“Fancy us meeting like this,” he said, his tone sarcastic. “I see it as one of those meant-to-be things.”

Maci glared at him. She’d be damned if she was going to let him stroll down memory lane. Their past was off-limits.

“Yes, fancy that.” She heard the defiant note in her tone as their eyes met.

The effect was galvanizing.

Maci sucked in her breath, and he cursed. Later she didn’t know who turned away first. At the time, she didn’t care. For her own self-preservation, she couldn’t have looked at him another second. “Look, I know this…us…is awkward, but—”

“I thought about trying to find you.”

Her heart skipped several beats and she tried to avert her gaze, but found that she couldn’t. “Holt—”

“Holt, what?” His tone thickened. “Don’t say what’s been on my mind for two years.”

“Stop it,” she muttered tersely, leaning closer as though fearing someone would hear their conversation. “I told myself I wouldn’t let you dredge up the past.”

“Too late, honey. The past has slam-dunked us both.”

In Hot Water
Mary Lynn Baxter

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Warren and Wayne Elledge

for all their invaluable help.

Thanks, guys!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Prologue

She knew she shouldn’t be dancing so intimately with a complete stranger.

And she shouldn’t be enjoying it, especially when there was no music. But she was. His strong arms and callused hands were like nothing she’d ever experienced.

Still, this was crazy behavior. She’d come on a mission to this Jamaican paradise, but it wasn’t to get involved with a man.

“You feel so right in my arms,” he whispered against her ear.

Each touch, each caress made her burn inside.

He chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?

“Yes.” Her breathing quickened. “I mean no.”

He laughed even as he pulled her closer, their bodies swaying in the light breeze. In the distance, she could hear the ocean raising as much havoc as her heart.

She had seen him the first day she and her three friends had arrived on the island. He had intrigued her immediately. He wasn’t classically handsome. His shoulders were broader and his arms more muscular than those of any man she knew. His abs were cut to perfection. Rugged was an apt description. She figured that was what had aroused such a wild streak in her.

Character lines had been etched into his tanned face by the sun and wind, and coupled with his blond hair and blue-green eyes, his looks were captivating.

When their eyes first met, she felt an electrified attraction between them. Whenever their paths crossed afterwards, that intensity made her stomach quiver.

Earlier in the evening at a cabana party he’d asked her to dance to a slow, erotic tune. She’d gone into his arms without hesitation. After remaining there through several songs, he’d grabbed her hand and said in a low voice, “Let’s walk.”

They had strolled barefoot along the water’s edge until he’d stopped and pulled her again into his arms. Now, as they continued to dance to imaginary music she was powerless to stop him.

“You’re not supposed to be thinking,” he whispered into her ear.

The warmth of his breath sent chills down her spine. “I’m not.”

“No,” he whispered again, stopping in the middle of the make-believe dance and pushing her to arm’s length.

She looked at him, held his gaze, and felt her heart beat loudly in her chest. “Why is that?”

“Because only feelings are allowed.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her in step with him. “It’s a night of magic.”

The raspy tone of his voice affected her as much as the touch of his hand clasping hers tightly.

“I don’t know you,” she said, her gaze resting on his profile.

“That’s okay.”

“Is it?” Her voice wavered.

He stopped, turned her to face him, then tipped her chin up. “Forget about the world. Just think about the moment and how you feel.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“If a name is what you want, call me Stan.”

“I’m Mildred.” She couldn’t believe she had outright lied, but then she didn’t believe his name was Stan either.

“Mildred it is,” he said in a low voice.

She shivered, though the ocean breeze was warm against her skin. “This…is crazy.”

“I’m crazy about you,” he countered.

In the moonlight she could see his chiseled features and his deep-set eyes, eyes that seemed to penetrate right through to her thoughts.

She licked her dry lips. “That’s not possible.”

“Anything’s possible tonight,” he rasped. “Don’t fight yourself. Don’t fight me.”

She closed her eyes, struggling to get control of her wayward emotions. If only she hadn’t had that last drink. Perhaps, then, she wouldn’t have left her friends partying at the cabana and taken a midnight stroll on the beach with a perfect stranger.

“Hey,” he said, “you’re thinking again.”

She felt his finger trace the line of her jaw before running it along the inside of her lower lip.

Her breathing became erratic. His touch left her feeling hotter than she’d ever been.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered, his hand now trailing down her neck and onto her collarbone.

Her head lolled back like a flower on a weak stem as his hand found its way to a breast. “Please.”

“Please what? Kiss you? Touch you?”

“Yes to both.” Her words came out in a gasp.

His hand slipped under her halter top and rubbed her breasts. She couldn’t breathe or talk.

“Perfect,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers.

His lips gently cajoled hers, but then she whimpered; his kiss belied such raw, aching hunger that she nearly collapsed against him.

As his mouth continued to cover hers, he sank to his knees and took her with him down onto the wet sand.

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.” His voice was so hoarse she could barely understand him.

His words didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the feel of his hands removing her top, his mouth suckling her breasts and his teeth gently nibbling at her nipples. Locking her hands on his head, she held him close, reveling in every sensation he aroused.

“I want to see all of you,” he said, pulling her upright.

He removed her shorts and panties and cast them onto a dry, sandy part of the beach.

Standing like a dazed nude statue drenched in the moonlight, she watched as he peeled off his own clothes. She gazed upon his flat, muscled stomach only a moment before looking downward.

He was big and hard.

Desire spread throughout her body. She must have made a satisfactory sound in her throat because he made a strange sound of his own before grabbing her and kissing her again.

“Do you want me as much as I want you?”

She could only moan.

And anticipate.

And soak up the frantic need escalating between them.

“Answer me,” he demanded in a guttural tone.

“Yes” was all she could manage, especially after his hand cupped her hot mound and two of his fingers pressed and probed her insides, making her wet.

Again she felt like collapsing, and again they sank to their knees. Using the wet sand as a bed and the water lapping around them as cover, he lowered himself over her, then spread her legs.

Unable to utter even the smallest of sounds, she reached for his throbbing erection and guided it into her. With a deep groan, he penetrated her.

Her eyes widened as she realized how large he was inside her.

He paused long enough to whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, oh yes,” she said through gritted teeth, clutching at his back, beckoning him to come more fully inside her, to invade her, to fill her, to give her all to him.

Now.

As if he could read her mind, he ground into her and began pounding her with a force akin to the surf pounding against the beach. She wrapped her legs around his buttocks and felt the silent screams of pleasure bounce around her head as her heart begged for more. She wanted more.

He didn’t know when he’d been this tired. But then he’d worked hard at beating up on his body this morning.

First, he’d run five miles on the beach, which was like running in a straitjacket, then he’d lifted heavier weights than usual in the compact but ample sized gym onboard his sailboat.

Now as he made his way into the outdoor café at the luxury hotel, he realized that his stomach gnawed from lack of food. His overzealous workout had used up what energy he’d had stored.

Still, he shouldn’t be here. He should have already set sail. He hadn’t planned on hanging around the island another day, because he had other places to go, other fish to fry, and because a buddy of his had agreed to meet him in a couple of days for some deep-sea fishing. Yet here he was pulling out a chair in a crowded corner of a café.

So why was he lollygagging?

Her.

He was hoping that he would run into Mildred. He smirked at the thought of her name. It was no more Mildred than his was Stan. But he wasn’t complaining.

He’d take her any way he could get her and under any name, too.

She was a little hottie.

“May I take your order, sir?”

He’d ordered and the waitress hurried off. Holt perused his surroundings. Instantly, his stomach clenched and he sat up straighter. He couldn’t believe his luck. There she was, though not alone. She was with the same three women who had accompanied her to the party. His stomach tightened as he realized his luck had just ended.

What had he expected? A woman with her assets wouldn’t be alone. If she hadn’t been with other women, she would’ve been with a man. No matter. Who she was with or what she was doing was certainly none of his business.

He told himself that last night had been a one-time fling.

She had been lovely in every way imaginable with striking black hair, blue eyes and alabaster skin that was enhanced by a dusting of natural color on her cheeks. Of course, he’d been in the company of more beautiful women than he cared to name. Yet none had affected him like she had.

One look at her and he’d been down for the count.

Had it been her lush, tantalizing lips or her huge eyes that had danced with secrecy when she’d looked at him that had completely unsettled him? Or had it been the whiff of perfume he’d breathed when she’d first passed him? Or her traffic-stopping smile? He decided it had been her entire body, the way all her curves connected in just the right places.

“Can I get you anything else?”

The sound of the waitress’s voice brought him back to reality and after answering no he gazed back at the woman, leaving his breakfast untouched.

He’d never been married to anyone or anything except his work, but he’d slept with his share of women. He’d never quite had as cursory a one-nighter like last evening. But that woman had turned him on faster and more furiously than anyone he’d ever known.

She still did. Just looking at her made his insides burn. He shifted his position for fear someone might see his obvious hard-on.

Fearing, too, that she might spot him staring at her, he forced himself to eat a few bites of the omelet he’d craved moments ago. Now his craving lay elsewhere. His appetite for food gone, he again stared at her.

This morning she was dressed in another pair of shorts and a different halter top that exposed the lightly tanned cleavage between her well-endowed breasts. Remembering how it felt to touch and taste her, he could hardly remain in his seat.

So he stood up. Telling himself he had nothing to lose he took two steps toward her when his cell rang. Cursing, he reached for it at the same time she turned and spotted him. Their eyes locked and he sucked in his breath and held it, waiting for a sign of acknowledgement.

Nothing.

She looked straight through him as if she’d never laid eyes on him. His blood turned to ice. He had figured she was too good to be true. Now he knew it. His cell rang again and, turning away, he barked into the receiver.

One

Two years later

The disinfectant smell of the O.R. seemed more tainted than usual with the metallic odor of blood. Added to the normal tension surrounding a difficult surgical procedure was an almost tangible panic among the assistants to Seymour Ramsey, the tall, silver-haired doctor who alone appeared unaware of the frantic beeping of various monitoring devices. The only visible sign that he might be concerned was the profuse amount of perspiration that saturated his surgical cap and face.

“Doctor, are you all right?” A nurse’s voice broke the tense silence.

Seymour swore under his breath and turned a glassy-eyed look at her. “Yes, dammit. And don’t ask me that again.”

The nurse muttered, “Yes, sir.” But the rigid set of her jaw and the sudden flush in her cheeks revealed her desire to say much more, especially when she stole a glance at the other members of the surgical team.

No one responded to her silent plea. They all continued with their assigned jobs.

A few minutes passed before the anesthesiologist announced, “His blood pressure is dropping, Doctor. He can’t afford to lose much more blood.”

The assisting surgeon glared at Seymour, “What the hell—”

“Just shut up, Chastain.” Seymour’s tone was as harsh as his words. “I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Silence once again reigned over the room as the nurse mopped Seymour’s wet brow. She jumped slightly when he growled, “I just need one more minute.”

“Better make it a fast minute,” the anesthesiologist countered as he watched the rapidly falling blood pressure of the man on the table. “I’m doing all I can here,” he added with a horrified look on his face.

Moments later, Seymour stepped back and jerked off his mask. “There. It’s done.” He cast a glance toward his fellow surgeon. “Sew him up.”

Seymour stalked out of the O.R. into the doctor’s lounge where he immediately leaned over the sink, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He sensed rather than heard someone approach from behind him. He looked up and saw Chastain’s face in the mirror. Seymour whipped around, slinging droplets of water on the other doctor. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be closing my patient.”

