Never Tell
Never Tell
Karen Young
Haunted by the memories of an August night nine years ago when a car crash robbed her of her family, artist Erica Stewart has focused her life on her thriving Houston boutique. No one is more surprised than Erica when a new man walks into her life.Texas born and bred, Hunter McCabe is a successful architect who is smitten the moment he meets Erica. He's determined to pursue her–despite her efforts to keep him at a distance.But someone is watching the dance of attraction between Erica and Hunter with growing alarm. Someone who understands the dangerous connection between Hunter's powerful, politically connected family and the accident that shattered Erica's life. Someone who understands that soon secrets will be revealed and lies will be exposed…And that murder is the only guarantee of silence.
Dear Reader,
What would you do if everything you held dear in the world was suddenly gone? Would you have the courage and sheer grit to pick up the pieces and build a new and different life for yourself?
Intriguing questions like this seemed to fuel my creative engine when I began to think about the plot for this book. In Never Tell, as always, I’ve plunged my heroine into a kind of hell where she’ll need courage, self-reliance and, yes, sheer grit just to survive. I promise that her plight will touch your heart, and her struggle to overcome the truly dreadful hand she’s been dealt will leave you feeling that there is always hope after tragedy. There are enduring friendships to be treasured. And there is always love to be found in the world…if we just open our hearts to receive it.
I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing the story. I would love to hear from you! If you would like to be part of my mailing list, please write me at P.O. Box 141, Pearland, Texas 77588-0141. Or visit my Web site at www.authorkarenyoung.com.
Happy reading!
Karen Young
Also by KAREN YOUNG
IN CONFIDENCE
PRIVATE LIVES
FULL CIRCLE
GOOD GIRLS
Never Tell
Karen Young
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to several people for their generous support and suggestions during the development of this book. To Emilie Richards and Erica Spindler for the brainstorming session in Santa Fe. To Joanna Wayne and Gloria Alvarez for one of those “why-didn’t-I-think-of-that” ideas. To Barbara Colley for keeping me focused. To Jon Salem for…well, he knows why.
Warm and loving thanks to Alison Simmons for her generous donation of time and ideas on a part of this business of writing that seems to come naturally to her, but not to me. Thank goodness she works cheap! And finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, whose thoughtful insights are always right on.
In loving memory of Linda Kay West
Contents
Chapter One (#u64d3a5cd-7fb2-5c71-b2d3-070e510c0eef)
Chapter Two (#u2ff076bd-5bd6-5800-a9c7-d59e728b7c5e)
Chapter Three (#u97f2d194-2076-5a96-9798-f69308b51569)
Chapter Four (#u5c818a36-84e2-51b8-8017-e3c1e77f4a3b)
Chapter Five (#u209c8d15-283d-5258-85f2-41bc8a333ca9)
Chapter Six (#u65d8bdfa-65a7-5ac2-9ba9-abd42198c734)
Chapter Seven (#u7909f802-f892-55ad-85a9-6f5ca8641a36)
Chapter Eight (#u1d6aae19-f349-5509-8c68-88f39d325c53)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
One
The telephone shrilled the fourth ring, but Erica Stewart resisted coming fully awake. Let it go to voice mail, she thought, while a part of her still struggled to finish the dream. The phone rang again and Willie, her cat, nudged her hand with his head. Purring loudly, he climbed on her chest and pawed at the blanket. With a sigh, she raised herself on one elbow and looked at the caller ID, then groggily reached over and picked it up. “What?” She knew she sounded grumpy, but she wasn’t at her best before coffee and all her friends knew that.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
“This had better be good, Jason,” she grumbled, falling back against her pillow. “It’s Sunday. You know it’s the only day I can sleep in.”
“You’ll forgive me when you hear this,” her business partner and quintessential morning person said. “Have you seen the Sunday Chronicle?”
“You woke me from a sound sleep, Jason. I’m still in bed. And thanks to you, Willie’s now meowing to be fed. So, no, I haven’t seen the newspaper.”
“Wait’ll you see the article in Zest, sugar. It’s fantastic. It’s gonna mean success with a big S for us. Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m coming over.”
“Can’t you just—” She stopped, realizing the line was dead. Grumbling, she threw off the covers and glared at Willie, who was wailing now. “I’m up, I’m up.”
When Jason knocked on her door fifteen minutes later, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He had a bakery box in one hand, a newspaper under his arm and a cardboard tray holding two cups of Starbucks coffee in the other. “Here, straight house blend, no frills, just the way you like it,” Jason said, thrusting the coffee at her. Then, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he offered the box. “Kolaches. Mixed varieties.”
He knew she had a weakness for the delicious pastry stuffed with everything she shouldn’t eat. Why was it some people preferred to skip breakfast altogether when for her it was the best meal of the day? And irresistible. With a sheepish groan, she grabbed the box, turned and led the way into her kitchen.
The table in her breakfast nook was littered with fabric scraps, scissors and parchment-paper patterns. Sitting in the midst of that was her laptop. She remembered looking at the clock around 2:30 a.m. and thinking she should shut down and go to bed. She did, finally, about an hour later, knowing it was Sunday and she would be able to sleep in.
“Whoa, somebody’s been busy,” Jason said, looking at the mess on the table.
“Until the wee hours,” Erica said, setting the coffee and kolaches on a countertop nearby. She collected the material scraps and dropped them into a box, tossed the paper patterns into a tall trash can she’d placed beside her chair and shoved the computer to the opposite side of the table. “But it was worth it. I finished the design for Jill McNeal’s evening jacket. I’m really happy with it, Jason. I think she’ll be pleased.”
“Have your coffee first,” he told her. “And sit down. We’ll look at the design and pig out after you look at this.” With a flourish, he snapped the fold from the newspaper and spread it out on the table.
Erica removed the plastic lid from her coffee cup and sat. Then, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear, she turned her attention to the paper. Her gray eyes went wide. The first thing she noticed was her own photo on the cover of Zest, the Houston Chronicle’s Sunday magazine. Small but prominently displayed at the top, it was a teaser for a feature article inside.
“Wait’ll you see the article,” Jason said. “It’ll blow your mind. We couldn’t pay enough for advertising like this, Erica.” Not waiting for her to find it, he leaned over and flipped the pages until he located it. He straightened and stood back to gauge her reaction. “Have a look at that, partner.”
He was right about one thing. They could never afford to pay for advertising at this level. She was pictured arranging the display in the front window of the shop in the Village. She remembered the day she’d worked on the display. She’d wanted the fabric she’d used in the jacket to coordinate with the quilt, another of her original designs. She’d draped the quilt over an antique chair, which she’d borrowed from a shop located a couple of doors down. On the floor beside the chair was a tall urn containing a few gnarled and leafless limbs she’d collected on the side of a country road. River stones had been strewn over the floor to look as if they’d been cast out carelessly, adding a last artful touch to the oddly eclectic grouping. She’d had some doubt about the photographer’s request to shoot her at work in the window, but the result was more than interesting.
Jason grinned with delight. “Is it great, or what?”
“It’s nice.” The article wasn’t about Erica alone. It was a piece showcasing the unique personality of the Village, a favored location for merchants, upscale and otherwise, some selling unique merchandise while others offered chain-store quality. When Erica and Jason decided to open a retail outlet for her jacket and quilt designs, they’d chosen the Village as much for its personality as for its location near upscale River Oaks.
“Nice?” Jason propped his hands on his hips. “That’s it, just nice?”
“It’s really terrific.”
“You know what this means, Erica.” He sat down on the cushioned seat of the bay window, but he was so energized that he was instantly up and pacing again. “It’s going to make us a household word. You’ve already made a name for yourself in Houston and this article is simply icing on the cake. Circulation for the Chronicle takes us throughout the whole state of Texas and beyond.”
“First Texas and then the world?” she teased, smiling while savoring the taste of the coffee. Jason’s expectations were anything but modest. He really believed Erica Stewart was destined to become a label as well known as Kate Spade or Cynthia Rowley. He was so certain that sometimes Erica almost believed it herself. This morning, however, her expectations were firmly grounded. She needed a couple of seamstresses to work full-time on the jackets and quilts, but so far she’d found only one who met her exacting standards. Her creations were pricey, unavoidably so, as they were labor intensive. She wanted anyone who bought a jacket or a quilt to get full value for their money.
“I’m not the one in denial,” Jason said, biting into a kolache. “You are.” Then, chewing on the pastry, he pointed to the article. “Do you think they do these feature articles for just anybody? Hell, no. Even if you can’t believe you’re destined to be a significant player, sugar, other folks do.” He tapped the article with a forefinger. “Now all we have to do is make the most of what’s been handed to us on a silver platter.”
“Uh-huh.” Erica rose and rummaged in a wire basket where she’d stashed recent mail. “If you’re excited over that article, you’ll really love this.” When she found what she was looking for, she handed it to Jason, who gave it a quick once-over. Then, doing a double take, he reread it.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said, looking at her. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
“No, Jason. Where would I get letterhead with a Texas Today logo? It’s real.”
“You’ve been named one of Twenty Women to Watch in Texas,” he said in a tone of wonderment.
“I know. I’ve read it,” she said dryly.
“Do you have a clue what this means?”
“I’ve got friends in high places?” But she was smiling, knowing Jason would get almost as much pleasure from the honor as she did. Maybe more.
“We agreed we couldn’t find enough money to buy the Zest article, but this knocks that right out of the ballpark.”
She licked raspberry filling from her finger before grabbing a napkin. “Hey, maybe we’ll find the money to hire another seamstress.”
“I’m serious, Erica. This is…this will…” He shook his head. “I’m speechless.”
“Now, that is a first.” Taking the letter from him, she sat down again and reread it. “I’m flattered, Jace. And you’re right. This is a once-in-a-career boost, and yet…”
He looked at her in disbelief, propping his hands on his hips. “And what, for Pete’s sake? You can’t possibly find anything negative in this. You said the Zest article was a fluke, and that if our shop wasn’t in the Village, and they didn’t just happen to be featuring businesses there, we would never have been included. And when you got that order for jackets from that boutique in the Galleria, you called Christopher Crane to make sure he meant it for Erica Stewart and not our competition in Dallas. It was legit and that’s because you’re good. Chris Crane doesn’t just run his finger down the yellow pages and pick a designer at random to feature in his shop, darlin’. You’re good, you’re better than good and I wish to hell you believed it as much as I do.”
“Okay, okay.” She gave a weak smile and rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “I get a headache when you start to lecture.”
“You should,” he said with no sympathy. After a beat or two, he dropped into a chair opposite her. “I don’t get why you keep trying to downplay your success, Erica. If I were in your place, the Astrodome wouldn’t be big enough for my ego.”
She studied his face with affection. They’d been friends since meeting in an art class in college more than twelve years ago. He’d been the male model that day. It was later when Erica learned he was actually an art student, and that he’d volunteered to model because it was just the zany kind of thing Jason sometimes did. He was physically beautiful. No other word fit. He had every natural asset needed for a career as a male model. His hair was a thick, glossy near-black, his eyes were startlingly blue and he had cheekbones to die for. Added to all that, his tall, hard-muscled body looked delectable in clothes. In fact, he’d briefly pursued modeling as a career, but quickly abandoned it as being, in his words, “soul-destroying and shallow beyond belief.” In his bones he was a serious artist, but unlike Erica, he hadn’t been able to support himself with his art.
To tell the truth, Erica wouldn’t have been able to support herself with her art, either, if Jason hadn’t come up with the bright idea that the two of them should collaborate. In his opinion, her fabric designs had commercial appeal. He’d pitched the idea at the darkest time in her life. She’d been holed up in her house popping antidepressants, stashing away the jackets and quilts she designed in a closet in the cluttered room where she created them. Had it not been for Jason and his dogged determination to save her from herself, Erica wondered how long it would have taken her to decide to reenter the land of the living. So, with her designs and Jason’s ability to promote and sell anything except his paintings, he persuaded her that going into business together would be a good thing. And indeed it was. With hard work, plus a lucky break or two, they’d achieved quite a remarkable commercial success.
“I just have this feeling, Jace,” she said, moving a finger over the Texas Today logo. “I know you think it’s my insecurity talking, but every once in a while I just feel as if that success you’re crowing about has been helped along by some outside force. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it’s there.”
“Here we go again.” He rolled his eyes. “That is total bullshit, Erica. You’re a talented artist and that’s why the world is noticing you.” He chose another kolache from the box and added, “Helped along by the somewhat brilliant promotional contributions that have come from me, if you’ll excuse me saying so.”
“I’ve had to excuse a lot more than that since you nagged me into opening the shop,” she reminded him dryly.
“Your lucky day.”
She smiled and gave in. “Okay, okay. Between the two of us, we’re enjoying a little taste of success.”
“And it’s sweet indeed.”
“So I’ll stop looking for a worm in the apple.”
“Good. Because there isn’t one.” Grabbing a pen, he got ready to do what he did best: seizing opportunity and running with it.
“More coffee, Morton?”
Lillian Trask lifted the decanter from the server and waited to pour. Along with coffee and juice, the breakfast cart was laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and a collection of gourmet jams and jellies. For herself, she preferred only fruit and yogurt to start the day, but her husband liked a hearty meal. After a moment, he grunted a response and she refilled his cup.
He held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while he scanned the pages of the Sunday edition of the Houston Chronicle with the other. Open and within easy reach was his trusty Blackberry, on which he received and sent e-mail, retrieved information, accessed his address book, noted the weather and even picked up breaking news. Since sitting down to breakfast twenty minutes ago, he’d been focused on the Blackberry or talking on his cell phone. She’d once tried to declare mealtime a no-business zone, but she’d been instantly overruled. Only if they had guests did she expect conversation with a meal. When they were alone, Morton was too busy talking business to talk to her.
Actually, it was rare that they breakfasted together. When she came downstairs in the mornings, more often than not, he was already out of the house, headed downtown to the offices of CentrexO. As its CEO, he was never separated from the company, not even when he was in Galveston, where his boat was docked. She hated going out on the boat, or rather, his yacht, as he constantly reminded her. The luxurious Bertram was equipped with every convenience to live aboard for days—even weeks—at a time. But she tended to get seasick, and nothing was worse than being miles offshore with her head spinning and her stomach revolting. At those times, Morton was utterly unsympathetic. He, of course, was never seasick.
They owned a condominium overlooking the Gulf and she could spend a weekend there if she wanted, but she seldom did so. It was a seventh-floor corner unit with a great view, but when she was there, she felt lonely and isolated. There was no magic in watching a stunning sunrise or sunset alone.
She finished her breakfast, listening with half an ear to Morton’s conversation with a business associate. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared to clear the table, and when that was done, Lillian turned her attention to the stack of mail she hadn’t gotten around to opening yesterday. She didn’t hear Morton addressing her directly until he barked her name for the third time.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Morton. What did you say?”
“That was John Frazier in Washington,” he told her testily as he entered something in his Blackberry. It irritated him when he didn’t have her full attention. “He’s at the airport on his way back to Houston.”
“John Frazier.” She repeated the vaguely familiar name but couldn’t place him.
“You met him at the fund-raiser last month,” he reminded her.
She thought a minute, then remembered Frazier as a tall, thin man with a practiced smile. “He manages one of those PACs, doesn’t he?” It would be impossible to guess which one, as Morton was a heavy contributor to several political action funds.
“Yeah. And listen to this. He just left a breakfast meeting with some VIPs who have the ear of the president.” He finished entering data and looked up at her as he shut down the Blackberry. “According to John, I’m definitely on the short list for an ambassadorship. I was reasonably certain it would happen, but these things can slip away with the slightest turn of the political tide.”
“Ambassadorship?” she repeated, starring at him in stunned surprise.
“Is it so astonishing? I’ve contributed a goddamn fortune to those jackals in Washington. It’s the least they can do.”
“You mean we’d leave Houston?” And everything and everyone she held dear?
“I can hardly serve as an ambassador from my office downtown.” He was gleeful as he picked up the newspaper again. “I’ve got a short list of posts I’d prefer. How does Costa Rica sound?”
“Hot and humid,” she murmured.
“So? Houston is hot and humid, too.” And with that, Morton dismissed her reaction. “Think of it this way. You won’t have the bother of shopping for new clothes. You already have the right wardrobe.” He snapped the newspaper open before adding, “It won’t necessarily be Costa Rica. I just mentioned that country as a possibility. I could be placed in any of half a dozen other locations.”
“What about the company?” He couldn’t be serious. Nothing took Morton away from CentrexO for any length of time.
“Not a problem. I’ve been grooming Alex Winfield to take over, just in case. The experience will open other doors for me, as well, Lillian. There could be something in Washington. There would definitely be something in Washington,” he added, idly paging through the paper. “I’d make some valuable contacts, and after getting back to the States with the ambassadorship under my belt, I’d be able to write my own ticket.”
Lillian put a hand to her throat. He was serious, and it sounded as if the decision was final. She was to have no say in it.
Still heedless of her reaction, he said, “I admit I didn’t expect to hear so soon, but it’s good to know that, for all practical purposes, the deal is done.”
“I knew nothing about this, Morton,” she said, dismayed. “I don’t want to leave Houston.”
He lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over it. “Why, for God’s sake? There’s nothing you’re involved in here that you can’t find elsewhere. If we wind up in Washington, there are museums and charity causes to fill up your time, plenty of hospitals where you can volunteer.” He disappeared again behind the paper, adding, “As for the other, after a few weeks in a new country as wife of the American ambassador, you’ll adjust. Give it a chance before going negative. You might even enjoy yourself.”
She gazed down at her spoon. Not if it meant leaving Houston and her work in the arts. As the wife of a powerful and visible CEO, she was in a unique position to assist the arts community. But even without her commitment to the arts, there was Hunter. As she thought of her son, her gaze strayed to the window and the center of the immaculate lawn, where a cherub poured water from a jug into a tiny pond. It was painful to remember how close they’d once been. He tolerated a rare lunch date with her now only out of a sense of duty. She sighed, able to pinpoint the moment when their relationship had begun to deteriorate. But then, so much of the downward spiral of her life was marked by that moment. She set her spoon and yogurt aside, untouched. Between the demands of Hunter’s business and his preference for spending his free time at the ranch, she rarely saw him. If she went out of the country for any protracted length of time, she could lose touch with him altogether. As for Jocelyn, she had so little contact with her daughter that it probably wouldn’t matter if they were posted to China.
For a long moment, she watched the sparrows fluttering in the water. She was drawn to the ranch herself, but it was awkward explaining to Morton why she wanted to spend time there. He found the place dusty and hot. Totally urbanized, he didn’t ride and was repulsed by the dust, the torturous Texas heat and the smell of horses. So, they didn’t go.
With another sigh, she chose another envelope from the stack of mail and slit it open. Perhaps she’d survive a brief tour in a foreign country if she could look forward to returning to Houston and the life she’d built for herself, but if Morton had his eye on something in Washington, it was unlikely they would ever live in Texas again. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“Anything in there from Jocelyn?”
She quickly scanned the rest of the envelopes but saw nothing. No surprise there. Jocelyn wasn’t much of a correspondent. The best she could manage was a phone call to her parents once a month. “I don’t see anything,” Lillian said. “The last time we talked, she was so excited about this new job. That’s probably why we haven’t heard from her. She’s very determined to make a career for herself, Morton.”
“By reporting for some sleazy tabloid in Key West?” He folded and set aside a section of the newspaper before picking up another. “I don’t think so. Not unless we see a big change. She doesn’t stick with anything any longer than she sticks to her husbands. Twenty-five years old and two divorces, for God’s sake.”
“One divorce and one annulment. And good reasons for both,” Lillian argued. “The first was a silly, rebellious prank, and that awful Leo person was addicted to cocaine. Would you have wanted her to stay with either one of them?”
“No, but I also didn’t want her marrying either of those bozos…not that she consulted me. She’s spoiled rotten, Lillian. And it’s unlikely to change as long as you keep stepping in when she screws up. What she needs to do is grow up.”
They’d had this discussion before. Jocelyn did have a string of broken relationships behind her. In an act of open rebellion, she’d eloped on the night of her eighteenth birthday with the golf pro at the country club. Morton had been livid but had managed to avoid a major scandal by paying off the bridegroom and arranging an annulment. To the dismay of her parents, however, that first debacle established a pattern and it had been one disaster after another since, including a hasty marriage to a druggie. She seemed addicted to destructive behavior, and after so many years, Lillian wondered if her daughter would ever settle down and be happy.
“I can’t just ignore her when she needs me, Morton.”
“Give her a chance to feel the consequences of her screwups and she’ll soon straighten out,” Morton said grimly. “If she’d consulted me when the time was right, she would be set up fine and dandy on a decent career path at CentrexO, and not down in Key West consorting with who the hell knows what kind of riffraff.” He snapped out another section and scanned it through his bifocals. “But what’s the use closing the barn door after the horse is out. I’m more concerned about the present. I want you to call her and get it through her head that she’d better be on her best behavior for the next few months. I don’t want her mixed up in a scandal that would cause the president to kill my appointment.”
He was right, of course, not that she’d admit it to Morton. Their daughter was spoiled, indulged to a fault and constantly setting herself up for failure. And, unfortunately, the time was long past when she would consider consulting them about anything in her life. Morton might rant on and on about Jocelyn’s tendency to make mistake after mistake, but the blame wasn’t hers, it was theirs.
She looked up when Morton made a choking sound, sputtering into his coffee. “Did you see this?” He shoved a section of the newspaper across the table. “They do a feature article on those hokey shops in the Village and they choose hers to put front and center? This just proves my theory that they’re desperate to find anything newsworthy today.”
Lillian set an invitation to a charity function aside, then looked at the article, bracing for what she would see and the quick, sharp stab of conscience she would surely feel. Artist Erica Stewart had been photographed in her shop, intent on arranging the display in the front window. Her face was in profile, but Lillian needed no reminder to know exactly what Erica looked like. She recalled everything about her with cruel clarity, her storm-gray eyes and dark, curly hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. Her face, with its strong features, was not quite beautiful; still, it was an arresting face, young and vibrant. As always, Lillian was unable to bear looking. She glanced quickly away and said without any emotion in her voice, “I wouldn’t call her shop hokey.”
