The Tycoon

by Anna Jeffrey

  At some point, he chosen for marriage not to clutter his life and distract him from his goals. Maybe deep down, at the bottom of it all, he hung on with Donna because she was unimpressed by someone else’s money and power. Few men in Texas, not even the governor, could compete with her own father. And she was a wild woman in bed—when she wasn’t drunk.

  “You won’t be back ’til Christmas, I take it?” his dad said.

  “Not planning on it.”

  “You’ll be bringing your mother with you, right?”

  “If that’s what she wants.”

  Seven years his parents had been separated, but not divorced. Drake still vividly remembered the afternoon Kate, in a weeping phone call, had caught him in Amarillo and told him Mom was moving away from the ranch. That she would do such a thing had been unbelievable, but sure enough, she had bought a Greek Revival mansion in a staid old Fort Worth subdivision and left the Double-Barrel, taking a moving van full of the ranch’s household goods with her. She hadn’t returned for more than short visits, but she did always spend Christmas with the family.

  “Humph,” Pic grunted. “It’d probably stay a helluva lot quieter around here if she made up her mind to either come back for good or stay away altogether.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful, Son,” Dad said sternly. “She’s your mother. And she’s still my wife.”

  Pic got to his feet. “I told Smokey I’d ride with him to check on the windmill up on Windy Ridge. See ya tonight, Drake.” He walked out.

  For years now, Pic had been vocal about his anger at their mother. He and Kate both believed she was responsible for most of the chaos that existed around the Double-Barrel.

  Looking after him, Dad shook his head slowly. “If she came back, I guess Pic would move out of the ranch house.”

  No doubt, Drake thought, but he kept that opinion to himself, along with the fact that their mother still had the male friend in Fort Worth she had been seeing since before she moved there. And their friendship was not platonic.

  But Drake had never been one to knowingly contribute to the family discord. Enough of it thrived without any help from him. He confined his energy to trying to help the Double-Barrel financially. And right now, it needed a lot of help.

  ****

  Shannon’s week passed quietly. On Friday morning, she called the Dallas real estate broker and followed up on the bid she had made on the five-acre corner. He told her he was expecting another offer, probably by Monday. Damn. She bit down on her lower lip. She had so hoped for no competition.

  Chapter 5

  Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…

  Shannon quickstepped toward the Worthington Hotel in downtown Fort Worth, her shoes clicking like castanets against a wet sidewalk.

  Like fairy fingers a fine mist peppered her face and hair. A north wind gusted through the canyons of multistory buildings, bringing tears to her eyes and penetrating the thin skirt of her evening dress as if it weren’t there. Her feet had become blocks of ice. Silver sling-backs were lousy winter footwear. She berated herself for parking two blocks away, rued that she had been too cheap to park in covered parking closer to her destination.

  The hotel entrance loomed just up the block and across the street in an ocean of bright lights. She shoved her evening bag under her arm, clutched her jacket collar against her throat with one hand, lifted her flimsy skirt to her knees with the other and quickened her pace to a trot.

  …Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…

  Between her and there, a traffic light showed red. She halted at the block’s corner, breathing hard after a near jog and filling her lungs with cold air. Her teeth chattered. She shifted from foot to foot while she waited for the light to turn green.

  Across the street, she could see women exiting limos, decked out in fur coats—warm, she was sure. No doubt they had the jewels to go with the fur. Anxiety tweaked her. Her “jewels” were a pair of small diamond earrings that belonged to her grandmother. The closest thing she had to fur was her jacket’s narrow fox fur collar and cuffs. The thin vintage evening garment, before tonight, had also belonged to Grammy Evelyn.

  What are you doing here? her alter ego screamed. That cranky voice had become a bold part of her life ever since she had decided to attend tonight’s gala.

  “Networking,” she mumbled.

  The party, a charity ball, was hosted by the Tarrant County Commercial Realtors Association, more commonly known to real estate professionals as the TCCRA. Tonight, she would be rubbing shoulders with the elite of the real estate world and who knew who else. She would be meeting important people in the Metroplex business world. Making connections that could be important to her future.

