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up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.

      While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.

      He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn’t have her number. He hadn’t spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.

      Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?

      With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents’ driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.

      Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.

      He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he’d had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.

      He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn’t a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn’t present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.

      But then how could it? Especially now?

      He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn’t necessarily make people happy.

      He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.

      James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.

      Today he hovered over a cluster of lady’s slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.

      Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up.

      “Well, hello,” he said, acknowledging his son’s presence. “What brings you by?”

      You, me and my mom, he thought. The past, the present, the pain. “I was hoping we could talk.”

      “About what?”

      “My mother.”

      James shook head. “I don’t want to rehash all of that again.”

      “But I want to talk about it.”

      “There’s nothing more to talk about. I told you everything. Just forget about it, let it go.”

      Let it go? Forget about it?

      Two weeks ago Flint had stumbled upon a horrible secret, and now the truth haunted him like a ghost. “You lied to me all those years, Dad.”

      James shifted his stance. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, but he was impeccably groomed—a man of wealth and taste. “I did it to protect you. Why won’t you accept that?”

      “Just tell me this much. Does Nsh’k know the truth?” he asked, thinking about his Cheyenne grandmother.

      “Yes, she knew when it happened. It broke her heart.”

      And now it’s breaking mine, Flint thought.

      “You can’t bring this up to your grandmother,” his dad said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

      Flint nodded. As a rule, the Cheyenne didn’t speak freely of the dead, and Nsh’k adhered to the old way. “Is she aware that I came upon the truth?”

      “Yes, I told her. But she didn’t want to discuss it.”

      No one wanted to discuss it, no one but Flint. Didn’t they understand that he needed to grieve? To come to terms with his role in all of this?

      “It isn’t fair,” he said.

      “Life isn’t fair,” James replied, using a cliché that only made Flint feel worse.

      In the next instant they both fell silent. Water trickled from an ornamental fountain, mimicking the patter of rain.

      Flint glanced at the glass ceiling and noticed dark clouds floating across a hazy blue sky.

      He shrugged into his jacket. “I better go. I’ve got things to do.”

      James met his troubled gaze. “Don’t be angry, son.”

      Flint looked at his dad, at the blond hair turning a silvery shade of gray. He’d inherited his dad’s hazel eyes, but his dark hair and copper skin had come from his mother. The woman he wasn’t allowed to talk about.

      “I’m not,” he said. It wasn’t anger eating away at his soul. It was pain. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the office. Give Faith a kiss for me,” he added, referring to his stepmother.

      “She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

      “I know.” He loved Faith Kingman. She’d raised him since he was ten years old, but she wasn’t willing to talk about this, either. Not if it meant betraying her husband.

      Flint left his parents’ house, and James went back to his flowers, hiding behind their vibrant colors and velvet petals.

      On Tuesday, Gina wore what she considered a power suit to the office. The blouse matched her eyes, the tailored black jacket nipped at her waist and the slim-fitting skirt rode just above her knees. But her pumps, bless them, were her secret weapon. When she strode through Baronessa’s corporate halls, they made a determined, confident click, giving her an air of feminine authority.

      The fourth floor of the chrome-and-glass structure was Gina’s domain, and she often gazed out the windows, drawing strength from the city.

      Today she needed all she could get.

      She glanced at the clock on the wall. Flint would be here any minute.

      Gina moved in front of her desk and remained standing, waiting anxiously for his arrival. She’d been rehearsing this moment in her mind for two days, practicing her lines, her gestures.

      She knew plenty about Flint Kingman now. She’d even uncovered a few facts about his mother. Danielle Wolf, a half-Indian beauty from the Cheyenne reservation, had left home to pursue an acting career. Five years later she’d abandoned Hollywood to become a wife and mother and then died in a car accident a month after her son was born.

      Gina intended to rent the B movies Danielle had costarred in. She suspected Flint had inherited his mother’s adventurous spirit. It wouldn’t hurt to analyze every aspect of her opponent’s personality, particularly if she was going to kick him off this harrowing project.

      Gina’s secretary buzzed. She pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

      “Mr. Kingman is here.”

      She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Send him in.”

      A minute later he strode through the door in a gray suit and silver-gray tie, his thick dark hair combed away from his face. Suddenly Gina could see the Native American in him—the rich color of his skin, the killer cheekbones, the deep-set eyes. They looked more brown than gold today, and she realized they were actually a stunning, ever-changing shade of hazel.

      He flashed a cocky grin, and she reached for the apple on her desk and tossed it to him. Or at him, she supposed, since she’d heaved it like a shiny red baseball.

      Caught off guard, he fumbled, dropped his briefcase and retrieved the apple in the nick of

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