I gazed out at the rolling hillocks, inhaled deep lungfuls of freshly mowed grass-the smell so lush and...verdant, so green, that I could close my eyes and see the colour growing brighter and brighter with each new breath. Fields in an endless stretch, as far as I could see, with a blue wedge of hills slicing along the horizon and long ribbons of white fencing winding down the endless stretch of country road.

Tipping up my glasses, I stretched my arm along the open window and smiled. Too long since my last visit and God, how I'd missed it.

Next to me, Tristan thumbed through his phone, eyes glued to emails, as he had been for most of the flight, on his laptop. Avoidance, an obvious and predictable manoeuvre in place of sulking, Tristan instead was burying his head in his work. Reaching for his phone, I snatched it out his hands.

"Hey!" he snapped, swiping for it.

"Enough," I warned, let it dangle between my fingertips, arm outstretched beyond the vehicle. "Limit yourself to three hours, Shade. One hour intervals for morning, noon and night, understood? You've maxed your morning quotient and then some for today."

"I don't recall you having the authority to stipulate those sort of conditions."

"My week, my rules." I gave the phone another little wiggle and watched the thin line of his lips practically disappear altogether. His eyes obscured behind copper-tinted lenses reflective as a mirror showing only small duplicates of my smirking face.

"Fine. Provided I get two hours in the evening and there are no immediate and pressing matters that require priority and immediate attention."

I pulled my arm back in to the car, pressed a finger to the small flat button, shutting his phone off.

"Deal." Handing it back to him, Tristan tucked the phone away into the back pocket of his jeans and settled back into the leather seating of the chauffeured sedan.

"You should have allowed me to at least make the travel preparations," he said after some time.

"Is there something wrong with the jet I procured? Or the chauffeured car service?" I asked sweetly, batting my eyes.

"No, only that...I fly often enough with Netjets to know the cost and...I'm used to overseeing these things."

"You mean footing the bill."

"Well...yes."

I laughed at that, pulling out the elastic from my hair, I gave my auburn waves a shake in the breeze, letting the wind lift and tousle and tease. "Not a chance, stud. You're rolling with a woman of financial means. Get used to it."

He grumbled something but not loud enough for me to make out, and truthfully I didn't give a damn. He'd said during out first dinner together all those weeks ago that he was done with the dainty and demure and wanted an equal; I was going to make sure by the end of the week he recognized I was all that, and more.

Why should a man always be the one to fork out, anyways? I had money. Plenty of it. One of the reasons I knew we were so good together-as he'd also pointed out-was that both of us were settled and established in our respective wealth. And while yes, arguably, he did have more, I wasn't far behind and therefore wasn't dazzled or impressed or attracted to his bank account. Money was money, and when we died there was no taking it with us.

This little trip proved to me that Tristan wasn't accustomed to a woman whipping out her wallet to go Dutch, or God forbid, cover the tab. And I wasn't the sort to sit back and allow a man to always pay the way. I wanted him to see and understand that I was capable of not only standing on my own, but taking control, that he could trust me to be there as more than a woman in the wings. Love was about more than compromise, but selflessness.

Enjoying the rest of the drive, by the time we reached the main house, my stomach was beginning to grumble. During our predawn flight we'd enjoyed fresh coffee and fresher pastries, but now I was in need of something more substantial and hoped that we weren't too late for a good, hearty breakfast. The car pulled to a stop at the end of the curved drive and the chauffeur hopped out, opening my side door first. I stepped out into that wash of dazzling morning light, the whispered sway of trees hissing with each stroke of warm breeze, casting shadows to dance and stretch across lawn, drive and the white walls of the Ronin Estate, a grand Georgian colonial boasting towering columns and copper roof.

Memories of hot summers and dusty hay rolled over me and I smiled, giddy as a child, to be back home. For this had always been home to me, not the family brownstone in Manhattan or the house in the Hamptons, but here. Surrounded by open sky, rolling pastures and the distant call of horses.

"Take our bags to the guest house," I told the driver, shielding my eyes from the glare. "Mrs. Reid should be there to collect them."

"Sure thing," he answered with a tip of his head and was back in the car, pulling out into the drive.

"So, this is it." Tristan stood next to me, head cocked and taking it all in. "Smaller than I would have thought."

"Dad bought this place before I was born. Was built in the eighties but he wanted something that looked...older. More traditional but still grand."

He nodded solemnly at that, then pulled his shades from his face allowing me the first glimpse of his eyes all morning. They were thick as clouds rolling in, blocking the sun but still allowing light to push through. Reaching out, he threaded his fingers with mine.

"Shall we?"

We crossed the lawn to the front door, found it opened and entered into the main foyer, facing a grand staircase lined in expensive beige carpeting laid over rich, dark wood.

Voices spilled out, a thick cloud and rolling with laughter. A few seconds later and bodies poured out.

"Laura," a smiling voice sang, and my heart kicked as I saw the kindly, old face it belonged to. Steel grey hair was swept atop a round head and she waddled on short little legs forced to bear the generous weight of her body.

