All He Ever Wanted

“‘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 the arm of the sofa. Sighing, he sat down and scrubbed a hand down his face. When it came to this crazy scheme of his father’s, he undoubtedly had the most to lose. He’d devoted his entire life to becoming the perfect future CEO of Cain Enterprises. Every choice he’d made from the time he was ten—from his hobbies as a child to his extracurricular activities in high school, to his college education, to the woman he married—had been about Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to let his father piss it all away on a whim.

“One option is to wait until the bastard actually dies and then take the matter to court.”

Griffin popped the top on the silver shaker and then gave it a vigorous jiggle. “At which point, all Father’s assets will be tied up in litigation for a decade or so. Good plan.”

Dalton leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “If he wasn’t already on his deathbed, I’d kill him for this.”

“I’d help.” Griffin chuckled as he scooped ice into glasses and then covered the ice with whatever concoction he’d mixed up. “On the bright side, the board loves you. Even if Father’s assets did revert to the state, all his Cain stock would be sold, right? He alone doesn’t even have a controlling majority. The board would most likely keep you on.”

“And then you could keep your job as VP of international relations as well.”

Griffin gave a little chuckle. “Yes. That would be ideal.”

They both knew Griffin’s job was a cushy one and not the kind he was likely to find anywhere else.

Griffin sliced a lime into wedges, squeezed one into each glass and then tossed another on top. “Sure, you’d be less insanely rich, but you’d still be CEO of Cain Enterprises.”

“That would be the best-case scenario, yes.” Dalton took the glass his brother handed him and eyed the pale green concoction. “This isn’t scotch.”

“Two years as a mixologist in college. I think I can do better than pouring you a scotch. This is me broadening your horizons.”

Dalton took a hesitant sip. It was surprisingly good, less sweet than a margarita and with enough punch to knock a grown man on his ass—especially one who’d already been knocked on his ass once that day.