CHAPTER ONE

      NICK DYLAN lifted his glass to the orange sun that glinted through his father’s library window. No. His window. He’d buried his father that morning. Uneven panes of glass twisted the October light, destroyed his perspective of the coming sunset, much as his father’s life had twisted Nick’s outlook on his own existence.

      But not on his future. Senator Jeffrey Dylan had no right to Nick’s future.

      The library door opened behind him, and a man’s footsteps preceded a gruff voice. “Dr. Dylan, why didn’t you accompany your mother to Mr. Thomas’s office?”

      Nick’s temples throbbed. “Leota went without me?” He turned away from the window. His mother’s decision to go alone didn’t surprise him.

      He looked at Hunter, who’d run the family home here in Fairlove, Virginia, since before Nick was born. Stubble etched the older man’s face. Though he wore his usual, perfectly pressed navy suit, Hunter’s inattention to his beard was as good a sign as any of the grief that darkened this house.

      Grief Nick couldn’t feel. He mourned his father’s lifelong disappointment in him, mourned the relationship he’d never won. Maybe he’d been wrong not to compromise more, not to find a way to be the son his father had tried to make him.

      “I saw the limo turn out of the driveway. I thought you were with her, sir,” Hunter said.

      “Maybe she didn’t want to wait for me. You know she likes to be early for her appointments.” Nick tried to cover up the unease between himself and Leota. Her anger, a freewheeling, almost tangible entity, had grown with every passing second in the three days since his father’s death. When Hunter had called to tell him about the brandy and sleeping pills he’d found on Leota’s nightstand, Nick had moved back into this house. Though Nick and his mother were not close, he loved her. He wanted to care for her.

      “I assumed she’d want your support, sir.” Hunter straightened. “Perhaps she needed a moment to herself.”

      Crossing the Oriental rug, which muffled his footsteps on the wide plank floor, Nick tossed back the Scotch he’d poured himself. He set the tumbler on the tray that always stood beside his father’s favorite leather armchair, grimacing as the alcohol scalded his throat. “Maybe I can catch up with her.”

      “Sir—”

      “I wish you’d stop calling me that. Nothing’s changed between us since Jeff died.”

      “I feel awkward calling you Mr. Nick.”

      At thirty-two, Nick had almost forgotten the title Hunter had used when he was a child. “Try just ‘Nick.’ You’ve managed not to call me anything for the year I’ve been back in town.”

      Hunter’s self-conscious smile looked sad. “I’ll try.”

      Nick fought an overwhelming urge to hug the other man. He’d last hugged Hunter on the morning his father had sent him away to boarding school. Hunter, the only man who’d shown him affection. Far more of a father to him than Jeff had ever been.

      “If, for some reason, Leota didn’t go to Wilford’s office and she calls here, will you let me know?”

      “She’ll be there.” Hunter sounded certain. “Despite her grief, she must be curious about your father’s last wishes.”

      Or else she dreaded finding out what Jeff might have planned for them—the housemaid he’d married because she was pregnant and the son who’d almost been born a bastard. Nick grunted agreement. He glanced back at the older man as he curved his hand around the ornate library door frame.