“That whole damn neighborhood is hokey.” He made a grumpy sound. “She’s probably sleeping with somebody with clout at the newspaper to get this kind of play in the Sunday edition.”
“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.
He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”
She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”
He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”
But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.
“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.
He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”
“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.
Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes.”
He was busy mulling it over and missed the irony in her voice. “Well, I was right about one thing. He’s probably the one bankrolling the shop in the Village, but I guess that shoots my theory about her sleeping her way to success.”
Lillian sighed. “Please, Morton.”
“At least, not with Jason,” he said, smirking. “The boy’s gay, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lillian said stiffly. “And he’s hardly a boy. He’s almost as old as Hunter.”
“Well, he is gay. Everybody knows it. Not that Bob’s ever mentioned it. And I see him at the club frequently. As a matter of fact, we played golf last week. Naturally, he doesn’t mention Jason much, but—”
Lillian rose abruptly. “I need to talk to Maria about lunch,” she said. Not waiting to hear him out, she left the room.
Two
To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.
It was a few minutes past seven when he finally turned off a state road onto the ranch—two hundred and eighty acres of prime Texas land. As he drove beneath an iron arch with McCabe-Colson forged in large letters, his mood improved. The ranch was a legacy from his father and one that Hunter cherished. Bart McCabe had purchased it thirty-five years ago with his business partner, Hank Colson. According to Hank, they’d bought it mostly as a tax write-off, but with hopes of raising cattle on a large scale in the future. But those plans had died when Bart went down in the crash of a small plane, leaving Hunter fatherless at age two and his mother a widow. Driving past grassy pasture now, he blessed the impulse that had moved Hank and his dad to purchase the land, whatever their motivation.
Once out of the car, Hunter breathed deeply, taking in the smells of the ranch—fresh-cut grass, wood smoke and horses. In the south pasture, a young mare stood cropping winter rye while her foal nursed vigorously. A prize Appaloosa in the pasture opposite spotted Hunter and whinnied, but he resisted the temptation to head that way. There were a couple of things that needed tending before he could escape to the stables. A weather front had brought rain yesterday and the cold, crisp day was perfect for what he had in mind.
He braced for the wild welcome from the chocolate Lab who rushed toward him, barking joyously. Charlie was aging, but somehow in greeting Hunter, who’d raised him from a puppy, he seemed to forget his aching joints. Laughing, Hunter dodged the dog’s tongue and enthusiasm, and only after he’d given him a good rub did Charlie fall in beside him, tongue lolling happily. He was up the steps onto the porch in two strides, pausing to stamp the dampness from his boots on the welcome mat at the front door before going inside.
The man who met him before he cleared the threshold might have stepped right out of a Remington sculpture. “Thought I heard you drive up,” Hank said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee. “If you’d headed to the barn first, I was coming after you and I wouldn’t be offering coffee.”
“I missed you, too.” Hunter took the coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong, and inhaled deeply.
Tall and whipcord lean, Hank was on the downhill side of sixty but still as fit as a man in his forties. He had a face made of sharp angles and shadowy planes and a generous mustache as gray now as his eyes. And in spite of the fact that he always wore a hat, his skin was still richly tanned and weathered.
Hunter tossed his hat at the rack by the door, ringing it squarely. “Before you light into me, hear me out. I plan to look over that lease agreement you’ve been nagging about right away. Not that I need to. If you’re satisfied, I’ll sign it and we’ll be done with it.”
“This is a partnership, Hunt. I’m not signing anything that ties us to a contract for five years without you blessing it.”
Hunter tasted the coffee with caution. “I know as much about growing pecans as you do about building a high-rise,” he said, wincing over his blistered tongue.
“It’s not about growing pecans. It’s about your land and—”
“Our land, Hank. We’re equal partners here. You keep forgetting that I was only ten years old when you had the idea to plant a thousand trees on ground that was growing nothing but grass and scrub. Left to me, it would still be grass and shrub, as long as there was pasture for the horses. So, if you say you want to lease more acreage to plant more pecan trees, why would I argue?”
“We’re lucky the land butts up to ours and that Billings is willing to lease it out,” Hank said. He watched Hunter give the collection of mail on the table a quick glance, then lose interest before adding, “I’m thinking if we offered enough, he’d probably let us buy it. ’Course, he’d want an arm and a leg per acre. His wife’s the one holding out for leasing.”
Hunter leaned against the table, smiling. “Thinking you can afford to pay an arm and a leg?”
“Thinking we both can,” Hank said.
Hunter studied the older man, knowing that if and when a deal was done, it would be to the advantage of McCabe and Colson no matter how grasping Billings’s wife was. Hank had keen business instincts. He and Bart McCabe, who’d been a pilot, had started up an air-cargo business back in the sixties and it was thriving at the time of Bart’s death. When Lillian remarried, Hank bought out her share and continued to run it with truly phenomenal success until about eight years ago. Then he’d surprised everyone by announcing his retirement. That was the year his daughter, Kelly, was accepted into the veterinary program at Texas A&M. Hank set her up in an apartment in College Station and moved into the ranch house after enlarging it enough so that Hunter wouldn’t feel crowded when he dropped in. It was after his retirement that he’d developed a keen interest in the lucrative crop, and it was not long afterward that he’d decided to get into growing pecans in a big way. In five years, he had more than a thousand trees in varying degrees of maturity and varieties. He’d taken to the role of planter enthusiastically and was now highly regarded in that field.
“Just let me know what you decide,” Hunter said, and pushed away from the table. “Now, can we have breakfast? I’m starved.”
He could smell bacon frying. Theresa, the ranch’s longtime housekeeper and cook—and surrogate mother to Hunter—would have a mouthwatering spread waiting. Heading for the kitchen, he glanced around the place with a sense of homecoming. It was clearly a masculine abode decorated with a strong Western influence. The man-size furniture was upholstered in leather, the end tables were wrought iron and wood, the chandelier was made of a wagon wheel and deer antlers, and over all lay the smell of cigar smoke and lemon wax. The place was orderly and spotless, no thanks to Hank or Hunter. Theresa ran a tight ship.
She was stirring something on the stove when they entered the kitchen, but she paused to hug Hunter. “It’s about time,” she said, inspecting his face with the familiarity of one who’d changed his diapers. She was a tiny woman with hair as black now as it had been when Hunter was three. Her bones felt as frail as a bird’s, but he knew she was as tough as a pine knot. Theresa was always up and about at daylight, and if she ever sat down during the day, no one ever saw it.
He swung her off her feet and kissed her soundly before setting her down to inspect what she was cooking. “Whatever it is, bring it on. I’ve been saving up for this.”
“Sausage gravy for your biscuits,” she told him, giving him a shove toward the table. “Scrambled eggs and bacon are on the table. Sit down and get started. Hank, leave him alone until he’s done with his breakfast. You know he’s not about to dispute your plans, so give him a minute to eat in peace.”
“He can listen while I fill him in on the details.” Hank reached for a folder and opened it before Hunter took a seat.
“Do me a favor,” Hunter said, heaping his plate. “Skip the details. Just hit the high points.”
With a sigh, Hank closed the file and picked up his coffee. He watched Hunter tackle the food, then gave him the bottom line. After stating the costs, he added, “I’m considering some new hybrids recently developed at A&M. I figure I can plant at least five hundred trees on the land.”
Hunter paused, buttering a biscuit. “Are you sure you want to take on the responsibility? You know I can’t get up here except on weekends, plus you’re supposed to be retired. Adding five hundred trees to what you’ve already got isn’t my idea of retirement.”
“You let me worry about that. Best thing about growing pecans,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, “it’s not labor intensive like, say cotton or corn, crops like that. ’Course, we won’t get any return on these trees for years yet, but when they do come in, they’ll be cash in the pockets of your kids…if you ever have any.”
Tucking into his breakfast, Hunter chewed slowly. He knew Hank believed it was time he settled down with a wife. And here lately Hunter had found himself thinking the same thing. If he’d been asked when he was in his mid-twenties whether or not in ten years he’d still be unmarried, he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. Of course he’d eventually marry and have kids. Most of his friends had done exactly that. One by one, he’d watched them find the “right” woman and head happily for the altar. It hadn’t happened for Hunter. He’d had relationships—even some lasting a few years. He’d just never felt compelled to marry. He now figured he wouldn’t ever experience the crash-and-burn-type passion like his friends had, and was resigned to settling for something else. There was a lot to be said for being with a woman who shared the same goals.
“And speaking of family,” Hank went on after failing to get a response from Hunter, “you didn’t forget Lily’s birthday, did you?”
Hunter’s knife and fork clinked against his plate. “Damn, I guess I did.” Frowning, he glanced at the date on his watch face. “Today’s the third. I’ve got a couple of days. It’s the sixth, isn’t it?”
“You should know your mother’s birthday, Hunt. Yeah, it’s the sixth. And I had a feeling you’d forget.”
Theresa reached to remove an empty platter from the table. “Maybe if you weren’t so ready to remind him,” she said, “he’d get in the habit of remembering on his own.”
“And maybe he wouldn’t,” Hank said.
“I guess we’ll never know.” Ignoring Hank’s grumpy look, she spoke to Hunter. “I told him you had a calendar at work. You’d eventually see it and go out and buy her something nice. It might be a day or two late, but it would happen.”
Hunter nursed the last of his coffee and wisely said nothing. Taking sides between Hank and Theresa would be inviting trouble. The truth was that Hank had nailed it, saying he’d probably forget if he wasn’t reminded. Theresa was right, too, saying sooner or later he’d realize it and get his mother a gift.
Hank stood up. “Bottom line, you haven’t done it yet. You’ll be at work tomorrow morning up to your ass in alligators and last thing on your mind’ll be shopping for Lily’s birthday. Lucky for you, half the job’s done. Wait here.”
Clueless, Hunter looked at Theresa as Hank left the kitchen, but she only shrugged with a who-knows expression. Both knew what it was that drove Hank to remind him of his mother’s birthday, and it wasn’t to prevent Hunter forgetting it. It was Hank’s own partiality for “Lily,” as he called her. It had been plain to Hunter for a long time that Hank had a soft spot for Lillian. Both Hank and Bart McCabe had been married forty years ago when they went into business together. But when Marguerite Colson died of cancer, Hank’s interest in Lillian grew beyond friendship. She’d remarried by then, but as a boy, Hunter had often pretended that Hank, and not Morton Trask, was his stepfather. He definitely felt more of a kinship to Hank than he ever had to Morton.
“Take a look at this.” Hank was back, shoving a section of newspaper at him.
Front and center on the Zest magazine was a photo of a woman doing something in the window of what appeared to be one of those trendy little shops in the Village. Hunter’s interest in the newspaper was usually confined to the sports section first and the front page next. Zest covered arts and theater stuff and he often skipped it. It was always the first thing his mother pulled out of the Chronicle’s Sunday edition. He glanced up at Hank. “Give me a hint. How is this related to Mom’s birthday?”
“I’ve heard Lily mention this artist, Erica Stewart,” Hank said, paging through to find the article. “She designs quilts and stuff and she’s good. I bet Lily would appreciate something from her shop. You’ve been traveling between those two jobs day in and day out. Not twenty minutes out of your way to detour over to the Village and choose something.”
Theresa had risen to stand at Hunter’s elbow and study the article. “Hmm, anything in that shop’ll be pricey, count on it.”
“He can afford to spend some money on his mother,” Hank said testily.
“I’m not arguing that,” Theresa said, then pointed to an item in the window. “You want my opinion, go for one of the jackets. The quilts are probably gorgeous, but not exactly Lillian’s style. Now, if those jackets are as elegant as they appear in this picture, I think she’d be thrilled to get one.”
“I’ll check it out.” Hunter got up, taking the Zest article with him. He was relieved not to have to spend time he didn’t have browsing in the Galleria. Clapping a hand on Hank’s shoulder, he moved toward the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it, Hank.” Passing the sideboard, he took a couple of apples from a bowl and headed for the door to get his hat.
Once out of the house, he took a deep breath and followed the path leading to the barn. The air was sweet, the sky was already as blue as only a Texas sky can be and the birds were singing. The sun, high now on the east horizon, had burned off traces of morning mist. A perfect day for what he had in mind. Near the barn, Cisco, one of the two regular ranch hands on the payroll, was climbing onto the seat of a tractor hooked up to a trailer loaded with hay bales. Hunter raised his hand in greeting as Cisco headed out to pasture.
The noise faded as Hunter entered the barn. Taking in the familiar smells of hay, horses and manure, he welcomed the hush. A soft whicker came from the first stall. Jasper, an Appaloosa stallion Hunter had bought a year ago, lifted his head and flicked his ears back in recognition. Hunter pulled one of the apples out of his jacket pocket.
“Hey, boy. Ready for a ride?” Standing outside the stall, he fed the apple to the horse, rubbed him behind the ears, then reached for a bridle hanging on a hook. Jasper crunched the crisp apple and blew out a soft, gentle sound, stamping a foot. Hunter grinned, recognizing impatience as he slipped the bridle into place. “Looking forward to a good workout, huh? Well, me, too. Just let me get that saddle and we’re outta here, buddy.”
The gear was in the tack room at the rear of the barn. As soon as he saddled up, Hunter planned to spend the next few hours skirting the perimeter of the ranch. Cisco and Earl were paid to see that the fences were in good shape, but Hunter liked to check himself from time to time. After the week he’d endured, he looked forward to a few hours to himself.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Hunter turned with the saddle in his hands. Kelly Colson stood in the doorway. Blue-eyed, slim as a boy in boot-cut jeans and a baseball hat on her auburn head, she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-three-year-old veterinarian. “I thought you’d be sleeping in this morning,” he told her, hefting the saddle onto his shoulder.
She stepped aside to let him pass. “Is that why you didn’t call me?”
“I drove in early. Hank hit me at the door with paperwork. I only escaped ten minutes ago.” He hadn’t thought to call her, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You’re up early, too.”
“I never went to bed,” she said. “Tom Erickson called around midnight. His prize bull got out and was hit broadside by a teenager in a pickup. I didn’t get away until a few minutes ago. I spotted your car as I was passing on my way home.”
“Not that bull he imported from Colorado?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hunter pushed Jasper’s stall door open. A man could buy a whole ranch for what some prize bulls cost. “Were you able to save him?”
“Luckily nothing was broken, so he’ll survive.” She caught Jasper’s bridle as Hunter put the saddle blanket on his back. “He won’t be doing his job for a while, but when he’s called on to perform in a week or two, he’ll do his duty.”
“Poor baby.”
Kelly specialized in large animals, which is why she’d chosen to set her practice outside Houston. There was opportunity galore to practice in the city, where there were plenty of youngsters whose parents could afford the expense of a horse, but like Hunter, Kelly preferred breathing country air. It was one of many interests they shared. They had a lot in common, from a love of horses and country living to family history.
She watched him pull the cinch tight around the horse and then reach to adjust the stirrup. “Looks like you’ve got plans for the day.”
He glanced over at her, picking up something in her voice that made him proceed with caution. “At least, for most of the morning,” he told her. He and Kelly had drifted into a relationship of sorts lately. She’d stayed overnight at his condo once in a while when she was in the city, and they were often together on weekends when he made it out to the ranch. But today he craved a few hours by himself. “I thought I’d check the fence line,” he said, and bent back to his task, hoping she wouldn’t want to mount up and go with him.
They’d been friends since childhood, which was understandable seeing the close connections of their parents. It was when Kelly finished her training and returned to establish her practice near the ranch that he realized she wanted them to be more than friends. She was an up-front, direct kind of woman who went flat out for whatever she wanted. And she made it plain that she wanted Hunter. He admitted he hadn’t put up much resistance; even so, he’d felt a little uncomfortable the first time they’d wound up in bed. Not that the sex wasn’t good, it was. Kelly didn’t seem to feel any qualms and had settled happily into their affair. What he couldn’t quite figure out was why—to him—something didn’t feel exactly…right.
“Isn’t that Earl’s job?”
“Riding fence?” He’d almost forgotten what they were talking about. “I do it for the fun of it. He indulges me.” When she failed to smile, he reached for the reins and she let go. “I’ve been fighting traffic and breathing interstate exhaust night and day for two weeks, Kell. Once I’m out of the barn, it’s just me and Jasper and open air. You know the feeling.”
“I guess that means you don’t want company.”
He had Jasper out of the stall now. He put his foot into a stirrup and mounted up. The stallion danced and snorted, eager to be moving, but Hunter held him in check for another moment. “You’ve been working all night. Get some sleep. I’ll come over later. We’ll drive into Brenham and get something to eat.”
“Did you even think of calling me, Hunter?”
Since he wasn’t sure in his own mind why he hadn’t, he wasn’t in a mood to admit or discuss it now. “See you around seven tonight.”
Three
Erica’s Art was the name of her shop and Erica loved it. She loved stocking it with her designs and watching customers pick and choose from the collection of quilts and jackets and then leave pleased to own something she’d created. It surprised her that she was a good merchant. As an artist, she preferred solitude to produce her creations, and she was shy when she had to assume the role of salesperson. That was Jason’s thing and he was so good at it that she didn’t often have to actually deal with a customer. Everything else about the shop she loved, even the end-of-month accounting. It was satisfying to run the numbers and find they were solidly in the black.
Today, she had holed up in the office at the rear of the store preparing tax records for their accountant. Finally done, she closed the books just as a ping sounded, announcing a customer. She glanced up, caught a glimpse of a tall man entering the store before he moved from her line of vision to browse. Jason had returned from a lunch date a few minutes ago, which relieved her of having to drop what she was working on to go out and sell. She knew it was silly that she found it awkward standing by while perfect strangers fingered her quilts, or squinted critically at her jackets. She had no problem accepting that what she created and stocked in the shop wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but it was so…well, awkward pretending that it wasn’t somehow personal, when creating every design was, in fact, somehow very personal.
Turning to a shipment of fabric that had arrived an hour ago, Erica tore the wrapping from material intended for a series of jackets still in the design stage. She pulled yardage from the first bolt and ran a palm over the weave, pleased with both texture and color. She itched to get started, but she’d have to wait until Jason could help her take the shipment upstairs to her studio to begin cutting. She made all originals of her jacket designs herself before handing the pattern and fabric to the two women who sewed the numbered replicas. She never authorized more than six of a single design.
“Psst! Erica, come out here for a minute.” Jason stuck his head around the door, doing funny things with his eyebrows.
She frowned at him. “What?”
“You’ll see,” he hissed. “Just drop that and walk out here on the floor.”
“Not until you tell me why.” She’d been on the receiving end of his practical jokes before. Refusing the bait, she reached for a second bolt.
He gave an exasperated sound but had to withdraw when someone—the customer, she assumed—called, “Hey, I’m on my lunch hour here.”
“Sorry, I was just consulting with the designer,” Jason said, giving the man a boyish smile, one that was usually effective in softening up the most hardened sales-resistant browser. As she tore at the wrapping, she heard Jason launch full bore into his sales pitch. Apparently the customer’s choice was narrowed to one of the evening jackets. Dismissing them, she removed silk shantung in a stunning shade of crimson from the packing material. She held the length of silk up to the light, visualizing a beaded design. Jet beading, she decided with a forefinger pressed to her lips. With a long black skirt or skinny black pants, it would make a fabulous holiday outfit. She reached automatically for her sketch pad.
“Why don’t we ask Erica to help us out.” Jason was again at the door, but this time he’d dragged the customer with him.
It took her a moment to bring them into focus. She looked beyond Jason into dark eyes deeply set in an unshaven face of chiseled angles and shadowy planes, a bone-deep tan—which she knew did not originate in a tanning booth—and hair a rich, sun-streaked, tobacco-brown. He was tall with an athlete’s build and wore a battered leather jacket and black T-shirt. He looked tough and not quite housebroken. She noted all this with her artist’s eye before realizing with an unsettling start that he was studying her, as well. Setting her sketch pad aside, she said, “What’s the problem?”
“No problem.” Jason glanced at his customer as if dishing him up on a platter for Erica. “This is Hunter McCabe. He’s thinking of buying his mother a jacket for her birthday. Hunter, meet the artist herself, Erica Stewart.”
“My pleasure.” Hunter leaned around Jason and extended a hand.
“Hello.” With no other option, she put her hand in his and found it as hard as his jaw. She quickly withdrew hers. He definitely did not spend his days behind a desk.
“From Hunter’s description of his mother,” Jason said, beaming at the two of them, “she’s probably about your size, Erica. Am I right?” he asked Hunter.
“Yeah, but that’s pretty much where the resemblance ends.”
Erica flushed as his gaze held hers a heartbeat too long, before dropping to her chin, then drifting down past her midriff all the way to her feet. Her bare feet. She had a habit of kicking off her shoes while she worked. It irritated her that she hadn’t remembered to put them on after getting up from her desk and tackling the new shipments.
“Erica’s a size six,” Jason said helpfully. “I know it’s difficult to judge one person’s size by another, but if you think she’s about Erica’s height and weight, we should be safe in choosing a size six.”
Standing with his arms crossed, Hunter cocked his head, considering. “I’d know for sure if you’d put on one of your jackets.”
“Great idea.” This from Jason.
“Jason, I don’t think—” But he was off like a shot. “Excuse me,” she said to Hunter, then turned to find her shoes. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel stripped as bare as her feet. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself, gazing around the tiny room. Where the heck had she put her shoes?
“Looking for these?”
She turned to see him pluck her shoes from beneath the pile of wrapping paper on the floor. “Yes, thanks.” She took them and stood on one leg to put them on, thinking she must look like a flamingo. That done, she took a deep breath, straightened, tugged her sweater down over her jeans and met his eyes. He was openly amused.
“Do you always work in bare feet?”
“It’s a habit and a silly one,” she said. “I somehow shed my shoes once I get caught up in what I’m doing.” What was keeping Jason?
He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, as if settling in. “If that’s the secret to your creativity, then I’d forget trying to break it. I don’t know much about quilts or fashion, but I’m told an Erica Stewart label is the hottest thing going.”
