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"Besides, I think you'll find Springer's changed."
    "What, he's no longer bedding every female in sight?" his father scoffed. "I thought he'd still be trying to prove he's not the man his father is."
    "I think, I hope, I pray he's coming to terms with who and what you and he are," Elyssa said slowly.
    "He's had more than enough time," Hamilton grumbled. "I'll order more champagne. Moet or Piper?"
    "Royalties still as good as ever, Ham?" Jessica inquired lazily from her perch on the comfortable sofa.
    Ham shrugged self-deprecatingly. "What can I say? The world seems to be enamored of the Slaughterer and his bloodthirsty adventures. As long as I turn out one every two months I can safely keep us all in imported champagne."
    Jessica lifted her glass. "Here's to the Slaughterer."
    Ham responded. "And here's to my favorite ladies."
    Elyssa raised her white wine. "And here's to happy endings."
    "Unrealistic, my dear," said her ex-husband.
    "Wishful thinking," said her friend. And they both drank.
    Chapter Three
    Hamilton MacDowell's town house was dark and silent as Springer bounded up the broad front steps, his sneakered feet noiseless on the worn stone. It was after two in the morning—the welcoming committee would be sound asleep. Which was just the way Springer wanted it. The last thing he was in the mood for was the strained effort of his uncomfortable father, never sure whether he should attempt to embrace his son or not.
    Sliding a large hand into the pocket of his jeans, he fished around until he came up with the set of keys needed to keep the world at bay in New York City. He never could remember which order they came in, and it took ten minutes of mild cursing to finally accomplish unlocking the fortress. Damn, he was too tired to have to deal with Hamilton's paranoia, he thought, resisting the impulse to slam the door shut behind him. The familiar smell came back to him as he paused in the hallway. The smell of his childhood—polished wood, potpourri, the faint, teasing tang of French cooking redolent of tarragon and thyme. And unexpectedly a sharp knot of grief hit him, leaving him suddenly as alone and vulnerable as a fifteen-year-old boy can be.
    He swore then, a short, obscene word spoken out loud that quickly banished the ghosts. He was twenty years away from that time—and yet whenever he stepped back into this house those years fell away for a brief, devastating moment.
    Moving on silent feet, he made a swift tour of the first floor, like a blind man familiarizing himself with possible pitfalls. The couch was the same one that had been there for a dozen years, though Hamilton had had it recovered in some nubby white cotton. The Wyeth still hung over the mantel, the Chippendale highboy that he used to hide his toy trucks in still presided with stately elegance in the corner. And there was that damned picture of him that Hamilton doubtless resurrected each time he was due for a visit, grinning as if he hadn't a care in the world. He remembered the day Elyssa had taken that picture—a clear, sunny day on Puget Sound with a stiff, warm breeze that swept away cobwebs and regrets with an impartial hand. He'd give five years of his life to be back there right now, not prowling around his father's living room, dreading the morning.
    There was even the heavy silver ashtray that had held his first smoking attempts. It was Mexican, in the shape of a large sombrero, and when he was sixteen he'd stub out half-smoked cigarette after half-smoked cigarette in a ring around the silver hat brim.
    Springer shook his head at youthful folly, feeling the remembered need for cigarettes that hit him in moments of stress. The next month would be filled with stress—cigarettes wouldn't help matters.
    But a shower and a drink would. The town house was cool but not air-conditioned, and the long summer drive had left him hot and sticky, the shirt clinging to his back. Grabbing his suitcase, he bounded silently up the two flights of stairs