lackie O'Neill had a plan.

Now this plan vastly entertained him whenever he thought about it, which had been frequently in the last few days. He was mostly amused because he had never come up with a plan in his entire life.'

It had always been Emma who had had a plan. When she had been a little snippet of a girl in patched clothes and worn-out button boots, there had been her Plan with a capital P. That had been a plan so grand it had left no room for doubt, and when she had set it finally in motion, it had carried her away from Fairley and out into the wide world to seek her fame and fortune. Later she had devised innumerable other plans—for her first shop, her second, and her third; then she had created plans to acquire the Gregson Warehouse, the Fairley mills, and yet another for the creation of the Lady Hamilton line of fashions with David Kallinski. And of course there had been her Building Plan, which she tended to pronounce as if this, too, were capitalized. He had been very much a part of that most grandiose plan of all, drawing the architectural blueprints and building her enormous store in Knightsbridge. And this great edifice still stood, a proud testament to her most extraordinary achievements.

Yes, his Emma had lived with one kind of plan or another for as long as he had known her, and each one had been put into operation with determination and carried through with consummate skill in her inimitable way. And with every success she would give him a tiny smile of cold triumph and say, "You see, I told you it would work." He would throw back his head and roar and congratulate her and insist they celebrate, and her face would soften, and he knew that she was giddy with excitement inside, even if she did not really want to show it.

But he had never made a plan before.

In fact almost everything that had happened to Blackie O'Neill in his long life had been by sheer happenstance.

When he had first come over from Ireland as a young spalpeen, to work on the Leeds canals with his Uncle Pat, he had never imagined in his wildest fantasies that he would become a millionaire.many times over. Oh, he had boasted that he was going to be a rich "toff" to young Emma when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, but at that time it had seemed unlikely ever to come true. It had been something of an idle boast, and he had laughed at himself in secret. His boasting had proved not to be so idle after all.

Over the years Emma had ofen teased him and said that he had the luck of the Irish, and this was true in many respects. He had had to work hard; on the other hand he had also carried Lady Luck in his breast pocket, and great and good fortune had continually blessed him. There had been times of terrible sadness in his personal life and sorrow too. For one thing he had lost his lovely Laura far too young, but she had given him his son, and he considered Bryan to be his best bit of luck of all. As a child Bryan had been warm and loving, and they had stayed close, enjoyed a unique relationship to this day. Bryan had a shrewd, sharp brain, was inspired and fearless in business, a genius really, and together they had parlayed O'Neill Construction into one of the biggest and most important building companies in Europe. When Bryan's wife, Geraldine, had inherited two hotels from-her father, Leonard Ingham, it was Bryan who had had the foresight and brains to hang on to them. Those little hotels in Scarborough and Bridlington, catering to family holidaymakers, had become the nucleus for the great O'Neill chain, which was now an international concern and a public company trading on the London Stock Exchange.

But had Blackie planned all this? No, never. It had simply come about by chance, through the most marvelous serendipity. Of course he had been smart enough to recognize his train when it had come rolling through his station, and he had jumped on it with alacrity, and he had used every opportunity that presented itself to his advantage. In so doing he had, like Emma, created an empire and founded a dynasty of his own.

These thoughts ran through Blackie's head as he dressed for dinner, and he chuckled to himself from time to time as he contemplated his first Plan, also with a capital P. Not unnaturally it involved Emma, with whom he spent a great deal of time these days. He had decided to take her on a trip around the world. When he had first suggested this a few weeks ago, she had looked at him askance, scoffed at the idea, and told him she was far too busy and preoccupied with her affairs to go galavanting off on a holiday in foreign parts. His smooth Irish tongue and persuasive manner had seemingly had no effect. Nevertheless he had made up his mind to get his own way. After a great deal of thought and pacing of the floor racking his brains, he had devised a plan—and the key to it was Australia. Blackie knew that Emma secretly itched to go to Sydney, to see her grandson Philip McGill Amory, who was being trained to take over the vast McGill holdings. He was also aware that Emma had balked at the thought of the long and exhausting trip to the other side of the world, and she was still vacillating about going.

So he would take her, and they would travel in style.

