Linc signaled to the bartender for another glass of whiskey before frowning down at Tate. “Please do not mention sexual attraction and my sister in the same sentence,” he growled.
“She’s all grown-up.” Tate pointed out the obvious, and his frown deepened.
“Not helping, honey.” Linc nodded his thanks at the bartender and took a fortifying sip of his drink. Staring down into the liquid that was the same color as Tate’s eyes, he shook his head. “God, that’s going to end badly.”
“Tyce and Sage?” Tate clarified.
“Yeah. I’d hoped they were over, but any fool can see that they aren’t done with each other. And what did he mean by that your-family-hurting-mine comment?”
“A business deal that went south? A party invitation that wasn’t sent? His grandmother had an affair with your grandfather?”
Linc rolled his eyes. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. No, Latimore doesn’t come from family money. He’s got to where he is by his own hard work.”
“And you admire that.”
“I do,” Linc reluctantly admitted. “And I worry about the fact that Sage is so much wealthier than him.”
Tate tipped her head to the side. “Does it bother you that you are so much wealthier than I am?” she asked him.
“No, that doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Linc said brusquely, wondering if he should feel insulted.
“Then why do you assume that it’s a problem for him?” Tate asked. “The reality is that most men would be less wealthy than your sister. She could probably buy a small third-world country.”
Linc smiled, acknowledging her point. “Only a small one, she wouldn’t be greedy,” he replied, only half joking.
“For what it’s worth, I like him,” Tate stated, crossing one leg over the other and revealing a very silky thigh. It took Linc thirty seconds to get his head out of the bedroom and to register Tate’s words.
Jealousy, acid and unwelcome, flared. “You and the rest of the female population of the city,” he groused. “He’s said to be one of the best-looking and most talented bachelors in Manhattan.”
“He is a fabulous artist,” Tate agreed. “His sculptures are amazing.”
“That’s not the talent I was referring to,” Linc said, his voice desert dry.
Instead of blushing, Tate erupted into laughter. When she could speak, she looked at him with mirth-filled eyes. “Oh, lucky, lucky Sage.”
“Dammit, Tate!” Linc muttered, scowling into his drink.
Seeing his ferocious expression, her mouth quirked with amusement, and she lifted her hand in a placating gesture. Funny, he wasn’t placated.
“His, um, talents aside, Tyce is a very good-looking man. He has a blinding smile, and his mixed heritage has resulted in a very, very sexy face. His body isn’t too bad, either.”
Linc groaned. “God, shoot me now.”
“But he has sad eyes, and behind the charm and the charisma, I sense a man who hasn’t had it easy. He has demons nipping at his heels,” Tate stated, her tone now serious.
Linc wanted to believe that Latimore had all the depth of a puddle, so he wasn’t happy with her pronouncement. Then again, nothing about this conversation made him happy. Especially Tate’s comments on how attractive she found his sister’s ex. “And you can tell this, how?”
Tate sipped her champagne. “Call it woman’s intuition.”
God, he hated those airy explanations, those inexplicable feelings women got that allowed them to make major assumptions on minimal information. But the hell of it was that he couldn’t discount her pronouncement. Still, where Tate saw sadness, he saw danger, and he was worried that Sage was part of whatever game Tyce was playing.
Because Tyce Latimore, he was convinced, was playing a very dangerous game with someone.
Reame’s hand gripping his shoulder pulled Linc out of his reverie. He sent his friend a weary smile, and when Reame’s eyes remained serious, Linc frowned. Oh, crap. Something had happened. Something he didn’t want to hear.
“Can you leave?” Reame asked Linc. He gestured to Beck and Cady, who were cheek to cheek on the dance floor. “I know that we are celebrating Beck’s engagement, but we need to talk.”
Linc slapped his glass on the counter and nodded. Tate put a hand on Linc’s arm to hold him in place. “Is this about Kari? If it is, then I have the right to know.”
Linc caught the slight grimace that crossed Reame’s face. Linc knew that he wanted to tell him the news in private, so that they could discuss how to tell Tate... Dammit, this news would rock her world.
“Why don’t you join Jaeger and Piper, Tate? I’ll be back in a minute,” Linc suggested, keeping his voice ultracalm.
Her fingernails pushed into his hand like sharp little daggers. “Is it about Kari?” she demanded.
Reame nodded.
“Then I’m coming, too.” Tate shot Linc a hard look when he started to protest. “My sister, Linc, my problem. I am paying Reame’s bill, remember?”
Well, no, because he had no intention of letting her do that. But that was an argument for another day. Linc rubbed his jaw and, seeing the fiery determination in Tate’s eyes, realized that this was a fight he wasn’t going to win.
“I already called for your car,” Reame replied. “It’s waiting outside, and we’ll talk on our way to the airport.”
“We’re flying?” Linc asked, placing his hand on Tate’s lower back as he guided her out of the ballroom.
“Yeah, I called your pilot and told him to file a flight plan,” Reame explained, leading the way.
“So where are we going, Reame?” Tate asked, trying to keep the question light, but Linc heard the panic in her voice. “To a jail?” Her voice broke. “A rehab center? A hippy commune?”
Linc helped Tate into her thigh-length black woolen coat. Reame shook his head, his face somber. He looked at Linc, who nodded, silently telling him to get it over with.
Reame placed his hands on Tate’s shoulders. and released a heavy sigh. “No, Tate. You’re flying to Texas to a hospice about an hour north of Austin. Your sister is there.”
“At a hospice? Working there?” Tate asked, puzzled. “No, that can’t be right. Kari doesn’t do sick people. She wouldn’t be working there.”
Linc closed his eyes; he’d already made the connection that Tate hadn’t. He linked his fingers with hers and squeezed and waited until she looked at him. “Honey, Reame is trying to tell you that she’s in the hospice. As a patient.”
* * *
They were somewhere over Pennsylvania when Tate changed from her ball gown into soft jeans and a thigh-length, moss green jersey that Reame had had Amy pack for her. She scrubbed the makeup from her face and pulled the pins out of her elaborate hairstyle and brushed out the curls, pulling the heavy mess into a tight braid.
Her mind buzzing with both fear and shock, Tate walked back into the main cabin and took a seat opposite Linc, who’d changed into beige chinos and a black sweater over a black-and-white-check shirt. Jo was now back at The Den and watching the kids; Tate trusted her implicitly, and it was a relief not to worry about them. She could focus on Kari and her situation.
As Tate settled into the butter-soft leather chair opposite him, Linc sat up and pushed a glass in her direction. Tate picked up the glass, took a sip