“He’s in no hurry, Seymour.” Chastain’s tone matched the cold fury in the older surgeon’s eyes. “He died right after you walked out of the room. He lost too much blood.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Seymour pounded his fist on the edge of the sink.

“The family’s in the waiting room,” Chastain said in an accusatory tone. “You’d best go talk to them. They’ve already waited a long time.”

Minutes later, Seymour shuffled toward the waiting area where the three members of the Dodson family sat, their hearts registering in their eyes.

“Doctor Ramsey?” Michael Dodson rose, fear in his voice. “How’s Dad? Is he—”

Seymour forced himself to face the younger man. “There’s no easy way to say this, son. Your father didn’t make it. I’m sorry—”

“But what happened?” Michael asked in a screeching voice as his mother and sister broke into hysterical sobs and moans. Michael advanced until he was within touching distance of Seymour, his stance threatening. “You said he’d be all right.”

Seymour stepped back, then began trying to explain, but words failed him. He mumbled something about blood pressure.

“Sir,” Michael interrupted, “you’re not making any sense at all. In fact, you’re slurring your words. What’s wrong with you? You’re acting crazy.” he said incredulously. “Don’t tell me you operated on my father in this condition.”

Seymour rubbed his forehead. “I did no such—”

The sentence was never completed. Seymour’s eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the floor.

Two

The heat was sweltering.

Maci had taken that into consideration earlier when she’d slipped into a peach-colored sundress and a pair of strappy sandals.

Summer in south Louisiana was notorious for its combined heat and humidity, but this year both were setting records daily. She couldn’t seem to get cool no matter where she was.

Despite the cold air pouring out of the air-conditioning vents, Maci found herself perspiring. Maybe that was because she was upset. Since she and Seymour married a little over two years ago they had rarely disagreed.

That had changed after she had learned of her husband’s secret dependence on prescription drugs. Lately she’d been at her wits’ end as to what to do about it, especially after he’d lost a patient and friend on the operating table.

Only after that tragedy did Seymour admit he’d blacked out while talking to the family and that both he and the incident were under investigation.

Once she had gotten past her stunned horror, Maci hadn’t wanted to know the dirty details associated with his vile habit. Instead, she had pleaded with her husband to seek help immediately. She feared for his well-being as well as that of his patients.

During the past three weeks, Maci had thought he’d kept his promise, but then last night, for the first time ever, Seymour had come home on a drug-induced high. He’d previously hidden the effects of the drugs from her and the rest of the world, but now his habit was known, he no longer seemed to care about covering it up.

That fact alone caused her to confront him. “How dare you come home in this condition?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear.”

“You damn sure do,” she lashed back. “Now that I know what you’re up to, it’s obvious you’re high.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Don’t insult me, Seymour. I may have been gullible in the past, but no longer.”

He smiled a cherubic smile. “You’re getting yourself all worked up for nothing, my dear.” He paused, his grin still in place. “I don’t know about you, but I’m calling it a night.”

Maci’s insides shook with anger, but she knew she was fighting a losing battle. Once her husband dug his heels in, there was no way she could penetrate his steel facade.

She was now at a loss as to how to reach Seymour. Their personal relationship and home life would soon suffer. Maci feared that if Seymour continued down this destructive path, the man she’d married would be lost to her forever.

Again she knew he needed professional help.

Maci paused in her thoughts and peered at her watch. Seymour was due home from the hospital any time now to join her for a late breakfast. She hated to admit it, but she wasn’t looking forward to seeing him.

“Mrs. Ramsey, Jonah’s about to go down for his nap.”

A smile transformed Maci’s strained features when she glanced at Liz Byford, her son’s nanny. “I’m right behind you.”

When Maci walked into the nursery, her baby, almost entering into the terrible twos phase, was bouncing up and down in his bed and grinning.

“Hey, big boy, what are you doing?”

“Down, Mommy,” he cried, reaching out his arms.

Maci gave him a bear hug, then a kiss on the cheek. “It’s time for your nap.”

He shook his head. “No, Mommy, no.”

“Yes, Jonah, yes.” She grinned. “How about I hold you and read you a story?” This was a tried and proven trick to get him to sleep.

His grin widened and his bouncing increased.

“Whoa, there, tiger. Mommy can’t lift you unless you settle down.”

“I’ll eat my lunch while you’re with him,” Liz said, blowing the child a kiss before closing the door behind her.

Maci lifted Jonah out of his bed, nuzzling him on the neck. He smelled so good, felt so good, she wanted to squeeze him into her. And she did for a second. Then he started squirming.

“Book.”

“That’s right,” she said, sitting in the rocker and grabbing his favorite nursery rhymes. “We’ll read this together, squirt.”

Five minutes later, Jonah was sound asleep, but Maci continued to rock him, loving the feel of him in her arms.

Her gaze rested on his perfect little features and tears misted her eyes. He looked so much like her it was uncanny. Yet he had the Ramsey build. When he grew up—she smiled inwardly at that coined phrase—Jonah would be tall and thin.

In her mind her son would make a statement in this world. She would see to that. He was the love of her life. And the purpose for her life.

She was blessed that Seymour felt the same way. He, too, doted on Jonah. Thinking of her husband removed the smile and tossed her thoughts back into chaos. How could she reach him? Holding her eyes steady on this precious child for whom they were both responsible made her grief and fear more potent.

Seymour had to get help. He had to beat his problem. It was imperative that he set an example for his son who would soon look to him for guidance and trust. A chill darted through Maci and she shivered. As though Jonah sensed her unrest, he jerked.

“Shh,” she said in a soothing tone, pushing a soft strand of wispy hair off his forehead. “It’s okay.”

Once he was sleeping soundly again, Maci wondered how she could have been so stupid or so incredibly naive. Both apparently applied.

Could his downfall partially be her fault? She admitted she hadn’t been Seymour’s mate in the true sense of the word.

She didn’t believe in trust, especially when it came to trusting men. Despite her warm, sunny personality and her love for people, Maci harbored a bitterness for the opposite sex fostered by her father and her ex-fiancé.

When Will Grayson had learned literally hours before their wedding that Maci’s father had lost his millions on bad investments, liquor and women, he walked out on her without a backward glance.

To this day, she saw no reason to forgive the man who had left her at the altar. Her father, however, was a different matter. She had tried to forgive him for his betrayal, especially now that he was dead. But she’d never been able to totally put that pain aside. Some days the hurt was as strong as the day it had happened during the summer of her sophomore year in college.

At the time, however, she had patched her broken heart as best she could and gone on with her life. She’d worked her way through school as an interior designer while taking care of her mother who had been stricken with Alzheimer’s.

During those years of hardship, her social life had been nonexistent. Only once had she agreed to attend a charity ball given by a client. There she had met Dr. Seymour Ramsey, a man twenty years her senior. He had been instantly smitten with her and wouldn’t leave her alone. Finally, he had worn her down after promising to love, honor and cherish her while at the same time resurrecting her previous life of wealth and luxury.

That had been a deal she couldn’t pass up. While she hadn’t loved him with passion, she had loved him.

She’d certainly been bowled over by his attention. Seymour had turned on the same charm that had helped catapult him, a young man from the wrong side of the tracks, to the top of his profession. Maci had sensed he was a decent man who wanted to make a home with her.

Being “in love” was no longer high on Maci’s priority list. Seymour understood, having told her he’d take her any way he could get her.

Two weeks after taking a Jamaican holiday, Maci had married Seymour despite the teasing from her friends that she would be joining the “trophy wife’s club.” Maci had known better. In their own way, she and Seymour had formed a bond based on mutual respect and admiration.

She had signed a contract that entitled her to a certain amount of money for every year she remained married to him. Once that fact hit the gossip mill, her friends had upped the ante on their teasing.

She had taken it all in stride since that contract had been so important to Seymour, which she understood. She’d had no quarrel with him wanting to protect his investment and his pride. What no one knew was that she’d had no intention of touching the money for her own use. Instead, she’d put it in trust to care for her Alzheimer-stricken mother as long as she lived.

The fact that shortly after they had exchanged vows Maci had found out she was pregnant had served to strengthen her and Seymour’s marriage. They had both been delighted. Her life then settled into a normal routine. She had thrived on her role as expectant mother and wife of Doctor Seymour Ramsey, convinced she had everything she’d always wanted.

And while she’d concede their marriage was far from perfect and probably unconventional by most standards, it had worked for them.

Until now. Until his abhorrent habit had come to light.

Maci’s heart faltered as she leaned down and kissed her baby on the forehead, holding him a bit tighter, careful not to disturb his sleep.

The consequences of what Seymour had done could be forever life-changing. They had already been life-altering.

If her husband failed to get control of his problem, then she… Maci refused to think about that. Seymour would mend his broken life and emerge a stronger, healthier individual. She had to hold on to that thought. Anything else was too painful to pursue.

Jonah stirred again prompting her to place him in his crib. That done, Maci glanced at the Waterford clock on the table and realized that Seymour should have already been home. She knew Annie, the housekeeper, had their brunch ready. And so did Seymour. Maci frowned, trying not to panic. Most of the time her mind was her own worst enemy.

Still, she couldn’t settle the disquiet that accompanied her downstairs. After passing Liz who was on her way back to Jonah, Maci made her way into the breakfast room. She was startled to find her husband.

No one would ever guess Seymour’s secret by looking at him.

His charming demeanor and handsome features persuaded many to believe in him.

He was tall and lean with silver hair that showed no signs of thinning. His deep-set green eyes seemed to smile when he did. But his pride and joy was his body. He kept it in tip-top condition by working in their gym at home as well as one at an exclusive country club.

“You’re just in time, my dear.” Seymour smiled and pulled out her chair. “Annie’s just about to serve us.”

“I didn’t know you were home,” Maci said inanely, feeling herself staring at him, looking for signs that he was using again. She couldn’t believe such horrible terminology popped into her mind much less applied to any part of her life. The idea seemed to sully everything around her.

If Seymour noticed her reaction, he didn’t let on. Instead, he smiled and asked, “How’s my son?”

Clearly he wanted to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened, even though they had had the sharpest disagreement of their marriage. Momentarily her temper flared, but she held it under wraps. Maybe his way was the best way. Holding a grudge definitely wasn’t the answer.

Maci released a sigh. “He’s great, as always.”

“I started to come up, but Liz told me you were rocking him.” Seymour shrugged. “I figured he’d be asleep.”

Maci sat down and the buxom housekeeper served their food. After taking a sip of almond-flavored tea, she glanced at Seymour. “How was your morning?” she forced herself to ask, still having difficulty pretending everything was normal.

Seymour touched his mouth with the white linen napkin, then smiled. “Fine. Another normal surgery day. One stacked on top of the other. How ’bout you?”

“Same here. I called on a new client who I think will turn into a gold mine. Shortly, I’m headed to Bobbi’s.”

“How’s that project coming?”

Maci played with her chicken salad. “Down to the wire, actually.”

Bobbi Trent was her best friend turned client. As a divorcée, she was trying to adopt a baby. Maci felt driven to get Bobbi’s house refurbished before the agency called her to say that they had located a child for her.

“I just wish you wouldn’t work so hard.”

“I know,” she said softly but with determination. “You also know how important it is for me to keep my independence.” Especially now, in light of the circumstances, she was tempted to add, but didn’t. There was no point in fueling an already simmering fire.

