CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PROLOGUE
A glass of chilled champagne dangling between his fingers, James Barrett leaned on the luxury yacht’s polished teakwood railing and watched the golden-red sun sink into the deep blue waters of the glass-smooth South China Sea.
Sure is a far cry from Nebraska, he thought. Indeed, he’d never imagined seeing this much water in his life, not counting a family vacation to the Great Lakes when he was ten years old. Barrett glanced back at the receding Philippine Islands, where he’d just spent three intoxicating days. He was living the life he’d always dreamed of, but every moment, every second of pleasure he tried to enjoy was colored by the faint, niggling feeling that he didn’t deserve any of it, that he was, quite simply—a fraud.
But he knew that was just his father talking again. Barrett had worked harder than anyone he knew to achieve what he had, beginning with working two jobs to scrape up the money to attend the state university; suffering the ribbing of his redneck coworkers for studying during his lunch break at the slaughterhouse; going home after a full shift just four hours before class started and standing in the shower for thirty minutes, trying to wash the blood and dead meat stink out of his skin and hair; fighting to stay awake in his classes, knowing he had to work another twelve-hour shift that night, and somehow bull through a full class load of homework and papers, as well, week after week, month after month.
It had taken him five years, but at the end, he had graduated not only with a diploma, but also with a partial scholarship to Yale, thanks to an endowment from one of Lincoln’s founding families. The scholarship had the unusual stipulation that the winner had to attend a school outside the state, and Barrett wondered if whoever had set it up had hated the endless, flat plains as much as he did.
Compared to getting through college, law school was easier, at least on his body. His mind was taxed to the limit, but Barrett relished the purely intellectual challenge after years of backbreaking labor. He excelled there, interning at the Yale Law Journal and matching wits and legal expertise with some of the finest minds in the nation.
“A peso for your thoughts.”
As always, the sound of that sultry voice behind him made a frisson of delight course through his body. He turned to see a goddess-made-flesh walking toward him, dressed in a bikini that barely covered her slender body. Her bronze skin glowed in the fading rays of the tropical sun, under a long, silky mane of honey-blond hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders. Over the tiny swimsuit she almost didn’t have on was a sheer, silky white hip-length peignoir that fluttered in the gentle ocean breeze, revealing tantalizing glimpses of long leg and the delightful swell of her breasts. Barrett shifted his stance, letting his loose cargo shorts hide the sudden tightness in his groin.
“Just had to come out and watch the sunset again.”
She smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I figured as much. Dad and my brothers can get to be a bit much after a few drinks.”
“Hey, it wasn’t them. I like your father, really. He accepts me for who I am, just like his daughter.”
“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” She stepped close to him, the scent of jasmine and coconut body lotion almost overpowering him. Slipping her slim arms around his neck, she leaned up and kissed him, her lush lips tasting like a combination of sweet guava, rum and mint. Her tongue teased his, drawing it out, then darting back and forth. James wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, his love-fogged brain barely remembering not to crush her to him, the way he wanted to do every time she came near.
He’d first met Rachel Kirkall during his junior year, at a frat party he had wrangled an invitation to for no good reason he could think of at the time. Later, he had wondered more than once if it was fate. Spying a blond-haired vision across the raucous living room awash in loud music, body shots and pot, he had homed in on her as if in a trance. Upon arrival, however, he had interrupted a drunken fraternity brother’s clumsy advances by “accidentally” spilling his beer on the guy, then ducking his clumsy swing and burying a fist that had seen its share of fights into the blue-blood’s stomach, leaving him retching on the floor.
He’d expected the blond beauty to be shocked, but instead she’d said, “Thanks, now let’s get out of here.” Grabbing his hand, she had pulled him into the rainy night. They had found a nearby Starbucks, and spent the next four hours deep in conversation.
He’d learned she was a local from Connecticut, and was attending architect school, but he hadn’t found out that she was part of the Kirkall family until he had idly searched her name after their second date. After a brief, terrifying few minutes scrolling through the family’s public business holdings, including a sizable stake in a major league baseball team, he’d wondered if he’d ever see her again, or if he was just a passing fancy she was amusing herself with for a few weeks or months before moving on to someone more in her stratum. But that thought was immediately replaced by an even scarier one—that he might already be falling in love with her.
The two opposing thoughts had consumed him until their next date, but he’d managed to contain his fear and desire while stretching his scant budget to the limit to take her out to dinner at Ibiza.
Toward the end of their meal, some of her friends had stopped at their table, and although they were perfectly polite, James sensed the way they were looking at him. Rachel had ignored the pointed looks and narrowed brows, and it was only afterward, when they were sharing a glass of ten-year-old port she’d insisted on buying, that he’d worked up the nerve to ask her the question he knew had been on her girlfriends’ minds.
“Why am I with you?” She had smiled when she heard it, and James felt himself standing at the edge of an unfamiliar precipice, teetering, either about to fall over or step back, depending on her next words.
“First, you know who I am, and you haven’t asked about my father, except once, when you wanted to know what he did for a living. Second, this is our third date, and you still haven’t tried to get into my pants yet—”
That hadn’t been for a lack of desire on James’s part, but he hadn’t dared to even attempt a move like that, not wanting to destroy the romantic illusion he’d been enjoying so far.
“But most importantly, when I look at you, I see a man who hasn’t sold his soul to anyone yet. That’s why I’m with you.”
Soundlessly, James toppled over the edge, falling head-over-heels in love with her in that very moment.
They had been inseparable for the remainder of the school year, with James even winning over a few of her friends, and surviving a nerve-racking holiday weekend at her parents’ palatial mansion upstate, where he’d only gotten lost twice. Her three older brothers had been protective of her and skeptical of him, but James hadn’t given them a single reason to doubt his sincerity toward Rachel. And he’d spoken the truth about her father—he did like the man, whom, he hoped, saw a kindred spirit in James. The elder Kirkall had also built himself up from practically nothing, striking it rich in shrewd foreign investments, then bringing his hundreds of millions back home to reinvest in America’s infrastructure. Barrett had made it clear he wasn’t expecting a handout, that he was just happy to be with Rachel, and fully expected both of them to make their own
