. After all, we reaped the rewards. We had comfortable lives, healthy children and happy husbands. And I, for one, couldn’t bear to take away your father’s passion. He had always planned to tell you his secret, and, if you were interested, include you. However, just as you were reaching the age when he believed you were ready to hear his story, things changed. Perhaps you remember how, in the months before his death, he became disturbed and distracted. I have decided against telling you why, or what was involved, since it would serve no purpose other than to hurt you and others. But I can tell you that it tormented him. At the time he told me only that he saw his dreams being tainted, and to tell you at that point might have proved dangerous for you. He didn’t even tell me. I only just found out the details, and I’m sorry to say I’m too ashamed to tell you how. Despite what you may think, your father was an honorable man, and that is what, I believe, led him to his final decision. He saw no way out, and he somehow thought that his death would protect us. I’m sorry to say I have one more secret, honey. Our lives seem riddled with them. It’s wrong to write of it here, but you’ll find out soon enough. All my love, Mom One more secret, thought Sloan bitterly. What a trite way to put it. He tried to ignore the steel bands that had constricted around his chest as he read her words. The bands were strange to him, something he had never experienced before. They weren’t forged of anger, or even of guilt, but of a profound grief he had never before allowed himself to feel. He had never truly mourned for his mother, and at that moment it shamed him. He scanned the letter again, trying to read between the lines. What was she too ashamed to tell him? The answer to that question would likely elude him forever. But at least now he had some idea of the torment that led her to her final decision. He continued to read and re-read the letter. A long line of thieves. He laughed at that, strangely without rancor. It explained so much. Where the family money had come from, and his own undeniable urges. But it also kindled his other fear. Perhaps his father had chosen to end it out of desperation rather than a mysterious depression or other psychological flaw, but it didn’t change

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the fact that he chose it. And now Sloan knew that he took after his father in more ways than he had ever dreamed. He shook off the mood, and focused on the rest of her words. So his mother hadn’t known the whole story. She hadn’t known the details of what had consumed her husband in his last days. Apparently she found out later, and had considered telling him, but eventually decided that death would be easier to face than the truth. Well, now he knew. He knew what had torn his father apart. He had seen glaring evidence of it tonight at Lakeside House. And he knew who was behind it. Vance Elliott. At last, he had someone to blame. And they were going to pay.

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Chapter Nineteen Franki stepped lightly, grateful that her sneakers made no noise on the freshly polished hospital tile. Visiting hours had long since ended, but she hoped to sneak into his room without being noticed, just for a quick kiss on the forehead, and to assure herself that he was resting comfortably before she joined Bree up in Lydia’s room. She had come up the back stairs so as to avoid the nursing station altogether, and now she picked her way down the darkened hallway. She found the door to room 303, and pushed it open, but stopped when she heard the murmurs of soft conversation. She cursed the dissolution of her plans. A nurse must be in checking his vitals. She was about to pull away and find a spot to hide out for a few minutes when she caught a snatch of the hushed conversation. “Why on Earth didn’t you call me?” “I wasn’t conscious,” was the sullen reply. “It’s kinda hard to pick up the phone when you’re comatose.” Franki smiled to herself. He sounded like a twelve-year-old. “Oh shush! I’ll take that Sloan over my knee next time I see him. He should have called me. And he still hasn’t been in to see you since you woke up?” She clucked her tongue, and Franki heard the soft gurgle of water being poured into a glass. “He should be ashamed of himself.” Craig cleared his throat. “Give the guy a break, Mom. He sat up with me for twenty-four hours straight.” “Well, I guess that’s something. But—” “Isn’t your ten minutes up?” asked Craig. “The nurse said you could only stay for ten minutes, you know.” “I’ll leave when she tells me to, and not a moment before.” “But aren’t Dad and the others going to be wondering?” “It’s only your father and Susan, and I’m sure they’re already sleeping soundly. The room at that inn is lovely, by the way. It’s a shame you and Sloan didn’t make better use of it. I declare if you two…” Franki eased the door shut, and slunk back the way she had come. She had considered rescuing him, and meeting the woman who had spawned him, but he had sounded so pathetic and desperate. She just couldn’t bring herself to ease his suffering. She smirked to herself as she scaled the stairs to the oncology floor. Here the visiting hours were not so strictly enforced, since all patients had their own private room, and many were on palliative care. Franki knew that relatives often sat with their

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charges around the clock, hoping for a few final moments before the rapacious disease claimed their loved one. She saw a soft glow coming from Lydia’s room, and entertained a fleeting hope that maybe Bree’s mother had awoken, and they were sharing a quiet mother-daughter moment. Franki had often observed the two as they chatted and whispered and laughed together. They were friends, as well as mother and daughter. Part of her envied them that. Friendship was something that she and Marie had never managed to achieve. They barely managed to get through a lunch without clashing over something. From the cut of Franki’s dress to Marie’s whining over her self-imposed lackluster lifestyle, they never ran out of things to argue about. But when she reached the door, only silence greeted her. She stepped through and found Bree bent over the bed, a washcloth in her hand, tenderly washing Lydia’s face and neck. “Still nothing?” asked Franki as she crossed the room and took up her position on the other side of the bed. Bree lifted her eyes to her friend, and Franki was startled by how red and swollen they were. “What’s wrong?” she asked with concern. “Why’ve you been crying?” Bree managed a weak smile. “She’s gone.” Franki blinked. “What do you mean, gone?” Bree turned her attention back to the cloth in her hand. She swished it around in the basin on the bedside table, and wrung it out before stroking it lightly down Lydia’s arm. “She died about an hour ago.” Franki sank into a chair and stared at the woman on the bed. Her face was pale and her eyes closed as if in sleep. Franki would never have guessed. “God, Bree. I’m-I’m so sorry.” “It wasn’t your fault.” “You know what I mean.” Bree pressed her lips together, her chin trembling in spite of the effort. She continued to bathe her mother. “What happened? I mean…had it reached her brain? Is that what brought this on?” Bree nodded once, but then shrugged, obviously not trusting herself to speak. Franki waited, feeling helpless and angry. Somehow dealing with her own grief had been easier than seeing the pain etched into her best friend’s face. Finally Bree spoke, her voice low but steady. “Her heart just gave out. They think the stress of the cancer, together with the coma was just too much for her. She’d made her request for Death With Dignity months ago and I gave my okay yesterday. They didn’t take any extraordinary measures.” Franki clasped her hands together so tightly her fingertips felt numb. “What happens now? What do we do?” 218

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“Not much,” whispered Bree. “The arrangements were made weeks ago. The funeral home will pick her up shortly, and after that it’s just a matter of getting through it.” Bree dragged her eyes away from the soft, pale features of her mother. “I just wanted a little more time. Was that so much to ask? Just a few more days and I could have given her a little piece of happiness.” “She knew you loved her, Bree. That’s going to have to be enough.” Bree’s eyes fell to the frail shell that lay so quiet on the sterile hospital linen. “But it’s not. It’s not nearly enough.” Franki nodded, and spoke a simple truth. “I know.” A soft voice at the door startled them both. “Have you finished, Sabrina?” asked a sympathetic nurse in a pale pink uniform. Bree nodded and dropped the cloth back into the bowl. “I suppose.” The nurse walked in and began to fuss around the bed. “Is there any family we can call for you to take you home?” Bree shook her head, but Franki stood and grasped her hand. “I’m her family. I’ll look after her.” Bree gave her a watery smile. “Yeah. I guess you are.” “Damn right.” She wrapped an arm around Bree’s shoulders and led her from the room. Bree hesitated briefly in the doorway and watched in silence as the nurse pulled the sheet up over Lydia Hampstead’s face. “I couldn’t even grant her her last request,” she muttered as the shroud settled into place. “What was that?” Franki urged Bree down the hall, away from her mother for the last time. “She wanted to talk to Sloan. Desperately. The doctor thinks her agitation was probably a symptom of the tumor that they found growing at the base of her brain, but…she was so earnest about it. She was upset, but she seemed completely lucid. I didn’t think she was confused at all.” They reached the elevator and Franki pushed the button. Bree drew a shaky breath. “But he had already left the hospital, and then she slipped into the coma. I just—” Franki squeezed her arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. You did your best.” Bree merely nodded. “I suppose.” “You have to stop supposing and start believing.” The elevator bell dinged and they stepped into the car. “What am I supposed to do now, Franki? Tonight I find out horrible things about Sloan’s mother, and-and now this.” She pressed a finger to her temple. “Am I just supposed to go home and curl up in bed and go to sleep like nothing’s happened?” “Well, I know one thing. You’re not going home alone.” “Will you stay with me tonight?”

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“No,” said Franki flatly. Bree’s feet stopped abruptly. “What do you mean, no?” They arrived on the main floor and Franki grasped Bree’s hand, coaxing her onward like a mother leading a weary child. “Sloan will be staying with you tonight. We’re going back to the house to get him right now.” “No. We can’t. He wanted to be alone. He was so upset. And it was so important to him. I can’t just—” “Of course you can,” Franki said firmly. “Your mother just died, for chrissake. Sloan loves you. He’ll want to be with you. He’ll want to be there for you.” “He never said he loves me.” “That means nothing.” “It does so. It means everything.” “It just means he hasn’t said it. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.” They walked in silence until they stepped out the front doors of the hospital. The breeze was light, the night air cool and fragrant with the scent of rain and damp earth. A million stars glittered, and a thousand crickets chirped. “I miss her already,” whispered Bree. Franki looked at her and thought she looked almost as frail and used up as her mother had near the end. “But maybe she’s with Dad now. At least she’s got someone.” “So do you,” murmured Franki as she led the way to the car. And she meant it. Sloan was going to be there for Sabrina whether he liked it or not. Franki intended to see to it. “So do you.”

***** Vance Elliott rolled over and tried to put a little distance between himself and his wife. Lois’s noisy nighttime respirations were a constant source of irritation for him. If she would just lose a little weight, her snoring would likely melt away along with all those unsightly pounds. But he knew better than to suggest that to her. He sidled a little further away, thankful that his budget allowed for the comfort of a king-size mattress. He and Lois had given up the “marital bed” ritual years earlier. They didn’t even cuddle anymore. He found no comfort in the warmth of her flaccid flesh. He took his comfort elsewhere, when and where he could get it. He didn’t know if she knew, and honestly he didn’t care. They stayed together out of habit, and because it made simple fiscal common sense. They shared a roof. They’d stopped sharing their lives years ago. He closed his eyes and shuddered. Sleep had come easily earlier in the evening, but about twenty minutes ago he had awoken for unknown reasons. He’d felt a strange sense of foreboding that he could neither explain, nor shake off. Maybe a little fresh air would help. Maybe if he opened a window…

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He was just considering the pros and cons of setting his bare feet on the cold hardwood floor when he sensed a presence in the room. “Good evening, Mister Elliott,” hissed a voice in his ear. “Fancy meeting you here.” Vance’s entire body went still when he felt something cold and hard being pressed against his neck. He tried to peer out of the corner of his eye and identify his assailant, but all he could make out was a dark smudge in the blackness. Vance swallowed. “What do you want?” “Oh, your head on a platter would suffice.” The blade pressed a little more firmly against his throat, and Vance broke out into a cold sweat. “But perhaps an explanation or two would do. For now.” “Explanation?” whispered Vance. Then the face came closer and he recognized those eyes. He almost screamed. “Jonathan!” he whispered. But that couldn’t be right. He blinked to clear his mind, and when he opened them again he understood his error. “Sloan.” “Very good. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me.” “No,” squeaked Vance, as he felt the subtle bite of a finely honed edge. “I couldn’t forget you.” “And, obviously, you haven’t forgotten my father either. That’s a comfort…I suppose.” Vance licked his lips. “Can we talk about this downstairs?” “Afraid of disturbing the walrus’ sleep? I can’t believe you actually care for her. I can’t believe you actually care for anyone, considering everything.” “Please,” pleaded Vance, even as an impotent rage kindled in his gut. “If you’re going to kill me, do it and get it over with. Otherwise let’s go talk in my office.” “Kill you now?” He could hear the tremors of rage in Sloan’s voice, and he feared he might have gone too far. “Don’t tempt me, Elliott. I need you alive.” “So then, let me up.” Sloan didn’t move immediately. He held the knife and Vance could hear the rapid, shallow breathing of a man on the edge of fury. He also smelled a hint of the whiskey Sloan must have been drinking just before his arrival. He wasn’t drunk. His voice wasn’t slurred and his tone too sharp, but he had tried to numb himself, and Vance suspected it hadn’t worked. “All right,” whispered Sloan at last. “Downstairs.” And at last the blade was withdrawn, but then Vance was dragged roughly from the bed. He struggled to his feet and reached for his robe. He barely had time to slip it on before the tip of the blade was pressed to his back again. He felt its prick as Sloan followed him out the door and down the stairs.

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Vance opened the door to his study and stepped inside with a vast sense of relief. This was the one area of the house where he felt completely in control, and he needed to feel that right now. He flicked on the light, and heard Sloan close the door behind them. He had just set out for the security of his desk when Sloan grabbed his robe and jerked him back. “Not so fast,” growled Sloan. And then Sloan shoved him into one of the visitors’ chairs. Vance resented the rough treatment, but at the moment he didn’t seem to have much choice. “What are you doing?” he asked as Sloan rounded his desk and plopped down in the plush executive’s chair. Sloan cocked his head to the side as he considered the gleaming edge of the blade he still held. “Simply maintaining the upper hand. The last time we talked in here I cowered like a frightened child. That’s not going to happen again.” “You cowered because you had something to hide,” said Vance with as much smugness as he could muster. “I don’t believe that has changed.” A slow sly smile spread across Sloan’s face. “You don’t think so?” Vance frowned. Sloan’s demeanor was unsettling him, fraying the usual air of casual arrogance that he wore like a cashmere cloak. “Are you ready for your secrets to be made public?” he taunted. Sloan’s smile never wavered. “I don’t know.” He leaned back in the chair and traced a gloved finger over the blunt edge of the knife. “Are you?” Vance felt another surge of foreboding. “How did you get in here?” he whispered. Sloan tapped the knife on the blotter. “Oh, it seems my father and I have much more in common than I ever dreamed possible.” “What does that mean?” “Don’t play stupid with me, Vance. You’re lousy at it.” And before Vance could catch his breath Sloan continued, “I broke into your office over at Lakeside House.” “You broke in?” Sloan smiled and leaned forward on the desk, propping his chin on his leather-clad fists. Vance had another fleeting image of Jonathan, but shook it off quickly. “Yes,” replied Sloan. “B-but why?” Sloan frowned. “You sound a little upset by that news. Why would that be?” “How else am I to react to the news that someone I know and trust invaded my privacy and stole from me?” “I took nothing of yours.” “That’s beside the point.” Vance tried to glare his disdain, but the contempt seemed to bounce off Sloan like pellets off an armored tank. “You value law and order, do you, Vance? Is that what I’m hearing?” 222

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Vance studied Sloan, trying to gauge him, but at the moment Sloan’s eyes were about as readable as a set of ancient hieroglyphs. And they looked just about as old. “Yes. And I like to protect what’s mine.” Sloan’s lips curled into a sneer, but the expression was fleeting. “And was Jonathan Carver your friend?” “Yes,” said Vance without hesitation. “Then why the hell did you kill him?”

