Perfect

  Dear Readers,

  There’s something I think you’ll enjoy knowing as you begin reading Perfect, and it’s this: The first draft of my manuscript didn’t contain a single reference to illiteracy. I was editing the first draft when Coors Brewing Company contacted me in an effort to persuade me to write a book for them that would highlight the problem of women’s illiteracy, a book they could publish in a few months’ time. There were many reasons I couldn’t possibly do that. I wasn’t finished with Perfect yet, and even if I had been, I couldn’t write fast enough to produce a good book in their time frame. Coors had made women’s literacy their social project for the year, however, and I agreed to read the material they sent me.

  The packet of material was large, and the content was horrifying because it documented that 20 percent of American women were functionally illiterate. Twenty percent of our sisters couldn’t read! According to the material, the best way to teach an illiterate woman to read is in a one-on-one situation with another woman who is willing to commit six months of her life to accomplish the goal.

  I felt that I was supposed to help; that I was meant to help; that I owed it to God and to my illiterate sisters to help. So I asked Simon & Schuster to let me delay turning in Perfect for two months, and when they understood why I wanted to do that, they agreed. Two months was very little time to completely rewrite Perfect and incorporate the illiteracy issue, so I flew to Colorado, rented a house on a mountaintop, and went into total seclusion.

  The book you are about to read is the result of that.

  Oh, one more thing: As a result of reading Perfect, more than five thousand women contacted their local literacy agencies and signed up to spend six months teaching another woman to read. Talk about real-life heroines!

  Warmly,

  Judith McNaught

  PS: If you want to read more about Matt and Meredith Farrell, they have a book of their own called Paradise. Zack and Julie Benedict appear as secondary characters in Every Breath You Take.

  Praise for the Incomparable Bestsellers of

  JUDITH McNAUGHT,

  “One of the finest writers of popular fiction”

  NIGHT WHISPERS

  “Never miss a McNaught! Night Whispers heads like the Titanic toward its iceberg of a climax—with shocking revelations . . . . Judith McNaught has written her most stunning work of fiction to date. Sexy, smart, and page-turning, this is a must-read.”

  —Barnesandnoble.com*

  “Fans of romantic suspense will shout that the great Judith McNaught has written something wonderful with her perfect novel, Night Whispers. . . . A tender triumph that will leave readers awed . . . . The characters are warm and charming, and will long be remembered.”

  —BookBrowser.com

  “Fiery passion, taut suspense, and unforgettable characters . . . . McNaught has truly outdone herself with Night Whispers. It is a testimony to her impressive talent . . . . Equal parts romance and suspense, this is a must-read for mystery and romance fans alike . . . . You’ll find yourself delighted with this excellent book.”

  —Rendezvous

  REMEMBER WHEN

  “[A] clever take on the ultra-affluent, ultra-cynical social scene of McNaught’s hometown of Houston . . . . McNaught has a lot of fun with a marriage of convenience that turns out to be anything but”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Excellent . . . . [A] charming and sparkling tale.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Romantic, witty, and entertaining . . . .”

  —San Antonio Express-News

  UNTIL YOU

  “Delicious. . . . A perfectly wonderful story, with lively, funny, well-rounded characters. Until You is a laughing, loving book, a page-turner and a delight.”

  —The Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA)

  “Brilliantly done and completely entertaining . . . a surefire hit.”

  —Ocala Star-Banner (FL)

  WHITNEY, MY LOVE

  “The ultimate love story, one you can dream about forever.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A wonderful love story . . . fast-paced and exciting . . . great dialogue!”

  —Jude Deveraux, New York Times bestselling author of Temptation

  A KINGDOM OF DREAMS

  “Wonderful! . . . Judith McNaught is truly the spellbinding storyteller of our times.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  PERFECT

  “Judith McNaught undoubtedly knows a thing or two about love . . . . Perfect is a steamy romantic escapade.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “[An] action-packed romance . . . full of desire and danger.”

  —Rendezvous

  “[The] chemistry sizzles.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  PARADISE

  “Another incomparable love story Judith McNaught’s readers are sure to cherish.”

  —Dallas Times Herald

  “Engaging . . . . A captivating tale.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A blockbuster . . . . an absorbing and heartwarming story.”

  —Rendezvous

  “A thoroughly enjoyable read . . . Paradise is a wonderful way to spend a day.”

  —BookPage

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

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  This book is dedicated with love and understanding to those millions of American women who cannot read it or any other book, women whose childhood circumstances have deprived them of the adult pleasure, and the dignity, of being able to read. And it is dedicated to the special, caring people who’ve given their time and efforts to the “Literacy. Pass It On.” program.

  Ackowledgments

  It is my name that appears on the front of this novel, but behind every scene has been a group of people who’ve contributed unstintingly of their time and talents, support and friendship. Each of these people have, in one way or another, enriched the novel you’re about to read, and enriched my life. My deepest thanks to . . .

  Don Bellisario, and the cast and crew of Quantum Leap.

