He sprawled naked across the vast bed, abandoning himself to the unaccustomed luxury of clean cotton sheets, plump goose down pillows, and a firm, springy mattress. Years of sleeping in pup tents and on the hard ground had made him appreciative of such simple pleasures.

The scent of lemon groves and the sound of the sea drifted through the balcony doors of the bedroom. The shadows shifted as the sun rose higher, and he gradually felt its warm rays slanting through the windows and fanning across his face, urging him to rise up and seize the day.

His black lashes fluttered as he considered opening his eyes. He hadn't really been asleep, the sweet oblivion of sleep still eluding him for the most part. Instead, he floated in a vague fog of semi-consciousness, too restless to sleep, too exhausted to fully awaken.

Drowsily, he pondered his options. He could get up and call the clinic--assuming the phones worked today; he could get up and close the shutters; or he could just roll over.

He sighed and rolled over. He kicked away the sheet and soaked up the soothing heat of the Mediterranean sunshine as it spilled across the bed. The bedroom windows faced north, so the intrusion of the sun meant it must be around noon. He sighed again, opened his eyes, and stared at the ornately carved baroque dresser occupying the far wall.

Around noon. Maybe he should get up.

He was usually an early riser, up and active by dawn. But that was before he'd awoken one morning halfway around the world from here to find his little sister hovering in the void between life and death. That was before she'd clawed her nails down his cheek when he told her he'd made arrangements for her to go to a treatment center.

He rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling, feeling all the pain welling up inside him again, hot and raw. Lisa, forgive me. It's what someone should have done for my mother, it's what I had to do for you.

Anger pulsed inside him, too. Damn their father, damn Lisa's own mother! Why was it left up to him to take charge again?

He threw a darkly tanned forearm across his eyes, willing the hurt to go away, but knowing it wouldn't. He swallowed back his bitterness with effort. After all, why should things be any different this time?

It never changed. He had seen it his whole life. His mother, his father, his stepmother, Lisa, and the people around them had all paid an insanely high price for the dubious benefits of fame. He must have been crazy to have considered, however tentatively, going back to the States for good this time.

He had gone through hell in Los Angeles, waiting for the verdict on his sister's life, then making his own verdict on her future. And so, needing to heal, needing to curl up and lick his wounds in private, he had come here, to his mother's house on this quiet, sun-drenched Mediterranean island. The only serenity he could remember from his tumultuous childhood was wrapped up in this house, these vineyards, these olive and lemon groves. He had always been happy here, and even after his mother's death, it had continued to be a place of healing and contentment for him, a place he could come to replenish his strength.

The phone rang shrilly, making his body jerk in surprise.

"Glory be, the phones work," he muttered. Now who could be calling? Anyone on the island who wanted to talk to him would simply knock on his door.

Lisa. With fear clutching at his belly, he reached for the receiver. "Hello?" He blinked, remembering he was in Italy, and amended, "Pronto?" His voice sounded thick and fuzzy.

"Don't tell me I woke you!" came his brother's voice, crackling and muffled, all the way from New York. "It must be past noon there!"

He rubbed his eyes and said blandly, "Hi, Vince." He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Yeah, just past noon."

"You don't sound so good, Roe." There was a slight pause, then Vince continued in a different tone. "I heard about your sister. I'm so sorry. How's she doing?"

Ten years older than Roe's thirty-four, Vince had been born to the same mother, though he was from her first marriage and Roe from her second. A dozen years younger than Roe, Lisa was the daughter of Roe's father, from his second marriage. Though Roe maintained sporadic contact with both his siblings, Vince and Lisa had only met a couple of times over the years.

"How's she doing?" Roe repeated. "Just great. She nearly killed herself with a combination of alcohol and cocaine, and now she's in a treatment center, hating me and swearing she'll never forgive me for this. I think that about covers it."

"You did what was best," Vince said, clearly meaning it.

"God knows my father wouldn't have had the guts to do it, even if he'd taken a few days off from his show in Vegas to come see her in the hospital in L.A."

"He didn't even go to see her?"

"No. Sent his regrets and a few dozen roses." Roe's voice was desert dry. "And as for Candy..." Roe rolled his eyes as he referred to Lisa's mother, actress Candice Jirrell. "We'd probably all have been better off if Candy hadn't turned up. When I left, she was busy telling half of Hollywood how I had forced her to send her baby to some clinic."

"Did you force her?"

Roe shifted on the bed. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I'm glad you took charge, Roe. I've seen this coming for years."

Roe grimaced and closed his eyes. "No wonder I never go home," he mumbled. His first trip to Los Angeles in three years had been intended as a vacation, a chance to visit with his sister while he decided whether or not he wanted to move back to the States. Within days it had turned into his worst nightmare, a reprise of his mother's death, and he had barely stopped it in time.

"You are home," Vince reminded him.

"Yeah," Roe said after a moment. "You're right. Sontara is home." He frowned. "How'd you know I was here?" He'd flown from Nairobi to L.A. nearly two weeks earlier. Lisa overdosed within three days of his arrival, before he'd even called Vince to let him know he was in the States. He had spent several more days at the hospital, making difficult decisions. After that, he had spent a full day at the clinic, stoically bearing his sister's venom, then flown out again. Pausing only long enough to change planes, he'd caught a flight from New York to Palermo, the capital city of Sicily, then finally taken the ferry from Trápani to Sontara. "I didn't tell anyone except the administrators at the clinic where I was going."

"I didn't know," Vince admitted. "I called Zu Aspanu, and he told me you were there on the island."

Roe pulled himself up to a sitting position, wondering why Vince had called their uncle. They both knew the old man hated telephones and had only had one installed because their mother, his adored sister, had insisted on it years ago. And phone service on Sontara was so unreliable anyhow that all but the most important messages were sent by letter. "You called Zu Aspanu this morning?" he asked uneasily.

"Yes."

"And now you're calling me. Is it bad news?"

"No, no, of course not." Vince hesitated. "Not really." He drew a breath. "Not necessarily."

"Go on." They might go years without seeing each other, and they might come from a bizarrely disjointed family, but their Sicilian mother had instilled certain values in them that they could never forget. Vince was his brother, and if he had some kind of problem, Roe would do anything in the world to help him.

"It's that gastritis I was having last year," Vince began. "Now don't get crazy on me, but it turns out it's not gastritis after all."

"It's your heart?" Roe guessed quickly.

"Yes. I've already made one trip to the emergency room, and considering my heredity ... Well, the doctors want to do some surgery. I don't want you to worry, though."