***** Sloan watched in silent, stoic fascination as the color drained from Vance’s face. “You’re insane,” whispered his father’s best friend. “Jonathan shot himself. I loved him like a brother. I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.” “I’m talking about all the seedy little secrets that you and my father and Russell and Joe shared. I’m talking about the…tangent your little business went off on in the later years.” Sloan felt his blood pressure rise with each word, and he idly wished for another shot of Crown Royal to calm his nerves. Vance stared at him, silent and wary. And when, at last, he reentered the conversation he did so cautiously. “You mean the drugs.” “Yes.” Sloan matched his tone, measure for measure. “I mean the drugs. I mean the kilos of heroin and cocaine that sifted through Lakeside House like flour through a sieve. I can’t believe you got away with it this long.” Vance drew a long, fortifying breath. “A small town auction house that deals in precious antiques and collectibles?” His fingers tapped nervously on his thigh. “The buying trips and shipments made an ideal cover. And the anonymous bidding suited our distribution network perfectly. It was all out in the open, leaving the money as clean as new-fallen snow. They never suspected because no one would be crazy enough to exchange money for drugs in such a visible forum.” His eyes dropped to the floor, as if he actually felt a trace of shame. Sloan didn’t believe it for a moment. “The police never looked at us twice.” “You’re referring to the buying trips Perry went on, right? My father never had anything to do with it. None of it.” “No,” whispered Vance. “No, he didn’t. Most of it was set up after…” “After his death,” finished Sloan. “It was a tragedy, Sloan. But I don’t see how you can hold me responsible. I don’t see how you can blame me. It was his decision. I hardly held the gun to his head.” “Perhaps not.” He suppressed the urge to latch his hands around Vance’s throat. “But I do I blame you, Vance. Your schemes were the ultimate cause of my father’s death.” He pointed a shaky finger. “And I hold you responsible. From what I read tonight you were the driving force behind it all. You were the one who pushed and

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prodded and finally forced your friend to choose between his conscience and his wallet. If it weren’t for you he wouldn’t have had to face that dilemma. And he wouldn’t have come to the decision that he was beyond salvation.” Sloan flopped back in the chair, exhausted. And Vance stared at him. “I hate to break it to you, Sloan, but your father was hardly a saint. You don’t know about his…sideline, and the other services he provided for Lakeside House.” “Oh yes, I do. But thievery and trafficking in drugs that destroy lives and kill people are two different things. They are to me, and I know they were to him.” The grandfather clock in the corner ticked. “You found the safe.” Sloan nodded. “You broke into it, and got all that from the information in those ledgers?” “And from the letter my mother wrote me.” Vance’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates. “She did tell you.” He sprang from his chair and every muscle in Sloan’s body tensed. “God dammit. I knew it. Somehow she found out what we were doing, and that was when everything fell apart. She threatened me. And then she threatened to tell you. I didn’t really think she’d do it, because it would cost her too much. But obviously I was wrong.” Vance paced the room like a caged tiger. “She never liked any of it. She put up with Jonathan’s antics because she loved him, and because he loved what he did. She was always a weak link. She was so beautiful and Jonathan loved her so. She was his conscience, you know. If it hadn’t been for her he might have considered it. He wouldn’t have been nearly so tormented. If there’s anyone to blame for his suicide, it’s her.” “How dare you.” Sloan ground out the words from between teeth that had clenched so hard his jaw ached. “How dare you blame her. She was your friend. They both were. She deserves better after all she did for you.” Vance’s stance remained belligerent. “After all she did for me? She abandoned me, Sloan. Just as much as she abandoned you. I loved her. I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I gave myself to her, body and soul, and she repaid me by slitting her wrists!” Sloan blinked stupidly. He couldn’t breathe because the air in the room had suddenly turned liquid. “What are you saying?” His voice started out as a whisper, but gradually the volume grew as the volcano rumbled, on the edge of erupting. He rose slowly out of the chair and leaned on his knuckles. “Do you mean to tell me you and my mother were fucking?” Vance looked stunned. “That’s cruel. That word is unfair to her memory.” “Answer the damn question.” Sloan wasn’t sure why, but he had to hear Vance say it. “Of course we were. I assumed she told you that in her letter.” 224

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“No,” he growled as he felt the world slip out from beneath him. “She neglected to mention that part.” He sank back into the chair, the rage washed away on waves of disappointment and grief. So that was what she had been too ashamed to tell him. And that was how she finally learned the Elliotts’ despicable secret. “She only told me of Dad’s thieving, and alluded to his depression over the path the business had taken.” He gazed up at Vance from beneath hooded eyes. “How long was the affair going on?” he asked, even though he didn’t really want to hear the answer. “Was she screwing around on Dad before he died, too?” “No,” huffed Vance. “He was my friend. I could never have betrayed him like that.” Sloan snorted. “Right. How silly of me. You’re involved in grand theft and fencing. You dabble in drug trafficking—marijuana, cocaine, and even heroin. You suck your friends and business partners into the scheme which eventually leads to suicide and God knows what else.” Sloan paused and picked up the knife just to feel the security of its haft in his palm. “And you apparently screw around on your wife. You’re obviously a man of impeccable integrity and high standards. How could I ever think you could betray your friend by fucking his wife while he was still alive?” “It only began after he died,” whispered Vance. “It started more than a year later. And I’m not sure how she found out about the operation. I did not tell her. But when she did, she threatened to break it off with me unless I put a stop to it.” Vance’s tone was surprisingly compelling. “I need for you to believe that, if not for my sake, then for your mother’s.” “You’re worried that I’ll lose respect for her?” Sloan shook his head and looked down at his hands. He noticed absently that he hadn’t yet thought to take off the gloves. Or perhaps it hadn’t been an oversight. He had no desire to touch anything in this house. “It’s a little late for that, wouldn’t you say? My parents aren’t at all the people that I thought they were. My father stole priceless jewelry and artifacts and then fenced them through the House, and my mother looked on in silent approval. He drew the line at becoming a drug lord, but eventually he showed his true colors.” He forced himself to continue looking at Vance, to continue staring down yet another man who had disappointed him. “My father was a coward. They both were. They both took the easy way out when things got a little too tough. A little too complicated. I could forgive just about anything. But I can’t forgive that.” “You’re judging him rather harshly,” said Vance cautiously. “Considering what you do in your spare time.” Sloan dug the tip of the knife into the finely polished wood of the desk, and relished the pained look on Vance’s face. “What does that mean?” “You’re the Panther, aren’t you?” Sloan felt like he had been slapped.

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“I’ve seen the news stories about the goings-on in Hollywood. I knew that you lived there. It sounded just like Jonathan’s work. I suspected you from the beginning.” “Shit.” “You can hardly judge him, when you have traveled the same path yourself. How can you judge any of us?” “I never got involved in drugs. Perhaps it’s a fine line, but it’s a definite one. And I can’t believe that people I once respected allowed themselves to cross it.” “It came about gradually. We never planned that at the beginning. It just sort of…happened.” “Bullshit!” Sloan rounded the desk and stopped a hair’s breadth away from Vance. “And I can’t believe she slept with slime like you.” “She didn’t think of me that way.” “Are you saying that she cared for you? Do you actually think she loved you?” “You think so little of her, that you think she’d sleep with someone she despised?” Sloan gritted his teeth and took a step back. Even if she didn’t know the full extent of Vance’s activities, the thought of the two of them together set his brain on fire. At that moment he just couldn’t face it. He resorted to the desperate man’s final defense— denial. “No!” he said firmly. “I don’t believe it. I don’t know why, but you’re lying about that. She wouldn’t have had an affair with you. Maybe Dad was dead, but Lois wasn’t. And even if they weren’t exactly kindred spirits, she wouldn’t have betrayed a friend like that.” “Oh, it’s the truth, Sloan.” Slowly, Vance crossed to a sideboard packed with an assortment of glasses and decanters. He silently poured two snifters of brandy. “Of course she loved Jonathan, but she loved me as well. And I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any as to why she did what she did.” Vance’s smile was knowing, and his eyes glinted with malice. “But was she really trying to kill herself? Or, as is often the case with desperate and depressed women, was it all just a desperate cry for help?” He turned and held out a snifter. “A cry that, unfortunately, was ignored. And ended in tragedy.” Sloan stepped back. He had almost forgotten about Vance’s hints and threats. However, the references had been veiled and ambiguous, at best. It was time to stop dancing around the issues and tackle it all head-on. “What are you implying?” he demanded. “I’d like to hear exactly what you think you know, Vance. I think you owe me that much.” Vance held out the snifter again. “Why don’t you take this. I think you might need it by the time we’re done.” Sloan stared at it. He didn’t really want it. What he wanted was for all this to go away. He wanted to forget he had ever had a connection to Bay’s Haven and the Lakeside Auction House. He wanted to wake up in his old bed, and find out he was still

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nineteen with two healthy, happy parents and the world at his feet. But none of that was going to happen. In lieu of that he accepted the brandy and took a fiery sip. “Even barring your activities south of the border, Sloan, you are hardly an innocent. Your mother died and I blame you.” “What do you mean?” he whispered. “You know perfectly well. You stood by and let her bleed to death. You waited until she was dead and cold before calling the authorities. In my mind that makes you as guilty as if you had held her down and sawed through her skin yourself.” Sloan’s eyes snapped to attention. What the hell? “That-that’s insane! That wasn’t how it happened,” he stuttered in disbelief. “It was two minutes, maybe three. I think. I mean…I was in shock. I couldn’t move! I-I loved her.” He hated that he found himself defending his actions to the likes of Vance Elliot. Or maybe Vance wasn’t the one he needed to convince. “Where are you getting this, anyway?” Vance smiled indulgently and sipped from his own brandy. “Don’t bother to deny it, Sloan. Perry saw the whole thing. She had called me to come over and discuss it that night. Late, so that Lois wouldn’t miss me. But Perry thought it might be a good idea for someone else to talk to her. Maybe a clearer head could talk some sense into her. But it was a ruse. She had wanted me to come and find her…like that. No doubt she thought that the sight of her bleeding and near death would convince me to change my ways and give up the business.” Vance closed his eyes, his misery and pain as real as Sloan’s. And Sloan hated him all the more for that. “Unfortunately it backfired on her.” He opened his eyes and they glared at Sloan in unmistakable judgment. “You arrived early and beat Perry to the house. He must have driven in just a couple of minutes after you. He saw the whole thing through the window. He didn’t feel it was his place to interfere between mother and son, and by the time he realized what was happening…” Vance dropped his voice to a whisper. “By the time he realized that you had no intention of helping her, it was too late. She was dead.” “No.” Sloan’s head was reeling. Perry? He had watched? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I don’t care what he says. That is not how it happened. She was alive when I—” Vance wouldn’t allow him to continue. “Time can become distorted in circumstances like that, Sloan. Not that that excuses it, but…” He sipped from his snifter. “Whether out of malice, or shock, or simple poor judgment, the fact remains, you let her die. And I’m sure the police will be very interested—” “Shut up!” he raved. He refused to allow Vance to get the upper hand again. “I won’t be manipulated by you and I won’t avoid this anymore. I’m through running. You can tell them whatever you like. I’ll face the music if I have to.” He drained his

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brandy and pointed his finger at Vance again. This time it was rock-steady. “As long as it means you will too.” “So, you’re planning on going to the authorities.” Sloan nodded. “Of course I am. I mean…” The brandy had hit him hard. His legs had suddenly turned to jelly. His fingers began to tingle. “What?” prodded Vance. “What do you mean?” “Pardon?” “You didn’t finish your thought, Sloan. Is something wrong?” Wrong? Yes, something was wrong. He couldn’t seem to remember what he was going to say. His brain had become as numb as his fingertips. Sloan felt himself sway a little on his feet. Why was Vance smiling so strangely? And why was he leaning to one side like that? “Whuss going on?” he slurred, as fear suddenly coiled in his gut. “What have you…” His voice trailed off. His tongue felt thick. “What have I done?” mocked Vance. “Take your time, Sloan. You’ll figure it out.” Sloan leaned back against the desk because at that moment the world had started to spin. His tongue felt too sluggish to form words. His lips refused to respond. He heard something thud onto the carpet, and realized with dismay that he had dropped the snifter. He wanted to pick it up but his hand refused to move. “Ah, poor Sloan,” taunted a familiar voice. “Not feeling your usual perfect self tonight?” With some effort Sloan looked up and was startled to see that Perry had entered the room. But he seemed distorted, like a reflection in a warped carnival mirror. But then he remembered, Perry always looked like that. He wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Perry snickered. “I can’t believe he actually drank it. You’re a pro, Dad.” “Shut up, Perry. Just shut the hell up.” Sloan felt like he was melting. He sank to the floor, congealing in a huge shapeless puddle. Like his body, his thought processes felt sluggish and distorted, but he remained sentient enough to figure out that he had been drugged. And he was aware enough to realize that his limbs were paralyzed. Slowly, steadily, fear crept over his skin, but he tried to shrug off the panic and focus on what the Elliots were saying. “I think I like him this way,” jeered Perry. And Sloan realized that Perry was standing over him. Perry’s foot nudged Sloan’s ribs. “Humiliation suits him.” And then Perry’s shoe connected with the side of Sloan’s head. He didn’t kick, but he pushed hard enough that Sloan’s head rolled to the side. And no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t move it back. “Stop it,” scolded Vance. “You can play with him later, if you want. But I want him out of this house.”

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Play with him? Sloan groaned mentally at the images that phrase brought to mind. “Do you need me to help you get him out to the car?” demanded Vance. “No, actually,” answered Perry. And Sloan noted with relief that he had moved away toward the door. “For once I have some help.” The paralysis continued to spread. Sloan could breathe and he could swallow, but other than that his muscle control seemed almost nonexistent. He had barely enough control of his eyes to look up at the sound of fresh footsteps entering the room. Perry’s voice continued, “Look who I found skulking around in the bushes.” “Troy? What the hell are you doing here?” asked his father. Sloan felt a wash of relief. Troy. Troy would protect him from his maniacal family. Troy glanced at Sloan. But to Sloan’s horror he looked away again, and seemed unconcerned by what he saw. “I was watching Sloan tonight because I knew he had found something over at the Auction House. I wasn’t sure what he would do.” “You knew what he was up to tonight? You watched him break into our house?” Vance’s voice could have cut solid ice. “And you said nothing?” “I didn’t know about the break-in until he came back.” Troy was lying. But why? What was he doing? He continued, “And I thought if I stopped him from coming in here, we’d never find out how much he knew.” Sloan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Troy had followed him here? Troy knew about his family’s activities? Troy felt some sort of loyalty to his father and brother? But that didn’t make sense. Troy had disowned his family years ago. He had distanced himself from them, and was almost militant about maintaining the feud. So, why would he have kept their secret? Or was he involved somehow, and the split was some sort of ruse? But to what purpose, Sloan couldn’t guess. Whatever the reasons, whatever the circumstances, it seemed that Troy wasn’t the man Sloan thought he was. But then again, Sloan wasn’t exactly who Troy thought he was either. Apparently they had been lying to each other for years. Sloan’s head began to throb. He was startled by a whisper close to his ear, but the words were jumbled and he couldn’t sort them out before a pair of hands grabbed him and roughly dragged him off the floor. The voices continued, but he completely lost track of the conversation. And he knew he had missed part of what was said earlier. Not that it mattered, he supposed. He found himself draped across Troy’s broad shoulders, limp and helpless. He’d never felt so humiliated. And he’d never felt so betrayed. “All right,” grunted Troy as he arranged his cargo, fireman style. “Let’s go.” Troy moved smoothly through the darkened house, trailing his father and brother as they walked, without a word, toward the back door.