“You’re right, and I’m sorry, my dear. There’s no point in my belaboring the point. Besides, I just want you to be happy.”

“I am, Seymour. Or at least I—”

The chiming of the doorbell aborted her sentence.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Seymour asked.

“No. Are you?”

He shook his head just as Annie appeared in the doorway, a perplexed frown on her face. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” her eyes turned to Seymour, “but there are two gentlemen here who insist on speaking to you.”

Putting down his napkin, Seymour stood. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t bother, Doctor, we decided to come to you.”

The taller of the two men had made that declaration and now strode over to Seymour. He had a stern look on his face.

“And who are you?” Maci demanded, furious with their blatant intrusion and total lack of manners.

“I’m Detective Greg Johnson,” the short, stout one said. “And this is my partner, Detective Oscar Ford.” They both flipped open their badges.

Maci was glad she was seated as every muscle in her body weakened.

Johnson’s gaze whipped to Ramsey. “Doctor, we have a warrant for your arrest. The charge is criminally negligent homicide in the death of your patient, Grant Dodson. Cuff him, Ford.”

Maci gasped in shocked horror at the same time Seymour’s tanned skin turned deathly white.

Three

Keefe Ryan looked like what he was—a socially inept attorney. He was short, bald, wore black-rimmed glasses and there was nothing attractive about him or his personality. Maci had always considered him to be the most boring man she’d ever met.

Yet when he walked into the police station, she had never been so glad to see anyone. She would never think ill of Keefe again.

In the process of being led out of the house by the two officers, Seymour had barked an order for her to call his attorney. She had waited until she was on her way to the station to do so. By then her mind had cleared somewhat, and she could punch in Keefe’s number on her cell phone.

He appeared now as composed as ever, dressed as impeccably as ever, though she knew he wasn’t. Maci had observed a little tick in Keefe’s right cheek when he was under stress and that tick was present as he made his way toward her.

Maci had been told to take a seat in the outer lobby and that the chief would be with her shortly. So far, shortly had not come, giving her plenty of time to observe the police station. This afternoon there was a lot of activity. Phones rang while officers and other personnel scurried about. Although she had received several curious glances, no one had bothered to speak to her or ask if she wanted or needed anything.

She couldn’t believe she was here. The horrendous circumstances made the situation even more demoralizing.

When the press learned of this…

“Maci, what the hell is going on?”

She turned her attention back to Keefe. She had never heard him say anything that resembled a curse word. But then she’d never seen him this flustered. His features were pinched and he was out of breath.

Despite the fact that Seymour could be overbearing at times, he and Keefe seemed to have a genuine friendship. While Keefe handled mostly taxes, he had at one time practiced some family and criminal law. So he wasn’t completely out of the loop when it came to helping Seymour. Maci never doubted Keefe had Seymour’s best interest at heart. If he wasn’t the one for the job, he would find someone who was.

“Seymour’s been arrested,” Maci said, hearing the tremor in her voice. She hadn’t bothered to tell Keefe what was going on beforehand. She had simply told him that Seymour needed him and to meet them at the police station. She’d hung up with Keefe still asking questions.

Keefe’s face now drained of its remaining color. “That’s preposterous.”

“It’s a fact,” she countered flatly.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Keefe cleared his throat, then peered down at her, concern mirrored in his eyes. “Of course, you’re not. Forget I asked that.”

“I’m fine,” she said, which was a lie. She was anything but fine. She was sick all over. She clutched at her stomach.

Homicide?

Her wealthy, charismatic husband accused of such an abominable deed was not possible. Only it was possible, or she wouldn’t be sitting in an obscure corner of this godforsaken place.

“You just stay put while I get this mattered straightened out,” Keefe said without further ado. “Then we’ll all be on our way home.”

“Thanks, Keefe,” Maci said, fighting back tears. How could this be happening to her well-ordered world?

Hopefully Keefe could indeed make this nightmare go away.

Moments later Keefe returned, his face as grim as hers. Her heart faltered. Perhaps gaining her husband’s immediate release wasn’t going to be as easy as Keefe had thought.

“The chief wants to see us both.”

Maci stood on unsteady legs, yet when she walked into the rather austere room, she held her head high and her shoulders back. She intended to conduct herself with dignity, and she expected the same from the tall, thin-faced man who was looking at her through narrowed eyes.

Chief Ted Satterwhite introduced himself, then beckoned for both of them to sit in the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked in a deep, hoarse voice indicative of bad sinus drainage.

Both Maci and Keefe politely declined, then Maci asked, “Where is my husband?”

Satterwhite pulled out a big handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his nose before answering, “Waiting to be questioned by the detectives. He’s been read his rights, and has requested that his lawyer be present.”

“Is that necessary?” Maci asked, thankful he didn’t outright blow his nose. She tried to keep her disgust from showing.

“That’s procedure, ma’am.” He pushed back from his desk and crossed a leg over his knee. “That’s how we do things in this department. By the book.”

“I’d like him to go before the judge this afternoon,” Keefe said in a huffy tone as though he resented being talked down to.

“All in good time, Mr. Ryan.”

“Chief—”

“The judge will hear the doctor’s case in the morning.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Keefe declared with a flare of his hand.

Maci groaned, especially when she saw the chief’s features tighten.

“Acceptable or not, that’s the way it is.” Satterwhite’s tone had gone from cool to cold.

His face suffused with unnatural color, Keefe opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately ground his jaws together. Maci felt him look at her.

Ignoring Keefe, she faced the chief. “May I please see my husband?”

Satterwhite took his time unfurling his gangly frame to full height. Bastard, Maci thought. He was in his element, lording his control over them. Maci fought the urge to lash out at him, to ask him if he knew who he was toying with.

After all, everyone knew the Ramsey name carried weight in this town. While that hadn’t always been the case, it was now. Her husband was no longer thought of as the downtrodden boy who had defied the odds and made good, but rather as a renowned surgeon. He’d built a stellar reputation in the medical community throughout the entire state of Louisiana. And here in his hometown of Dayton he’d used his wealth and power to the greater good.

Seymour wouldn’t tolerate this method of treatment. But that was before he’d been accused of causing his patient’s death, Maci reminded herself. A negligent homicide charge could relegate him to the bottom of the scum barrel in a heartbeat.

“That can be arranged,” Satterwhite said at last, coming from behind his desk. “Follow me.”

When they walked into the room where Seymour was held, Detective Johnson acknowledged their presence, then left. The chief followed shortly, leaving Maci and Keefe alone with Seymour.

For a moment, a thick, heavy silence prevailed.

“Are you all right?” Maci asked in an unsteady voice.

“I will be, when I get the hell out of here.” Seymour’s eyes darted to Keefe. “I’m assuming you can do that.”

Keefe blew out a long breath. “I can’t until morning.”

Seymour swore.

“Keefe’s doing all he can, Seymour,” Maci pointed out in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to defuse the volatile situation.

“Then it’s not good enough,” Seymour shot back.

Another awkward silence fell over the room. Maci bit down on her lower lip and looked at Seymour. He appeared tired and drawn, yet restless and hyper. Control was what fed him, what made him the man he was, and now that he wasn’t in control, Maci knew he’d be jittery.

Or was he simply acting like a common street junkie who was in the throes of coming off a drug high?

Maci’s stomach hated the path her mind had taken, but she couldn’t avoid the hard cold facts, not when they were being rubbed in her face.

Her husband was a drug addict, and according to the law he was accused of homicide.

“Satterwhite is not someone we…you want to tangle with right now,” Keefe said. “You have to know that.”

“I refuse to stay in this stinking hole overnight.”

Maci crossed to her husband and touched him on the arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Spending one night—”

He shook off her hand. “I’m not some common criminal, and I resent the hell out of being treated like one.”

“They are accusing you of homicide, Seymour,” Keefe said in a low, even tone. “What do you have to say about that?”

“Dodson’s death was not my fault.”

Maci eyes widened.

Seymour’s smile was humorless. “See, my own wife doesn’t believe me.”

“That’s not true,” Maci snapped, feeling her face flush. “If you tell me you’re not responsible—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat.

Seymour stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he focused on Keefe. “What are the exact charges against me?”

“I haven’t had time to read the report,” the attorney responded. “I only know what Maci told me.”

Seymour hit the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “Go talk to that prick Satterwhite then read the report. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. That redneck’s got it in for me, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”

“I sensed the same thing, Keefe,” Maci said, easing down into a straight-backed chair at the table.

“I’ll be right back.” Keefe’s tone was clipped.

Once he had left the room, Maci stared at her husband, noticing the strain weighing heavily on him. “I’m so sorry about this.” Her thoughts jumped to Jonah and she ached to hold him tightly right now.

“Tell me you believe me.”

“I want to, Seymour,” she said, feeling her eyes mist with tears, “but remember I’ve seen you high and it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Okay, so I was using when I operated on Grant, but I had full control of my faculties, for god’s sake. I would never do anything that asinine. You have to know that.”

“I do, but—”

Keefe interrupted her when he reentered the room.

“The charges stand as Maci described them,” Keefe said, tossing the folder down on the table, then sitting down. His gaze settled on Seymour. “Suppose you sit down and tell me your side.”

Seymour didn’t sit. He just began talking. “There’s really no side. The man bled to death through no fault of mine.”

“So you’re taking no blame at all?” Keefe’s tone was incredulous.

Seymour’s hard gaze didn’t waver. “None whatsoever.”

“Are you denying you were on drugs at the time?”

“No. Like I was telling Maci, I admit I had taken some pills, but I knew exactly what I was doing with that knife.”

“Passing out and slurring your words in front of the family doesn’t support that, Seymour,” Keefe said with low-key honesty, “especially since they know exactly the level of drugs ingested.”

“I agree with Keefe,” Maci said, her gaze also un-flinching on her husband, watching closely for some glimmer of remorse or something that would indicate he was the least bit sorry.

Nothing.

She flinched. When had Seymour become so calloused to the loss of human life? Had she been so caught up in her own life and that of Jonah that she’d failed to notice yet another dark side of her husband?

Maci couldn’t believe this was the same man she had married, who seemed to adore both her and Jonah, who lavished them with time and attention. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.

“How long have you had this nasty little habit?” Keefe asked.

“Since I had the accident that tore up my back.”

Maci sucked in her breath. That accident, which had been a car wreck, had happened several years before she married him. Surely, he’d hadn’t been addicted for that long.

“You mean you were hooked before you married me?” Maci barely choked the nasty words out of her mouth.

“Hooked is hardly the right word, my dear,” Seymour said with disdain. “Was I using drugs to help my back? Yes, and I still am. But I’m in control of the situation, not the other way around.”

Maci didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach with a brick. Apparently so did Keefe as his face seemed to have taken on a greenish tint.

“Make no mistake, Keefe,” Seymour said with conviction, “I’m not going down for this.”

“If that’s the case, then I’m certainly not your man. I suggest you find the best criminal attorney possible and hire him.”

“I agree.”

Keefe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me who to call,” Keefe responded, “and it’s a done deal.”

“My oldest son.”

Maci stared at Seymour in shocked silence.

“Holt?” Keefe asked, clearly taken aback.

“That’s right,” Seymour said. “You told me I needed the best, and he’s the best.”

“But, Seymour, that doesn’t make any sense,” Maci pointed out, her mind reeling. “You haven’t seen your son in years.”

