Not wishing to disturb Franki's vigil she turned around and slipped back out of the room. Obviously Sloan and Troy had already left. She didn't look forward to disappointing her mother, but she had no intention of hopping into her car and chasing after them, only to beg Sloan to come back to the hospital. Who knew where they might have gone, anyway? Troy had mentioned getting drunk. That could mean just about anything.

She sifted through the options as she plodded back up the two flights of stairs that led to the oncology wing. She pushed through the doors and was almost bowled over by a nurse pushing a large cart loaded down with a frightful array of instruments and equipment. She stepped into the hall and realized that the nurse wasn't the only one in a hurry.

An entire regiment of medical staff-nurses, orderlies, doctors, and more-rushed about in a flurry of uniforms and lab coats. And they all seemed to be homing in on one particular room at the end of the hall. Her mother's room.

Panic paralyzed her. She wanted to run to the end of the hall and demand to know what was going on. But her feet seemed to have sunk three inches into the floor. She felt powerless to move her own body, let alone affect the outcome of the drama she sensed was being played out just on the other side of that door.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. She had resigned herself to her mother's death, but not now. Not yet. Her mother wasn't supposed to be taken from her so abruptly.

They would keep her comfortable, and with the help of reasonable measures like blood transfusions and medications, prolong her life until the cancer outgrew their ability to control it. Lydia Hampstead would slip into eternity while her daughter sat by her side, holding her hand and whispering words of comfort and farewell. That was how Bree had envisioned it. That vision was at once frightening and comforting. It was known, and it was in the future. This was now. She didn't want to face now.

Her heart continued pumping, and her lungs continued breathing. She blinked and swallowed. And when, at last, a few somber-looking staff members began to trickle out of the room, she forced herself to retake control of her body. She took a step. And then another. And, somehow, beyond reason, she made it to the door.

Fully expecting to be confronted by a still figure shrouded in a hospital sheet, she pushed it open and peered inside.

Immediately, the pair of nurses who were busily attending to her mother, riveted their eyes on the intruder.

"Sabrina," said Diane, one of several familiar nurses who had tended to her mother frequently over the past few months. Her dark eyes brimmed with both kindness and concern. "Come in, come in."

Bree took a deep breath and stepped through. Her mother's face wasn't covered with a sheet. It was, however, hidden behind a large oxygen mask. And her eyes were closed. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Diane gently took Bree's elbow and guided her charge to the large vinyl chair beside the bed.

"We're not sure," said Diane as she checked an IV line that hadn't been in place when Bree left the room fifteen minutes ago. "But I came in with her lunch about five minutes ago, and found her in the middle of a seizure."

"Seizure? She's never had a seizure before."

Diane pursed her mouth. "No. I know that. And we are very concerned about it. Especially since she hasn't shown any signs of regaining consciousness yet."

Bree felt the world slowing down around her. "What does that mean? Have the tumors reached her brain?" But that didn't seem possible. A CAT scan had been done barely two weeks earlier, and the tumors had shown no sign of spreading in that direction.

"I'm afraid that's a possibility. Sometimes these things don't travel the expected, or predicted paths." She adjusted the IV drip and then looked back at Bree. "When you were talking to her earlier did she seem herself? Was she at all distracted or disoriented?"

Bree blinked. "Uh, not distracted exactly, but..."

Diane waited. "Yes?"

"But she said some things that didn't quite make sense. And she seemed agitated."

The nurse nodded understanding. "Well, whatever the cause, we'll know more in a couple of hours. The doctor has ordered a new scan to see what we we're dealing with. On the positive side, she's breathing on her own, and her heart rate is still steady. She might wake up any minute."

Or she might never wake up , finished Bree.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You can sit with her as much as you like. And..." She sighed heavily. "And you can pray."

That wasn't nearly enough. Bree couldn't stand the thought of spending hours sitting beside a hospital bed, in an endless vigil. She could stay for a while. But if she sat with her mother around the clock, as Sloan had done with Craig, she thought she'd go insane. She needed to do something. She needed something constructive, something positive to focus on.

