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corridor to his suite, he forgot her, his thoughts centering wholly on Hattie Morgan, dominating them as she had once dominated him. But no more. That had ended long ago.
    Or had it? A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he realized that again she had commanded him to appear and he had obeyed the summons. This time, however, it had been voluntary. He had to find out what had brought her to San Francisco. He’d always believed that nothing short of death would ever persuade her to leave Morgan’s Walk. Obviously he was wrong.
    He inserted the key in the lock and gave it a turn. When he opened the door, he heard the soft music playing in the background, the soothing symphony of strings, like the lights left burning in the sitting room, courtesy of the night chambermaid. Stepping inside, Chance closed the door behind him and started to slip the room key into his pocket, then checked the movement.
    Hattie sat in the room’s wing chair, facing the door—and Chance. His glance skimmed her, taking in the mink-trimmed traveling suit from another era and the sensible low-heeled shoes on her feet. The blue-white of her short hair lay in soft waves about her face. At first glance, she looked like everybody’s favorite aunt, but a closer look revealed the stiffness of her spine, the unbending set of her shoulders, and the gloved hand that gripped the handle of her cane like a royal scepter.
    â€œYou’re late.” It was more a condemnation than disapproval that threaded through her husky voice.
    â€œSo I am.” A muscle flexed along his jaw as Chance remembered the eight-year-old boy who had once winced from the lash of her tongue, confused by the venom in it and the hatred that burned so blackly in her eyes. He glanced at the companion chair, angled to face Hattie’s, then moved away from it, walking over to the suite’s small bar. “It’s obvious I’ll need to have a talk with the concierge about letting strange women into my room.” He picked up a decanter of brandy and splashed some in a snifter. “How did you manage it, Hattie? Did you convince him you were my sweet old aunt?” Chance mocked cynically as he scooped up the glass, cradling its round bowl in his hand.
    â€œIt was much simpler than that,” she retorted. “I merely bribed the chambermaid to let me in. I’ve never had to resort to lies to get what I want. I’m not a Stuart.”
    He smiled at the gibe, feeling no amusement at all, only a cold anger as he wandered over to stand nearer to the room’s center. “You have yet to tell me, Hattie: to what do I owe the displeasure of your visit?”
    With satisfaction, he watched her lips tighten into an even thinner line. “You’re very confident, aren’t you?” she observed. “You think I have no choice but to leave Morgan’s Walk to you.”
    â€œIt galls you, doesn’t it?—the thought of Morgan Walk passing into the hands of a Stuart. But you’re bound by the conditions set down in your own inheritance of the land. On your death, it must pass to a blood relative. If there is none, then it all becomes the property of the state of Oklahoma. But that condition doesn’t come into play, does it?” Chance paused, taking a short sip of the brandy and letting its smooth fire coat his tongue. “It’s a pity you didn’t have children of your own, Hattie. Then you wouldn’t be faced with leaving it all to a nephew you despise.”
    But both of them knew that she had never been able to have children as a result of injuries received in a riding accident in her youth. He had a dim memory of an argument between his father and Hattie. In it, his father had shouted obscenities at her and taunted that she was only half a woman, twisted with jealously and bitterness because she would never have a child born of her flesh. It wasn’t until he was much older that he knew what