And she had never seen him. Not before she married Seymour or after. In fact, it was hard to remember that Jonah wasn’t Seymour’s only child. She had no idea what Holt Ramsey looked like. No pictures of him appeared anywhere in the house.

She knew very little about what had caused the estrangement between father and elder son, but she suspected a lot. Seymour had refused to discuss the issue with her, which she could understand. Suicide was a tragic and touchy subject.

What she did know was that Holt was a single attorney who rarely practiced his profession, choosing rather to spend his time on his sailboat. She had gleaned this information from the housekeeper who had been in the family when Seymour was married to his first wife. Annie had also told her that Holt blamed his father for his mother’s suicide. Since the housekeeper doted on the elder son, she still bemoaned the breach between her favorite men.

“Maci’s got a point,” Keefe said in a strained voice. “With all the bad blood between you and Holt, what makes you think he’ll help you out now?”

“He’ll come, all right.” A strange glint appeared in Seymour’s eyes. “If nothing else, he’ll use it as an opportunity to exact his pound of flesh.”

Four

He had no one to blame but himself. In the future, he would check his caller ID before he answered. Damn Marianne for giving out his number. He’d have to remember to speak to her about that.

Swallowing a frustrated sigh, Holt Ramsey stared at the sky and counted to ten while Keefe droned on, trying to make his case. The second after he had said hello, Keefe had rushed into the reason for the call and he hadn’t stopped yet. He hadn’t so much as taken a breath.

“Keefe, give it a rest,” Holt interrupted, his patience having long evaporated.

“Trust me, I’m aware of the situation between you and your father,” Keefe continued as though Holt hadn’t spoken.

“Hey, hold it,” Holt said, no longer willing to let Keefe steamroll over him. “Time out. Look you’re wasting your time. You’ve done your job. You’ve related Seymour’s tale of woe to me. All you have to do is tell him I’m not interested. Voilà! You’re off the hook.”

“Holt, please, hear me out,” Keefe pleaded. “Since you have a reputation for being one of the best criminal lawyers around, you’re the logical choice. More than that, your father needs you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I know—”

“You don’t know jack, Keefe.”

Holt heard Keefe’s gasp, but he didn’t care. “I’ve heard all I need to hear, and I don’t know how to say it any plainer. I don’t care what Seymour needs or doesn’t need.”

“How can you say that?”

“Easy.”

“He’s your father, for god’s sake,” Keefe stressed. “Have you no shame?”

Holt gritted his teeth and swore silently. “It’s only because I respect you that I’m even still on the line. But I’d advise you not to push your luck.”

“Under the circumstances,” Keefe hammered on, “I don’t see how you can take such a hard-nosed attitude.”

Holt heard the pleading note in Keefe’s voice, but he ignored it.

“There’s nothing else I can say to make you change your mind?” Keefe’s harsh sigh filtered through the line.

“Is that a question, Keefe?”

“Yes.”

“Not a thing. Tell my father he made his own bed and that I’m going to take delight in watching him wallow in it.”

Keefe slammed down the receiver.

Holt in turn flipped the lid shut on his cell. Frustration and anger churned inside him and he knew it was time to make use of his gym. His favorite stress reliever was his punching bag. Hitting it repeatedly would definitely do the trick.

A smirk altered Holt’s tight features. It would certainly be better than heading for the jail, jerking up his old man and punching the crap out of him.

He despised his father so much that he knew he could do it.

But he wouldn’t. Holt walked to the bow of his boat and felt the warm breeze on his hot skin. Any time he thought about Seymour, his entire body reacted violently. He knew that for his own good he should let that hate go, that carrying it around would eventually eat him up.

It was starting to now. He grasped the railing and swore. If he never saw his father again, he’d be happy. He’d been certain Seymour felt the same way. So what had made him change and ask his son for a favor?

Fear.

The gut-wrenching, twisting kind. That would be unacceptable in Seymour’s world where everyone lived according to his rules and regulations. The thought of spending a day in prison, much less years, must be driving him insane.

Holt’s smile twisted into a sneer. Good. If Seymour was convicted, he’d get what he deserved. What goes around comes around. In his father’s case, this philosophy was proving to be true, and in a way Holt had never thought possible. Hooked on prescription drugs. He just couldn’t believe it. His father and drugs just didn’t mix. Seymour’s modus operandi was that he controlled everything; nothing controlled him.

It had always been that way. Even when Holt was a young child Seymour had wanted to control every part of his son’s life, just as he’d controlled Holt’s mother.

Only Holt had rebelled and oftentimes bested his father, especially when he shot down Seymour’s dream of his son following in his footsteps and becoming a surgeon. Instead, Holt had opted to become a criminal defense attorney. He had gone to work for a famous firm and done far better than even his wildest expectations until his mother’s death and a severe case of career burnout sent him off into uncharted waters on his sailboat.

And he hadn’t regretted a day he’d turned his back on his career and his father.

Holt wondered what had made Seymour slip into the gutter. Perhaps his young trophy wife was giving him trouble. Perhaps she’d decided to ditch him for a man her own age. Just the thought had probably sent his old man into a frenzy. Or perhaps his trip down Drug Lane had nothing to do with the second Mrs. Doctor Seymour Ramsey. Perhaps she’d turned out to be the wife of his dreams.

Holt couldn’t care less.

He’d never even seen the woman much less met her. Since Holt maintained an office in Dayton where he took on clients from time to time, news of his father always reached him.

Anything that pertained to the Ramsey family was big news. Unfortunately, that included him whenever he was in town. He’d been told by his friends that pictures of Seymour’s second wedding and the subsequent events had been splashed all over the pages of the daily paper.

Holt had counted his blessings that he’d been nowhere around, that he’d been on one of his long jaunts in and around Canada. If he’d been in the vicinity, he might have done something he’d regret, and Seymour hadn’t been worth that.

Seymour had ceased to mean anything to Holt when he’d divorced his mother years ago simply because she no longer pleased him physically or mentally. Six months later Lucille Ramsey had taken her own life by shooting herself in the stomach. A day before her death, she had told Holt she still loved his father, that she would always love him.

That declaration had devastated Holt.

After the funeral, he had severed all contact with Seymour. That had been years ago. How many years? He had no clue. He didn’t care. All he knew was he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven his father and that he could no longer bear the sight of him.

Holt shook his head trying to clear it. He squinted his eyes against the sun’s harsh glare and peered at the magnificent sail that billowed in the breeze. A sense of peace momentarily replaced the anger that had raged inside him.

Still, he strode down into his gym and battled it out with his punching bag. Later, after showering and swigging down a beer, he sprawled on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Only he couldn’t sleep. Images of his mother’s face swam before his eyes. He squeezed them tighter, willing his mother away. It was as if he could hear her whispering softly to him, telling him what she wanted him to do.

“No, I can’t,” he muttered out loud in an agonized voice. “I won’t.”

Everything appeared normal. Maci actually pretended her life was back to the way it was before Seymour’s arrest. But when she walked out the door and into the media scrum, Maci got a severe reality check.

Moments like that made her fear her life would never be the same, especially if her husband went to prison. Disregarding that unwelcome thought, she looked up from the set of house plans in front of her and wiggled her shoulders. She’d been working for several hours on a kitchen for a new client, and she was tired.

But her fatigue went much deeper than a sore neck and shoulders. Since Seymour had been hauled off in handcuffs, she hadn’t slept a wink. The fact that he’d been released on his own recognizance two days ago hadn’t helped.

Seymour, however, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Earlier at breakfast he’d eaten his omelet with his usual healthy appetite which prompted her to ask, “You really aren’t worried, are you?”

He put his fork down and looked at her. “Not in the least.”

“Well, I am,” she countered.

“I know you are, and I’m sorry, sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and Jonah.”

“What about yourself, Seymour? Even if you get out of this mess, your arrest is bound to have an impact on your practice.” Her voice rose an octave. “A man is dead.”

Seymour’s cup stalled halfway to his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. “I’d rather not have a replay of the past few days, Maci. I’m trying to get on with my life and my practice.”

Frustration surged through her. “And just how is that possible when every time we walk outside, bulbs flash in our faces and hurtful questions are thrown at us?”

“I’m sorry about that, too, but this will pass. In a few days, someone else’s life will be under the microscope.”

“Meanwhile, you’re going to go on with yours as usual.”

“Absolutely. And I suggest you do likewise.”

“It’s not that easy for me, Seymour.” She paused with a deep sigh. “The thought of you—”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said in a stern, harsh tone.

“Maybe not, if you’d consider looking for another criminal attorney.” She refused to back down and play the feebleminded mate without a thought of her own.

“That’s not necessary. I’m certain Holt will be here.”

“How can you be so sure, especially when he gave Keefe an emphatic no? Shouldn’t you at least have a contingency plan?”

“You worry too much, my dear.” Seymour wiped his mouth and then stood. “I’m going to the office. Give Jonah a hug for me. I’ll see you this evening.”

He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Oh, I’ve invited Keefe for dinner. Please inform Annie.”

Maci didn’t move once he was gone. Anger and shocking disbelief threatened to engulf her. When had Seymour gotten so arrogant? Were the drugs responsible for this haughty and unrepentant attitude? For all their sakes, she prayed Seymour was right and that his son would show up and clear his father’s name. If Holt was the crackerjack attorney Seymour and Keefe said he was, then he would be their savior on earth.

Suddenly, Maci felt the urge to see her son. Jonah seemed to be the only thing that grounded her. When she walked into his room, Liz rose and smiled at her before glancing at the child who was sound asleep on a pallet. “He just conked out.”

Maci squatted, then leaned over and grazed Jonah’s apple-red cheek with her lips before standing to full height. “That’s good. We played long and hard last night.”

“Ah, so you let him stay up late?”

Maci gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually, I’m guilty of two infractions. I let him sleep with me.”

“I bet he loved that.”

“We both did,” Maci responded, settling her gaze back on her baby. “I just don’t want the little bugger to think it’s going to be an every night thing.”

Liz’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t say anything.

“I’ll check in with you later on today. I’m off to see a client. Call if you need me.”

“You know I will,” Liz said, an uncertain look crossing her face.

“What?” Maci prodded, sensing there was something else on Liz’s mind. “Hey, don’t ever hesitate to ask me anything, especially if it pertains to Jonah.”

“I’m not sure I should take him out today, like to the park, for instance.”

A frown marred Maci’s unblemished features. “You shouldn’t. That pack of media wolves outside will probably attack you as well. No way will I put Jonah or you through that abuse.”

“Is…is Dr. Ramsey going to be all right?”

Again Maci heard the reluctance in her voice, and while she didn’t want to talk about the dreadful situation, she had no choice. Liz had become part of the family shortly before Jonah’s birth, following a slow and in-depth search for the right person to help care for her son. The young woman, who had yet to marry and have a family of her own, had turned out to be a jewel. Maci knew she owed her an explanation.

“Let us pray that he is,” Maci said at last. “As of two days ago, he was released on his own recognizance, and that’s a positive thing.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that he was out of jail.

“He’s such a nice man. I can’t believe this is happening to him.”

“Thanks for your concern, Liz. Just keep us in your thoughts, and take care of Jonah. That will help us as much as anything.”

“You can count on that. Those people with the microphones and cameras don’t scare me.” Her tone was defiant.

They do me, Maci almost said but didn’t. “That’s the attitude. I’ll see you both later.”

