Unforgettable characters, sizzling romance, and riveting suspense: These are the trademarks of beloved author Judith McNaught. With millions of devoted fans and ten New York Times bestsellers to date, McNaught is a writer whose work just gets better with each new novel–and Every Breath You Take is the book readers have been waiting for. Returning to the lavish Chicago setting of her popular novel Paradise, and revisiting some of that book's characters as well, this story will captivate in inimitable Judith McNaught style.High atop a snow-covered hill, the stately old Wyatt mansion is perched like a crown, its stone spires pointing upward, its stained glass windows glowing like colorful jewels. Such opulence means success and, surely, happiness. But on the eve of wealthy philanthropist Cecil Wyatt's eightieth birthday, all the money in the world won't bring back his missing grandson, William Wyatt. The only thing for certain: Foul play was involved.The family, the police, the media–all have tried in vain to discover the young man's fate. Now suspicion has turned shockingly toward William's own half-brother, the rather distant and enigmatic Mitchell Wyatt.Kate Donovan never dreamed that a chance romantic encounter on a tropical island paradise would tag her as a suspect in a high-society murder case. But after Kate tangles with the darkly charismatic Mitchell Wyatt, she finds herself cast in a shadow of guilt and mistrust. As the Chicago police tighten their net, it will take all of Kate's ingenuity to clear her name. With her calm, cool wit, and the help of a man who may or may not be a dangerous catch, Kate vows to claim the life and love she desires.
High atop a snow-covered hill, the Wyatt mansion perched like a regal crown, its Gothic stone spires pointing skyward, its stained-glass windows glowing like jewels.
A mile away, limousines and luxury cars paraded in a slow stream toward a uniformed security guard posted at the gated entrance to the estate. As each vehicle reached him, the security guard checked the occupants' names off the guest list; then he issued a politely worded edict to the driver: "I'm sorry, because of the snowfall, Mr. Wyatt does not want any vehicles parked inside the gates this evening."
If a chauffeur was at the wheel, the guard stepped aside, allowing the chauffeur to turn into the drive, proceed through the gates, and deliver his passengers to the house before returning to the main road to park and wait.
If the vehicle's owner was at the wheel, the guard motioned him toward a line of shiny black Range Rovers parked up the hill at a cross street, wisps of exhaust curling from their tailpipes. "Please pull forward and leave your car with an attendant," the guard instructed. "You'll be shuttled up to the house."
However, as each new arrival soon discovered, that process was neither as simple nor as convenient as it sounded. Although there were plenty of helpful attendants and available Range Rovers waiting within sight, large snowbanks and parked cars had encroached on the winding residential lane so that it was almost impassably narrow in places, and the steady procession of slow-moving vehicles had churned four inches of unplowed snow from earlier that day into thick slush.
The whole ordeal was unnerving and annoying to every- one. . . . Everyone except Detectives Childress and MacNeil, who were in an unmarked Chevrolet that was backed into a driveway one hundred and fifty yards uphill from the entrance to the Wyatt estate. The two detectives were part of a handpicked team, formed earlier that day, assigned to keep Mitchell Wyatt under twenty-four-hour surveillance.
At eight pm, they had tailed him here, to Cecil Wyatt's estate, where he swerved around the security guard who was trying to wave him down, then turned into the private drive and disappeared from sight. Once Wyatt vanished, there was nothing for Childress and MacNeil to do but park and make a record of whom he was associating with. To facilitate that, Childress was observing the scene through a pair of night-vision binoculars, reporting license-plate numbers and miscellaneous information to MacNeil, who wrote it down in a notebook.
"We have a new contender approaching the starting line," Childress murmured as another pair of headlights reached the security guard at the gate. He read the vehicle's license plate aloud for MacNeil; then he described the vehicle and driver. "White Mercedes AMG, this year's model, or possibly last year's. Driver is a Caucasian male in his early sixties, passenger is a Caucasian female, early thirties, and she's snuggled up against her smiling sugar daddy."
When MacNeil didn't reply, Childress glanced at him and realized MacNeil's attention was focused on a pair of headlights slowly descending the hill from the right. "Must be someone who lives up here," Childress remarked. "And he's not only rich, he's curious," he added as the black Lincoln Town Car came to a full stop and cut off its headlights directly in front of the driveway where they were parked.
The back door opened, and a man in his late thirties wearing a dark overcoat got out. Childress rolled down his window, intending to make an excuse for their presence, but as the man paused...
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