Zachary lifted a shoulder. He was used to his old man’s theatrics and he really didn’t care what Witt did anymore. He and his father had never gotten along, and things had only become worse when Witt had divorced his first wife and eventually married a woman only seven years older than his oldest son, Jason, Zachary’s brother. Truth be known, Zach didn’t really want to be here, had only come because he was forced. He couldn’t wait to escape the smoky, loud ballroom filled with boring old people-suck-ups, every last one of them.

“Dad can’t keep his hands off Kat,” Trisha said, her voice slurring a little. “It’s obscene.” She took another swallow. “The lecherous old fart.”

“Careful, Trisha,” Jason said as he joined his brother and sister. “Dad probably had this place bugged.”

“Very funny,” Trisha said, tossing her long auburn hair over one shoulder. But she didn’t laugh. Her blue eyes were flat and bored and she continually scanned the crowd as if she were looking for something or someone.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You know half the people here would like to see the old man fall.”

“They’re his friends,” Trisha argued.

“And enemies.” Jason rested a hip against the piano as the band took a break. He watched his father, still holding London, playing the crowd, moving from one knot of bejeweled guests to the other, never once setting London on her feet.

“Who gives a shit?” Zachary asked.

“Always the rebel.” Jason smiled beneath his mustache, that know-it-all smile that bugged the hell out of Zach. Jason acted as if he knew everything. At twenty-three, Jason was already in law school and six years older than Zach, a point he never let his rebellious younger brother forget.

Zach tugged at the tight collar of his tuxedo shirt. He couldn’t stomach Jason any more than he could his sister, Trisha. They both cared too much about the old man and his bank accounts.