On her way downstairs Maci smelled the strong aroma of fresh coffee. She peered at her watch. She had time for another quick cup. Food, however, was out of the question. She hadn’t eaten anything since Seymour’s arrest anyway.

Once she reached the sunny breakfast room, Annie brought her a cup of coffee. Drinking leisurely, Maci stared out the window, taking in the beautifully manicured rolling lawn. Flowers splashed the lush greenery with vivid color.

She loved this place, loved the grounds and the old colonial pillared house that Seymour had purchased long before he married her. She had refurbished it to suit her tastes with Seymour’s encouragement. He had told her the renovations were long overdue. Maci had been relieved as she and the first Mrs. Ramsey had nothing in common when it came to interior design.

“Mrs. Ramsey, you have a call. It’s Mrs. Trent.”

“Thanks, Annie.” Maci reached for the phone, grateful her favorite client and friend chose that moment to call. “Hey, Bobbi, I was just on my way to see you.”

Thank God, she had her work to keep her mind occupied.

“Keefe, may I get you another drink?”

“No thanks, Maci. I’m fine.”

“I’d like another one,” Seymour said with a smile. When Maci hesitated, he raised his glass to her, his eyes mocking. “Never mind. I’ll get it myself.”

Maci ignored him and smiled at Keefe. “I hope dinner was to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Keefe said in a slightly flustered tone. “Your housekeeper outdid herself.”

“Actually, it was Maci who made the shrimp dish,” Seymour said. “My favorite, by the way.”

Keefe returned the favor with a smile. “Well, as I said, it was delicious.”

“When I have the time, I love to cook.”

A silence fell over the study for a long moment, then Keefe set his drink down and cleared his throat. “Seymour, has it dawned on you yet that Holt is not coming?”

The doctor placed his drink on the mantel before leveling his gaze at his attorney. “Did you hear from him?”

“No.”

“Enough said.”

“No, it’s not,” Keefe rebuked in a blustering tone, only to quickly modify it when color surged into Seymour’s face.

Maci knew Seymour was agitated that Keefe had crossed him. But she was glad the attorney had done so since she hadn’t made a dent in Seymour’s armor at breakfast. Maybe together she and Keefe could talk some sense into him.

“I’m telling you, we need to call another attorney,” Keefe stressed. “Jack Little—”

“Not interested.” Seymour leaned his head back, drained his glass, then plunked the glass down on the bar and promptly refilled it.

Maci winced. She feared her husband was replacing drugs with alcohol as he’d overindulged every night since his brief incarceration.

“All right, Seymour, you’re the boss,” Keefe said with obvious displeasure.

“That’s right.” Seymour took another sip, then turned to Maci. “How about I make you a drink? Your coffee cup’s empty.”

Maci shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then to Keefe, “Is there a chance that Seymour could be convicted?”

“More than a chance. It’s a real possibility.”

“Dammit,” Seymour lashed out, “don’t discuss me like I’m not here.”

The chiming of the doorbell forced a silence.

Maci stood, turning toward the French door of the study as it opened. At first, Maci thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, that the man who stood there with his hands in the pockets of his shorts was a figment of her imagination.

“Holt,” Seymour exclaimed, dashing across the room, hand outstretched. “I knew you’d come.” Even though his hand was ignored, the gleam remained in the doctor’s eyes when he swung around and faced Maci and Keefe. “See, I told you my son wouldn’t let me down,” he added in a gloating tone.

Maci remained upright by sheer force of will. Yet when she tried to open her mouth to speak, she couldn’t. Her throat, along with her entire body, seemed paralyzed.

“Maci, meet my son and your stepson, Holt.”

No. God, no. It couldn’t be. She swallowed a mournful cry. The man she’d made passionate love to on the beach in Jamaica and her stepson couldn’t be one and the same.

Only they were.

Five

“Maci, are you all right?”

She heard Seymour’s question, but she couldn’t answer. Her throat was so tight that no air could get into her lungs. The room spun and she feared she would faint.

Digging her hands deeper into the leather-backed chair, Maci forced herself to smile, all the while feeling as if her composure might crack under the pressure of this shocking encounter.

“Maci, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

Seymour’s harsh tone broke her out of her catatonic state. “I’m actually not feeling well,” she responded in a halting tone.

Seymour frowned his disapproval.

“But I’ll be fine,” she added on a rushed note, keeping her gaze averted from Holt Ramsey.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Maci?” Keefe said in his gentle tone. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look well.”

Maci smiled her relief as she took his suggestion, holding her gaze steadfast on Keefe’s nondescript features, seeing him as a safe harbor.

“Holt, my boy, what can I get you to drink?” Seymour asked with exuberance.

“Nothing.” Holt’s tone was clipped.

Seymour’s brows shot up. “Why not?”

“This isn’t a social call.”

Seymour muttered under his breath and then fell silent.

Maci concentrated on smoothing a wrinkle out of her capri pants as distraction from the alarming thoughts going through her mind. A voice screamed inside her telling her this wasn’t fair. No one deserved two cruel twists of fate in a row.

“It’s good to see you, Holt,” Keefe said into the daunting silence before walking over and extending his hand.

Maci watched the exchanged handshakes but still couldn’t bring herself to look at Seymour’s son. Even thinking the word stepson was impossible.

“Likewise, Keefe,” Holt said in his low, rough-edged voice. His sexy voice.

Maci drew in a shuddering breath. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe if she blinked a time or two, he would disappear. Instead of blinking, she actually looked in Holt’s direction. He hadn’t disappeared, nor was he a figment of her imagination.

There he stood rock solid, and looking more gorgeous than he had two years ago with his fabulous head of blond hair and his blue-green eyes staring at her as though he’d seen a ghost. If anything had changed, he’d gotten browner and leaner, which made him seem taller. His was the commanding presence in the room. The other two men seemed to have shrunk.

Once she looked at him, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He’d had this same effect on her in Jamaica. Her stomach was in a knot and she still felt dizzy.

“Did you sail here?” Seymour asked.

“No.” Holt’s tone was clipped.

“Then I’m assuming you’ll be staying here,” Seymour said, breaking the second long silence. “With us.”

Holt shrugged. “That depends.”

Maci saw her husband’s lips stretch into a thin line. “On whether you help me or not.”

Holt uncoiled his frame from against the door. “That’s right.”

“Sit down,” Seymour urged, gesturing toward a winged back chair. “We have a lot to discuss.” He turned to Maci. “I’m sure Holt’s ready for something to drink. Are you up to making him one?”

“Don’t bother,” Holt said, his eyes finally finding hers.

Maci held her breath. The physical attraction that had electrified her in Jamaica was still there, and from the look that jumped in Holt’s eyes, he felt it, too. She swallowed and shifted her gaze, her blood drumming in her ears. Seymour must never guess she and Holt had a past. Panic washed through her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Keefe said in a nervous tone. “Your father desperately needs you.”

“That remains to be seen.” Holt’s tone was harsh with cynicism.

Seymour flushed, and his eyes narrowed on his son.

Maci knew he was having a difficult time keeping the lid on his temper. In fact, she was surprised that he had. Groveling was not Seymour’s style. But if Holt’s attitude prevailed, that was exactly what her husband was going to have to do.

Unless Seymour decided Holt wasn’t worth the effort.

Maci’s breathing faltered again, this time for a different reason. Seymour couldn’t go to prison. He just couldn’t. If Holt was the key to stopping that from happening, then he had to be persuaded to stay.

But how could she handle his constant presence? She couldn’t. That was the bottom line.

“Why did you come, then?” Seymour asked after taking a gulp of his scotch and water. His eyes never wavered from his son.

“I have my reasons.”

“Fine,” Keefe interceded quickly. “We won’t argue with that as long as you stay and hear us out.” The attorney didn’t bother to keep the guarded eagerness out of his voice.

“Look, son, I know—”

“Save it,” Holt cut in brutally. “It’s too late for that.”

Seymour’s eyes flashed. “Okay, you’re here, and I’m grateful. Having said that, your attitude sucks.”

“Take it or leave it.”

Maci’s gaze bounced between father and son while the air in the room crackled with tension. Her heart was hammering so hard she feared everyone could hear it.

“I’ll take it,” Seymour muttered.

Maci watched as relief settled over Keefe’s features. She, however, didn’t share it. And not because of her and Holt’s past, but rather because of Holt’s present relationship to Seymour.

Holt’s attitude did indeed suck. Under that circumstance, how effective would he be in representing his father on a murder charge? And why would he want to?

The answers to those questions weren’t readily apparent, so Maci would have to attempt to answer them later. While Keefe filled Holt in on the details of the case, Maci watched Holt’s reaction closely. Nothing was forthcoming. His features remained stoic, his eyes unreadable, and his thoughts hidden.

When Keefe finished, Holt turned to Seymour. “How long have you been hooked?”

“I’m not hooked,” Seymour declared in a huff.

“Yeah, yeah.” Holt’s tone was bitter. “That’s what they all say.”

“I resent you comparing me with the average street junkie,” Seymour fired back in anger.

Keefe cleared his throat, trying to defuse the mounting hostility. “Let’s stick to the facts, shall we?”

Maci let out a breath. “Maybe this evening isn’t the time to discuss this. I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Seymour said, facing her, his tone mollified. “But I’d rather know if I have to look for another attorney.” He turned back to Holt.

Holt spread out his hands in a sweeping gesture. “For your sake, that would be a wise choice.”

“Is that a no?” Seymour demanded.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?” Maci asked, then momentarily regretted butting in. This was between father and son. But it also involved the entire family. The stakes were high for her and Jonah as well. If Seymour were convicted, there would be definite repercussions for her and her son. “Either you agree to help him or you don’t,” she added on a defiant note.

“Well put, Maci,” Seymour said without looking at her. “So can I count on you?”

“For now.”

“I need more assurance than that,” Seymour said. “I need your word that you won’t bail out on me, like—”

“If you complete that sentence, you’ll regret it.” Holt’s tone was low and menacing.

Seymour shut his mouth, though he glared at Holt.

Not a pretty situation, Maci thought, biting down on her lower lip to steady it. Whatever had gone on between them must have been nastier than she’d thought. That left her to wonder again why exactly Holt had returned.

“So can we count on you?” Keefe asked, breaking the tension as his gaze swung from Holt to Seymour.

“Please,” Seymour added in a muffled tone.

Maci stared at her husband, shocked at the pleading note she heard in his voice. She had never seen Seymour in such a state or heard him reach the point of begging. Trying to ignore the fear coursing through her, she held her breath and waited for Holt’s reaction.

He walked deeper into the room. “I’ll need to know the rest of the story.”

“Are you really back in town?”

“Yes, Marianne, I’m really here.”

“So I guess I’d better get to the office first thing in the morning. Right?”

Holt heard the excitement in her voice even if he was sure it was lacking in his. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Marianne Foster was the perfect employee. A bonafide paralegal, she preferred to spend most of her time as a wife and mother of two teenagers, a job that kept her hopping. She agreed to work for Holt when he did return to town, and he paid her handsomely for her standby services.

“Everything is ready and in tip-top shape.”

“I know that,” Holt interrupted. “I have every confidence in you. But you know that, too.”

“Still, it’s always good to hear,” she responded a trifle breathlessly. “And to have you back.”

“Later then,” Holt said with more abruptness than he intended. If Marianne had a downside, it was her inability to control her tongue. She loved to talk more than anyone he’d ever known.

