He met her look, and there was tenderness and firmness, a strange blend, in his golden brown eyes. For him, she could be strong. “You must leave as soon as possible.”

“If anything happens to her...I’ll blame you forever.”

His expression remained the same. “If anything happens to her, I will blame myself forever.”

Just this one last brandy, Lillian Parker thought as she curled up on the brocade sofa in her Park Avenue apartment. She was enveloped in a red silk charmeuse caftan. Somehow it was easier, more satisfying, to indulge in self-pity when wearing silk. The tears squeezed out from under her closed eyes, but she brushed them away angrily. She had never been one for self-pity. It was useless, a waste of valuable energy.

She hurled her glass at the fireplace. It hit the marble mantel and shattered, and she could suddenly see her own life among the shards. Her cowardice, her misery, her fear of the truth. She could look at other people, peer deep into their souls, but she could never look into herself, peer into her own soul. She had never been to a shrink, never gotten into any mystical religions, never taken up transcendental meditation. Even the books she read were strictly entertainment and all had the happiest of happy endings. Real life was depressing enough, she told herself; she saw shitty endings every day.

She flew to her feet, found another glass, poured herself another brandy.

You’re spoiled, she told herself in silent anger. Spoiled, headstrong, nosy and shallow.

No one could be as hard on Lillian Parker as Lillian Parker herself. She took grim pride in that.

As she made her way back to her couch, the intercom buzzed. The doorman announced she had a visitor. “Andrew Balaton, Miss Parker.”

Well, hell, send in all the clowns. “Please admit Mr. Balaton, Louis.”

Andrew arrived in an Italian suit, radiating, as always, good taste, good health, intelligence. He kissed her hand. She remembered the first time he’d done that, thirty years ago, in the midst of hell.

“Andrew, Andrew,” she said, falsely ebullient, more than slightly drunk. “So good to see you. Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Brandy? Martini?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

She sat nervously on the sofa. During the past twenty-five years, under his direction, Crockett Industries had grown, profited, and changed its reputation from a wild Texas oil company run by the last of the Crazy Crocketts to a dignified, reputable Fortune 500 giant. Andrew had managed to change the reality of the company without tarnishing its legend, but he was one of the few truly modest men Lillian knew. He asked for no credit. He simply collected his paycheck, watched the value of his own Crockett Industries stock multiply and thanked J. Land Crockett for giving him, a mere immigrant and his son-in-law for less than a year, a chance to prove himself.

He had loved Judith Land more desperately than Lillian had ever seen anyone love anything. And, with Lillian’s help, Judith had betrayed him. For that, Lillian would never forgive herself. She almost laughed, bitterly: just add it to your long long list of regrets.