Remember When

  “Son of a bitch,” Cole said aloud, but the curse was one of resignation not defiance. He was going to have to marry someone, and marriage in a community-property state like Texas brought with it a whole new set of financial risks for him. Whoever the “lucky” woman was, Cole decided sarcastically, a sense of humor and docile disposition were at the top of his list of requirements for her. Otherwise, he could envision a somewhat heated scene when she realized she was going to be required to sign a prenuptial agreement.

  He considered hiring an actress to play the part, but his uncle was too clever and too suspicious to fall for that. No doubt, that had been why he was insisting on seeing the marriage certificate. Luckily, the old man wasn’t also insisting on the birth of a boy child before he turned over his share of a company that was rightfully Cole’s in the first place. The fact that he hadn’t made that a stipulation, too, was proof he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be.

  He wasn’t as well as he used to be, either.

  Swearing under his breath, Cole straightened and reached for the mug of now cold chocolate, intending to take it into the kitchen. His gaze fell on the folded newspaper on the top of the pile. Diana Foster’s face smiled back at him. She’d had all the promise of beauty to come when she was sixteen, but the longer he looked at her stunning features and confident smile, the harder it became for him to reconcile this glamorous businesswoman or the one he’d watched on CNN with the endearingly prim and quietly poised teenager he remembered. In his mind, Cole envisioned the loyal, intelligent, entrancing adolescent who’d perched on a bale of hay, either watching him in silence or chatting with him about everything, from puppies to politics.

  Tonight, when his uncle first commented on the fact that a woman from Houston had been “dumped” by her fiancé, Cole hadn’t realized who she was. After he’d read the story in the tabloid, the reality of Diana’s embarrassing plight registered on him. Now he again felt a pang of sympathy and indignation for the girl he had known. With her looks and wealth, her kindness and intelligence, he had assumed that she’d enjoy all the best life had to offer. She’d deserved that. She had not deserved to be made a national laughingstock by Dan Penworth.

  With a weary sigh, Cole dismissed that subject from his mind and stood up, no longer able to suppress his own concerns by concentrating on the fortunes of a beguiling teenager with unforgettable green eyes who’d become the head of a major company and the subject of an embarrassing scandal instead of the pampered fairy-tale princess he’d hoped she’d become.

  Life, as Cole well knew, rarely turned out the way one wanted it to or hoped it would. Not his life, or Diana Foster’s . . . or his uncle’s.

  He picked up the mug of cold chocolate and carried it into the kitchen; then he carefully poured out the remnants and rinsed the mug so that Letty wouldn’t discover how he felt about hot chocolate and be hurt by the truth.

  The truth was that he hated hot chocolate.

  He also hated marshmallows.

  He particularly hated illness and doctors who diagnosed problems without offering a cure.

  For that matter, he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about a sham marriage that was doomed to failure before it began.

  It had occurred to Cole that the most likely, and most agreeable, candidate for his wife was not the “princess” whom his uncle had referred to earlier that night, but Michelle. Besides genuinely caring for Cole, she had no problem with his hectic work and travel schedule. In fact, she’d been very eager to adapt to it—and that was going to be far more important to Cole in this “marriage.” Considering his circumstances, his pressing need, and the haste required of him, Cole decided he was damned lucky to have such a viable candidate.

  He didn’t feel lucky, though, as he headed down the hall to the bedroom he’d used since he was a boy whenever he spent the night at his uncle’s. He felt depressed. He was so depressed, he actually felt sorry for Michelle, because he knew damned well she’d agree to the bargain. He knew it just as he knew that she’d be making a mistake, because she’d be settling for what little of himself he had to offer, and that wasn’t very much.

  His last relationship, with Vicky Kellogg, had failed for exactly that reason, and he hadn’t changed since then, nor did he intend to. He was still married to his business, just as Vicky had accused him of being. He was still contemptuous of the aimless thrill-seeking that Vicky and her friends had enjoyed. He still traveled a great deal, which had annoyed her, and he was still incapable of prolonged periods of unbroken laziness. No doubt, he was still the “cold, callous, unfeeling son of a bitch” she’d called him when she moved out. The point that she hadn’t understood was that Cole was directly or indirectly responsible for the job security and investment security of more than a hundred thousand of Unified Industries’ employees.