  And she might run into Emmett Hunt, the Dallas real estate broker who had listed the five-acre corner in Camden. Her corner. When she had first acquired the tickets to this event, she had never heard of Emmett Hunt. Now he had suddenly become important enough to make attending this party a necessity as much as a want.

  The light changed, she picked up her skirt again and trotted across the street. Unnoticed, she edged past the portico’s hustle and bustle and skidded into the spacious lobby. Instantly, tension-relieving warmth began to spread through her, making her shudder. She paused and drew a deep breath.

  She took in her surroundings, orienting herself. She had never been inside the Worthington Hotel, but she had seen pictures and heard of its elegance when she had lived in Fort Worth years back. What she had heard was no exaggeration. Red and green and gold decorated the spacious lobby, along with a giant lighted tree. Her gaze landed on an amazing glass sculpture hanging over the red-carpeted double staircase that stretched upward before her. A scene from Gone with the Wind whizzed through her mind as she visualized Rhett carrying Scarlet up those wide stairs. She would have to lose a few pounds before some hero hauled her up a flight of stairs.

  She spent another minute adjusting and gathering herself. Then she lifted her chin and

  strode forward as if she owned the place, seeking the ladies’ room.

  ****

  Drake slowed his Aston Martin as he neared the entrance to the Worthington Hotel. He could think of nothing he wanted less than to be attending a formal party on a cold, wet night. He would rather be at home dressed in sweats, reading a good book or watching a good movie on TV. He would have blown this evening off, but he had promised to be here. And to break a promise, even a trivial one, just wasn’t in him.

  He and Donna were headed for the annual Christmas ball and silent auction conducted by the TCCRA. The event had occurred the first weekend of December since long before Drake got a real estate license.

  As he braked at the curb, Donna fumbled for the door latch. “You should’ve gotten a limo,” she grumbled. “I can’t believe you drove us here in this damn shoebox. I can’t even get in and out of it.”

  Having already dipped liberally into a gin bottle, Donna’s speech sounded slurred. Comment from Drake wouldn’t change that. One thing he had learned over time was not to get into confrontations with women over issues out of his control. So he kept his silence about her drinking. They had already quarreled over her telling a Dallas reporter they were getting married. She hadn’t been happy hearing that wedding bells were not soon to ring for the two of them.

  As for his car, the Aston Martin Virage was the first car he had ever owned. He had driven a pickup truck his entire life. And as a matter of practicality, he still drove a truck most of the time to his various projects. “Darlin’ this car sits in a locked cage in the parking garage at Lockhart Tower most of the time. I don’t get a chance to drive it that often.”

  And he loved driving his sexy silver Virage. He loved the rumble of the awesome V-12 engine and feeling the power under his right foot. He rarely fantasized about anything, but this automobile had gripped him with an unyielding fist the minute he saw it.

  His dream and goal of owning a sports car had started when he was eighteen years old. A couple of years ago, he had sold
the last condo in Lockhart Tower, his thirty-story contribution to downtown Fort Worth’s revitalization, and without a second thought, he had stepped up and paid more than $200,000 for the sports car. No luxury had proved to be as gratifying as one he believed he had earned.

  A valet opened his door and stood waiting for him to exit. As he scooted out, a cold mist pricked his cheeks. Up the street, he could see the fog-veiled lights of First Fort Worth Bank’s marquee showing the temperature to be thirty-four degrees.

  Lights and hubbub surrounded him—headlights reflecting on the wet pavement, various lighted signs showing on businesses, downtown Fort Worth’s buildings outlined in white lights heralding the season. The hotel’s brightly-lit portico was alive with busy valets and revelers exiting cabs, luxury cars and limos.

