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Before Nolson could walk away, Dante approached and extended his hand. “Mr. Hilderbrandt, I’m Dante Escarra.”
Nolson shook his hand, and the corners of his mouth tilted upward. “The great Dante Escarra. I know exactly who you are. How are you liking married life again? To the same woman, no less.”
“So far so good.”
Nolson chuckled. “Personally, I never expected to get married again, but when love hits you, what can you do?” He shrugged.
“True. Have you been out on the links lately?” Dante asked. Nolson enjoyed golfing, one of the few recreational activities he engaged in outside of work.
“Not lately,” Nolson lamented. “I don’t get out on the course as much as I used to, which is a shame. I’ve made many business deals out there.”
The Hilderbrandts had earned their fortune in chemical manufacturing, using oil as a raw material to produce fertilizers, pesticides, and other products. Though by no means poor, because of fierce competition in recent years, they’d lost market share and their fortunes had shrunk. But they were a wealthy family by any standard and demanded respect because of their extended roots in Texas.
Hilderbrandt Plaza was an anomaly in their portfolio and represented a time when they wielded more power and influence in business and politics.
Nolson took a glass of wine from one of the passing servers. “Your reputation precedes you. I’ve observed how well you’ve done in recent years, and I’m very impressed.”
“That’s good to hear, because you have something I want.” He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush.
“Oh?”
“Hilderbrandt Plaza. I heard it’s for sale.”
Nolson sipped his wine, watching Dante over the rim. Dante held his gaze without flinching.
“I know you’re quite the shark,” Nolson finally said.
“Shark might be a harsh term,” Dante said slowly.
“Is it? You own quite a bit of Houston, and according to credible rumors you’re buying up parts of the Midwest in anticipation of a surge in coming years.” He leaned closer to Dante. “What’s your secret?”
Dante fit a smile to his lips. “Patience. She has been very good to me. But I don’t want to bombard you with business talk at your party. This is a festive occasion. Why don’t we have lunch in the next week or two at Prosciutto?”
He had once read an article where they reported the tiny Italian restaurant was one of Nolson’s favorite places to dine, and he mourned its popularity in recent years, which made securing a reservation difficult. Dante hoped that was still the case.
“Prosciutto? They’re booked solid for at least a month,” Nolson grumbled.
“Not for me. I own their lease,” Dante said smoothly. The owners didn’t make exceptions for anyone else but him.
Nolson chuckled and eyed him with renewed interest. “I haven’t had their gnocchi in months. If you can arrange lunch there, I’ll definitely join you, and we can talk about the plaza.”
“I can arrange lunch,” Dante confirmed.
“Good. Get in touch with my secretary, Marla, on Monday. She’s here somewhere. I’ll tell her to expect your call.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be in touch on Monday.”
21
Sipping white wine, Annabelle watched Dante from across the room. Her gaze easily found him because of his height. He stood taller than many of the people there, with his midnight hair looking brilliant under the lights.
His clothes fit snug but not tight—showcasing his taut body in a black jacket molded over his broad shoulders and black pants hinting at the powerful, muscular thighs underneath. No tie, and the open collar of his shirt revealed his tanned throat.
He hadn’t changed much from the young man she married ages ago. One who’d balked at every instance of wearing a tie and jacket.
“Another event that requires a tie?” Dante’s gaze shot toward the ceiling in annoyance.
“It won’t kill you,” Annabelle admonished, working on a Windsor knot on his paisley tie. “It’s an evening party, and all the men will be dressed in suits.”
