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was up here?" She followed Sean's sturdy little figure out into the hallway.
    "Nonsense," said Sean. "Why would I need to warn you? I'm surprised you even recognized him. You don't usually pay attention to mundane considerations like tabloid murders."
    "I saw
People
magazine on my way up here."
    "Populist trash," her father sniffed.
    "And how will your book differ?"
    "Because I'm an artist," he said simply. "Mabry, she's going to stay!" he announced, sailing into the huge living room.
    At least this hadn't changed appreciably since Cass had last been there. Still the same clean white walls, the Southwest furniture. Her stepmother lay stretched out on a rustic white sofa that was far more comfortable than it looked. Mabry's endless legs were encased in white cotton as well, her corn-silk hair hung with precision to her broad shoulders, her angular face, which had graced the cover of every major magazine in the world, was ageless. She could have been as young as twenty-five, though Cass suspected forty was more like it. Since Mabry considered her age to be a state secret, she would never know the truth.
    "He talked you into it, then?" Mabry murmured, holding out her hand as Cass leaned down to kiss her perfect cheek.
    "I never could say no to him," she said, noting with distant concern that up close it was Mabry who looked ill. There were shadows under her limpid blue eyes, a haunted expression on her perfect face, and the hand that held hers trembled slightly. Damn Richard Tiernan, and damn Sean, for putting them in this situation.
    "That's your father's problem, Cass," Mabry said easily, and that flash of intensity might never have existed. "No one ever says no to him. He's never had to learn any discipline."
    "Bullshit," Sean said, moving to the bar. "Can I get you something, Cassie? None of that white wine crap, I mean a real drink."
    "It's early…"
    "The sun's over the yardarm," he said, pouring himself a tall, dark glass of Irish whiskey, neat.
    "Nothing for me," Cass said firmly, taking a seat beside Mabry. "What did the doctor say?"
    "He won't tell me," Mabry said.
    "Nothing to tell, darling. He said I'm as strong as a horse, and I'd make it another sixty-five years without any problem, as long as I kept on the way I am."
    "You're kidding!" Cass said.
    Sean's smile was beatific. "Drink in moderation," he said, holding aloft his dark glass, "good food, sex"—he smirked at the elegant Mabry—"and work. That's what a man needs in order to have a good life."
    "What about family? Children?" Cass pointed out.
    "Them, too," Sean agreed as an afterthought. "And that's what I have. My older daughter, here by my side. The only thing that would make it better would be if Colin and Francesca were here as well. Particularly Francesca. Your baby sister is a constant delight, Cass. It wounds me that her mother keeps her several continents away from me."
    "Alba lives in Italy," Cass said. "Your own fault for marrying a contessa."
    "No. My fault for divorcing her," Sean said, momentarily chastened. Then he glanced at the phlegmatic Mabry. "Still, life has been very generous with me. Good company, good work, good food, interesting conversation. What more could I ask?" He wandered back toward the bar, tipping another few inches of dark whiskey into his glass. "Speaking of interesting conversation, I'll leave you two alone to gossip. I know you want to talk about me."
    "Believe it or not, Sean, we have other things of interest to discuss," Mabry murmured, but Sean, as always, was oblivious, disappearing down the hall, whistling under his breath.
    "It's good to see you, Mabry," Cass said.
    Mabry surveyed her silently, ignoring the polite phrase. "Are you certain you're willing, Cassie? I don't want him putting pressure on you."
    "Sean exists to put pressure on people. If I don't like it I can always leave. Sneak out in the middle of the night, taking the silver," she said cheerfully. "What in the world got into you when you redecorated my