“We’ve been very fortunate,” she said, and went back to her desk before looking at him again. “Tell me something about your mother, her hair, eyes. Just because we’re the same size doesn’t mean our style and color should be the same. Does she tend to wear subtle colors or bold ones?”
“Her eyes are blue and her hair is blond. She tints it to cover the gray, I think. Not that I’ve ever seen a gray hair.”
She put a hand to her own wild and curly mane. No matter what she did, her hair tended to take on a life of its own in Houston’s humidity. “And colors?” she prompted.
“Not too much bold stuff. Subtle, I guess.” His gaze went to her black T-shirt and jeans before wandering back to her face. “She hangs out with a lot of artists, but she doesn’t dress like one. She doesn’t look like one, either,” he added.
Jason returned just then. “The champagne silk, I think.” He displayed the jacket over one arm with a flourish. “Size six. How tall is she? Erica’s five-six. If your mother’s around the same height, this should be just perfect. Come out from behind that desk and try it on, Erica. He needs to see it on to get the full effect.”
“His mother’s a blond and she has blue eyes,” Erica said, staying put. “The champagne should be right for her. There’s no need—”
“Champagne is right for anyone, sugar. What Hunter needs to see is whether it fits. Come on.”
Before coming out from behind her desk, she shot Jason a dark look, promising retribution. Nevertheless, she allowed him to help her into the jacket, noting with a quick glance at Hunter that he was clearly enjoying the whole charade.
“You should be the model for your designs,” he said, looking her over. “You’d sell those things faster than you could make them.”
“We’re already selling them faster than we can make them.” Head cocked, Jason studied the picture Erica made wearing the jacket. “And you’re absolutely right, Hunter. Wearing that little number with those black jeans, she strikes just the right note of sexy sophistication, don’t you think?”
“Damn straight.”
With a huff of exasperation, Erica took the jacket off. The man was a potential buyer, so she bit back a tart remark and conjured up a professional smile. “If your mother is not pleased with the color or style, we’ll be happy to exchange it for something else.”
“Trust me, she’ll love it. And can I wait while you gift wrap it?”
“Certainly. Jason will take care of you.” Back behind her desk again, she picked up the sketch pad and folded her arms around it…for some reason. “Right, Jason?”
“Right, sugar. I live to gift wrap.” Jason held the jacket up and studied it with a critical eye. “I’m thinking something in that pearlized cream paper and possibly the pale gold ribbon, the gauzy stuff, Erica. What d’you think?”
“Fine.” She again made the mistake of looking into those dark, amused eyes.
“Cream and gold sounds perfect to me,” he said, grinning.
Beaming, Jason moved toward the door. “Your mom will absolutely love this, Hunter. And be sure to tell her to look at the next issue of Texas Today. Erica’s been named one of the mag’s Twenty Women to Watch.” Jason’s smile flashed at Erica. “She’s one terrific gal, our Erica.”
Grinding her teeth, Erica said, “You’ll want to start wrapping that, Jason. Mr. McCabe is on his lunch hour.”
“You betcha.” With a saucy wink, he left them.
Hunter moved from his position at the door into her office. “I saw the article in yesterday’s paper. Your stuff looked good, but I don’t think the real impact of your work was captured in a newspaper spread. Have you considered printing up a catalog? Those quilts would look great in full color, but the jackets would really pop out. It pays to advertise.”
“Are you in that line of work?”
“Advertising? No, I’m an architect.”
She couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. In jeans and a leather jacket over a dark T-shirt and scuffed boots, he didn’t look like an architect. He looked like a man who worked outdoors. “Really.”
“Cross my heart.” He said it with a slow smile. “I’m dressed for fieldwork today. I’ve got a couple of jobs going and I like to keep close tabs on any work in progress.” He glanced at his boots. “I just left a job where the crew struck a waterline and flooded the whole site.”
“So you’ll need to get back, I imagine.”
“The situation’s under control,” he said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “Tell me about the Texas Today thing. Something like that doesn’t just fall into a person’s lap. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. As I said, Jason and I have been—”
“Fortunate. Yeah, but it’s you who’s been named, not Jason. You’re the artist. You’re the designer.” He paused, looking at her. “At least, I assume the designs are yours exclusively, right?”
“They’re my designs, but Jason is a talented artist. And he’s absolutely tops in promoting our shop.” She put the sketch pad down on the desk. “Mr. McCabe, I don’t want to seem rude, but I still have a lot to do here.” She glanced at the drape of red silk spilling over her drafting board. “There never seems to be enough hours in a day to get everything done.”
“I hear you.” He stood up and looked at her ringless left hand. “Is there a Mr. Stewart?”
Not anymore. The thought came quickly and with its usual swift, piercing pain. But her reply was simply “No.”
The look she gave him was usually good at discouraging even the most determined man. Something in the tone of her voice or the look on her face usually put them off. It worked now with McCabe.
“Okay,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you.”
“Thank you. I hope your mother likes the jacket. As I said, if she’s not pleased or needs a different size or color, have her bring it in. We’ll do our best to find something she likes.”
“She’s never returned anything I’ve ever given her, but I guess there could be a first time.”
“Yes, well…be sure to pick up a card on your way out, so she’ll have our phone number.” She picked up the sketch pad again.
He glanced at it. “Something new?”
“Just some raw sketches. If I don’t make some effort to save them, they go out of my head and are lost. I try to keep—” She paused, caught herself up. She could hardly get her work done if she kept chatting with him. “I don’t want to be rude, Mr. McCabe, but I really have a lot to do.”
He smiled. “Hunter. Mr. McCabe is what my accountant calls me.”
“I’ll just check to see if Jason’s finished.” She moved from behind her desk even though she had to brush past Hunter to leave. Jason must be done but was probably dawdling over wrapping the gift in a very unsubtle attempt to prolong conversation between her and a man. He never tired of trying to stimulate her social life even though he knew she had no interest in developing a relationship. That part of her life was over.
“Okay, he was a hottie and don’t you try to tell me you didn’t notice.” Jason stood with one foot in the door of the office and an eye on the floor of the shop where a couple of customers were browsing. “Also, he did not wear a wedding ring.”
“Which means nothing. Nowadays, not wearing a ring is almost de rigueur for some men,” Erica said, tearing the wrapping from a bolt of electric-blue fabric.
“Yummy, I love it when you talk sexy.”
“Oh, would you look at this color! I love this blue. I think a lining in just the right shade of green, clear bottle-green…” Her eyes went unfocused as she visualized the effect in her mind.
“He’s just the kind of guy you should be dating,” Jason persisted, ignoring the possibility that McCabe was married. “He was driving a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV and his boots cost at least half that. If your libido didn’t perk up at just being in the room with Hunter McCabe, I’m gonna give up. It means you’re dead.”
“The best part of that sales pitch is you’re thinking of giving up.” She tossed the blue bolt aside and ripped open another one. “I think those customers are ready to check out.”
He glanced at the two women who were trying to make a decision about a quilt. “They’re not even close. I’m serious, Erica. I saw the way McCabe was looking at you, as if you were crème brûlée and he’d just been told he could have dessert.”
She placed a bolt on the growing stack behind her, then fixed him with a direct look. “Jason, how many times do I have to tell you that I am not interested in dating? And don’t start with that your-life-is-incomplete-without-sex line. I’m very satisfied designing clothes and quilts. You know yourself I don’t have enough time left over to grocery shop, so when would I have the time to have a relationship with a man?”
“If you gave yourself a chance to fall in love again, you’d make the time. It’s normal. It’s natural. All human beings need the physical and spiritual connections that come from a sexual relationship.”
“Speaking of that,” she said, tearing into another package, “what happened when you went to see your dad?”
“Same as always. Two minutes after I got there, he started. If we hadn’t been at a restaurant, it would have been a huge scene. As it was, Susan stopped him, midtirade. She handles him better than my mother ever did, which makes me wonder how it came about that he married someone who doesn’t ask how high when he says jump. My mother always rolled right over under his overbearing ways. Anyway, Susan threatened to dump her coffee in his lap if he didn’t calm down. You can imagine how lovely the rest of the meal was. If it hadn’t been for her playing mediator, I would have left in the middle of the meal. The man can be a real jerk.”
“Maybe you should cut him some slack until he comes to terms with your lifestyle, Jace.”
Leaning against the door frame, Jason got a stubborn look on his face. “That is such bullshit, Erica. He’s known forever that I’m gay. Just because I never said it, he’s trying to pretend it’s not a fact. The only reason this came up is he happened to run into Stephen and me at that restaurant and he was with a couple of VIPs he does business with, like he was so afraid they’d guess my little secret. Like it has anything to do with him, damn it. Next time, maybe I’ll bring Derek Kingsley,” he threatened darkly. “See how he reacts to that.”
“Speaking of jerks,” Erica put in dryly. “It’s Derek Kingsley, not your father, who comes instantly to mind.”
“Which is exactly the point. And until Dad accepts me for who I am, I’m going to devote myself to pissing him off.”
“Very mature of you,” she told him. “And that should make the next family gathering just lovely. Here, make yourself useful.” She shoved two of the fabric bolts into his arms. “Help me haul this stuff upstairs. I’ve got several ideas for using it and you’ve got merchandise to sell.”
Hunter hoped to avoid seeing Morton when he took his mother’s gift to her on the evening of her birthday. He planned to stay long enough to have a drink and watch her open the gift, then cut out before Morton showed up. The older he got, the less Hunter was able to handle Morton with his gigantic ego and his callous attitude toward Lillian. Tonight, for example, she would be wined and dined royally, which was Morton’s style, after which she would be relegated to the background of his life until some other event required him to turn his attention to her again. At which time he’d do something else lavish and over the top, all in keeping with his public image, of course, then go back to ignoring her. Hunter had long since stopped trying to figure out why she hadn’t walked out years ago. There was apparently something that kept their relationship together, but what it could be was a mystery to him.
Could be his disgust with Morton was plain, old-fashioned jealousy, he admitted, not of the man’s success in his career, but of the place he occupied in Lillian’s life. There had been a time when Hunter and his mother had been as close as any parent and child could be. In spite of the fact that Lillian had remarried after the death of his dad, Hunter had known he was first in her life. Even after Jocelyn’s birth, he and his mom still had a special bond. When exactly that had all changed he wasn’t quite certain, he thought now, frowning. He simply knew that he’d realized one day that their special bond was gone. She’d somehow turned into a ghost of herself and he had yet to figure out why. What wasn’t hard to see was that Morton was suddenly front and center, placing Hunter—and Jocelyn, too—as distant also-rans.
But today was his mother’s birthday and he should have outgrown old resentments. Besides, giving her the jacket as a birthday gift offered him a chance at maybe finding out a little more about Erica. If his mother had any passion besides fulfilling her role as the perfect wife to Morton, it was her participation in the arts community in Houston. If, as Hank said, she was familiar with Erica’s work, she would probably know something about the artist herself.
He couldn’t remember when he’d been as intrigued by a woman as he was with Erica Stewart, a woman he’d barely met and about whom he knew nothing. When he’d left the shop after buying the jacket, all he knew was that he wanted to see her again. In fact, for a couple of days he’d tried to think of an excuse to go back to the shop, but she’d been anything but encouraging in the few minutes he’d spent with her, and he found himself oddly unwilling to chance an outright rejection. He wasn’t sure why he was so intrigued. She was beautiful, of course, but there was something else. Those big gray eyes looked as if they held deep secrets, and her jumble of dark curly hair invited a man’s hand. But it was her mouth that he liked best—wide and bow-shaped—entirely at odds with the seriousness of her eyes and attitude. Downright sexy, it was. Hell, thinking about how she’d taste, he’d been on the point of asking her out before he remembered Kelly.
Probably a good thing the feeling wasn’t mutual.
His mother’s face lit with pleasure when she opened the door. “Hunter, darling, it’s so good to see you.”
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
She made a face. “Don’t remind me.” Lifting her cheek for his kiss, she caught his arm and pulled him over the threshold. “I’ve got your favorite, Maker’s Mark. And I wish you’d join Morton and me for dinner. He’s taking me to Annie’s. You know you’d enjoy it.”
“Too much to do after I leave here,” he told her. “I’ve got a couple of hairy jobs going and the weather hasn’t cooperated.” It had rained hard the day before and the sites were still soaked. The construction boss had been forced to send the crews home on both jobs. More rain was forecast and construction on both projects was not far enough along to do any inside work. “I’ll take a rain check, so to speak, okay?”
“I should hold you to that, but I won’t even try because I know you don’t mean it.”
“Did you hear from Jocelyn?” he asked as they left the foyer. “Where is she, incidentally? Last I heard, she was in Key West trying her hand at journalism, but to be honest, the newspaper sounded more like an underground publication than a bona fide newspaper. Let’s hope the guy who claims to be the editor doesn’t turn out to be a jerk.”
“She called to wish me a happy birthday this morning, but she wasn’t very forthcoming as to how the job was going. The last time we talked, she couldn’t say enough about her editor, but today she barely mentioned him or the job. I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, and I agree. The last thing she needs is to get involved in another rocky relationship. Of course, I can’t discuss it with Morton.”
If there was anything of consequence his mother could discuss with Morton, it would surprise him, Hunter thought. He made a mental note to check on Jocelyn. His half sister did not need another aborted relationship to add to the mistakes she’d already chalked up.
Lillian led him down a hall to the darkly sumptuous den. He deliberately avoided looking in the eyes of the massive ram that was mounted over the mantel. Morton was an avid big-game hunter and it pleased him to show the world what he shot and killed. The den was the only room in the house whose decor didn’t reflect Lillian’s gracious, tasteful influence, but it looked exactly the way Morton wanted.
Stopping at the bar, she poured Maker’s Mark in a short glass and handed it over. “Actually, Morton’s upstairs now and should be down soon to join us for a drink. He was able to leave the office early today.”
Hunter kept his reaction to that off his face and lifted the glass. “Here’s to a beautiful lady.”
“Thank you, Hunter.” She took a sip of wine from a glass she poured for herself, then brightened as he produced the gift-wrapped box. “Oh, what a lovely package. Hmm, this is probably going to be something wonderful. Dare I ask where you got it?”
“At a shop in the Village,” he said, and relaxed against the bar as she set her wine aside to open it. “And before you brag about my good taste, I’ll tell you it was Hank’s recommendation. The artist was featured in Sunday’s Zest and he seemed to think you’d appreciate something done by her.”
“Really?” Some of her pleasure seemed to fade and a tiny line formed between her eyes. But before he could question her, Morton appeared.
“Hunter. Glad to see you.” Smiling and jovial, he held out his hand and they shook. “Your mother’s looking fantastic for an old lady of fifty-seven, don’t you think?”
“She is,” Hunter said, lifting his drink. Lillian was studying the signature wrapping paper on the package. “Go ahead, open it, Mom. I have it from the designer herself that it’ll suit you.”
“Who’s the designer?” Morton asked on his way to the bar.
“Erica Stewart,” Hunter said as Lillian pulled at the gauzy bow decorating the box.
He was looking at the gift, so he almost missed a wordless exchange between Lillian and Morton as he said Erica’s name. He thought Morton muttered an obscenity, but when he glanced at the older man, he was busy pouring himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey. “Do you know her? Hank said you’d mentioned her work. He seemed to think you’d like anything she did.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Lillian murmured, removing the lid from the box. The jacket, a creation of champagne silk lavishly trimmed with Austrian crystal, was nestled in a froth of creamy tissue. Light from the chandelier overhead reflected off the crystal as Lillian stared at it, then quickly reached for the lid and covered it. Hunter thought she seemed a little pale as she set the box on the bar, and it was with some effort that she smiled. “Thank you,” she managed to say in a shaky voice. “It’s very nice.”
“You can exchange it for something you like better,” Hunter said, frowning. “They were insistent about that.”
“They?” Lillian reached for her wine and quickly took a sip.
“She has a partner. He was in the shop when I bought the jacket.” Still trying to make sense of her reaction, he added, “Do you recognize the artist?”
Lillian perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees tight together and her wine clutched in both hands. “Yes. She’s…I think…local.”
“Mom, is something wrong? You’re pale as a ghost and you look upset.”
“No, I’m fine. Just a little light-headed.” She blinked a couple of times. “I skipped lunch and shouldn’t have.” She set the wine on the coffee table in front of her. “I shouldn’t—”
“Maybe you should have a piece of cheese or something before you head out for dinner.” He glanced at Morton. “There’s something in the kitchen that she could have, isn’t there?”
“I’ll get it,” Morton said.
Lillian waved a hand and looked distressed. “Really, it’s nothing. I—”
“Humor me, Mom. While he’s gone you can tell me what you know about Erica Stewart. She was…well, I guess I didn’t know what to expect. She was kind of reserved but really helpful in choosing your gift. You’re about the same size, so she tried this one on to give me an idea whether I thought it would fit.” Her image came instantly to mind and he smiled. “She was in this black T-shirt and black jeans and she’s got this curly hair—real dark—that she kept blowing to keep off her face. And big gray eyes. I was there just as she was opening a shipment of the stuff she works with and she kept grabbing up her sketch pad and scribbling in it.” His chuckle was soft as he gazed into his drink. “She was polite—I guess she has to be—but she made it plain she wanted me to get the hell out of there so she could go back to work.”
“Sounds like you got a pretty good fix on her,” Morton said, returning with a plate of small cheese squares, which he handed to Lillian. “I don’t know how your mother could add much to that character sketch, except to say we heard she’s going to be recognized in the next issue of Texas Today.” He reclaimed his drink. “She’s named as one of their Twenty Women to Watch in Texas, if you can believe that.”
“After seeing her shop, I can believe it.”
Morton was shaking his head at the inexplicability of it. “Proud of it, is she?”
“But modest,” Hunter said. “She went out of her way to credit her business partner. Seems he has a flair for marketing and promotion.”
“Credit should probably go to more than her business partner,” Morton said, taking a piece of Lillian’s cheese for himself. “There’s a sugar daddy somewhere, mark my words. She’s auctioning something at the symphony fund-raiser your mother’s friends have drummed up. You need to know somebody to get in there.”
“Someone like Mom, I assume,” Hunter said, wanting to knock the smirk off Morton’s face. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a fierce desire to defend Erica. He didn’t like the idea that Erica might compromise herself for a shot at publicizing her art.
“Considering the success of her label, the auction committee was lucky she was willing to participate,” Lillian said quietly, nibbling on a bit of cheese. “And I’m not a member of that committee.” There was some color in her cheeks now, but she still seemed not quite right to Hunter. It was always like this when he had to be around the two of them, a tense undercurrent with Morton throwing his weight around and Lillian holding her breath for fear that her son and her husband would get into a row. But Hunter wasn’t in the mood tonight.
“Is Erica going to be there or is she just donating something for the auction?” he asked.
“Why, can we stick you with a couple of tickets?” Morton said, rubbing his hands together. “Your mother’s always looking for takers. And it’ll take some of the heat off me. I warn you, though, they’re overpriced.”
“Hunter isn’t interested in charity events for the symphony,” she said softly.
“Somehow, I can’t see Erica at an event like that,” Hunter said, smiling at the memory of her standing barefoot in her office amid a sea of wrapping paper. “Won’t everybody be wearing shoes?”
“What?” With cheese suspended in midair, Lillian looked at him, frowning.
“She has this goofy habit of kicking her shoes off.” Hunter headed to the bar to refill his drink. Morton intercepted him and did the honors while Hunter took the lid off the box to get another look at the jacket. “Are you sure this is okay, Mom? There are quilts as well as these jackets. And there’re other things from some pretty spiffy designers in the shop. I don’t know anything about this stuff, but Jason was pretty proud of what they carry. Me, personally, I liked Erica’s stuff best.”
“Jason Rowland,” Lillian murmured.
Hunter gave her a quick glance. “You know him?”
“He’s Bob Rowland’s boy,” Morton told him.
“Who’s Bob Rowland?” Hunter asked.
“One of Morton’s business acquaintances.” With a look at Morton, Lillian got to her feet, setting the cheese aside. Then, to Hunter, “I could never be disappointed in any gift from you, dear. Thank you. It’s simply beautiful and I’ll treasure it.”
“If you’re sure…” He still felt something was wrong here, but he didn’t have a clue what it was.
Morton set his glass down with a thump. “Well, our reservations at Annie’s will be lost if we don’t leave soon. Hunter, you sure you won’t join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork on my desk that I can’t ignore.”
Lillian touched his arm. “When will I see you again, Hunter?”
“Not sure. I’ll call you.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Lillian returned to the den to find Morton studying the jacket, still in the box, its decorative trim twinkling like so many diamonds. “What are the chances he’d choose her shop from all the places in this town to buy a gift, babe? Damn thing looks expensive, too. She’s making a killing selling that flashy stuff.”
“I can never wear it.”
“No?”
“No.” Lillian stood with her arms tight around herself. “And it’s not flashy, Morton. It’s quite beautiful, really. I just—I mean, it’s not…possible for me to wear something Erica’s designed. I’d be afraid lightning might strike me dead.”
“Oh, get a grip. You don’t even know the woman. And go get whatever jacket you intend to wear tonight. I meant it when I said they wouldn’t hold our reservations. We’ve got twenty minutes before they go to someone else.”
With a sigh, she turned to do as she was told.
Four
Erica scribbled her signature at the bottom of the umpteenth document put in front of her and tossed the pen on the table. “Well, I hope that does it, Michael. My fingers are cramped from all that signing.”
“It’s the last for a while.” Her financial adviser collected the documents from her desk, tidied them up and slipped them into his briefcase. “We’ll watch both the stock and bond markets and if we decide you need to move some of your assets, I’ll give you a call.”
“Tell you what,” she said, standing up. Her shoulders were tight and she put a hand up to massage her neck. “I appreciate your advice, Michael, but I’ve been keeping pretty close tabs on my investments. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to make other changes.”
“Erica, Erica, Erica…” He was shaking his head. “I know you feel quite confident in some of the choices you’ve made on your own recently, but—”
“I’m happy with all the choices I’ve made recently, Michael,” she said dryly. It irritated her that he thought he needed to guide her like a blind person through the mysteries of money management.
