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  He continued to stare at the picture. Her dark brown eyes smiled back at him and McFarland wondered if she had half the backbone her father possessed. The thought of the man caused his mouth to tighten with an odd mixture of admiration and displeasure. He had liked Charles Lovin when he’d first met him; he’d been openly challenged by him several years later. Few men had the courage to tangle with McFarland, but the older man was stubborn, tenacious, ill-tempered…and, unfortunately, a fool. A pity, McFarland mused, that anyone would allow pride to stand in the way of common sense. The U.S. shipping business had been swiftly losing ground for decades. Others had seen it and diversified or sold out. If McFarland hadn’t bought them outright, he’d taken control by other channels. Charles Lovin, and only Lovin, had steadfastly refused to relinquish his business—to his own detriment, McFarland mused. Apparently, leaving a dying company to his beloved son, David, was more important than giving him nothing.

  Lovin was the last holdout. The others had crumpled easily enough, giving in when McFarland had applied pressure in varying degrees. Miraculously, Lovin had managed to hang on to his company. Word was that he’d been cashing in stocks, bonds and anything else he could liquidate. Next, he supposed, it would be priceless family heirlooms. It was a shame, but he felt little sympathy. McFarland was determined to own Lovin Shipping Lines and one stubborn old man wouldn’t stand in his way. It was a pity, though; Lovin had guts and despite everything, McFarland admired the man’s tenacity.

  Leafing through the report, he noted that Lovin had managed to get a sizable loan from a New York bank. Satisfied, McFarland nodded and his lips twisted with wry humor. He was a major stockholder of that financial institution and several other Manhattan banks, as well. He pushed the buzzer on his desk and Avery appeared, standing stiffly in front of him.

  “You called, sir?”

  “Sit down, Avery.” McFarland gestured to an imposing leather wing chair. Avery had been with McFarland four years and John had come to respect the other man’s keen mind.

  “Did you read the report?”

  “Yes.”

  McFarland nodded and absently flipped through the pages.

  “David Lovin is well thought of in New York,” Avery added. “He’s serious and hard-working. Wealth doesn’t appear to have spoiled the Lovin children.”

  “David?” McFarland repeated, surprised that he’d been so preoccupied that he’d missed something.

  “The young man who will inherit the Lovin fortune.”

  “Yes, of course.” McFarland had examined the Lovin girl’s photograph and been so taken with her that he hadn’t gone on to read the report on her older brother. He did so now and was impressed with the young man’s credentials.

  “Many people believe that if Lovin Shipping Lines can hold on for another year…”

  “Yes, yes.” McFarland knew all that. Congress was said to be considering new laws that would aid the faltering shipping business. McFarland was counting on the same legislation himself.

  “Father and son are doing everything possible to manage until Washington makes a move.”

  “It’s a shame,” McFarland murmured almost inaudibly.

  “What’s a shame?” Avery leaned forward.

  “To call in his loan.”

  “You’re going to do it?”

  McFarland studied his employee, astonished that the other man would openly reveal his disapproval. John knew that to all the world, he seemed to be a man without conscience, without scruples, without compassion. He was all those things—and none of them. John McFarland was an entity unto himself. People didn’t know him because he refused to let anyone get close. He had his faults, he’d be the first to admit that, but he’d never cheated anyone.

  He stood abruptly, placed his hands behind his back and paced the area in front of his desk. David Lovin was a fortunate man to have a heritage so richly blessed; McFarland knew nothing of his own family. Orphaned at an early age, he’d been given up for adoption. No family had ever wanted him and he’d been raised in a series of foster homes—some better than others.

  McFarland had clawed his way to the top an inch at a time. He’d gotten a scholarship to college, started his first company at twenty-one and been a millionaire by twenty-five. At thirty-six, he was one of the wealthiest men in the world. Surprisingly, money meant little to him. He enjoyed the riches he’d accumulated, the island, his home, his Learjet; money brought him whatever he desired. But wealth and position were only the byproducts of success. Unlike those whose fortunes had created—or were created by—family businesses, McFarland’s empire would die with him. The thought was a sobering one. Money had given him everything he’d ever wanted except what he yearned for most—love, acceptance, self-worth. A paradox, he realized somewhat sadly. Over the years, he’d grown hard. Bitter. Everything in him demanded that he topple Lovin as he had a hundred other businesses. Without sentiment or regret. The only thing stopping him was that damnable pride he’d recognized in Charles Lovin’s eyes. The man was a fighter and he hated to take him down without giving the old boy a chance.

  “Sir, do you wish to think this matter through?”

  McFarland had nearly forgotten Avery’s presence. He nodded abruptly and the other man quietly left the room.

  Opening the doors that led to the veranda, McFarland stepped outside, leaned on the wrought-iron railing and looked out on the clear blue waves crashing against the shore far below. He’d purchased this Caribbean island three years earlier and named it St. Steven’s. It granted him privacy and security. Several families still inhabited the far side of the island, and McFarland allowed them to continue living there. They tended to avoid him, and on the rare occasions he happened to meet any of them, they slipped quickly away.

