baked cookies for him and his brothers while they were grieving the loss of their fatherâwas still here, too. They said nothing ever changed in small towns. They were right.
Aiden swept a quick glance around the open foyer, finding it the same as when heâd left, too. The only anomaly was an absent portrait that captured a long-ago moment in timeâhis parents, himself at about fifteen and his younger twin brothers about a year before his fatherâs death.
Setting down his duffel and laptop case and shaking off the last drops of rain, he followed Nolenâs silent steps through the shadowy breezeway at the center of the house. The gallery, his mother had always called this space that opened around the central staircase. It granted visitors an unobstructed view of the elaborate rails and landings of the two upper floors. Before air-conditioning, the space had allowed a breeze through the house on hot, humid, South Carolina afternoons. Today the sounds of his steps echoed off the walls as if the place were empty, abandoned.
But his mother was somewhere. Still in her old rooms, probably. Aiden didnât want to think of her, of how helpless her condition rendered her. And him. It had been so long since heâd last heard her voice on the phone, right before her stroke two years ago. After the car accident made travel difficult for her, Aidenâs mother had called him once a weekâalways when James left the house. The last time heâd seen Blackstone Manorâs phone number on his caller ID, it had been his brother calling to tell him their mother had suffered a stroke, brought on by complications from her paralysis. Then silence ever since.
To Aidenâs surprise, Nolen went directly to the stairway, oak banister gleaming even in the dim light as if it had just been polished. Most formal meetings in the house were held in his grandfatherâs study, where Aiden had assumed heâd be meeting with the lawyer. Heâd just as soon get down to business.
âDid the lawyer give up on my arrival?â Aiden asked, curious about why he was being shown to his room first.
âI was told to bring you upstairs,â Nolen replied, not even glancing back. Did he view the prodigal son with suspicion, an unknown entity who would change life as Nolen had lived it for over forty years?
Damn straight. He had every intention of using his grandfatherâs money to move his mother closer to her sons and provide her with the best care for her condition, much better than he could give her personally. Heâd sell off everything, then hightail it back to his business in New York City. He had nothing more than a hard-won career waiting for him there, but at least it was something heâd built on his own. He wanted nothing to do with Blackstone Manor or the memories hidden within its walls.
Having followed blindly, he abruptly noticed Nolenâs direction. Uneasiness stirred low in Aidenâs gut. His and his brothersâ old rooms took up the third floor. To his knowledgeâdated though it wasâonly two sets of rooms occupied the second floor: his motherâs and his grandfatherâs suites. Neither of which was he ready to visit. His motherâsâafter heâd had time to prepare himself. His grandfatherâsânever.
The lawyer, Canton, had said James died last night. Aiden had been focused on packing and getting here since then. Heâd address what the future held after talking with Canton.
He directed his question to Nolenâs back as they neared the double doors to his grandfatherâs suite, his tone emerging huskier than he would have liked. âNolen, whatâs going on?â
But the other man didnât reply; he just took the last few steps to the doors, then twisted the knob and stepped back. âMr. Canton is inside, Master Aiden.â
The words were so familiar, yet somehow not. Aiden drew a deep breath, his jaw tightening at the repeated use of Nolenâs childhood designation for him.
But it beat being called Master Blackstone. They shouldnât even have the hated last name, but his mother had given in to old Jamesâs demands. The Blackstone name had to survive, even if his grandfather could only throw girls. So heâd insisted his only daughter give the name to her own sons, shutting out any legacy his father might have wanted.
Aiden shook his head, then pushed through the doorway with a brief nod. He stepped into the room, warm despite the spring chill of the storm raging outside. His eyes strayed to the huge four-poster bed draped in heavy purple velvet.
His whole body recoiled. Watching him from the bed was his grandfather. His dead grandfather.
The rest of the room disappeared, along with the storm pounding against the windows. He could only stare at the man heâd been told had âpassed on.â Yet there he was, sitting up in bed, sizing up the adult Aiden with eyes piercing despite his age.
His body was thinner, frailer than Aiden remembered, but no one would mistake his grandfather for dead. The forceful spirit within the body was too potent to miss. Aiden instinctively focused on his adversaryâthe best defense was a strong offense. That strategy had kept him alive when he was young and broke; it did the same now that he was older and wealthier than heâd ever imagined heâd be when heâd walked away from Blackstone Manor.
âI knew you were a tough old bird, James, but I didnât think even you could rise from the dead,â Aiden said.
To his surprise, his grandfather cracked a weak smile. âYou always were a chip off the old block.â
Aiden suppressed his resentment at the cliché and added a new piece of knowledge to his arsenal. James might not be dead, but his voice wavered, scratchy as if forced from a closed throat. Coupled with the milky paleness of his grandfatherâs once-bronze skin, Aiden could only imagine something serious must have occurred. Why wasnât he in the hospital?
Not that Aiden would have rushed home to provide comfort, even if heâd known his grandfather was sick. When heâd vowed that he wouldnât set foot in Blackstone Manor until his grandfather was dead, heâd meant it.
Something the old man knew only too well.
Anger blurred Aidenâs surroundings for a moment. He stilled his body, then his brain, with slow, even breaths. His tunnel vision suddenly expanded to take in the woman who approached the bed with a glass of water. James frowned at her, obviously irritated at the interruption.
âYou need this,â she said, her voice soft, yet insistent.
Something about that sound threatened to temper Aidenâs reaction. Wavy hair, the color of pecans toasted to perfection, settled in a luxuriant wave to the middle of her back. The thick waves framed classic, elegant features and movie-star creamy skin that added a beauty to the sickroom like a rose in a graveyard. Bright blue-colored scrubs outlined a slender body with curves in all the right placesânot that he should be noticing at the moment.
Just as he tried to pull his gaze away, one perfectly arched brow lifted. She stared James down, her hand opening to reveal two white capsules. Thatâs when it hit him.
âInvader?â
He didnât realize heâd spoken aloud until she stiffened.
James glanced between the two of them. âYou remember Christina, I see.â
Only too well. And from her ramrod-straight back he gathered she remembered his little nickname for her. That stubborn I will get my way