Naturally she would be unable to resist his invitation when he explained how comfortable, luxurious, leisurely, and effortless their journey would be. First they would fly to New York and spend a week there before going to San Francisco for another week. Once they were rested and refreshed, they would hop over to Hong Kong and the Far East and slowly head to their final destination in easy stages.

And he fully intended to make sure she had a little fun on their peregrinations. Blackie could no longer count the times he had asked himself if Emma had ever really had any honest-to-goodness fun in her life. Perhaps becoming one of the richest women in the world had been her way of enjoying herself. On the other hand he was not sure how much pleasure she had derived from this consuming, backbreaking endeavor. In any event he was planning all sorts of entertaining diversions, and young Philip was the tempting morsel he would dangle in front of her nose; if he was not mistaken, the.trip would prove to be irresistible to her.

Blackie knotted his blue silk tie and stood away from the mirror, eyeing it critically.

It's sober enough, I am thinking, he muttered, kno%ving. Emma would make a sarcastic remark if he wore one of his gaudier numbers. Long, long ago Laura had curbed, at least to some extent, his exotic taste for colorful brocade waistcoats, elaborately tailored suits, and flashy jewelry; Emma had cured him completely. Well, almost. Occasionally Blackie could not resist the temptation to indulge himself in a few jazzy silk ties and handkerchiefs and ascots in florid patterns and brilliant colors, but he made certain never to wear them when he was seeing Emma. He reached for his dark blue jacket and put it on, smoothed the edge of his pristine white collar, and nodded at his reflection. I might be an old codger, but sure an' I feel like a young spalpeen tonight, he thought with another chuckle.

Snowy-haired though he was, Blackie's bright black eyes were still as merry and mischievous as' they had been when he was a young man in his prime, and his bulk and size were undiminished by age. He was in remarkable health and looked more like a man in his seventies than one who was eighty-three. His mind was alert, agile, and unimpaired, and senility was a foreign word to him in much the same way as it was' to Emma.

Pausing in the middle of the bedroom, he dwelled momentarily on the evening ahead, the business matter he would discuss with Emma. He was glad Shane and he had decided to broach the subject to her. Once that was out of the way and when they were alone, he would move gently into the conversation about the trip. It won't be easy, he told himself. You know she's the stubborn one. When he had first met Emma, he had recognized at once that she had the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, and it had only grown more inflexible over the years.

A scene flashed, transporting him back to the past: 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o'-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.

What a pallor her face had held that Sunday. Nonetheless it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been sixteen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to maneuver her onto that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still when the two girls had met, they had taken to each other instantly and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma's terrible burdens had eased once she had moved into Laura's snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief knowing that Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.

Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself, he strode out and went downstairs.

Blackie O'Neill still lived in the grand Georgian mansion he had built for himself at Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues of the Greek. goddesses Artemis and Hecate graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore' chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.

Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light onto the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green

silk. Splendid paintings and Sheraton and Hepplewhite antiques added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie's sense of style, color, and perspective in furniture and design.

He fussed with the bottle of champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around; then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favorite chair to wait. He had,no sooner trimmed the cigar and lit it than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray and rose.

"There you are, mavourneen," he cried, hurrying to meet Emma as she came into the room. There was a wide smile on his ruddy face as he exclaimed, "You're a sight for sore eyes." He hugged her tightly to his broad chest, held her away, and looked down at her. He smiled again, admiration shining in his eyes. "And aren't you my bonny colleen tonight."

Emma smiled back at him, love and warmth overflowing in her. "Thank you, Blackie dear. And I must admit, you don't look so bad yourself. That's a beautiful suit." Her eyes twinkled merrily as she ran a hand down his arm expertly. "Mmmm. Very nice cloth. It feels like a bit of my best worsted."

"It is, it is," Blackie said and winked at Shane, who was standing behind Emma. "Would I be wearing anything else now. But come, me darlin', and sit here and let me get you a glass of champagne."

Emma allowed him to guide her across the room to the sofa. She sat down, and a brow lifted. "Are we celebrating something?"

"No, no, not really. Unless it's reaching our grand old ages and being in such good health." He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and added, "Also I know you prefer wine to the stronger stuff." He glanced at Shane. "Would you do the honors, me boy? And make mine a drop of me good Irish."