  Gerald Schnitzer for sharing his thirty years experience in the film business and acting as “technical advisor” on all the aspects of movie-making in this novel.

  Susan Spangler—secretary, researcher, and friend— who brings new meaning to the words competence, dedication, and cooperation.

  Nancy Williams—National Program Manager, Coors “Literacy. Pass It On.”—for her unflagging commitment to women’s literacy, and the confident optimism that served as a constant reinforcement while I worked on this novel.

  Pat and Terry Barcelo, who offered the seclusion of their ranch so I could work in solitude, and a wealth of love and friendship to go with it.

  Lloyd Stansberry, for his repeated assistance on the legal technicalities involved in the plot.

  William C. McCord, for a decade of favors that have bettered—and will always better—one young man’s entire life.

  Debby Brown, for the example she is of kindness.

  Pauline Marr, whose generosity and selflessness is a gift to her profession . . . and to her friends.

  Amnon Benjamini, provider of fabulous jewels and priceless advice.

  And last but never least, Linda Marrow—editor, advisor, and friend.

  Prologue

  1976

  MARGARET STANHOPE STOOD AT THE doors that opened onto the veranda, her aristocratic features set into an icy mask as she watched her butler pass a tray of drinks to her grandchildren who h
ad just returned for the summer holidays from their various private schools. Beyond the veranda, in the lush valley below, the city of Ridgemont, Pennsylvania, was clearly visible with its winding, tree-lined streets; manicured park; quaint shopping area; and, off to the right, the rolling hills of Ridgemont Country Club. Situated precisely in the center of Ridgemont was a sprawling cluster of red brick buildings that comprised Stanhope Industries, which was responsible, either directly or indirectly, for the economic prosperity of most of Ridgemont’s families. Like most small communities, Ridgemont had a well-established social hierarchy, and the Stanhope family was as firmly ensconced at the pinnacle of that social structure as the Stanhope mansion was entrenched upon Ridgemont’s highest bluff.

  Today, however, Margaret Stanhope’s mind was not on the view from her veranda or the lofty social standing she had possessed since birth and improved with her marriage; it was on the staggering blow she was about to deliver to her three loathsome grandchildren. The youngest boy, Alex, who was sixteen, saw her watching him and reluctantly took iced tea instead of champagne from the butler’s silver tray. He and his sister were just alike, Margaret thought contemptuously as she studied the pair. They were both spoiled, spineless, promiscuous, and irresponsible; they drank too much, spent too much, and played too much; they were overindulged brats who knew nothing of self-discipline. But all that was about to stop.

  Her gaze followed the butler as he offered the tray to Elizabeth, who was wearing a skin-tight yellow sundress with a plunging neckline. When Elizabeth saw her grandmother watching, the seventeen-year-old threw a haughty, challenging look at her and, in a typical gesture of infantile defiance, she helped herself to two glasses of champagne. Margaret Stanhope watched her but said nothing. The girl was practically the image of her mother—a shallow, oversexed, frivolous lush who had died eight years ago when the sports car Margaret’s son was driving went out of control on an icy patch of highway, killing his wife and himself and orphaning their four young children. The police report indicated that they had both been intoxicated and their car had been traveling in excess of one hundred miles per hour.

  Six months ago, heedless of his advancing age and bad weather, Margaret’s own husband had died while flying his plane to Cozumel, supposedly to go fishing. The twenty-five-year-old fashion model who was also in that plane must have been along to bait his hook, she thought with uncharacteristic crudity and frigid disinterest. The fatal accidents were eloquent illustrations of the lechery and carelessness that had characterized the lives of all the Stanhope men for generations. Every arrogant, reckless, handsome one of them had lived each day of their lives as if they were indestructible and accountable to no one.

  As a result, Margaret had spent a lifetime clinging to her ravaged dignity and self-control while her profligate husband squandered a fortune on his vices and taught his grandsons to live exactly as he lived. Last year, while she slept upstairs, he had brought prostitutes into this very house, and he and the boys had shared them. All of them except Justin. Her beloved Justin . . .

  Gentle, intelligent, and industrious, Justin had been the only one of her three grandsons to resemble the men on Margaret’s side of the family, and she had loved him with every fiber of her being. And now, Justin was dead, while his brother Zachary was alive and healthy, taunting her with his very vitality. Turning her head, she watched him stride swiftly up the stone steps that led to the veranda in answer to her summons, and the explosion of hatred that raged through her at the sight of the tall, dark-haired eighteen-year-old was almost past bearing. Her fingers tightened on the glass in her hand, and she fought down the wild urge to hurl it at his tanned face, to rake her nails down it.

  Zachary Benedict Stanhope III, who had been named after Margaret’s husband, looked exactly like his namesake at the same age, but that wasn’t why she loathed him. She had a much better reason for that, and Zachary knew exactly what that reason was. In a few minutes, however, he was finally going to pay for what he had done—not enough, of course. She couldn’t exact full retribution for that, and she despised her helplessness almost as much as she despised him.

