Prologue

      SPARKY DARDEN’S DAUGHTER, Julia, had fluffed his pillows, propping them against the headboard, just the way Sparky liked them, and she’d left a silver-wrapped square of chocolate on the coverlet like those left nightly on pillows of Darden hotels all over the world. As Sparky unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth, he reclined.

      At the moment, he felt forty years old, not sixty-eight, and his cancer, which had gone into remission, wasn’t worrying him in the least. As he ran his fingers through the remaining strands of silver hair left after chemo, he used his other hand to fish into the pocket of a crimson robe for the remote; he was tired of watching late-night infomercials, a habit acquired during his illness, so he switched to the VCR and hit Play.

      Since the threats against Julia began, Sparky had watched this tape many times. Taken fourteen years ago by a security camera at the Long Island estate Sparky now called home, it was grainy and dark, so the figure racing across Sparky’s lawn looked scarcely visible. The guy had been clever, breaching security, blackening his face and dressing in dark clothes. After locating the switch plates inside the estate’s gates, he’d extinguished almost all the lights. Cameras and alarms were everywhere, and with the exception of a wooded area between the house and a two-lane rural highway, fencing surrounded the property, but he’d been determined, climbing the fence, hurdling flower beds, dodging hedges and circling statuary. After reaching the veranda steps, he’d climbed stealthily, his body moving like a dancer’s.

      Inside, everyone had been shouting in confusion, trying to turn on the lights. Funny, Sparky thought now. He should have suspected foul play, since he’d made countless enemies in the course of his career, but he’d thought there was a power outage. “Nothing’s wrong,” he’d assured.

      When he’d opened the door, though, a flashlight’s beam from inside had glanced off steel. Just as air had whooshed across his exposed neck, he’d jumped back, realizing the wind had been the wake of a knife meant to slit his throat. And then he’d seen the eyes through the ski mask—dark and full of hate, as if the man had been fantasizing about this confrontation for years.

      Sparky had lived, of course. Since starting Darden Enterprises, he’d survived murder attempts, near bankruptcy, paternity suits and slander, not to mention his own loneliness. The latter was like a gaping mouth inside him, and no matter what Sparky had fed it over the years—wine, women or song—he’d never felt filled. Always on to life’s next conquest, he’d needed more sex, more money, more accolades. At least