As she watched the soft rise and fall of her mother's chest, and listened to the reassuring beeps of the monitor she considered her options.

By this time she had hoped to be helping Sloan with his plan for the big break-in. But now that seemed about as likely as her mother being healed by a twenty-first-century messiah. The idea of reacquiring the heirlooms had given her the illusion of being useful, of doing something toward helping her mother. If she couldn't find a cure for her mother at least she could make her mother's last days on earth more tolerable and possibly even meaningful. If Lydia didn't wake up, however, all her pain and planning would have been for nothing.

If her mother didn't wake up there was nothing more that Bree could do for her. Sitting beside a bed while she withered away to nothing was small consolation for the loss of that dream. For the loss of her purpose.

Bree blinked away a few unruly tears, and clasped her hands together as she considered the misery of all those around her-Sloan's worry over the fate of his friend, and his determination to keep a secret seemingly at any cost; Franki's hope turned to despair over the prospect of losing the first man she had truly cared about in a very long time; Troy's fervent desire to rekindle a lost friendship and his continuing anguish over his alienation from a family that didn't deserve him. Each of the Fearsome Foursome was embedded in their own private turmoil, with only a few meager sparks of hope to guide them forward.

Was there anything she could do to help any of them? And possibly, at the same time, help herself?

As she continued gazing at the profile of the woman who had raised and loved her, slowly, gradually the seed of an idea began to take root in her mind. And then a slow, gentle smile stole across her lips. There was something she could do. Perhaps it wasn't much, but maybe it would be enough to give them all something to focus on besides their problems.

She would stay with her mother a few more hours. But if Lydia didn't wake up, Bree wouldn't simply sit around and wait for the grim reaper to steal the last remnant of her childhood.

She refused to sit around and play the helpless waif. She'd never been any good at it. She had people to see and things to do. And she intended to do them.

Chapter Fourteen.

"What the hell were you thinking?" blasted Vance Elliott.

Perry fell back in the face of his father's wrath. He dropped into one of the leather wingbacks that faced his father's desk. He hated the fact that he was relegated to the place of visitors and peons. He was no peon. He was a full partner in his father's business. In fact with his ideas and vision, the House had flourished and expanded. The profits had tripled in the fourteen years since he had first taken an active role in the business. His father should be lauding him for his efforts instead of chastising him like an unruly child.

He sat up straight and tried to address his father as an equal. "It would help if I knew what you were talking about."

"Don't play innocent with me," growled his father. "I know you, remember? I wiped and paddled your behind since the day you tore your way out of your mother's womb. I've seen you plot and scheme from the playpen through to post-graduate school. I know exactly how your diabolical little mind works."

Perry's head swelled just a millimeter at the compliment. "Exactly," he said dryly. "I have so many brilliant ideas that it's hard for me to pin down the one to which you are referring."

Vance heaved a sigh of disgust as he sank into his plush executive chair that should have belonged to Perry. He regarded his son with measured patience.

"I had Sloan quaking in his boots. When I had him in here he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He still didn't tell me what he knows, but he was so scared of what I knew that there was no way he was sticking around a moment longer than he had to. I'd have bet my eye teeth that he was getting ready to get the hell out of Dodge, and take the next plane back to that pseudo-civilization he calls home." Vance pointed a regal finger at his son. "And then you went and messed it up. What better way to ensure he sticks around than to put his lover into a goddamn coma?"

"He's not his lover," countered Perry, feeling slightly smug at getting the scoop on a piece of information ahead of his omniscient father. "I'm certain now that was a lie perpetrated to hide the real reason Sloan left."

But Vance stole his thunder by waving away the information as inconsequential. "That's irrelevant at this point, isn't it? And it's hardly a surprise. Any way you look at it, they're obviously good friends, and Sloan isn't going anywhere as long as Craig is hanging at death's door."