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They halted and Sloan heard the back door squeak open. “Whatever you do tonight,” hissed Vance. “I don’t want to know. However you decide to clean up this mess, I want nothing to do with it.” “Yeah. That’s me,” replied Perry. “The Elliotts’ resident janitor. That’s my function in life, to clean up your messes.” “This isn’t my mess. This is all your doing,” shot back Vance. “I never should have listened to you. If it weren’t for you there wouldn’t be any messes.” “God,” groaned Troy. Even through his paralytic haze and the numbness that had settled over his extremities he could sense the tension in Troy’s body. He hummed with it, and Sloan marveled that his father and brother didn’t seem to have noticed the simmering cauldron in their midst. “Listen to you two,” continued Troy. “You sound like a pair of old biddies arguing over whose turn it is to clean up the kitchen. But this is a hell of a lot bigger than that. You’re both to blame. And we’ve all paid the price. Now let’s just get on with this, I’m not fucking Superman here!” “I think,” said Perry, his voice slow and cold. “That my brother is absolutely right. And in light of that, I think Daddy dearest here should give us a hand on this one.” “You’re insane,” ranted Vance. “I have no intention of getting involved in this.” “I’d say it’s a little late for that, wouldn’t you? You’re neck-deep in this, whether you like it or not.” “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’ve never had a hand in this particular…activity, and I don’t intend to start now.” “Fine. Then Troy and I will just haul him back to his room and let him sleep it off. We’ll let him go to the cops, and we can all deal with the flying shit tomorrow. And then we can argue over who turns state’s evidence first.” “You wouldn’t dare. That would be cutting your own throat.” “Oh, but it would be worth it, just to see the blood gush from your neck for a change.” “Decide!” blasted Troy. “Quit your goddamned bickering and let’s get on with this.” There was a moment of tense silence, and Sloan silently wondered how, exactly, Perry usually cleaned up his father’s messes. What, exactly, were they going to do with him? They wanted to preserve their secret, obviously. But just how far would they go to do it? He tamped down the fear that swirled through him. It served no purpose. He had to keep a clear head and think. The drug couldn’t last forever. And when it wore off he had better have some line of defense ready, because, it seemed, he was all he had. “All right,” said Vance at last. “I’ll go upstairs and get changed and meet you at the car. But Perry?” “Yes, Father?” 230

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“This had damn well better be the last time.” And Vance stomped away. Troy led the way out the door, down the walkway to the waiting vehicle, and Sloan heard Perry mutter, “You can count on it, Dad. And this time there won’t be any loose ends.”

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Chapter Twenty Sloan winced when the light from the foyer’s thousand-watt chandelier crashed against his retinas. They had driven through the night, the silence in the car as tangible and sharp as the spray of a skunk. Sloan had kept his eyes riveted to Troy who had ridden in the back seat with him, but not once had Troy met his gaze. Sloan had wanted to scream at him, plead with him, pummel him with questions, and possibly his fists. But while the numbness in his fingers had faded, his tongue continued to resist his attempts at communication. He couldn’t even scratch his nose, let alone manage anything as sophisticated as a one-two punch. “Upstairs,” said Perry with a nod toward Sloan whom Troy was supporting with an arm around the waist. “Why?” asked Troy. “What are you planning, anyway? I’m not hauling him up there if I don’t absolutely have to.” Sloan caught a glimpse of the smug little smile that flitted over Perry’s lips. “I thought it would be fitting for the son to follow in his parents’ footsteps. Another suicide in this house would be fitting, and quite believable, don’t you think?” Sloan’s worst fears were confirmed. He managed a passable groan, but all it earned him was a squeeze from Troy’s arm. What the hell did that mean? Don’t worry, buddy, it’ll be quick and painless? “Yeah, Perry,” growled Troy. “You’re a fucking genius. A real legend in your own mind.” “Shut up, big brother. I think it’s way past time you got down off your high horse, and joined the rest of us down here in the dirt. You’re hardly sinless in all this.” “Just shut up, and let’s go.” Vance took Sloan’s other arm and together they maneuvered their load toward the second floor. As they ascended the stairs Sloan began to feel a tingling in his fingers and toes, similar to the sensation of Novocain wearing off, and he could finally move his lips and tongue. But he decided it prudent to keep that information to himself. At least for now. His head continued to loll against his chest, and his feet dragged, bumping over the Persian-carpeted stairs. By the time they reached the master suite, Sloan had regained enough control that he was able to actually wiggle his digits. He knew, however, that a wiggling pinky would fall far short of the mark. He would need a few flexing pecs and a nice pair of biceps, in the tradition of Schwarzenegger or Stallone, to ward off his three captors. And despite his strides toward recovery, that didn’t appear likely.

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With a grunt of relief Troy laid him gently across the wide king-size mattress that Sloan’s parents had shared for almost thirty years. “All right,” wheezed Vance, his aging physiology apparently taxed by the burdensome trip up the stairs. “I’ve done my part. Now I’m going down to the car to wait.” But Perry planted himself between his father and the doorway. “I don’t think so.” Vance shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at his son. “Why are you making an issue of this now? This has always been your specialty. I have no taste for—” Vance seemed to choke on the words. “Murder? That’s the word for it, Dad. You’re okay with grand larceny and fraud, but killing is my business, is that it?” “Frankly, yes. You certainly seem to have no compunction against it. Once you got a taste of it the first time, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. And it never seemed to matter what I thought about it. You went your own way, and to hell with everyone else.” The first time? Murder? Sloan blinked in confusion. Who were they talking about? Who had Perry killed? “You still haven’t forgiven me, have you Dad?” spat Perry. “He would have exposed us and you would have lost everything, and you still can’t see that it had to be done.” Vance stepped very close to Perry but Sloan could easily hear him whisper, “He was my best friend. I know you have no understanding of that word, and I blame your mother for tainting your DNA, but to me it meant something.” Sloan’s mind raced at a thousand miles an hour. Best friend? As far as Sloan knew Vance Elliott had only ever had one best friend—Jonathan Carver. His mind balked at the implications, but Troy’s words laid it all out for him in plain English. “You didn’t have to kill him,” whispered Troy. “There were options. There are always options.” “Oh? And what would those have been? I don’t hear any specifics. I don’t hear any grand ideas coming from either of you. I never did. I always had to come up with the solutions. I’m the planner. The thinker.” “You could have listened to him. He only had trouble when you expanded your illegal activities into the drug trade, and he wouldn’t have said a word if things had gone back to the way they were.” “Folding the operation was never an option. That’s hardly a surprising suggestion, coming from you, Mister Saint of the Century. You’ve never approved of what we do, but you certainly didn’t complain when our money solved all your problems for you.” “You didn’t solve them. You just made them more complicated.”

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“Complicated?” ranted Perry. “You don’t know complicated. Neither of you do. If it weren’t for me this whole thing would fall apart. I’m the only thing that’s holding it all together.” “Dammit, Perry,” raged Vance. “This is my company. I built it from the ground up while you were still in diapers. And I did it with Jonathan’s help.” Perry sneered. “Then why didn’t you go running to the cops when you found out what I had done? Why didn’t you turn in your sociopathic son?” Sloan could hear Vance’s heavy breathing, as clearly as if it were right next to his own ear. “By that time it was too late. And…” He fumbled with the words. “And I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m leaving.” “I’ll tell you why,” offered Troy. “It’s because you like to ignore the things you don’t want to face. Isn’t that right, Dad?” Sloan was surprised that he could hear Troy’s voice over the red-hot fury that raged through his head. Perry had killed his father? And Vance knew? And Troy knew, added a tiny voice that he didn’t want to hear. “What’s that supposed to mean?” retorted Vance. “For a while you actually believed that Jonathan shot himself.” Vance licked his lips and his eyes flitted to Sloan. “Yes. I knew he was tormented over his decision. The suicide didn’t strike me as impossible.” “Even though you knew Perry had gone to visit him that day.” “I don’t see the point in this conversation.” Vance’s voice seethed with resentment. “I don’t see the point in reopening old wounds.” “And Joe. You thought he succumbed to a heart attack. You never questioned the convenient timing of his death that happened just a few days after he, too, voiced his reservations to you, and you shared that information with your new right-hand man.” Sloan glanced at Perry, and saw a ghost of a smile flit across his lips. Vance remained stonily silent. “And for years you believed that Russell’s accident was just that.” “I saw no need to question things the authorities accepted as fact.” “Right.” Troy’s voice was low and deadly, and Sloan noticed that Perry crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, silently observing his brother’s torment of his father. “Only when I forced you to look at it realistically, and actually ask Perry about his involvement—only then did you bother to learn the truth.” “And what did that knowledge get me?” shot back Vance. “It’s not like I could change anything. They were dead. They had been for years. Nothing could bring them back.” “Your silence implied consent, Dad. You loved your business and your house and your pool too much to jeopardize it by putting an end to Perry’s escapades. He made sure you had smooth sailing, and you didn’t really care how he did it, or who he hurt

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along the way as long as things kept running smoothly, and you didn’t have to get your hands dirty.” Vance moved to speak, but Troy continued on, his voice and eyes shooting fire. “And I’m sure you never questioned the one incident you knew you could never forgive him for.” Vance swallowed thickly. “What do you mean?” “Come on, Dad, you know what I mean. You just don’t want to face it. You don’t want to face the possibility that, ultimately, you were to blame for her death.” Her? A rush of adrenaline and outrage gave Sloan the strength to sit up on the bed. Vertigo and nausea swirled within him and he almost fell, but he managed to steady himself and glance at his captors. No one seemed to have noticed. “Wh-what are you talking about?” babbled Vance. “She slit her own wrists, and Sloan let her die. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him.” No! I wasn’t to blame, screamed Sloan silently. And for the first time in his life he truly believed it. “And whose eyewitness account did you rely on for this information?” continued Troy. “Who did you send to talk to her that night because you were tired of arguing with her?” “What do you know about it?” spat Vance. “You didn’t even know about her death until tonight. You’re one to accuse me of gullibility when you accepted the Armand story hook, line and sinker!” “Perhaps I was gullible, but I’d trusted Sloan my whole life. I had no reason to distrust him. Whereas you had every reason to distrust Perry.” “How—” Troy wouldn’t allow him to speak. “Sure, I believed Sloan, but when we found the blood at the Carver house I began to suspect the truth. Sloan told us about the suicide, but Janelle taking her own life just didn’t seem right to me, especially considering what I already knew of Perry’s activities. And then I heard your conversation with Sloan tonight and I put it all together.” He took a step toward his father. “Come on, Dad, you’re no idiot. If I can figure it out, so can you.” Vance took a step back, and Perry just kept on watching, his mouth smiling, and his eyes gleaming. Their father shook his head. “No. She had been upset by it all. She felt betrayed by me, and guilty for betraying her friendship with Lois. She hated what I was doing and thought she could persuade me to stop. It made sense.” “Of course it did. It always did to you.” Vance just shook his head and took another step back. “For God’s sake think, Dad. Janelle kept company with Mom, but you know as well as I do, that she never really considered her a friend. And she had been widowed for a year. Certainly she was angry with you for the deception, but she felt no guilt.” 235

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Vance stood as still as stone, his face pasty and his eyes wide. Troy was undaunted. “And what did your son—your other son—think of your indiscretion? If nothing else, Perry is loyal to his mother. And I have no doubt he feared Janelle’s influence over you. What if she actually managed to persuade you to change your ways? If anyone could it was her. And what if she got too close and figured out what had really happened to her husband? Who would suffer then?” Vance just shook his head. “Just tell me this—did you ask Perry to go talk to her that night, or did he offer to do it?” “Why are you doing this?” whispered his father. “Because you need to know the truth. You need to face it before you consent to being a party to what Perry is planning tonight.” Vance had literally backed himself into a corner. His face was ashen, and his hands shook. He glanced at Sloan, but the fact that their victim was sitting up and glaring at him didn’t seem to concern him. Sloan felt stronger. Maybe strong enough, but he didn’t move. Not yet. He had to know the truth. The whole truth. Vance’s eyes lingered on his and something indefinable passed between them. Strange as it may seem, despite their differences, and their mutual hatred, they shared something. They had both loved her. Finally Vance’s eyes shifted to Perry. “Did you?” breathed Vance, his face a mask of rage and agony. Perry lifted his hand and casually examined his fingernails. “She was supposed to be dead when Sloan returned the next morning.” He glanced at Sloan. “I do love doing that to him.” Sloan seethed, but waited. He wanted to hear the rest. He needed to hear it. Perry looked back at his father. “But then I heard him drive in. He was early and she was bleeding more slowly than I anticipated. I couldn’t take the chance of finishing her by injuring her further. That would have interfered with the suicide scenario, but I knew she couldn’t last long. I decided to take a chance that she wouldn’t be coherent enough to tell him anything. I slipped out the back, but stayed and watched the house to make sure nothing went wrong.” His lips curled hideously, the smile of a snake that had just swallowed a live rodent. “But the fact that he found her alive turned out to be an unexpected bonus. She died in his arms while I watched through the windows. A thoroughly enjoyable scene.” Perry glanced again at Sloan, but merely smiled at the man that he had stolen absolutely everything from. “You’ve never written a better one, Carver. I stayed right through the arrival of the police and the finale. It was so moving, I regretted I didn’t have a video camera with me to record it for posterity.” “Dammit, Perry. How could you do that to me?” screamed his father. “I loved her. You knew that.”

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Perry lost his smile. “Exactly.” “You son of a bitch!” screamed Sloan. In his rage he found the strength to fling himself from the bed, and hurtle himself toward the evil Humpty Dumpty twin on the other side of the room. “I’ll kill you, you slimy bastard!” he screamed as his hands latched around Perry’s scrawny throat. But he was still too weak to do much damage, and a surprisingly potent blow to his gut sent him reeling. He coughed and his knees crumpled beneath him. When he looked up he realized why Perry’s fist had felt like it was made of iron. In it he gripped a large semi-automatic pistol. And it was pointed at Sloan. “It’s about time you got your legs back. I hate it when things are too easy.” “Did Janelle fight you?” asked Vance who had advanced on his son. “Did she give you a thrill before you sliced open her wrists?” To Sloan’s amazement, Vance appeared to be on the brink of tears. But he felt no sympathy for the man, only cold disdain. “Yes, actually,” taunted Perry. “I can see why you enjoyed her. She had a real fire about her. Her appeal was obvious. But I couldn’t let your hormones jeopardize everything we had achieved.” He dropped his voice to a deadly whisper. “And I couldn’t let you continue to do that to Mother.” “You’re a vile little weasel,” hissed Vance. “You’re your mother through and through. I’d cut out your heart for this, only I don’t think I could find that cold, black thing in there amidst all that slimy yellow—” A muffled pop cut off Vance’s last words. Sloan realized with horror Perry had turned the gun on his father. Vance staggered back as a crimson stain bloomed across his chest, his eyes a vivid hazel against the stark white pallor of his complexion. His lips mouthed a silent word that Sloan couldn’t identify, before another pop from the gun drove him back against the wall. His eyes wide and sightless, Jonathan Carver’s former friend slipped down the wall as his soul slipped into oblivion. He left a bloody trail in his wake—streaks of red that dripped down the wall, a vivid reminder of all the blood that this house had seen. Sloan dragged himself to his feet. Still wobbly from drugs and shock, he stared at the empty shell that had been Vance Elliott, and then he glared at Perry. His hand was shaking, but his face was set in stone. “Very good,” whispered Troy. Confused, Sloan looked his way, and was startled to see a gun in Troy’s hand. A pearl-handled Colt .45. His father’s gun. The one that Jonathan had killed himself— mentally Sloan corrected himself—the one that he had been murdered with. The gun was pointing at Perry. It trembled slightly, but Troy’s face was a study in determination. Perry turned to look at his brother, and an indiscernible emotion colored his features. “What the hell?”

