Silence surrounded him as he went into one of the loft’s spare bedrooms. He’d set up a television and a couple of pieces of cardio equipment for the times he didn’t want to take advantage of the building’s fitness facility.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the small refrigerator and downed all twenty ounces before cranking up 1980s rock music. Then he turned on the wall-mounted television and pushed the mute button.
Focused on the hour ahead, he settled onto the seat of the rowing machine and reached for the handle. As he pulled, he concentrated on his breathing until he reached the cadence he wanted.
Occasionally, he glanced at the television screen, noting what was happening with the world’s financial indexes. He’d only been ten when his grandfather had started instructing him on the importance of understanding how each market was connected to another, explaining that a hiccup overseas could cause disaster in the Donovan portfolio.
Connor had paid attention. How could he not? The man was affectionately known as the Colonel. Even though he’d never risen higher than the rank of captain in the army, he’d married Libby Sykes and had become honorary patriarch of the family and its fortune. He’d worked damned hard to increase the family’s wealth, and he constantly reminded his descendants of their obligations. Connor had dutifully taken it all in, even filling notebooks with the man’s wisdom.
His father had been killed in a horrific car accident. Connor’s half-brother, Cade, had survived—physically, at least. Guilt at being the driver continued to gnaw on him.
Connor had returned home to work alongside his grandfather at Donovan Worldwide. Four years ago, at the age of twenty-three, Connor had accepted the mantle of president, two decades earlier than expected. Like all trials he’d been presented with, he’d conquered it.
There was nothing that made his blood flow more than a challenge. The bigger the challenge, the greater the reward. He’d known acquiring BHI’s communications division would be difficult. But they had a number of patents that he wanted, patents that would give Donovan Worldwide a greater international platform. When he’d asked his younger brother, Nathan, to gather as much information on the Bertrands as possible, Nathan had said Pernell would never agree to it.
That didn’t stop him.
Like the generations before him, Connor realized that he had to take risks—calculated ones—to grow. Hell, even to remain relevant.
He spent many hours each day performing risk assessments. He carefully considered all ideas that made it past his Aunt Kathryn, his grandfather or his brothers. The ones really worth pursuing, he studied in depth, for weeks, even months. He didn’t rush the process. By the time he acted, he did so with complete confidence.
Little caught him off guard.
Connor had a reputation for dealing with issues straight up. At times, his forthrightness took others by surprise. BHI Communications was prime for a takeover. Rumors had been out there for months. Pernell should have been looking to sell or at least merge.
When Connor had arrived at BHI, he’d expected to meet with the board of directors—Pernell and Lara at the least. Connor had been prepared with an offer, willing to talk, open for negotiation.
Instead, Pernell had been in his office, alone. He hadn’t even stood to greet Connor. The older man was as stubborn as his Cajun roots were deep. Without even looking at the offer, he had told Connor to get out and not to come back unless he tripled the upfront cash.
No doubt Pernell considered himself to be cunningly brilliant. But for Connor, the strategy hadn’t worked. With a tight smile, he’d responded that the offer was no longer available.
He’d watch as BHI’s various communications holdings withered, just like some hotel investments had. Then Donovan Worldwide would pick at the remains. The problem was the damned patents. They were potentially worth more than the whole deal. And he wanted all of them, not just a few of them.
Which brought him back to Lara.
He missed a beat. With determination, he resumed his smooth rowing motion. He tried telling himself that his unusual reaction had been because he’d been shocked by Pernell’s behavior.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew that wasn’t true.
He had never experienced that kind of visceral reaction to a woman.
He’d been captivated by her the first night they’d met, when Erin had introduced them at the cocktail party. Holding Lara’s coat for her in the lobby had been natural. He’d been strangely disappointed when she’d refused his offer of a ride home.
Last night, near the elevator, her surprise at running into him had been genuine.
Attraction had sent a ragged surge of energy through him. It had made him forget his own anger.
He’d wanted to spend more time with her.
The rower’s timer sounded, and he eased off with a loud exhalation. As he slowed his workout, he reminded himself that he exercised to clear his mind. Obsessing over the brunette beauty wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He headed into the kitchen for a mug of coffee. He guzzled that while he sliced veggies for an omelet. As that bubbled in a satisfying amount of olive oil, he checked his email, looked at his calendar and scanned the agenda that Thompson had prepared for the monthly family business meeting.
As usual, the man had already secured RSVPs. Not surprisingly his half-brother, Cade, had declined. The distance from Corpus Christi was a challenge, even if he took a commuter flight. Erin, Nathan, Aunt Kathryn and his grandfather would all be there, though.
After eating and methodically cleaning the kitchen, he showered. This time, he didn’t hurry. Instead, he allowed the hot water to work out the kinks and soothe his muscles.
By the time he had downed a second cup of coffee and was dressed in his customary suit, dawn was meandering across the horizon, changing the downtown Houston skyline from black to dark gray.
Since there was no rain in the forecast and the humidity was relatively low for this time of year, he decided against driving or calling for his car. Instead, he walked to work.
