Raising the Stakes

“Nothing, thanks.” Gray glanced at his watch. “If you’d just tell Jonas that I’m here…”

“How about some coffee? Or something cold. Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours. You’ll join us, of course.”

“I’m not sure,” he said, although he knew that he wouldn’t. “There’s a two o’clock flight back to New York. If I can, I’d like to be on it.”

“Ah. I’ll be disappointed, but I understand. Well then, I’ll have Carmen bring something for you to nibble on. Some of her pecan shortbread, and some lemonade. How’s that sound?”

“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”

“Don’t be silly.” They paused at the closed library door. Marta turned to him and smiled, her eyes glittering with what he knew were unshed tears. “It’s just so kind of you to do this for Jonas. Really, it’s very generous.”

Gray almost told her that kindness had nothing to do with it. Instead he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I know you will. And Gray…try not to let him see your surprise at all the changes.” Her voice quavered. “Will you do that, please?”

He nodded, and she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to the door and he could almost see her pulling herself together.

“Jonas?” She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, then turned the brass handle. “Darling? Graham’s here.”

Marta stepped back and Gray entered the library. The door swung softly shut behind him and as he looked around, his first thought was that he didn’t know what she’d meant, warning him about changes. Everything was the same. He remembered when Marta had married his uncle. She’d redone the living room, the dining room, some of the rest of the big house, but this place—his uncle’s lair, was the way he thought of it—had not been touched.

There were the same sofas and chairs he recalled from childhood, the leather cushions slightly worn and burnished by time. There was the same mahogany sideboard, and the big desk with the conquistador’s sword that had given Espada its name mounted above it. The same draperies hung at the windows, the same old and beautifully faded silk carpet lay on the floor. And there was Jonas, seated in his favorite chair near the massive fireplace, a glass in his hand.

Nothing had changed at all…and then his uncle put down the glass and rose to his feet, and Gray caught his breath.

Jonas had shrunk. That was his first thought. The old man had gone from being six foot something to being five-nine or-ten…except, he hadn’t. It was just that he was hunched over, those once-massive shoulders rounded, that proud back bent.

“Graham.”

Jonas started across the room and Gray got his second shock. His uncle’s stride had always been a proclamation that he owned the world. Now, he shuffled. His booted feet slid across the carpet. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It was the sad, painful sound of age, and of a man who knew he was approaching the end of his life.

“Good to see you, boy.”

Gray gave himself a mental shake and met his uncle in the center of the room. They clasped hands. Jonas’s grip was still surprisingly strong but his fingers felt bony and cold. For the first time in his life, Gray felt a twinge of pity for him.

“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle,” he said.

Jonas nodded toward a pair of chairs. “Have a seat. You want somethin’? I can ring and ask Carmen to bring some coffee.”

“No, thank you. I had enough coffee on the plane to float a ship.”

“Good. I never did trust a man who’d sip coffee when he could be sippin’ whiskey instead.” The old man grinned. “Or ain’t you a bourbon man, nephew? I can’t seem to recall.”

Gray smiled. Jonas recalled, all right. It was a standing joke that nobody would ever join the old man in a glass of the whiskey he favored. His sons preferred wine, beer and ale. Gray’s preference was for single-malt scotch, but the memory of those cold fingers pressing against his made him reconsider.

“I’m not, usually,” he said. “But I think some bourbon might be fine right about now.”

Jonas nodded and shuffled to the sideboard. Gray saw his hands tremble as he opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and warned himself not to let the signs of illness and age influence him. He’d come prepared to listen to whatever his uncle wanted to tell him, then to decline involvement and head home, and that was still what he intended to do. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into sorting out some past mistake, real or imagined…unless Marta was right, and he was here to advise Jonas on his will. Hell, he wouldn’t do that, either. He wanted no part in any of this.

“Here we are,” Jonas said.

Gray took the glass, touched it to his uncle’s and sipped the whiskey. There was more ceremony to get through, this time involvi

ng a box of Cuban cigars, which he refused. He waited while the old man bit the tip off one, spat it into the fireplace and lit up.

“Ain’t supposed to drink or smoke, but what the hell’s the difference? I ain’t long for this world anyways.”

“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.