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“You two are so predictable. You always have been. I knew if I pushed you into this discussion, one of you would kill the other. I didn’t really care who did who, as long as one of you ended up dead, and the other ended up in prison for the rest of his life for a murder rap.” Troy sucked in a breath. “It’s damn well about time.” Perry’s eyes glinted like a cornered snake’s. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.” “Why not? I’ve always gone along with you before. I was always a sniveling coward. For years I followed Sloan like a lovesick puppy, letting him persuade me to help him with his stupid pranks. And then I let you blackmail and manipulate me into things I knew were wrong. You had no reason to think I had changed now.” “So, why did you?” “I’m just sick of it. I’m sick of lying to Carolyn, and I’m sick of putting up with your shit. I couldn’t allow you to hurt Sloan. And I finally got smart.” Troy’s chest heaved and Sloan saw something glitter in his friend’s eyes. Tears. Perhaps he hated Vance, and had for years, but no son could watch the death of his father without experiencing a morsel or two of regret, and a few token moments of pain. Troy took control of his emotions and continued, “I figured you wouldn’t be able to resist showing off your skills, and making me watch you kill Sloan. You’re so proud of your bloody achievements. You couldn’t stand the fact that no one really appreciated your talents. You couldn’t see past your huge ego.” Sloan watched and listened, viewing it all as if through a dreamlike haze. “So, what now?” asked Perry. “You turn me in to the police?” “Yes.” Troy lifted his weapon and trained it on Perry’s head. “Drop the gun, little brother.” The gun remained, dangling at Perry’s side. “Or what? Or you’ll shoot me? I sincerely doubt it.” “Don’t test me. I hate you more than you know. I’ll do it if I have to, and it’ll be selfdefense.” “But what about those two witnesses in the doorway?” said Perry through an evil grin. Troy sighed. “That’s a desperate ploy, and pathetically obvious. Drop it or I’ll shoot. I won’t tell you again.” “Troy?” asked a soft, female voice. “My God! What’s going on?” Both Sloan’s and Troy’s heads swivelled around toward the door, and a split second later a dull pop echoed through the room. Bree and Franki screamed, and in slow motion, Sloan saw Troy’s body hurtle backward, and the gun fly from his fingers. He landed on the floor with a sickening thud, and Sloan thought fleetingly that maybe Troy was the man he thought he was after all. He just hoped he hadn’t made that discovery too late. But before he could scramble to his friend’s side a blinding pain lanced through his skull, and in an instant the world went black. 238

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Chapter Twenty-One “Sloan,” pleaded Bree. “Please God. Please wake up.” But Sloan’s head continued to loll on his chest. He hung from the damp basement wall, his limbs tacked to the ancient stone foundation in a cruel parody of a gothic dungeon prisoner. Perry had used the hooks that Sloan’s grandfather had hammered into the stone two generations ago. Bree vividly remembered the rods, reels, nets, and endless accessories that had hung on these walls. The ancient enclave was too damp and dirty to be used for anything but storage. Even then, the only things deemed expendable enough to be consigned here were the assortment of outdated sporting equipment, a stock of empty jars that Janelle never quite managed to fill with preserves, and a pile of firewood under the stairs. Troy moaned. “Troy?” she whispered. But he merely groaned again and then lapsed into silence. His condition had gone steadily downhill in the hours since Perry had forced Bree and Franki to drag them down here. He’d held them at gunpoint and laughed each time one of the women had, out of pure exhaustion, stumbled or almost dropped one of their injured friends. Troy was trussed up beside Sloan, the position aggravating the shoulder wound, which continued to drip blood onto the damp, earth floor. He fluctuated between periods of sentient agony and semi-conscious silence. At his worst, he moaned and writhed against his restraints and seemed oblivious to Bree’s and Franki’s presence. Bree shifted her gaze to her friend’s tear-streaked face. “Are you okay, Franki?” Franki twisted her hands against her own bonds, which mirrored Bree’s. They had been spared the spread-eagled stance of their male counterparts. Instead their arms were laced to a pair of steel support rods in the center of the floor. At least they were sitting and they could see each other. “Yeah, I’m just peachy,” spat Franki. “Top of the world. Never felt better. Thanks for asking.” Bree battled tears and looked away. Franki muttered something under her breath. “Sorry. I guess I don’t respond well to torture and captivity.” “Forgiven,” sniffled Bree. “We’ve had a hell of a week, wouldn’t you say?” Franki closed her eyes. “God, Bree. Losing your mom, and now this?” Bree battled a fresh assault of tears at the mention of her mother. Up until now she had been able to push those thoughts aside quite neatly, the scene in the master suite having shocked it out of her system. Vance lying dead, Troy shot, Sloan knocked 239

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senseless, and Perry Elliott wielding a gun like he knew what he was doing. Like he had done it before. It had been a fire-and-brimstone finale to a hellish day. And it had gone steadily downhill from there. She didn’t have time to grieve right now, and she regretted that. Her mother deserved better. But her mother also deserved a daughter who would live to mourn her, and right now living was Bree’s main concern. When Bree didn’t respond, Franki’s eyes flitted to Sloan and Troy. “Hey guys!” she called. Her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the dank stillness of the cellar. Bree cringed, but said nothing. “You two slackers better wake up and get on the ball. There’s a couple of damsels here that need rescuing, you know!” Franki’s voice faltered on the last word. “Don’t you two dare die before you get a chance to slay the big ugly dragon!” She dropped her eyes to the floor and whispered, “I’d never forgive you if you did that. Never.” But their knights in shining armor failed to rise to the task. They just hung there, as still as death. Bree suppressed a little squeak of anguish. “Speaking of reptiles,” she whispered out of a need to change the subject. “Where is our cold-blooded captor?” “No doubt he had to dispose of daddy. I think I heard a wood chipper start up in the backyard.” “Huh?” “You know, like in Fargo?” “Oh God!” “I’m just kidding.” “No. I wouldn’t put it past him.” “Jesus Christ! Don’t you two ever shut up?” Bree’s head whipped around to see Sloan staring at them through heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. Tears surged to her eyes. “Somebody has to keep up the morale in this dull, dreary, rathole.” Franki’s teasing couldn’t hide the relief in her voice. “You make a pretty pathetic host, Carver.” “Hey!” groaned Sloan. “I take offense to that. We’ve never had rats.” He gazed up at his wrists. “What the hell happened?” And then his gaze wandered to Troy, and Bree could see the memories hit. “Damn,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again. His head drooped. “Don’t you dare cut out on us again,” called Bree. “We need our esteemed leader to turn green, rip off his shirt, tear the stakes out of the wall and save us all.” Sloan didn’t chuckle. And he didn’t open his eyes. Instead he muttered, “He did it, didn’t he?” His eyelids lifted as if they were weighed down by invisible chains. “Do I remember that right? He killed Dad?” “Yeah,” whispered Bree. “That’s right.” During the course of their trip down the stairs and the ritual binding of the prisoners, Perry had felt the need to unburden

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himself of a few choice morsels of information. He had boasted of his grand plan to obliterate the Carvers from the face of the planet, and of how it was nearing completion. Bree and Franki had listened to his words in shocked silence. At first Bree had dismissed it as the rantings of a lunatic. Then, later, she changed her mind. Sloan laughed softly. The absolute loneliness of that sound haunted her like the distant whistle of a train on a rainy night. “Christ!” he said at last. “All these years. All that rage and all that worrying.” He twisted his hands against the ropes but the knots held firm. “And I was angry at the wrong people. I spent years cursing and resenting my parents for being so damn selfish. How’s that for a guilt trip? And now…” He glanced at Troy. “Now, me poking my nose into this whole thing is hurting you guys. It might even get you killed. God knows Vance had it coming. But Troy… Jesus.” “Dammit, Sloan, none of this is your fault,” said Bree with as much conviction as she could muster. “You have to stop beating yourself up over things that are beyond your control.” “I think I have a right to regret that one of my best friends in the world got shot last night. At least grant me that, for chrissake.” “Of course,” said Bree impatiently. “You know that’s not what I meant. I just mean that you should stop wallowing in guilt and get on with your life.” “Very sage advice,” scoffed Sloan. “And I’d love to take it, except that I don’t appear to have a life to get on with.” “Well, maybe if you’d look around for options, and try to help yourself instead of whining and—” “Hey! I’ve never whined a day in my life. And I resent that wallowing in guilt crack, by the way. I don’t wallow. Where the hell is that coming from? I ought to take you over my knee and—” “Children!” shouted Franki. “Shall we save the foreplay for a day when the two of you can actually get close enough to touch?” “Foreplay?” barked Bree. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Franki rolled her eyes. “Lord, spare me. I mean—” Troy’s low moan cut her off as efficiently as the wail of a siren. With what appeared to be a supreme effort of will, he lifted his head and focused his eyes on Sloan. “She’s right, Sloan.” His voice was strained and hollow. “If anyone has—” He grimaced in obvious pain, but no one spoke. Somehow they all knew that he needed to continue, uninterrupted. “If anyone should feel guilty, it’s me.” Sloan just blinked, waiting. “I knew about your dad.” His voice cracked, but when he spoke again it was strong, as if he was determined to make his confession, and do it with dignity. “I didn’t know at the time, but I found out a few years later. Perry bragged to me about it. He told me about Jonathan and the others, and…” He took a deep breath and fresh blood welled up from his shoulder. A few beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “And I didn’t tell

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you. I was a coward. I only thought about myself. I ignored my responsibility to my friends. And I can never expect you to forgive me.” His glazed eyes swept over Bree and Franki. “None of you.” Apparently no one knew what to say, because the cellar remained as still and silent as a tomb. But while on the outside she remained quiet and calm, inside Bree felt the first stirrings of a storm. Finally she broke the silence. “What do you mean, you found out about the others?” But Troy’s answer caught in his throat when they all heard the sound of a cheerful whistle coming from the direction of the stairs.

***** Craig leaned back on a mountain of Mom’s super-dooper-fluffy-cloud pillows, and sighed. His mother had performed her Judeo-maternal duties with vigor. She had fluffed and tucked and fawned and spoon-fed until, on the edge of desperation and insanity, he had beckoned to his little sister Susan, who had drawn the short straw and been awarded the job of sibling delegate. She had dragged herself out of the pages of Vogue and answered his urgent summons. He had whispered his request in her triplepierced ear and she had awarded him a knowing smile before pleading starvation and dragging her mother off for a late breakfast at the local coffee shop. At last he had been left alone. Now the room was quiet and he could flatten the pillows and pull out the sheets to his heart’s content, but still he wasn’t happy. His ears continually strained to hear familiar footfalls in the hallway. His eyes wandered repeatedly to the door in the hopes of seeing a flash of thigh, or even a familiar pair of Ray-Bans. Where the hell were Franki and Sloan? He was finally feeling good enough to enjoy the company, and now they decided to abandon him to the mercy of his family? What the hell kind of friends were they, anyway? He grumbled and stirred his dishwater coffee. He picked at a stale danish, and wallowed in disappointment. With every passing second of solitude his anger continued to simmer and build. Physically, he was feeling so good, he almost considered signing himself out of there and going in search of his errant partner and girlfriend. Girlfriend. Was that what she was? They’d slept together, sure, but what else had they shared? Well, okay, so she’d sat up with him in the hospital and shared stories of her childhood. So they liked a lot of the same things, and both felt like misfits in their own families. Did that really mean they were compatible? He allowed himself a grin. You bet your boots, it did. He had just popped another morsel of blueberries and dry pastry into his mouth when the door to his room pushed open. Feeling pathetically hopeful, he chewed on his lower lip and watched the door ease open, ever so slowly.

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It wasn’t like either Franki or Sloan to be shy. And his mother couldn’t possibly have finished off her lumberjack breakfast yet. Finally the door swung open and he had his answer, puzzling though it may be. “Derek?” Derek’s huge frame lumbered hesitantly into the room, like a Mack truck with a jammed transmission. He stopped about six feet away from the bed, and shoved his meaty hands into his pockets. “Hi, Craig.” “Hello.” Craig was stumped. He would have thought Derek would stay as far away from his potential accuser as possible. That was the logical reaction, at least where he was from. It was the New York way. It was definitely the Los Angeles way. And he would have assumed it was even the Canadian way. Craig folded his hands on the bedspread. “Uh, did you want something?” “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Craig waited, and finally said in exasperation, “And that would be?” Derek’s eyes shifted from his hands to Craig’s face, to the ceiling. Craig watched in mute torture as Derek’s jaw worked around words that seemed so hesitant to make themselves known. “I-I mean…” stuttered Derek at last. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” Craig blinked, unsure what to say to that. Somehow, Ah, that’s okay. Let’s be buds, didn’t feel right considering Craig had been knocking on the pearly gates there for a while. But apparently Derek didn’t expect a response because he continued in the same hesitant, guilt-ridden drawl. “And…I wanted to tell you that I’m going to the police. Right after I leave here. I know Francie talked to you, and she told me that you wouldn’t press charges, but I couldn’t live with myself. And…” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them on his dingy white golf shirt. “And I couldn’t do that to you, or to Francie.” Craig was stunned. He hadn’t expected this. This was the kind of thing that happened only on The Waltons, and The Brady Bunch. And even then it teetered on the edge of believability. But then something else struck him. “What did you say?” Derek’s face fell. “You want me to say all that again?” “No. No. About your sister. What did you call her?” “Francie?” “Do you always call her Francie?” Derek stared at him like he had sprouted tree branches out of his head. “What else would I call her?” Craig groaned in frustration. “Don’t you ever call her Franki?”

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“No. She’s been Francie since we were kids.” Derek’s expression remained one of utter befuddlement. Craig sat straight up in bed, suddenly infused with energy. “Franki told me that you don’t really remember…what happened. Do you remember anything? Do you remember calling me, and meeting me at the beach?” Derek dropped his eyes. “No. I was too drunk. I just remember waking up in the car and finding the…” He grimaced. “The knife and the mask.” “You don’t remember beating me to a pulp?” “Jeez. Why are you doing this?” “Because you didn’t do it, Derek. Something about it felt wrong right from the beginning. And now I know why.” Derek just shook his head. “The guy who beat me up called her Franki.” Derek blinked. “I would never do that.” “I know,” said Craig with a vigorous nod. “And you’re not smart enough to try and throw me off the scent by using a different name.” Derek lit up like a Christmas tree. “No. I’m not.” Craig stifled a laugh. “But, if I didn’t do it, then who did?” Craig settled back on his pillows. “Good question. Maybe we should talk to the cops again. Maybe they—” A soft groan from Derek commanded his attention. “What?” “Nothing.” “Don’t say nothing. You have an idea who it was and I want to hear it.” “I’m wrong. I’ve got to be. I’m always wrong.” “Let me be the judge of that. Who?” Derek closed his eyes and grimaced like a child waiting for a needle. “Perry.” Craig considered that. “Of course. He was the one that goaded you into it. And…” “And what?” Craig blinked. “Nacho chips.” Derek’s faced screwed up comically. “Huh?” “Does Perry eat a lot of nacho chips?” He remembered seeing Perry down a couple of huge bags of them at the barbecue. “Yeah. He’s munching those things all the time. I like ’em but they stink.” Craig nodded. “And so did the guy who beat me up.” Derek’s mouth dropped open, and then closed again. He nodded.

