PROLOGUE
“I’M JACK MAGUIRE, Leonard Maguire’s son,” he told the man on the other side of the security gate, feeling the bitter irony of having his identity questioned.
“Didn’t know he had one,” the man muttered, a frown beetling over suspicious eyes. “You’ve got an American accent.”
Hardly surprising since Jack had been tucked away, living in Texas for most of his growing-up years. But he’d been born in Australia, a seven-year-old boy when he’d been taken from this country. Now, at twenty-four, he was a man—a man of means, he thought with intense satisfaction—and ready to make his mark on his father’s home ground.
“Just call the house and check me out,” he instructed.
While the security guard did just that, using a mobile ’ phone he’d detached from his belt, Jack’s gaze travelled up the long avenue of maples which led to the huge sprawling house at the top of the hill overlooking the valley. It was spring and the new leaves on the trees were a brilliant lime green in the bright afternoon sunshine. The whole valley was green—prime property—nothing but the best for his father’s second family.
The house was white. The fences were white. Everything kept in a pristine state. Which, of course, cost a lot of money. A lot. Which was only to be expected of a man who owned a vast transport company, including a domestic airline. All Jack had ever got from him were birthday cards, Christmas cards—probably sent by whoever his current secretary was—and a few days at a luxury hotel in Las Vegas when his father was there on business, once when Jack was twelve and again when he was eighteen.
He remembered being asked that last time, “What do you intend to do with your life, boy?”
As though it had nothing to do with Leonard Maguire.
Still, Jack had asked hopefully, “Are you offering an opportunity?”
Any such idea was totally obliterated by the harsh reply. “No. Make your own way, as I did. If you have the guts to do it you’ll become a man I can respect.”
The challenge had eaten into Jack’s soul. His father was a self-made billionaire, starting from nothing, building a transport empire. Yet looking at the evidence of his wealth now—wealth spent freely on his second wife and two adopted daughters—Jack could feel no respect for him. What kind of man did nothing for his flesh-and-blood son and gave every privilege money could provide to a couple of girls his second wife had wanted and acquired? Would they be told to make their own way when they were eighteen?
The security man clicked his ’ phone shut and gave Jack a look of curious sympathy. “Can’t let you in, mate. I’ve been told to run you off. Lady Ellen says you’re not welcome here.”
Lady Ellen. The title soured Jack’s stomach. She’d been an on-the-make young office clerk, sleeping with her much older boss, committing adultery, and now because his father had been knighted for services to his country and she was his wife, she could call herself Lady.
“Ask to speak to my father,” he demanded.
“No can do. Sir Leonard is not home yet.”
“When does he arrive home?”
“Helicopter usually flies in about seven.” The man glanced at his watch. “Another three hours from now. No sense in waiting around. Can’t let you past the gate unless I get the word.”
Jack had got the message. His father’s home was forbidden territory to him as far as Lady Ellen was concerned. Probably always had been. Bitch, guarding her own interests tooth and nail. Though his father hadn’t bucked them. How much power did she wield over her much-older husband? Whose choice was it to keep the son in exile?
There was so much Jack wanted to know.
Was determined to know.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“I’m stationed in the cottage,” the guard warned, nodding to the small ranch house overlooking the entrance to the property.
He was making it clear that no one slipped past him. The guy was probably in his early fifties but his big, burly frame was still all muscle—a formidable opponent in a fight. Not that Jack was looking for one, not with this man, who was just doing his job. He returned to the rental car he’d hired at the airport, thinking the view from the ranch house did not take in the whole perimeter of this estate.
Half an hour later he’d parked the car on the verge of a side road, raided his luggage for jeans, a dark-blue T-shirt, and Nikes, changed out of his visiting clothes and hiked cross-country to the white fence that marked the territory he wanted to scout.
He leaned on the top railing for a while, taking in the view of horses grazing in lush pastures, what was undoubtedly state-of-the-art stables, and a rider—a girl with a mass of red-gold curls streaming out from the tight constriction of her riding hat—putting her horse through a series of pony club jumps.
Was she the elder of the two adopted daughters?
Or a stable hand, employed to train the horse to jumping?
The slender figure looked shapely enough to be a young woman, though that factor certainly didn’t rule out a girl of fourteen. She rode well, handling the horse with confident authority, but then he had, too, at fourteen, having learnt the hard way on his stepfather’s ranch.
He scaled the fence and strolled towards the exercise enclosure, wanting his curiosity satisfied. It was a matter of supreme indifference to him that he was trespassing. To his mind he had more natural right to be here than anyone else on this property.
Sally didn’t see the man’s approach. Blaze hadn’t been completely set right for the triple jump and she wanted to take him through it again. The big gelding had been too eager. She had to rein him in a bit, make the timing perfect. Her concentration on the task was total. Only when Blaze had sailed beautifully over the third hurdle did the sound of clapping alert her to the presence of a spectator.
Flushed and exhilarated by her success, she turned to smile at the person who had admired her skill enough to applaud it, expecting to see Tim Fogarty, the stable hand who always helped her groom Blaze for showjumping. It startled her to see a stranger, especially a stranger who was alone. That didn’t happen here. A visitor was always accompanied by someone.
He was very handsome, outstandingly so compared to the young men of her acquaintance—thick black hair, a face that instantly drew fascinated interest, and his tall and strong physique was definitely ten out of ten. His forearms, resting on the top railing of the enclosure, were tanned and muscular, suggesting he lived an outdoors life. Maybe he was a new employee.