"Right you are, Grandfather."

Blackie seated himself in the chair facing Emma, picked up his cigar, and puffed on it reflectively for a moment, then said to her, "And I expect you've had a busy day as usual. I'm beginning to wonder if you'll ever retire... as you're constantly threatening to do."

"I don't suppose I ever will," Emma laughed. "You know very well I plan to go with my boots on."

Blackie shot her a chastising look. "Don't talk to me about

dying. I've no intention of doing that for a long time." He chuckled softly. "I've a lot more damage to do yet."

Emma laughed with him, and so did Shane, who carried their drinks over to them. He fetched his own, and they clinked glasses and toasted each other. Shane took a swallow of his Scotch and said, "Would you both excuse me for a few minutes. I have to phone Winston."

Emma said, "I hope you have better luck than I did. I was trying to get him for ages earlier. First the line was busy; then there was no answer."

Shane frowned. "Perhaps he'd slipped down to the village. Any message, Aunt Emma?"

"Tell him that we didn't—" Changing her mind, she broke off and shook her head. "Never mind, Shane. It's not important. I'll be seeing him tomorrow, and I'm sure we'll have a chance to chat at some point then."

When they were alone, Blackie reached across and took Emma's hand in his and stared deeply into her face. "It's grand to see you, me darlin'. I've missed you."

Emma's eyes danced. "Get along with you, you silly old thing. You just saw me the day before yesterday," she exclaimed, amusement surfacing. "Don't tell me you've forgotten our dinner at Pennistone."

"Of course I haven't. But it seems like a long time to me, caring about you the way I do." He patted her hand aflection-ately and sat back in his chair, giving her the fondest of looks. "And I meant it when I said you looked bonny, Emma, You're a real bobby dazzler in that dress; it's very flattering on you, me darlin' girl."

"Some girl! But thank you, I'm glad you like it," she answered with a smile of real pleasure. "My friend Ginette Spanier, at Balmain's, picked it out for me and had it shipped over from Paris last week. Mind you, Edwina was rather scathing earlier. She told me it was too young for me—the color, you know."

Blackie's expression altered radically. "She was just being catty, Emma. Edwina's got a chip on her shoulder the size of that old oak tree out yonder in my garden. She'll never change." He noticed the look of pain flit across Emma's face, and he frowned with concern for her, cursing her daughter under his breath. Edwina had always been troublesome. But then so had most of the others, and there were a couple of Emma's children whom he could quite cheerfully strangle with his bare hands. He cried heatedly, "I hope she's not been giving you a hard time!"

"No, not really."

She sounded unusually hesitant, and Blackie spotted this immediately, shook his marvelous white, leonine head, and exhaled in exasperation. "I'll never understand Jim. I don't know what prompted him to invite her. It was stupid on his part, if you ask me."

"Yes, and Paula was upset too, but I decided not to intervene. I thought it would look petty. But..." Emma shrugged, and, since she confided most things in Blackie these days, she told him about her conversation with Edwina, her attempts to reason with her daughter.

Blackie listened carefully, occasionally nodding, and when she had finished, he said in a low voice, "Well, I'm happy for Sally if this is what she wants. She's a lovely lass, and Anthony is a nice chap. Down-to-earth and not a bit stuck-up, which 'is more than I can say for that mother of his." He paused. Recollections s\vamped him. Slowly, he added, "She was most peculiar when she was growing up and never very nice to you, Emma. Always slighting you if I remember correctly, and believe me I do. I haven't forgotten how she used to show her preference for Joe Lowther, making it so. bloody obvious, too. She was a little bitch, and she hasn't changed. Please promise me you'll let this matter about Anthony rest. I don't'want you getting agitated because of Edwina. She's not worth it."

"Yes, you're right, and I promise." She smiled faintly. "Let's forget about Edwina. Where are you taking me to dinner? Shane was most mysterious when we were driving over here."

"Was he now, mavoumeen." Blackie grinned from ear to ear. 'To tell you the truth, Emma, I couldn't think of a nice enough place, so I told Mrs. Padgett to prepare dinner for us here. I know you like her home cooking, and she's rustled up a lovely bit of spring lamb. I told her to make new potatoes, Brussels sprouts and Yorkshire pudding—all your favorites. Now, me darlin',' how does that sound to you?"