He gave a pained smile. “Well, of course, but these are precarious times in the financial world and there are pitfalls that you may not be aware of. If you’ll allow me—”
“I’ll call you, Michael.” She’d relied on Michael Carlton’s expertise to manage her money at a time when she had little or no interest in whether it grew or not, but that had been a few years ago. She was now quite capable of managing on her own with occasional professional advice…when she asked for it.
As Michael snapped the locks on his briefcase, she came around from behind her desk to escort him out of the shop. She would have to let him out, as it was a few minutes after closing time and Jason had left for the day. But instead of following her out of her office, Michael put out a hand and stopped her.
“Since business is done for the day, how about having dinner with me?” he said. Michael was a man of medium height, dapper and exquisitely coordinated in his Brooks Brothers suit and tasseled loafers. But even features and a flair for clothes didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was about as interesting as a financial prospectus. Dinner with him would probably include a lengthy analysis of the day’s market activity.
“Thank you, Michael, but I’m working on some new designs and they’ve kept me up several nights in a row. I think I’ll have an early night.”
“You have to eat something, don’t you?” To her surprise, he reached out and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. She withdrew slightly, resisting the urge to actually slap at his hand. Was the man making a pass?
“I’ll get takeout,” she told him, her hand on the doorknob.
“Then a drink. You have time for that, don’t you?” His tone lowered and his blue eyes roved lazily over her face. He moved in a little closer and she took a matching step back against the open door. “You’ll be nice and relaxed, then you can have that takeout and snuggle in for the night. Better yet—” he gave what he probably assumed was a sexy smile “—I’ll snuggle with you.”
She thought she heard the faint tingle of the shop door and with a sigh of relief realized that Jason must have forgotten something. The tension she felt eased and she said laughingly, “Michael, you can’t be serious. What are you doing?”
Now he had both hands on her waist. “I’m making a move, Erica, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. But I knew you weren’t ready.” He pulled her a little closer and touched his lips to her temple. “You’re beautiful, but it’s like you don’t realize how beautiful. You drive me crazy.”
“Oh, please, Michael. If that’s a line, it’s a ridiculous one.”
“See, you think you have to deny it.” He sniffed her hair and it was all she could do not to laugh. Wait’ll she told Jason. He’d get such a hoot out of this. She was startled when he suddenly pulled her close enough that she felt just how aroused he was. “I love your hair. I’d like to just lose myself in it,” he said.
“Michael, stop. I mean it. You don’t want to cause a scene, do you?” Until now, she’d had both hands on his chest and felt reasonably certain she could shove him away. But suddenly he had both his arms locked around her and she couldn’t break his hold. And now he was trying to kiss her! Repulsed, she averted her face.
“Stop it, Michael!”
“Just one kiss, Erica,” he muttered, rooting around in the vicinity of her ear. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. Jesus, I want you.”
“Well, get over it,” she told him, still straining away from him. A kiss from Michael Carlton wasn’t going to be pleasant, but with his arms like a vise around her, she was afraid she was going to get one if Jason didn’t appear soon. The man was much stronger than he looked. She’d have to get rough, she supposed. Wiggling against him was doing more harm than good. And then, somehow, he forced her up against the door and was fumbling under her skirt. In no time, he’d found her panties and next thing he’d have his hand where no man had touched her in nine years!
“Michael, stop it! I mean it.” Outraged, she tried to push away from him, but he was fully aroused and now working at his zipper. My God, she thought, did he think they were going to have sex right here in her office…standing up, with her resisting in every way she could think of? There was a name for that. With a mighty heave, she shoved him back and aimed a kick between his thighs. It missed, but landed on his kneecap, knocking him off balance and giving her time to scramble out the door. She slammed it shut and twisted the lock.
For a moment, she stood outside breathing hard, thanking fate that Jason had had the forethought to install a lock on the office door to keep nosy customers out when neither of them occupied it. Just then, Michael rattled the doorknob. When nothing happened, he gave a quick, hard rap on the door. “Erica, let me out.”
“After you’ve cooled off.”
She heard a low chuckle behind her and turned, ready to light into Jason for waiting until things got out of hand before showing himself. But it wasn’t Jason standing a few feet away with his arms folded over his chest and looking mightily amused. It was Hunter McCabe.
“Are we having fun yet?”
She shoved her hair back from her face with both hands and realized that she was trembling. “I thought you were Jason.”
“Not even close.” Grinning, he moved his gaze to the door where Michael was now kicking and banging and cursing.
“Damn it, let me out of here, Erica!”
Hunter winced. “If this is the way you treat interested suitors,” he said, “it’s no wonder you’re still single.”
“I have no interested suitors and that’s the way I like it,” she said. Ignoring the racket Michael was making, she told herself she hadn’t felt so much threatened as outraged. And it was adrenaline making her a little shaky, not fear. “And how did you get in here?”
“I came in the front door.”
“That’s impossible. Jason locked up.”
“This is crazy, Erica. Open the door this instant!”
Controlling his smile, Hunter glanced at the door. “I think he means business.”
“And I think he can stay in there until hell freezes over, which is what he deserves.”
Now grinning, Hunter asked, “Will you let him out before morning?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she was just now realizing that opening the door to let him out might be a bit risky. He’d revealed a surprising streak of aggression. But he could hardly do anything with Hunter here. With a look of disgust, she flipped the lock and took a hasty step backward as the door was flung wide. It brought her up against Hunter’s solid, male frame.
Breathing hard and flushed with fury, Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Hunter firmly cleared his throat, and whatever it was died unspoken. Settling for a dignified retreat, Michael said stiffly, “That was totally unnecessary, Erica. You completely misunderstood my intentions, but we can discuss it another time.”
“I don’t think so, Michael.”
Hunter stepped around them to pick up Michael’s briefcase. “Are you going to introduce us?” he said, handing it over.
“My former financial adviser, Michael Carlton,” she said, then added in a frosty tone, “On your way out, leave the papers I just signed on the counter, Michael. The only thing we have to discuss is whatever arrangements are necessary to dissolve our association, which we’ll do first thing Monday morning by phone. Don’t—” she put up a hand as he tried again to speak “—don’t insult me further with a lame explanation for what you did. Just consider your apology offered and be thankful I don’t mention this to your father. Goodbye.”
“His father?” Hunter repeated as they watched Michael skulk out.
“Stanley Carlton. He’s a senior partner in the firm and the person I originally consulted.”
“How’d Michael get in the picture?”
“After a while, Stanley began to suggest that Michael fill in for him. Since I knew Stanley was still overseeing everything, I didn’t particularly object.” She breathed out a long breath and resisted an urge to wrap her arms around herself. “It just never occurred to me that he had anything like this on his mind,” she muttered, looking around in a distracted way for her keys. She was more than ready to go home. “All he ever seemed interested in was how to increase dividends and shelter money.”
“I don’t know why you’d assume that,” Hunter said, taking her jacket from a coatrack. “He was handed a golden opportunity, he’s male, he’s apparently not gay. I, for one, am not surprised.”
She swept up her keys and snapped off the light. “If you’re suggesting that he has an eye on my portfolio, you don’t have to draw me a picture. I get it. Now.” She paused, looking over the interior of the shop to be sure no other customer had wandered in after closing hours. Seeing no one, she allowed Hunter to help her into her jacket. “It just irritates me that I was caught off guard. I didn’t have a clue what he was thinking.”
“I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him,” Hunter said.
“You’re kidding.”
He shrugged. “Seeing you on a regular basis and being forced to keep your relationship strictly businesslike must have been torture for the poor bastard. And I wasn’t suggesting he had designs on your portfolio. I was suggesting he had designs on you, ‘the sexiest woman in the world.’” He made quotation marks with his fingers.
Okay, he was amused again, at her expense. But now Erica was beginning to see the humor in it, too. She made a disgusted sound and laughed. “You heard that?”
“It’s a good line.”
“Well, I never gave him any sign that I’d welcome that…or any line.” She sighed and looked at him. “And I should apologize that you were dragged into something so distasteful.” She paused, wondering now at his reason for stopping in. She glanced at the counter, expecting to see the gift box with the jacket he’d bought for his mother. Except for the papers that Michael had left, the counter was clear. “I assume you’re here to exchange your mother’s gift?”
“Why would I do that? She loved it.”
“Oh. Well—”
“I was driving by and realized it was closing time. I thought you might let me buy you a drink. My mother went speechless when she opened that box. Do you get that reaction often?”
Erica stuffed the financial papers in her purse. “We haven’t had a problem selling that particular style. I’m glad she liked it.” She was also glad that Jason had adjusted the lights into overnight mode so that the place was dimly lit. The way Hunter was studying her face, he’d be able to tell she was a little flustered. It was beginning to dawn on her that if she hadn’t managed to slam the door and lock Michael in her office, he might very well have finished what he started.
She blinked when, with a finger beneath her chin, Hunter tilted her face up. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No.” She shifted away from him, looked down at her keys. “It was just that he surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anything like that and he’s always seemed so…well, harmless.”
“No man’s harmless in a situation like that. He’s probably been fantasizing about you for a while and thought he’d take his chances. I’m glad I happened to show up when I did, but to tell the truth, you didn’t look as if you needed much help.”
“Well, he made me mad. I told him to stop and he didn’t.” The adrenaline rush was fading a little now, and standing alone in her shop with a man like Hunter gave her an entirely different feeling. “Maybe the next time a woman tells him no, he’ll believe it,” she said with a militant look in her eye.
“I think he got the message,” Hunter said dryly. “If not, his bruised knuckles will remind him.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “He was banging pretty hard on the door, wasn’t he? I hope he has trouble typing on his stupid computer.”
Grinning, he propped an elbow on the counter. “Seeing how ticked off he was, I’m wondering how you were going to let him out of there. Did you realize you had a tiger by the tail?”
“Not until I slammed the door. I owe you for arriving when you did.”
“Then how ’bout that drink? I’m thinking a margarita, top shelf. Cuervo Gold.”
She felt a new rush of nerves. “Oh, I don’t—”
He straightened up with a pained look. “Please don’t say it. You don’t drink.”
“I do, but—”
“Good. There’s a quiet little bar about three blocks away. You can follow me in your car or I’ll drop you back here when we’re done.”
A few minutes ago, when she’d turned and found Hunter and not Jason at her back, she’d been surprised by her reaction. In his battered leather jacket, his worn jeans and boots, he’d looked a lot more dark and dangerous than Michael, who’d just assaulted her. But it wasn’t fear that had streaked through her. Just the opposite. Something more elemental and exciting. She wasn’t used to reacting to a man in that way, and had almost forgotten what it was like.
“I’ll follow in my car,” she said. And without giving herself time for second thoughts, she walked with him to the door.
Five
Hunter picked a booth toward the back of the bar for its privacy. This was his first opportunity to spend one-on-one time with Erica and he intended to make the most of it. Since buying the jacket, he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind. He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but sitting across from her now, he knew he didn’t want to be anywhere else at the moment.
When their margaritas were set in front of them, he lifted his, waited for her and then touched his glass to hers. He’d like to say something she’d find sexy and charming, but he had a feeling she was a woman who wouldn’t appreciate anything that sounded like a practiced line, and besides, she struck him as needing a slow hand. He had a feeling, too, that it would be worth the wait. “To a new financial adviser,” he said.
“Absolutely.” She took a dainty taste. A bit of salt clung to her lip and she licked it off. As he watched her, it was all he could do not to reach out and maybe run his thumb over the enticing curve of her lower lip, then bring it up to his lips for a taste of her.
“Hmm, that’s good,” she said. “Tart-sweet and smooth as silk.”
“It hits the spot,” he agreed.
“The margaritas are so good here. In fact, Jason and I often stop after we close the shop. I can only have one, though. Two and there’s no way I would be able to do any work when I get home.”
“What kind of work is waiting for you at home?”
“New designs. For the jackets, there’s always next season to be working on. The quilts are not seasonal, but I can duplicate a design only a few times, so I have to keep coming up with new ones. I’ve been amazed at how well they sell, but it means I feel pushed to keep ahead of the demand.”
“Couldn’t someone else work at the shop? Besides Jason, I mean. That would leave you free to create new designs during the day.”
“Not really. My studio is upstairs, which is where a lot of the actual physical labor is done and, to tell the truth, it doesn’t seem like work. But I don’t like selling so much. That’s Jason’s thing.” She shrugged and smiled. “I’m cranking out the product and he sells it. For us, it’s been a winning combination.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, hitching his chair forward. He’d like to take her hand, but he sensed she’d shy away from anything approaching intimacy. “You spend your days at your studio above the shop, then you work on creating new designs in the evenings at home. When do you have time to socialize?”
“I guess I don’t have much of a social life.” She was sitting with elbows on the table, holding the margarita loosely in both hands, but as he leaned closer, she eased back, pushing at her dark hair and tucking a strand behind one ear. “It’s not the way many people would choose to live, but it suits me.”
“My mother mentioned one of your creations will be auctioned at the gala next weekend. That should generate even more demand.”
“It’s incredible. I don’t know how that happened, I really don’t. I had a call from the auction chairperson just out of the blue. I was thrilled as it certainly is a golden opportunity.”
“No inside connections, huh?”
“At the symphony?” She smiled. “No. I haven’t even been to the symphony in years, not since—” She stopped and, with a stricken look, quickly reached for the napkin and touched it to her lips. When she raised her eyes to his a moment later, they were calm and clear. “Are you a fan?”
“Not really. My mother used to nag me about going, but I liked baseball better.” He decided not to try digging out the reason for whatever that look meant, at least not right now. “You’ll be there when they auction your jacket, I assume?” When she nodded, he added, “Do you have a date?”
“A date?”
“An escort. You’re not going alone to the gala, are you?”
“Oh, no. Jason and I are going together. He’s almost as excited as I am.”
“You and Jason are very tight.”
“We are.” She twirled the stem of her drink and smiled. “He’s not only my business partner, but he’s also my best friend. In fact, the shop was his brainchild. I’d still be designing in the spare bedroom of my house and squirreling everything away in a closet if he hadn’t practically shoved me out of that house and back into the real world.”
“What was going on that you’d retreated from the real world?”
She stopped and actually pressed her fingers to her lips. “I’m talking too much. I don’t—it’s the margarita.” She fiddled with her napkin, hesitating so long that he thought she wouldn’t say any more. He guessed she’d probably gone through a rough divorce and he wondered at the stupidity of a man to let a woman like her get away.
“It was a dark time for me,” she explained finally. “I’d thrown myself into designing to keep from…simply dying.” She gave a soft laugh. “That sounds pretty melodramatic, but that was how I felt at the time.”
“Was it a nasty divorce?”
Her face went quiet and sad. “No.” After a second, she looked up at him. “Could we change the subject?”
“I have an idea.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Okay, so long as we change the subject.”
“It’s changed.” He held up both hands. “You come to the gala with me and let Jason find himself a real date.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with my original plan.” She gave him a smile as if to take the sting out of her refusal.
“Why am I not surprised?” he said dryly. Leaning back, he laid an arm over the back of the seat. “But just so I have the full picture here, you’re not involved with anyone right now, are you?”
She took a tiny sip of her drink. “Under the circumstances, anyone who was seriously interested wouldn’t be very long, would they?”
“Depends on the circumstances.”
Her smile faded as she studied the remains of the margarita in her glass. “My days are crammed with the demands of my work and the shop, Hunter. That’s my life now and I like it as it is. It only makes sense that good relationships blossom when a couple has the luxury of time to spend together, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess that does make sense.” Kelly and her expectations flashed in his mind. He wasn’t spending enough time with her for a relationship to blossom—to use Erica’s word—and he wondered at his lack of motivation to make that happen. He wondered at the strength of his desire to get to know Erica and knew his curiosity about Kelly had never been as keen. The thought made him uncomfortable. Just being here doing what he was doing made him uncomfortable, but he was doing it, anyway.
“Mom mentioned you’re going to be named one of Texas Today’s Twenty Women to Watch,” he said. “Congratulations. I know a few professional women who would kill for that.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d commit murder for it, but I was pretty happy.” Taking a sip of her drink, she again licked a tiny salt speck from her lips. She looked away, her gray eyes thoughtful. “Speechless would be a better word,” she told him dryly. “I don’t know how it happened and I’m not sure I deserve it.”
Was she serious? He studied her face. Or was she simply being modest? That wouldn’t surprise him, but there seemed something more than simple modesty behind her words. “What does that mean? Of course you deserve it. They don’t come up with that list by pulling names out of a hat. You’ve earned it with your art and the commercial success you’ve made marketing it.”
“With Jason’s help, don’t forget,” she said with a tiny smile. Then, as she traced the rim of her glass, her smile slipped away. “He says I’m imagining things, but from time to time, I’ve felt that more than a couple of the lucky breaks I’ve had are—” She gave him a quick look. “Don’t laugh, but it’s almost as if I have an unseen patron, someone who, every now and then, gives me a little boost.”
“What counts as ‘a little boost’?”
“Well, the auction opportunity at the gala, for example. And the spread in the Sunday paper is another. You don’t get those perks out of the blue.”
“Word of mouth is a powerful thing. Your art is upscale, which means it appeals to an upscale crowd, people with taste like my mother. Hank said he heard her mention how much she admired you, which is how I decided on the Erica Stewart jacket for her birthday. A word here, a word there, and your label is hot. Enjoy it while you can. Make the most of it.”
“I—we intend to.” She leaned back with her fingers linked loosely on the stem of the almost-done margarita. “Who’s Hank?”
“You’re not the only one with a partner and Hank’s mine. Hank Colson. We’re co-owners of a ranch near Brenham. Do you ride?”
“Sure, cars, planes and bikes,” she said, reaching for a pretzel.
He chuckled. “Horses. Do you ride horses?”
“Not in a long, long time.” The troubled look in her gray eyes was gone. Now he saw only amusement as she played with the pretzel.
“But you know how?”
“I do. In fact, when I was a teenager, riding was a passion. I actually had a horse.”
“Was that here in Texas?”
“Right here in Houston,” she replied, raking crumbs off the table onto her napkin.
“So you have family here?”
“Not anymore. When I was sixteen, my parents got a divorce and both remarried, Dad first, two years later. Keeping a horse takes time and effort. It turned out to be more bother than either of them could manage at the time.” She glanced at her watch, quickly finished off her drink and stood up.
“And that’s the last time you were on a horse?” He was on his feet now, too.
“That’s it,” she said with a wry shrug. “I missed it, missed Misha—that was her name. But I got over it…after a while.”
“So, are your parents still here in Houston?”
“No. My father and his new bride moved to Austin, and as soon as I graduated from high school, my mother remarried and moved to Dallas. They both started new families.”
“And where did that leave you?”
“Left behind?” She said it with a short laugh, but as she was turned from him, reaching for her jacket, he couldn’t see her face. “Hey, it was no big deal. I got over it. Besides, blended families are the norm, not the exception. I survived.”
“I bet it was about the time you had to give up your horse that you discovered art.”
She gave him a startled look. “I didn’t discover art when I was sixteen. Riding was a passion, but art was an obsession. And since I was dealing with a lot of pain then, it became more important,” she confessed, then added ruefully, “To tell the truth, I probably would have glommed on to just about anything to escape reality. Little did I know—” She stopped, almost biting her tongue. “It’s the margarita. And no lunch. That must be why I’m telling you all this,” she said, with a look of chagrin. “I haven’t thought about Misha in a long, long time, or what I felt when my parents divorced.”
Judging by the look on her face, he guessed she’d revealed more about herself than she intended. It made her all the more appealing to him. He reached into his jeans pocket for his wallet, took out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table. “You say you were sixteen when you had Misha?”
“Yes.”
“I’m guessing she was a mare, smallish?”
“Yes.”
He reached over and took the jacket from her. “I’ve got just the mount for you at the ranch, lady. In fact, that’s her name—Lady. Not very original, but she’s a sweet-tempered little mare and she’ll take you for a ride that’ll be so smooth you’ll think you’re at home in a rocking chair.”
“And when would I find time for that?”
“Sunday. Nobody works on Sunday.” Taking his time, he settled the jacket on her shoulders, then did what he’d wanted to do from the moment he’d first met her. He lifted her hair from the collar of her jacket and let it curl around his fingers, just for the feel of it. And just for a heartbeat, he let himself breathe in the scent of it.
Then she was moving away, adjusting the jacket, brushing at the front of her denim skirt, settling the strap of her purse on her shoulder. At the door, when he moved to open it, she glanced up into his eyes. “We never got around to talking about your work,” she said. “Does it gobble up as much of your time as mine does?”
“It would if I let it,” he told her. “But I make time to go to the ranch. Nothing like being on one of my horses, my hat on my head, the wind in my face. God, it’s heaven.”
“Spoken like a true Texan.”
“Born and bred.”
They were on the sidewalk now. She turned and gave him her hand. “Thanks for a very pleasant hour. I don’t usually talk so much.”
“You didn’t give me an answer about Sunday. Will you go out to the ranch with me?”
“I—”
“Don’t say no. You’ve already turned me down for the gala, but you can make it up to me by letting me pick you up Sunday morning, bright and early.”
“After being up till all hours after the gala? I don’t think so.” She paused, seeing his expression. “I haven’t been on a horse in at least a dozen years, Hunter. I don’t even know if I still know how to ride.”
“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. And we’ll make it next Sunday.” He tipped her chin up. “C’mon, you’ll love it, I promise.”
She gave a soft laugh, rolled her eyes and, for once, didn’t pull away. “Okay. I guess.”
His reaction then was instinctive. Looking down at her, at the curve of her pretty mouth and fantasizing how it would taste ever since she’d taken the first sip of that margarita, he just went with instinct. He bent and kissed her. He meant it to be quick and casual, a slightly less-than-serious salute to the hour they’d spent together. But that was before he found her lips so warm and soft…and tasting of margarita…and something a thousand times more potent. With both hands plunged into her hair and holding her just where he wanted her, he forgot to be brief. Or casual. And the fact that she fell right into the kiss with him made it worth the risk of rushing her. It also made it almost impossible to stop.
But they were on the sidewalk. All around them, bar patrons came and went. He broke the kiss…reluctantly. Set her down on her heels—she looked dazed, her eyes wide. He found he still held her chin and he rubbed his thumb over that tantalizingly curved lower lip before letting her go. But he took his time about it.