  A brisk wind blew off the water, carrying with it the scent of seaweed, and he tasted salt on his tongue. Farther down the beach, he saw a lazy trail of foam that had left its mark on the sand, meandering without purpose into the distance. Sometimes that was the way McFarland viewed his life; he was without inner purpose and yet on the surface, his activities were dominated by it. Another paradox, he mused, not unhappily, not really caring.

  Unexpectedly, he made a decision and returned to his desk, again ringing for his assistant.

  Avery was punctual as usual. “Sir?”

  McFarland sat in his chair and rocked back, fingering his chin. “I’ve decided.”

  Avery nodded, reaching for his paper and pen.

  McFarland hesitated. “I wonder how much that business means to the old man.”

  “By all accounts—everything.”

  McFarland grinned. “Then we shall see.”

  “Sir?”

  “Contact Lovin as soon as possible and give him an ultimatum. Either I’ll call in the loan—immediately—or he sends me his daughter.” He picked up the file. “I believe her name is Judy…. Yes, here it is. Judy.”

  Avery’s pad dropped to the carpet. Flustered, he bent to retrieve the paper, and in the process lost his pen, which rolled under McFarland’s desk. Hastily, he rescued them both and, with nervous, jerky movements, reclaimed his place. “Sir, I think I misunderstood you.”

  “Your hearing is fine.”

  “But…sir?”

  “Naturally there will be a number of guarantees on my part. We can discuss those at a later date.”

  “Sir, such a…why, it’s unheard of—I mean, no man in his right mind—”

  “I agree it’s a bit unorthodox.”

  “A…bit? But surely…sir?” Avery stuttered.

  Watching, McFarland found him highly amusing. The man had turned three shades of red, each deeper than the one before. A full minute passed and he’d opened his mouth twice, closed it an equal number of times and opened it again. Yet he said nothing.

  “What about the young lady? She may have a few objections,” Avery finally managed.

  “I’m confident that she will.”

  “But…”

  “We’ll k
eep her busy with whatever it is women like to do. I suppose she could redecorate the downstairs. When I tire of her, I’ll set her free. Don’t look so concerned, Avery. I’ve yet to allow my baser instincts to control me.”

  “Sir, I didn’t mean to imply…it’s just that…”

  “I understand.” McFarland was growing bored with this. “Let me know when he gives you his decision.”

  “Right away, sir.” But he looked as if he would’ve preferred a trip to the dentist.

  Judy returned home from work that afternoon, weary in both body and spirit. She smiled at Bently, who took her coat and purse.

  “Is my father home?” Judy asked, eager to settle this matter between them. If he felt as strongly as he had that morning about her job at the day care, then she’d do as he requested.

  “Mr. Lovin is still at the office, Miss Judy.”

  Judy checked her watch, surprised that her father was this late. He was almost always home an hour or so before her. “I’ll wait for him in the study,” Judy said. Something was worrying him; Judy was positive. Whatever the problem was, Judy yearned to assure him that she’d help in any way possible. If it meant leaving the day-care center then she would, but she was happy working with the children. Surely he wanted her happiness. Being a success shouldn’t be judged by how much money one happened to make. Contentment was the most important factor, and she was sure that someone as wise and considerate as her father would agree.

  “In the study, miss? Very good. Shall I bring you tea?”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  He bowed slightly and turned away.

  Judy entered the library, which was connected to her father’s study by huge sliding doors. She chose to wait among the leather-bound volumes and settled into the soft armchair, slipped off her pumps and rested her feet on the ottoman, crossing them at the ankles. The portrait of her mother, hanging over the marble fireplace, smiled down on her. Judy would sometimes sneak into the room and talk with her mother. On occasion, she could’ve sworn Georgia’s eyes had moved. That was silly, of course, and Judy had long ago accepted that her mother was gone and the portrait was exactly that—a likeness of a lovely woman and nothing more.

  Judy stared up at her now. “I can’t imagine what got into Father this morning.”

  The soft, loving eyes appeared to caress Judy and plead with her to be patient.

  “I’ve never known him to be in such an unreasonable and foul mood.”

  Her mother’s look asked her to be more understanding and Judy quickly glanced away. “All right, all right,” she grumbled. “I’ll be more patient.”

  Bently came into the study, carrying a silver tray. “Shall I pour?”

  “I’ll do it,” she answered with a smile. She reached for the pot. “Bently?”

  “Yes, miss?” He turned back to her.

  “Whatever happened to the Riordan sculpture that was on Father’s desk?” The small bronze statue was a prized piece that her father had always loved.

  “I…don’t really know, miss.”

  “Did Father move it to his office?”

  “That must be it.”

  “He’d never sell it.” Judy was convinced of that. The Alice Riordan original had been a Christmas gift from her mother a few months before she died.

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” the butler concurred and then excused himself.

  Now that she considered it, she realized there were other things missing from the house—a vase here and there, a painting that had disappeared. Judy hadn’t given the matter much thought, but now she found it odd. Either her father had moved them to another location for safekeeping or they’d simply vanished into thin air. Even to entertain the notion that the staff would steal them was unthinkable. Bently, Cook and Anne had been with the Lovins for years.

