Trent hadn’t taken more than a few steps from Sarah’s room when he spotted Ed Farrell lounging on the patio, probably within earshot of the open windows. Plant security wouldn’t have sent Farrell to serve as Trent’s driver-cum-bodyguard unless he’d passed all their stringent tests, but the man still annoyed him. Farrell’s curiosity grated on Trent’s nerves in much the same way his harsh New Jersey accent grated on his ears.

      “Bring the car around. I’m going home.”

      “Yes, suh.”

      One of Farrell’s more annoying habits was this attempt to assume a Southern drawl. Maybe he thought the drawl, the paunch and the sunglasses made him into the media version of a redneck cop. It didn’t.

      “And in future, stay with the car unless I tell you otherwise.”

      Farrell’s stolid face showed no emotion except mild stubbornness. “It’s my job to protect you.”

      “I’m in no danger from Dr. Wainwright.”

      No physical danger, anyway. He stalked toward the car, ignoring Farrell’s quick dance to get there first and open the door.

      Small, slender, blond, Sarah looked as fragile as a piece of fine china. When he’d grasped her wrists, his fingers had entirely encircled them—like holding a child’s small bones within his grasp.

      He slid into the car. Nothing else about her was childlike, however. Not the warm, peaches-and-cream glow of her skin. Or that steel structure she called backbone.

      Sarah Wainwright reminded him of someone, and for a moment he couldn’t think who. Not Lynette. That was certain. His hand tightened into a fist, and he deliberately relaxed it. Lynette had been all fireworks and talent and temperament.

      Contained, self-possessed Sarah, with her single-minded devotion to medicine, was not remotely like Lynette. He’d been alternately annoyed and amused by Sarah once.

      His head moved restlessly against smooth gray leather as the car took the winding, narrow road to Land’s End. Amused. Annoyed. Attracted. The word gave a bitter edge to his thoughts. He’d never have acted on that feeling, of course. Unlike Lynette.

      He’d handled the news of Sarah’s presence badly. If he hadn’t already been beat from three days’ worth of meetings in San Francisco followed by the red-eye back to Savannah, he might have coped more rationally. He’d called the house to check his messages, intercepted the news that she was at the inn and barged in without thinking.

      Once he was in the room with her, it was too late to think. The complex feelings she sparked in him hadn’t left space for thought. It hadn’t seemed the time for civilized niceties, but a few of those might have gotten him further.

      Or maybe he shouldn’t have gone near Sarah at all. He could have let Derek handle the situation. His half brother’s easy charm had smoothed difficult patches more than once.

      The car rolled past the security gate, one of those unfortunate necessities of life for corporate heads. He might be willing to take chances with himself, but he wouldn’t take chances with Melissa.

      His heart clenched at the thought of his daughter. Sarah posed no physical danger, but her very presence on the island was still a threat. A threat that would have to be dealt with.

      He got out of the car onto the shell-encrusted drive, suddenly realizing who Sarah reminded him of. His grandmother. Just as tiny, just as iron-willed, she’d immigrated from Ireland, headed for New York and ended up, most improbably, the wife of a dirt-poor shrimper on the Georgia sea islands.

      Sarah, with generations of New England upper-crust breeding behind her, probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. But Mary Elizabeth O’Neill Donner had had backbone, too. Once she’d made up her mind to do something, she never turned back.

      Trent paused for a moment on the veranda, letting the breeze that accompanied the rising tide cool his face. His pulse slowed in rhythm with the roll of the breakers and the undulating wave of the sea oats on the dunes.

      The house he’d worked with the architect to design spread accommodatingly on a narrow strip of land between ocean and salt marsh, its pale yellow, shallow wings built in true Low Country style to catch every breeze. He’d been happy here once. Maybe he could be again.

      But not until he got rid of Sarah Wainwright.

      Geneva Robinson waited in the foyer, ready to take his briefcase and hand him an iced glass of her raspberry tea.

      “Did you have a good trip this time?” The housekeeper’s voice retained the melodic, singsong cadence of Gullah, the language born on the vast rice plantations that once covered the Low Country.

      “So-so.” Trent shrugged out of his jacket, stretching. He’d probably sleep better tonight if he took one of the boats out. Get the smell of cities and airplanes out of his lungs and replace it with the lush, fecund aroma of the salt marsh. “Is my brother here?”

      Geneva