“I’ll call you,” he said, then watched her as she ran to her car.
He called his mother on his cell phone from the car. While it rang, he rubbed a hand over his mouth, where he could still taste Erica’s lip gloss. He shifted in his seat to accommodate a helluva hard-on and gave a short, incredulous laugh. What the heck had just happened? It was a simple kiss, done on impulse. A spur-of-the-moment thing that had turned into more than he’d intended. If they’d been in a private place instead of on a public sidewalk, he didn’t know what it would have led to. He only knew that he hadn’t felt such a deep and elemental desire for a woman, especially one he hardly knew, since he’d first discovered girls in the eighth grade and fastened his adolescent craving for sex on Cindy Walker.
“Hello?”
“Mom.” He shifted the phone to his other ear and signaled to enter the on-ramp to the interstate. “It’s me, Hunter.”
“I know. Caller ID is a wonderful thing.” There was a smile in her voice.
“Mom, do you still have tickets to that symphony gala you mentioned when I brought your gift over?”
“Why? You aren’t thinking of going, are you?” She was clearly surprised.
“I might.” Glancing over his left shoulder, he crossed two lanes of the crowded interstate. “Can you get me a ticket?”
“Just one? If you’re going, you’ll want to bring someone, won’t you?”
“Oh. Well, I guess. Sure. Two, then.”
“I take it you haven’t checked with Kelly to see if she’s free?”
“No, but it’s not her kind of thing. No horses.” He kicked the SUV into passing gear to get around an eighteen-wheeler. “About the tickets. Do I need to pick ’em up before that night, or what?”
“I’ll leave them with someone at the door. I’ll let you know who when I get a name.”
“Leave it on my voice mail, will you, Mom? It’s this Saturday night, right?”
“Yes. And you have really left it late to ask Kelly.” There was a note of concern in her voice. “I hope she’s free. Oh, I’m just thrilled that you’ve decided to go. Some of my friends haven’t seen you in ages, Hunter.”
“Uh-huh. Are you wearing your Erica Stewart jacket? It’s the kind of thing you’d wear to an event like this, isn’t it? It adds a little pizzazz to wear something from an artist whose stuff just happens to be up for auction, don’t you think?”
She took so long to reply that he thought he lost the connection. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” she murmured. “And I haven’t really thought too much about what I’ll wear, to tell the truth.”
“Well, that’s a first.” He merged smoothly into the exit lane. “I’ve spent a few years watching you get all decked out for occasions like this, and I remember you fretting for days over what to wear. Wear that jacket and you’ll turn a few heads.”
“I’m beyond turning heads by a few years, Hunter,” she said dryly.
“No way, you’re gorgeous and you’ll still be gorgeous when you’re ninety.”
“Thank you, son.”
He thought he heard a catch in her voice. “Gotta go, Mom. I’ll send a check for the tickets. And hey, thanks.”
Lillian clicked the phone off and stood with it in her hand, thinking. It was a toss-up to decide which was more unusual—Hunter’s sudden and unusual interest in going to the symphony gala, or his interest in what she might be wearing, which was also sudden and unusual. He’d never before expressed the slightest interest in what she wore. Like countless moms before her, she’d long ago become used to being almost invisible to her son as far as her physical appearance went.
It was that damn jacket.
“Who was that on the phone?”
She blinked and turned to face Morton, who stood in the arched entrance to the den with a half-finished drink in his hand. “It was Hunter.” Realizing she still held the phone, she replaced it. “He wants tickets to the symphony gala. Two tickets.”
“What’s the problem? You’ve been trying to drag him to one or another of your artsy affairs for years, so now he’s going. Why do you look as though it’s bad news?”
“He wants me to wear the jacket.”
“What jacket?” He watched her walk past him to the bar and pull a wineglass from a line of stems suspended from a rack beneath the counter.
“The Erica Stewart jacket he gave me for my birthday.” After dropping ice into the glass, she poured only a scant shot of gin before adding a wedge of fresh lime. She was trying to limit her drinking. It’s numbing effect had become too inviting lately.
“Is that what’s making you look so glum?” Morton finished his drink and moved behind the bar to pour himself another. “You said you loved it when Hunter gave it to you. So, wear it. Make him happy. God knows, you’ve never hesitated to put Hunter’s happiness above your own before.”
His jealousy of Hunter was a familiar bone of contention between them, but Lillian wasn’t in a mood to take him on just now. “He wanted two tickets, but I don’t think the other one is for Kelly. When I mentioned he’d waited until it was pretty late to ask her, I had a feeling he hadn’t even thought of asking her.”
“Meaning he’s got some other woman in mind,” Morton said, recapping the whiskey bottle. “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s been your and Hank Colson’s fantasy that those two would get together someday, but if that was what Hunter wanted, he’d have done it by now. No red-blooded thirtysomething puts off marrying if he’s found the woman he wants.” Using a swizzle, he noisily stirred the fresh drink. “Kelly’s a nice gal, smart and fairly attractive, but I don’t see him putting a ring on her finger.”
“It’s her. That’s why he’s suddenly interested in going.”
“Kelly? You just said—”
“No. Erica.” She walked to the window and stood looking out.
“Erica?” He stared at her, the swizzle going still in his hand. “You lost me. We’re talking about Kelly, aren’t we?”
“Erica Stewart. The artist. Didn’t you hear it in his voice when he brought me the gift? He couldn’t stop talking about her. He was…dazzled.”
“Dazzled.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, following the lights of a neighbor’s car across the street. “I’m imagining things. I’m seeing a disaster where there’s nothing. I’m jumping to a ridiculous conclusion. But I just have this dreadful feeling, Morton. What if he—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lillian, get hold of yourself. He’s got tickets to bring a date, and if it was her, he’d have mentioned it since we could hardly shut him up when he was over here talking about her last week. You’re right about that, at least. Besides, he’d only met the woman that day and she’s been on the agenda for the symphony thing forever, which means she’s had her plans made forever.” He crossed the room and picked up the remote for the television set. “It’s time for the news. Sit down and relax. Forget about Erica Stewart. The woman’s ancient history as far as we’re concerned.” And with that, he clicked the remote, tuned in the local station and settled back to view current events in Houston and the crime of the day.
Six
Erica cocked her head and studied the look of a jacket she was designing for a client. “No…no…no…” she mumbled, reaching for an eraser. She carefully removed the neckline she’d sketched in a minute ago. Third try and it was still wrong, totally wrong, she thought with disgust. She sat for a minute, then took up her pencil again and drew a few more lines to see if a mandarin collar would work. She knew before she’d made half-a-dozen lines that it was wrong, too. With a muttered curse, she flung the pencil in a nearby tray, ripped the sheet from her sketch pad and crumpled it in both hands. It hit Jason in the chest, dead center, when he appeared at the door.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded, wading through a sea of balled-up paper on the floor. “You’ve been in here scribbling and muttering to yourself all morning. Take a break. Make yourself a cup of tea. Chill out.”
“Tea won’t help,” she growled, and shoved back off her stool. Looking around, she found the photographs of the client whose jacket she was designing. “Look at her,” she said, thrusting the prints at him. “I’ve tried boxy, I’ve tried slightly nipped at the waist, I’ve tried classic blazer, but nothing seems right. She’s expecting something nice, something flattering, and everything I’ve dreamed up looks like something she could have found on Harwin Street.”
“Natalie Rodrigue,” Jason said, studying a photo. “It’s not the jacket, sugar, it’s the client. Coco Chanel couldn’t design a jacket to make the woman look good.” He sat on her stool and crossed his legs. “It doesn’t matter what you come up with, she’s gonna be so proud to wear an original Erica Stewart that she’ll think it’s gorgeous. She’ll think she’s gorgeous.”
Erica studied another photo. “Maybe no collar at all…” Then, with a curse, she flung it away. “I hate the fabric she chose, anyway. I wanted her to pick the flat black silk, but she wants brocade. It’ll make her look as big as…as—”
“As she is?”
She gave a short laugh. “I guess that’s the problem.” She bent down and began gathering up wads of paper. “One of these days, I’m going to be brutally honest with a client and just say flat out, ‘Spend your money on a piece of jewelry instead of a jacket that will do nothing to flatter you. At least you can pass diamonds on to your grandchildren.’”
“Okay, sugar, spit it out. What is wrong with you? And don’t bother telling me it’s nothing. I haven’t seen you so agitated since we were negotiating for this building and the landlord forced a five-year lease on us.”
“Because there was no guarantee we’d be in business that long and we’d both mortgaged most of our assets.”
“Considerable for you, but peanuts for me.”
“Which you had to borrow from your mother, God bless her.”
“Off the subject, Erica. What’s bugging you today? And don’t give me that garbage about the creative process being stressful. You usually turn out jackets and quilts at the same pace as a rabbit giving birth. For which I’m thankful, as it’s the source of our bread and butter, but you don’t usually have a face like a thundercloud and you don’t usually have any difficulty making a client look elegant.”
She chose to interpret that as an insult. “Well, if my work is the next thing to assembly-line trash,” she muttered, “maybe I should look for another line of work.”
He actually turned pale. “My God, don’t even joke like that, Erica. And you know that’s not what I meant.” Leaving the stool, he caught her by the arm and led her to a small couch set against the wall. After urging her down, he took a seat facing her. “Now, tell Daddy Jason all about it. When I left the shop last night, you were in a huddle with Michael Carlton.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh, Jesus. Have you lost all your money? Is that it? Has that goof-ball blown your nest egg and you’re penniless?”
“No, but that reminds me, Jason. Did you realize you failed to lock up when you left the shop last night?”
He frowned. “Did I? Let me think…Oh, now I remember. When I was closing out the register, I had another one of those crazy calls from the idiot who lives in the apartment next door to mine complaining again about my dog barking. I guess I forgot. Shit!” He smacked himself on the forehead. “I’m the idiot, aren’t I? Why, did something happen? Is that what’s wrong?”
“Michael hasn’t mismanaged anything, and fortunately nothing happened when you left the door unlocked…unless—”
“Unless what?” As his eyebrows went up, the telephone rang. “Wait, hold that thought.” Rising, he moved across the room and, with his back to her, answered the phone, then stood listening. After a minute, he turned with a gleam in his eye, raised his hand and pointed his index finger at Erica as if it were a gun barrel. “Yeah, good to hear from you, Hunter. Sure, she’s right here.”
Erica sprang off the couch as soon as she realized it was Hunter on the phone. Shaking her head and flapping her hands wildly, she mouthed, “I’m not here.” She’d spent a long and sleepless night and Hunter was the reason. Nine years and she had avoided any attempt by a man to get close enough for intimacy. But she’d been almost seduced by their conversation in the bar, then rocked to her core by that kiss. She’d been so rattled that when she got in her car, she started making plans to call him first thing and cancel their date. So, why hadn’t she?
To block her escape, Jason casually stepped in front of her, still chatting with Hunter. “So she tells me. And your timing’s perfect. You interrupted the lecture she was giving me for failing to lock up last night. But I swear, I thought I locked the damn door.”
He paused to listen, ignoring the motion Erica made to slice his throat. “Horseback riding, you say? No, she didn’t mention it. But it sounds like fun to me.” With his shoulder propped on the door frame, he crossed his ankles. “Nothing like country air and a horseback ride to clear away the smog and renew the spirit, I always say.”
The only time Jason had ever been on a horse was when he’d modeled Western gear at the Houston Rodeo. Rolling her eyes, Erica reached over and took the phone from him. “Hello.”
“Hi, it’s Hunter.”
Even braced for it, her tummy took a tumble at the sound of his voice. “Hi.” She glanced over and met Jason’s wickedly dancing eyes and instantly turned her back on him. “How are you?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“I’m fine. Busy.”
“Yeah, I guessed that. Okay, I’ll be quick. I realized after I left last night that I don’t know where you live. We can be at the ranch by eight if we leave early enough on Sunday morning, but I need your address. Are you an early riser or one of those types that sleeps in on the weekend?”
“You didn’t forget it’s next weekend, not this Sunday?”
“Not unless I can talk you into changing your mind.”
“Maybe I will at that,” she said, bending over to pick up a wad of paper on the floor. “Actually, Hunter, I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t.” He paused, then went on before she could speak. “Don’t think of reasons not to come…just this once. If it turns out that you don’t like Lady—”
“It’s not that I won’t like your horses, Hunter. I just have so much on my plate at the moment that I don’t think it’s a good time to do…this.”
“You work hard. Give yourself a break. I guarantee when you get back home, you’ll thank me.” Then he seemed to run out of words, finishing with simply “I wish you’d come, Erica.”
Was that uncertainty in his voice? A plea? She’d pegged him from the start as a supremely confident male. He’d definitely seemed in command last night. But whatever it was she heard in his voice now, it weakened her resolve more than flashy charm or blatant flirtation ever could.
“Well…okay. But I’ll need to get back at a reasonable hour.” She gave him her address.
“In that case, we’ll get an early start. Is six too early?” he asked.
Yes, but if she was going to do this, she supposed she owed him the courtesy of going along with his plans. “Six is fine. I’ll be ready…next Sunday.” She clicked off quietly and replaced the phone in its cradle. It was only when Jason firmly cleared his throat that she turned to look at him. “What?”
He was gazing at her in amazement. “You’ve really made a date? With a man who isn’t selling fabric or insurance?”
“Don’t you have a customer on the floor?”
“No. And any customer who has the bad timing to come into the shop right now will just have to wait.” He waded through the sea of discarded sketches and sat down. “Tell me everything. Leave no detail out.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She bent and began collecting the discarded sketches from the floor. “Last night, Hunter came in just as Michael was leaving.” She straightened up, arms full of paper. “He owns a ranch near Brenham and apparently he stables a few horses. I think he enjoys getting away from the city. He must, as he’s there almost every weekend.”
“So he just dropped by the shop and asked you to spend the weekend—” He stopped with a look of consternation. “You can’t go this weekend. You have to be at the symphony gala Saturday night.”
“I’m not spending the weekend with him. I haven’t lost my mind. I told him it would have to be the following Sunday.”
“Well, kiss my grits.”
She stuffed an armload of paper into the trash can. “You are so not funny.”
Jason leaned back with an innocent look on his face and crossed his legs. “I told you he was prime stuff, not that you’ve ever paid any attention to my opinion before. But at least now I know what’s got your panties in a twist.”
“Wasting a whole morning trying to get a design right is what’s making me crazy,” she said, scooping up the photos of her client. Then, frowning, she stood looking at them. “I don’t know why I agreed to go. Maybe it was because Michael acted like such an idiot and Hunter appeared at precisely the right moment. Or maybe it was the margaritas. But I only had one.”
“Whoa. Hold it. What margaritas?” He gave a wide swipe of his arm, taking in the small office. “We serve no margaritas in here, sugar. Did you actually have dinner with him?”
“One drink. At Monty’s Bar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But somehow I found myself talking about when I had Misha and how much I loved her. Next thing I know, I agreed to go with him to his ranch. Next Sunday.”
He studied her in delight for a minute. “Well, it’s about time some guy storms the citadel, but go back to Michael acting like an idiot. I agree he’s dull and boring, but if he didn’t bring news of a financial disaster, what makes him idiotic?”
“Having the gall to force himself on me.” She shoved the trash can back in its place beside her drafting table with more force than necessary, still outraged. “Apparently, he thinks I’m beautiful and sexy and with a little foreplay, I might be willing. His idea of foreplay was to grope me in spite of the fact that I kept saying no. I had to wrestle my way out of the office and lock him inside to keep him from throwing me to the floor and having his wicked way with me.”
Jason’s good humor evaporated. “Are you serious?”
“I know it’s hard to believe. He’s always seemed so…geekish. I fired him as soon as I unlocked the door and let him out.” Recalling the moment, she grinned. “You should have heard him yelling and kicking, banging on the door with his fists. If Hunter hadn’t come in when he did, I would have left him in there all night cooling his heels.”
“Our hero.”
“Well, he was a welcome sight at just that instant.” She lifted her shoulders in a who-knows-why shrug. “Maybe that was why I found myself agreeing to go to Monty’s for a margarita.” And then making a date to go horseback riding. And then kissing him madly on a public sidewalk. But she wasn’t about to tell Jason any more, not until she figured it out herself.
Seven
The symphony gala was well under way when Erica and Jason entered the lobby of the hotel and made their way up the wide staircase that brought them to the mezzanine level. She pulled the ends of a tasseled shawl around herself and edged a bit closer to Jason. She was nervous. It had been a long time since she’d attended an event where there would be music and dancing in a crowd of elegantly dressed people. That had been part of another life.
“I love a party,” Jason said, taking her by the arm at the foot of the stairs.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
“Champagne, music, all these guys in tuxes, what’s not to love?” He flashed a smile at a dashing couple strolling by. “I bet our snazzy little jacket will go for no less than fifteen hundred, what do you think?”
“I have no idea. I worry that it’ll go begging.”
“Not a chance. Wait and see.”
At the entrance to the ballroom, the attendant took their invitations and they went inside. With her stomach in a knot, she stood looking over the crowd. Men in black tuxes, women dressed to the nines, a din of cocktail chatter and laughter, all so familiar, so much a part of a life that had stopped short nine years ago. Nothing short of the opportunity to promote the Erica Stewart label could have dragged her here otherwise.
Jason spotted a familiar face, gave her a gentle nudge in another direction and said, “Let’s mingle, partner. You know more of these people than I do, even if you haven’t seen them in years.” And off he went.
Erica did indeed spot familiar faces, including the owner of the ad agency she used, several clients who’d commissioned various pieces of her art, her church’s minister and his wife, and a professor from Rice University, where she’d spoken to art students. Nursing a glass of champagne, she drifted from group to group and found, after a while, that some of her tension had faded. As long as she didn’t stop and give herself a chance to remember the last time she’d been here, she was fine.
“Erica! Erica Stewart, is that really you?”
She turned as someone caught her hand and recognized Lisa Johns, an attorney whose famous married client—a pro sports hero—was fighting a paternity claim by a stripper in a topless bar. “Hi, Lisa. Yes, it’s really me.” Erica returned her air kiss with a smile while her heart gave a little bump. Seeing Lisa would force her back in time whether she wanted it or not. It had been foolish to think—to hope—otherwise. “How are you?”
“Giving them hell every chance I get.” Lisa squeezed her hand, then stood back, taking stock of Erica. In her little black dress, short and chic, her hair pulled to one side with a diamond clip and her strappy three-inch heels, Erica knew she looked her best. “Goddamn, you’re as gorgeous as ever, more so. And making such a stir with your art. It makes my heart go pitty-pat. I’m bidding on that gorgeous jacket, not that it’ll look the way it should on me. But what the hell.”
Lisa, a defense lawyer, was as tough—and tough-talking—as any male counterpart and twice as smart. She had a reputation among lawyers for taking no prisoners. “It’s good to see you, Lisa. You’re making quite a stir yourself with your client. This time, he’s got to be worried.”
“I wish. Maybe then he’d keep it in his pants, but he’s mine and until he runs out of money or I simply kill him myself, I guess I’ll have to stay in there pitching. No pun intended.”
Erica laughed. “As his attorney, should you be saying things like that?”
“Shit, you’re family, darlin’.” She paused, took a good, long look into Erica’s eyes, and when she spoke, her tone gentled. “Tell me, how long has it been?”
“Nine years,” she said quietly. Nine years since Lisa Johns had shared an office with Erica’s husband, David. Nine years since those carefree evenings when Lisa and her current lover would pop in at Erica and David’s house to drink wine and talk, plan and dream. Nine years since it had all ended.
“Yeah. God, how time flies. Nine years.” Lisa grabbed a fresh glass of champagne from a tray-bearing waiter as he passed and took a good gulp. “You know, every now and then when I’m slogging away on a case, I’ll come across something David wrote, or some research he authored, and it’ll hit me in the tummy. It still seems so unfair, so senseless. If I could ever get my hands on the bastard who did that, I think I’d forget my calling as a defense lawyer. There’s nothing mean enough to throw at people like that, you know?”
“I try not to think about it, Lisa.”
“Jesus.” She reached over and hugged Erica. “I’m an idiot. I’ve had too much champagne. Let’s change the subject, ’cause I haven’t seen you in so long and when I spotted you across the room, I couldn’t wait to get over here.” She finished off the rest of the fresh glass, deposited it with another tray-bearing waiter and gave a big sigh. “I meant it when I said you’re looking fantastic. And it’s great your label is taking off big-time. I saw one of your quilts in a house a year or so ago. This gal had it hanging on the wall of her den, Erica. God, it was stunning, a piece of art in fabric. And those fabulous jackets you’re designing are all the rage. I’m gonna have one, I swear.”
“Come by the shop,” Erica said, smiling. “I have a couple that would look wonderful on you.”
Lisa cocked her head with a bemused look. “But I thought painting was your forte, not fabric design. I read the Zest article in the paper, but I didn’t see any evidence of your art from the pictures they took of your shop. Which reminds me, when do you have time to paint?”
“Actually, I don’t.” She managed a smile and gave her stock answer to the familiar question. “What with the shop and keeping up with demand, I’m just too busy.” Painting had once been as vital to her as the air she breathed, but that, too, was nine years past. She had discovered then that only a very few things in life were really vital for survival.
Suddenly, Lisa paused and looked about curiously. “Where’s your date? You didn’t come to this thing stag, did you?”
“No, he’s around somewhere mingling, as he calls it.” She turned, scanning the floor trying to find Jason in the crowd. And then her heart skipped a beat. Threading his way through the crowd—and the object of more than a few admiring female glances—was Hunter McCabe. Even half a ballroom away, she could see that he was heading directly to her. What was he doing here? She knew—knew—this was not Hunter’s kind of thing.
“Well,” Lisa said, following Erica’s gaze, “I don’t think I’d let that one mingle any farther than two feet from my side. Are there any more like him? I’m available.”
“He’s not mine,” she murmured, but Lisa was right. He did look good in a tux.
“Then if I were you, I’d do whatever it took to remedy that.”
