Wild Enough For Willa. Ann Major

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      The temperature was still ninety degrees when Luke’s Porsche leapt the last cedar-clad hill. Wheels spinning, the Porsche took the drive on two wheels, skidding to a halt. As the garage door lifted, he saw the empty space on the right side of the garage.

      Marcie.

      She was never coming back.

      He parked on her side and got out. She was everywhere, almost a living presence tonight. If their sprawling one-story showplace with its tall chimneys, numerous balconies, and the impressive copper roof had been built with his money, it reflected Marcie’s taste and exquisite beauty. Adjoining the house were guest cottages. Beneath the mansion were the maid, Lucinda’s quarters. Marcie, who had loved to entertain, had thought of every comfort, caring even about Lucinda’s.

      Marcie had loved stunning views and had chosen this lot to build their modern dream palace a thousand feet above shimmering Lake Travis. Windows that lacked lake views looked out upon lush gardens with fountains, reflecting pools and bird feeders.

      These barren limestone hills covered with cedar and live oak on the outskirts of Austin with their vistas of the jewel-blue lake were fast becoming Texas’s answer to the Mediterranean. Or at least they had been Luke McKade’s answer—until Marcie had walked, taking her furniture and that hideous cat of hers, Mr. Tom. Without her and that spoiled beast she’d been so devoted to, the place felt as cold as a tomb.

      Not that there weren’t any number of computer jackals with money to burn who’d made offers on the house the minute Marcie split. Lake Travis was the place to live among his set. Every day more trees were cleared, more castle sites started, each castle having to be bigger and more impressive than the one before.

      He wasn’t about to sell. The house was image. He’d live here, in desolate splendor even if it reminded him of her—if it killed him. He’d buy a second car or maybe a new boat first thing Monday, so he could quit staring at that empty spot in his garage.

      When Luke pushed open the immense brass-studded, teak front doors, he heard his phone. He raced for it. Brandon Baines was on his Caller ID.

      Baines was persistent as hell. He took what he wanted or kept pushing until he got it. He wouldn’t let go of anything or anyone he considered his. He was especially ruthless with women. When they’d been in school he’d gotten a law student, a friend of Luke’s, pregnant. Even after her powerful daddy had made a stink, Baines had considered the girl his property to do with as he pleased.

      When Baines had offered her money for an abortion, she’d refused. Her father had thrown her out then. In the end, Luke had let her move in with him for a couple of months until she could get on her feet, a fact that had infuriated the possessive Baines, who’d wanted to run things. When the baby was born, Baines had come to the hospital and tried to force the woman to give up her little girl and come back to him.

      When she’d taken her daughter and vanished, Baines had blamed Luke. “Because of you, I’ve got a little bastard out there. The bitch could turn up with her brat at an awkward time.…”

      “Because of me, your kid’s alive.”

      “You would be partial to bastards—”

      Luke’s fist had slammed into that golden jawline before he could finish his sentence. They hadn’t spoken for a year. After that run-in they’d graduated, gotten jobs and been on opposite sides of a case.

      The phone started up once more.

      Again, Luke avoided it. He went to the window and watched a boat speeding across that brilliant expanse of blue. He picked up his binoculars. A man held a woman with golden hair in his arms as they raced across the lake.

      Marcie and he had gone boating most evenings. He hadn’t used the boat once since. Luke watched the white speedboat until it vanished behind an island. When it didn’t reappear on the far side of the island, he knew they’d thrown an anchor out, probably gone below to enjoy each other.

      High on his hill, Luke felt alone, cut off from every living being on earth. Suddenly, he felt restless in the big, empty house. He needed to talk to somebody. The phone rang again. Luke went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer out of the fridge and then the receiver.

      “Where the hell have you been?” Baines demanded.

      “Funeral.” Luke took a long pull from the bottle.

      Baines’s quick, inappropriate laugh was a little hollow. “This is good—yours or mine?”

      “My wife’s.”

      “Sorry. Hey—I heard she left you.”

      “We’d decided to get back together.” Not that Baines cared.

      “Your brother’s here.”

      Alert suddenly, Luke felt his hair spike on the back of his neck. Carefully he kept his voice casual. “Give him my regards.”

      “He’s got a gun.”

      “So does every other macho Texan.”

      “You know what I mean. He threatened—”

      “If you’re scared, call the cops. He’s violated parole. They’ll send him back to prison.”

      “He’s sick. Cancer.”

      Luke sucked in a breath. He was glad Baines couldn’t see him, couldn’t detect…Luke felt cold, so cold. And it was a hot night.

      Baines was still talking. “But do you think the crazy little bastard went home to his old man or checked himself into a hospital?”

      Old man…

      “Didn’t he?”

      “Hell, no. Says he’s dying. The cocky little shit says he’s gonna kill himself a lawyer first. You know who…yours truly.” Baines paused. “He’s after Spook, too. And then…after he does us, guess who’s next, old buddy—”

      Luke stood unmoving, his hand frozen on his icy bottle. Cancer? Little Red…?

      “You really want me to call the cops? That’ll mean publicity. I thought you said you didn’t want anybody to know you had a piece of scum like him for a brother.”

      Scum? Once Baines and his rich white law school buddies had called Luke scum.

      Cancer? The kid was barely twenty-three. Five years in prison…and now a diagnosis like that. Would he die young like Marcie?

      A quietness stole over Luke. His computerlike mind raced. What the hell kind of cancer? Could something be done? Options? Doctors? Experimental treatments? M.D. Anderson Cancer Center?

      He thought of the stacks of sealed manila envelopes in that locked safe in his bedroom closet. Reports in those envelopes told all about the kid whose existence Luke publicly denied, whom Luke had denied to himself—until the day the old man had barged into his office and said, “I need a lawyer.”

      “I would have thought a man with your connections would have any number of lawyers of his own.”

      “I need a dope dealer’s lawyer. I hear you’re friends with that piece of slime in the valley—Brandon Baines.”

      “Friends? Call Baines yourself. I’m busy. Kate, show this…er…this gentleman out.”

      “You can’t throw me out like I’m nobody.”

      “What exactly are we to each other? Are you my father?”

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