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“But why?” said Craig absently. “Why would he want to do it?” Derek barely hesitated before answering. “He’s had a thing for Francie for years. Not many people know it, but he’s liked her since high school. He got me to try and set them up a couple of times, but Francie laughed in my face. I never told him that, though.” Derek sank into the chair beside the bed. “He gets weird about stuff sometimes.” “Weird?” Derek shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “Yeah. I don’t know…just weird. He’s my best friend, but sometimes I don’t like him very much.” Then he perked up. “Hey! I gotta tell Francie. She’ll be so relieved.” “Speak of the devil,” muttered Craig. “Where is she? I would have thought she’d be in to visit me by now.” “Maybe she slept in. She likes to sleep in. And she might have had a late night last night.” “Why?” Craig battled an uncharacteristic jealousy and suspicion. “Was she out on a date, or something?” “No.” Craig’s edginess was lost on Derek. “Her and the others went over to Sloan’s old place to clean it up as a surprise for him.” “Sloan’s old place?” And then he remembered. Franki had been babbling something about cleaning toilets when he woke up. Derek nodded. “Yeah. It’s a gorgeous place, but it got all run down since he left.” “Know what, Derek buddy?” “What?” Craig threw back the covers. “I’m going to come with you to look for Franki, and then, once I’ve given her a piece of my mind, we’ll talk to the police.” “You sure about this?” “Yup. But first you are going to take me to see Sloan’s old house. He never did get around to it, and I’m afraid he never will.” Derek chewed on his lower lip as he watched Craig maneuver off the bed and rummage around for the clothes his mother had brought him. “I don’t know. Sloan wouldn’t like it. And I think I’ve made him mad enough to last a lifetime.” “I don’t give a shit what Sloan likes. He doesn’t visit me, he deserves what he gets. And you owe me, what with not beating me up and all.” Derek nodded slowly, apparently seeing the logic. “But what about your family. I saw them leave. Won’t they wonder where you went?” Craig stopped. His mother would worry. She would definitely worry. It was like a hobby. It would make her happy. “They’ll be fine. They won’t worry.” “Okay,” said Derek as he hefted himself out of the chair. Craig pulled on his jeans and reached for a shirt.

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“If Francie marries you will that make her Jewish, too?” Craig stalled with his shirt halfway over his head. He wasn’t sure which was more unsettling, the thought of marrying Franki or the image of her making matzoh balls beside his mother. He pulled his shirt down the rest of the way and tucked it into his waistband. “God, I hope not,” he said through a grin. “Judaism has survived Hitler and the PLO but I don’t think it could survive Franki Waters.” “Yeah,” said Derek sagely as they headed out the door. “I think I know what you mean.”

***** Perry’s footsteps thudded softly on the earthen floor. There was no echo. Unconsciously, Sloan held his breath as Perry’s dim silhouette approached from the stairs at the far end of the cellar. The single naked lightbulb did a poor job of illuminating the expansive space, but finally Perry stepped into view, the harsh light casting his features in gruesome relief. “Ah,” he crooned as he took in the tableau of misery around him. “This is just too perfect. A real Kodak moment.” Sloan found his breath, and his tongue. “But it’s rather cliché, don’t you think? Really, Perry. Ropes and chains and an old damp cellar? Surely you could come up with something a little more original than that.” Perry faced his heckler. “How about administering a paralytic drug that leaves the subject completely powerless but aware, and then…very slowly, while they watch, of course, slicing open a wrist or two.” Perry studied him while Sloan’s head swam with rage. He barely found the strength to speak. “Why? Why torture her like that? Jesus Christ. You stole her husband from her. Hadn’t she been through enough?” Perry’s eyes glinted. “She tried to steal my father away from his wife.” He moved very close to Sloan—close enough that Sloan could see the yellow-tinted whites of his eyes, and smell the rancid coffee on his breath. “Your mother was a whore, Carver. And your father was a thief. I guess it’s no surprise that you turned out to be a little bit of both.” Sloan’s foot shot out, aiming for Perry’s crotch, but Perry was surprisingly quick. He dodged the foot and landed a fist in Sloan’s exposed side. Sloan felt something give, and tried to stifle a groan. Perry laughed as Sloan slumped to hang limp from his bonds again. “You’re almost as pathetic as your father. He fought me too, for a while, until I bashed him on the back of the head.” Perry clucked his tongue. “Had to do it twice, actually, until he was dopey enough to let me put the gun in his mouth. It was so convenient that his gun was a .45. It blew out the back of his head and all evidence of 246

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the struggle went with it. Made such a pretty pattern on the wall, too.” He sighed. “But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.” Sloan gritted his teeth, but didn’t trust himself to speak the vile epithets that were creeping up the back of his throat. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the suffering his parents had endured. And he couldn’t allow himself to step into the sea of guilt that was lapping at his toes. He had blamed and hated them. He had disowned them and shamed their memory. He had vandalized their home, and… And that wasn’t even the worst of it. “I don’t understand!” Sloan tore himself back to the present and focused on Bree, who was looking at Perry with imploring, confused eyes. Perry turned slowly to face her. “What don’t you understand, Bree? I’ll answer you, you know. Out of the four of you, you always treated me the best.” Bree frowned, apparently as confused by the reference as Sloan. But after a moment she voiced her question. “Why did you kill them? And why did you kill your father?” Perry stared at her, and said nothing. The silence grew and stretched until Sloan thought he would go insane. “Answer her, dammit!” “I’m waiting for her to finish the question. She left some people out.” Impossibly, Bree’s face turned even more pale in the murky light. “What do you mean? More people?” Perry cocked his head and frowned. “Yes. Don’t you want to know why I killed the others as well?” “There were others?” breathed Franki. “Of course,” boasted Perry. “There was Joe and Russell, and I would have loved to take care of dear Lydia as well, but unfortunately the cancer beat me to it.” Sloan felt like he’d suffered a fresh kick in the stomach. “Lydia?” he whispered, his eyes riveted on Bree. “She…she died?” But Bree wasn’t looking at him. She had eyes only for Perry. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was even, but her eyes burned like a newborn star. Perry knelt down beside her in the dirt and traced a slimy finger down her cheek. To Sloan’s amazement she made no effort to draw away, but held his eyes as he spoke. “Oh, so gullible, sweet little Sabrina. Russell’s accident was no accident.” Bree just stared at him, her face a mask of pain and rage. Perry’s gaze never faltered. “And my father?” wailed Franki, her feet scuffling in the dirt as she tried in vain to break free. There was murder in her eyes, and Sloan could easily picture her blood-red fingernails digging into Perry’s throat. “You killed him, too? But…how? And, for God’s sake, why?” Tears were streaming down her face, and Sloan had never felt so protective, and so useless in his life.

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Perry held up his hands. “Please, please. One at a time.” He touched a finger to his chin and screwed up his face in concentration. “Now, where to begin?” He whirled and looked at Sloan. “Perhaps you would care to fill them in, since you have recently become an expert on the subject.” Sloan glared at Perry. He could feel Bree’s eyes on him. He didn’t want to be the one to shatter her saintly image of her father. Hell, he didn’t want to face it himself. How could he do that to her? Then he reconsidered. Maybe it was best if she heard it from him. Maybe that would make it easier to take. And maybe he was kidding himself. “Sloan?” whispered Bree. “Our fathers were a bunch of thugs, and our mothers were their molls,” he said bluntly. Bree blinked and a tear spilled onto the dirt. He softened his tone. “That’s what I found when I broke into the Auction House. I found a business journal, a second set of ledger books and lists of bidders’ names and addresses, along with detailed information about their…purchases.” “Go on, Sloan,” taunted Perry as he leaned against the pole that held Bree captive. “Don’t leave us all hanging in suspense. Tell her the rest.” Sloan dropped his eyes. He couldn’t look at her. “The Auction House was a front and money laundering set up for a huge fencing operation. Many of the items that were sold were stolen…” He swallowed thickly. “By my father.” “What?” said Bree in disbelief. “How could they sell stolen items so blatantly?” “From what I gather, the stolen pieces, like jewelry and art, were hidden in the furniture items. Bidders were informed ahead of time which items were key. The history of some of the pieces was trumped up and falsified to facilitate and explain the high bids. I guess the buyers never complained.” “Very good,” interrupted Perry. “That’s where your father came in, Bree. He refinished and refurbished the pieces that needed it.” An evil smile twitched at his lips. “And he was also very adept at building false bottoms, and inlaying paintings in the backs of mirrors and such. He was multi-talented.” “You’re lying,” stated Bree. “Oh, no,” said Perry easily. “I’m not, and neither is Sloan. However, Sloan is leaving out one tiny piece of information.” He turned his eyes on Sloan. “Well?” Sloan licked dry lips. “You’re so proud of it, I think you should tell her.” Perry sighed. “Very well. Russell’s pottery pieces provided a prime hiding place for quantities of cocaine and heroin. I’m sorry to burst your bubble, honey, but the price that his work demanded had little—or should I say nothing—to do with his talent.” The room fell silent. The heaviness of it weighed on Sloan’s soul like the sins of a thousand men. Or like the sins of four. “No,” whispered Bree. “Dad would have never had a part in that.” 248

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“Oh, he didn’t like it much. But with my help, Vance talked him into it. Your father always had big dreams for you and your mother. He wanted to live like his friends Vance and Jonathan, and that kind of money was just too tempting.” “Then why did you kill him?” Perry’s face darkened. “Because his conscience started to eat away at him. The distribution racket didn’t sit well with him and eventually he caved. I suspect your mother had something to do with it as well. He wanted us to stop the operation. And I believe he may have had suspicions about Jonathan’s death.” He glanced at Franki. “And he had converted Joe to his camp. Together they had decided that if we didn’t quit the drug branch of the operation they were going to opt out. Like Jonathan, they became a liability. One that we couldn’t afford.” Bree’s eyes turned pleadingly on Sloan, and he had the irrational urge to beg her forgiveness. Somehow he felt as if the weight of all of this fell on his shoulders. His father and Vance had led them all down the garden path. Perhaps Jonathan had stopped short of stepping over a self-imposed line, but, ultimately, he had started them all down the road that led to their destruction. Logically, Sloan knew he bore no responsibility for his father’s decisions, but all his heart could see was Bree’s disillusionment and disappointment. He looked away. “Oh dear,” mocked Perry. “Do I sense trouble in paradise? Some tension between the lovebirds?” Sloan said nothing and Perry sauntered over to him again. “You love her, don’t you?” Sloan glared at him. “Of course you do. Your relationship always puzzled me, fighting one minute and ripping off each other’s clothes the next.” Perry tapped his chin. “I’ve never experienced that kind of passion. Since things aren’t exactly idyllic between you at the moment, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I…sampled a bit of it for myself.” Sloan’s stomach pitched. “Keep your hands off her.” “Oh, so gallant.” Perry turned his leering gaze on Bree and took a few steps toward her. “And, oh so futile. I’ll have her if I want, and while you watch, no less.” Bree shrank from him as his finger reached for her cheek. “Leave her alone, you bastard!” Sloan twisted his hands against the ropes as wave after wave of impotent fury crashed over him. “If you touch her I swear I’ll kill you!” To his surprise Perry withdrew his hand and laughed. “Don’t worry, I was just teasing. Rape isn’t really my cup of tea. I just love to torture you, that’s all.” He sauntered over to Sloan, and to Sloan’s surprise touched his forearm. “And isn’t this familiar.” Perry lifted his finger, which was stained red. Sloan blinked and finally noticed the warmth trickling down his arm. He focused on his wrists and realized he had rubbed them raw. 249

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“More Carver blood on my hands.” Then he leaned close and hissed in Sloan’s ear. “Funny, but it never seems to be enough.” “Fuck you,” whispered Sloan. “I’d say fuck your mother, but that’s an image I’d really rather not conjure up, thanks.” Perry’s knuckles cracked across his mouth. He felt no pain, only numbness. “Sloan,” screamed Bree. Suddenly Franki shouted, “And our mothers knew too?” Perry stared at Sloan for a moment, his fist poised for another blow. Sloan braced for it, but it never came. Perry turned around, apparently still eager to boast of his accomplishments. He addressed Franki like he might address a convention of accountants. “I don’t believe they knew at the outset, but they figured it out eventually. A couple of them even guessed the truth of their husband’s deaths, but they kept quiet to protect their children. It’s amazing what a parent will do if their children’s lives are threatened.” So that was why Lydia and Marie kept quiet. Perry had threatened to hurt Bree and Franki. Lydia would have done anything to protect her daughter. And Marie…well, Marie pretty much did as she was told. “You’re leaving something out,” rasped Troy as Sloan leaned against the ropes again. In two strides Perry crossed to his brother. Troy’s breathing was labored, and the simple effort of holding his head up to meet his captor’s eyes seemed to demand every last morsel of energy that he possessed. As fast as the flash of a snake’s tongue, Perry’s hand whipped out and grabbed Troy by the hair. He wrenched his head back and glowered into Troy’s eyes. “I don’t want to hear any of your speeches, Troy. I’ve been listening to your self-righteous bullshit for twenty years, and twenty years is way too long. I thought a bullet in the shoulder would shut you up. If it won’t I’ll just find another way.” Troy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “They deserve the truth. You owe them that much.” “I owe them nothing. I owe you nothing. Except maybe a bullet in the gut, and a slow painful death.” “Perry!” screamed Bree. “Why? Why do you hate him so much? Why do you hate all of us so much?” Perry let go of Troy’s hair and whirled on Bree. “Because you wouldn’t let me in!” Perry raked his fingers through his hair. His eyes were fierce with a rage that Sloan could barely comprehend. There was a mindlessness—an insanity—about it that made Sloan’s skin crawl. “In?” cried Bree. “What on Earth does that mean? In where?” Perry advanced on her, and Sloan’s stomach clenched. But Perry stopped just short of Bree’s toes. 250

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“Into your circle. Into your fun. Into your lives!” Bree just gaped at him, mirroring Sloan’s own disbelief. “You never wanted anything to do with us,” whispered Bree. “You acted like you were too good for us. You always made fun of our fishing and camping trips. You said the stuff we did was stupid. This doesn’t make sense!” “What the hell was I supposed to do? Beg you to include me? Grovel like a pathetic, whiny little brother? You guys had each other. You were such good friends it made me sick. Sick with jealousy. I wanted friends too. But I was always the geek. The nerd. The dweeb. So guess who I ended up with for a friend?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Derek. Derek the super-dweeb.” “You shut up,” screamed Franki. “You’re not fit to lick Derek’s shoes.” Suddenly he whirled on her. “And you.” “What about me,” she sneered. “You were the worst. You treated me like fly shit.” “What? What are you talking about?” But his response was to kneel down and sneak a hand up her arm. She didn’t flinch. Merely watched those pudgy fingers trace her arm with a detached sort of fascination. “You acted like rejecting me was some sort of hobby.” His hand reached her shoulder. “You had to know how much I wanted you, and you snubbed me at every turn.” “Y-you never even asked me out,” she sputtered. “Yes I did. Through Derek. And you always turned me down.” His fingers touched her throat and Sloan saw a shudder pass through her. “Little Miss I’ll-sleep-withanybody, Little Miss Whore-of-the-world, and you wouldn’t let me touch you. Was I really so ugly? Was I really so repulsive?” Her lips trembled, and the color slowly drained from her face. “No. No, of course not. I…I just…” “You just couldn’t bear to be near me.” He cupped the back of her head. “Well you don’t have a choice, now, do you?” She just blinked at him. And the expression on her face tore at Sloan’s soul. The sassy, independent, slightly arrogant Franki Waters was so paralyzed by disbelief and fear that she made no move to defend herself. She didn’t move away when Perry’s head lowered and his lizard-like lips connected with hers. Sloan looked on helplessly as the kiss lingered and Perry’s lascivious hand lowered to Franki’s shoulder. And then to her breast. Even then she didn’t resist. She allowed it, and Sloan felt like his head was about to explode.

