CHAPTER
ONE

THE LONG DRIVEWAY made a graceful curve, and Jordan Walker slowed his Mercedes sedan near a mound of tasteful white azaleas as he stared at the Tudor mansion that had been hidden until now by artfully placed stands of trees.

If he wasn't mistaken, the residence was a copy of a palace owned by the Prince of Wales.

He'd made excellent time on the two-hour drive up from D.C. Which was good, because he knew Leonard Hamilton gave extra points for punctuality. He also liked men who spoke frankly, delivered value for money, and had the guts to stand up to him.

Over the past several days Jordan had done considerable research on the billionaire. He knew his age—sixty-eight. His state of health—poor. His passion for opera, his famous collection of American art, from Copley to Whistler to O'Keeffe. His fondness for orchids.

The background check was standard operating procedure for Jordan because he'd learned that preparation often meant the difference between success and failure.

But careful research was only part of what had earned him the Pulitzer Prize. He had something more: a facility for reading people—for knowing when the subject of an interview was blowing smoke like a criminal defense lawyer with a guilty client.

The paving surface changed from concrete to cobblestones as Jordan reached the circular driveway in front of the house.

He parked, then stepped out beside a neatly mulched bed of white and yellow tulips, planted in careful rows like soldiers guarding the entrance.

The sun was bright. The air smelled as clean as his mom's fresh laundry drying on the line. And the security camera high on the wall tracked him as if it were a jungle predator.

After stretching the kinks out of his arms and legs, he climbed the three brick steps to the double-wide doors. Seconds after he rang the bell, a tall, thin man in a dark suit opened the right-hand door.

"Jordan Walker."

"Yes, sir. Come in. Mr. Hamilton will meet you in the conservatory," he said with a very upper-class British accent.

Jordan stepped into a vast foyer that would easily have swallowed the first floor of the modest house where he'd grown up.

His footsteps echoed on two-foot-square marble slabs as he followed the man down a wide hall past silent reception rooms to a vast glass enclosure lush with the earthy scent of tropical vegetation.

It took him a moment to recognize the trees. Mostly he'd seen them as smaller specimens in large pots. These schefflera, dracaena, and ficus trees sprouted from enormous in-ground squares scattered around the terra-cotta floor. They alternated with carved rock formations holding jewel-like orchids.

"Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Hamilton will be right with you. Can I bring you something to drink?" the butler said.

"Just water," Jordan said. When the man had departed, he strolled around the room, looking at the trees and flowers, enjoying the ambience. Once he would have felt totally out of place in this rich environment. He'd passed the intimidating stage long ago.

He was inspecting a yellow-and-white orchid when the sound of a motor made him turn.

Leonard Hamilton, silver-haired and stoop-shouldered, rolled into the room on a one-seat electric cart and fixed him with a piercing look, then said by way of greeting, "With the work schedule you've been keeping over the past few years, I expected to see some gray in that dark hair of yours. But you look younger than thirty-two."

"Clean living," Jordan answered.

"Sit down so we're on the same level. As I told you in my letter, I want to discuss a book project."

Copyright © 2005 by Ruth Glick.