  The bed beneath him felt lumpy and narrow as he shoved the old chenille bedspread aside and stretched out between fresh white sheets that smelled of sunlight and summer breezes. Against his bare skin, the thin cloth felt weightless and baby soft from Letty’s countless washings.

  Linking his hands behind his head, Cole stared at the ceiling fan revolving slowly above him. Slowly, his depression began to recede, along with all thoughts of marrying Michelle or anyone else. The idea wasn’t just obscene; it was absurd. So was the notion that his uncle might not live until the end of the year.

  Cole had been working eighteen hours a day for months; he’d taken a rare day off today to fly down here from Los Angeles only to have weather problems. The stress and weariness from all that, combined with the discovery of his uncle’s worsening health, had all combined to warp his thinking, Cole decided, as his eyes drifted closed and an odd sense of confidence and well-being began to assert itself.

  Cal was going to live for another ten years, at least. True, he hadn’t looked robust tonight, but as Cole tried to assess the individual changes that age and illness had wrought by comparing the Cal he remembered to the man he was now, the changes weren’t nearly so alarming as they’d seemed at first. He thought back to bygone days when he’d watched Cal mending fences in the blazing sun or cantering into the corral behind dusty steers he’d rounded up and driven in from the pasture. With his Stetson and boots adding inches to his height, he’d seemed like a giant to Cole when he was little, but when Cole reached his full height of six foot two, he’d been at least three inches taller than Cal.

  The reality was that Cal had never been a big man with a powerful physique like Cole’s; he’d been lanky and lean, with a wiry strength and endurance that served as well as bulky muscle for the heavy work around the ranch. He hadn’t shrunk six inches and wasted away to a skeleton, as it sometimes seemed to Cole that he had. When his arthritis bothered him, as it obviously had tonight, he shifted his shoulders forward, which distorted his posture and cost him an inch or so from his natural height.

  His hair hadn’t suddenly turned white; it had been white for as long as Cole could remember—thick and white with close-cropped sideburns that framed a tanned, narrow face with a square chin and pale blue eyes that seemed to look out at the world from a different perspective; sharp eyes that gleamed with intelligence, humor, and hard resolve. His face had lost its tan, and his eyes looked out from behind bifocals now, but they weren’t faded and dull, and they missed nothing.

  True, his body had lost some of its strength from age and lack of exercise, but his real power had always come from his mind. And as Cole had discovered tonight, his mind was as sharp and fit as ever.

  In the next few days, Cole would find solutions that would suit his uncle and himself and solve everything. In the morning he would start a vigorous search for some sort of new or updated treatment for his uncle’s condition. New medical treatments were being discovered every day, and old, effective ones that had been discarded were being rediscovered. If he’d known sooner that his uncle’s heart condition wasn’t staying the same or even improving, he’d have been looking hard for solutions already.


  He had always found solutions, Cole remembered.

  Finding solutions to seemingly insoluble problems was one of the things he did best. It was a knack that had helped bring him wealth and success beyond even his own wildest dreams.

  Sleep pressed down on his eyelids as he lay in the plain, unadorned bedroom where, as a boy, he had dreamed of his life as a man. There was something about the monastic simplicity of the small room that had encouraged him to dream big dreams in his youth. Now, in his adulthood, the room soothed and lifted his spirits. Cole owned homes and apartments all over the world, all of them with spacious bedrooms furnished with large beds in a variety of shapes, but he was already falling asleep more quickly here than he’d been able to do elsewhere in years.

  He decided the room itself still had some sort of mystical, uplifting effect on him, much as it always had.

  Peace settled over him and followed him into his dreams, just as it always had when he slept here.

  The window was open and a sliver of moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, turning them into shiny silken webs that drifted weightlessly on a flower-scented breeze. The air seemed fresher here, just as it always had.