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At last Perry pulled away and gazed at Franki, apparently as surprised by her uncharacteristic acquiescence as Sloan. His lips quirked into a smile. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sloan waited for the scathing retort, but it never came. Instead Franki blinked slowly and whispered. “No. No, it wasn’t. I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time.” Sloan’s mouth went dry. And Franki continued. “I never knew how you felt, Perry. Derek never passed along your messages. I had no idea you were…” She smiled like a coquette, and at last Sloan understood. “Interested,” she finished. “He’s so protective. He probably thought he was protecting me from you. If he had told me, I might have…considered it.” Perry, blinded by infatuation and lust, practically panted. “Really?” His hand cupped her breast and he sidled in a little closer. “You would have gone out with me?” Franki rubbed herself against his hand, and Sloan felt the bile rise in his throat. But he stayed quiet. “I’m sure I would have,” she purred. “You have a powerful aura, Perry. And I like powerful men.” Perry plunged his hand into the neckline of her T-shirt. “I wish I had known, Franki. Things could have been so…different. They could have been so good.” Franki’s eyes flew wide, but she didn’t break her stride. “Mmm,” she groaned in apparent ecstasy. “They still can be. It’s not too late, Perry. It’s not…” The sound of tearing fabric startled her into silence. Perry had ripped her shirt open down the middle, exposing her bra and pale, shivering flesh. He continued fondling her, massaging her breast with all the finesse of a sixteen-year-old virgin. “How about now, Franki? You wanna come upstairs with me? Maybe to that big king-size bed in the master suite.” His hand whisked down across her stomach and slipped between her thighs. Franki did nothing to stop him. In fact she parted her legs slightly to encourage him. Sloan looked away and met Bree’s eyes. There were tears in those emerald depths, but she too understood. They couldn’t intervene. This might be their only shot. If Franki could lure him into releasing her, her sacrifices would be well worth it. “Sure,” murmured Franki, no doubt thankful that she still wore her jeans instead of her usual miniskirt. “That…” She sucked in her breath. “That would be wonderful.” “You want me to carry you up the stairs and throw you on the bed and fuck you until you scream for more?” Franki nodded, but Sloan caught a glimmer of something akin to disgust in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice pleading. “Right now. Please.” “But I guess I’d have to untie you first, wouldn’t I.” Alarm bells began to ring in Sloan’s head. But too late. 252

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Franki nodded, and Perry’s hand snapped up to latch around her throat. He rammed her head back against the pole with an audible thwack. Franki groaned, and her eyes rolled back for a moment. Three voices simultaneously yelled her name, but Perry ignored them. “You stupid bitch! Did you actually think I’d fall for that? How dumb do you think I am?” He tightened his grip on her throat, and she struggled against it. Sloan and Bree screamed at him to stop. Even Troy’s strangled efforts mingled with the cacophony. But it merely seemed to feed Perry’s fury. “Quiet or I’ll snap her neck like a twig!” They all snapped their mouths shut, and Perry’s grip loosened. Marginally. Franki’s eyes fluttered. “I had to try,” she rasped. “Stupid bitch.” He squeezed. Hard enough that Sloan could see his thumbs cutting into Franki’s flesh. He held it long enough for the color to seep out of Franki’s face. Then, abruptly he relaxed his grip. Franki coughed reflexively. But Perry’s hand tightened again. And again. “You’re going to suffer. All of you are. It was good to see the three of you cry and moan when your parents died. Your misery was such a sweet bonus to the deal. It made it all worthwhile. But this is going to be even sweeter. For once you’ll feel pain like I did all those years.” Finally he let go and Bree thought the torture was over, but then, without warning, he drew back his arm and backhanded Franki across the mouth. Again, three voices screamed out in protest, but this time Troy’s was the loudest of them all. “Stop it, Perry! For once in your life listen to me.” Perry had drawn back his hand, ready for another pass. “Like hell, I will.” “You left out the best part,” continued Troy in between snatches of breath. “You forgot to tell them about me.” Perry’s hand slowly lowered. “That’s right.” He left Franki, whose lip had split and was trickling blood down her chin. He crossed to Troy. “That’s right. I want your friends to know your true colors before they die.” Troy sucked in a painful breath. It just about killed Sloan to watch him. And it just about killed him to know that, even though Troy obviously had his reasons, he had betrayed his friends. And, in so doing, himself. “I don’t have any excuses, and if I had it to do over I’d probably do it again. Do you want me to tell them?” “No.” He paused, seemed to consider something. “No. I’ll do it.” He reached behind his back and pulled out the handgun he had used to kill his father. He pushed

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the muzzle into Troy’s stomach. “I’ll make the story nice and long, so they can listen…” Perry cocked his head and finished, “while you’re dying.” He fired.

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Chapter Twenty-Two “Wow,” breathed Craig. Derek nodded. “Yeah. Wow.” “It must’ve really been something in its heyday.” “Yeah.” Craig’s eyes continued to wander over the brickwork, arches and deeply set windows, the endless gables and tasteful gingerbread. A single stone chimney lorded over the entire structure like a knight watching over his manor. “The Elliott place is big and impressive, but this…this…” “Yeah,” said Derek again, the tone of his voice communicating more than words. “It has a romantic feel about it. A kind of nobility.” “Yeah.” Craig rolled his eyes, but Derek’s next words caught him completely off guard. “You have a real way with words, Sternberg. You should go into writing or something.” Craig grinned. “You’re okay, Waters.” Derek grinned back. “Yeah. So’re you.” Craig shifted from one leg to the other, but it didn’t ease the fatigue that had already begun to seep into him. “Let’s go inside. I need to sit down, and I wanna give this place a good once-over.” Derek looked around, as if afraid that Sloan might jump out from behind a bush and threaten his manhood. “Okay.” They strode to the front door, and to Craig’s surprise, found it to be unlocked. Actually, it was slightly ajar, the latch not quite engaged. “They must have forgotten to lock up last night,” offered Derek. “Mmm.” Feeling a strange sense of unease, Craig pushed through into the wide front hallway. He glanced around and took in the elegant lines and bold beauty that hid beneath the carnage. “Looks like they didn’t get too far with their cleaning job.” “I think there was a lot to do. It’s a big place.” “Yeah,” quipped Craig. But Derek didn’t even glance at him. “If you wanna sit down, we should go into the library. It’s the most comfortable room in the house.” Craig nodded, and followed Derek’s lead down a long hallway.

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Their feet padded quietly across the maple. The house was so quiet. Oppressively so. The enormous rooms seemed to swallow up sound. They had almost reached the point where the hall flared out into two larger rooms, one of which Craig assumed was the library, when he stopped dead in his tracks. Derek stopped and scrutinized him. “What?” “Shh.” Craig strained his ears, trying to penetrate the thick blanket of silence. He had heard something. Just at the edge of his awareness, but he could swear it had been a human voice. He listened harder. And Derek continued to study him, lifting an eyebrow, in mute puzzlement. “There,” whispered Craig. “Do you hear it? I hear people talking.” Derek shook his head. “You’re nuts. I don’t—” A sudden crack sliced through the silence, and cut directly through Craig’s eardrums. It was distant and muffled, but there was no mistaking that sound. He’d grown up in New York. And just like always, his heart began to thunder against his chest. And then there was no mistaking the distant echoes of human screams. But just as suddenly as they had erupted, they were cut short. “What was that?” exclaimed Derek as his eyes flitted about the room. “Somebody fired a gun. And somebody else didn’t like it.” Derek looked at him in disbelief. “That came from inside the house. That can’t be right.” Craig tapped into a fresh wellspring of energy and adrenaline. Acting purely on instinct, he headed through to the other room. The kitchen. “Yes it can. There’s somebody in the house.” “Then…we should call the cops? Shouldn’t we?” “You call the cops if you want, I wanna know what the hell is going on.” Derek hesitated as Craig made his way past an enormous central island, and breakfast nook. His eyes scoured the walls and cupboards. He even examined the floor and glanced at the heating ducts. He was looking for something. It just took him a moment to figure out what. He halted in front of a wide bay window. “A basement. First tell me if there’s a basement under this house.” “Duh,” replied Derek. “Every house has a basement.” “Not in California they don’t.” Derek blinked. “Oh. Okay. Sure, there’s a basement, a cellar actually, but nobody’d be down there. It’s old and damp, and it has a dirt floor. Whoever it is must be upstairs. Maybe on the third floor. It’s hard to tell, the way sound travels in here.”

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Craig shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. It came from under the floor.” Derek set his mouth in a grim line. Craig persisted. “Show me.” Derek stared at him, his eyes wide. “Hang on a minute.” And he was gone. “Derek,” yelled Craig, but not too loud. He hadn’t really intended to face some maniacal gunman all alone. He wanted Derek’s hulking frame beside him. Or, better yet, in front of him. Preferably holding a big sheet of bulletproof glass. Or maybe driving the tank. But Derek had an even better idea. He appeared a moment later with a rifle. Craig’s eyes went wide. “Where’d you get that?” “You probably didn’t notice but this was hanging over the fireplace in the library.” “But…” “Franki told me once that Sloan’s dad always kept it loaded. For emergencies.” Craig nodded and swallowed. “I guess this qualifies.” “Yeah.” Derek walked past Craig and headed to the far end of the kitchen. He pulled on a panel that Craig had assumed was just part of the wall. But the thick maple swung open freely, revealing a whitewashed wall, and a set of rickety wooden steps. They stepped through and Craig heard the murmur of a man’s voice. They crept quietly into the gloom.

***** “Please,” whispered Bree through lips wet with tears. “Please, please, please.” She wasn’t sure who she was pleading with—God or the Devil. Maybe God was far away, gazing down upon his children with detached concern, but the Devil was right there in front of her. Sweating and ranting and holding a gun to his brother’s temple. She tugged at her bindings, even though she knew it would do no good. Her wrists ached and her head throbbed. Her eyes were scratchy with fatigue, and a fear as sharp and heavy as a medieval mace had settled in her gut. But despite the intense physical sensations, the scene still seemed surreal. Distant. As if it wasn’t really happening to her, but to a character in a book or one of Sloan’s movies. Perry continued to drone on, relating his inane account of Troy’s sins, but his words ran together like gibberish in Bree’s brain. She caught snippets like infertility, infidelity and bribery, but it took every ounce of willpower and restraint to remain quiet as Perry’s explanation drew to a close. Perry had placed the gun to Troy’s head after they all screamed their outrage and terror. Its presence and the promise that he would use it if anyone uttered a word, motivated them all to keep silent. Troy hung from his bonds—a Christ figure minus the cross and the divinity. He seemed as limp and lifeless as a corpse, and she bit her lip as she wondered if he was,

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indeed, already dead. The wound in his stomach had already leaked copious amounts of blood onto the dirt floor, and she couldn’t see his chest to determine whether or not he was breathing. She blinked away more tears and allowed herself a glance at Sloan. But his eyes were riveted on Perry. Absolute, undiluted rage and loathing were carved into his features, and she knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about latching his hands around Perry’s scrawny neck and squeezing until his eyes bugged out and his tongue hung from his mouth, limp and purple in death. She knew that, because that was exactly what she was thinking. She cut her gaze to Franki. And this time her eyes locked with her friend’s in a shared moment of despair. But then Perry’s voice demanded their attention. “Well? Any questions, boys and girls?” “Yeah,” replied Franki. “Exactly which reptile spawned you? Your mother must have hatched you from an egg because there’s no way in hell you’re human.” But Perry merely smiled. He removed the gun from Troy’s temple and lifted his brother’s head with a fist under Troy’s chin. His eyes were closed and blood had begun to leak out of his mouth, but Bree caught a movement of his chest. He was still alive. He let go and Troy’s head flopped down. “Not dead yet,” he mused. And then he turned his gaze on Franki. “Now what was your question again?” “You heard me, slimeball,” she sneered through her own tears. “If you want to know the truth I’m relieved you didn’t fall for my seduction techniques. I think I’d rather die than fuck a toad.” Perry stepped over to her and raised the gun. He pressed it firmly against her forehead. “Very well.” Bree and Sloan both screamed but their voices were drowned out by another voice—a deep bass that resonated through the cellar like the god of thunder. “Get away from her!” commanded Derek Waters. Bree searched the shadows until she found him. His descent down the cement stairs must have been drowned out by Perry’s riveting narrative. Derek had never been one of her favorite people, but at that moment she fell madly in love with him. And the glint of the rifle barrel pointed at Perry’s head was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. But Perry didn’t move. In fact, he smiled. “Derek! My one true friend. My partner in crime.” Derek stepped closer, well into the murky pool of light that illuminated their misery. His eyes flitted to Troy. He pressed his lips together and when he returned his gaze to Perry, and the gun that Perry held on his sister, Bree saw something flash in his eyes. They turned as hard and cold as flint, and she wondered if perhaps he wasn’t as sweet and slow as she had always thought him to be.

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“I was never your partner, Perry. And now I know I was never your friend.” He stepped closer. “Move the gun away from her and let’s get help for Troy.” Perry frowned. “This is so disappointing. I would have thought, of everyone, you would understand.” “Well, I don’t. And if you hurt her I swear I’ll kill you.” “I kill her. You kill me. Either way she’s dead.” “And so are you,” growled Derek. Perry clucked his tongue. “Such a pointless argument. Even if you killed me, you’d never forgive yourself if she died. When did you develop this noble streak, anyway?” He shook his head like a disappointed father. “The noble brother protecting his sister. But you weren’t so noble when you beat that poor man to a pulp, though, were you? You’re just like me, Derek. You’re—” “That’s a lie. I never touched him. Craig helped me to figure it out. It was you. And you just got me drunk enough to believe I had done it.” “Craig?” whispered Franki. “Where—” “Quiet!” shouted Perry. Franki winced when the muzzle of the gun rammed her head back against the pole. “He’s not bluffing, Derek,” shouted Sloan. “He’s killed before. He killed your father. He killed all of them.” Derek’s eyes narrowed and Bree could see his finger tighten on the trigger. “You killed him? You did that and then you stood beside me at the funeral and acted like you cared?” Bree heard something skitter behind her in the blackness. Normally a mouse or rat would have set her skin to crawling, but no beady-eyed rodent could hold a candle to Perry Elliott. “You judge me?” seethed Perry, his face flushing pink. “You judge me when you have a whore for a sister.” “Perry…” warned Derek. “She threw herself at me today, you know. Why do you think her shirt is ripped?” To illustrate his point Perry moved a little closer to her and with his free hand reached down to touch Franki’s chest. “I felt her up and she practically begged me to lay her down and screw her.” Bree could hear Derek’s breath coming in short, barely controlled bursts. “Shut up, Perry. Shut the hell up! And get your damn hands off her!” “Oh, but she likes it so.” He glanced down at her and smiled. “Don’t you, you little vixen?” Franki spat in his face.

