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pair of boxer shorts. His face was in repose, eyes shut, his hands resting lightly on the bony knobs of his knees.
    Stevie’s heart lurched. She’d read the accounts of Howard Hughes’s bizarre behavior toward the end, and that’s what flashed through her mind now. She could hardly believe the lithe, dark-eyed young man in the grainy concert footage she’d seen, with his angel’s voice and devil’s licks, all tossing black hair and twitching limbs, had become this wasted old wreck.
    But he looked harmless enough. Not the drug-crazed psycho painted by the press. If he was crazy it didn’t appear she was in any immediate danger. Her heart was pounding nonetheless as she sank onto the bed, waiting what seemed an eternity until his eyes opened and his gaze settled on her. She braced herself against the cry of alarm she was sure would bring the bodyguard running, but Grant—if it was indeed him—remained perfectly still. Except for the flicker of surprise that crossed his face, the sight of a complete stranger sitting on his bed didn’t seem to faze him.
    He broke into a slow, dreamy smile. “Hey there.”
    “I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said.
    “It’s cool. I didn’t even hear you come in.” His voice made her think of a rake being dragged over a bed of gravel.
    “I tried meditating once, but I couldn’t sit still that long,” she told him.
    He shrugged. “You get the hang of it after a while.”
    An awkward silence fell.
    Stevie cleared her throat, and said, “You’re probably wondering who I am.”
    “Oh, I know who you are.” He spoke calmly, but his words sent a bolt shooting down through the pit of Stevie’s stomach. Had he known all this time? All the years she’d believed her father was ignorant of her existence? Then, in a voice heavily laced with irony, he went on, “You came to see the great Grant Tobin. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but the dude checked out a long time ago.”
    She eyed him in confusion. “You’re not Grant?”
    “I used to be. Not anymore.”
    She understood now. “I’m not who you think I am, either,” she informed him.
    He cocked his head, eyeing her with new interest. “Okay, then, why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
    She drew in a breath. “I’m your daughter.”
    Grant stared at her in disbelief. He was clearly a man for whom life bore few surprises—he’d done and seen it all—but this was obviously the last thing he’d expected to hear. After a bit, he let out a raspy chuckle. “Well, ain’t that something. Me, a dad.” He shook his head from side to side, marveling at the concept. “You sure about that?”
    “I’m sure.” Now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she could see the resemblance. She had his mouth. His square jaw with its slight underbite—that was hers, too.
    “Well, shit.” He went on shaking his head, chuckling to himself.
    “You never got the letter?”
    “What letter?”
    “The one my mother sent telling you she was pregnant.”
    “I get a lot of mail. Most of it I never see.” His minions would take care of all that, which explained why he hadn’t gotten the letters Stevie had sent, either. “You see, the thing is—What did you say your name was?”
    “Stevie.” She blushed a little. “I was named after Stevie Nicks.” After a moment she added hesitantly, “You believe me, don’t you?”
    “Well, Stevie, I can’t say that I do, and I can’t say that I don’t. There was a lot that went down in those days that I don’t rightly recall. That’s just how it was.” His gaze turned inward, his expression briefly clouding over. Then, he stirred and brought his gaze back to her, his lips curled in a small, ironic smile. “So I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
    “How do you know I’m not making it up?”
    He eyed her with amusement. “Are you?”
    “No, but you must get a lot of crazies.”
    He regarded her for a moment. “You don’t look crazy to me.”
    “Even