Erica watched him with the eye of an artist, thinking he looked almost as good as he did in that battered bomber jacket and jeans. The truth was, he was a man who was so comfortable in his skin that he’d even look good in nothing. At that thought, she caught herself up short, because it was too incredibly easy to imagine him wearing nothing but confidence and that rakish grin.
“Hey, there.” Before she realized his intent, he’d caught hold of both her hands and pulled her toward him in a move so natural that she never thought of resisting. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said after kissing her cheek.
Flustered, she inhaled subtle aftershave and not-so-subtle male. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.
“And I may not last much longer,” he told her, looking over the crowd with something in his face—a subtle twist of his mouth—that told her she’d been right. This wasn’t his kind of thing. So what in the world was he doing here? He glanced then at Lisa. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not a bit,” Lisa said, extending her hand with a speculative look in her eye. “I’m Lisa Johns, an old friend of Erica’s.”
“Hunter McCabe,” he said. Then, after a beat, he recognized her. “Joe Crenshaw’s defense attorney, right?”
“That would be me, yes. God bless cable TV.”
He was shaking his head, smiling. “Crenshaw’s something else. I can’t wait to open the sports page to see what he’s been up to next.”
“Me, too.” Lisa took a healthy swallow of her drink. “But, unlike you, I pray his antics are confined to the sports page and not the headlines.”
“I hear you,” Hunter said, still smiling. “I suspect you’d have to lock him in his room every night to keep him out of trouble.”
“I keep thinking he’ll grow up,” Lisa said, “but when will it happen? He’s thirty-four.” She glanced beyond them and made a face. “Uh-oh, I see I’m being summoned.” She flashed a smile at Hunter, then gave Erica a warm hug and whispered, “If he’s not your date, sweetie, he should be. Bye now.”
Erica watched Lisa make her way across the ballroom toward a tall man with iron-gray hair and an air of authority. She turned away, putting a hand over her tummy.
“What’s wrong?” Following her gaze, Hunter frowned, looking over the crowd.
“It’s nothing.” The man who’d summoned Lisa was the firm’s senior partner. And David’s mentor. If Edward Kerr realized she was here, he’d probably feel honor-bound to speak to her. She couldn’t allow that.
She turned to look at Hunter. “I’ve been circulating, as Jason calls it, for an hour. I’d like to get away from the noise for a few minutes. Would you excuse me?”
“A break sounds good to me, too. Let’s try the mezzanine. C’mon.” He settled a hand at her waist and made a startled sound as he encountered bare skin. Her dress had long sleeves and a boat neckline that came up to her throat in front, but in back it plunged almost to her waist. “Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack,” he said, eyeing the enticing line of her spine.
She knew the dress was a bit risqué, but Jason had persuaded her to wear it. This was her first appearance in public, he told her. She should make a statement. In fact, it had been Jason who had chosen the dress for her in a chic little boutique in River Oaks, telling her that if she refused to wear one of her own designs, she needed to wear something equally stunning.
Apparently, Hunter thought it was stunning.
Without another word, he guided her toward an area at the edge of the room. Several people recognized him as they wove through the crowd, but other than brief nods and even briefer smiles, he didn’t stop until he reached the wide stairs that led to the mezzanine.
She sighed with relief as the noise of the party receded. “I can’t go far,” she told him. “The auction is due to start in a little while.”
“I know,” he said, pulling her behind a huge column. “I’ve spent the last hour talking to people I don’t particularly like and listening to enough cocktail chitchat to remind me why I avoid these things. I need a minute to breathe something besides expensive perfume and hors d’oeuvres too pretty to eat.”
She smiled and decided against resisting. “If it’s that bad, why did you come?”
“I came because I knew you’d be here.” His gaze drifted over her, lingering long enough to make her skin tingle. “You look fantastic in that dress…what little there is of it.”
“I have a shawl to cover—”
He touched her lips with a finger. “Don’t even think it. I thought you’d probably wear something you designed, but now I’m glad you didn’t.”
The way he was looking at her renewed her misgivings about him. Not only was he an extremely attractive man, but he was stirring feelings in her that she hadn’t felt in years. She’d met many men and had had many opportunities to begin new relationships in the years since losing David, but she’d never been even remotely tempted. It shook her that Hunter threatened those defenses.
“Something upset you back there,” he said, studying her face. “It was when Lisa left. Want to tell me about it?”
She’d already told him more than enough about herself. “It was nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a little tense over the auction. I know it’s a wonderful opportunity to promote the Erica Stewart label and I’m appreciative of the opportunity, but to tell the truth, I’ll be glad when it’s over and I can go home.”
One wall of the mezzanine was all glass. He led her across the floor and they stood looking out over the city. “I’ve always admired Houston’s beautiful skyline,” she said. “Are you responsible for any of it?”
He moved his gaze away from her reluctantly and pointed to a cluster of buildings due east of downtown. “See the steeple on that church way over there? Look just to the left of it. I was the architect on that building.”
“Only that one?”
“There are several others, but that’s the only one visible from here.”
“It must be thrilling to design something so…important and then to see it come to life.”
“It’s not so different from what you do, is it?”
“A quilt compared to a stunning high-rise?”
“Art is art,” he told her. “As for importance, one of your quilts will probably be some woman’s treasure a hundred years from now when my building is crumbling.”
“You are very good for my ego,” she said, smiling.
“I’m hoping to be good for a lot more than that,” he said. Again she felt a quiver of alarm, but before she had a chance to respond, he glanced at the time on his watch. “It’s time we headed back. The auction will begin in a few minutes and Jason will be wondering what happened to you.”
She let him take her arm and in moments they were entering the ballroom. Jason obviously had been looking for her. He looked relieved when he spotted her and hurried toward them. She turned to take her leave of Hunter, but he caught and held her hand.
“After the auction, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he told her, but Jason had reached them and she didn’t have a chance to respond.
“Hunter.” Jason extended his hand. “I thought I recognized you across the room earlier.” He gave them both a mock scowl. “I leave Erica to work this crowd and next thing I know, she’s disappeared and so have you.”
“I needed a minute to breathe,” she told him.
“I tried to talk her into running away with me,” Hunter said, “but she kept talking about this auction she didn’t want to miss.”
“Yeah, and if we don’t head over there right now, we will miss it. It’s just starting. She’s nervous, so she refuses to be up front and center,” he told Hunter. “Luckily, I’ve staked out a good location where we can see the action and still be almost invisible.” He turned to go, but Hunter held her in place with a firm hand on her waist.
“Don’t let her leave after the auction, Jason,” Hunter said. Then he tipped her face up and kissed her full on the mouth. “I’ll find you after,” he promised.
As they went their separate ways, nobody noticed Lillian watching from across the room.
Lillian managed a bright smile and pretended to listen while one of Morton’s associates talked. Thanks to Hunter, she’d been functioning on sheer bravado for the last half hour. Her delight in having a rare evening in her son’s company was gone. She realized, when Hunter joined her and Morton without a date, that he wasn’t at the gala because he’d had a change of heart about these worthy events. No, from the way he kept looking about, scanning faces, moving restlessly to the bar and listening to conversations with only half an ear, she knew he was there to see someone. And when he spotted Erica Stewart and began making his way across the ballroom directly to her, she knew with a sinking heart, why he’d come.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured to herself.
That kiss hadn’t been casual. She saw his face. Saw Erica’s reaction. She knew Hunter had been intrigued by the artist from the moment he met her. She realized he could have been seeing her ever since. What a cruel twist of fate that would be, she thought, fingering the brooch pinned on her shoulder. But it wouldn’t be surprising. Erica was a beautiful woman. Hunter was a man in his prime. No matter how much she and Hank wished it, there was no serious commitment on his part in his relationship with Kelly. Morton was right about that.
Murmuring something in reply to a remark by Morton, she watched Erica and Jason approach an area near the stage where the auction was beginning. She looked quite stunning, Lillian thought. The little black dress was chic and sophisticated and just right for the occasion. Many eyes would be on her tonight, and with her dark hair clipped to one side, her face coolly aloof, she seemed remote and mysterious. An artist whose inner life was hidden. She would be a big hit. Lillian sighed. Why wouldn’t Hunter be captivated?
“Do you want me to bid on the spa weekend?”
Lillian blinked, realizing Morton had spoken. “What?”
“The spa weekend,” he repeated with some irritation. “What’s the matter with you tonight, Lillian? You’ve been off in la-la land ever since we got here. I don’t know what John Molinara thought with you standing there like a mannequin. You didn’t say ten words. Hell, I thought you’d be tickled pink with Hunter making an appearance for the first time in years. It’s no wonder he disappeared. Probably remembered why he hates these things and left.”
“Sorry,” she said, still twiddling with the brooch. “I did hear you invite John and Rita to dinner. I’ll make it up to them then.”
“Glad to hear it.” He took her arm in a firm grasp. “The auction’s getting under way. Let’s move a little closer. Neither of us is looking forward to this part of the evening, but take my advice and do what I’m doing, just close your eyes and don’t look when they put up the Erica Stewart piece. And you never answered. Do you want me to bid on the spa weekend?”
“I’m not upset because something by Erica will be auctioned. I’m upset because I realize that Hunter is here because of her, Morton. The reason he disappeared is that they left together for a while, just the two of them.”
“Oh, come on. You’re imagining things.”
“I didn’t imagine anything. I saw them.” She didn’t tell him about the kiss.
Morton still scanned the room. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think he’d leave without telling me. I also don’t see him having much interest in the auction…unless he wants to bid on Erica’s piece.” She touched her forehead. “This whole evening has been so stressful. I’m not like you, Morton. I just can’t be around her and not be reminded. I’m not able to put this out of my mind and go on with life as if nothing happened. I never will be.”
He finally lost his temper. “It’s ancient history!” he hissed in her ear. “Stop dwelling on it. You talk about this to anybody—anybody, Lillian—and everything we’ve worked for is down the tubes. I mean it. I want that appointment from the president, and it’s dead, lost forever, if I’m even touched by a breath of scandal.”
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, with a catch in her voice. “I’m the last person to ever talk about it.”
Eight
The auction was a huge success. People bid outrageous amounts, or so it seemed to Erica, for luxury items that included a five-day ski vacation in Aspen, a set of leather luggage, a sitting with a professional photographer, a weekend stay at a spa, five nights in Las Vegas, a seven-day cruise on a luxury liner. It seemed incredible to her that an Erica Stewart jacket was even on the list. Even more incredible was the final bid on the jacket.
“Twenty-two-hundred bucks,” Jason said, openly gleeful that his estimate came up short. “Shows what I know.”
“I’m glad it’s over,” Erica said. She admitted to feeling good at having made a contribution to a worthy cause.
“I guess you know who won the bid?” He was practically salivating.
“No, who?”
“Barbara Bush’s friend. I was in River Oaks one day with Stephen and they were together, leaving the spa. He recognized them. Well, I mean, anybody would recognize Barbara Bush, but Stephen knew her friend from the hospital. She volunteers.”
“I’m impressed.” She was, really. But now her main thought was to slip away as gracefully as possible, in case Jason had more networking in mind. “Don’t even think about bullying me into more self-promotion, Jason. My feet say it’s over.”
Jason’s gaze shifted to a point beyond her shoulder. “Look who’s here.”
“I wondered how long you could stay upright in those heels.” Hunter’s voice at her ear gave her a start. He edged Jason aside and took possession of her elbow. “Not that they don’t do things to your legs that make me crazy. They do. But keep ’em on ten more minutes, please. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“You don’t need me,” Jason said, dropping behind after giving her a wink that Hunter missed. “I’ll meet you at the escalator on the mezzanine when you’re done.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes?”
“Give or take,” Hunter said, already steering her away from the auction area. “This won’t take long. I know it’s late and you’ve had a big night.” As they passed the bar, he nodded to a couple waiting for fresh drinks who tried to stop him, but he flashed an apologetic smile without slowing his pace. “I want you to meet my mother. She’s wearing the jacket.”
Erica followed his gaze across the room where a woman, blond, slim and elegant, stood close to a confident-looking man with thinning gray-blond hair and a florid complexion. Hunter’s father? If so, she couldn’t see any resemblance. He was shorter than Hunter, but only barely. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place how or when she might have met him. The woman she’d never seen before.
“She’s very attractive,” Erica said of his mother, meaning it.
“I think so. She doesn’t look familiar?”
Shaking her head, Erica added, “Why?”
“My mother has two passions. One is her husband, Morton Trask. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s the CEO of CentrexO.”
She instantly recalled why he’d looked familiar. “Anyone who reads the newspaper or watches the news has heard of him, but I wouldn’t have made the connection with you.”
“He’s my stepfather.”
She heard a slight edge in his tone and glanced up to see his face, but there was nothing to be read in his expression. Another half-dozen steps and they would be close enough for introductions. “And her other passion?”
“Art. And the arts community. She knows a lot of struggling artists, and I think she probably takes a particular artist under her wing from time to time. She’s never admitted that, of course. She knows I think she’s too naive to tell real artists from con artists. God knows how many times she’s been duped.”
And as Morton Trask’s wife, she would be in a position to make a difference to talented artists who might never make it otherwise, Erica thought. CentrexO’s influence was everywhere in Houston, but from the sound of it, Mrs. Trask’s interest was more personal. If she used her position to benefit starving artists, Erica could think of worse things.
She studied the Trasks closely as Hunter guided her toward them, thinking they looked exactly what they were—the cream of Houston society. In fact, the woman in conversation with them now was Melissa Reynolds, a TV anchor at one of Houston’s local network channels. Jason was right to be thrilled over the publicity value of tonight’s event. It wouldn’t hurt having her label mentioned on the nightly news as well as on the society page.
Hunter paused a few feet back to let the anchorwoman make her farewells. His mother reached over and air-kissed Reynolds’s cheek, then turned and saw him with Erica in tow. Her moment of eye contact with Erica was brief, a mere nanosecond, but it was long enough for the practiced smile on her face to change. A hand flew to her throat and something like fear flashed in her eyes. But, with a quick intake of breath, she recovered just as quickly, leaving Erica thinking she must have somehow alarmed the woman.
“Hunter, here you are,” she said, as coolly gracious as the wife of Morton Trask must always appear. “We wondered if you’d left early without telling us.”
“Not before I introduced you to the artist who designed your jacket,” he said, nudging Erica closer with his hand, warm and firm on her bare back. “This is Erica Stewart, Mom. I wanted her to see how terrific it looks on you. Erica, my mother, Lillian Trask.”
With her fingers still spread wide over her chest, Lillian looked into Erica’s eyes. “Hello. It’s…I’m so pleased to meet you. Your art is…simply wonderful.”
This was not a woman Erica would have expected to stammer over an introduction under any circumstances. She was unsettled, for some reason. Erica glanced quickly at Hunter and found he’d marked his mother’s reaction, too. He was frowning. Puzzled, Erica extended her hand. “Thank you,” she said.
Lillian Trask’s palm touched hers in a contact so brief it almost missed. Then she turned to Hunter’s stepfather. “This is my husband, Morton Trask.”
But Erica didn’t respond to that. She didn’t hear it. Instead, her gaze was locked on a unique brooch that was revealed on the woman’s shoulder when she moved her hand away to take Erica’s. It was a starburst of diamonds radiating out from a single large fire opal, set in a nest of more diamonds and opals. It was the perfect accent piece for the pale champagne color of the jacket Erica had designed. But Lillian Trask’s unerring sense of style in pairing the jacket with just the right piece of jewelry was lost on Erica. She was in shock, staring in absolute horror at the brooch. Her chest felt as if all the breath was crushed from it. Something, fear or dread—or both—rose sickeningly in her. The opal at the center of the pin winked fire and terror, and both came at her in waves that stole the strength from her knees and froze the blood in her veins. She felt she might be sick and reached instinctively for Hunter.
He took one look at her face and covered the fingers she’d locked around his arm with his own. “Erica, what’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with concern.
His words were lost in the roaring of terror in her ears. With her gaze riveted on the brooch, sounds came at her as if filtered through a tunnel. The whole world had stopped as if a camera had captured a picture in a freeze-frame. Panic spiraled up from her center, mixing with the pain in her chest. She snatched her hand away from Hunter’s arm and, with a strangled sound, turned in a desperate need to run.
He stopped her, clamped both hands on her arms and forced her to look up at him. “Tell me what’s wrong, Erica,” he demanded. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you sick?”
She shook her head, glanced again at his mother, at the brooch. And again was almost overwhelmed with terrible pain. “I…I don’t know,” she stammered. Pulling away, she put both hands to her cheeks. “I…it’s…I just feel a little faint,” she told him, coming up with a lie. “The evening…ah, the…everything has been a little too much, I think.”
“I’ll take you home,” Hunter said instantly. “Let’s go.”
“No!” She put a hand on his arm and struggled to bring herself under control. “No, thank you. My…Jason will be waiting in the mezzanine.” She’d always deplored the mistaken view that some artists were unstable or, at best, overly emotional. With her heart still beating wildly in reaction to that bizarre moment—whatever it was—who could blame them?
She forced herself to turn and face Lillian Trask. It meant resisting an almost crazed urge to look at the brooch again, but she kept her gaze locked on the woman’s face. “Please forgive me for rushing away. I know my partner is wondering what happened to me.” She forced a smile, thinking it must surely look hideous. She had never felt less like smiling. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Yes,” Lillian replied, then added, “Congratulations on your success.” Beside her, Morton remained silent.
“Thank you.” Taking care to walk away with some semblance of dignity, Erica fixed her eyes on the exit doors of the ballroom. Hunter kept pace beside her, but shot frequent glances at her profile as they walked. He was clearly bewildered.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about,” he said.
“I think it might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t eaten all day.” That was not quite true, but she had to come up with some excuse.
He stared at her. “Jason says you’re not comfortable doing PR and you knew this would take a lot out of you, yet you still skipped breakfast and lunch?”
“Maybe it was the champagne.” And maybe she should tell him to mind his own business, she thought. But she didn’t. Why that was, she hadn’t figured out yet. “I just felt faint for a moment.”
“You looked shocked to your toes,” he told her flatly. “Are you sure you haven’t met my mother before?”
“No. Never.”
“My stepfather?”
“No, I’ve never met either of them. I just had a…a moment when I felt faint. It happens, Hunter.”
He gave a skeptical grunt. If he could hear the way her heart was beating, he would know for sure that she was lying, she thought, clutching his arm in a death grip. But she somehow managed to make it to the mezzanine level without her knees giving way.
Jason was waiting at the escalator in animated conversation with a friend and didn’t see them approach. She was glad to see he had her shawl, as she was cold all the way to her bones. When he turned and saw her face, he stopped talking midsentence. His eyes shot straight to Hunter. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“You’ll have to ask Erica,” Hunter told him. Taking her shawl from Jason, he settled it around her shoulders.
She pulled it close, grateful for its warmth. “I was a little light-headed for a minute, that’s all. It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be fine as soon as I get home and can k-kick off these shoes and change into something soft and c-comfortable.” She pressed her lips together, as she couldn’t seem to stop them from trembling. “W-Willie’s probably wondering what happened to me anyway.”
“Willie?” Hunter repeated.
“He’s a cat,” Jason explained. “Gray and scraggly-looking, a Willie Nelson clone.” Still watching her with narrow-eyed concern, he said, “You’ve never fainted in your life.”
“Too much excitement mixed with champagne,” she told him.
“She hasn’t eaten anything today,” Hunter said, with a frown of disapproval.
“I’ll have a bowl of cereal when I get home.” With the shawl to warm her up, she was feeling more normal now, but something had happened when she was introduced to Hunter’s mother and she didn’t think it was too much champagne. She’d experienced an avalanche of emotion, not when she looked into the woman’s face or when she met his stepfather. It was when she saw Lillian Trask’s brooch. Why had she been almost bowled over by a piece of jewelry?
Without thinking what he would make of it, she turned to Hunter. “Your mother’s wearing an interesting brooch. Do you know anything about it?”
“My mother’s brooch,” he repeated blankly. “You mean that pin she’s wearing?”
“You’re asking about a piece of jewelry his mother’s wearing?” Jason was looking incredulous. His eyes went sharp with suspicion. “How much champagne have you had?”
“It’s not that. I think…I mean—” She gave them both a weak smile and shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy, but I just thought for a minute that I’d seen it before. Is it an antique?”
Hunter took a second to focus on what she said. He lifted one shoulder and said, “I don’t know. She likes jewelry and she usually buys pretty good stuff. I guess it could be old.” His gaze wandered to the arched doorway of the ballroom. Presumably his mother and Morton were still inside. “If it’s important, I’ll go back and ask her.”
“No, no. Don’t. It’s not important. I just…you know how you get a feeling of déjà vu sometimes? When I saw it, I felt it wasn’t just familiar, but that I’d seen it before and it had some special meaning. Which sounds a little nutty, I guess. I couldn’t have, right?” Seeking more warmth, she drew the folds of the shawl more snugly around herself. “It just kind of…startled me. Maybe it belonged to me in another life.” The joke fell flat because she couldn’t quite manage a real smile.
Hunter rubbed the side of his cheek, now thinking. “She’s had that pin a long time, I think. I seem to remember when I was a kid, she’d get all gussied up for one of these affairs and wear it. She’s partial to estate sales. That might be where she got it.”
Jason looked at Erica. “What, you think it was your great-grandmother’s or something?”
“No, of course not.” Her thoughts raced as she tried to make sense of her panic at the sight of it. Estate sales. She occasionally went, which could explain how she might have seen it before. But why did it give her such a shock? And it had been a shock. She’d almost passed out with the force of whatever emotion it triggered in her. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the brooch at all. Maybe the stress of the evening had simply caught up with her at that moment. Maybe the whole thing was just a nervous reaction. The auction was a crucial event for both her and Jason.
Hunter touched her shoulder. “Go home and get some rest,” he told her. “And take it easy these next few days. I just wish you’d reconsider and come with me to the ranch tomorrow. We don’t have to wait until next week.” He saw second thoughts gathering on her face and put a finger on her lips. “Don’t even think it.”
“What?” Jason asked, looking at them both.
