come up with the bright idea that the two of them should collaborate. In his opinion, her fabric designs had commercial appeal. He’d pitched the idea at the darkest time in her life. She’d been holed up in her house popping antidepressants, stashing away the jackets and quilts she designed in a closet in the cluttered room where she created them. Had it not been for Jason and his dogged determination to save her from herself, Erica wondered how long it would have taken her to decide to reenter the land of the living. So, with her designs and Jason’s ability to promote and sell anything except his paintings, he persuaded her that going into business together would be a good thing. And indeed it was. With hard work, plus a lucky break or two, they’d achieved quite a remarkable commercial success.
“I just have this feeling, Jace,” she said, moving a finger over the Texas Today logo. “I know you think it’s my insecurity talking, but every once in a while I just feel as if that success you’re crowing about has been helped along by some outside force. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it’s there.”
“Here we go again.” He rolled his eyes. “That is total bullshit, Erica. You’re a talented artist and that’s why the world is noticing you.” He chose another kolache from the box and added, “Helped along by the somewhat brilliant promotional contributions that have come from me, if you’ll excuse me saying so.”
“I’ve had to excuse a lot more than that since you nagged me into opening the shop,” she reminded him dryly.
“Your lucky day.”
She smiled and gave in. “Okay, okay. Between the two of us, we’re enjoying a little taste of success.”
“And it’s sweet indeed.”
“So I’ll stop looking for a worm in the apple.”
“Good. Because there isn’t one.” Grabbing a pen, he got ready to do what he did best: seizing opportunity and running with it.
“More coffee, Morton?”
Lillian Trask lifted the decanter from the server and waited to pour. Along with coffee and juice, the breakfast cart was laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and a collection of gourmet jams and jellies. For herself, she preferred only fruit and yogurt to start the day, but her husband liked a hearty meal. After a moment, he grunted a response and she refilled his cup.
He held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while he scanned the pages of the Sunday edition of the Houston Chronicle with the other. Open and within easy reach was his trusty Blackberry, on which he received and sent e-mail, retrieved information, accessed his address book, noted the weather and even picked up breaking news. Since sitting down to breakfast twenty minutes ago, he’d been focused on the Blackberry or talking on his cell phone. She’d once tried to declare mealtime a no-business zone, but she’d been instantly overruled. Only if they had guests did she expect conversation with a meal. When they were alone, Morton was too busy talking business to talk to her.
Actually, it was rare that they breakfasted together. When she came downstairs in the mornings, more often than not, he was already out of the house, headed downtown to the offices of CentrexO. As its CEO, he was never separated from the company, not even when he was in Galveston, where his boat was docked. She hated going out on the boat, or rather, his yacht, as he constantly reminded her. The luxurious Bertram was equipped with every convenience to live aboard for days—even weeks—at a time. But she tended to get seasick, and nothing was worse than being miles offshore with her head spinning and her stomach revolting. At those times, Morton was utterly unsympathetic. He, of course, was never seasick.
They owned a condominium overlooking the Gulf and she could spend a weekend there if she wanted, but she seldom did so. It was a seventh-floor corner unit with a great view, but when she was there, she felt lonely and isolated. There was no magic in watching a stunning sunrise or sunset alone.
She finished her breakfast, listening with half an ear to Morton’s conversation with a business associate. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared to clear the table, and when that was done, Lillian turned her attention to the stack of mail she hadn’t gotten around to opening yesterday. She didn’t hear Morton addressing her directly until he barked her name for the third time.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Morton. What did you say?”
“That was John Frazier in Washington,” he told her testily as he entered something in his Blackberry. It irritated him when he didn’t have her full attention. “He’s at the airport on his way back to Houston.”
“John Frazier.” She repeated the vaguely familiar name but couldn’t place him.
“You met him at the fund-raiser last month,” he reminded her.
She thought a minute, then remembered Frazier as a tall, thin man with a practiced smile. “He manages one of those PACs, doesn’t he?” It would be impossible to guess which one, as Morton was a heavy contributor to several political action funds.
“Yeah. And listen to this. He just left a breakfast meeting with some VIPs who have the ear of the president.” He finished entering data and looked up at her as he shut down the Blackberry. “According to John, I’m definitely on the short list for an ambassadorship. I was reasonably certain it would happen, but these things can slip away with the slightest turn of the political tide.”
“Ambassadorship?” she repeated, starring at him in stunned surprise.
“Is it so astonishing? I’ve contributed a goddamn fortune to those jackals in Washington. It’s the least they can do.”
“You mean we’d leave Houston?” And everything and everyone she held dear?
“I can hardly serve as an ambassador from my office downtown.” He was gleeful as he picked up the newspaper again. “I’ve got a short list of posts I’d prefer. How does Costa Rica sound?”
“Hot and humid,” she murmured.
“So? Houston is hot and humid, too.” And with that, Morton dismissed her reaction. “Think of it this way. You won’t have the bother of shopping for new clothes. You already have the right wardrobe.” He snapped the newspaper open before adding, “It won’t necessarily be Costa Rica. I just mentioned that country as a possibility. I could be placed in any of half a dozen other locations.”
“What about the company?” He couldn’t be serious. Nothing took Morton away from CentrexO for any length of time.
“Not a problem. I’ve been grooming Alex Winfield to take over, just in case. The experience will open other doors for me, as well, Lillian. There could be something in Washington. There would definitely be something in Washington,” he added, idly paging through the paper. “I’d make some valuable contacts, and after getting back to the States with the ambassadorship under my belt, I’d be able to write my own ticket.”
Lillian put a hand to her throat. He was serious, and it sounded as if the decision was final. She was to have no say in it.
Still heedless of her reaction, he said, “I admit I didn’t expect to hear so soon, but it’s good to know that, for all practical purposes, the deal is done.”
“I knew nothing about this, Morton,” she said, dismayed. “I don’t want to leave Houston.”
He lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over it. “Why, for God’s sake? There’s nothing you’re involved in here that you can’t find elsewhere. If we wind up in Washington, there are museums and charity causes to fill up your time, plenty of hospitals where you can volunteer.” He disappeared again behind the paper, adding, “As for the other, after a few weeks in a new country as wife of the American ambassador, you’ll adjust. Give it a chance before going negative. You might even enjoy yourself.”
She gazed down at her spoon. Not if it meant leaving Houston and her work in the arts. As the wife of a powerful and visible CEO, she was in a unique position to assist the arts community. But even without her commitment to the arts, there was Hunter. As she thought of her son, her gaze strayed to the window and