It was still dark when Harper heard the knock on her door early the next morning and hurried to open it. Chase stood on the porch in a pair of light blue denim jeans and a yellow knit polo shirt, looking as perfectly groomed as he always did.
She wasn’t surprised at the brown lizard cowboy boots on his feet. Except for her birthday party when he had been barefoot and wearing a swimsuit, she couldn’t remember seeing him in anything other than boots.
“You ready?” he asked.
She yawned. She preferred to work late rather than get up early. “More or less. I’m packed, at any rate.”
He didn’t crack a smile. “Good, let’s go.” Spotting her carry-on, he grabbed the handle and headed out the door.
Harper caught the rope handle of her striped, multicolored, oversize canvas bag, part of EC’s accessories line, slung the rope over her shoulder and followed him out to the long black stretch limo parked at the curb. The driver held the door as they slid into the plush red leather interior.
This early, the thirty-minute drive to the Dallas–Fort Worth airport went off without a hitch, though it felt strange sitting in the car next to Chase, his elbow occasionally brushing hers. She tried not to notice the impressive biceps stretching the sleeve of his yellow knit shirt.
They went through precheck and boarded an American Airlines A320 for the seven-hour trip to Aruba, putting them on the island late afternoon. Chase told her he’d made contact through a friend with a man in Oranjestad who would pick them up at the airport and be their guide while they were on the island.
“He’s the kind of guy who knows what’s happening and can get you whatever you need.”
She cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Including weapons?”
He just shrugged. “If necessary. Too much hassle getting guns through customs. With luck, I won’t need to be armed.”
But Harper wondered. If Mikey could have called, he would have. He wouldn’t want her to worry. If something had happened to him, it wasn’t going to be good.
They settled back in their first-class seats and Harper took out her sketchbook. She was working on next year’s clothing designs. Although her partner, Shana Davis, was the primary designer, the idea for the type of clothing the company would market had been hers, a concept developed during the year she had spent doing volunteer social work in Ecuador.
She had recognized a need for versatile, durable women’s sportswear and accessories. But she believed it should also be stylish and not too expensive.
She’d spent the following year at the Harvard Business School, then gone in search of a designer. She’d met Shana, a beautiful African American two years her senior, through a friend of Michael’s.
Shana had immediately grasped the concept Harper had envisioned and was wildly excited about it. As luck would have it, her designs were exactly what Harper was looking for, practical fabrics trimmed with bright, colorful accents that made the designs unique.
Using a portion of her inheritance to fund the company, Harper had formulated a business plan and she and Shana had gone to work.
Harper hadn’t expected to be steaming garments at two in the morning, dealing with suppliers who demanded to be paid far too soon, poring over receipts that didn’t add up while trying to manage production and get fabric and trim to manufacturers on time. But she was committed, willing to do whatever the job called for.
Amazingly, the company had succeeded beyond her expectations. Little by little she had discovered her own design abilities and began to contribute ideas each year. Fortunately, Shana had also learned to handle both sides of the business, and as soon as she’d learned of Michael’s disappearance, had taken over so Harper could focus on finding him.
But there was always work to do. Flipping open her drawing pad to a clean page, she began to sketch a design for culottes. The knee-length pants were slightly gathered at the waist, fashioned in a bell shape, a modification of last year’s design, which was fitted in the hips and flared in an A-line. Both garments were stylish yet allowed maximum freedom of movement. She had a wrinkle-free khaki version of the A-line in her suitcase.
Harper glanced up to see Chase watching her. He didn’t ask what she was doing, but she could tell he was curious.
“I own a company called Elemental Chic. We specialize in women’s sportswear. I started the company in Houston, but recently we relocated to Dallas.”
“So you’re a businesswoman?”
“That’s right.” She smiled. “You seem surprised.”
“I guess I figured you had enough money you wouldn’t need to work.”
Or be interested in doing anything productive, she figured. She was a Winston after all. “You thought I’d just marry some man my father picked out and have babies?”
His mouth curved. “To tell you the truth, I probably made that assumption. I suppose I mostly just hoped you wouldn’t end up like your brother.”
“I told you, he isn’t—”
Chase held up a hand, stopping her words. “I know what you said. I hope you’re right.”
But Harper didn’t have the slightest doubt. She remembered all too well the agony her brother had endured as he fought to conquer his heroin addiction. He would never go back to drugs again. He didn’t even drink anymore.