“She’s going with me to the ranch next Sunday,” Hunter said, keeping his eyes on hers. “It’s a week away, but I couldn’t talk her into going tomorrow.”
“Not at daybreak,” she said, resisting the pleasure of Hunter’s warm palm on the curve between her neck and shoulder.
“She’s lazy in the mornings,” Jason said, grinning. “But to get her started, bring fresh kolaches and coffee and she’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
With Erica gone, Hunter was more than ready to go himself, but first he wanted a word with his mother. Instead of leaving, he walked back to the ballroom and stood for a minute at the arched doorway, searching the thinning crowd. There were still quite a few die-hard patrons of the arts lingering. If he knew his mother, she’d be among the last to leave. Morton would indulge her, not for any particular love of the symphony—or his wife—but because he liked the two of them to be seen at these events. He finally spotted her and Morton as they were separating from a couple he recognized as longtime neighbors of the Trasks’ in River Oaks.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, coming up from behind. “You about ready to call it a night?”
“Oh, Hunter.” She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re still here?”
“For a few more minutes. I hoped to catch you before you left.”
Morton made a show of studying the time on his watch. “We’re meeting the Jensons’ at their house for a nightcap in a few minutes. Is it important?”
Hunter wondered whether he and his stepfather would ever be able to exchange a word or two without wanting to argue. “I won’t keep her long,” he told Morton. “You’re valet parked?”
“Of course,” Morton said with annoyance.
“I’ll be done by the time your car’s brought up.” He took his mother’s arm and ushered her past the rest of the lingering crowd, leaving Morton to follow or do as he suggested and call for his vehicle. His stepfather was a control freak who usually manipulated a situation, not vice versa. He was irritated at being one-upped, especially by Hunter. It showed on his face as he stalked off.
Lillian sighed. “Was that necessary, Hunter?”
Probably not, he thought, but it was difficult for Hunter to resist jabbing at Morton whenever he got a chance. A psychiatrist would call it petty retaliation after being under the man’s thumb for too many years, but there it was. “There’s something I want to ask you,” Hunter said, steering Lillian along toward the escalator. “What did you think of Erica?”
“Oh.” She stumbled in spite of the firm grip he had on her elbow. “Is that why you waited around, to ask what I think of a woman who’s caught your eye?” Her laugh was forced. Nervous. “You used to do that when you were a teenager, but never since then if my memory serves me.”
“No, that’s not the reason,” Hunter said with a smile. He didn’t bother to deny his interest in Erica. Lillian would have been clued in when he brought Erica over to introduce her. Hell, she probably guessed when he showed up at the gala without Kelly. “She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she?”
“Striking, certainly. Very sophisticated. In person, she’s nothing like I imagined her to be.”
“How is it you’ve thought about her at all? She tells me you’ve never met.”
She gave a nervous laugh. It was nervousness, he told himself, nothing real or spontaneous about it. “I wasn’t speaking of her physical appearance, but her…demeanor, I suppose you’d say. I’m familiar with her art—many people are, as you’ve seen for yourself tonight. You tend to wonder about the artist when you look at a piece of art. At least, I do. That’s all.”
What she said made sense, but for some reason, Hunter felt there was more to her reaction to Erica than her usual appreciation of anyone with enough talent to create art. She looked unsettled and tense. Almost fearful. Why would a conversation about Erica Stewart be anything but casual? She didn’t know her. Neither woman claimed to know the other. And yet…
He thought back to the moment when he’d taken Erica over to be introduced, a moment when he’d been puzzled by his mother’s reaction. Nobody’s social skills were more accomplished, but for a moment she’d seemed on the verge of losing her composure. She’d been…shaken. But why? There’d been no chance to explore her odd reaction as he’d been distracted by Erica’s spell. She’d had a similar reaction when he’d presented his birthday gift to her—a jacket she instantly recognized as an Erica Stewart creation. In hindsight, he saw she’d not been thrilled over it. He’d been so taken with Erica himself that he’d been blind to anything except his own opinion.
“What I want to ask might seem odd,” he told her now, “but Erica had a really weird reaction to that piece of jewelry you’re wearing tonight.”
“What?” She gave him a bewildered look.
“That pin.” He reached out and touched it with his finger. Although no connoisseur of women’s jewelry, he realized it was unique. Probably expensive. Definitely expensive, if those stones were diamonds, which without a doubt they were. More of them than he could count at a glance. And he didn’t know about opals, but he knew about his mother’s judgment in these things and he guessed they were valuable, too. Maybe the value of the piece was in its design, he thought, studying it closely. What the hell did he know about anything except the damn thing had spooked Erica. And he wanted to know why.
“What are you talking about, Hunter?” She brushed his hand aside and covered the brooch with her fingers.
“I know it sounds…funny, but when Erica recovered after her little spell, she talked about your pin, called it a brooch. Which was a kind of old-fashioned word to me, but that’s what she said.”
“You’re not making any sense, Hunter.”
He gave a short laugh. “I guess not. Anyway, she seemed to think she’d seen it before, maybe in an estate sale or something. You two have that in common, an appreciation of treasures of the past, you might say.”
“This pin didn’t come from an estate sale,” Lillian said. “It belonged to my grandmother. It was an anniversary gift to her from my grandfather. It has been in my family forever. It was willed to me when she died.”
“No kidding.” They were in the hotel foyer now, heading for the revolving doors where Morton would be waiting. Hunter didn’t want to explain his interest in Lillian’s jewelry to Morton. Besides, he was still in the dark over the whole thing himself. He couldn’t very well explain what he didn’t understand. “Erica said the jewels are diamonds and opals. Is that right?”
She made a little sound of exasperation. “Really, Hunter, I’m not used to having my jewelry vetted by a complete stranger.”
“I’ve made it sound cheesy, just asking about it, Mom. I apologize. Erica would probably flip if she knew I was asking all these questions. It’s just—” Spotting Morton waiting in their Mercedes, he decided to let it go until he’d had a chance to think more about it. He smiled at his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I hope you had a good time tonight. I sure did.”
Standing on tiptoe she caught his arms, and it seemed to Hunter that she clung to him for a moment. “I was thrilled that you came, Hunter,” she said huskily.
“Maybe I’ll surprise you again sometime,” he said, wishing to make up for upsetting her. She was upset. He didn’t know why, but he knew it had little to do with her jewelry and everything to do with Erica Stewart.
He walked her to the Mercedes, where a valet held the door open. “About that pin, Mom,” he said. She stopped, studying him with a questioning look. “Is opal your birthstone?”
“Why, no. Why do you ask?”
“Oops.” He grinned at her, hoping to lighten her mood. “Because I’ve heard that you should beware of owning opals if they’re not your birthstone. They’re bad luck. But since yours are a legacy from the past and it’s no fault of yours that you own these, their power is kaput.”
He had failed to lighten her mood he realized as he stood at the curb waiting for the valet to seat her in the Mercedes. She looked straight ahead as Morton pulled abruptly away, but it was a night with a full moon and when the car turned the corner, Hunter saw her face. Even with the tinted windows, he could see that it was ghostly pale.
“Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me what that was all about.” At the wheel of his Nissan, Jason shot across three lanes of Southwest Freeway traffic and settled in at a nice, steady seventy miles an hour pace before adding, “And I’m not some dude who’s got the hots for you, sugar, so don’t give me that line about not eating and your stress level knocking you to your knees. I’ve seen you when stress is bad and I’ve seen you when life itself is bad. This was one of the latter, not the former.”
Erica sighed and fixed her gaze on the rear of an eighteen-wheeler just ahead of them. “I don’t know what it was, Jace. I just took a look at that piece of jewelry and it felt as if I was suddenly hurled back in time. A horrible time. I thought I was going to be sick.”
“Maybe it was the shrimp.”
“I was so busy networking, as you instructed, that I really didn’t eat anything.”
“No kidding?”
“Cross my heart.”
Jason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “Maybe there is something about the jewelry.”
“But what? I’ve never seen Mrs. Trask in my life. Her face was totally unfamiliar. Mr. Trask, yes. Everybody’s seen him from time to time. You’d have to live in a time warp in Houston not to. But I barely remember even looking at him, I was so busy trying to keep from passing out with horror.”
“You say you felt as if you were hurled back in time. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. You remember reading about Alice falling down the rabbit hole? Well, that’s the best way I can describe what happened. Except that I didn’t see anything or remember anything. All I felt was…emotion. I was terrified, Jace.” She bent her head in her hands. “Those people must think I’m crazy.”
“When you told Hunter and me about it, you said it felt like a déjà vu moment. A psychiatrist might suggest there’s something buried in your memory bank and the pin was like a key unlocking it.”
“Oh, please, Jason. That only happens in the movies. I wasn’t an abused child, I didn’t witness my parents doing something heinous, and my nanny didn’t lock me in a dark closet. There’s nothing traumatic in my childhood.”
“What about the trauma nine years ago? Seems to me that qualifies as something you’ve buried in your memory bank.”
For a beat or two, she couldn’t speak. The pain of it could still almost crush her. And Jason was the only person in her world who would dare remind her. “I don’t see how a silly pin could have anything to do with that,” she said quietly. Then, turning her face away, she closed her eyes, ending their conversation.
That night, she had the dream again. But this time, she wasn’t wandering aimlessly, but moving through a huge room, smoke-filled and crowded. The hotel ballroom? As she walked, people moved about, talking and laughing. She heard snatches of music, the clink of glasses, smatterings of applause. She glimpsed faces and felt people turning to watch her making her way toward…whatever it was. And with the familiar heady anticipation building inside her, she moved toward that something—something wonderful. Now she saw Jason, who seemed to urge her on, but when she wanted him to come with her, he simply melted into the crowd as if he had never been there. Then she saw Hunter standing in the arched doorway, smiling. Beyond him was his mother wielding a pair of scissors, cutting her new jacket into shreds. She wanted to tell Hunter to stop her, but now he was disappearing, too, swallowed up in nothingness just as Jason had done. And then, suddenly, the promised joy was gone and she felt only deep disappointment and pain. Terrible, terrible pain.
She woke up to find herself sitting straight up in bed with Willie pressed against her, purring. She buried her face in her hands and found it wet with tears. Shakily, she wiped them away and drew in a long, shuddering breath. She was suddenly cold, bone cold. She reached for Willie and lay back, pulled the blanket up and covered them both. The cat was warm. Holding him close calmed her, helped to banish the dream. In a minute, she turned to look at the clock on the bedside table: 3:10 a.m. Hours yet until daylight. She was never able to sleep after the dream, anyway. She pushed the covers aside, kissed Willie on the top of his head and got up.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/karen-young/never-tell-39787817/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Karen Young
Haunted by the memories of an August night nine years ago when a car crash robbed her of her family, artist Erica Stewart has focused her life on her thriving Houston boutique. No one is more surprised than Erica when a new man walks into her life.Texas born and bred, Hunter McCabe is a successful architect who is smitten the moment he meets Erica. He's determined to pursue her–despite her efforts to keep him at a distance.But someone is watching the dance of attraction between Erica and Hunter with growing alarm. Someone who understands the dangerous connection between Hunter's powerful, politically connected family and the accident that shattered Erica's life. Someone who understands that soon secrets will be revealed and lies will be exposed…And that murder is the only guarantee of silence.
Dear Reader,
What would you do if everything you held dear in the world was suddenly gone? Would you have the courage and sheer grit to pick up the pieces and build a new and different life for yourself?
Intriguing questions like this seemed to fuel my creative engine when I began to think about the plot for this book. In Never Tell, as always, I’ve plunged my heroine into a kind of hell where she’ll need courage, self-reliance and, yes, sheer grit just to survive. I promise that her plight will touch your heart, and her struggle to overcome the truly dreadful hand she’s been dealt will leave you feeling that there is always hope after tragedy. There are enduring friendships to be treasured. And there is always love to be found in the world…if we just open our hearts to receive it.
I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing the story. I would love to hear from you! If you would like to be part of my mailing list, please write me at P.O. Box 141, Pearland, Texas 77588-0141. Or visit my Web site at www.authorkarenyoung.com.
Happy reading!
Karen Young
Also by KAREN YOUNG
IN CONFIDENCE
PRIVATE LIVES
FULL CIRCLE
GOOD GIRLS
Never Tell
Karen Young
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to several people for their generous support and suggestions during the development of this book. To Emilie Richards and Erica Spindler for the brainstorming session in Santa Fe. To Joanna Wayne and Gloria Alvarez for one of those “why-didn’t-I-think-of-that” ideas. To Barbara Colley for keeping me focused. To Jon Salem for…well, he knows why.
Warm and loving thanks to Alison Simmons for her generous donation of time and ideas on a part of this business of writing that seems to come naturally to her, but not to me. Thank goodness she works cheap! And finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, whose thoughtful insights are always right on.
In loving memory of Linda Kay West
Contents
Chapter One (#u64d3a5cd-7fb2-5c71-b2d3-070e510c0eef)
Chapter Two (#u2ff076bd-5bd6-5800-a9c7-d59e728b7c5e)
Chapter Three (#u97f2d194-2076-5a96-9798-f69308b51569)
Chapter Four (#u5c818a36-84e2-51b8-8017-e3c1e77f4a3b)
Chapter Five (#u209c8d15-283d-5258-85f2-41bc8a333ca9)
Chapter Six (#u65d8bdfa-65a7-5ac2-9ba9-abd42198c734)
Chapter Seven (#u7909f802-f892-55ad-85a9-6f5ca8641a36)
Chapter Eight (#u1d6aae19-f349-5509-8c68-88f39d325c53)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
One
The telephone shrilled the fourth ring, but Erica Stewart resisted coming fully awake. Let it go to voice mail, she thought, while a part of her still struggled to finish the dream. The phone rang again and Willie, her cat, nudged her hand with his head. Purring loudly, he climbed on her chest and pawed at the blanket. With a sigh, she raised herself on one elbow and looked at the caller ID, then groggily reached over and picked it up. “What?” She knew she sounded grumpy, but she wasn’t at her best before coffee and all her friends knew that.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
“This had better be good, Jason,” she grumbled, falling back against her pillow. “It’s Sunday. You know it’s the only day I can sleep in.”
“You’ll forgive me when you hear this,” her business partner and quintessential morning person said. “Have you seen the Sunday Chronicle?”
“You woke me from a sound sleep, Jason. I’m still in bed. And thanks to you, Willie’s now meowing to be fed. So, no, I haven’t seen the newspaper.”
“Wait’ll you see the article in Zest, sugar. It’s fantastic. It’s gonna mean success with a big S for us. Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m coming over.”
“Can’t you just—” She stopped, realizing the line was dead. Grumbling, she threw off the covers and glared at Willie, who was wailing now. “I’m up, I’m up.”
When Jason knocked on her door fifteen minutes later, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He had a bakery box in one hand, a newspaper under his arm and a cardboard tray holding two cups of Starbucks coffee in the other. “Here, straight house blend, no frills, just the way you like it,” Jason said, thrusting the coffee at her. Then, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he offered the box. “Kolaches. Mixed varieties.”
He knew she had a weakness for the delicious pastry stuffed with everything she shouldn’t eat. Why was it some people preferred to skip breakfast altogether when for her it was the best meal of the day? And irresistible. With a sheepish groan, she grabbed the box, turned and led the way into her kitchen.
The table in her breakfast nook was littered with fabric scraps, scissors and parchment-paper patterns. Sitting in the midst of that was her laptop. She remembered looking at the clock around 2:30 a.m. and thinking she should shut down and go to bed. She did, finally, about an hour later, knowing it was Sunday and she would be able to sleep in.
“Whoa, somebody’s been busy,” Jason said, looking at the mess on the table.
“Until the wee hours,” Erica said, setting the coffee and kolaches on a countertop nearby. She collected the material scraps and dropped them into a box, tossed the paper patterns into a tall trash can she’d placed beside her chair and shoved the computer to the opposite side of the table. “But it was worth it. I finished the design for Jill McNeal’s evening jacket. I’m really happy with it, Jason. I think she’ll be pleased.”
“Have your coffee first,” he told her. “And sit down. We’ll look at the design and pig out after you look at this.” With a flourish, he snapped the fold from the newspaper and spread it out on the table.
Erica removed the plastic lid from her coffee cup and sat. Then, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear, she turned her attention to the paper. Her gray eyes went wide. The first thing she noticed was her own photo on the cover of Zest, the Houston Chronicle’s Sunday magazine. Small but prominently displayed at the top, it was a teaser for a feature article inside.
“Wait’ll you see the article,” Jason said. “It’ll blow your mind. We couldn’t pay enough for advertising like this, Erica.” Not waiting for her to find it, he leaned over and flipped the pages until he located it. He straightened and stood back to gauge her reaction. “Have a look at that, partner.”
He was right about one thing. They could never afford to pay for advertising at this level. She was pictured arranging the display in the front window of the shop in the Village. She remembered the day she’d worked on the display. She’d wanted the fabric she’d used in the jacket to coordinate with the quilt, another of her original designs. She’d draped the quilt over an antique chair, which she’d borrowed from a shop located a couple of doors down. On the floor beside the chair was a tall urn containing a few gnarled and leafless limbs she’d collected on the side of a country road. River stones had been strewn over the floor to look as if they’d been cast out carelessly, adding a last artful touch to the oddly eclectic grouping. She’d had some doubt about the photographer’s request to shoot her at work in the window, but the result was more than interesting.
Jason grinned with delight. “Is it great, or what?”
“It’s nice.” The article wasn’t about Erica alone. It was a piece showcasing the unique personality of the Village, a favored location for merchants, upscale and otherwise, some selling unique merchandise while others offered chain-store quality. When Erica and Jason decided to open a retail outlet for her jacket and quilt designs, they’d chosen the Village as much for its personality as for its location near upscale River Oaks.
“Nice?” Jason propped his hands on his hips. “That’s it, just nice?”
“It’s really terrific.”
“You know what this means, Erica.” He sat down on the cushioned seat of the bay window, but he was so energized that he was instantly up and pacing again. “It’s going to make us a household word. You’ve already made a name for yourself in Houston and this article is simply icing on the cake. Circulation for the Chronicle takes us throughout the whole state of Texas and beyond.”
“First Texas and then the world?” she teased, smiling while savoring the taste of the coffee. Jason’s expectations were anything but modest. He really believed Erica Stewart was destined to become a label as well known as Kate Spade or Cynthia Rowley. He was so certain that sometimes Erica almost believed it herself. This morning, however, her expectations were firmly grounded. She needed a couple of seamstresses to work full-time on the jackets and quilts, but so far she’d found only one who met her exacting standards. Her creations were pricey, unavoidably so, as they were labor intensive. She wanted anyone who bought a jacket or a quilt to get full value for their money.
“I’m not the one in denial,” Jason said, biting into a kolache. “You are.” Then, chewing on the pastry, he pointed to the article. “Do you think they do these feature articles for just anybody? Hell, no. Even if you can’t believe you’re destined to be a significant player, sugar, other folks do.” He tapped the article with a forefinger. “Now all we have to do is make the most of what’s been handed to us on a silver platter.”
“Uh-huh.” Erica rose and rummaged in a wire basket where she’d stashed recent mail. “If you’re excited over that article, you’ll really love this.” When she found what she was looking for, she handed it to Jason, who gave it a quick once-over. Then, doing a double take, he reread it.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said, looking at her. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
“No, Jason. Where would I get letterhead with a Texas Today logo? It’s real.”
“You’ve been named one of Twenty Women to Watch in Texas,” he said in a tone of wonderment.
“I know. I’ve read it,” she said dryly.
“Do you have a clue what this means?”
“I’ve got friends in high places?” But she was smiling, knowing Jason would get almost as much pleasure from the honor as she did. Maybe more.
“We agreed we couldn’t find enough money to buy the Zest article, but this knocks that right out of the ballpark.”
She licked raspberry filling from her finger before grabbing a napkin. “Hey, maybe we’ll find the money to hire another seamstress.”
“I’m serious, Erica. This is…this will…” He shook his head. “I’m speechless.”
“Now, that is a first.” Taking the letter from him, she sat down again and reread it. “I’m flattered, Jace. And you’re right. This is a once-in-a-career boost, and yet…”
He looked at her in disbelief, propping his hands on his hips. “And what, for Pete’s sake? You can’t possibly find anything negative in this. You said the Zest article was a fluke, and that if our shop wasn’t in the Village, and they didn’t just happen to be featuring businesses there, we would never have been included. And when you got that order for jackets from that boutique in the Galleria, you called Christopher Crane to make sure he meant it for Erica Stewart and not our competition in Dallas. It was legit and that’s because you’re good. Chris Crane doesn’t just run his finger down the yellow pages and pick a designer at random to feature in his shop, darlin’. You’re good, you’re better than good and I wish to hell you believed it as much as I do.”
“Okay, okay.” She gave a weak smile and rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “I get a headache when you start to lecture.”
“You should,” he said with no sympathy. After a beat or two, he dropped into a chair opposite her. “I don’t get why you keep trying to downplay your success, Erica. If I were in your place, the Astrodome wouldn’t be big enough for my ego.”
She studied his face with affection. They’d been friends since meeting in an art class in college more than twelve years ago. He’d been the male model that day. It was later when Erica learned he was actually an art student, and that he’d volunteered to model because it was just the zany kind of thing Jason sometimes did. He was physically beautiful. No other word fit. He had every natural asset needed for a career as a male model. His hair was a thick, glossy near-black, his eyes were startlingly blue and he had cheekbones to die for. Added to all that, his tall, hard-muscled body looked delectable in clothes. In fact, he’d briefly pursued modeling as a career, but quickly abandoned it as being, in his words, “soul-destroying and shallow beyond belief.” In his bones he was a serious artist, but unlike Erica, he hadn’t been able to support himself with his art.
To tell the truth, Erica wouldn’t have been able to support herself with her art, either, if Jason hadn’t come up with the bright idea that the two of them should collaborate. In his opinion, her fabric designs had commercial appeal. He’d pitched the idea at the darkest time in her life. She’d been holed up in her house popping antidepressants, stashing away the jackets and quilts she designed in a closet in the cluttered room where she created them. Had it not been for Jason and his dogged determination to save her from herself, Erica wondered how long it would have taken her to decide to reenter the land of the living. So, with her designs and Jason’s ability to promote and sell anything except his paintings, he persuaded her that going into business together would be a good thing. And indeed it was. With hard work, plus a lucky break or two, they’d achieved quite a remarkable commercial success.
