Van Horn was r eputed to be the kind of man who would sell his soul for the right amount of money. Excellent.
Loosening his tie, Robert stared out the window overlooking Louisburg Square and watched as fat flakes continued
to fall, but he didn’t see the snow or the darkness. In his mind’s eye, he pictured a boy, a fifteen-year- old boy with
bright eyes, eager expression, cocky smile, and that edge of arrogance that k ept the Sullivans in their proper place,
an inch or two above the rest of the world. Sullivan blood was running through that adolescent’s veins. Blue blood.
As much like Stuart’s as he would be able to find.
He thought of the boy, the child he’d scorned at birth, the grandson he’d sworn never to meet, and now, it seemed,
the only chance for the Sullivan name to be passed from one generation to the next. His bastard grandson.
Oh, there were his brother Frank’s children, of course. A motley crew if
he’d ever seen one. Whining daughters and a son without a drop of starch in him. Not one fit to run the family
empire. Even Alicia’s young son, Wade, seemed to take after Maureen’s spineless family. Unfortunately, if Robert
didn’t find someone of his own flesh and blood, first Frank, if he was lucky enough to outlive his older brother, and
then Collin, Frank’s spoiled dandy of an heir, would inherit the lion’s share of wealth that had been tended to and
nourished for seven generations. A damned waste, that’s what it was.
If only Stuart had lived. Robert blinked hard and fought the old emotions that tended to strangle him each time he
thought of his son. So strong. So handsome. So brilliant. Now, there was a boy with starch and sturdy moral fiber.
The only one of the next generation. Even his own daughter, Beatrice, had turned into a disappointment not that she
had an ounce of her older brother’s vitality and brains.
Yet Stuart was the one who had bled to death on that dock, and despite the findings of the investigation, Robert
knew who his son’s murderer was; someday that bastard would pay. His vengeance would be cold and sweet and
untraceable to the family. That’s why he’d waited so long.
Besides, there were other, more pressing matters. He had to find his grandson and soon. Not only was Robert’s life
ebbing away, but his brother, Frank, was pushing that the reins of control be given to first him, and then Collin.
Robert reached for a cigar and bit off the tip. He’d been a fool fifteen years ago, an arrogant, blind fool, and it was
time to rectify his mistake.
If he’d learned anything in his seventy years, it was that family meant everything, blood was thicker than water, and
that he’d do whatever it took to find his grandson and return him to his rightful spot as heir to the Sullivan fortune.
Neils Van Horn smelled money. Big money. The kind of money that only comes along once in a lifetime. He sat by
the fire smoking goddamned Havana cigars, the two-inch heels of his boots propped on an oxblood leather ottoman,
and as he looked at the man seated next to him in a matching wing-backed chair. He knew this was it—his big score.
Over the sharp aroma of cigar smoke and the sweet scent of brandy from the snifter in his right hand, he detected
that elusive scent of cold hard cash. Vaults of it. Robert Sullivan, gray-haired, distinguished down to his
patrician nose and frosty blue eyes, was loaded. This renovated town house located on Louisburg Square, filled with
antiques and oil portraits of old dead Sullivans, reeked of mutual funds, secret safes, stocks, and bearer bonds. Neils
felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.
The clock struck half-past twelve and Robert had yet to get down to brass tacks, but Van Horn prided himself on his
patience.
“So,” the old man was saying, “this situation will have to be handled with the utmost discretion.”
Neils was way ahead of Sullivan. “No problem.”
“No one knows about the boy. That was how it was supposed to be.”
“Understandable, considering the circumstances.” Sure, Robert Sullivan had wanted to de