"Delicious, and I'm glad we're not going out. It's much cozier here, and I do feel a bit tired."

His black eyes narrowed under his bushy brows as he examined her alertly. "Ah," he said softly, "so you're finally admitting it.

I do wish you wouldn't push yourself so hard. There's no need for it anymore, you know."

Dismissing this comment with an easy smile, Emma leaned closer to him. No longer able to suppress her curiosity, she asked eagerly, "What do you want my advice about? You sounded cagey on the phone this morning."

"I didn't mean to, darlin'." He sipped his whiskey, puffed away for a moment, and continued, "But I'd prefer to wait until Shane comes back if you don't mind, since it concerns him."

"What concerns me?" Shane asked from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his drink in his hand.

"The business matter I want to discuss with Emma."

"I'll say it concerns me!" Shane exclaimed rather forcefully. "It was my idea in the first place." Seating himself on the sofa next to Emma, he settled against the cushions, crossed his legs, and turned to her. "Winston's sorry he missed your calls. He was'out in the garden earlier, worrying about the beck flooding. It's dangerously near to it apparently." His eyes swiveled to his grandfather. "I just rang Derek and asked him to get a couple of our men over to Beck House tomorrow, to check things out."

"Aye, that's a good idea. But they'll have to shore up those banks a lot better than they did last year," Blackie remarked pointedly. "Now, if you'd both listened to me, it would have been done right in the first place. Let me explain a couple of things." He commenced to do so, not giving Shane a chance to respond. And then for the next couple of minutes they discussed various methods of reinforcement. They sounded for all the world like a couple of builders about to embark on a major construction project, and Blackie was most vociferous in his opinions, which tickled Emma. He was still a bricklayer at heart.

But she soon lost interest in their somewhat technical conversation. She had become extremely conscious of Shane's presence next to her. His bulk did more than fill the sofa, it commandeered it. For the first time in years she began to regard him through newly perceptive and objective eyes, not as an old family friend, but as a younger woman—a stranger— might. How marvelous looking he was tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored gray suit and a pale-blue voile shirt with a silver-gray silk tie. He had inherited his grandfather's large frame, his broad sweeping back and powerful shoulders, along with Blackie's wavy black hair and those sparkling eyes so like jet. His complexion was dark too, but his light mahogany tan came from sun, garnered on the ski slopes of Switzerland or a lazy Caribbean beach, not from toiling long hours as a navvy out in the open, as his grandfather had once done.

His appearance was much like Blackie's had been at his age. The face is different, though; she thought, sneaking another surreptitious look at him, but he does have Blackie's distinctive cleft in his chin, the same dimples when he smiles. And that long upper lip betrays his Celtic origins. I bet he's broken many a heart already, she added silently with an inward smile of amusement. Then she experienced a tiny pang of sadness.for Sarah. Easy to understand why the girl had a crush on him. He was a splendid young man who exuded virility and manliness, and there was a unique, warmth and gentleness in him. That was the most devastating of combinations, and she knew only too well about men like Shane O'Neill. She had loved such a man herself, had had her heart broken by him once when she had been young and vulnerable and very much in love. But he had repaired her broken heart, had given her immeasurable happiness and fulfillment in the end. Yes, Paul McGill had had the same kind of potency and fatal charm that Shane O'Neill possessed in some abundance.

Blackie said, "Daydreaming, Emma darlin'."

She shifted her position on the sofa and smiled lightly. "No, I'm patiently waiting for you two to finish discussing that damn beck, so we can get down to brass tacks about the business you want my advice on."

"Why yes, of course, it's wasting time we are," he admitted, his manner more genial than ever. In fact conviviality seemed to spill out of Blackie tonight, and he beamed first at Emma,- then at Shane. "Now, me boy," he said, "please top up Emma's glass with a drop more of that bubbly, and give me a refill, and we'll settle in for a nice little chat."

And this they did after Shane had attended to their drinks.

It was Shane who began, concentrating his attention entirely on Emma, his tone as sober as his face had become. He spoke rapidly but clearly, as he generally did in business, plunging in without preamble. Emma appreciated his directness, and she in turn gave him all of her attention.