  Judy poured her tea and added a squeeze of fresh lemon. Bently had been thoughtful enough to bring two extra cups so that when her father and David arrived, they could have tea, as well.

  She must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing Judy heard was the sound of gruff male voices. The door between the two rooms had been closed, but she could hear the raised impatient voices of her father and brother as clearly as if they were in the library with her.

  Judy sat upright and rubbed the stiffness from the back of her neck. She was about to interrupt her father and brother and cajole them into a cup of tea, but something held her back. Perhaps it was the emotion she recognized in their voices—the anger, the outrage, the frustration. Judy paid little attention to the business; that was her brother and father’s domain. But it was apparent that something was dreadfully wrong.

  “You can’t mean you actually sold the Riordan?” David’s astonished voice echoed off the paneled walls.

  “Do you think I wanted to?” Charles Lovin said, and the agony in his voice nearly caused her heart to stop. “I was desperate for the money.”

  “But, Father—”

  “You can’t say anything to me that I haven’t told myself a thousand times.”

  “What else?” David sounded worried and grim.

  “Everything I could.”

  The announcement was followed by a shocked gasp, but Judy didn’t know if it had come from her throat or her brother’s.

  “Everything?” David repeated, his voice choked.

  “As much as possible without losing this house…and it still wasn’t enough.”

  “What about Bently and the others?”

  “They’ll have to be let go.”

  “But, Father—”

  “There’s no other way,” he cried. “As it is, we’re still millions short.”

  Judy didn’t know what was happening, but this had to be a nightmare. Reality could never be this cruel. Her father was selling everything they owned? In addition to this estate, they owned homes all over the world. There were securities, bonds, properties, investments…. Their family wealth went back for generations.

  A fist slammed against the desk. “Why would McFarland call in the loan?”

  “Who knows why that beast would do anything? He’s ruined better men than me.”

  “For what reason?”

  Her father paused. “Perhaps he enjoys it. God knows, I’ve been enough of a challenge for him. From what I’ve been able to learn about the man, he has no conscience. He’s a nobody,” he said bitterly. The next words were smothered, as though her father had buried his face in his hands. “…something I didn’t tell you…something you should know…McFarland wants our Beauty.”

  “What?” David shouted.

  Judy bolted upright, her back rigid. It was apparent that they weren’t aware she was in the other room.

  “I heard from his business manager today. Avery Anderson spoke for McFarland and stated that either we come up with the amount of the loan plus the accumulated interest or send Judy to St. Steven’s.”

  “St. Steven’s?”

  “That’s the name of his private island.”

  “What does he want with…her?”

  “Only God knows.” The suffering in her father’s voice ripped at Judy’s heart. “He swears he won’t abuse her in any way, and that she’ll have free run of the island, but…”

  “Oh, Dad.” David must have slumped into a chair. “So you had to decide between a business that’s been in our family for four generations and your daughter?”

  “Those were exactly my choices.”

  “What…did you tell him?”

  “You don’t want to hear what I said to that man.”

  “No,” David whispered, “I don’t suppose I do.”

  “We have no option,” Charles Lovin said through gritted teeth. “McFarland wins. I won’t have Judy subjected to that beast.” Despair weighed down his words.

  Numb, her whole body trembling, Judy leaned back in the chair. Lovingly she ran her hand over the soft brown leather. This chair, like so much of what they owned, had been part of a heritage that had been in their fami
ly for generations. Soon it would all be lost to them.

  And only she could prevent it from happening.

  Two

  Judy’s hand tightened around the suitcase handle as she stood on the deserted dock. The powerboat that had brought her to St. Steven’s roared away behind her. She refused to look back, afraid that if she did, her courage would abandon her.

  The island was a tropical paradise—blue skies, soft breezes, pristine beaches and crystal clear water. Huge palm trees bordered the beach, swaying gently. The scent of magnolias and orchids wafted invitingly toward her.

  A tall man Judy guessed to be in his late forties approached her. He wore a crisp black suit that revealed the width of his muscular shoulders. His steps made deep indentations in the wet sand.

  She’d only brought one suitcase, packing light with the prayer that her stay would be a brief one. The single piece of luggage now felt ten times heavier than when she’d left New York that morning.

  Her father had driven her to the airport, where McFarland’s private jet was waiting to take her to a secluded airstrip. From there, she was told, it would be a short boat trip to the island. Tears had glistened in her father’s faded blue eyes. He’d hardly spoken and when the moment came for Judy to leave, he’d hugged her so tightly she hadn’t been able to breathe.

  “Goodbye, Judy.” His whispered words had been strangled by emotion. “If he hurts you…”

  “He won’t,” she assured him. “I’ll be fine—and back home so soon you won’t even know I’ve been gone.”

  A pinched look had come over his face and he’d whispered, “I’ll know. Every minute you’re away, I’ll know.”

  Leaving her family hadn’t been easy for Judy, especially when she felt as though she was being ripped from their arms.

  After innocently eavesdropping on her father and David’s conversation, Judy had openly confronted them. She would go to McFarland and they could do nothing to stop her. Her stubborn determination had stunned them both. But she’d refused to hear their arguments and had simply gone about packing. Within twenty-four hours she was on her way to St. Steven’s.