The numerous office buildings still stood dark, devoid of the energy and drive that would pulse through them in less than an hour. The city would wake, fortunes would be made, lost, traded. At the end of the day, he intended to be counted among the victors.
The sun was barely cresting the horizon when he entered his office suite.
Thompson, his assistant, was already there, near the coffeepot. Most other employees wouldn’t show up for another thirty minutes, and Thompson would be at full speed by then.
“Coffee, Mr. Donovan? I’m willing to share.”
“You’re a good man, Thompson. Thank you.” The man had a first name, but he’d asked Connor not to use it. He respected that. Some addressed him as Mr. Thompson. Others called the man Badass Thompson. That worked, as well. He was former military, and with his massive shoulders, bald head that showcased an impressive scar and intimidating posture, he’d earned the reputation.
Truth was, Thompson didn’t share much about his time in the service, and Connor had never been inclined to push for details.
The man possessed amazing organizational skills. “You never want to look for your bullets or your weapon when you’re under fire,” Thompson had explained during his interview. He’d started at Donovan Worldwide a few years ago when the company had launched their military veterans outreach program. Thompson had been in the IT department and had repaired one of Connor’s notebook computers, which was no easy task. The machine had been a gift from Julien Bonds. Notoriously, Bonds’ equipment could only be fixed by people with genius technical ability, which Thompson possessed.
But the man hadn’t stopped there. He’d integrated several programs, made sense of scheduling, set reminders and generally made Connor’s work life much more streamlined. Though Thompson didn’t have the usual skills Connor looked for in an executive assistant, when an opening had occurred, he’d asked Thompson to apply for the position. What he hadn’t known, he’d figured out, even pu
tting himself through school in the evenings to earn a business degree.
Connor considered the hire one of his best decisions.
With a nod, he accepted the mug. He took a slug of the strong brew then shook his head to clear it. “Damn. This could dissolve a spoon.”
“As I always say—”
“I know. I know. Only pussies and ladies add cream or sugar.”
“And you are neither, Mr. Donovan.”
“So I’m told.” He choked down a second swallow.
“Fortitude, sir. You’ll be wide awake after finishing it.”
“Or trembling badly enough that I’ll measure on the Richter scale.” Ignoring the man’s big grin, Connor nodded his thanks then continued through to his office, hoping to find a packet of sugar stashed somewhere.
His schedule lay neatly in the middle of the polished desk, and several pieces of paper were stacked next to it. When advertising campaigns required his signature for approval, he preferred to look at a printout rather than a computer image. There was something tactile about handling paper that appealed to him.
He placed his briefcase on the credenza and set down the cup of coffee, absently hoping the brew didn’t chew through the ceramic and into the wood beneath.
Thompson had already opened the blinds, and all that was left for Connor to do was to add a splash of fresh water to the bamboo plant that had been a gift from his Aunt Kathryn. She was on a kick about the impurity of the building’s air, and office by office, she was adding greenery. He had to admit he liked the potted plant, and he spent an inordinate amount of time relocating it so it had the best indirect sunlight and proper water. Over the past three months, it had grown four inches.
He grabbed the coffee then slid behind his desk to power up his computer and its screens. While he was waiting, he opened a drawer and riffled through pens and paper clips to finally find buried treasure, in the form of a sugar packet.
He ripped it open, poured in every granule then tried another sip.
It didn’t help.
Giving up, he wadded the packet into a tiny ball so that Thompson wouldn’t find it in the trash. Some knowledge was sacred.
He scanned the pages on his desk. He scribbled notes on a few, signed off on others. By the time the computer monitors were displaying the company’s logo, he was ready to tackle the onslaught of weekly reports.
At noon, he joined his attorney for lunch then arrived back at Donovan Worldwide in time for the family meeting.
He entered the smallest of the conference rooms to find Aunt Kathryn, Erin and Nathan already there. No one noticed him. Kathryn was gazing out of the window, no doubt ignoring her niece and nephew while daydreaming about her upcoming Panama Canal cruise. Erin and Nathan were seated at the table. If their body posture was anything to go by, they’d been there for a while. Erin was speaking animatedly, waving her hands, while Nathan was leaning forward, a frown on his face.
“A corset store is a fad,” Nathan said when Erin took a breath. “It won’t last.”
“I disagree. Corsets and bustiers are enjoying a renaissance. There’s huge demand for them. And there’s not a better location than Kemah.”
The town wasn’t far from Houston, close enough to be considered part of the metropolitan area. Situated on Galveston Bay, Kemah’s boardwalk area had an amusement park, restaurants, specialty shops and boutiques that attracted tens of thousands of visitors annually. The right stores did well, Connor had no doubt.
“I’m not arguing that point,” Nathan replied. “But correspondingly, rents are high. How many corsets would she need to sell per month to pay the bills and keep the lights on, not to mention the inventory and advertising?”
“Women go crazy for them,” she said. With a wicked glint in her eyes, she added, “And some men, too.”
“It’s too specialized. Even a boutique concept needs something more. Accessories. I don’t know…”
“Toys? Vibrators and such?”
