RAFFIC 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.