I'm sorry.

That's what he had said. Those were his last words, at least as far as Melissa Mason was concerned. If her father had said anything else to anyone else, like to one of the doctors or nurses, Melissa didn't know about it.

I'm sorry.

He had then slipped off into a coma; and, less than three hours later, William James Davenport, pillar of his community, president of Davenport Electronic International, was dead at sixty-nine, his soul shoveling coal in the furnaces of hell.

Now, why did Melissa have to think that? It wasn't like her to think such vindictive things, was it? Her father probably was in heaven right that minute. If there was a heaven.

And, of course, there was a heaven. Melissa didn't like the way her mind was working. No, she didn't like it one damn bit. Of course her father's soul was now off somewhere in paradise playing a harp! Because if William Davenport had told his daughter he was sorry, there was little doubt but that he had told the church the same thing, given a couple hundred thousand dollars to the papal coffers, and been given forgiveness.

Well, Melissa wasn't all that sure she forgave her father as easily as God might have done. After all, a few mumbled words on his deathbed, when he knew he was shortly going off to meet his maker, certainly didn't make up for fifteen years of being an absolute bastard, did it?

Bastard? Was that how she had visualized her father? What's more, was that how she STILL visualized him, even though he was dead and buried?

Nonsense! She had to get hold of herself. She was simply in an emotional state, what with the death, and the funeral, and the people, and the countless amenities-and with seeing Creagon again.

Creagon Davenport, Melissa's brother, older by three years; tall, blond, blue-eyed, exceptionally handsome.