Too Close to the Sun by Diana Dempsey Page A

passenger
seat. His mother was mad at him, so mad she was barely speaking,
but he didn't doubt he could get her past it. A little mea culpa, a
little charm, a little attention, and she would forgive him. He had
a way with women, always had, and his mother was no exception.
    He nosed the Mercedes into a parking space
and killed the engine. "I'm glad you let me drive you to the
hospital," he told her. "I am seriously jet-lagged but I appreciate
that you let me do this for you."
    "Maximilian Winsted, do not say another word
to me," and all of a sudden his mother's hand gripped his thigh
with a force that made him wince. "I am neither as stupid nor as
gullible as you seem to think."
    He pried her fingers off his thigh. Geez, had
she been lifting weights or what? "Mom, you're the smartest woman I
know. I have the utmost respect for you."
    "I cannot take any more of your bullshit,"
she declared, then climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and
headed for the hospital entrance without him.
    Max sat still, shocked. His mother never
swore. The worst that ever came out of her was Damn! or some
mild variation thereof. For a second he considered just waiting for
her in the car, then thought better of it.
    No, he had to get back on her good side. The
last thing he wanted was to be living with and working alongside a
moody female, though that pretty much defined the breed. Life would
be a great deal more pleasant if she wasn't down his throat
constantly.
    He sighed, then heaved himself out of the car
and went after her. How she could make a federal case out of his
failure to appear at her party was beyond him. Then again, she'd
always been obsessed with trivialities: clothes, decor, the finer
points of etiquette. He could never make her understand that the
party hadn't really been for him, anyway. It had been for her —her opportunity to show off, to play the lady of the
manor. He was just the excuse. But he'd never known her to
exhibit that degree of self-awareness.
    Max forced himself through the sliding glass
doors and into the reception area. He hated hospitals. They stank,
they were depressing, and they reminded him of when his dad was
sick after the stroke. When that was going on, Max felt like he
lived in the hospital. This very one, actually. And once he didn't
have to go to the hospital anymore—well, that wasn't good,
either.
    He found the intensive care unit. A tall
blond guy in a tux whom Max didn't recognize was standing outside
the door looking through its narrow rectangular window.
    "Hello," Max said, guessing from the black
tie that this was someone from the party. The guy spun around and
Max held out his hand. "Max Winsted. Are you here for Cosimo
DeLuca, too?"
    "Yes, I am." They shook. "Will Henley. Good
to meet you."
    Max didn't know the name. He started to reach
for the door handle but Henley stopped him.
    "You can't go in there right now. They're
letting in only two at a time and your mother's in with Gabby
DeLuca."
    "Right." The winemaker's daughter. Always had
been kind of a babe. Max stepped back from the door. "What have you
been told about Mr. DeLuca's prognosis?"
    Henley stared at him for a moment, as if he
was trying to decide how much to divulge. "Well," he said
eventually, "the doctors gave him a clot-dissolving drug and the
early indications are that it's working. But he's not out of the
woods yet. The first twenty-four hours will be critical."
    Max nodded. Truth be told, he wasn't all that
interested in the medical details. Then another thought struck him.
"Are you the person who called my mother a while back to say it was
a heart attack?"
    "Yes, I am."
    Who was this Will Henley? Max
wondered. Was he new to the valley? Something about him made
Max think he had his shit in gear. Max was about to ask a few
probing questions when his mother emerged from the ICU, pulling a
doctor mask down from her face. Right behind her came Gabby DeLuca,
doing the same thing.
    Max didn't know what it was—Gabby's