  In the morning, when he was well-rested, he would be better able to think and plan and solve. For now, the walls of the room, with their familiar framed pictures, seemed to surround him and shelter him, just as they always did whenever Cole slept there.

  On the nightstand beside the bed, an old alarm clock ticked with the loud, steady rhythm of a heartbeat, lulling him further asleep, reminding him that time was passing and things would look better in the morning, just as they always did whenever Cole slept there.

  Sometime later, Cole rolled onto his stomach, and the sheet lifted magically, covering his bare shoulders, just as it always seemed to during the night, whenever Cole slept there.

  Beside the bed, Calvin Downing gazed down at his sleeping nephew, frowning at the deep lines of tension and weariness etched at the corners of Cole’s eyes and the sides of his mouth. He spoke to the sleeping man, his voice lower than the whisper of the curtains drifting against the window, his words low and soothing, tinged with gruff emotion, just as they always were whenever he came in to check on his nephew and felt the need to tell him in his sleep what he could not say to him while he was awake. “You’ve already accomplished what most men only dream of doing,” Cal whispered. “You’ve already proved to everyone that you can do anything you set out to do. You don’t have to keep pushing yourself anymore, Cole.”

  The sleeping man stirred and turned his head away, but his breathing remained deep, peaceful.

  “Things will look better in the morning,” Calvin promised him softly, just as he always did whenever Cole slept there. “I love you, son.”

  Chapter 17

  TRAFFIC ON THE INTERSTATE BETWEEN houston intercontinental Airport and downtown Houston was heavy for five p.m. on a Saturday, but the chauffeur maneuvered the long black Mercedes limousine skillfully from lane to lane in a graceful, daring dance of speed, power, and timing.

  Heedless of the driver’s efforts on his behalf, Cole sat in the backseat, poring over a thick, detailed analysis of the complexities involved in having Unified participate with other corporations in a collaborative effort with the Russians to put a gas pipeline through to the Black Sea. He did not look up until the car glided to a stop beneath the green canopy at the entrance of the Grand Balmoral Hotel and a uniformed doorman appeared beside his window. Reluctantly, Cole put the report in his briefcase and got out.

  Condé Nast Traveler had described the fifteen-story Grand Balmoral as an outstanding example of hushed, old-world opulence on a grand scale combined with impeccable service, but as Cole strode across the vast circular lobby with its dark green marble floors and soaring Grecian columns, his thoughts were on Russian railroads and Russian winters, and not the glittering crystal chandeliers above him or the luxurious gilt-edged sofas upholstered in ivory brocade that were organized into inviting seating groups all around him.

  On the right of the lobby was a grand staircase that swept upward to a wide mezzanine that circled and overlooked it. In preparation for the White Orchid Ball’s Camelot theme, the mezzanine was being turned into a mythical forest by dozens of workers who were scurrying about, draping tiny white lights and artificial snow over what appeared to be hundreds of full-size trees. Diverted from his thoughts by the activity above him, Cole frowned in the general direction of the distraction as he headed for the carved mahogany registration desk.

  The hotel’s manager spotted Cole and hurried down the steps to introduce himself; then he insisted on escorting Cole to the Regent Suite as soon as he’d finished registering. “If there is anything we can do to make your stay with us more pleasant—anything at all—please let me know, Mr. Harrison,” he said as he bowed himself out the door.

  “I’ll do that,” Cole said absently, as unimpressed by this special deferential treatment as he was by the magnificent five-room suite with its mauve-and-gold Louis XV furnishings and spectacular view of the Houston skyline. He spent a good part of his life conducting business in luxury hotels all over the globe, and in little more than a decade, he had come to expect the best—and to take it completely for granted.

  Having refused the manager’s offer to have a maid unpack for him, Cole handed the departing bellman a tip for carrying up his luggage; then he took off his jacket and tie, loosened the top buttons of his white shirt, and walked over to the bar in the living room, where he fixed himself a gin and tonic. He carried it past the fireplace to a pair of doors that opened out onto a balcony and stepped outside. The outdoor temperature was in the mid-nineties, but the humidity that normally made Houston into a steam bath during the summers was absent, and Cole stood at the railing looking out across the city he had called home during college. He’d been to Houston on business a few times in the intervening years, but he’d never spent the night there, and perhaps for that reason, he was suddenly struck by the enormous difference between the style of his departure from Houston fourteen years ago and that of his “homecoming” today.

