Guardian Groom. Sandra Marton

over his head. With a sigh, he raked his hair back from his forehead, turned and walked slowly across the terrace, and stood looking out at Emerald Lake, glittering like the jewel it had been named for under the first rays of the sun.

      What a hell of a week this had been! He’d ended up having to install a private phone line, just so he could keep in touch with his New York office. The mansion’s own lines, all eight of them, had been jammed with incoming calls and faxes from newspapers and wire services and what seemed like every moneyman, politico, and bigwig industrialist from coast to coast.

      “It’s a goddamned circus,” Zach had muttered one morning, after the three Landon brothers had spent a frantic hour fielding calls.

      “Yeah,” Cade had said with a thin-lipped smile, “and the old man would have loved it.”

      Grant shook his head as he leaned his arms on the stone wall that surrounded the terrace. Cade was right. The old man certainly would have loved it—the fuss, the media attention, the brouhaha the day of the funeral, when vans from the TV stations, the limos, and the mourners’ cars had caused a massive traffic jam on the roads leading to the cemetery where Charles had been laid to rest—oh yeah, he’d have loved that most of all.

      Grant had hated every minute of it. Hell, he’d almost come to blows with a scum-sucking, freelance photographer who’d tried to slip inside the mausoleum to snag a shot of the old man’s mahogany casket as it came to rest beside Ellen Landon’s. Zach and Cade had damned near had to pull him off the guy.

      Grant blew out his breath. That had been the only time he’d felt anything. First, rage at the intrusiveness of the photographer, and then a fierce stab of pain at the sight of his mother’s casket, which was ridiculous. Not that Grant hadn’t loved her—he had, of course. But Ellen had died years ago, when he was just a boy; his memories of her were dimmed by the passage of time, and besides, he was not the sort of man given to sentimentalizing the past.

      His overreaction—obviously the result of exhaustion—must have shown in his face, because Kyra had slipped her hand in his and leaned into his shoulder.

      “Hey,” she’d whispered, “are you okay?”

      Grant, feeling foolish, had nodded and squeezed her hand in reassurance.

      “I’m fine,” he’d whispered back. “What about you, Sis? How are you bearing up?”

      Kyra had looked up. Her face was pale but, to his surprise, her eyes were clear and cool.

      “Don’t worry about me,” she’d said. “I’m fine.”

      Afterward, the crowd of mourners had gathered at the mansion to offer condolences to Grant, Cade, Zach, and Kyra.

      “It must be a comfort to you,” old Judge Harris had said, his jowls quivering with solemnity, “to see how many of Denver’s finest citizens have come to pay their last respects to your dear father.”

      “What he means,” Zach had murmured as soon as the judge was out of earshot, “is that Denver’s finest citizens have come to size up the new Landon regime.”

      Cade had grinned. “What he really means,” he’d said, “is that they’ve decided to waste no time kissing ass.”

      His kid brother had been right, Grant thought as he straightened up and turned his back to the lake. Crossing the terrace, he snatched up his towel again and made his way through the French doors that opened into the library.

      It was cool inside, almost cold; the heavy red leather chairs, massive oak tables, and book-lined walls looked particularly ugly in the pale morning light. Everything was silent. The only hint of life was in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee that drifted in the air.

      Grant smiled tightly to himself as he made his way across the Aubusson carpet. If his father could see him now, the old man would frown and tell him that he was to use the back door in the future, when he came in all sweated up from something so stupid as running. And then his lip would curl with disdain at the sight of the sweatshirt and he’d launch into the speech he always made about fancy-pants schools, when what he really meant was that it enraged him that his eldest son had chosen to defy him.

      A plump figure suddenly stepped out in front of him. Stella, who’d been the Landon housekeeper for as long as Grant could remember, gasped and pressed her hand to her ample bosom.

      “My goodness, Mr. Grant, you did give me a start!”

      “Good morning, Stella.” Grant smiled. “I was just on my way to the kitchen. That coffee smells wonderful.”

      “Why didn’t you let me know you were up? I’d have been down sooner, made you a proper breakfast. You go in the dinin’ room and sit down while I make you somethin’ to tide you over until the others come down.”

      Grant had a swift vision of the gargantuan breakfasts still laid out on the sideboard every morning, despite the fact that neither he, his brothers, nor Kyra ever put a dent in them.

      “No,” he said quickly, “thank you very much, Stella, but I’m afraid I haven’t the time. I’ve an appointment in—” he frowned at his watch “—in less than an hour. But I will take a cup of coffee upstairs with me.” He smiled and looped his arm lightly over her shoulders. “Did I ever tell you that you make the best coffee in the entire world?”

      Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Go on,” she said, but she smiled. “You just wait here, Mr. Grant, and I’ll get you some.”

      “Don’t be silly.” Grant began walking slowly down the hall. “I know how to find the kitchen.”

      “Yes, but it’s not right. Your father says—”

      “My father’s not master of this house anymore.” He knew he’d spoken more sharply than he’d intended, and he softened the words with a quick smile. “Tell you what. I’ll walk you to the kitchen and we’ll get that cup of coffee together.”

      How long would it take everybody to get used to the change? he wondered moments later as he set his mug of coffee on the nightstand in his old bedroom.

      Charles Landon wasn’t master here anymore. The old man wasn’t master of anything, he thought as he stripped off his shorts and shirt. The grim proof of that lay in what had happened yesterday, after the formal reading of the will.

      Nothing in it had been a surprise. Charles had left his private fortune to Kyra, along with the house and its enormous land holdings, and he had left Landon Enterprises, the vast, multimillion-dollar conglomerate he had built, to his three sons.

      The sun, streaming through the windows, felt good on Grant’s naked body. He stretched his arms, flexing the muscles that bunched beneath his taut, tanned skin. Purposefully, he made his way into his private bathroom and turned the shower on to full.

      The old man would have exploded if he’d seen what had happened once the reading of the will had ended. The lawyers had barely been out the door before Zach had spoken.

      “Man, what a gift,” he’d said sarcastically. “Just what I’ve always wanted—a piece of Landon Enterprises.”

      Cade had wasted no time. “I’ll pass,” he’d said. “You guys can keep my share.”

      Grant had bared his teeth in what he’d hoped was a smile. “Hell,” he’d said, “don’t be so generous, pal!” He’d gone to the cherry-wood bar, uncapped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon, poured generous shots into heavy Waterford tumblers and said what he’d always known in his heart. “I’d steal hubcaps for a living before I had anything to do with Landon Enterprises.”

      Zach and Cade had both laughed, and Zach had raised his glass of bourbon high in the air.

      “Okay,” he’d said, “it’s unanimous. The new directors of Landon Enterprises met and made their first, last, and only decision.”

      “Yeah,” Grant had said, as the three tumblers clinked against each other.