Shane said, "We've been wanting to build or acquire a hotel in New York for several years. Dad and I have both spent a great deal of time scouting out possibilities. Recently we found the ideal place. It's a residential hotel in the East Sixties. Old-fashioned, of course, and the interiors are in need of considerable remodeling, rebuilding actually. That's what we'll do—most likely. You see, we tendered a bid, it has been accepted, and we're buying the hotel. The papers are currently being drawn up."

"Congratulations, Shane, and you too, Blackie!" Emma looked from one to the other, her face bathed in genuine delight. "But how can I be of help to you? Why do you need to talk to me? I don't know a blessed thing about hotels, except whether or not they're comfortable and efficient."

"But you do know New York City, Emma," Blackie countered, leaning forward with intentness. 'That's why we need you."

"I'm not sure that I follow you—"

"We need you to steer us in the right direction to the best people," Shane cut in, wanting to get to the crux of the matter. He pinned her with his bright black eyes. "It seems to me that you've made that city your own in so many different ways, so you must know what makes it tick. Or rather what makes its business and commerce tick." His generous mouth curved up into the cheekiest of grins. "We want to pick your brains and use your connections," he finished, regarding her carefully, his cheekiness still very much in evidence.

Amusement flickered in Emma's eyes. She had always liked Shane's style, his directness, his boyish impudence. She stifled a laugh and said, "I see. Do continue."

"Right," Shane replied, all seriousness again. "Look, we're a foreign corporation, and in my opinion that city's as tight as a drum. We can't go in cold... well, we could, but we'd have a tough time. I'm sure we'd be resented. We need advisers—the proper advisers—and some good connections. Political connections for one thing. And we'll need help with the unions, with any number of things. I'm sure you of all people understand what I'm talking about, Aunt Emma. So where do we go? Who do we go to?"

Emma's mind had been working with its usual swiftness and acuity, and she saw the sense in Shane's words. He had analyzed the situation most shrewdly. She told him this, went on without hesitation, "It would be unwise of you to start operating in New York without the most influential backing and support. You'll need everybody in your comer, and the only way you'll get them in it is through friends. Good friends with clout, I think I can help."

"I knew if anybody could, it would be you. Thanks, Aunt Emma," Shane said, and she saw him visibly relaxing.

"Yes, we're very grateful, me darlin'," Blackie added, pushing himself up out of the chair. He took his drink to the console behind the sofa, plopped in extra ice, added more water to his whiskey, and said, "Well, go on, Shane, as Emma asked." He touched her shoulder lightly, lovingly. Emma glanced behind her, questions on her face. Blackie chuckled. "Oh yes, there's more," he said and ambled back to his chair by the fireside.

Shane said, "We have a solid, well-established law firm representing us in the purchase of the hotel—they're specialists in real estate. However, I feel we are going to need additional representation for other business matters. I'd like to find a really prestigious law firm that has political savvy and a few gilt-edged connections. Any suggestions about that?'

There was a moment of thoughtfulness before Emma said, "Yes, of course. I could send you to my lawyers and to any number of people who would be of use to you. But I've been thinking hard whilst I've been listening, and I believe there is one person who would be of more assistance to you than me and my lawyers and my friends put together. His name is Ross Nelson. He's a banker—head of a private bank in fact. He has the very best connections in New York, throughout the States for that matter. I'm sure he'll be able to recommend the law firm most qualified for your purposes and assist you in a variety of other ways."

"But will he do it?" Shane asked, doubt echoing.

"He will if J ask him," she said, giving Shane the benefit of a reassuring smile. "I can telephone him on Monday and explain everything. I hope I'll be able to enlist his help immediately. Would you like me to 3o that?"

"Yes, I would. We would." He swung his head to Blackie. "Wouldn't we, Grandfather?"

"Anything you say, my boy. This is your deal." Blackie tapped ash from his cigar, looked across at Emma. "That name Nelson rings a bell. Have I met him?"