"I didn't lay a hand on him," grumbled Perry.

"Don't lie to me, Perry. I won't tolerate it from you. Not anymore."

Perry just glared at his father. Let him draw his own conclusions. The deed was done, and regardless of who had done it there was no going back now.

Vance huffed, obviously unconvinced. "Well, if you didn't do it yourself, then you sure as hell paid or coerced somebody into doing it for you."

"Why?" shot back Perry as he sprang from his chair in a furious rendition of righteous indignation. "What motive could I possibly have to hurt some skinny Jewish writer who simply had the misfortune to hook up with Sloan Carver?"

Vance tapped his fingers on the desk. "Perhaps you saw an opportunity to indirectly hurt Sloan, and thereby hurt your brother as well. Don't think I don't know how much you resented those two and the friendship they shared all their lives. Did you think I was blind to your social inadequacies? You never made friends easily. Never dated anyone longer than a week. And never showed any interest in changing your status as a social outcast."

"I had other things that were important to me." Although he could feel his pulse skyrocketing, he managed to keep his voice even and under control.

"Yes, I know." Vance's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "I know all too well."

"Well, I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you, Father," he spat the last word out like he might spit out a chunk of rotten fruit, "but it seems to me, that out of your two progeny I'm the one who turned out the most like our distinguished patriarch. Maybe you don't like what you see in me, because you see too much of yourself."

"You're right about that." Vance's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I see all the things in you that I would love to change about myself. I just wish you had inherited a little of my class and conscience along the greed and ambition."

"Oh, you're a fine one to talk of conscience," sputtered Perry as outrage and jealousy warred within him. He knew all too well the unspoken thoughts that his father was harboring. Golden Boy Troy had inherited all of his father's desirable qualities. All that was good and virtuous in Vance Elliott had been siphoned directly into Troy's bloodstream. Troy had inherited all the noble Elliott genes.

It was ironic that the very things Vance loved about his oldest son were the things that had driven a wedge between them. Vance Elliott had fallen far short of Troy's high ideals, and Perry suspected that secretly Vance thought better of Troy for it. Troy embodied everything his father had always wished he could be. Perry embodied everything he wished he wasn't.

Perry pointed his own accusing finger at his father. "You started on the road to The Dark Side long before I came on the scene. I just made it a little more profitable. That's all. And now you judge me for doing exactly what you did? My only crime..." He spread his hands grandly. "I did it better."

"No," said Vance slowly. "Not better. Our profit margin may be bigger since you came along, but at what cost?" Vance's jaw muscles worked and his eyes drifted to the photographs on the wall. "Your way hurts people. I went along with it, and I accept that responsibility. But I'll regret that decision for the rest of my life."

"You think you and your friends never hurt anybody before I came along? If that's what you think then you're deluding yourself, Dad. You hurt lots of people. Maybe not physically, but they hurt regardless."

"At least in the old days nobody died."

Perry kept his stony stare riveted to his father's face. "You've bitched about that plenty over the years, but I've never seen you try to change anything. You like your house and your Mercedes and your pool and your collections too much to do that. Face it, Dad, you're just as shallow and ruthless as I am. You're just better at lying to yourself."

For the first time since the conversation began his father had no response. He made no lavish denials or fresh accusations. He just stared at those damn photographs like they were windows into the future instead of the past.

After a few moments of strained silence, Vance dropped his head back onto the leather headrest and closed his eyes. "Dammit," he whispered. "What are we going to do?"

"It's my mess," muttered Perry, at once gratified by his father's apparent acceptance of his words, and disgusted with himself for losing control. "It's my mess and I'll clean it up."

Vance lifted his head slowly and studied his son. "Are you admitting to having a hand in Craig's attack?"

Perry shifted in his chair and the leather squeaked. "Indirectly, yes. But I'm already taking steps to remedy it. I'm going to look after things right away."

Vance leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk. "I'll leave you to it on one condition."

