Wildstar

"I want to thank you again for all you've done," his fa­ther repeated for the third time that week.

"Don't mention it," Devlin responded politely.

"No, no, it meant a great deal to me. And it was a big effort on your part. . . more than a month of your time. I'd like to repay you somehow."

Devlin's fingers tightened on his wineglass. "Some things can't be bought," he said carefully, his tone cool.

"I didn't mean to imply . . . it wasn't money I was thinking of. . . ." His denial was swift, but from the height­ened color on his face, Devlin knew very well it was some expensive gift his father had had in mind.

After another moment of silence, C.E. cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Perhaps you would accompany me into the city tomorrow, Garrett. There's a bank I'd like you to look at. It's given me more trouble than it's worth, and I'm thinking of selling."

Devlin raised an eyebrow. "Is there some reason I should?"

"Naturally you'll want to become acquainted with my holdings. You'll need to know all the details when you in­herit."

Devlin went very still. The port wine on his tongue sud­denly tasted bitter. "You disinherited me ten years ago," he said very slowly.

"No. No, I didn't. I never changed my will. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Devlin's gray eyes turned wintry. "You merely denied me your affection and companionship all these years."

"I wanted to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, you did that, all right."

"Garrett, I was wrong. . . . I'm sorry."

A dozen seconds ticked by.

"Everything I own—it's still yours, son."

Devlin had to force himself to keep his anger under control. "I don't need," he enunciated clearly, "or want your money. Give it to a charity."

C.E. hesitated, looking frustrated. "If that's how you feel about it. . . ."

"That's how I feel. I won't be in Chicago much longer, in any case. I intend to return to Colorado as soon as I can manage to wrap up some of my business affairs."

C.E.'s heavy brows drew together in a frown. "If I'm not prying, may I ask why?"

"The trial date for Purcell's gang is set for the week af­ter next, and I'd like to be th

ere to testify."

"But you'll be returning afterward?"

"That's doubtful. I have some unfinished business to at­tend to."

"Ah, I see." But it didn't look as if he did see. Rather, he looked disappointed. "I thought perhaps . . . we were just coming to know each other again. . . ."

Observing the genuine regret on his father's face. Dev­lin relented. "It isn't business I can postpone. I intend to be married soon."

"Oh?" C.E.'s tone was startled. "Do I . . . er, know the lady?"

"No. And I doubt you would approve of her. She couldn't come close to meeting your high standards. She doesn't give a damn about wealth or social status." Devlin smiled, as if at a private memory. "She kicked me out of her house when she found oat I had money. Threatened to shoot me, in fact."

"Good God."

The look on C.E.'s face was priceless, and it gave Dev­lin more than a little satisfaction. For ten years he'd wanted to thumb his nose at his father like this.