Like Silk

Collier’s heart always beat a little faster every time Mason called him that. He didn’t remember reacting like this when he was younger. He guessed that back then he’d just taken it for granted he belonged to Mason. But since he’d become an adult and learned the cold truth, that word had taken on new meaning. If only Mason could have adopted him…

“What’s going on?” Collier finally asked with a smile, something that didn’t come often or easily of late.

“I’ve set the date for the party,” Mason said without preamble.

Collier propped his foot on the bottom stair, almost wishing he hadn’t stopped by the mansion before heading for the office. It had been a while since he’d seen his brother, and he felt like a heel. Though officially retired, Mason maintained an office at the firm and spent a lot of time there. Not so with Jackson. If Collier wanted to see him, he had to make an effort.

“Your silence tells me you don’t approve.”

Collier blew out his breath. “No. I wish you hadn’t done it.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t agree,” Collier countered. “It makes me uncomfortable. We have to face facts. I might not get the appointment. Nothing’s for sure, you know.”

Mason gestured impatiently. “All the more reason to start tooting your horn now, especially since a friend called and told me Rupert Holt’s out lobbying strongly for his candidate, Travis Wainwright. I refuse to let Rupert get the upper hand.”

“When are you two going to stop taking punches at each other? This has been going on far too long. You ought to call a truce.”

“He’s the one with the ax to grind,” Mason said doggedly. “The one who keeps the pot boiling.”

Collier suppressed a sigh. “Regardless of how you feel about Rupert, Wainwright’s a credible candidate. He’s got a good chance of getting the presidential nod.”

“Over my dead body. No one associated with Holt’s going to kick your ass.”

Mason’s thick white eyebrows bunched together, giving him a fierce look. Collier understood why his mother had fallen for him. Not only was he downright handsome—tall and robust, with white hair and blue, blue eyes—he was highly intelligent and filled with boundless energy. And at sixty-six, he was blessed with good health.

Yet, since the tragedy that had befallen his eldest son, there was another side of Mason that had risen to the surface. He’d developed a vindictive, angry streak. Before, he’d been personable and levelheaded. Now, almost anything, insignificant or not, could set him off like a rocket.

No matter, Collier loved him and wanted to find favor in his eyes in everything he did. Sometimes, though, he thought that was an unattainable goal.

“Did you hear what I said?” Mason demanded.

“Uh, no.”

“Dammit, boy, where’s your head?”

Deliberately ignoring Mason’s irritation, he asked, “What were you saying?”

“That you need to give me a guest list for the dinner.”

“I can’t talk you out of it?”

“No,” Mason said with force. “I’m convinced it’s the right thing to do.”

“All right,” Collier conceded with a sigh. “At least Lana will love it.”

“Speaking of Lana, when are you two going to tie the knot? Hell, her old man can do as much or more than anybody to help you get that appointment. This would be a perfect time to announce your intentions. The news might even make the front page of the paper.” Mason’s face suddenly brightened. “Why not do it at the dinner party?”

Collier’s stomach bottomed out. “Whoa! You’re getting way ahead of things. Besides, that’s something personal between Lana and me.”

“Well, don’t lollygag much longer.” Mason’s chin jutted. “It’s high time you were married with a family.”

“Dad, can we change the subject?”

“Yes, but only because I have an appointment. Will I see you at the office?”

“I’m heading there after I look in on Jackson.”

Mason’s features tightened. “I’ll warn you. He’s in more of a funk than ever, and not very pleasant to be around.”

With that, he walked out the door. Collier remained motionless for a moment, trying to regain his momentum, feeling as though he’d been hit by a mini hurricane.

Shaking his head, he finally turned and bounded up the stairs to Jackson’s suite. Following the accident, Mason had had an elevator installed in the house so Jackson wouldn’t be confined to his quarters. He’d also added a full gym and all the amenities, including a trainer and physical therapist.

At first Mason had done everything in his power to make sure his son walked again. But when it became clear that that wasn’t going to happen, he’d focused on making him as comfortable as possible. But nothing, no amount of money or attention, had been able to help Jackson’s attitude.

Forcing himself to be upbeat, Collier tapped on his brother’s door. Only after he got no response did he ease it open. Jackson was sitting in front of the smoldering fireplace in his wheelchair, sound asleep.

Collier was tempted to wake him, thinking he could sleep most anytime. But for some reason, he refrained from doing so. Perhaps it was because Jackson looked so peaceful, so at ease, something he never was when he was awake.

Even though his lower half was no longer functioning, his upper half was in fine form. Before the paralysis, he’d been a tall, fit, good-looking blond man with piercing blue eyes, so like Mason’s. Now, at forty-two, his upper body had become the focus of his attention. He’d honed those muscles to perfection, in contrast to his wasted lower body.

Too bad he didn’t work that hard on his attitude, Collier thought. Lately, it had sucked. As Mason had pointed out, Jackson had been even more bitter than usual, feeling unusually sorry for himself. Collier hoped his bid for the federal judgeship hadn’t been the catalyst.

Collier would gladly give that up to have his brother whole again.

He continued to look at Jackson, guilt pounding him once again. He was unable to get over the idea that he’d somehow let his brother down.

He hadn’t been there for him when the accident occurred or right afterward. He’d been in the Soviet Union on a case that had represented a golden opportunity for the firm. He’d wanted to come home. He’d made his plans to do just that, only to have Mason demand that he remain in Russia, claiming Jackson didn’t want to see him or anyone else.

He’d gone with Mason’s call, but he’d never forgiven himself for it, thinking that if he’d come home, he might have been able to break through the barrier Jackson had erected between himself and the world. But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and now he had to live with the fact that he hadn’t gone with his heart.

Suddenly Collier jerked his mind back to the present and noticed that the coverlet had slipped slightly to one side, exposing one of Jackson’s legs. It was terribly thin and stiff, as if it was artificial. Collier’s heart turned over, and he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes.

Blinking them back, he crossed lightly to the chair, reached down and replaced the crocheted afghan. When Jackson still didn’t stir, he stepped back. Such a waste of such a brilliant mind. Before the accident, Jackson had been a crackerjack attorney, and he still could be. Unfortunately, he’d chosen not to practice law any longer. Instead, he seemed content to sit and brood behind these walls.

Something had to give soon. But what? Although Collier had asked himself that question numerous times, he still had no answer. Nothing seemed able to shake his brother out of his depression. If by some chance Collier did get the appointment to the bench, there would be a big void in the office. Maybe then Jackson would come to his senses.

Collier clenched and unclenched his fingers. Dammit, it wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

What a morning.

Collier had been busier than a cranberry merchant, though he couldn’t say he’d accomplished all that much. He had stopped by the prison to see his friend, though. He’d done that immediately after he’d left the mansion.

Afterward, it had taken him a while to get his head back on straight. First Mason, then Jackson, and finally Jim’s sad plight, had started his own day off on a down note. Not that he’d needed a reason. Ever since he’d left Brittany in her sparse surroundings, he hadn’t been able to settle down.

His insides felt like jumping beans had set up shop there. He’d flitted from one case to another. It was a continuation of the night, when he’d lain awake, his mind ping-ponging between Brittany, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, and the judgeship, asking himself what dirt his opponents would uncover on him.