"Mama Pat." I flew to her, and we clashed in a tangle of arms for a fierce, loving hug.

"Oh, darling, darling girl!" For a little thing she was strong and arched back until my feet barely grazed the flooring. "Look at you? Bless my soul, you're more lovely then when I last clapped eyes on you." Small fists set to generous hips. "I was just saying to your father how I've been missing you so. A whole year," she swatted my arm. "Shameful for you to have been gone all this time, but you're here now so I'll be forgiving you, as always." Her rambling stilled and her face, all plump and flush with colour, slackened at the sight of Tristan by the doorway.

"Bless my socks," she whispered. "I didn't expect-that is...well," she brushed her hands across her hair, her blouse then marched on over to take one of his in both of hers. "How do you do, young man. Lovely to meet you, such a joy. Such a pleasure."

"Without a doubt," Tristan beamed the most radiant smile I'd ever seen cross his face, then bowed to genially kiss the back of that pudgy little hand until the apples of Pat's cheeks were red as a Cardinal's wings.

"Oh, dear, dear me," she giggled, hand pressed to her plump bosom, voice thickening with a southern drawl. "Why Rhett, I do declare."

"Is dad around?" I asked, unwinding my scarf.

"With the horses of course." Pat slid her arm into Tristan's, adoring eyes turning to mine. "The rest of the family is just about to sit down to brunch in the dining room. Come on, let's get a decent meal into you. Must be starved."

She led him off and I followed close behind, lips pressed tight together to mask the smile. I had to give Tristan his dues for never once wavering, ever the gallant gentleman who graciously entertained Miss Pat's doting affection with charisma and style. The dinning room swelled with voices and faces, young and old. Many of whom I hadn't seen in a year or more. Daphne and her trio of boys, the youngest two were wrestling on the broadloom area rug with their father, David, wading in between them.

Cousin Niobe and her fiancé, Samuel Russell, celebrated actor and heartthrob, Aunt Maureen and Uncle Gale, my brother Collin and his son Nate all congregated around the delicious spread covering the large table. My heart clenched at the sight of my teenage nephew. His hair a dishevelled mop of faded blue, the roots three inches of dishwater blonde.

The tangle of noise broke as we entered, Tristan and Pat, first, and myself close behind. Those eyes and faces and smiles redirected to us.

"I was wondering when you'd finally get here," Collin said, a flood of relief washing some colour into his pale cheeks, making the white wings over his ears all the more pronounced against the brassy red. He swooped in to me, caught me in fierce, fast hug that threatened to pop the vertebrae in my spine. Then he turned, and before Tristan had a moment to process, caught him in a rib-cracker, as well.

"Great to finally meet the mysterious Tristan Shade." Collin pulled back, slapped a companionable hand on Tristan's shoulder. "My sister has been inordinately lip-locked over you."

"Oh, let the man get in the room." Pat playfully swatted him aside. "He deserves a plate of my famous cooking before the inquisition. Come, come," she tugged him along and Collin stayed by my side, smiling in his wake.

"Seriously, sis. Thank you for making the trip."

"I don't see the wicked witch anywhere."

"Thank god for that," Collin whispered. "She'll be gracing us with her horrible presence later in the week. Nate, Nate, come here a sec." He swung out a hand, and gestured for his son. Making no show of hiding his aggravation, Nathanial rolled his eyes and dragged his feet with every step. Hands thrust into pockets of shredded denim, he lanced me with blazing brown eyes, full of contempt and daring.

"'Sup," he muttered.

"Nathanial."

"Nate," he corrected hotly. "Only mom calls me that cause she knows I hate it."

"Alright, Nate. How are you? Heard you've been having a rough time."

Those hot, angry eyes slid to his father. It didn't take long for Collin's blue ones to drop. "Uh-huh."

"I'll...uh-should probably..." Collin meandered off, shoulders hunched and I could only shake my head at his retreat. Typical. My darling brother had never been one for confrontation.

"You shouldn't be so hard on him," I said, leaning against the jamb. "He means well."

"He should mind his own fucking business," Nate spat under his breath.

"Probably," I agreed. "But as your father I guess he's entitled to cross certain boundaries. He wants me to talk to you, feel you out."

"You can fuck off, too."

"I could. And will, if that's what you really want." I crossed my arms and held his gaze until his softened and lost their edge. He wasn't used to being met head on like this, I could tell and was why I'd opted for the direct and obvious instead of the passive and underhanded.

He was old enough and deserved frank honesty, to see my hand splayed on the table instead of folded in my lap with secrecy. Nathanial may still be a child in the eyes of the world, but I could see there was very little of the child left in those eyes of his. Something was wrong. Something more than drugs and divorce. And I would never know what unless I convinced him to trust me enough to share. I looped an arm around his shoulder and though he stiffened at my touch, he didn't pull away and I had to consider that was a victory, in itself.

"Enough of the bullshit. Let's eat."