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.”

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