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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 putting 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