  He had left Houston by bus the day after he graduated from college, carrying all his worldly possessions in a nylon duffel bag and wearing a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of worn-out, scuffed boots. He had arrived today by private jet, wearing a $7,000 Brioni suit, $600 Cole-Haan loafers, and carrying a $1,500 briefcase. When his plane taxied to a stop in the hangar, a chauffeur had been waiting beside a limousine with its engine idling, ready to whisk him to the Balmoral. He was as accustomed to VIP treatment wherever he went as he was to private jets, penthouse suites, and come-hither looks from glamorous women.

  He thought back to that ten-hour bus ride from Houston to Jeffersonville and remembered it as clearly as if it were last week. The day after his graduation, he’d boarded the first bus north to his uncle’s ranch (the bus had been a concession to thrift-minded Cal, who, despite his lucrative oil wells, still regarded plane travel as an inexcusable waste of good money). On the day he boarded that bus, Cole’s practically only remaining possessions were the clothes he was wearing.

  Beyond that, all he owned were the few items in his duffel bag—and his dreams. The duffel bag was small and plain, but his dreams were big and elaborate. Extremely big. Extraordinarily elaborate. Seated beside an old man who belched at regular intervals, Cole had gazed out the window at the River Oaks mansions parading past, and he had indulged himself with fantasies of returning to Houston someday, rich and powerful.

  And now he was.

  Lifting the glass to his mouth, Cole took a swallow of his drink, amused by the irony of the situation: today was certainly the ultimate realization of that long-ago fantasy, but it no longer mattered to him. He was so completely absorbed in other more far-reaching, significant issues that it didn’t matter to him. He had proven himself, won out against all the odds, and yet he was still striving, still working incredible hours, still driving himself as hard as ever.
Harder.

  As he gazed out at the haze hanging like a dingy apron around the soaring high-rises, he wondered what all his striving was really for. In Denver, the annual shareholders meeting of Alcane Electronics was taking place, and if Cole’s negotiators weren’t successful in swaying them, Cole was going to have a proxy fight on his hands to take over that company. In California, his lawyers, top executives, and a team of architects were conducting a series of meetings about several office complexes he was building in northern California and Washington State to house the various companies that made up the technological division of Unified.

  And if his uncle’s health didn’t improve . . . that was unthinkable. After his conversation with Letty he had talked to Cal’s doctor, who had told him that while Cal’s condition was an unpredictable one, Cole should be prepared for the worst at any time.

  Cole glanced at his watch and saw that it was six-thirty. He had to appear downstairs for a television interview at seven-thirty, and the Orchid Ball’s charity auction was scheduled to begin at eight P.M. That left him with a full hour in which to shower, shave, and get dressed, which was more than he needed. He decided to phone one of his executives at the attorneys’ offices in California and find out how things were progressing.

  Chapter 18

  WITH BRIGHT, ARTIFICIAL SMILES AFFIXED to their faces, Diana’s family and two of her friends stood off to one side of the Balmoral’s crowded lobby, struggling valiantly to appear to everyone as if everything were perfectly normal while they watched the revolving brass doors at the main entrance for a sign of Diana. “The decorations are certainly lovely!” Diana’s mother remarked halfheartedly.

  The others glanced with forced interest at the Balmoral’s lobby, the grand staircase, and the mezzanine. The main lights had been dimmed, and the entire hotel seemed to have been transformed into a dense forest of shadowy trees with tiny twinkling lights glittering among branches covered with artificial snow. Ice sculptures depicting medieval knights and their ladies adorned snow-covered “ponds,” and waiters dressed in medieval attire, bearing pewter goblets of wine, skirted snowdrifts and moved among the crowd, while the Houston Symphony Orchestra played “I Wonder What the King Is Doing Tonight.”