All He Ever Wanted. Emily McKay

on her face. “Is this some sort of joke?” she asked.

      Hollister grunted and waved his hand in a keep going gesture.

      “‘Perhaps you do not even remember uttering those words, but, again, I assure you, I have never forgotten them. Not for one moment. You said them mere moments after having left my—’”

      Caro’s voice broke, and she let the letter drop into her lap.

      Griffin edged closer to their mother. “This is ridiculous. Why have you called us here? Just to humiliate Mother publicly?”

      “Keep reading,” Hollister commanded without opening his eyes.

      “I’ll read it.” Griffin reached for the letter.

      “No!” barked Hollister. “Caro.”

      Caro glanced first at Griffin and then at Dalton before picking the letter up again. Griffin gave her shoulder a little squeeze.

      “‘Your words were spoken with such thoughtless cruelty, and for years I prayed for the opportunity to wound you as deeply as you have wounded me. And now, finally after all these years, I have found it.

      “‘I know how closely you guard your little empire. How you like to control everyone under your domain. How you manipulate—’” her voice broke on the word and she had to swallow before continuing “‘—and control all those within your fami—’”

      Dalton had had enough. He strode forward and snatched the letter out of his mother’s hands. Perhaps Hollister didn’t realize the strain he was placing on his wife by forcing her to read the letter aloud, but more likely, he just didn’t care.

      Dalton scanned the letter and then tossed it down onto the bed so that it landed on his father’s chest. He dropped it by instinct, so strong was the hatred and venom in the letter. He was almost surprised that the thing didn’t burst into flames and burn a hole clear through Hollister. It had obviously been crafted to wound him. Since it hadn’t killed him yet, Dalton summed up the contents of the letter for the others, though he assumed they would eventually all read it themselves.

      “She claims to have given birth to a daughter of Hollister’s—the missing heiress, she calls her. She refuses to tell Hollister anything other than that. She intends for it to be a form of torture for Hollister, going to his deathbed, knowing that he will never find this daughter of his.”

      Dalton looked first at his mother and then at Griffin. Griffin’s hand had tightened on their mother’s shoulder, and she seemed to be summoning the kind of strength that had served her so well through the many years of her marriage. Of course they all knew about Hollister’s philandering: Cooper was living proof of it.

      Cooper pushed himself away from the window frame, speaking without even glancing in Hollister’s direction. “So the old man has even more bastard children. I hardly see what that has to do with us.”

      Personally, Dalton was inclined to agree. Didn’t he have enough on his plate running Cain Enterprises?

      Before anyone else could comment, Hollister opened his eyes again. “I want you to find her.”

      “You want me to find her?” Cooper asked.

      “All of you,” Hollister wheezed. “Any of you.”

      Perfect. This was exactly what Dalton needed: more responsibility. “I’m sure we can find a private investigator who specializes in this sort of thing.”

      “No P.I.s,” Hollister barked. “Against the rules.”

      “Rules?” Griffin asked. “You want us to find her. Fine. We’ll find her. But this isn’t some sort of game.”

      Hollister’s cracked lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Not a game. A test.”

      Cooper let out a bark of bitter laughter. “Of course it is. Why else would you have asked me to come if it didn’t involve me having to somehow prove that I was worthy of being your son?”

      “Don’t be ridic—” Hollister broke off as a series of body-wrenching coughs seized him “—ridiculous. The test is—” more coughing “—for all of you.”

      “Regardless of the rules, I have better things to do with my time than to jump through your hoops,” Griffin said. “So you can count me out. I’m not interested.”

      “Me neither,” said Cooper.

      “You will be.”

      Hollister said it with such absolute conviction a chill went through Dalton. Their father may be weak—he may even be dying—but Dalton had learned long ago that Hollister never spoke with conviction unless he knew he could back it up.

      As if he’d read Dalton’s thoughts, Hollister turned his rheumy blue gaze to Dalton. “You will all be interested, because whichever one of you finds this missing heiress will inherit all of Cain Enterprises.”

      Well, that certainly changed things.

      Dalton had always known his father was a jerk, but this? He’d never imagined his father was capable of this.

      Dalton had devoted his life to Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. “And what happens if no one finds her?” he found himself asking.

      A hush seemed to fall over the room as Hollister sucked in one rattling breath after another before finally whispering, “My entire fortune will revert to the state.”

      One

      “He’s not really going to do it,” Griffin said, as he unlocked the door to his condo and stepped aside to let Dalton in. “Cain Enterprises means as much to him as it does to any of us. He’d never let the state sell off his share of the company.”

      “If it was any other man, I’d agree.” Dalton waited until Griffin had flipped on the lights before walking into the living room. “But he doesn’t bluff. You know that.”

      Griffin owned the penthouse condo of the downtown high-rise where Dalton also lived. When Portia had asked for a divorce, Dalton had purchased the condo two floors down from Griffin’s. The building was close to work but overpriced. Its main appeal was that because he’d been to Griffin’s condo, he could buy it without having to waste a day following around some Realtor.

      Griffin’s condo was decorated in sleek cream leather and a lot of chrome. It was expensive and modern and, Dalton also thought, overly stark. On the other hand, his own condo was still decorated in mid-century-kicked-out-of-my-house-style, so he had little room to criticize.

      Dalton headed straight for the sectional that dominated the space in front of the TV. Griffin gestured toward the wet bar tucked into the corner. He nodded to the row of bottles. “What’ll you have?”

      Dalton glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon.”

      “Right. After Dad’s little bombshell, I think a drink is called for.”

      “Fine.” Who was he to argue a point like that? And maybe a stiff drink would steady the rug that felt like it had been jerked out from under his feet. “I’ll have a scotch.”

      Griffin rolled his eyes as if to say he thought Dalton was an idiot. Then he pulled out several bottles—none of which contained scotch—and started pouring splashes into a cocktail shaker.

      “Do you have any idea if he can legally do this?”

      “Unfortunately, I think he can.” Dalton ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Mother will still get all of their co-mingled assets—the houses, cars and their money. But all of his Cain stock is his to do with as he pleases. It would have been split evenly between the three of us. Now, who knows what will happen.”

      “I figure you have the most to lose here. What are you going to do?”

      Dalton slipped out of his jacket and draped it over