hugging or exchanging a kiss good-bye.
Once again, Tyler Stannard’s head lifted. This time at the quick tapping sound of her footsteps crossing the parquet floor. He watched her slip through the halfopened double oak doors and knew with utter confidence that her destination would be her bedroom, where she’d immediately change into her riding breeches. His wishes had been explicit.
Yet an annoyed frown nevertheless creased his brow. How thin she was, far too frail-looking. And that wasn’t her only problem, he reflected. She was fourteen years old. And while she favored his height and his coloring, so far Tyler Stannard had difficulty recognizing even a trace of his character in his only child. At her birth, his decision to name his firstborn after himself had been made in the hope that some of his indomitable will, his tireless ambition, would imprint itself on the newborn baby, even though she was a girl.
Ordinarily, of course, he’d have waited for a male child to pass his name on to the next generation. But when his wife, Catherine, immediately following the emergency delivery of the baby, was rushed into intensive care, and the obstetrician informed him it was unlikely that his wife would ever be able to carry another child, he decided that the infant would have the name Tyler Montgomery Stannard, after her sire.
His decision proved prescient, for his wife, Catherine, a descendant of one of the founding families in America, died four days later from complications resulting from an obstructed valve in her heart. He’d loved his wife, as he knew he would love no other human being. She, who had given him so much. Because of Catherine, he’d been able to grasp the wealth, the social prestige, and the power he’d always dreamed of. From that moment on, he’d never relinquished his hold.
Fleetingly, in the cold, dark hours after his wife’s death, it occurred to him that he could change his mind and name the tiny newborn girl after Catherine. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. No one could take the place of his beloved in his heart. Above all, he wanted the memory of the woman he’d loved to remain pure, unmarked, and unchanged. There would only be one Catherine Elizabeth Adams Stannard. Since her death fourteen years ago, Tyler Stannard had made a new marriage, of a different sort: to his company, Stannard Limited, the privately owned international real estate and luxury resort business he’d built with his bare hands and Catherine’s money. This new relationship consumed him. And he was amply rewarded for his devotion. According to the rankings of Forbes and Money World, Tyler Stannard was now one of the wealthiest men in the world.
But that his only child should prove lacking, perhaps as weak of heart and will as her mother, filled him with bitterness, a sense of gross injustice, because Tyler Stannard knew he would never remarry. He didn’t need to. His sexual urges were tended to by women who flocked to his side, drawn to the immense fortune. He only needed to nod in their direction. And were he ever to fancy himself in love and consider marrying again, the prenuptial agreement alone would kill—with ruthless efficiency—any
romantic illusion he might be under.
So he would make do with the only child he had, bending her to his will, fashioning her into the kind of person who could carry on the Stannard name.
P ART 2
1991
6
Gladstone, New Jersey
T he tableau before Steve filled him with awe, it was so moving, so beautiful. Set against the background of the immaculate, princely splendor of the USET stables at Gladstone, the grooms were leading the small band of horses out in single file into the open courtyard. The horses were dressed for travel: their legs wrapped in identical navy blue bandages, their bodies covered in blue and red quilted blankets, with the letters USA stitched on the corners. He knew that beneath the protection of their blankets, the horses’ well-groomed coats
Once again, Tyler Stannard’s head lifted. This time at the quick tapping sound of her footsteps crossing the parquet floor. He watched her slip through the halfopened double oak doors and knew with utter confidence that her destination would be her bedroom, where she’d immediately change into her riding breeches. His wishes had been explicit.
Yet an annoyed frown nevertheless creased his brow. How thin she was, far too frail-looking. And that wasn’t her only problem, he reflected. She was fourteen years old. And while she favored his height and his coloring, so far Tyler Stannard had difficulty recognizing even a trace of his character in his only child. At her birth, his decision to name his firstborn after himself had been made in the hope that some of his indomitable will, his tireless ambition, would imprint itself on the newborn baby, even though she was a girl.
Ordinarily, of course, he’d have waited for a male child to pass his name on to the next generation. But when his wife, Catherine, immediately following the emergency delivery of the baby, was rushed into intensive care, and the obstetrician informed him it was unlikely that his wife would ever be able to carry another child, he decided that the infant would have the name Tyler Montgomery Stannard, after her sire.
His decision proved prescient, for his wife, Catherine, a descendant of one of the founding families in America, died four days later from complications resulting from an obstructed valve in her heart. He’d loved his wife, as he knew he would love no other human being. She, who had given him so much. Because of Catherine, he’d been able to grasp the wealth, the social prestige, and the power he’d always dreamed of. From that moment on, he’d never relinquished his hold.
Fleetingly, in the cold, dark hours after his wife’s death, it occurred to him that he could change his mind and name the tiny newborn girl after Catherine. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. No one could take the place of his beloved in his heart. Above all, he wanted the memory of the woman he’d loved to remain pure, unmarked, and unchanged. There would only be one Catherine Elizabeth Adams Stannard. Since her death fourteen years ago, Tyler Stannard had made a new marriage, of a different sort: to his company, Stannard Limited, the privately owned international real estate and luxury resort business he’d built with his bare hands and Catherine’s money. This new relationship consumed him. And he was amply rewarded for his devotion. According to the rankings of Forbes and Money World, Tyler Stannard was now one of the wealthiest men in the world.
But that his only child should prove lacking, perhaps as weak of heart and will as her mother, filled him with bitterness, a sense of gross injustice, because Tyler Stannard knew he would never remarry. He didn’t need to. His sexual urges were tended to by women who flocked to his side, drawn to the immense fortune. He only needed to nod in their direction. And were he ever to fancy himself in love and consider marrying again, the prenuptial agreement alone would kill—with ruthless efficiency—any
romantic illusion he might be under.
So he would make do with the only child he had, bending her to his will, fashioning her into the kind of person who could carry on the Stannard name.
P ART 2
1991
6
Gladstone, New Jersey
T he tableau before Steve filled him with awe, it was so moving, so beautiful. Set against the background of the immaculate, princely splendor of the USET stables at Gladstone, the grooms were leading the small band of horses out in single file into the open courtyard. The horses were dressed for travel: their legs wrapped in identical navy blue bandages, their bodies covered in blue and red quilted blankets, with the letters USA stitched on the corners. He knew that beneath the protection of their blankets, the horses’ well-groomed coats
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