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Perry’s hand recoiled, and he wiped her saliva from his cheek. His eyes blazed and the gun remained, seemingly glued to Franki’s head. “You’ll pay for that. I’ll die happy if I can take you with me.” With disbelief, Bree saw Perry’s finger tighten on the trigger, but Sloan’s shout of, “Behind you!” distracted him momentarily. Perry looked at him and laughed. “Gimme a break, Sloan. That’s the oldest trick in the book.” “Is it?” said Sloan slyly. And then Bree saw it. A silent figure appeared out of the blackness behind Perry. Too late Perry realized his miscalculation. His head had barely turned to find his attacker when a blond maniac appeared out of the darkness behind him. And the blond maniac was clutching an ax high above his head. Perry never had a chance to defend himself. And he never got a chance to pull the trigger. In fact he would likely never pull another trigger as long as he lived, because that ax came hurtling down—a decisive sentence from a silent judge. The ax connected with flesh and bone, neatly severing Perry’s arm at the elbow. Bree looked on in disbelief as Perry staggered back, blood gushing from his stump and soaking Franki’s clothes. He gazed with bewilderment at his hand, which lay forlornly in the dirt, still clutching the pistol. Nausea swirled through her, but even as she felt the blood rush from her head, and knew that she was about to faint, she realized that they were safe. She glanced at Sloan, and he was the last thing she saw before the world faded to black.

***** “Holy shit!” screamed Sloan. “Holy fucking shit!” Craig stood over Perry’s writhing, screeching form, gazing down on his victim with the same kind of bewilderment that had washed across Perry’s face a moment earlier. He looked at Sloan, his eyes wide and his mouth slack. “I found the ax in the wood pile. I just wanted to make sure he couldn’t fire the gun.” “Well, I think you managed it,” said Sloan as a strange giddiness washed through him. Finally Franki’s cries seemed to cut through Craig’s shock. He dropped the ax and fell to his knees beside the severed limb. He wrenched the gun out of the hand and threw it into the darkness, as if somehow it might come back to life and threaten them all. Sloan suppressed an hysterical giggle, and watched as Craig bent to untie Franki. And then Sloan sensed another pair of hands working at his bindings. “I guess this means I owe you one.” He feigned a scowl. “Nah. I think we’re even,” said Derek when the knots slipped loose. 260

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Sloan’s hands finally dropped to his sides, and he slumped against the wall, suddenly weak with fatigue and relief. “All the same,” he whispered. “Thanks.” “Forget it.” Derek’s face was grim. “Help me with Troy.” As he and Derek worked at releasing Troy, Sloan called out to Craig, “Can you get to Bree? And then you better call for an ambulance, and the cops.” “Already done,” called back Craig. “I ran back up and called when we saw what Perry had done to Troy.” “I was the decoy,” added Derek. And then he amended in a whisper, “Don’t tell Craig, but the rifle wasn’t loaded. I couldn’t find any damn bullets.” Sloan glanced in Craig’s direction as Troy fell against him and he eased his friend to the dirt. Craig, his straight-and-narrow, low-key, never-take-a-risk friend had just risked his life and hacked off a man’s arm to save his friends. Sloan watched as the next hot topic of Hollywood gossip and his best girl locked together in an embrace that tugged at Sloan’s heart. He blinked away tears and glanced at poor Bree who was the last to be freed. His heart stopped beating. She wasn’t moving. She… “Bree?” he screamed, torn between helping Troy and rushing to her side. But in a heartbeat, Craig reached her. “It’s okay,” he called. “She just fainted. She’s already coming around.” Sloan breathed a sigh of relief and finally looked down at his friend who lay bleeding in the dirt. He pressed his fingers to Troy’s neck. The pulse was weak and irregular, but it was there. “They’ll be here soon,” soothed Derek. “He’ll be fine.” Sloan stripped off his shirt, and pressed it to Troy’s stomach. “You better make sure Perry doesn’t bleed to death,” he whispered. He glanced in Perry’s direction. He had finally fallen quiet, in his frantic efforts to stem the bleeding from his stump. “I want that bastard to live forever, locked up in a tiny room with a big, horny, repeat sex offender.” “All right,” growled Derek, as he stood. “But his bleeding to death would be justice.” He walked over to his former friend who squealed and tried to scurry away into the darkness. Just like a rat. “Yeah,” said Sloan under his breath. “In more ways than you know.” At last he heard the wail of sirens. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t have to look up to know that Bree had joined him. She knelt beside him and wrapped her arm tightly around his shoulders. With her other hand she touched Troy’s cheek. “Don’t quit on us now, Troy-boy. We can’t lose you, too.” Sloan said nothing. Hope was a dangerous thing. He’d had hope once before, and it had led only to disappointment. He wasn’t sure which was worse—losing hope, or

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never having it in the first place. He’d done it both ways, and frankly he didn’t like either one.

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Chapter Twenty-Three Bree’s fingers tapped rapidly on the picnic table. Sloan covered her hand with his own, then thought better of it and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “You don’t have to hold me together. I dealt with her death long before it happened. It came sooner than I expected, but I can handle it.” “I disagree,” he said as the breeze ruffled his hair and toyed with the branches of the maple tree that shaded them. “That’s my job—holding you up, and helping you to handle things. I’ve neglected you far too long. And today, of all days, I intend to make up for lost time.” “It was a lovely service,” offered Franki, from her own little envelope of security on the other side of the table. Craig had remained glued to her throughout the funeral and the graveside formalities. He had either held her hand or wrapped an arm around her waist, or hugged her shoulders in a perpetual show of support. Sloan was surprised that she didn’t snap at him and demand that he quit hounding her and give her a little space. Franki had never enjoyed clingy men before. But, he supposed, her relationship with Craig was different—in so many ways. “And thank God Lois decided not to come,” added Franki. Everyone silently agreed. Lois would be busy for months to come, baking cookies for her incarcerated son. She had not yet come to visit Troy. Not that he wanted to see her. That was why they were here, lounging in front of the hospital. They had intended to come see Troy directly after the service, but as the edifice loomed, they had all decided they needed a little breather before slipping from one emotional wringer into another. “What did you think, Lumberjack Man?” Franki nudged Craig in the ribs. He grimaced at the name, but Sloan saw an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. They’d all insisted on teasing him relentlessly ever since his daring, albeit grisly, rescue of his friends. Usually he rolled his eyes, and groaned in misery, but it was obvious to everyone that he was loving every minute of it. “Well?” prodded Franki. This time she traced a finger over Craig’s knobby knuckles. “What did I think about what?” He snagged her hand and kissed it. She rolled her eyes. “The service. It was lovely, wasn’t it?”

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“Yeah. It was nice,” Craig said at last. “For a funeral. I’ve never been to one that I liked though.” “You’re right,” sighed Bree. “They’re not enjoyable. And we’ve had far too many around here.” She paused and her eyes flitted to the array of hospital windows that reflected the dwindling colors of a startling gold and magenta sunset. Her unspoken words hovered silently above the group. I just hope there won’t be another one too soon. At that the conversation lagged, and the silence seemed strained. No one wanted to talk about what was really on their minds. A bold sparrow alighted on the table, apparently in search of food. It managed to find a few crumbs leftover from some nurse’s lunch. It plucked them from the cracks in the wood and took off without so much as a thank you. Bree seemed to struggle for something to say. “I was surprised your mother didn’t stay longer,” she ventured with a sly glance at Craig. “Did Franki scare her off?” He chuckled. “No. She said it was too violent around here. She went back to New York where it’s safe.” They all laughed at that, and the tension ebbed. But the silence returned. “I guess we should go in,” said Franki. But nobody moved. “He’s not doing very well,” whispered Bree. “In the last week I lost my mother, and my last link with my father.” She was referring to the ceramic jars that had long ago been reduced to rubble in order to retrieve their illicit cargo. “I don’t know if I can face losing Troy, too.” “That’s why we’re here,” said Sloan. “To make sure he knows that we don’t want to lose him.” “No wonder he disowned his family,” said Franki with a shudder. “And no wonder he never really told us why,” added Sloan. Thanks to Perry’s revelations they knew that Vance had long ago tried to recruit his oldest son into the Auction House fencing business. Troy had blatantly refused, but had sworn secrecy out of loyalty to his family. At the time stealing a few baubles from people who could well afford it, while reprehensible, was not enough to compel him to sacrifice his father’s freedom. Once Perry joined the organization, however, things changed. Not realizing this, Troy had, out of desperation, asked for his father and brother’s help in a rather delicate exploit. Once the deed was done he’d been trapped in a web of his own making. Troy had been torn between his conscience and outrage at the direction his father and brother seemed to be heading, and his need to protect his own interests. Perry had continued to taunt him with new information, filling him in on gruesome details of the

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drug deals and the murders, knowing full well that Troy would keep his secret. And hate himself for it. Troy had only remained ignorant of the attack on Janelle Carver. Perry’s motives for keeping that to himself may have been simply that he feared reprisals from his father. But no one knew for sure since Perry now spoke only through an attorney. “He may have disowned his family,” commented Bree, “but he didn’t really get away from them, did he?” Craig grunted softly. “Yeah. Those genetic codes are hard things to break.” He surveyed the group. “I guess we can all attest to that.” Sloan stared at his hands—strong, long-fingered hands that were exact duplicates of his father’s. “I guess. All these years, I was trying to disown my own genes, and I was wasting my time.” He smiled without humor. “I was trying to crack the wrong damn code.” Bree’s hand covered his. “At least now you can be proud of your heritage and your connections to your parents, instead of trying to pretend they aren’t there.” “But can I?” he asked. “Can any of us? I mean look at who they were, and what they did. The Elliotts weren’t the only ones involved, you know. All of them had a hand in it.” Bree seemed to consider this. “You’re right. But I refuse to throw away their love for us because they made some poor choices.” “Yeah,” he said. “I think you’re right. I, for one, can hardly cast stones, can I?” “They loved us and they were good to us. That’s all that really matters now.” Franki nodded her tacit agreement. Sloan added, “I suppose. Criminals or not, the very least we owe them is our respect and love.” Actually Sloan had one more debt to his parents. But he couldn’t tell them about that. Not quite yet. Franki slapped her hands on the table. “Well, I’ve had enough of this maudlin topic. I think it’s time we stopped talking about supporting Troy and started doing it.” They all muttered agreement and a few minutes later the four of them were sauntering soberly down the hospital hallway toward Troy Elliott’s room. Sloan had just reached for the door handle, when it opened of its own accord, allowing a battle-weary Carolyn to slip out. Sloan released his hold on Bree’s hand and enclosed her in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t come today,” she murmured into his chest. “Shush,” chided Bree. “Don’t be ridiculous. How is he doing?” Carolyn pulled away and wiped at her eyes. “Not good. The doctors don’t understand it. The surgery went well and there’s no infection.” She lifted her eyes and Sloan’s heart broke for the rid-rimmed, puffy evidence of her torment. “It’s been almost five days. He should be getting better. But he’s sunk into some sort of depression. He won’t even talk to me.” 265

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Fresh tears spilled out of her eyes. “I don’t think he’ll want to see you. I don’t think there’s any point in going in.” Franki stepped forward. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anyone can knock some sense into him, it’s us.” But Sloan grabbed her wrist. “No. I want to go. I have to talk to him.” Franki’s gaze remained doubtful. “Alone,” he added, uncertain why he felt so strongly about this, but also knowing it was something he had to do. “Why don’t you guys take Carolyn for a cup of coffee? I’ll come get you when I’m done.” Bree squeezed his hand. “All right. Whatever you have to do.” There was a world of trust in that moment, and it squeezed his heart as surely as her hand had squeezed his. Bree draped an arm over Carolyn’s shoulders and Franki took her hand. With Craig in the lead they headed back the way they had come. And Sloan pushed through into the dimly lit room. Troy lay on the bed, his brown eyes sunken, an array of tubes fed him medications and nutrients and continued to do the job he seemed loath to do himself—keep him alive. Sloan settled himself in the chair that, no doubt, Carolyn had just vacated moments before. If Troy’s wife—the love of his life and the mother of his son—couldn’t get through to him, why did Sloan think he could? Because he had the inside scoop. He had been where Troy was now. He had lived there for the past eight years. He couldn’t let Troy die there. “Hi, buddy.” Troy stared out the window, his eyes glazed with pain and other things Sloan knew all too well. “So, how long do you figure?” It took an agonizing two minutes, but finally Troy’s curiosity got the better of him and his pain-laced voice whispered, “How long ‘til what?” “You know. Until you kick the proverbial bucket. Buy the farm. Dive six feet under. Push up a few daisies. Take your pick.” Slowly, like a hinge that had rusted from disuse, Troy’s head turned to face his new tormentor. He said nothing, merely drilled into Sloan with eyes that had seen too much. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Killing yourself? Slowly? I bet it’s even a bonus that Carolyn is here every day to watch. That way you can torture her, too. I bet—” “Shut up.” Troy winced at an unseen agony, and Sloan suppressed an urge to get down on his knees and grovel. Troy didn’t need his apologies. He needed to face the truth.