“Uh, are you here to work? Like try a case?”

Realizing he’d missed his chance to end the conversation, he added reluctantly, “Looks that way.”

“That’s great. I’m really eager to get back to work myself. Too much of my kids can be a bad thing.”

“I understand,” Holt said for lack of anything better to say.

“Will you be defending anyone I know?” she pressed.

Holt tried to hide his irritation. “My father.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Dr. Ramsey.”

Her response wasn’t a question, so he didn’t treat it as such. “One and the same.”

“I’m so sorry about what happened to him.”

“Thanks.” Holt’s tone was terse.

Having obviously picked up on that, Marianne said on a rushed note. “Again, it’s good to have you back.”

Once he was off the phone, Holt walked to the window in his old bedroom and stared into inky blackness. He didn’t need daylight to visualize what was out there. As always, the grounds, covered with flowers, would be impeccably groomed. There wouldn’t be a stray leaf in sight no matter how hard the wind blew.

He thought about stepping onto his balcony, but it was still hotter than hell due to the humidity. He supposed he wasn’t used to this climate anymore; that was why he always felt so sticky, like he needed a shower.

Actually what he needed was several cups of chicory coffee, stout enough to make the hairs stand up on his chest. That might get him motivated.

He had no intention of going to bed since he knew already that sleep wouldn’t come easily. So much was going on inside his head that even if he tried to drown his woes in a bottle of expensive bourbon, he’d be wasting his time.

He rubbed the back of his neck trying to uncoil muscles that had tensed into one big jumble of nerves.

He had Maci to thank for that.

Admitting that did little to relieve his anxiety. He still could not reconcile the shock of walking into that room and stepping on a loaded stick of dynamite. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain his composure.

Yet seeing was believing. There she’d sat in the flesh looking as appetizing as she had the first time he saw her. All her best features were as he remembered: a gorgeous body with shapely legs and a tight ass, skin like white velvet, deep-set black eyes, apple-red lips and short black hair that would complement any man’s pillow. She was actually more appealing than he recalled.

Having a baby had ripened her body.

Blood surged into his groin and he grimaced. He’d had no intention of ever coming back to this house or seeing his father again, much less help him beat a murder rap. Now, after learning who “Mildred” was, he sure as hell didn’t want to be there. Remaining was actually an insane proposition.

Yet here he was. Committed.

He wished he hadn’t left his sailboat in Florida and flown here. Now he was expected to stay in the mansion, in his old room, too near to her.

He had never forgotten that night in Jamaica and had thought seriously of trying to find her numerous times, only to convince himself she was happily married with no possibility of a repeat performance of their time together.

Well, she was married all right. And she was his stepmother.

Holt muttered a double expletive. The little hottie from the night was now his stepmother. Go figure. He laughed a harsh laugh. Stranger things have happened, he guessed. Just not to him.

Once their eyes locked in that room for even a brief second, it was all he could do not to cross the room, jerk her into his arms and kiss her until the breath left her.

If he’d read her right, she had wanted the same thing.

So much for wedded bliss, he told himself, almost choking on another bitter chuckle. It wasn’t too late to tell his father to go to hell, he reminded himself, then walk out the same door he’d come in.

He even took that first necessary step when he again heard that sweet, soft voice pleading with him to stay. He balled his fists and stood his ground.

Now all he had to do was convince himself his weakness had all to do with his mother and nothing to do with Maci. He knew better. His staying had everything to do with her.

Admit it, Ramsey, he told himself. You’re fucked.

Six

“Liz, if he isn’t better in a little while, I’ll call the doctor.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Ramsey. The little fellow’s just teething.”

Maci rubbed her son’s back as his head lay cuddled against her neck. It was all she could do not to squeeze the life out of him. He smelled so good, felt so good, she never wanted to let him go. He was her sanity now that the rest of her life was in utter chaos.

Liz had sent word down that Jonah wouldn’t stop crying. Maci had immediately excused herself and gone to be with her son. While she wasn’t glad her baby was upset, she had been glad of an excuse to escape. She didn’t think she could have borne the explosive atmosphere in the study much longer.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Liz asked.

“I just hate to see Jonah so fussy,” she said, ignoring Liz’s concern.

“Jonah will be fine,” Liz said with confidence. “The last time he was teething the doctor said to give him some baby Tylenol. I’ll get it and give it to him if he needs it later.”

Maci nodded, then realizing that her son was fast asleep, she laid him in his bed, then kissed him gently. “Sleep tight, my precious,” she whispered, feeling unbidden tears sting her eyelids.

Moments later, safe in her room, Maci sagged against the door. She had made it to her suite in record time for fear she would accidentally bump into Holt.

Nervous and upset, Maci placed her hand over her mouth. She was going to be sick.

Scurrying to the bathroom, she emptied the contents of her stomach. She patted her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, then peered into the beveled glass mirror. Her reflection told her she looked awful. No color bled through her cheeks. She doused her face with more cold water. The queasiness, however, remained even after she eased onto the chaise longue and closed her eyes.

Holt’s face seemed plastered on the back of her eyelids. She sat upright, her heart continuing to pound at a rapid clip. Two long deep breaths in succession calmed her.

This madness couldn’t go on. She had to find a way to get control of her splintered emotions. She hadn’t planned on ever seeing “Stan” again. The thought of crossing his path on a daily basis was unthinkable.

Making her way to the cabinet that hid a juice bar, Maci made a cup of peppermint tea and then rested once again on the chaise.

After several sips, her stomach, along with her nerves, settled. Maybe now she could figure out how best to handle this latest debacle.

There was no best way.

Until now she had managed to banish the memory of that night in Jamaica. She sometimes even believed that the hot night of passion in a stranger’s arms had merely been an indulgent dream.

Once she and her friends had arrived back home, the pace of her life had increased to a frantic pitch. Seymour had insisted they marry at the mansion and forgo plans to leave town. He didn’t want to wait.

After the stunt she’d pulled in Jamaica, Maci hadn’t wanted to return there, so she agreed, realizing that settling down without further incident was the best thing for her. Two weeks later she and Seymour had repeated their vows, surrounded by close friends.

She’d only been married six weeks before she began to suspect she was pregnant. She had told Seymour right away; to her surprise he’d been overjoyed.

What she hadn’t told him was that the baby might not be his. The idea that she could be having a stranger’s baby had devastated her. After days of agonizing over that real possibility, she decided she had no recourse but to tell Seymour the truth, though she knew that deed could bring her brief marriage to an abrupt end.

“We need to talk, Seymour,” she had told him one evening in the study.

He had peered at her over the rim of his drink and smiled. “My, my but you look so serious.”

“I am serious.”

“You’re okay, right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, unable to look him in the eye.

“Maci, what’s wrong?”

She released a sigh. “It’s something that happened—”

He held up his hand, his features hardening slightly. “I’m not interested in hearing confessions.”

She was taken aback. “But—”

Seymour interrupted again. “What happened before we got married is your business not mine. I’m not comfortable discussing my past. Therefore, I don’t want to hear about yours. End of conversation.”

Taking the coward’s way out, she had been relieved. By law, Seymour was her baby’s father, she had told herself, further justifying her actions. Proving otherwise would serve no purpose. It would only do irreparable harm to everyone involved. Besides, she’d been convinced she would never see her lover again.

Nonetheless, guilt from withholding her confession gnawed at her until Jonah was born. Once she held that miracle in her arms, however, she stored that reckless incident in the most private part of her heart and went on with her life, more convinced than ever that her digression would never be revealed.

The possibility that it might be now was most frightening.

Maci’s stomach lurched again. What if Holt suspected Jonah could be his? That thought numbed her with such terror that she feared she’d lose her mind.

Maybe he wouldn’t stay. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to remain in such close proximity to his father. Or maybe she would be the force that drove him away.

Her conscience suddenly pricked her and she felt selfish. She should be thinking of her husband’s welfare and what was best for him. If Holt was the answer to Seymour’s needs, then she should welcome him with open arms. Under different circumstances, she would have, having often wondered how she could broach the subject of his estranged son.

That was before she knew who he was.

But whether Holt stayed or not was his call. Right now, she sensed he would bolt. The sight of her couldn’t have made his day. To say he’d been stunned was too understated. She had seen a glimpse of the same raw shock she felt mirrored in his eyes. He’d seemed to recover more quickly, replacing that rawness with a cynical contempt aimed at his father.

But she knew she had read him right when he refrained from looking at her after that one time their eyes had locked. Her instinct had told her that had been intentional.

As she finished her tea, Maci heard a tap on her door. For a moment, she froze, fearing who was on the other side. Then feeling foolish for such an irrational thought, she said, “Come in.”

“How’s Jonah?” Seymour asked, making his way into the room, stopping only when he reached the midway point.

At the mention of the baby’s name, she smiled. “Just fussy because he’s teething.”

“Hopefully by now he’s settled.”

A short, but heavy silence followed his words. Maci wanted to fill it, only she didn’t know quite how. She hated this awkwardness that existed between her and Seymour. The wedge between them seemed to grow wider each day.

“Did you and Holt resolve your differences?” she asked, bridging the gap of silence before it lengthened.

“For now,” he said in a harsh tone, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were counting on more.”

Seymour shrugged. “I still haven’t played all my cards.”

Maci thought that was an odd thing to say, but she didn’t pursue it. She hadn’t been privy to what had taken place between father and son early on and she didn’t suspect her asking questions now would change that.

“I hope you don’t mind having a guest for a while.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

He gave her a strange look. “No, not in this case.”

Feeling that awkwardness deepen, she forced a calm to her tone. “But of course I don’t mind. If he can help you, I want him here.” She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice that her eyes failed to back up her words.

“For sure he can help me. Holt and I might disagree on everything else, but I’ll have to hand him his just deserts—he’s a crackerjack attorney.”

She forced a smile. “Maybe this tragedy will allow you two to patch up your differences.”

“I doubt that.” Bitterness lowered Seymour’s voice. “His mother stands between us and always will.”

“That’s too bad.”

“That’s the way it is, and I’ve accepted it.” Seymour paused and walked toward her. “It’s certainly nothing for you to worry about. As I’ve already told you, the past is the past and not to be reopened. Besides, I have another son, thanks to you, who’s not going to disappoint me.”

“Let us pray,” Maci said lightly.

He smiled. “Prayer has nothing to do with it. I’m going to see that he follows in his old man’s footsteps.”

Jonah might have something to say about that, she almost blurted out. But since that decision was a long way off, she didn’t see any reason to start an argument by disagreeing.

“I know this mess has been hard on you,” Seymour said, “but rest assured our lives will be back to normal soon.”

For some reason that statement, reeking of smugness, irritated her. “I know you say Dodson’s death was an accident—”

“It was,” Seymour cut in sharply.

“Still, I don’t understand how you can take no responsibility or feel no remorse.”

“How do you know I don’t?”

“Well, do you?”

“No. The death was accidental.”

“Still, a man’s dead.”

“He isn’t the first patient I’ve lost nor will he be the last.”

Maci massaged her temple. “That sounds so—”

“Callous,” he said, finishing the sentence for her.

“Yes, that’s a good word.”

“That may be. But like I’ve maintained all along, I was in complete control of my faculties, which absolves me.”

Was there no end to his arrogance?

Suddenly, Maci stared wide-eyed at the man who was her husband and saw him with clear objectivity. She didn’t like what she saw. The man with new creases around his eyes and less hair on his head, the man she’d pledged to love and honor until death parted them, no longer measured up.

