“You’re not getting your phone,” Cal said. “You’ve had a heart attack, you geezer.”

George’s white brows dropped so low they threatened to cover his eyes completely. “Get this man out of my room.”

Cal shot the nurse a grin. “I’m the son. Lucky me, eh? I’ll try and get him to behave.” She unwrapped the cuff and shot him a sympathetic glance before leaving the room. “They don’t like you,” Cal said. “You’re being a twat.”

“What are you doing here? Come to dance on my grave, have you?”

“No, I’m a terrible dancer. No rhythm at all. I probably get that from your side of the family. And you’re not dying. Yet. But keep it up with the yelling and the threats, and you’ll be stuck here for days. Is that what you want?”

Screwing up his lips, causing deep wrinkles to pucker around his mouth, George looked out the window. “Don’t know why you care. No one invited you here.”

“Not strictly true. Jules asked me to come with her.”

George placed his hands on the guardrails. “If you’re here to suck up, you’re in for a rude surprise. You’re not even in the will, you know.” He glanced back at Cal with an expression as icy as his tone.

Like Cal gave a toss. “And here I thought Pixie was the dramatic one. Listen, Jules has been worried sick. Tara’s nerves are shot. They’re worried about you. Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Why should I trust a layabout like you?”

Cal shifted his weight onto one foot. “Because you and I have something in common.”

“What, our last names? I’m not even one hundred percent certain you’re really mine. Your mother wasn’t faithful, you know.”

“Ooo, nice. Come on. Get them all out of your system.” George remained quiet. “I’m talking about our fondness for Juliette.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for showing up here and doing your duty?”

Cal leaned both hands on the footboard. “God, no. That would ruin our delightful dynamic. I just want you to calm down, leave work to your assistants, and get better. And do stop yelling for your mobile. It’s not happening.” Cal moved around the IV drip and opened the table drawer, removing a pad of paper and a pen.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” George watched Cal’s movements. “Seeing me weak like this.”

Cal rolled his eyes. “Not really. I don’t hate you. I’m not wild about you, either, so don’t go crazy.”

George snorted. “The feeling’s entirely mutual.”

So they didn’t hate each other. Not exactly a touching moment, but Cal would take it.

“See to Juliette’s court date,” George said. “Call my secretary and have her reschedule my appointments. Tell her to prioritize anything pressing and pass it off accordingly.” He continued to rattle off a long, detailed list, and Cal wrote it down. “Did you get that? It’s all important.”

“I’ve got it.” Cal stood and shoved the list in his pocket. “I promise you, I’ll take care of it.” He turned to leave, but George’s voice made him retrace his steps.

“Calum, I might need a nurse when I get out of here. I don’t want Tara taking care of me. That’s not how it’s meant to work. Find someone qualified. It’ll put her mind at ease.”

“I’ll find the best nurse in Beverly Hills.”

George sighed. “Perhaps you’re not as useless as you look.”

Cal threw back his head and laughed. “That’s possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He patted his father’s foot. “Get some rest.”

* * *

The day had passed so slowly. Throughout the afternoon, he made tea runs and spoke three times to his father’s secretary. Competent woman. Emotionless. The perfect match for George Hughes.

Now Cal stood by the window, staring down at the dark street below. Not many cars at this time of night. In the window’s reflection, he watched Jules stir. She opened her eyes and rubbed her neck.

“Any news?” she asked.

“No. Why don’t you let me call for your driver? You and your mother should go home and get some sleep. Real sleep. You’ll feel better for it.”

“No, I don’t want to leave.”

He understood her reluctance. Cal had never left Babcock. Not for one day. Near the end, he’d been terrified to leave her side, afraid she’d die without him there. Cal hadn’t wanted to sit at her bedside, vigilant, waiting for the end. It had been agonizing, yet he’d done it. He’d held her hand in the final moments. Maybe that had given her a bit of solace. He liked to think so anyway.

Jules came to stand next to him, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. “He’s going to be fine.”

“He’s been so stressed since my arrest,” she said.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jules. You heard the doctor say a lifetime of unhealthy habits was most likely the cause.”

“Still, I didn’t help.” She flung an arm around his waist. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to plead guilty to the drink-driving charge. Take responsibility for my actions and whatnot. Monica turned her life around—so can I.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Of course you can. You could rule the world, if you set your mind to it.”

“Maybe I’ll become world empress tomorrow. For right now, I’m going to stretch my legs a bit. Do you fancy a coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jules held out her hand, palm up. “Money?”

He snagged a bill from his wallet. “I want change.”

“I want bigger tits. What’s your point?” She walked out of the waiting room and disappeared down a corridor.

A few minutes later, Tara stirred, and her eyes flickered open. She glanced around, then she blinked, owl-like, at Cal. “Where’s Jules?” Her accent was working-class plastered over with new money and willpower, but occasionally her roots came through, like now. At first it had surprised him, his father’s choice of a trophy wife, but when Cal stopped to think about it, he realized Tara’s father was extremely wealthy. That made up for a lot. Even for a snob like George Hughes.

“She went for coffee.”

“Thank you, Calum, for being here. I don’t know what we’d have done without you today.”

“Of course.” Over the last twenty-one years, Cal had barely spoken more than a few dozen words to the woman. Her job as Father’s wife was purely decorative, but she seemed to care deeply about the old man.

“Did you tell your mother about George?” she asked, a little too casually.

“No, not yet.”

“He refuses to speak of her, you know. I’ve always wondered why he married her in the first place.” Tara realized she’d blundered, and her cheeks burned bright. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Cal sat across from her. “I’ve often wondered the same thing. They have absolutely nothing in common.”

“They have you,” she said.

“You know Father’s opinion of me.” How Cal was an uneducated wastrel who’d never amount to anything. He couldn’t really argue with that assessment. After all, what had he contributed? Making the world a better place, one restored car at a time? Hardly life-changing.

Perhaps Monica Campbell and her charitable ways were rubbing off on him. Cal admired Monica’s drive, the fact that she’d gotten her life in order when she had fallen pregnant. That one still gutted him. That she’d gone through that pain and kept it locked away inside of her. Everything made sense now—her complete transformation. He finally got it.

Tara leaned forward and shyly touched his knee. “For what it’s worth, Calum, George is wrong about you. He always has been. You’ve got such a good heart, and you adore Juliette. It’s never been my place, but I’ve tried to turn him around.”

Cal’s smile felt twisted, bitter. “No worries. Father can have his opinion. I’ve never let it bother me.” Huh, and he’d accused Monica of being a liar. Of course it bothered him. Hurt like bloody hell.

Pix had been an unconventional mother, but she loved him utterly. Although limited in her capacity for feeling empathy, she was great fun, just not terribly useful in a crisis. Between his parents, Pix came out on top. She may have dragged him from pillar to post, but having Pixie Hughes as a mother wasn’t so bad, in the scheme of things.