The Hunt For Hawke's Daughter. Jean Barrett

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      Prologue

      San Francisco—several years ago

      “Oh, what a goddess you are!” he whispered eagerly. “Everything a man dreams of, and more!”

      Her name was Antonia, and she had the sleek, classic lines of a creation so perfect, so thoroughly devoted to pleasure, that she could almost be defined as obscene. He didn’t care. She was worth every penny of what it had cost him to possess her.

      “You’re mine now,” he gloated. “Every precious inch of you.”

      Fletcher Stowe’s eyes glowed as they devoured her exquisite, gleaming surfaces. His aging, veiny hand trembled when he leaned forward from his motorized wheelchair to stroke the white leather that sheathed this portion of her elegant body.

      Fletcher had told Dennis, his caretaker and bodyguard, to go away. He wanted to be alone with Antonia, to savor her at leisure and in private while she was still as fresh and untouched as a virgin. Tomorrow he would share her with the others, introduce her to his young bride, but tonight he wanted Antonia to be exclusively his.

      Thirty-five million dollars. That’s what Antonia had cost him. Thirty-five million dollars of pure luxury delivered to him only hours ago. Almost two hundred feet from bow to stern, furnished with every high-tech system imaginable, fitted with exotic woods and precious fixtures, Antonia was already the envy of every yachtsman on the West Coast.

      The crew would arrive tomorrow to prepare Antonia for her maiden voyage to Asia, which would also be Fletcher’s honeymoon cruise with his bride. But at this moment he and Dennis were alone on the yacht. Having toured its guest staterooms in his chair, admired the magnificent master suite he would share with Veronica and approved the entertainment room with its mahogany dance floor he would never use, Fletcher had reached the sky lounge.

      It was his favorite of the several public rooms with its ceiling, as well as its walls, clad in white leather trimmed in Madagascar ebony and its six-foot-high windows framing views of the majestic San Francisco skyline. He parked his chair in front of one of those windows and gazed out at the winking lights, chuckling to himself.

      This night was his triumph. He had fought them and won. They had all been against him, his family, his friends, his employees. They said the car accident had changed him, robbed him of his wits as well as the use of his legs. Said that he was old and foolish, the victim of a conniving young woman interested in nothing but his money.

      One of his sons had tried to have him declared incompetent. The other had tried to gain control of his computer software company. They had both failed, along with their army of lawyers. Fletcher Stowe was still in charge of his accumulated millions.

      “And I intend to go on spending them,” he chortled to the hills outside the window. “The frugal days are over.”

      There was a six carat blue diamond ring locked away in the safe of his mansion. He was going to present it to Ronnie at the end of the week when they were married. They were already discussing plans for an extravagant new house. He would build it for her when they returned from their honeymoon. No expenses spared. She made Fletcher happy, which was more than either of his sons or his late wife had ever done for him.

      He had survived the car accident. A near-death experience that had taught him his fortune meant nothing if he didn’t spend it. So now he was going to live. Starting tonight. Ronnie was waiting for him back at her apartment, and he was suddenly restless, anxious to join her.

      Fletcher seized the small, two-way radio hanging from the arm of his chair and pressed the call button. “All right, Dennis,” he spoke into the mouthpiece, “I’m ready to leave.”

      He waited a few seconds. There was no response. Irritated by the delay, he repeated his summons. “Dennis, I want to leave.”

      Silence. Damn the fellow! Where was he? Fletcher had told his caretaker to leave him alone, not leave the yacht. If he had disobeyed and gone ashore….

      He wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Angry now, he tried again. “Dennis, you’d better be there.”

      Still no answer. There had to be a problem. Maybe it was a malfunction with the two-way, because even if Dennis had gone ashore he would have carried the instrument with him clipped to his belt.

      No choice about it. Fletcher would have to go looking for him. Muttering his displeasure, he pivoted and headed for the nearest exit, his chair whirring softly. The Antonia had been fully equipped on every level for the comfort and convenience of his handicapped condition. The door slid open automatically as he approached it.

      Once out on the covered deck, he lifted his head and shouted. “Dennis, I need you!”

      There was no reply. Fletcher became aware of the lonely stillness. He wasn’t a nervous man, but suddenly he had a case of the jitters. Being bound to a wheelchair like this made him feel vulnerable. And it was late. There was no one down on the dock. He didn’t like it.

      Nonsense. He wasn’t helpless. No reason at all to panic. Dennis had to be somewhere on the yacht. The crew quarters were located forward on the lower level. His caretaker-bodyguard would occupy one of those cabins. Probably he had gone down there to inspect that area. That’s where Fletcher would find him.

      He rolled along the deck to the nearest of the two elevators. Ah, he was right. The indicator light revealed that the car was rising from the crew deck. Dennis was on his way up.

      Fletcher faced the elevator, ready to lecture its occupant. The car arrived, the door whooshed back to reveal the caretaker inside. His brawny figure was sprawled on his back, staring sightlessly at the finely paneled ceiling overhead. Fletcher gazed in horror at the blood that was already caking around the wound in the man’s chest.

      There was no sound behind him. But Fletcher knew. He could sense the danger. Alarmed, he whirled around in his chair. He had no time to cry out and only a second to register the image of a powerful revolver in a gloved hand. Then the weapon, equipped with a silencer, spat at him, drilling him cleanly through the forehead.

      THE TWO homicide detectives leaned over the rail of the Antonia, watching the morning sun emerging through the mist that cloaked the bay. They were alone now on the yacht. The last of the assorted evidence-gatherers had departed from the crime scene.

      “Got a nasty feeling about this one,” the heavier of the two men remarked.

      “Yeah, I know. No witnesses, no real evidence, and the night watchman out at the gate said he didn’t see or hear a thing. Whoever pulled it knew just what they were doing.”

      “And anyone with a worthwhile motive has a solid alibi.”

      “The two sons?”

      His partner shook his head. “Nope. Both of them conveniently elsewhere. One of them on vacation in Hawaii, the other in L.A. on business.”

      “Hired killer?”

      “Maybe, but try proving it.”

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