Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dorothy Garlock is the author of over 50 novels that have sold over 15 million copies and are published in 15 languages. She lives in Iowa.

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A Week from Sunday

Grand Central Publishing

Chapter One

"I'M TERRIBLY SORRY, my dear. Your father will be missed."

Adrianna Moore listened to the older woman's condolences with a slight nod of appreciation before moving on. The small parlor was filled with smartly dressed men and women, all wearing black, who had come to pay their respects to the recently deceased. Some of the faces she recognized, mostly older gentlemen who had done business with her father over the years, but nearly all of the names escaped her. She knew she should say something, at the very least thank them for coming, but she couldn't manage to get the image of her father's coffin out of her head. It all seemed a horrible dream. Her sadness kept her mute amid the soft murmur of voices and the clink of coffee cups against their saucers.

The funeral itself had been a quiet affair. Thankfully, the Louisiana spring had cooperated; although drizzly rain had been falling for days, the morning had dawned with warm sunlight and only a light breeze rustling the treetops. High on the lone hill of the cemetery grounds, they'd laid her father to rest. Now, with that business concluded, she was required to play the role of hostess, a task that normally she'd be well equipped to handle. Today was anything but normal.

She moved from guest to guest, each stopping her for a few measured words of sympathy. She looked into forlorn faces, hands gently holding hers. Adrianna knew that they all meant well, but the things she was hearing only intensified her grief:

"Charles Moore was a lion of a man."

"Regardless of the crippling effects of his polio, he never let it get the best of him."

"I can't begin to tell you how much I learned from him about the banking business. It's a debt that I can never repay."

"He'll be watching down on you, Adrianna." A matron wiped tears from her fat cheeks.

Once, when an older gentleman with enormous jowls was telling her of a hunting trip he'd taken with her father before he had become stricken with polio, she found herself desperately fighting back tears. It wasn't the story that had upset her; she'd heard it a half dozen times before. What made her cry was the realization that her father had become a story, a legend in town. It had taken all the strength she could muster to get through the day, but somehow she'd managed to keep her composure through it all.

Finally, as the last rays of the spring sun disappeared over the horizon, all of the mourners had gone, leaving Adrianna alone in the large home she'd shared with her father. Built from the earnings of Moore Bank and Trust, the stately manor house had been constructed with the finest of materials. The interior was decorated richly but tastefully: a marble fireplace, an antique clock from Germany, as well as a crystal chandelier that hung over the dining room table.

This home was the only one she'd ever really known. Her mother had died when Adrianna was just fifteen years old. Her father had never remarried. Charles Moore had done everything for his only child. She'd wanted for nothing: piano lessons, private tutors, all the best that his banking fortune could buy. When his own illness had worsened, confining him to his bed or the wheelchair that he despised, she'd done her best to give him the same degree of comfort he'd always given her. But still his health slowly and steadily deteriorated.

Now he was gone and she was alone.

After the mourners left, she went through the downstairs rooms dimming the lights. Glancing up, she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror. At twenty-five years of age, Adrianna Moore had a head of dark brown curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Her soft, oval face was defined by high cheekbones and a warm complexion. Her father had always told her that her deep-set, emerald-green eyes were exactly like her mother's. He called her his "beautiful princess." At the moment, wearing a simple black dress, mourning the loss of her remaining family, she felt anything but beautiful; she was heartsick and exhausted.

"I daresay you get more stunning with each passing year."

Startled by the voice behind her, Adrianna whirled at the sound, her hand reflexively rising to her chest. With slow, measured steps, a man crossed the room toward her. In the scant light, she had to peer intently into the shadows to see her unexpected guest. Finally, there was the spark of recognition, a spark that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Oh! It's you, Mr. Pope. You startled me."

"How many times must I tell you, my dear, to call me Richard?"

He eased out of the gloom to stand before Adrianna. In his late forties, Richard Pope was a man who exuded an air of supreme confidence. Short, with a long face that was marked by full red lips, he had colorless eyes that, over a bulbous nose, looked straight into hers. His clothes were immaculate, his shoes polished to a perfect black. The sweet-smelling pomade he rubbed into his thinning salt-and-pepper hair made Adrianna's stomach churn.

"I didn't realize you were still here," she said, ignoring his comment.

"I was showing Judge Walters and his wife to the door and walked with them out onto the porch. I don't know if you recognized him ... the wisp of a gentleman whose wife is as fat as he is thin," he explained. "He has always been very important to Moore Bank and Trust, and I wanted to give him my assurances that everything concerned with the company was in good hands. It's all about impressions, you know."

"Thank you for your help today, Mist- ... Richard," she corrected herself. "What with the funeral arrangements, and all of the guests, I don't know if I could have managed without you." She hated to admit it, but he had been very helpful. With his legal guidance, her father's bank had continued to grow ever larger and more prosperous. Adrianna was certain that the only thing that mattered to Richard Pope was acquiring more and more money. As Charles Moore's health worsened, taking him away from the day-to-day operations of his bank, Richard's influence had grown. For the past several months, he had been essentially overseeing the business.

"It's the least that I could do. How are you managing through all of this?"

"All right, I suppose. I don't think it has fully sunk in yet - that he's gone, I mean. He was always positive about things. Even after my mother passed away, I could never imagine the same happening to him."

"And yet it did," Richard said matter-of-factly. "He did die." Walking over to a small bureau, he proceeded to pour himself a generous glass of brandy from a beveled decanter. As he contemplated the amber liquid, a thin smile spread across his face. To Adrianna, he looked like a wolf preparing to sink his fangs into its defenseless prey.

"I'm sorry to have to leave you," she said hurriedly, wanting desperately to get away from the man, "but I am going to retire for the night. All of this has left me exhausted. Please let yourself out." Quickly, she turned on her heel and made for the staircase on the far side of the room. But before she could take even a couple of steps, his voice stopped her.

"Actually, my dear, there are things that you and I need to discuss. Business matters that cannot wait even for a night. I'm afraid that you'll just have to bear with me for a while longer."

Turning back, Adrianna felt a slight flare of defiance course through her body. She wanted to tell him that he would have to wait for her, but something in the way he was looking at her...