"Yes?"

"Nobody else gets hurt. I've had enough of it. I won't stand for anymore."

Perry stood and walked slowly to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and said over his shoulder, "It's a little late to get sentimental now, wouldn't you say?" He let a small smile curl his lips. "And don't forget, I'm not the only one with a little blood staining my fingers."

"I never touched anyone," whispered his father. "Yes, I know," sneered Perry. "But that wouldn't go far in a court of law, would it?" Vance's face fell at the grim reminder. He almost looked like he might be sick, and Perry gloried in that. "Whether you like it or not, we're in this together. All of us. If one goes down we all do. And I don't think you're any more ready to let that happen than I am." With that he stepped outside and closed the

door behind him. He hurried down the hall, and quietly scolded himself. The entire Craig fiasco had been a mistake. He admitted that now. It had been a stupid plan borne of too much booze, too much bitterness, and too little self-control. His father was partly right. He had wanted to hurt Sloan-Sloan, Perry's handsome, popular, successful antithesis. The man who had stolen his brother.

He had seen an opportunity to make his brother's best friend suffer. That much was true, but that wasn't all of it. Not nearly. He had another, much more compelling reason for his actions. It had seemed so simple at the time, viewed through a beer-induced haze, but he hadn't considered all the consequences. That wasn't like him, and he intended to remedy the situation.

"Is there any more?" asked Sloan. He heard the slur in his voice, but wasn't sure if it was due to booze or fatigue. He'd only had two beers. Maybe. Troy stood and sauntered to his fridge, his gait only marginally unsteady. He pulled open the door and peered inside. "Uh...yup. There's beer, some leftover Riesling from a dinner party we had last week, vodka in the freezer, whiskey and more liqueurs than you can shake a stick at in the liquor cabinet."

"Why would I want to shake a stick at a bottle of Bailey's?" asked Sloan.

Troy lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. "Damned if I know. You're the expert on words and idioms and all that shit."

Sloan dropped his gaze to his empty glass. "Funny, but I don't feel like an expert right now. Not on words. Or women. Or much of anything."

Troy plunked another beer down in front of him. "Do I detect a note of self-pity?"

Sloan shrugged and twisted off the top. He decided to forego formality and took a long pull directly from the bottle.

"It's not your fault," ventured Troy.

"What? Craig? You think I blame myself for what happened to him?"

"Do you?"

Sloan stood and walked to the patio doors so he wouldn't have to face Troy's scrutiny. "Maybe. A

little. If I hadn't brought him here he wouldn't be in ICU, would he?" "No. But he might have gotten mugged in LA. Would it be your fault then for not bringing him here?" Despite his sour mood Sloan felt a grin tickle at his lips. Or maybe it was the beer. "You do the fatherhood thing pretty good." To his surprise Troy didn't smile. "Yeah, well, I try." He lifted his own bottle of beer, but then set it down again without putting it to his lips. "Speaking of fathers, is Craig's family on their way?"

That question ripped away Sloan's smile like a child tears gold paper off a Christmas present. He returned his gaze to the gray-shrouded landscape. The thunderheads were building-ominous, dark clouds swelling with their burden of moisture and energy. Soon a thunderstorm would rumble its way across the heavens battering plant life and sending children screaming to their parents' beds. He used to love thunderstorms for that very reason, for the comfort and security of being nestled in between his parents under a cozy blanket, safe and sound while the rest of the world fell apart around him. But those memories were as distant and misty as the western horizon. Now it seemed like the world fell apart on a daily basis, and there was no one left to keep him safe.

"Sloan?" prodded Troy. "Did you hear me?"

"No. They're not coming."

"What?" Troy sounded incredulous. "Why not? Don't they care? I thought he said they were close

and-"

"I didn't call them."

Sloan could feel Troy's eyes on him like Superman's x-ray vision. "Why not?"

"Because he's going to be fine. You don't know his mother. She'd worry the warts off a frog. There's