To his credit, Nathan didn’t pick up that gauntlet. Instead he responded as a businessman. “Bring me a projected profit and loss, show me the cost of goods sold and make sure the numbers work. Or go ahead and invest your own money. Even if you do that, I recommend you take a hard look at the realities of the business. Don’t let your enthusiasm get in the way of a sound decision.”
“By that, you mean emotions.”
Before Nathan could respond, Connor cleared his throat. “Hate to break up this argument…” Not that it was anything unusual. His family had a diverse range of interests, thoughts, opinions, pet projects. Including, seemingly, more plants. “What’s that?” He pointed at the oversized pot in the corner.
“Hibiscus,” Aunt Kathryn responded, turning around. “I thought the peach blossoms would brighten up the space. Needed something.”
Besides the bold, red painting on the back wall? “Aren’t they supposed to be outside?”
“Many people grow them indoors and they do well in pots as long as they’re fertilized properly and kept out of direct sunlight. You can make a tea out of the blossoms. Calms the nerves.”
“You can muddle them into a mojito, too,” Erin supplied.
“I’m thinking of replacing this one with a peace lily.” She moved to a counter that held refreshments and a single-cup beverage maker. She brewed a cup of green tea, which she slid in front of Erin.
His sister wrinkled her nose.
“Drink it,” Kathryn said. “And I mean it.”
Erin drew the cup closer.
“For you, Connor?” Kathryn asked. “Coffee?”
“Ah, no. As it is, I’ll be awake until well into the next century.”
“Thompson must have shared his coffee with you,” Erin surmised.
He nodded.
“I think he makes it strong to prove something about masculinity,” she said.
“I think it’s more a statement about moral fortitude,” Connor corrected, taking a seat.
“Tea for you?” Kathryn asked Nathan. “Something nice and soothing?”
“Not in this lifetime. I’ll have water.” He grabbed himself a bottle while Kathryn popped another tea pod in the brewer.
Connor joined Erin. One of his first acts as president had been to replace the more formal oblong conference table with a round one to encourage unity along with a less structured meeting hierarchy. Despite that, they all more or less sat in the same places, the Colonel to his right, Nathan to his left.
“Any word on Grandfather?” Erin asked.
Aunt Kathryn sat erect, shoulders pulled back as she allowed steam to waft across her face. Erin ignored her cup of tea. Nathan uncapped his bottle then reached for one of the agendas that had been piled in the middle of the table.
“He said he’d be here,” Connor replied. And the Colonel would no doubt keep his word, no matter how difficult the challenge. Since his stroke five months ago, he spoke more deliberately, moved slower and he used a cane. He was too damn stubborn to use the walker the doctor had prescribed. He still went to see a physical therapist every day. No matter what the woman suggested, the Colonel did more. “Other than Erin’s corset shop, is there any new business?”
“About that,” Erin said. “This isn’t the first time one of us have had an idea rejected.”
“I didn’t reject it,” Nathan countered.
“Semantics.”
Connor shuffled his agenda to the side.
“I think we need another type of investment category.” When Nathan started to interrupt, she held up her hand. “We have a great procedure set up to award grants from the foundation.”
Nathan nodded.
“And rigorous guidelines we follow when looking to make a major acquisition. But what about doing some smaller loans, for businesses like this one? As long as they’re within our community.”
Nathan shut his mouth. The youngest Donovan brother might be risk-averse, but their great-grandmother had set a requirement that the company keep the majority of its fun
ds in the area where her family settled five generations earlier. Their Texas roots ran deep and proud.
“Come up with a set of guidelines,” Aunt Kathryn suggested.
Connor wondered if she’d always been the peacemaker. He couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t been.
“Bring it back to us next month. I think we can consider it.”
Erin looked to Connor. “Fine with me,” he said.
The Colonel entered, slowly, but without a cane. Connor stood to offer assistance, but was waved off.
“Where’s your cane—?” Kathryn started.
“Button it,” he interrupted, “otherwise I’ll give in to your mother. She’s always wanted to see the Panama Canal.”
“Panama Canal?”
“Your mother talked to a travel agent. Your cruise isn’t sold out.”
“Consider it buttoned.”
“She doesn’t want her mother and I knowing that she’s going to be spending two weeks with Neil Lathrope.”
“Grandfather!” Erin scolded.
“Man’s thirty years younger than her. Everyone knows they’re seeing each other.”
“Thirty-one,” Kathryn said easily.
“Lathropes only want women for one reason. And it isn’t the money.”
“Probably true,” Kathryn agreed. “And that’s not all bad. Should have started dating younger men years ago.”
“I can’t unhear that,” Nathan protested.
Connor wondered if the stroke had removed some of the Colonel’s polite-society filters. Either that, or it was the privilege that came with age. Five years ago, he would have never said such a thing.
Once the Colonel was seated, an act that took some time as well as concentrated effort, he asked, “Are we waiting on Cade?”
“He’s not coming,” Connor replied.
“He missed last month, too. He has obligations, and being part of the family is one of them. That damnable mother of his—”
“I’ll call him,” Kathryn said.
“We talk once a week,” Connor added, grateful his aunt had derailed that rant. No matter how much family mattered to the Colonel, his relationship with Stormy, Cade’s mother, continued to irritate him.
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