"Son of a fucking bitch!" Adam snarled as he burnt his hand on the pot handle...again. Dropping it with a clang and sending sauce splattering across the range, he strode over to the sink to put his blazing palm under the cool water. Gently toweling it off, he walked grumbling over to the subzero and filled the towel with ice. Hissing when the coldness hit his throbbing hand. Closing his eyes, he took a calming breath.

He was the sole owner of Steele Industries. He made roughly 1.5 million dollars per hour...surely he should be able to cook one lousy meal without it requiring paramedics and a trip to the ER. He cracked and eyelid open and took in the disaster of his once immaculate kitchen, before snapping it shut again.

Theory and reality were two totally different beasts at this point. He sighed and walked over to the cookbook he'd left sitting open. Cradling his hand, he looked at the picture of the delicious Veal Marsala and compared it to the concoction he had bubbling in the pan. Cringing, he cursed some more.

His resembled bits of shriveled charcoal briquettes, drowning in a thick tar like substance which was motor oil brown in color rather than the rich burgundy it was supposed to be. At least the fettucine noodles had turned out alright, he thought. Grabbing the pan, with the towel this time, he dumped them into the colander in the sink to drain. They fell out in an enormous colligated lump.

"Dammit!" Adam, tossed the pan in the sink. Running his hands through his hair, he winced at the pain in his palm. What a fucking catastrophe. He turned and stomped over to his abandoned wine glass and took a bracing drink. At least the wine was good.

JC wound himself between his legs, meowing loudly for a morsel. "Sorry, buddy." Adam looked over at what was supposed to be an elegant dinner and grimaced. "It's not fit for man nor beast," he mumbled.

"What do you mean he doesn't want to be disturbed this evening?" Jonathan's voice echoed into the kitchen. "Tell his goddamn majesty that his brother, who has a fucking appointment I might add...is here to see him."

Adam dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. Jonathan was expected this afternoon, not...Adam glanced at his Rolex...fucking two hours before he was due to pick up Abigail. Meeting him at the door would be a futile waste of steps, so Adam poured another glass and waited for his belligerent brother to come barging into the kitchen.

Exactly two minutes later, he came sauntering in with a very pissed off Erich hot on his heels.

"I'm sorry, sir. I tried to stop him, but he overrode the elevator block codes," Erich growled, giving his brother a glare that would have melted paint. Judging by the twitching of his fingers next to his suit jacket, Erich was seriously contemplating tazing Jonathan or...perhaps...shooting him.

"It's alright, Erich." He gave the man a nod. "You are not to blame for my brother's boorish behavior." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Erich stiffly nodded. Sending Jonathan one last scowl, he turned on his heel and exited the kitchen.

"Boorish?" Jonathan scoffed. "My, somebody has Merriam Webster shoved up his ass tonight." He gave Adam a sideways glance before walking over to the stove and sticking his nose into the failed skillet of Veal Marsala. "What is this?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It was dinner." Adam's eyes followed Jonathan's movements as he stuck his finger into the gooey sauce substance and brought it to his mouth. In a moment of unprecedented optimism, Adam asked, "Is it edible?"

"Depends." Jonathan dragged his tongue across the front of his teeth several times. "Are you planning on killing whoever you are feeding this too?" He turned wide eyes to Adam. "Because, to be honest, I need to run back to my condo. I took out the shovels and plastic bags. I wasn't aware disposing of bodies was going to become a habit with you."

"Dammit."

"Why the sudden interest in becoming the next Julia Child?" Jonathan looked back down at the skillet and poked one of the desecrated pieces of veal. "I didn't even know you could cook."

"I can't, obviously," Adam snapped. Leaning against the counter, he pointed to the open book. "It was one of mom's recipes. I thought it would be suitable for...," he trailed off.

Jonathan perked up. "Suitable for?"

"A date," Adam muttered, turning away from him and walking to the sink. Staring at the congealed mass of noodles, his shoulders slumped. He wanted this evening to be absolutely perfect and now...it looked like he would be serving her salad and crackers. At least he had accomplished to put lettuce in a bowl without fucking it up.

"A date with whom?" Jonathan asked, leaning next to him against the sink with a smug smile on his face. One Adam dearly wished he could erase with his fist.

"And it's your business because?" Adam scowled at his brother.

Jonathan smiled broadly, taking his jacket off and throwing it across the only part of the counter which wasn't a total disaster area. "Well, if I am going to save your worthless attempts in the culinary world, I think it's only fair I should know who is going to benefit from my masterful chef skills."

