Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton

take the first flight out of La Guardia in the morning.

      “Good,” his uncle had said briskly. “You’re on TransAmerica flight 1157, leavin’ at 6:05 in the a.m.”

      The phone had gone dead and Gray knew he’d been had. He’d cursed, then laughed, finally climbed back into bed and when the woman in it rolled into his arms he’d made love to her. But part of him had remained at a distance while he’d tried to come up with a reason his uncle would go to such lengths to arrange for this command performance. At four-thirty, he’d risen from the bed, showered, dressed, left a note for his still-sleeping lover asking her to please let herself out and that he’d phone her in a day or two. Then he’d taken a taxi to the airport.

      Yes indeed, he thought, as the Jeep pulled through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Espada, curiosity killed the cat—but he was, just as Jonas said, a hotshot New York attorney, too smart to be drawn into anything against his will. He’d hear his uncle’s story, offer some legal mumbo jumbo to soothe whatever twinge of conscience could plague a man at the end of such a long, powerful life and be back in New York by suppertime.

      For all he knew, this little break in routine might just clear his head, make him feel better about the way he earned his living, twisting Justice’s arm just enough to keep his next rich client from serving a stretch in prison.

      The Jeep came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Gray nodded to Abel, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the house. When he was a kid, it had reminded him of Tara. It still did, he thought, and he was smiling when his uncle’s wife opened the door. Gray was taken aback. He hadn’t given it any thought but now that he did, he was surprised to see Marta, considering how secretive Jonas had made all this sound.

      “Graham,” his stepaunt said, “how good of you to come.” Smiling, she held out her arms and hugged him. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked as if she were planning to lunch on Madison Avenue and he thought, as always, how surprising it was that such a woman would be happy in this setting. He liked her; he always had. Of all the wives the old man had gone through, Marta was the best.

      “Marta.” He kissed her cheek, put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re as gorgeous as ever.”

      “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, laughing. She linked her arm through his, shut the door on the hot breath of late spring and drew him into the elegant foyer. “I’m so pleased you decided to accept Jonas’s invitation.”

      The old man’s summons had been about as much an invitation as the Spanish Inquisition would have extended to heretics, but Gray kept the thought to himself.

      “My pleasure,” he said politely. “How have you been?”

      “Oh, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” Her eyes clouded. “Except Jonas, of course.”

      Gray looked at her. “He’s not well?”

      “No. Not at all. Didn’t he tell you?” She sighed and shook her head. “Of course he didn’t. He seems to think he can pretend the years aren’t finally catching up with him. And that his doctors haven’t diagnosed—”

      “Diagnosed what?”

      Marta dropped his arm and folded her hands together at her waist. “Leukemia,” she said softly. “That’s the reason for all of this.”

      Hell. It was like sitting in at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Gray knew the characters but he didn’t understand the dialogue. “All of what?” he said carefully.

      “You know. The talk about what will happen after—after he’s gone. Whether he’s divided his assets properly. Whether he’s left each child what that child truly wants.” She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “I’m sure your chat is going to ease his mind. I mean, yes, certainly, Jonas has an excellent attorney. And he’s given a great deal of thought to his will, but he seems to feel that discussing some of the specifics with you, as a member of the family, will help him be sure he’s taken care of everything.”

      Gray’s eyebrows rose. Was that what this was all about? Was he here to read the old man’s will over his shoulder and offer advice on who should get what? He couldn’t imagine any of Jonas’s offspring quarreling over the disposition of the estate.

      “Well,” he said cautiously, “I’ll do what I can.”

      “I know you will.” Marta cleared her throat. “Now,” she said briskly, “what can I get you?”

      “Nothing, thanks.” Gray glanced at his watch. “If you’d just tell Jonas that I’m here…”

      “How about some coffee? Or something cold. Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours. You’ll join us, of course.”

      “I’m not sure,” he said, although he knew that he wouldn’t. “There’s a two o’clock flight back to New York. If I can, I’d like to be on it.”

      “Ah. I’ll be disappointed, but I understand. Well then, I’ll have Carmen bring something for you to nibble on. Some of her pecan shortbread, and some lemonade. How’s that sound?”

      “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”

      “Don’t be silly.” They paused at the closed library door. Marta turned to him and smiled, her eyes glittering with what he knew were unshed tears. “It’s just so kind of you to do this for Jonas. Really, it’s very generous.”

      Gray almost told her that kindness had nothing to do with it. Instead he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do what I can.”

      “I know you will. And Gray…try not to let him see your surprise at all the changes.” Her voice quavered. “Will you do that, please?”

      He nodded, and she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to the door and he could almost see her pulling herself together.

      “Jonas?” She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, then turned the brass handle. “Darling? Graham’s here.”

      Marta stepped back and Gray entered the library. The door swung softly shut behind him and as he looked around, his first thought was that he didn’t know what she’d meant, warning him about changes. Everything was the same. He remembered when Marta had married his uncle. She’d redone the living room, the dining room, some of the rest of the big house, but this place—his uncle’s lair, was the way he thought of it—had not been touched.

      There were the same sofas and chairs he recalled from childhood, the leather cushions slightly worn and burnished by time. There was the same mahogany sideboard, and the big desk with the conquistador’s sword that had given Espada its name mounted above it. The same draperies hung at the windows, the same old and beautifully faded silk carpet lay on the floor. And there was Jonas, seated in his favorite chair near the massive fireplace, a glass in his hand.

      Nothing had changed at all…and then his uncle put down the glass and rose to his feet, and Gray caught his breath.

      Jonas had shrunk. That was his first thought. The old man had gone from being six foot something to being five-nine or-ten…except, he hadn’t. It was just that he was hunched over, those once-massive shoulders rounded, that proud back bent.

      “Graham.”

      Jonas started across the room and Gray got his second shock. His uncle’s stride had always been a proclamation that he owned the world. Now, he shuffled. His booted feet slid across the carpet. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It was the sad, painful sound of age, and of a man who knew he was approaching the end of his life.

      “Good to see you, boy.”

      Gray gave himself a mental shake and met his uncle in the center of the room. They clasped hands. Jonas’s grip was still surprisingly strong but his fingers felt bony and cold. For the first time in his life, Gray felt a twinge of pity for him.

      “It’s good to see you, too, Uncle,” he said.