Heiress Behind the Headlines

Scatteree Pines sat up on the highest part of the hill, its unobstructed view of the whole of the Atlantic Ocean that spread out from the rocks below, its elegant back to the tiny village as if it held itself quietly apart, aloof. The house was a gabled, grand old affair that nodded toward the Victorian style, with a pitched central roof and two sprawling wings that spread away from the arresting front entrance. But it was located down a long and winding private drive in the farthest corner of one of the most remote islands in North America. It was not, like the Whitney summer “cottage” in self-consciously posh Newport, Rhode Island, located squarely on the tourist-ridden and world-famous Cliff Walk, the better to impress the passing unwashed masses with the storied Whitney legacy and its fifty-plus rooms of gilt-edged opulence.

But that shouldn’t matter, Larissa told herself sharply. Scatteree Pines was no more a quiet little “cottage” than Jack himself was the everyday sort of man he’d been masquerading as today. Maybe she’d needed this reminder. Maybe his battered old jeans and casual T-shirt had confused her, making her forget that whatever else Jack was, whatever he seemed to do to her with his slightest glance, he was one of the wealthiest men in the world. He came from a very long line of equally wealthy men, dating back to the original Colonies and before that, to a very elite selection of powerful and well-connected men in England. He was the heir to centuries of power, and he wore it with the carelessness of perfect comfort, evident in every cell and sinew of his well-toned body. She needed to remember that he knew exactly how to wield that power, and would do so—did do so—with absolutely no compunction.