"You know how to cook?" Adam asked, stunned.

His brother shrugged, rolling up his shirt sleeves. Picking up the colander, he walked over to the trash. "Mom liked to cook and I like to eat. I watched her and picked up a few things growing up." He dumped the mass into the trash can with a thud.

They worked in companionable silence. Jonathan scrapping Adam's botched attempts into the trash and tiding up while Adam rinsed and loaded the dishwasher. Before too long, the kitchen was back in order.

"I saw her the other day," Adam said quietly, drying off his hands and bending down to give JC a scratch behind his ears.

Jonathan paused mid-stride to the stove, stumbling a little before he set a pot of water gently on it. "Is she okay?" he asked, not turning to face Adam.

"She had another episode, but...yes. She's," Adam sighed heavily, standing up, "as well as can be expected."

"Did she know who you were?" Jonathan asked. His voice barely above a whisper.

Adam closed his eyes as his brother's pain rolled over him. Her slow descent into dementia caused by a continuous series of nervous breakdowns had been hard on them both, but especially for him. Jonathan had always been incredibly close to their mother, far closer than Adam. When she began to not recognize her own sons, it crushed him.

"No." Adam put his arm around his brother's shoulders and hugged him tightly. "I would have called you, but...there really was nothing anyone could do."

"Another hallucination?"

"Yes. A particularly bad one this time. They had to sedate her."

The two of them stood side by side in silence for a while. Adam holding his brother while Jonathan leaned heavily against him. There was nothing he could say, only share the sense of ache and loss. Comfort was all he could give his brother. Even with his all damn money...he couldn't make her whole again.

Jonathan pulled back, giving Adam a sad attempt at a smile before knocking him gently on the arm. "I guess I had better see what you have in the fridge so I can salvage a dinner for you and your stripper," he said, his voice only cracking slightly.

Adam raised a surprised eyebrow and chuckled, shaking his head. "You know damn well she's not a stripper, so stop trying to jerk my chain." He followed Jonathan to the subzero, holding the chicken breasts his brother shoved into his hands as he continued to dig. "How did you know I had a date with Abigail?" He frowned, trying to balance a jar of capers, onions, butter, mushrooms and some kind of leafy green shit.

"Lucky guess," he mumbled with his head deep in the refrigerator. "Do you have more of that wine left or did you try to drown your failure in Marsala?" Jonathan shut the door with his foot and headed to the prep area next to the stove carrying a block of cheese.

"You load me up like a fucking pack mule and all you carry is a piece of cheese?" Adam grumbled as he dumped his load on the counter.

"I'm the chef." He glanced over at Adam while he made quick work of peeling and chopping up the onion. His knife moving so fast, it was blur. "That makes you the lackey. Quite a change for Mr. CEO, but I am sure you'll adjust." He smoothly slid the chopped onion into a sizzling skillet and started on the garlic.

Shaking his head, Adam opened the bottle of Marsala and set it down next to his brother who was busily pounding the holy hell out of some chicken breasts.

"Nobody in their right mind would actually drink that shit," he said. "I do have a nice Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon if you would care for a glass?"

"I can't say no to a nice Cabernet." He winked. Accepting the glass from Adam, he took a sip and nodded appreciatively. "Nice. Not sparing any expense for the little waitress, I see," he teased before going back to pounding poultry.

Adam stayed quiet. He was not comfortable with his behavior when it came to Abigail, nor had he ever found himself in this kind of situation before. Taking a woman out somewhere elegant and wining and dining them was more his style. This was...uncharted territory. The fact he had tried to make her a meal with his own two hands was a clear indication he was far more invested in the lovely waitress than he originally thought.

What had started out as an enticement and curiosity had quickly bloomed into a need for something more. The phone call only adding to the urgency he was feeling. His cock twitched at the memory. He wanted her physically, that was without question. And had wanted her from the first time he laid eyes on her. He was insanely attracted to her, but now his interest had taken a turn. It went beyond simple desire. He wanted her to allow him closer than the melding of their bodies.

"So...aren't you going to ask me?" Jonathan placed a thin, floured chicken cutlet into the sizzling pan.

Adam jerked his head up. "Ask you what?"

His brother rolled his eyes. "What I want for fucking Christmas," he snorted. "Did you or did you not ask for a full background check on one Abigail Maddison Lane?"

"You were supposed to be here earlier with that," Adam reminded him sharply.

Jonathan only grinned, turning the chicken in the pan. "Lucky for you, Romeo...I was late. Otherwise, you'd be feeding her something from a drive-thru."

Adam threw him a dirty look. "What did you find out?"

