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the bridge overhead and
    the incline, she held onto his waist with all her might while he wrapped his arms around the steel girder
    above them.
    For what seemed like an eternity, the train engine sound of the tornado—the shrill flute of its
    movement—traveled the length of the overpass. The girders hummed, the concrete sang and the
    accompanying music of flying debris chimed in harmony with the plaintive voice of the fierce, deadly
    wind. Fay kept her eyes tightly closed, her arms squeezing the breath from Bradford Lynden, her cheek
    pressed to his chest where she could hear the wild beat of his heart as he strained to keep them attached
    to the girder.
    Bradford’s legs were trembling as he anchored the slim woman to him. He felt as though he was being
    drawn and quartered—the wind pulling at him, straining his arms, trying to suck the two of them away
    from their hiding place. Something had struck the back of his head and he could feel the warmth of his
    blood oozing down his neck. By the time the howl of the wind had died down to a fading rumble to the
    north of them, Bradford was unconscious, the loss of blood having taken its toll, but his legs were locked
    around Fay O’Reilly’s hips, keeping her safe.
    As he had kept her safe for four years now, she thought as she wedged herself against his sleeping body.
    Even in sleep, he reached out to put an arm around her, anchoring her securely to him.
    “We’ll find your boy, darlin’,” Bradford had promised and over the years had done everything he could
    to keep that vow.
    Rich beyond Fay’s wildest dreams, powerful as any state politician could ever be, her transplanted
    Alabama boy had provided her with wealth and position, a stunning home and happiness that knew no
    boundaries.
    If now and again her pretty face turned sad and quietness settled over her normally buoyant personality,
    Bradford understood and held his arms out to her. And if she turned morose and introspective,
    concerned her past would somehow harm this wonderful, supportive man would get down and dirty with
    tickling fingers and pounding cock that would take his lady’s mind from her troubles.
    At least for a little while.
    “I love you, Bradford Lynden,” Fay whispered against her husband’s throat.
    “I love you, too,” Bradford mumbled.
    “They’re gonna find him, Brad.”
    “Yes, they are.”
    “What if he won’t…?”
    “Don’t borrow trouble, Fay-Fay,” her husband said.
    She closed her eyes and settled closer still to her rock, her anchor, the love of her life. When sleep finally
    overcame her, she dreamt she was standing at the kitchen sink of the shabby little trailer to which she had
    brought her son all those years before. She was bathing the little boy, laughing with him, being splattered
    by his flailing arms as he tried to grab the rubber ducky floating in the sink beside his chubby leg. As she
    gently washed his tiny genitals, she smiled at the odd little birthmark on the puckered flesh of his
    scrotum.
    “That’s gonna intrigue a lady one day, Paddy,” she said, picking him up and wrapping the towel around
    his squirming little body.
    She carried her son to the bed and dressed him in his nightie then sat down in the old rocking chair to
    croon him to sleep.
    Deep in her slumber, Fay O’Reilly Lynden heard the song she was singing to her child and tears slid from
    the corners of her eyes.

Chapter Four
    Julian St. John stood at the sweeping bank of windows that looked out over the docks and waited for the
    arrival of his clients. The yacht bearing Dr. Olivia Carstairs, her assistant and two women who were new
    to the resort was dropping anchor as the sun sank below the horizon. He blinked as the lights on the
    dock came on, illuminating the crewmen who began scurrying about to secure the craft.
    “The new clients are Judy Bowman, an administrative assistant from Chicago and Meredith Fitzgerald, a
    columnist for Vogue. Bowman isn’t married but Fitzgerald is.