  Before the valet took control of the Virage, Drake pulled a money clip from his pocket, slapped the valet’s shoulder with one hand and passed him a twenty with the other. “We’ll be leaving early,” he told him. Then he rounded the car’s backend to where a different valet had helped Donna, literally, out of the low-slung vehicle onto the wet sidewalk. He handed the second valet another twenty as the Virage moved away with a deep mechanical hum and a showy cloud of exhaust.

  “I hope you realize I practically sprained my ankle trying to get out,” Donna said. She

  wrapped her fur coat more tightly around herself. “My God, it’s cold.”

  Without comment, Drake placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the hotel entrance.

  “Cabo has never sounded so good,” she said. “I really want to go down there, Drake.”

  Responding to that remark was unnecessary. She had heard him say enough times that he considered trips to resorts a waste of time. He hadn’t been a partier or drinker in years, cared not a whit for lounging beside a swimming pool or attempting to play tennis. He liked game fishing, but not enough to interrupt his work schedule for a trip to Mexico or Florida.

  When he took time off, he usually went to the Double-Barrel for some real physical work and some hunting. Or sometimes he looked in on a horse show. On occasion, he golfed or attended a ballgame.

  “I told you, I don’t have time for a pleasure trip right now. I’ve got a lot going on.”

  “You’re the only person I know who doesn’t take a winter vacation. I don’t know what you could be doing that can’t wait.”

  Specifically, he had a five-hundred-unit luxury apartment complex under construction, using borrowed money. From the outset, Lone Star Commons had been plagued with problems that had called for his daily attention. But it was useless to try to explain that to Donna, so what he said was, “You know I don’t enjoy Cabo.”

  “Humph. That’s the real reason you won’t go. You just don’t like it.”

  And what better reason was there? he wondered.

  They reached the warmth of the hotel’s gaily-decorated lobby and Drake’s mood lifted. He dug the Christmas season—the lights, the decorations, the busy people everywhere. He even liked the shopping, though he had little time to do it.

  As they walked to the elevator, Donna shook back her long blond hair and patted at her tanned cheeks with her flattened fingers. “Damn weather has probably ruined my makeup,” she grumbled.

  “You look fine.” Drake reached inside his coat for a handkerchief and handed it to her.

  She used it to dab dampness from her face, then returned it and looked up at him with blue eyes made lazy-lidded by too much alcohol. Nothing turned Drake off a woman—or anybody—more quickly than consistent alcohol excess. He had dealt with the results of his own father’s fondness for booze for too many years.

  He must have been wearing an unpleasant expression because she said, “I know. You don’t have to say it. You think I shouldn’t have had those last two martinis.”

  He knew what challenging Donna produced after she had overindulged in gin. Anything could happen. He wanted to get through the evening without a scene. He punched the button calling for an elevator car. “I didn’t say that, babe, but since you brought it up, you’re right. You’ve had a lot to drink.”

  “Oh, Drakey, don’t be a mean ol’ prude,” she whined. “You sound like Daddy. This is a party.”

  And partying was something at which Donna was very good. She had practiced all over the world.

  Drake felt even more irritated at her tonight. At this gathering, they would be circulating among his peers, commercial Realtors. He wasn’t a political animal—far from it—but he always maintained a level of decorum among fellow professionals and he expected a woman in his company to do likewise, regardless of who her father was. Added to that, as far as he was concerned, those who couldn’t hold their liquor shouldn’t drink.

  In spite of all of that pecking at him, he managed to smile down at her.

  The elevator car arrived and they stepped into the dimly lit cube, the only passengers. They rode to the second floor in silence, with Donna hanging onto his arm and his mind now sorting out how he had let himself be manipulated into attending this shindig. It had started with Donna calling his mother, then he had let the two of them shame him into coming for the purpose of buying something in the silent auction.

  This year, the chosen charity was Wounded Warriors. Texans, rich or poor, were nothing if not patriotic. The charity, to which Drake had given generously for several years, was the only reason he had consented to obligate himself to lay down a wad of dough for something he probably didn’t want or need. He never forgot that Purple Hearts resided on his mother’s side of his family. His grandfather, his mother’s father, was a member of the greatest generation. He had been at Normandy. And his uncle, his mother’s brother, had been a helicopter pilot who died in the first Iraq war. He felt a tinge of guilt because after he left school, he had not even considered serving his country as anything other than a substantial taxpayer.