  She waited until the butler had served him a glass of champagne, then she strolled onto the veranda. “You are probably wondering why I’ve called this little family meeting today,” she said. Zachary watched her in noncommittal silence from his position at the balustrade, but Margaret intercepted a look of impatient boredom between Alex and Elizabeth, who were sitting at the umbrella table. They were both undoubtedly eager to escape the veranda and meet up with their friends, teenagers who were just like themselves —amoral young thrill seekers with weak characters who did as they damned pleased because they knew their family’s money would buy them out of any unpleasant consequences. “I can see you’re impatient,” she said turning to the two at the table, “so I will go directly to the point. I’m sure it has not occurred to either of you to wonder about anything as mundane as your financial status, however, the fact is that your grandfather was too busy with his ‘social activities’ and too convinced of his immortality to establish proper trusts for you after your parents died. As a result, I am now in complete control of his estate. In case you are wondering what that means, I shall hasten to explain it to you.” Smiling with satisfaction, she said, “So long as you both remain in school, improve your grades, and comport yourselves in a manner that I do not deem unacceptable, I will continue to pay your tuition and I’ll allow you to keep your fancy sports cars. Period.”

  Elizabeth’s immediate reaction was more puzzled than alarmed. “What about my allowance and my living expenses when I start college next year?”

  “You won’t have any ‘living expenses.’ You will live here and attend the junior college! If you prove yourself trustworthy during the next two years, then and only then will I allow you to go away to school.”

  “The junior college,” Elizabeth repeated furiously. “You can’t be serious about all this!”

  “Try me, Elizabeth. Defy me and watch me cut you off without a cent. Let word reach me of any more of your drunken parties and drugs and promiscuity, and you’ll never see another dollar.” Glancing at Alexander, she added, “In case you have any doubt, all that goes for you, too. Also, you won’t be returning to Exeter next autumn, you’ll finish high school right here.”

  “You can’t do this to us!” Alex exploded. “Grandfather would never have let you!”

  “You have no right to tell us how to live our lives,” Elizabeth wailed.

  “If you don’t like my offer,” Margaret informed her in a steely voice, “then I suggest you get yourself a job as a waitress or find yourself a pimp, because those are the only two careers for which you’re fit right now.”

  She watched their faces pale and nodded with satisfaction, then Alexander said sullenly, “What about Zack? He gets great grades at Yale. You aren’t going to make him live here, too, are you?”

  The moment she’d been waiting for had arrived. “No,” she said, “I’m not.”

  Turning fully toward Zachary so she could watch his face, she snapped, “Get out! Get out of this house and don’t ever come back. I never want to see your face or hear your name again.”

  Had it not been for the sudden clenching of his jaw, she would have thought her words had no effect. He didn’t ask for an explanation because he didn’t need one. In fact, he’d undoubtedly been expecting this from the moment she began to give her ultimatum to his sister. Wordlessly, he straightened from the balustrade and stretched his hand toward the car keys he’d tossed on the table, but when his fingers touched them, Margaret’s voice lashed out and stilled his hand. “Leave them! You’re to take nothing but the clothes on your back.” He took his hand away and looked at his sister and brother, as if half-expecting them to say something, but they were either too immersed in their own misery to speak or too afraid of sharing his fate if they alienated her.

  Margaret detested the younger two for their cowardice and disloyalty at the same
time she endeavored to make absolutely certain neither of them might later show a flare of latent courage. “If either of you ever contacts him or permits him to contact you,” she warned them as Zachary turned and headed toward the steps leading from the veranda, “if you so much as attend the same party at someone’s house with him, you’ll suffer the same fate he has, is that clear?” To her departing grandson, she issued a different warning: “Zachary, if you’re thinking of throwing yourself on the mercy of any of your friends, don’t bother Stanhope Industries is the primary source of employment in Ridgemont, and I now own every scrap of it No one here will want to help you at the risk of incurring my displeasure —and the loss of their jobs.”

  Her warning made him turn on the bottom step and look up at her with such cold contempt that she belatedly realized he would never have considered taking charity from friends. But what interested her the most about his expression was the emotion she glimpsed in his eyes before he turned his head. Was it anguish she’d seen there? Or was it fury? Or fear? She hoped, very devoutly, that it was all those things.

  * * *

  The moving van slowed to a lumbering stop in front of the solitary male walking along the shoulder of the highway with a sport jacket slung over his shoulder and his head bent as if he were bucking a high wind. “Hey,” Charlie Murdock called out, “you need a ride?”

  A pair of dazed amber eyes lifted to Charlie’s, and for a moment the young man looked completely disoriented, as if he’d been sleepwalking down the highway, then he jerked his head in a nod. As he climbed into the cab, Charlie noted the expensive tan slacks his passenger was wearing, the shiny loafers, matching socks, and stylish haircut and assumed he’d picked up a preppie college student who was, for some reason, hitching a ride. Confident of his intuition and powers of observation, Charlie said conversationally, “What college do you go to?”

  The boy swallowed as if his throat were constricted and turned his face toward the side window, but when he spoke his voice was cold and final. “I don’t go to college.”