"Why yes, I think you did once. It was some years ago, Blackie. Ross was over in England with his great-uncle, Daniel P. Nelson. Dan was a close friend and associate of Paul's,

if you recall. He's the fellow who wanted me to send Daisy over to the States during the war, to stay with him and his wife, Alicia. But as you know, I never wanted Daisy to be evacuated. Anyway, the Nelsons only had one child, Richard. The boy was killed in the Pacific. Dan was never quite the same after that. He made Ross his heir,, after his wife of course. Ross inherited controlling interest in the bank on Wall Street when Dan died, and God knows what else. Not millions. Zillions, I think. Daniel P. Nelson was one of the richest men in America, had tremendous power."

Shane was impressed, and this showed in his face. He asked quickly, "How old a man is Ross Nelson?"

"Oh he must be in his late thirties, early forties, not much more."

"Are you sure he won't mind helping us? I'd hate to think he would regard your request as an imposition. That kind of situation can create difficulties," Shane remarked. He was intrigued with Nelson, wanted to know more about him. He reached for his drink and took a swallow, observing Emma out of the corner of his eye.

Emma laughed quietly. "He owes me a few favors. And he won't think I'm imposing, I can assure you of that." She gave Shane a shrewd look through her narrowed green eyes. "Mind you, I know Ross, and he's going to expect something in return. Business, I'm sure, in one form or another. Actually, you might consider doing some of your investment banking with him and let his bank handle your affairs on that side of the Atlantic. You could do worse." There was a cynical edge to her voice as she finished, "There are two things you must remember, Shane... one hand always washes the other, and there's never anything free in this world. Especially in business."

Shane met her cool, concentrated gaze steadily. "I understand," he said softly. "And I learned long ago that anything for nothing is usually not worth having. As for Ross Nelson, I'll know how to show iriy appreciation—you have no worries there."

Blackie, who had been following this exchange with considerable interest, slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. "Ah, Emma, it's a spry one I've got me here." He shook In's head, and his benevolent smile expressed his love and pride. "There are no flies on you, my boy, I'm glad to see, and it won't be the same without you." A hint of sadness crept onto

his face, wiping away the laughter. "I know it's important ana necessary, but I hate to see you go away again and so quickly. It pains me, it truly does."

Emma put down her glass and stared at Shane. "When are you leaving, Shane?"

"I fly to New York on Monday morning. I'll be staying there for a good six months, maybe longer. I'll be supervising the rebuilding of the hotel in Manhattan and trotting down to the Caribbean every few weeks to check on our hotels in the islands."

"Sir months," she repeated in surprise. "That is a long time. We shall miss you." But perhaps it's just as well he won't be around for a while, she added under her breath, thinking of her granddaughter Sarah Lowther. Out of sight, out of mind. Or So she hoped.

Shane cut into her thoughts when he said, "I shall miss you too. Aunt Emma, and Grandfather, everyone in fact. But I'll 'be back almost before you can say Jack Robinson." He leaned into Emma and squeezed her arm. "And keep an eye on this lovable old scoundrel here. He's very dear to me."

"And to me too, Shane. Of course I'll look after him."

"Ah, and won't we. be taking care of each other now," Blackie announced, sounding extremely pleased with himself all of a sudden, thinking of his Plan with a capital P. "But then we've been doing that for half a century or more, and.it's a difficult habit to break, sure an' it is."

"I can imagine." Shane laughed, marveling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his Scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. "But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?"

"Unusual in many ways," Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind's eye. "Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I've always thought there was an innate coldness in him and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There's a terrific ego there, especially when it comes to women. He's something of a ladies' man and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant. On the other hand it's frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous... in his private life."

She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane's, and added, "But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he's clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way—that monumental ego rears up constantly."

"Quite a picture you've painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I'll have to have my wits about me."

"That's always wise, Shane, whomever you're dealing with." She smiled faintly. "On the other hand you're going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You'll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact I think you'll get along with him just fine. Don't forget, he owes me a few favors, so he'll bend over backward to be cooperative and helpful."

"I know your judgment is never flawed," Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her precise, thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.

Blackie's eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma.."I'm not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow," he began.

Emma cut him off with a laugh. "My money's on Shane. He's a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I'll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane." This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.

Shane grinned but made no comment.

He was looking forward to meeting Mr. Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.