In fact, she felt like she no longer knew him.

Perhaps she never had. Perhaps the magic of who he was and what he could offer her had been so dazzling, she’d been blinded to the truth.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Seymour sounded contrite. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He was within touching distance of her now, watching her with a glint of desire in his eyes.

Every nerve in her body rebelled as he reached out and touched her face with the back of his hand. It was all she could do not to flinch.

“It’s been too long since we made love,” he said, his tone having dropped to a husky pitch.

“Seymour—”

He smiled, only that smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tell me you have a headache.”

His intention was to tease, she knew, to lighten the tension circling them. It didn’t work. She couldn’t bear for him to touch her. Hiding her feelings was her only option.

“I really do have a headache,” she murmured.

His look was one of disbelief; then his hand fell to his side. “You’re serious.” He made a flat statement.

“Yes,” she whispered, moving out of his reach.

His features blanched and his mouth tightened. “Another time, then.”

With that he turned and walked out the door.

Maci’s fingernails dug into her palms while tears dampened her eyes, but she refused to give in to any further weakness. She would deal with her disintegrating life with her head up and a smile on her face.

Even if it killed her.

Seven

Despite the cloying early-morning heat, the garden was lovely. Maci could always count on the flowers to boost her sagging spirits. Today was no exception.

After inhaling the sweetly scented air deep into her lungs, she sat down on a wrought-iron cushioned chair. She took two sips of her cup of hazelnut flavored coffee while her gaze tracked a butterfly whose wings were lavender and black. It amazed her that such a delicate creature could spread its wings and mindlessly fly, fly, fly. Only after it flew away did Maci take a breath, realizing she’d been mesmerized by the butterfly’s actions.

She hadn’t slept much last night, and she felt listless and tired, not at all like herself. Before Seymour’s arrest, her energy level had been unending. Now the drastic changes in her well-ordered life had robbed her of any spare stamina.

Jonah’s fussiness had continued into the night, and he’d wanted her, not Liz, to rock him. That was exactly what she’d done, and didn’t regret one minute of it. Still, she had a lot on her plate today, and if she didn’t snap out of her doldrums, she wouldn’t get anything done. She was due to spend the day with her friend Bobbi, working on her house.

Maci sipped her coffee. In the past the thought of plunging into her work would have sent a rush of excitement through her. In fact, she would have been hustling to grab a bite to eat before meeting a client. That sense of excitement had diminished along with her energy.

Damn Seymour.

Guilt descended over Maci. She should be backing her husband, not condemning him. But after their conversation last evening, Maci’s feelings were more confused than ever. She wanted to believe Seymour, that what had happened on the operating table had truly been an unavoidable accident, that he had gone exactly by the medical book, and that despite all his efforts the patient still hadn’t lived.

But she couldn’t ignore that he’d been under the influence. Letting Seymour touch her in an intimate way after she glimpsed his arrogant denial was repugnant to her. Her rejection had angered and hurt him, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. If she had it to do all over again, she would do the same thing.

A shudder went through her as she pictured Holt’s face. She trembled at the thought that his presence in the house could have had anything to do with her reaction to Seymoure.

No, of course, it hadn’t, Maci reassured herself, swallowing the knot of panic in her throat. Holt Ramsey’s appearance was simply a bad nightmare that had raised its head to haunt her again.

Yet she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. She’d gone upstairs with his features etched in her mind, and there they had remained all night.

Shock.

That was what it must be. The shock of seeing him again and under such bizarre circumstances was rattling her clear-sightedness. Anyone would react the same way. Still, Maci knew that as long as Holt was in the picture, nothing would be the same.

“Mind if I join you?”

Maci nearly jumped as she swung around and saw Holt sauntering toward her. Of course, I mind, she screamed silently. If she had wanted to utter those words, she couldn’t have. His unexpected appearance this morning was almost as big a shock as seeing him last night.

He paused, a hand resting on the chair across from her. For a second, her gaze fell then lingered on the slender, tanned fingers, fingers that had touched her so intimately. A tiny earthquake struck the center of Maci’s being. “Would it make a difference if I said no?”

A brown eyebrow quirked as his hand seemed to tighten around the iron. “Are you saying that?”

“No, I mean—” Maci’s voice played out when she realized she sounded like an idiot or worse. Her stomach did a somersault. She wanted to react to that, but the urge not to let Holt know he unnerved her was stronger so she sat in stoic silence and stared at him as he yanked out a chair.

The scraping sound invaded the quiet. At least the noise would drown out the heart she could almost hear thumping in her chest.

Holt was dressed in much the same attire as last evening, with the exception of his choice of pants. Khaki Docker slacks had replaced the causal shorts that had displayed his tanned thighs and legs to perfection. The T-shirt was the same, only yellow instead of beige. Made of a clingy knit fabric, it wrapped around his broad shoulders, raised biceps and six-pack abs as if it had been glued on.

“Mmm, coffee smells good,” he said in his low, raspy voice, his gaze turning to an extra cup on the tray. Too bad Annie had added an extra cup.

No doubt, he was hinting for an invitation to join her and would probably help himself.

“What if I don’t want company?” Maci forced the words through her cotton-dry lips.

“You should’ve spoken sooner,” he said, the hard glint in his eyes pinned on her. She fought the urge to squirm like a bug under a microscope. But she didn’t. Again, she refused to let him know that he unnerved her.

“Fancy us meeting like this,” he said, his tone sarcastic. “I see it as one of those meant-to-be things.”

Before she could find a suitable comeback, he latched on to the empty cup and filled it with coffee.

Maci glared at him. For a second she felt like slapping his hand like an errant child. She’d be damned if she was going to let him stroll down memory lane. Their past was off-limits.

“Yes, fancy that.” She heard the defiant note in her tone as their eyes met.

The effect was galvanizing.

Maci sucked in her breath, and he cursed. Later, she didn’t know who turned away first. At the time she didn’t care. For her own self-preservation, she couldn’t have looked at him another second.

“So how did you and dear old dad hook up?”

His tone now tainted his smile.

She swung her head back around but refrained from looking directly at him. “That’s none of your business.”

His smile burgeoned into a grin. “You’re right, it isn’t.”

“Look, I know this…us is awkward, but—”

“I thought about trying to find you.”

Her heart skipped several beats and she tried to avert her gaze but found she couldn’t. “Holt—”

“Holt, what?” His tone thickened. “Don’t say what’s been on my mind for two years.”

“Stop it,” she muttered tersely, leaning closer as though fearing someone would hear their conversation. “I told myself I wouldn’t let you dredge up the past.”

“Too late, honey. The past has slam-dunked us both.”

“We can pretend it never happened.”

“Sure we can.”

She flushed and looked away.

Seconds passed.

“You’re right, this isn’t about us.”

She swung back to face him. “You’re right, it isn’t. It’s about your father.”

His features darkened.

“You despise him, don’t you?”

He snorted.

“I know you blame him for your mother’s death, but—”

“I don’t want to discuss my mother with anyone,” he interrupted harshly. “Least of all you.”

Her flush deepened, partly from anger and partly from embarrassment.

“This isn’t going to work, is it?” he asked, his voice weary.

“No, it isn’t,” Maci responded. “All the more reason for you to leave by the same door you came in.”

“And miss out on all the fun of watching you play out your role as the money-grubbing little bitch—”

Maci launched to her feet, her eyes firing. “How dare you say that to me?”

“I dare say anything I want.”

She ignored his rebuttal. “You don’t know anything about my and Seymour’s relationship.”

He shrugged. “You’re right, I don’t. But I know what I see.”

“And just what is that?” she lashed back, then regretted the question. But it was too late to take it back. How had this happened? She’d had no intention of entering into a verbal slinging match with him. Yet that was exactly what she was doing.

“A younger woman who married an older man for his money.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, really. Why else would you marry a man so much older than you—a good-looking woman like you? You could have any man you wanted.” Holt paused as if to let his words penetrate. “We both know you’re not frigid.”

“Enough!”

He merely shrugged.

“This isn’t going to work,” Maci said more to herself than to him.

“Are you telling me to leave?”

“What if I am?”

He rose. “Suits me. I’d much rather be on a boat sailing into the wild blue yonder, than defending my father.”

“Then tell Seymour you’re out of here.”

Holt laughed without humor. “Not on your life, sweetheart. If you want me gone, then you tell him.”

“You bastard. You know I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Holt drawled, then paused as if to make a point. “If you’re prepared to answer questions as to why you want me to pack.”

Maci quelled the urge to smack him again, then was appalled by the depth of her feelings toward this man.

“And we both know you’re not prepared to do that.”

Sparks flew from her eyes. “Don’t bet your life on that.”

“What I’m betting is your husband’s.”

This time she flinched, then whispered, “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” he asked with childlike innocence. “Making you face the truth?”

“Acting as though you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he countered with ease. “I don’t have any feelings toward you one way or the other.”

“That’s a bald-faced lie.” Maci refused to back down. “But since I really don’t care how you feel, I’m going to let it slide.”

“That relieves my mind.”

Ignoring him, she continued, “Look, I don’t want Seymour to know about us. To do so would serve no purpose. Surely you can understand that.”

He seemed in no hurry to respond which fueled her anger even more. He was enjoying himself at her expense. He enjoyed watching her on the hot seat.

“What’s it worth to you for me to keep my mouth shut?”

Maci sucked in her breath, reeling against the pain that shot through her. “You bastard,” she spat, then turned and walked off, praying the tears that blurred her vision wouldn’t cause her to stumble.

Would he ever learn to control his tongue? Holt wondered. He had been baiting his father’s young wife, intentionally jerking her chain, and he’d enjoyed it. Or so he’d thought. But now that she’d stormed off, he was having second thoughts. He felt like kicking himself for acting like the bastard she’d called him.

More than that, he wished he could start the conversation all over again. His demeanor and choice of words would certainly be different.

Sweat dotted his upper lip and forehead. Frowning, he pushed the half-drunk cup of coffee aside and peered at a blue sky that seemed as never ending as Maci’s long legs.

A groan split his lips. Still, the image of her wouldn’t go away. When he had walked outside on the veranda and seen her, he’d frozen for a moment and simply watched her, lapping up her beauty just like he would a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream.

In the dancing sunlight, her dark hair had shone like new money, all short and stylishly tousled. Her sleeveless peach-colored dress was also short, nowhere near reaching her knees, thus exposing those incredible legs. Sexy but classy. Even clothed, she could melt his insides as if he had just stepped in hot asphalt.

With her sitting there, drumming one perfectly manicured hand on the table, another around the cup, staring off into space, it was all he could do not to leap on her. Face it, he told himself, he still had the hots for this woman.

Yet he hated the sight of her. He hated himself more for wanting her.

He had to stop thinking about her as a woman he’d made love to once upon a time. That wasn’t going to be easy, especially when unbidden snapshots of her naked on the sand, her breasts, plump and juicy in his hands, her legs spread, welcoming his throbbing erection, suddenly flashed through his mind.

Shaking his head, Holt lunged to his feet, muttering several expletives.

She was his father’s wife, and he’d best remember that or stop threatening to get the hell out of Dodge and do it. He was tempted more now than he had been last night.

His head pounded like someone was using it as a punching bag. He got up and made his way to his vehicle.

The sooner he took care of business for his mother’s sake, the sooner he could sail away. That was the day he was living for. Starting right now, he would count the days.

