NANA WAS ALIVE. That's what mattered; it was all I cared about right now. But I did wonder why it was that when you lose someone, or are about to lose someone important to you, they become more precious than ever.

It was hell waiting for her to come back from tests at the hospital. I had to sit for hours in a sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor, while my mind ran through every possible worst-case scenario, a bad habit of mine from work. I tried to fill my head with memories of Nana, going all the way back to when I was ten and she had replaced my parents in life.

When they finally wheeled her out, it was a gift just to look into her eyes. She'd been unconscious when we arrived, and there had been no guarantee I would ever see her alive again.

But here she was, and she was talking.

"Gave you a little scare there, did I?" Her voice was weak and wheezy, and she looked even tinier than usual sitting up on the gurney, but she was alert.

"More than a little scare," I said. It was all I could do to keep from squeezing the life right back out of her. I settled for a lingering kiss on the cheek.

"Welcome back, old woman," I whispered in her ear – just to make her smile, which it did.

"Good to be back. Now, let's get out of here!"

ONCE WE GOT Nana settled – in a hospital bed – the cardiologist on call came in to meet with us. Her name was Dr. Englefield, and she looked about fifty, with a compassionate face but also the kind of professional detachment I've seen with a lot of specialists.

She worked off Nana's chart while she spoke.

"Mrs. Cross, your general diagnosis is congestive heart failure. Specifically, your heart isn't pumping enough blood into your system. That means you're not getting enough oxygen or nutrients, and that's most likely why you collapsed this morning."

Nana nodded, not showing any emotion. The first thing she asked was "How soon can I leave the hospital?"

"The average stay for something like this is four or five days. I'd like to adjust your blood pressure medication and see where we are in a few days."

"Oh, I'll be at home, Doctor. Where will you be?"

Englefield laughed politely, as if she thought Nana was joking. As soon as she was gone, though, Nana turned to me.

"You need to speak with someone else, Alex. I'm ready to go home."

"Is that so?" I asked, trying to keep it light.

"Yes, that's so." She wagged her hand, trying to shoo me out of the room. "Go on. Make it happen."

This was starting to get uncomfortable for me. I'd never called any shots for Nana before, and now, suddenly, I had to do just that.

"I think we should go with the doctor on this one," I said. "If a few nights in the hospital means we don't have to repeat this morning, then I'm all for it."

"You're not listening to me, Alex." Her voice had changed in a beat, and she grabbed my wrist. "I am not going to spend another day in a hospital bed, do you hear me? I refuse. It's my right to do so."

"Nana -"

"No!" She let go and pointed at me with a shaking finger. "I will not have that tone, either. Now, are you going to respect my wishes or not? I'll get right up and do it myself if I have to. You know I will, Alex."

It was an awful feeling, standing there on the other end of that finger of hers. Nana was insisting, but she was also pleading with me to listen to her wishes.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in so that my head was right next to hers. When I spoke, it was with my eyes closed.

"Nana, I need for you to get serious about this recovery. Slow down a few miles an hour here and let this happen. You must. So be smart." The latter was something that Nana had been saying to me since I was ten years old. Be smart.

It was totally quiet in the room except the sound of her leaning back against the pillow. When I opened my eyes, there were tears on her cheeks. "That's it, then? This is where I die?"

I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Later, I'd sleep in that same chair. "Nobody's dying in here tonight," I said.

TONY NICHOLSON WAS already anxious enough, crazed actually, and now he was running late, thanks to an overturned tractor-trailer on the way out of the city. By the time he reached Blacksmith Farms, it was just after 9:30 and his important guests were due in less than half an hour. Including a very special guest.

He stayed in his car and buzzed.

"Yes?" a woman's voice answered. Cultured. British. His assistant, Mary Claire.

"It's me, M.C."

"Good evening, Mr. Nicholson. You're a bit late." No shit, Sherlock, Nicholson thought but didn't say out loud.

The gate swung open and closed again behind his Cayman S as he pulled in.

The long driveway cut across nearly a mile of open field, then through a swath of forest, mostly hickory and oak, before coming out in view of the main house. Nicholson parked his Cayman in the old carriage barn and came in through the patio French doors.

"I'm here, I'm here. Sorry."

His hostess for the evening, a Trinidadian beauty by the name of Esther, was arranging leather guest folios on a Chippendale table in the foyer.

"Any issues for me?" he asked. "Any unanticipated problems for tonight?"

"None, Mr. Nicholson. Everything is perfect." Esther had a wonderfully serene manner that Nicholson loved.

It slowed him down right away. "The Bollinger is iced, we have the Flor de Farach coronas in the humidors, the girls are all beautiful and properly briefed, and you have" – she pulled a watch out of her pocket; there were no clocks in the house – " at least twenty minutes before our first guests are scheduled to arrive. They called ahead. They are right on time. They sound very… enthusiastic."

"Right, then. Excellent job. You know where to find me if you need me."

Nicholson made a quick pass through the first floor before heading upstairs. The foyer and lounges on this level evoked an English gentlemen's club more than anything, with their mahogany paneling, brass fixtures on the bars, and lots of ridiculously expensive antiques. It looked like the kind of place his father could have only dreamed of joining, given England 's obscene class system. Nicholson was a working-class Brighton boy by birth, but he'd left all of that dreary shit behind long ago. Here, he was king. Or at least a crown prince.

He took the main stairs up to the second floor, where several of the girls were already dressed and waiting for the first rush of guests, the "early buggers."

Stunningly beautiful girls, elegant and sexy, they sat chatting on the low sofas in the mezzanine, which also had comfortable floor cushions all around and layers of soft drapes that could be pulled for more or less privacy, depending on the desires of the party.

"Evening, ladies," he said, looking them over with an expert eye. "Yes, yes, very nice. You're all gorgeous. Perfect, every one of you, in every way."

"Thank you, Tony," one of them said a little louder than the others. This was Katherine, of course, whose gray blue eyes always lingered over his Nordic features a little longer than the others. She would have loved to have a go at the boss, and for all the wrong reasons, he understood. Like replacing his wife in his life.

Nicholson leaned down to whisper in her ear, fingering the hem of her white lace mini as he did. "A different dress, though, I think, Kat. Can't have the whores looking like whores, now, can we?"

He watched the beautiful girl struggle to keep the brilliant smile on her face – as if he'd just said something charming and sweet. Without another word, she got up and left the room. "I have to use the little girls' room," she whispered.