The Chosen. BEVERLY BARTON

had known wealth and privilege all his life. But he’d wanted more—more than being Judge Judson Walker IV’s son, more than being Senator Nathaniel Chisholm’s grandson. And more had been expected of him. He had been brought up to believe that he was, and always would be, one of the good guys, a man destined to help his fellow man.

      “Why you, Jenny? Why did it have to be you?” Judd shivered as the damp and cold seeped through his jeans, the slushy, wet snow dampening his knees. The winter wind whipped through the old, battered, leather jacket he wore.

      In his mind’s eye, he could still see Jennifer, the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her alive. Beautiful. Vibrant. Happy.

      God help him, he should feel something—anything. He should be crying … ranting … raving. Or at the very least, his wife’s memory should evoke a sentimental melancholy.

      Nothing.

      Dry-eyed, cold, and somber, Judd rose to his feet. Before leaving the cemetery, he gazed down at Jennifer’s grave one final time. He wouldn’t come back again, not even next year on their anniversary. There was no point in pretending to mourn, not when there was only emptiness left inside him, only embers of his once fiery emotions.

      “You deserved better, Jenny.” Judd’s voice blended with the howling winter wind. “If it takes me the rest of my life, I promise that I’ll find him, and I’ll make him pay for what he did to you.”

      Judd walked down the narrow path that led to the arched wrought-iron gates guarding the family cemetery. Gazing up at the night sky, he blinked as the melting snow hit his face. With moisture coating his beard stubble and shaggy hair and beading on his leather jacket, he yanked open the driver’s door on the old Mercedes that had belonged to his father. He glanced over his shoulder and took a deep breath.

      “Happy Anniversary, Jenny.”

      He slid behind the wheel, inserted the key into the ignition, started the car, and drove away.

      The only reason Griffin Powell had accepted Jillian and Gil Russell’s invitation to their dinner party was a long, lean, luscious redhead named Laura Barrett. Laura and Jillian had been best friends since their sorority days at Vanderbilt, and Griff and Laura had become casual lovers when he’d invested in her father’s faltering horse breeding farm several months ago. He found Laura, as a person, mildly interesting; as a lover, she was quite talented. Even though she might have originally had a misguided idea that their relationship would lead to marriage, they both understood that this trip to Knoxville would be her last, that their affair was coming to an end.

      Laura tightened her grip on Griff’s arm. “There’s someone you simply have to meet.”

      “Is there?” Griff replied.

      “Yes, darling. It’s Royce Palmer.” Laura all but dragged Griff across the crowded room.

      “Who’s Royce Palmer?”

      “My ex-fiancé.”

      “Oh.”

      “You’re not the least bit jealous, are you?”

      Before Griff could think of a diplomatic response, Henry Lewis waylaid them. The University of Tennessee professor placed his thin, bony hand on Griff’s shoulder. “Still getting all the pretty girls, I see.”

      Griff smiled at Hank despite the fact that the feel of the man’s hand on his shoulder made him slightly uncomfortable. Even when they’d been students together at the university, Griff had sensed something a little off-center about the guy. They had never been friends, but now ran into each other occasionally at various functions because they both belonged to the alumni association and traveled in the same social circle. The only difference was that Hank had been born rich and thus entitled. Griff had come by his vast wealth through a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.

      “Laura Barrett, may I introduce Hank Lewis.” He eyed the lanky, slightly balding man. “Or would you prefer to be introduced as Professor Henry Lewis?”

      Laura faked a smile. Hank removed his hand from Griff’s shoulder and grasped Laura’s hand, much to her surprise. She gasped softly.

      While Hank babbled his way through what he probably thought was some witty repartee, Griff zoned out and leisurely scanned the Russells’ massive living room. The crème de la crème of Knoxville society was in attendance, along with several out-of-towners. Interior designer Mark Crosby spied Griff, raised his hand and waved. Mark was the best in the state, and that was the reason Griff had hired him to decorate both his office suite and his home.

      Who was the man talking to Mark? Griff wondered. He looked vaguely familiar, but Griff couldn’t quite place him.

      “Who’s the fellow with Mark?” Griff interrupted the going-nowhere conversation between Laura and Hank.

      Gazing up thankfully at Griff, Laura said, “That’s Cary Maygarden, from Nashville. We met him at the Fentons’ New Year’s Eve Ball in Atlanta. Don’t you remember?”

      “Is he in the country music business?” Hank asked.

      “Goodness, no.” Laura laughed. “The Maygarden family is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most prestigious in Nashville. Cary’s great-great-something-or-other was a contemporary of Andrew Jackson.”

      Griff grunted.

      “Please excuse us, Hank.” Laura tugged on Griff’s arm. “We simply have to say hello to an old friend before we leave.”

      “We’re leaving?” Griff grinned. Nothing would please him more.

      “Of course we are. I’m returning to Louisville in a few days. I want you all to myself for a little while this evening.”

      Hank choked on his own saliva and awkwardly excused himself.

      “Very effective,” Griff said, once Hank was out of earshot.

      “Whatever do you mean?”

      “You as good as told old Hank that you intend to have your way with me tonight.”

      “I do,” Laura said, a wistful expression on her lovely face. Then her expression changed, hardened; and she laughed. “Let’s call it what it is, shall we?”

      “And that would be?”

      Still smiling, she lowered her voice ever so slightly. “A farewell fuck.”

      Never let it be said that Laura didn’t know how to make a point. Griff placed his hand on her back and let it trail slowly downward, stopping just below her waist. When she started to speak, he grasped her elbow and maneuvered her forward, directly toward her former fiancé. Before they reached Royce Palmer, Griff leaned down and whispered in Laura’s ear.

      “I think a farewell fuck should always be memorable, don’t you?”

      As if she hadn’t even heard him, Laura held out her hand to the man she had once been engaged to. “Royce, darling, how good to see you.” She turned to Griff. “Sweetheart, this is Royce Palmer, an old and dear friend.” She hugged closely to Griff’s side as she zeroed in on the other man. “You know Griffin Powell, don’t you? The Griff Powell, UT legend, and one of the most sought-after bachelors in the state of Tennessee.”

      Shortly after three in the morning, Ruddy removed his tuxedo jacket and hung it in the closet, then removed the diamond cuff links from his white shirt and placed them in the jewelry case. He’d left the party rather early because he’d been bored.

      Ruddy hated being bored.

      But a man in his position had to attend a certain number of these mundane affairs. It was expected.

      After removing his shoes and stripping out of his other clothing, he retrieved a pair of silk pajamas from the wardrobe drawer. He stroked the luxurious fabric. Ruddy bought only the best.

      Once attired in his pajamas, leather house slippers, and quilted satin robe, Ruddy went downstairs