  The elevator doors glided open and he and Donna exited into the second-floor Grand Ballroom’s thickly carpeted foyer. She released his arm and started for the foyer bar, but he grabbed her elbow and stopped her. “Hey, c’mon, now. No more martinis for a while, okay?”

  Her vivid pink lips pursed, but she stayed by his side. He drew her closer, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. He leaned down and said near her ear, “Darlin’, you’re an attractive woman. Being drunk doesn’t show you in your best light. You don’t want your family and friends to see you making an ass of yourself, do you?”

  “Well,” she said and paused. “I guess not. Mama would probably nag.”

  He patted her hand that curved around his arm. “Good girl.”

  She looked up at him. “Do you really think I’m beautiful, Drakey?”

  “Sure I do.”

  And he wasn’t lying. Donna’s appearance was a monument to plastic surgery. She had been having procedures since her teenage years. A man had to be in awe of that for what it had cost in pain and dollars if for no other reason.

  Donna had little regard for the cost of things. Knowing her parents, Drake was not so insensitive that he didn’t realize she couldn’t help that. From the date of her birth, she had been pampered like a prize poodle. She benefitted from every material advantage wealth could buy—expensive clothing and jewelry, memberships at the best spas and clubs all over the world, the best cosmetologists and hairdressers, the best plastic surgeons.

  She had attended the best schools, all of which she had flunked out of or quit before finishing. “Why do I need an education?” he had heard her say often. “I’m never going to have to work at anything.” And she was right. She had never done a lick of work a day in her life and would never be required to. And she suffered more hang-ups than a teenager. Lately, he found himself longing for the company of somebody with whom he could have a grown-up, after-sex conversation about a meaningful subject.

  A makeshift cloakroom had been partitioned in the corner off to the left of the ballroom’s wide entrance. They strolled toward it.

&n
bsp; “You never tell me you think I’m pretty anymore,” she said. “You mostly just tell me to stop drinking.”

  “I tell you you’re pretty more often than you realize. You don’t hear me.”

  Drake helped her out of her coat and handed it to the steward. He removed his own overcoat and checked it, too, then he guided Donna into the ballroom.

  At least five or six hundred people were stuffed into the room. Not everyone was in the real

  estate business, he noticed. No surprise there. This kind of event always attracted most of Fort Worth’s upper crust and politicians—an assortment of doctors, lawyers, oilmen, businessmen, local TV personalities and other miscEvelynneous professionals. Even a few from Dallas were here. Drinking and laughing, they hugged and kissed air, glad handed and back slapped as if they were all old friends.

  The mayor and city council members clustered off to one side. With the exception of the mayor, most of that cadre wasn’t rich. But what they lacked in coin, they made up for in power and influence. He knew all of them well on a professional level. And from what he knew of them professionally, he had little desire to know them personally. He called all of them acquaintances, but none of them friends.

  A bottle-blond councilwoman gave him the eye. She was coming off a nasty divorce and had sent him signals and emails. Women often came on to him. He didn’t believe for a minute it was because he was exceptionally handsome or charming. The reasons had been written about any number of times in newspaper and magazine articles. He was rich, under forty and single, which apparently was a mix as powerful as an aphrodisiac. Men envied his lifestyle. Women desired it. They thought they could distract him from his fourteen-hour workdays and his frequent seven-day workweeks.

  And besides that, almost everybody near and far knew that his mother wanted him married and fathering babies, a frustration that called for all of his patience.

  He wasn’t against marriage and kids. His own parents, as rotten as their marriage had been, were loved by their children and seemed to be fulfilled by that. Most of the men he knew had wives or ex-wives and children they spoke of. But since an engagement fifteen years back, he’d had no desire to open himself and trust any woman he had met. Nor had he taken the time.