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By Root 1361 0

one; Buck’s entrepreneurial grandfather, a poor immigrant from Ireland, had made his first small fortune at the age of twenty trading furs in Alaska. Then, bored with the freezing north, he had turned to building railroads and then to grain. Finally, he was rich enough to satisfy his own high standards and he grew bored again. An orphan with little education, he endowed a small mid-western college with a new library. In return they allowed him to enroll as a student at the age of thirty-two. He amassed credits quickly, the way he’d amassed his money, and he graduated with honors, summa cum laude, a mere two years later. Then he’d applied to Harvard Law School.

When he received his Doctor of Law degree, he left the world of commerce behind and devoted himself entirely to his new profession. He married the daughter of another rich speculator, hoping she would give him a brood of sons to staff his newly founded law firm. But only after three girls did she bear a boy—his son, Jason. Jason followed in his father’s footsteps, expanding the law firm from Sacramento to San Francisco and New York. Now Jason’s only son, Buckland Aldrich Wingate, had inherited the firm. But Buck’s passion was politics, not law. He’d left most of the practice in the hands of his partners while he served as senator for California. He was on several important senate committees, particularly in the trade sector, at which he was an expert.

Jason Wingate had died a few years ago, but his tall, gray-whiskered presence was maintained in the full-length portrait on the wall in Buck’s New York office. Looking at him now he remembered how much his father had despised Harry Harrison—and he knew he had good reason. Still, the Wingates had looked after the Harrison legal affairs ever since they’d started and he must do his duty.

Harry was late, as usual. When he finally sauntered into his office, Buck thought he looked heavy, but his face was sun-bronzed and still handsome and he was wearing an impeccably-cut Savile Row suit and a conservative French silk tie. He was clean shaven and he wore his receding fair hair slicked back. He looked as immaculate as an excellent valet could make him. Even the soles of his shoes shone from the layer of polish applied each night. Buck smiled cynically; he knew the real Harry who lurked behind that English-gentleman facade.

“Morning, Buck,” Harry said, offering his hand and smiling genially as though nothing had happened and they had seen each other just the other day. “Sorry to have missed your wedding, but I was in Monte Carlo at the time. Or was it London?” He shrugged. “I forget. Still, how is your wife?”

“Maryanne is well, thank you, Harry.” He watched as Harry’s eyes swiveled to the silver-framed photograph on his desk. Harry’s brows shot up. “I heard she was a stunner, Buck, but you sure did yourself proud. Money and looks—and an old aristocratic family. An unbeatable combination, I’d say.”

“Would you, Harry?” he replied dryly. “And what about your own marriage prospects?” He knew all about Harry’s escapades with follies’ stars and movie actresses. He hoped he wasn’t about to indulge himself in another expensive misalliance, because he knew he could not afford it.

“Ah, the hell with all women I say,” Harry retorted bitterly. “I’m here because I need your help. I suddenly find myself in a small financial predicament and I need to raise cash. Of course, it’s only temporary,” he added quickly. “You know how the commodities market’s been behaving lately. I’ve taken a bit of a beating on cocoa futures and I thought maybe it was time to open up the rest of the trust fund.” He smiled winningly. “Kind of an emergency, Buck. You know how it is.”

“From what I recall the second half of your trust does not become available until you are forty. And you have a few years to go yet.”

Harry heaved a theatrical sigh. He lit a cigarette and leaned lazily back in his chair. “Surely we’re not going to let four years come between me and my money? My father would have wanted me to have it if I needed it. And I do need it, Buck. Now.