LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      Tate

      “YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS.”

      My grandfather curls knotted fingers around his crystal snifter, and holds the glass up in salute. Time-ravaged lines deepen around mossy eyes as he smiles at me. “As serious as a heart attack, son,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a long pull, draining the rich, amber liquid with one easy swallow.

      I push from the ebony leather chair, shocked at the real reason my granddad asked me to stop by after a long week setting up my new office. Here I thought we were going to catch up, shoot the shit, reminisce about old times after I moved my law practice from Boston to Manhattan to be closer to him. But instead I find myself alternating between sitting and standing, pacing and pausing as his unexpected request pings around inside my brain.

       Change my property title and deed half my billion-dollar Manhattan estate to Summer Love.

      “She’s quite the looker, this one,” Granddad says, and picks up the Polaroid picture sitting on the mahogany side table in his study, one of the many nostalgic pieces he salvaged from the bygone gentlemen’s club where he once networked. I glance at the picture in his hand. Christ, he’s been grinning at it like love-struck teenager since I arrived thirty minutes ago.

      Could he really be in love—with Summer Love?

      And what kind of name is that anyway?

      “What do you think, son?”

      What I think is she’s a third his age. For Christ’s sake, she’s young enough to be his granddaughter. What the hell is going on inside that brain of his? I shake my head, as arthritic fingers hold the photo up higher for my inspection. I glance at the Polaroid, which showcases the left half of my grandfather’s face, and Summer Love from the chin up. I study her full pouty mouth, makeup-free face, big brown doe eyes and caramel hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. Yeah, okay, she’s gorgeous in that fresh-faced girl-next-door way—which probably opens many affluent doors for a gold digger like her.

      And who the hell takes a selfie with a Polaroid anyway?

      I shove my hands into the pockets of my black dress pants, and walk around Granddad’s monument of a desk. Incredulous at what he’s asking me to do, a garbled sound catches in my throat—a half laugh, half snort. I pace to the window and look out. On Sixty-Fourth Street below, dozens of people bustle about. A robust, early December breeze ruffles their clothes and pushes them along the sidewalk.

      “Come on, have a celebratory drink with me, already,” Granddad says again, his once syrupy voice now broken and gravelly.

      Agitated, I remove my hands from my pockets, and swipe one through hair that desperately needs a barber. I just haven’t had a lot of time lately. After moving back last week, I’ve put all my energy into getting my Manhattan apartment in order as well as the new firm—we’re set to open for business after the holidays. My other hand smooths down my tie, a habit I picked up from my granddad even before I began wearing suits.

      “Yeah, okay,” I finally concede. The truth is I need a drink, something to help me swallow and digest this troubling news. But I’ll be damned if I’ll drink to my grandfather losing his mind and signing over half his estate to some con artist. I won’t let that happen. Not in a million fucking years. I walk to the bar, pour a generous amount of brandy into a glass and throw it back in one motion. I welcome the burn as I slam the glass down on the bar harder than necessary and turn around to regard my grinning grandfather.

      “She’s lovely, James. Don’t you think so?” he asks, using my middle name. He always preferred James to Tate. Probably because James is his first name, too. He loved the idea of his grandson carrying his name into the next generation. My mom, however, insisted on Tate as my first name, after her late father. But thinking of my mom ties my stomach into knots. She left when I was a child, accepting a big payout from Dad to leave me behind. Acid burns in my throat to think she chose money over her son. I guess she knew how to get around the prenuptial, and in the end I’d rather be with a parent who wants me.

      Pushing those ugly thoughts to the recesses of my mind, I pace for a moment, then perch on the arm of the chair opposite Granddad. With my hands braced on my thighs, I take a deep fueling breath and let it out slowly. “Granddad,” I begin, then clamp my teeth together with an audible click. How the hell can I tell him this woman is a con, out to bleed millions from his bank account, without hurting him in the process? This is a man who worked hard his whole life, dragged himself up from the gutters and turned thousands into billions on Wall Street. He’s a man of morals, one who led by example and taught me and my father—not to mention my aunts, uncles and cousins—the value of hard work. Nothing was ever handed to any member of the Carson family. Sure, I was given a top-notch education at the finest schools, but Granddad always made me hold down part-time jobs. At Harvard, I worked the dish pit at the campus pub, eventually climbing my way up to bartender. I owe this man so much, and the last thing I want is to slap him with reality when he thinks he’s in love with some...fraud.

      The picture falls from his rickety hand, and his frailty hits me like a punch to the gut when he bends to retrieve it. His big, gray cardigan hangs a little looser on his shoulders as he sits back up. He adjusts it, but there is nothing he can do to hide his ill health. Goddammit, I should have come home sooner, should have been here to prevent this woman from ever digging her claws into a dying man.

      “How did you two meet?” I ask, choking back the emotions crawling up my throat.

      Chuckling, he gives me a wink. “At the clinic.”

      “The clinic?” Restless, I stand, drawing myself up to my full six feet. “What was she doing there?”

      “She held the door open for me.”

      “That’s it?” I really don’t like the sounds of this. I put my hand on the back of my head, apply pressure to the dull ache beginning at the base of my neck as every muscle in my body tightens, goes on alert. “That’s how you met?”

      “Yes.”

      I angle my throbbing head, my gaze raking over my grandfather’s face as I take in his body language. There’s something he’s not telling me. The grandson in me senses it, the lawyer in me knows it. “What was she doing at the clinic?”

      Granddad hesitates and I pinch the bridge of my nose, envisioning Summer Love hanging out at the geriatrics clinic, scoping out her next target. If it’s money she’s after, and obviously it has to be, she definitely scored big-time with Granddad. But Jesus, what kind of a woman would do something so reprehensible?

       A conniving one.

      “Does she work there?” I ask.

      Gnarled fingers swat the air, like I’m an annoying fly, buzzing with too many questions. “What’s with the interrogation? You’re going to love her, James. I’m sure you two will hit it off as soon as you meet,” he says, pivoting the conversation.

       Doubtful.

      Anger prowls through my blood, a hot burn that nudges my temper. In the past Granddad always had an ironclad prenuptial drawn up. Why doesn’t he want one this time? Christ, he’s not even married to the woman, yet he wants to sign half his estate

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