"It's over there in my coat pocket." Jonathan nodded towards his suit jacket, busily slicing up mushrooms.

Adam set down his glass of wine and walked over. Picking up the jacket, he pulled a folded manila envelope out and held it in his hands. It felt light, which from experience, was a good sign. It meant there wasn't much to find. And yet, it weighed heavy in his hands.

"Did you read it?" Adam turned his head and looked at his brother over his shoulder.

"Nope." He shrugged, taking the chicken out of the pan. He set it to the side and slid a mountain of mushrooms and butter into the pan before adding a good splash of wine. That's exactly how the investigator handed it to me." He stirred for a few minutes before saying, "Whatever is in there, is none of my business."

Adam inhaled deeply. The smell from whatever he was creating, filled the kitchen with a delicious aroma. Turning back to the envelope, he flipped it a few times in his hands before finally making up his mind.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, heading for his study.

Adam settled himself behind his father's huge antique desk, tugging on the cord of the Tiffany lamp to turn on the light. Running a hand over the glowing surface, he leaned back into the leather of his chair. Tossing the envelope on top with a thunk, he stared at it. One hand toyed with his letter opener while the other was bent and slowly running a finger over his lips as he reflected the situation.

In front of him sat all the answers he'd been desperately wanting to know. All he had to do was open it. Grey, haunted eyes flashed into his subconscious. Eyes he wanted turned to him in trust. If he broke it, they would remain troubled and possibly tinged with regret. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The old Adam wouldn't have wasted a moment second guessing. He would have torn it open and satisfied his curiosity without hesitation as if it was his right. But...did he really want to continue to be that man? He opened his eyes and looked around.

Everything which had been in his father's office was now here. From the desk to the wingback chairs in front of it. All the furnishing collectors' items of the finest quality...except for the chair he was sitting in. That he replaced with one of equal excellence, but of his choosing. His eyes skimmed around him. Even the books lining the floor to ceiling shelves were his fathers. Many of them first editions. None of it was his tastes which leaned more toward clean and efficient than old and intimidating. But, he felt he owed to the man who had sired him to keep it and so he moved it all here after his death.

Sighing, he turned back to the envelope. His father would not have wavered. In his mind there was no room for weakness or uncertainty. A man did what was necessary, regardless of the cost. Raymond Steele would have trudged ahead, lay to waste whoever got in his way and brush aside the causalities of his actions with an indifferent hand of dismissal.

Like he did his mother and his sons. The only people in the world who loved him unconditionally despite the man's many faults. It was a Steele legacy. One his son continued on after his death.

Adam glared at the envelope. Did he really want to carry on such a detrimental legacy only to end up like Jonathan had once forewarned? Dead...with nothing but his papers and money surrounding him? He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe Abigail was more than a than an ordinary woman. Maybe...just maybe...she was his salvation from himself. A reason to abandon a heritage he secretly no longer wanted to bear.

Frowning he picked up the envelope and dug his keys out of his slacks. Unlocking his desk, he slid it into the right hand desk drawer, then carefully relocked it. Standing up, he clicked off the light and didn't look back as he returned to the kitchen.

*****

A computer notification binged to life in a seedy hotel on the outskirts of Sacramento. Dean Swanson stopped stirring his can of generic chili on the hotplate and walked over to his laptop. Pressing a button, the screen blinked, froze and then dimmed. Slamming the side of it with his hand, it flashed back open. He noticed the email alert the same time his cell phone rang.

"What?" he snapped, maneuvering his finger over the touchpad to open the message.

"I sent you what you wanted," Tommy stuttered on the other end. "We got two hits. Someone is running random background checks on her. I couldn't pin down the exact IP address of the first hit. Whoever it was covered their ass, but the second hit came from a computer in New York. I sent you the address."

A smile eased across Dean's lips. Finally, he thought. "Good work," he said as he opened the file.

"We're even now, right? I did what you asked. If anyone finds out in the precinct what I did..." Tommy swallowed hard. "I could lose my job."

"Steal anymore cocaine out of evidence lockup and you're going to get more than fucking fired," Dean snorted. "But...yeah...we're even kid. Keep your nose clean." He laughed drily at his own joke and hung up.

His wife had run fast and far this time, but he found her. Now all he had to do was bring her home where she belonged. Reaching over, he grabbed a brown, bagged bottle he had left sitting on the dilapidated dresser and guzzled the rest down. Dropping the bottle on the floor, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Staggering over to his dinner, he started shoveling it into his mouth. He didn't have time to waste...she was waiting.