it. I wouldn’t let you within a mile of it!’
When Tyler was graduated from law school he could have practised in Boston, and because of the family name he would have been welcomed on the boards of dozens of companies, but he preferred to get far away from his father.
He decided to set up a law practice in Chicago. In the beginning, it was difficult. He refused to trade on his family name, and clients were scarce. Chicago politics were run by the Machine, and Tyler very quickly learned that it would be advantageous for a young lawyer to become involved with the powerful central Cook County Lawyers Association. He was given a job with the district attorney’s office. He had a keen mind and was a quick study, and it was not long before he became invaluable to them. He prosecuted felons accused of every conceivable crime, and his record of convictions was phenomenal.
He rose rapidly through the ranks, and finally the day came when he received his reward. He was appointed Cook County circuit court judge. He had thought his father finally would be proud of him. He was wrong.
‘You? A circuit court judge? For God’s sake, I wouldn’t let you judge a baking contest!’
Judge Tyler Stanford was a short, slightly overweight man with sharp, calculating eyes and a hard mouth. He had none of his father’s charisma or attractiveness. His outstanding feature was a deep, sonorous voice, perfect for pronouncing sentence.
Tyler Stanford was a private man who kept his thoughts to himself. He was forty years old, but he looked much older than his years. He prided himself on having no sense of humor. Life was too grim for levity. His only hobby was chess, and once a week he played at a local club, where he invariably won.
Tyler Stanford was a brilliant jurist, held in high esteem by his fellow judges, who often came to him for advice. Very few people were aware that he was one of the Stanfords. He never mentioned his father’s name.
The judge’s chambers were in the large Cook County Criminal Court Building at Twenty-sixth and California streets, a fourteen-storey stone edifice with steps leading up to the front entrance. It was in a dangerous neighborhood, and a notice outside stated: BY JUDICIAL ORDER, ALL PERSONS ENTERING THIS BUILDING SHALL SUBMIT TO SEARCH.
This was where Tyler spent his days, hearing cases involving robbery, burglary, rape, shootings, drugs and murders. Ruthless in his decisions, he became known as the Hanging Judge. All day long he listened to defendants pleading poverty, child abuse, broken homes, and a hundred other excuses. He accepted none of them. A crime was a crime and had to be punished. And in the back of his mind, always, was his father.
Tyler Stanford’s fellow judges knew very little about his personal life. They knew that he had had a bitter marriage and was now divorced, and that he lived alone in a small three-bedroom Georgian house on Kimbark Avenue in Hyde Park. The area was surrounded by beautiful old homes, because the great fire of 1871 that razed Chicago had whimsically spared the Hyde Park district. He made no friends in the neighborhood, and his neighbors knew nothing about him. He had a housekeeper who came in three times a week, but Tyler did the shopping himself. He was a methodical man with a fixed routine. On Saturdays, he went to Harper Court, a small shopping mall near his home, or to Mr G’s Fine Foods or Medici’s on Fifty-seventh Street.
From time to time, at official gatherings, Tyler would meet the wives of his fellow jurists. They sensed that he was lonely, and they offered to introduce him to women friends or invite him to dinner. He always declined.
‘I’m busy that evening.’
His evenings seemed to be full, but they had no idea what he was doing with them.
Tyler isn’t interested in anything but the law,’ one of the judges explained to his wife. ‘And he’s just not interested in meeting any women yet. I heard he had a terrible marriage.’
He was right.
After his divorce, Tyler had sworn to himself that he would never become emotionally involved again. And then he had met Lee, and everything had suddenly changed. Lee was beautiful, sensitive and caring – the one Tyler wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Tyler loved Lee, but why should Lee love him? A successful model, Lee had dozens of admirers, most of them wealthy. And Lee liked expensive things.
Tyler had felt that his cause was hopeless. There was no way to compete with others for Lee’s affection. But overnight, with the death of his father, everything could change. He could become wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.
He could give Lee the world.
Tyler walked into the chambers of the chief judge. ‘Keith, I’m afraid I have to go to Boston for a few days. Family affairs. I wonder if you would have someone take over my caseload for me.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange it,’ the chief judge said.
‘Thank you.’
That afternoon, Judge Tyler Stanford was on his way to Boston. On the plane, he thought again about his father’s words on that terrible day: I know your dirty little secret.
It was raining in Paris, a warm July rain that sent pedestrians racing along the street for shelter or looking for nonexistent taxis. Inside the auditorium of a large gray building on a corner of Rue Faubourg St Honoré, there was panic. A dozen half-naked models were running around in a kind of mass hysteria, while ushers finished setting up chairs and carpenters pounded away at last-minute bits of carpentry. Everyone was screaming and gesticulating wildly, and the noise level was painful.
In the eye of the hurricane, trying to bring order out of chaos, was the maîtresse herself, Kendall Stanford Renaud. Four hours before the fashion show was scheduled to begin, everything was falling apart.
Catastrophe: John Fairchild of W was unexpectedly going to be in Paris, and there was no seat for him.
Tragedy: the speaker system was not working.
Disaster: one of the top models was ill.
Emergency: two of the make-up artists were fighting backstage and were far behind schedule.
Calamity: all the seams on the cigarette skirts were tearing.
In other words, Kendall thought wryly, everything is normal.
Kendall Stanford Renaud could have been mistaken for one of the models herself, and at one time she had been a model. She exuded carefully plotted elegance from her golden chignon to her Chanel pumps. Everything about her – the curve of her arm, the shade of her nail polish, the timbre of her laugh – bespoke well-mannered chic. Her face, if stripped of its careful make-up, was actually plain, but Kendall took pains to see that no one ever realized this, and no one ever did.
She was everywhere at once.
‘Who lit that runway, Ray Charles?’
‘I want a blue backdrop …’
The lining is showing. Fix it!’
‘I don’t want the models doing their hair and make-up in the holding area. Have Lulu find them a dressing room!’
Kendall’s venue manager came hurrying up to her. ‘Kendall, thirty minutes is too long! Too long! The show should be no more than twenty-five minutes.’
She stopped what she was doing. ‘What do you suggest, Scott?’
‘We could cut a few of the designs and –’
‘No. I’ll have the models move faster.’
She heard her name called again, and turned.
‘Kendall, we can’t locate Pia. Do you want Tami to switch to the charcoal gray jacket with the trousers?’
‘No. Give that to Dana. Give the cat suit and tunic to Tami.’
‘What