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“I don’t need this shit,” whispered Troy. “If you came here to get even, to hurt me for…everything, then I’d say you’ve done a fine job. Now get lost.” “I didn’t come to hurt you.” “No? Could’ve fooled me.” “But that’s what you expected isn’t it? That’s what you want? You want us all to hate you, because that would make hating yourself that much easier.” Troy set his jaw, looked away. “That’s not it.” “Oh, I think it is. I’m sure of it, because that’s pretty much what I did eight years ago. I left like that, partly because I couldn’t bear to be here. I couldn’t bear to be near the memories and the constant reminders of what I thought my parents had done to me. But that wasn’t all.” Troy didn’t look at him, but Sloan knew he was listening. “I also did it to punish myself. You were right when you said I felt guilty for Dad’s death. I didn’t realize it until all this other shit came out, but I did. And I also blamed myself for what happened to Mom.” He got up and walked around the bed, placing himself in front of Troy’s face so he would have no choice but to look at him. “And it was easier to feel sorry for myself—to hate myself—if all of you hated me, too.” Troy shook his head in confusion. “But how can all of you ever forgive what I did? I knew. I knew everything, or almost everything, and I kept it to myself. God! Look at the hell that I left you in, Sloan. I knew how you struggled with his suicide, and still I kept it to myself. Maybe if I had told you… If I had just told somebody…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe none of this would have happened.” “We’ve all made mistakes, Troy. Look at the lies I told, and the things I’ve done. At least you had your reasons. You were protecting Carolyn and David.” “No!” Troy’s voice was fierce. “I wasn’t protecting them. I was protecting myself. And when I tell her, it will all be over. She’ll leave me, and she’ll take David.” He closed his eyes. “And I don’t think I can face that. So I can’t face telling her. But I can’t stand lying to her anymore either.” His fists clutched at the sheets. “I can’t tell her, and I hate myself for being such a coward. So maybe I was hoping I could just die and leave all this behind. Maybe it would be easier that way. For everyone.” Sloan blinked in disbelief. “Troy!” He looked up sharply. “What?” “She knows.” Troy stared at him. “She knows everything. Perry told us all about how David was conceived. He was so proud of how he manipulated you. You, the older, popular brother, who had always been Daddy’s favorite, but still struggled with feelings of inadequacy. He crowed over how superior he was to you in the end.” Troy continued to blink at him, disbelief etched in his features. 267

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“He also told us,” continued Sloan, “how he lied to you about a conversation he had with Carolyn. She never said she feared for your marriage if you didn’t have children. Perry made that up. He knew you always had trouble accepting the fact that she chose you. Hell, everybody knew that you didn’t feel worthy of her. You think far too little of yourself, buddy. You always have. And that made you vulnerable.” “B-But… How does she know?” “I told her.” Troy’s mouth gaped. “I knew something you didn’t.” Sloan allowed himself a smile. “I knew she loved you too much to let any of that matter. With you lying on a deathbed, she had to forgive you. Not that she wouldn’t have otherwise, you know. You underestimated her, my friend. Just like you underestimated yourself.” A hint of color had crept back into Troy’s cheeks. “I thought if she knew she wouldn’t come see me. I never brought it up b-because I was too afraid.” “Well, you can stop being afraid. She’s not going anywhere.” Sloan laid a hand on Troy’s good shoulder. “We’re all here for you no matter what happens. And that includes sitting through a trial and standing up as character witnesses.” Troy closed his eyes in misery at the grim reminder of what awaited him when he got out of the hospital. “Right. So now, in addition to having a husband who’s a fraud she’ll have one who’s a convicted felon. Criminal negligence, aiding and abetting aren’t exactly petty offenses.” Troy’s voice cracked. “God knows I deserve it, but how can I put her through that?” “You’re not convicted yet. And even if you are you have no idea what the sentence will be. You were being blackmailed. They’ll take that into consideration.” “They won’t care.” “The lawyer I’ve recruited thinks differently, and he should know. He’s one of the best. He’ll be in to see you as soon as you’re up to it.” Troy stared at him. “Why are you doing this?” “Why am I helping you?” Sloan sighed. “Haven’t you been listening? Because I care. We all do. We’re here to stay whether you like it or not.” Troy remained silent. He seemed to be digesting all this, and Sloan knew he had done the right thing. But then Troy looked at him and breathed, “But are you?” “Am I what?” “Here to stay. You’re going back to California, aren’t you?” Sloan shrugged. “I…don’t know yet. Franki is, you know. She and Craig are going whole hog with this thing. She figures she can sell real estate anywhere, and why not California.” “That’s Franki,” muttered Troy. “Why not is as good a reason as any.”

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Sloan smiled at the truth of it. “They might even get married within the next few months. I don’t think Craig’s mom would put up with any ‘shacking up’. She and Mrs. Sternberg have already butted heads over a couple of things, and I think Franki’s finally met her match.” Troy smiled for the first time. But then it faltered. “But what about you and Bree?” Sloan shrugged. “We’re gonna make it work, too. I’m just not sure where yet. I hate to ask her to leave her shop just as she’s gotten it established. But honestly, I don’t know if I can leave LA permanently.” He had very specific reasons for this, but wasn’t quite ready to share them with everyone yet. “I think you’ll work it out. But just remember two things.” “Yes, oh divine master of knowledge on the ways of women?” smiled Sloan. “What are they?” “Number one, you’ve got a friend here for whenever you need one.” That hardly needed to be said, but it was good to hear nonetheless. “And two?” Troy sucked in a deep breath and winced. “Don’t ever lie to her again. Promise me you won’t.” Sloan nodded. “Actually, I’m glad you mentioned that, because I have one more thing to clear up with everyone. And after that, my days of deception are over.” “What?” Troy arched his eyebrows. “More secrets?” “Just one,” said Sloan as he lifted his eyes to the colors that seared the sky like celestial neon. “Just one.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four Los Angeles, California Sloan opened the car door and Bree stepped out into vibrant California sunshine. The heat and intensity of it still astounded her, even after having spent a week here. And what a week. Sloan and his trusty sidekick had shown her and Franki all the sights, and even introduced them to a few stars whose names already escaped her. She doubted that even Keanu Reeves could distract her from the man who now held her hand and was leading her down a flagstone path lined with roses and delicately formed lilies. They were getting to know each other again, and getting along better than she ever remembered. They’d been together almost two weeks and had only fought three times. It was a new record. Franki and Craig, on the other hand, had yet to disagree over anything as insignificant as a choice of entree or movie. They were so completely gaga over each other that Bree and Sloan had taken every opportunity to put a little distance between themselves and the new lovers. No doubt they were mooning over each other right now, gazing into each other’s eyes over steaming cups of vanilla-mocha-cappuccino and thin-crust pizzas with pesto sauce and artichoke hearts. They reached the end of the walkway and stood before a stately old mansion, with towering pillars and hand-cut stonework. “What is this place?” she asked at last. The building struck her as a little too large to be a private home, even considering the neighborhood, but there were no signs advertising it as an institution. “And what is this surprise all about?” Sloan smiled, but his eyes were sad. “You’ll see in a minute.” He led her across the porch to a pair of heavy oak doors. He pressed a button that Bree assumed was a doorbell, but a moment later a woman’s voice with a faint British accent asked politely who was calling. “Carver,” replied Sloan. “I called earlier.” She thanked him and a moment later, the door clicked open. He led her inside. “Is this a house?” she asked, incredulous at the security system. “Some sort of fortress for one of your star-type friends? Is this supposed to impress me?” He chuckled. “Not exactly. I know better than to try and impress you.” And as they stepped inside, and she took in her surroundings, she knew without a doubt, that her first impressions had been correct. This was not a private home.

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A woman at a reception desk motioned to them and asked Sloan to sign some sort of guest book. In the background, men and women dressed in pastel-colored uniforms flitted about. Their presence seemed incongruous with the lush tropical plants and luxurious furnishings. Sloan took her hand and led her down one of the hallways that branched off the main entrance. “It’s some sort of hospital,” she observed. “But who are we visiting?” Sloan said nothing, but his palms had begun to sweat. They took a flight of stairs, and stepped out into an atrium with a wide skylight, a small grove of palm trees and a fountain. He led her to the far side of the space, and down another hall. Just a few doors down, he stopped. There was no number on the door, only a picture of an orchid. He stared at the door, but didn’t go in. “What’s this about?” she whispered. “Maybe it will be easier if you tell me.” He shook his head. “No. Nothing will make this easier.” But then he looked at her and squeezed her hand again. “Except, of course, having you here. That means a lot.” She shrugged helplessly, and he finally seemed to find the strength to open the door. Still holding Bree’s hand, he pushed it open and they stepped through into a spacious room flooded with sunlight, that smelled faintly of lavender. A slight woman in a mint green uniform stood at the window. She ceased her fussing with the curtains and turned to look at the visitors. Her face broke into a smile. “Sloan,” she said, as if he were a long-lost friend. “I told her you were coming. I swear she smiled when I mentioned your name.” Only then did Bree notice the still figure on the bed. “Janelle?” she said in disbelief. She blinked as if to clear the hallucination from her brain, but when she opened her eyes again nothing had changed. Lying amidst a mountain of pillows, her eyes vacant, and her lips slack, lay an older, more frail version of the woman who had been Lydia Hampstead’s best friend. “I-I thought she was dead,” she said stupidly. Sloan shook his head, and she could swear his eyes glistened. The nurse walked over to them and laid a hand on his arm. “Take your time. You have a lot of catching up to do.” Sloan nodded and the woman slipped out. Finally, he let go of Bree and moved over to the bed. He picked up one of those delicate hands, and sat down on the mattress beside his mother. “Hi, Mom,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.” There was no response.

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Bree moved over to join him. She sat down on the wicker chair beside the bed and placed a hand on his knee, surprised at herself that she felt no anger or irritation with him for yet another deception. She could no more scold him than she could scold a wounded puppy. The pain on his face seeped right through to her heart. “She lost a lot of blood that night,” he said softly as he stroked his mother’s hand. “I thought I’d lost her, for sure. She arrested twice in the ambulance, but they got her to the hospital alive. They gave her blood, and did everything they could, but it was too late. The damage had been done. She never woke up again. The oxygen supply to her brain had been diminished for too long. It was almost like she’d had a massive stroke. Her heart and lungs were fine, but her mind would never be the same.” He took a deep breath and Bree waited. “I left her at the hospital in Owen Sound while I headed home to do what I had to do. I came up with the whole Armand thing to hide both the fact that I thought she had tried to kill herself, and to protect her from the humiliation of having the whole town see her like…” He swiped roughly at his eyes. “Like this. Like a vegetable. “I knew I needed to get away, and as I was writing those fake letters, I realized writing was what I really wanted to do. I decided on Los Angeles, and made arrangements to have her brought here for what I hoped would be her rehabilitation.” “But it didn’t turn out that way.” He shook his head, and looked down at her hand, laid so gently in his. “No. I stopped visiting her after about a year, once it became obvious that she would never get any better. She was fine here. She was getting the best care money could buy. I couldn’t help her anyway, so what was the point.” He met Bree’s gaze. “But that wasn’t all of it.” “What was the rest?” she prodded gently. “I couldn’t stand to be near her. I hated her for what she had done, and I decided to punish her by not visiting. But that was so stupid. Because she didn’t know the difference.” “You were only punishing yourself.” He nodded. “And then when I told all of you my story, I let everyone think she was dead because it was easier and because I told myself I was protecting her. But now I know it was easier for me. Not for her. And now that I know the truth…” His voice faded away. “God, I let her down. She did everything for me when I was a kid. Even though she couldn’t cook worth a darn, she took care of me and Dad. She always bent over backwards to put us first. And look how I repay her. The first little glitch—the first sign of trouble and I bolt. I take off like a spoiled brat.” Bree smiled and smoothed her hand over his freshly shaved cheeks, which were damp with tears. “You’re here now, Sloan. So why don’t you make the most of it, instead of wasting your time stomping around in a fresh puddle of guilt. She doesn’t need your remorse. She needs your love.” He looked at his mother’s slack features that had once been so vibrant and full of life. 272

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“She doesn’t remember my name,” he whispered. “She doesn’t even know I’m here.” Bree stood to get a better look at Janelle. The eyes were vacant and sunken, but the dark hair and high, pronounced cheekbones were just as Bree remembered them. Perhaps, inside that shell, she hadn’t changed all that much either. “You don’t know that, Sloan. Maybe inside she’s doing cartwheels because her son is holding her hand, and just told her that he loved her.” He looked at her with puzzlement. “I didn’t say that. Did I?” “Yeah, you did. You just don’t know it.” Suddenly, he stood and grabbed Bree’s hands. He drew her close and cupped her cheeks in his palms. “Have I said it to you?” Stunned, she barely managed to stutter. “Said what?” “That I love you.” She stared at him, as the hospital room, and the woman on the bed faded into the background. For that split second, they were alone in the universe. She couldn’t breathe, but somehow she managed to say, “What?” “Have I told you that yet?” he asked earnestly. “With all that’s happened, I just realized…I don’t think I’ve told you.” “I think you just did.” But instead of smiling, he frowned deeply. “But what are we going to do about it? I won’t do a long-distance relationship. I just won’t. I won’t be happy with just weekends, or one month here and one month in Bay’s Haven. I guess I’ll just have to move up there. Troy was right, I can write anywhere. And I guess I can find a good home for Mom. I mean there are good hospitals in Toronto. I just—” “Sloan,” she pressed a finger to his lips. “I would love to live here. You’d never find another place like this for her. Mom’s gone now, and if I can’t sell trendy pottery and sculptures to the California set, then I shouldn’t call myself an artist. I’ll just find a spot, and set up shop here.” His face beamed. “Really?” “Really. On one condition.” He cocked one eyebrow at her. “No more burgling, no more sky-diving, and no more stupid stunts. I won’t lose the man I love like that. I’ve lost too many already.” He smiled easily. “Done.” But she remained skeptical. “It’s that easy?” “Yup.” She touched a finger lightly to his earlobe where the gold hoop glinted in the sun. “Why, Sloan?” “Why what?” 273

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“Why did you act like that? Was it because you were indirectly trying to kill yourself? Or were you tempting fate, and taunting death to try and take you like it took your parents?” He tilted his head and considered. “Maybe a bit of both. I told myself I needed it to keep my life exciting and interesting, but I know now that it was much more than that.” “So you’ll be happy without all those adventures?” He grimaced. “Well…how about if you let me have a motorcycle and go bungee jumping once in a while.” She smiled. “Done.” “So…like…this is kind of permanent, eh?” He smoothed a hand over her hair. “Uh-huh,” she said coyly. “It sort of sounds that way. I bet you’re scared spitless.” He stood up a little straighter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Commitment doesn’t scare me.” “Right. Tell me another one, Carver.” “It’s the truth.” “Admit it, you’re shaking in your boots at the thought of never sleeping with another woman besides me.” “You’re all the woman I can handle. And I am not scared.” “Honesty is very important in a relationship. You have to admit your fears.” “Never.” “See? You’re afraid to admit your fears.” Suddenly he laughed and swept her up in his arms. He lifted her off her feet and swung her around the room just like every hero who is worth his salt has done in a thousand movies. And just like always, he set her down and planted a kiss firmly on her lips—a long, slow, lazy kiss that left her reeling and giddy, and lifted her left foot slightly off the ground. He pulled away, and those blue eyes glittered. “I think we should go and start arguing over the wedding plans right away.” She nodded vigorously. “Just lead the way.” He grabbed her hand and started to drag her to the door. But, just as suddenly, he stopped. He let go of her hand, and held up one finger. “Hang on, I forgot something.” He moved quickly back to his mother’s bedside. He bent low and cradled that frail hand in his again. Bree could just hear him whisper, “I’m sorry I doubted you, Mom. And… And I love you. I know I never said it nearly enough, but a lot of things are going to change around here. I’ll come visit lots, and we’ll stop by so you can see me in my suit. Unless Bree makes me buy a tux. I’ll roast in that monkey suit, but she won’t care.” He smiled, and kissed her tenderly on her cheek. “Be happy for me, Mom. I think I finally am.”

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With a final squeeze of his mother’s hand, he turned around, and swept Bree out of the room, toward their future. He never saw the single tear that slid down Janelle Carver’s cheek.

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About the author Nikki lives in a small town in Ontario, Canada. In the midst of the chaos that comes with raising three small boys, working part-time as a lab tech in a hospital blood bank, and caring for her ever-adoring husband, she dreams up her stories. Nikki's work is an eclectic combination of romance, mystery, suspense and humor with characters that have plenty of room to grow. To learn more about her and her work visit her at www.nikkisoarde.com. Nikki welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

Also by Nikki Soarde Mortal Wounds

If you are interested in a spicier read, check out her erotic romances at Ellora’s Cave Publishing (www.ellorascave.com). And Lady Makes Three anthology Balance of Power Duplicity Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails III anthology Jagged Gift Phobia

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