The hell with that; he’d count the minutes and the hours.

Eight

“You’re still here, I see.”

“For now.” Holt couldn’t hide his disdain for Seymour, so he didn’t try.

“You look like hell,” Seymour said, narrowing his eyes on his son.

“I could say the same for you, but I won’t.”

The conversation started just as Holt imagined it would when Annie told him Seymour wanted to see him. He’d been about to leave to go to the police station.

Holt had put off this second encounter as long as he could, taking more time in the shower and dressing. But like he’d told himself, the sooner he took this case and ran with it, the sooner he could sail away. That strategy had gotten him in gear quicker than anything else.

“I was hoping we could get through this without exchanging insults.”

Holt gave his father a sardonic smile. “Then don’t insult me.”

Seymour released a harsh sigh. “I can’t for the life of me understand why you can’t forgive and forget. Dammit, I’m your father.”

Holt’s stomach coiled into a knot. “Whoa. Memory Lane is closed. I suggest you keep that in mind when we’re together.”

“In other words, I heed or you walk.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“You’re a real bastard, Holt.”

“Like father, like son, I guess.” Holt shrugged.

“Do you want some coffee?” Seymour asked in a tired tone.

His father looked exhausted, Holt thought. And old. Yet that defiant glint remained in his eyes and in the way he carried himself. But the lines in his face seemed to have deepened and his hands shook slightly, a result Holt figured, from his drug use.

“Holt, I asked you a question.”

“No coffee for me.”

“Suit yourself. I’m having some.”

Holt watched as Seymour not only poured himself a cup out of the silver coffeepot that Annie had brought in, but brought back a small bottle of bourbon from the bar and proceeded to lace the coffee with that.

“Are you a drunk as well as an addict?”

Seymour muttered a curse as he glared at Holt. “While you’re under my roof, I demand you show me respect.”

“If you earn it, you’ll get it. And drinking at this time of the morning isn’t going to earn it.”

“You just don’t understand,” Seymour responded in a clipped tone.

“I understand that if you don’t straighten your act up, they’ll put you under the damn jail instead of in it.”

“I’m paying you big bucks to see that doesn’t happen.”

“I’m an attorney, not a miracle worker.” Holt paused and made his way deeper into the room. “As for money, I don’t want one red cent from you.”

Seymour looked him up and down, the curve of his mouth bordering on a sneer. “Well, from the look of you I’d say you need it. I’ve never seen you so unkempt, so without pride.”

Holt clenched his jaw to keep from retaliating. They could stand there and hit each other with barbs until doomsday and nothing would change. Seymour was losing control even though he refused to admit it. And control was what made his father tick. Since Holt didn’t see him relinquishing rule without a fight, he’d have to ignore his little power plays.

Until Seymour tried to control him, that is. Then he’d nail him.

“Put the bottle away and pour the coffee out,” Holt said, with steel behind his words.

Seymour glared at his son. “I won’t have you dictating to me, dammit.”

Holt didn’t flinch. He merely held his gaze steady.

“Oh, all right,” Seymour muttered, shoving the cup aside.

“Were you drinking when you operated on Grant Dodson?” Holt questioned.

“Of course not,” Seymour snapped. “I would never take a drink before surgery.”

“But drugs are okay?”

Seymour’s face turned so red that Holt thought it might explode. “That’s different. I was just easing the pain in my back.”

“So you still maintain your complete innocence?”

“Without reservation.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, the odds are stacked against you.”

Seymour narrowed his eyes on Holt. “If I didn’t know you and your sense of ethics, I’d say I’m a fool for trusting you.”

“That’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

Their eyes met for a long hostile moment.

“So what’s your plan?” Seymour asked into the silence. “I want to be kept in the loop.”

“You know that’s not my style. When I think you need to know something, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, I’ll do my job.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

“That’s the way it is.”

“If you’re planning to use this unfortunate accident to bring me to my knees, to try and make me pay for—”

“Put a plug in it, Seymour,” Holt interrupted. “You’re not fit to mention my mother’s name.”

Color flushed into Seymour’s face, but he didn’t say anything. He merely clenched his teeth so tightly, his jaw quivered.

“I’m out of here,” Holt said. “Before I go, I think it’d be to your advantage to be on your best behavior since the press is all over this like stink on stink.”

Seymour stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me how to conduct myself.”

“From where I’m standing, you damn sure do.”

Holt sat behind the wheel of his SUV rental, trying to calm his temper before tackling the chief of police. If he’d thought that defending his father was the ultimate insult, having to be around Maci, his stepmother, was more difficult. “Can it, Holt,” he muttered to himself, stepping out of the vehicle, feeling the heat from the concrete rise up and envelop him. This weather was another reason his temper was on a short fuse. He didn’t appreciate air conditioning with his shirt plastered to his skin.

Patience, he told himself, walking into the station.

Five minutes later he found himself sitting across the desk from Ted Satterwhite, which had surprised him. He hadn’t expected to have such easy access to the chief, even though they had known each other since elementary school. Attorneys didn’t usually get such good treatment and he’d doubted he’d be an exception.

“So what can I do for you, counselor?”

“Other than touching base with you after a lot of years, I’d like a copy of the charges against my client.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your secrets.” Holt kept his tone blasé, willing to play a game of cat and mouse with good old redneck Ted. One never knew what might come of that.

“I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours. Is that the deal?”

“Works for me.”

Ted shrugged. “At this juncture, we have none.”

I’ll bet, Holt thought. Obviously, Ted wasn’t going to play along.

“By the way, thanks for seeing me,” Holt said. “Maybe we’ll actually get through this with as little bloodletting as possible.”

“Maybe so,” Ted drawled, leaning back in his chair.

Holt stood.

Ted’s eyes drilled him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No,” Holt admitted with unvarnished honesty.

“At least you got the guts to tell the truth.” Ted’s scrutiny deepened. “All that bad blood between you and the doc is certainly no secret.”

“Didn’t think it was.” Holt purposely spoke in a rendition of his own drawl.

“I have to tell you, though, he’s going down for killing that fellow.”

“We’ll see,” Holt said in a nonchalant tone.

Ted pushed his gangly body to its full height, which made him tower over Holt who was over six feet himself.

“I’d like to think this won’t get ugly.” Ted rubbed his slightly grubby-looking chin. “But if it’s a street fight you want, the D.A. is sure capable of giving it to you.”

“Has he—or maybe he’s a she—ever won a case against a doctor?”

Ted seemed taken aback, then his expression hardened. “I don’t rightly know.”

“Sure you do.” Holt spoke with confidence. “And the answer is no.”

Ted didn’t so much as stumble in his reply. “There’s always a first time. When you read the arrest report, you’ll see why I’m so confident.”

“I know what it says. I just wanted a copy for my files.” Holt smiled. “By the way, how’s Beth and the boys?” He couldn’t believe he’d failed to ask that already.

Ted’s grin was genuine. “Great. Maybe you’d consider coming to dinner one evening.”

“Maybe I will.” He paused. “I’ll be back in touch.”

A smirk curled Ted’s lips. “I’m sure you will.”

“So how did it go with Satterwhite?”

“Easier than taking candy from a baby.”

Holt smiled at Marianne whose fair complexion accentuated the freckles across her nose Holt often teased her about while she rebutted that they were angel kisses.

“Huh,” she said in a huff, “I wouldn’t trust that redneck as far as I could throw him.”

“Well, you should know. If my memory serves me correctly, you two were once sweet on each other.”

Marianne’s pert nosed wrinkled in distaste. “Only for a week.”

Holt chuckled. “Whatever.”

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t trust him.”

“Hey, do I look like I just fell off a watermelon truck?”

Marianne flushed. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply you had.”

“At ease. I was just ribbing you. And I have been out to pasture for a while.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten how to kick butt.”

“We’ll soon see, won’t we?”

Arriving at his office after leaving police headquarters, Holt found that Marianne had everything in order. She’d even pulled the folders from pending cases that had been updated and placed them on his desk, along with law books pertaining to cases on doctors.

“What’s first on the agenda? Or do you know yet?”

“Read the actual police report, then go from there.”

“Oh, before I forget, a reporter from the paper stopped by and wanted to talk to you.”

“I hope you told him to take a hike.”

She grinned. “Not in those exact words, but he got the message.”

“I hope so. Talk about losing my cool. That would do it.”

“That’s why I’m not stepping out of this office. Just in case he tries to sneak back in.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, it’s good to have you back.”

He smiled, but it was short-lived. “Don’t get too used to it. As soon as I can, I’m sailing back off into the wild blue yonder.”

Her thin mouth curved downward. “I’ll enjoy you while I can.”

Holt turned to the police report, but instead of seeing the printed words, Maci’s face flashed across the screen of his eyes.

Blinking, he muttered a curse just as the door opened and Marianne stepped inside. “You’ll never believe who just dropped in.”

Maci. His heart raced at the thought. “I don’t want to guess either,” he said tersely.

“Mrs. Grant Dodson.”

For a moment, the name didn’t register. He must’ve looked blank because Marianne gave him one of her looks. “Dr. Ramsey’s friend who died on the table. She’s his wife.”

“Sarah’s in the office?”

“That’s what I just said.”

He stood. “Send her in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell no, but what choice do I have?”

“I can tell her you’re not here.”

“I think it’s a bit late for that. Besides, I have to face her sooner or later.”

“Done,” Marianne said before sweeping out of the room.

Holt didn’t bother to sit back down. Seconds later Sarah Dodson, a formidable opponent under even the best of circumstances, walked across the threshold, her mouth stretched pencil-thin.

“I’m proud of you young man for having the balls to see me.”

In spite of himself, he smiled. “Hello, Sarah.”

Nine

“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

“Thanks, friend,” Maci replied drolly. “That’s not exactly what I needed to hear.”

“Ah, even on your worst days, you’re still gorgeous. And I’m pea-green with envy.”

“Stop it,” Maci admonished with a grin. “You’ve got a lot going for you, too.”

Bobbi rolled her big blue eyes. “Sure, all one hundred and fifty pounds of flab.”

“Once the baby arrives, that excess weight will come off.” Maci gave Bobbi a brief hug. “You’ll see. Trust me, I know from experience.”

“You’re being kind, and I love you for it. But we both know better. I’m a short tub of lard, and I don’t see that changing at this stage in my life, baby or no baby.”

“Speaking of baby,” Maci asked, “have you heard anything?”

“Not a word, but then you should know that. After me, you’ll be the first to hear the good news.” Bobbi paused and gestured with her hand toward the plush sofa in the great room. “Hey, come on in and sit down. I didn’t mean to keep you in a holding pattern at the door.”

Maci chuckled. “Hey, I’m not company, so don’t treat me like I am.”

“Of course, you’re not company. Before we get started on the house, let’s have a cappuccino, shall we? I need to catch up on what’s going on with Seymour.”

Maci felt her features tighten.

“Sorry,” Bobbi said. “I didn’t mean to hit on a nerve.”

“That’s the beauty of our friendship. I can be myself with you. I don’t have to pretend that life is a bowl of cherries when it’s not.”

“I know this mess is taking its toll on you. I think—no, I know—you’ve lost weight, and you didn’t have any to lose.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Bobbi made a face.

“I will. You know I’m a survivor. Just like you.”

“You’re right about that. Still, I’m sick that it happened. In fact, I still can’t believe it. I thought doctors were untouchable.”

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