“I just have this feeling, Jace,” she said, moving a finger over the Texas Today logo. “I know you think it’s my insecurity talking, but every once in a while I just feel as if that success you’re crowing about has been helped along by some outside force. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it’s there.”
“Here we go again.” He rolled his eyes. “That is total bullshit, Erica. You’re a talented artist and that’s why the world is noticing you.” He chose another kolache from the box and added, “Helped along by the somewhat brilliant promotional contributions that have come from me, if you’ll excuse me saying so.”
“I’ve had to excuse a lot more than that since you nagged me into opening the shop,” she reminded him dryly.
“Your lucky day.”
She smiled and gave in. “Okay, okay. Between the two of us, we’re enjoying a little taste of success.”
“And it’s sweet indeed.”
“So I’ll stop looking for a worm in the apple.”
“Good. Because there isn’t one.” Grabbing a pen, he got ready to do what he did best: seizing opportunity and running with it.
“More coffee, Morton?”
Lillian Trask lifted the decanter from the server and waited to pour. Along with coffee and juice, the breakfast cart was laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and a collection of gourmet jams and jellies. For herself, she preferred only fruit and yogurt to start the day, but her husband liked a hearty meal. After a moment, he grunted a response and she refilled his cup.
He held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while he scanned the pages of the Sunday edition of the Houston Chronicle with the other. Open and within easy reach was his trusty Blackberry, on which he received and sent e-mail, retrieved information, accessed his address book, noted the weather and even picked up breaking news. Since sitting down to breakfast twenty minutes ago, he’d been focused on the Blackberry or talking on his cell phone. She’d once tried to declare mealtime a no-business zone, but she’d been instantly overruled. Only if they had guests did she expect conversation with a meal. When they were alone, Morton was too busy talking business to talk to her.
Actually, it was rare that they breakfasted together. When she came downstairs in the mornings, more often than not, he was already out of the house, headed downtown to the offices of CentrexO. As its CEO, he was never separated from the company, not even when he was in Galveston, where his boat was docked. She hated going out on the boat, or rather, his yacht, as he constantly reminded her. The luxurious Bertram was equipped with every convenience to live aboard for days—even weeks—at a time. But she tended to get seasick, and nothing was worse than being miles offshore with her head spinning and her stomach revolting. At those times, Morton was utterly unsympathetic. He, of course, was never seasick.
They owned a condominium overlooking the Gulf and she could spend a weekend there if she wanted, but she seldom did so. It was a seventh-floor corner unit with a great view, but when she was there, she felt lonely and isolated. There was no magic in watching a stunning sunrise or sunset alone.
She finished her breakfast, listening with half an ear to Morton’s conversation with a business associate. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared to clear the table, and when that was done, Lillian turned her attention to the stack of mail she hadn’t gotten around to opening yesterday. She didn’t hear Morton addressing her directly until he barked her name for the third time.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Morton. What did you say?”
“That was John Frazier in Washington,” he told her testily as he entered something in his Blackberry. It irritated him when he didn’t have her full attention. “He’s at the airport on his way back to Houston.”
“John Frazier.” She repeated the vaguely familiar name but couldn’t place him.
“You met him at the fund-raiser last month,” he reminded her.
She thought a minute, then remembered Frazier as a tall, thin man with a practiced smile. “He manages one of those PACs, doesn’t he?” It would be impossible to guess which one, as Morton was a heavy contributor to several political action funds.
“Yeah. And listen to this. He just left a breakfast meeting with some VIPs who have the ear of the president.” He finished entering data and looked up at her as he shut down the Blackberry. “According to John, I’m definitely on the short list for an ambassadorship. I was reasonably certain it would happen, but these things can slip away with the slightest turn of the political tide.”
“Ambassadorship?” she repeated, starring at him in stunned surprise.
“Is it so astonishing? I’ve contributed a goddamn fortune to those jackals in Washington. It’s the least they can do.”
“You mean we’d leave Houston?” And everything and everyone she held dear?
“I can hardly serve as an ambassador from my office downtown.” He was gleeful as he picked up the newspaper again. “I’ve got a short list of posts I’d prefer. How does Costa Rica sound?”
“Hot and humid,” she murmured.
“So? Houston is hot and humid, too.” And with that, Morton dismissed her reaction. “Think of it this way. You won’t have the bother of shopping for new clothes. You already have the right wardrobe.” He snapped the newspaper open before adding, “It won’t necessarily be Costa Rica. I just mentioned that country as a possibility. I could be placed in any of half a dozen other locations.”
“What about the company?” He couldn’t be serious. Nothing took Morton away from CentrexO for any length of time.
“Not a problem. I’ve been grooming Alex Winfield to take over, just in case. The experience will open other doors for me, as well, Lillian. There could be something in Washington. There would definitely be something in Washington,” he added, idly paging through the paper. “I’d make some valuable contacts, and after getting back to the States with the ambassadorship under my belt, I’d be able to write my own ticket.”
Lillian put a hand to her throat. He was serious, and it sounded as if the decision was final. She was to have no say in it.
Still heedless of her reaction, he said, “I admit I didn’t expect to hear so soon, but it’s good to know that, for all practical purposes, the deal is done.”
“I knew nothing about this, Morton,” she said, dismayed. “I don’t want to leave Houston.”
He lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over it. “Why, for God’s sake? There’s nothing you’re involved in here that you can’t find elsewhere. If we wind up in Washington, there are museums and charity causes to fill up your time, plenty of hospitals where you can volunteer.” He disappeared again behind the paper, adding, “As for the other, after a few weeks in a new country as wife of the American ambassador, you’ll adjust. Give it a chance before going negative. You might even enjoy yourself.”
She gazed down at her spoon. Not if it meant leaving Houston and her work in the arts. As the wife of a powerful and visible CEO, she was in a unique position to assist the arts community. But even without her commitment to the arts, there was Hunter. As she thought of her son, her gaze strayed to the window and the center of the immaculate lawn, where a cherub poured water from a jug into a tiny pond. It was painful to remember how close they’d once been. He tolerated a rare lunch date with her now only out of a sense of duty. She sighed, able to pinpoint the moment when their relationship had begun to deteriorate. But then, so much of the downward spiral of her life was marked by that moment. She set her spoon and yogurt aside, untouched. Between the demands of Hunter’s business and his preference for spending his free time at the ranch, she rarely saw him. If she went out of the country for any protracted length of time, she could lose touch with him altogether. As for Jocelyn, she had so little contact with her daughter that it probably wouldn’t matter if they were posted to China.
For a long moment, she watched the sparrows fluttering in the water. She was drawn to the ranch herself, but it was awkward explaining to Morton why she wanted to spend time there. He found the place dusty and hot. Totally urbanized, he didn’t ride and was repulsed by the dust, the torturous Texas heat and the smell of horses. So, they didn’t go.
With another sigh, she chose another envelope from the stack of mail and slit it open. Perhaps she’d survive a brief tour in a foreign country if she could look forward to returning to Houston and the life she’d built for herself, but if Morton had his eye on something in Washington, it was unlikely they would ever live in Texas again. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“Anything in there from Jocelyn?”
She quickly scanned the rest of the envelopes but saw nothing. No surprise there. Jocelyn wasn’t much of a correspondent. The best she could manage was a phone call to her parents once a month. “I don’t see anything,” Lillian said. “The last time we talked, she was so excited about this new job. That’s probably why we haven’t heard from her. She’s very determined to make a career for herself, Morton.”
“By reporting for some sleazy tabloid in Key West?” He folded and set aside a section of the newspaper before picking up another. “I don’t think so. Not unless we see a big change. She doesn’t stick with anything any longer than she sticks to her husbands. Twenty-five years old and two divorces, for God’s sake.”
“One divorce and one annulment. And good reasons for both,” Lillian argued. “The first was a silly, rebellious prank, and that awful Leo person was addicted to cocaine. Would you have wanted her to stay with either one of them?”
“No, but I also didn’t want her marrying either of those bozos…not that she consulted me. She’s spoiled rotten, Lillian. And it’s unlikely to change as long as you keep stepping in when she screws up. What she needs to do is grow up.”
They’d had this discussion before. Jocelyn did have a string of broken relationships behind her. In an act of open rebellion, she’d eloped on the night of her eighteenth birthday with the golf pro at the country club. Morton had been livid but had managed to avoid a major scandal by paying off the bridegroom and arranging an annulment. To the dismay of her parents, however, that first debacle established a pattern and it had been one disaster after another since, including a hasty marriage to a druggie. She seemed addicted to destructive behavior, and after so many years, Lillian wondered if her daughter would ever settle down and be happy.
“I can’t just ignore her when she needs me, Morton.”
“Give her a chance to feel the consequences of her screwups and she’ll soon straighten out,” Morton said grimly. “If she’d consulted me when the time was right, she would be set up fine and dandy on a decent career path at CentrexO, and not down in Key West consorting with who the hell knows what kind of riffraff.” He snapped out another section and scanned it through his bifocals. “But what’s the use closing the barn door after the horse is out. I’m more concerned about the present. I want you to call her and get it through her head that she’d better be on her best behavior for the next few months. I don’t want her mixed up in a scandal that would cause the president to kill my appointment.”
He was right, of course, not that she’d admit it to Morton. Their daughter was spoiled, indulged to a fault and constantly setting herself up for failure. And, unfortunately, the time was long past when she would consider consulting them about anything in her life. Morton might rant on and on about Jocelyn’s tendency to make mistake after mistake, but the blame wasn’t hers, it was theirs.
She looked up when Morton made a choking sound, sputtering into his coffee. “Did you see this?” He shoved a section of the newspaper across the table. “They do a feature article on those hokey shops in the Village and they choose hers to put front and center? This just proves my theory that they’re desperate to find anything newsworthy today.”
Lillian set an invitation to a charity function aside, then looked at the article, bracing for what she would see and the quick, sharp stab of conscience she would surely feel. Artist Erica Stewart had been photographed in her shop, intent on arranging the display in the front window. Her face was in profile, but Lillian needed no reminder to know exactly what Erica looked like. She recalled everything about her with cruel clarity, her storm-gray eyes and dark, curly hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. Her face, with its strong features, was not quite beautiful; still, it was an arresting face, young and vibrant. As always, Lillian was unable to bear looking. She glanced quickly away and said without any emotion in her voice, “I wouldn’t call her shop hokey.”
“That whole damn neighborhood is hokey.” He made a grumpy sound. “She’s probably sleeping with somebody with clout at the newspaper to get this kind of play in the Sunday edition.”
“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.
He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”
She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”
He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”
But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.
“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.
He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”
“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.
Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes.”
He was busy mulling it over and missed the irony in her voice. “Well, I was right about one thing. He’s probably the one bankrolling the shop in the Village, but I guess that shoots my theory about her sleeping her way to success.”
Lillian sighed. “Please, Morton.”
“At least, not with Jason,” he said, smirking. “The boy’s gay, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lillian said stiffly. “And he’s hardly a boy. He’s almost as old as Hunter.”
“Well, he is gay. Everybody knows it. Not that Bob’s ever mentioned it. And I see him at the club frequently. As a matter of fact, we played golf last week. Naturally, he doesn’t mention Jason much, but—”
Lillian rose abruptly. “I need to talk to Maria about lunch,” she said. Not waiting to hear him out, she left the room.
Two
To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.
It was a few minutes past seven when he finally turned off a state road onto the ranch—two hundred and eighty acres of prime Texas land. As he drove beneath an iron arch with McCabe-Colson forged in large letters, his mood improved. The ranch was a legacy from his father and one that Hunter cherished. Bart McCabe had purchased it thirty-five years ago with his business partner, Hank Colson. According to Hank, they’d bought it mostly as a tax write-off, but with hopes of raising cattle on a large scale in the future. But those plans had died when Bart went down in the crash of a small plane, leaving Hunter fatherless at age two and his mother a widow. Driving past grassy pasture now, he blessed the impulse that had moved Hank and his dad to purchase the land, whatever their motivation.
Once out of the car, Hunter breathed deeply, taking in the smells of the ranch—fresh-cut grass, wood smoke and horses. In the south pasture, a young mare stood cropping winter rye while her foal nursed vigorously. A prize Appaloosa in the pasture opposite spotted Hunter and whinnied, but he resisted the temptation to head that way. There were a couple of things that needed tending before he could escape to the stables. A weather front had brought rain yesterday and the cold, crisp day was perfect for what he had in mind.
He braced for the wild welcome from the chocolate Lab who rushed toward him, barking joyously. Charlie was aging, but somehow in greeting Hunter, who’d raised him from a puppy, he seemed to forget his aching joints. Laughing, Hunter dodged the dog’s tongue and enthusiasm, and only after he’d given him a good rub did Charlie fall in beside him, tongue lolling happily. He was up the steps onto the porch in two strides, pausing to stamp the dampness from his boots on the welcome mat at the front door before going inside.
The man who met him before he cleared the threshold might have stepped right out of a Remington sculpture. “Thought I heard you drive up,” Hank said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee. “If you’d headed to the barn first, I was coming after you and I wouldn’t be offering coffee.”
“I missed you, too.” Hunter took the coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong, and inhaled deeply.
Tall and whipcord lean, Hank was on the downhill side of sixty but still as fit as a man in his forties. He had a face made of sharp angles and shadowy planes and a generous mustache as gray now as his eyes. And in spite of the fact that he always wore a hat, his skin was still richly tanned and weathered.
Hunter tossed his hat at the rack by the door, ringing it squarely. “Before you light into me, hear me out. I plan to look over that lease agreement you’ve been nagging about right away. Not that I need to. If you’re satisfied, I’ll sign it and we’ll be done with it.”
“This is a partnership, Hunt. I’m not signing anything that ties us to a contract for five years without you blessing it.”
Hunter tasted the coffee with caution. “I know as much about growing pecans as you do about building a high-rise,” he said, wincing over his blistered tongue.
“It’s not about growing pecans. It’s about your land and—”
“Our land, Hank. We’re equal partners here. You keep forgetting that I was only ten years old when you had the idea to plant a thousand trees on ground that was growing nothing but grass and scrub. Left to me, it would still be grass and shrub, as long as there was pasture for the horses. So, if you say you want to lease more acreage to plant more pecan trees, why would I argue?”
“We’re lucky the land butts up to ours and that Billings is willing to lease it out,” Hank said. He watched Hunter give the collection of mail on the table a quick glance, then lose interest before adding, “I’m thinking if we offered enough, he’d probably let us buy it. ’Course, he’d want an arm and a leg per acre. His wife’s the one holding out for leasing.”
Hunter leaned against the table, smiling. “Thinking you can afford to pay an arm and a leg?”
“Thinking we both can,” Hank said.
Hunter studied the older man, knowing that if and when a deal was done, it would be to the advantage of McCabe and Colson no matter how grasping Billings’s wife was. Hank had keen business instincts. He and Bart McCabe, who’d been a pilot, had started up an air-cargo business back in the sixties and it was thriving at the time of Bart’s death. When Lillian remarried, Hank bought out her share and continued to run it with truly phenomenal success until about eight years ago. Then he’d surprised everyone by announcing his retirement. That was the year his daughter, Kelly, was accepted into the veterinary program at Texas A&M. Hank set her up in an apartment in College Station and moved into the ranch house after enlarging it enough so that Hunter wouldn’t feel crowded when he dropped in. It was after his retirement that he’d developed a keen interest in the lucrative crop, and it was not long afterward that he’d decided to get into growing pecans in a big way. In five years, he had more than a thousand trees in varying degrees of maturity and varieties. He’d taken to the role of planter enthusiastically and was now highly regarded in that field.
“Just let me know what you decide,” Hunter said, and pushed away from the table. “Now, can we have breakfast? I’m starved.”
He could smell bacon frying. Theresa, the ranch’s longtime housekeeper and cook—and surrogate mother to Hunter—would have a mouthwatering spread waiting. Heading for the kitchen, he glanced around the place with a sense of homecoming. It was clearly a masculine abode decorated with a strong Western influence. The man-size furniture was upholstered in leather, the end tables were wrought iron and wood, the chandelier was made of a wagon wheel and deer antlers, and over all lay the smell of cigar smoke and lemon wax. The place was orderly and spotless, no thanks to Hank or Hunter. Theresa ran a tight ship.
She was stirring something on the stove when they entered the kitchen, but she paused to hug Hunter. “It’s about time,” she said, inspecting his face with the familiarity of one who’d changed his diapers. She was a tiny woman with hair as black now as it had been when Hunter was three. Her bones felt as frail as a bird’s, but he knew she was as tough as a pine knot. Theresa was always up and about at daylight, and if she ever sat down during the day, no one ever saw it.
He swung her off her feet and kissed her soundly before setting her down to inspect what she was cooking. “Whatever it is, bring it on. I’ve been saving up for this.”
“Sausage gravy for your biscuits,” she told him, giving him a shove toward the table. “Scrambled eggs and bacon are on the table. Sit down and get started. Hank, leave him alone until he’s done with his breakfast. You know he’s not about to dispute your plans, so give him a minute to eat in peace.”
“He can listen while I fill him in on the details.” Hank reached for a folder and opened it before Hunter took a seat.
“Do me a favor,” Hunter said, heaping his plate. “Skip the details. Just hit the high points.”
With a sigh, Hank closed the file and picked up his coffee. He watched Hunter tackle the food, then gave him the bottom line. After stating the costs, he added, “I’m considering some new hybrids recently developed at A&M. I figure I can plant at least five hundred trees on the land.”
Hunter paused, buttering a biscuit. “Are you sure you want to take on the responsibility? You know I can’t get up here except on weekends, plus you’re supposed to be retired. Adding five hundred trees to what you’ve already got isn’t my idea of retirement.”
“You let me worry about that. Best thing about growing pecans,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, “it’s not labor intensive like, say cotton or corn, crops like that. ’Course, we won’t get any return on these trees for years yet, but when they do come in, they’ll be cash in the pockets of your kids…if you ever have any.”
Tucking into his breakfast, Hunter chewed slowly. He knew Hank believed it was time he settled down with a wife. And here lately Hunter had found himself thinking the same thing. If he’d been asked when he was in his mid-twenties whether or not in ten years he’d still be unmarried, he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. Of course he’d eventually marry and have kids. Most of his friends had done exactly that. One by one, he’d watched them find the “right” woman and head happily for the altar. It hadn’t happened for Hunter. He’d had relationships—even some lasting a few years. He’d just never felt compelled to marry. He now figured he wouldn’t ever experience the crash-and-burn-type passion like his friends had, and was resigned to settling for something else. There was a lot to be said for being with a woman who shared the same goals.
“And speaking of family,” Hank went on after failing to get a response from Hunter, “you didn’t forget Lily’s birthday, did you?”
Hunter’s knife and fork clinked against his plate. “Damn, I guess I did.” Frowning, he glanced at the date on his watch face. “Today’s the third. I’ve got a couple of days. It’s the sixth, isn’t it?”
“You should know your mother’s birthday, Hunt. Yeah, it’s the sixth. And I had a feeling you’d forget.”
Theresa reached to remove an empty platter from the table. “Maybe if you weren’t so ready to remind him,” she said, “he’d get in the habit of remembering on his own.”
“And maybe he wouldn’t,” Hank said.
“I guess we’ll never know.” Ignoring Hank’s grumpy look, she spoke to Hunter. “I told him you had a calendar at work. You’d eventually see it and go out and buy her something nice. It might be a day or two late, but it would happen.”
Hunter nursed the last of his coffee and wisely said nothing. Taking sides between Hank and Theresa would be inviting trouble. The truth was that Hank had nailed it, saying he’d probably forget if he wasn’t reminded. Theresa was right, too, saying sooner or later he’d realize it and get his mother a gift.
Hank stood up. “Bottom line, you haven’t done it yet. You’ll be at work tomorrow morning up to your ass in alligators and last thing on your mind’ll be shopping for Lily’s birthday. Lucky for you, half the job’s done. Wait here.”
Clueless, Hunter looked at Theresa as Hank left the kitchen, but she only shrugged with a who-knows expression. Both knew what it was that drove Hank to remind him of his mother’s birthday, and it wasn’t to prevent Hunter forgetting it. It was Hank’s own partiality for “Lily,” as he called her. It had been plain to Hunter for a long time that Hank had a soft spot for Lillian. Both Hank and Bart McCabe had been married forty years ago when they went into business together. But when Marguerite Colson died of cancer, Hank’s interest in Lillian grew beyond friendship. She’d remarried by then, but as a boy, Hunter had often pretended that Hank, and not Morton Trask, was his stepfather. He definitely felt more of a kinship to Hank than he ever had to Morton.
“Take a look at this.” Hank was back, shoving a section of newspaper at him.
Front and center on the Zest magazine was a photo of a woman doing something in the window of what appeared to be one of those trendy little shops in the Village. Hunter’s interest in the newspaper was usually confined to the sports section first and the front page next. Zest covered arts and theater stuff and he often skipped it. It was always the first thing his mother pulled out of the Chronicle’s Sunday edition. He glanced up at Hank. “Give me a hint. How is this related to Mom’s birthday?”
“I’ve heard Lily mention this artist, Erica Stewart,” Hank said, paging through to find the article. “She designs quilts and stuff and she’s good. I bet Lily would appreciate something from her shop. You’ve been traveling between those two jobs day in and day out. Not twenty minutes out of your way to detour over to the Village and choose something.”
Theresa had risen to stand at Hunter’s elbow and study the article. “Hmm, anything in that shop’ll be pricey, count on it.”
“He can afford to spend some money on his mother,” Hank said testily.
“I’m not arguing that,” Theresa said, then pointed to an item in the window. “You want my opinion, go for one of the jackets. The quilts are probably gorgeous, but not exactly Lillian’s style. Now, if those jackets are as elegant as they appear in this picture, I think she’d be thrilled to get one.”
“I’ll check it out.” Hunter got up, taking the Zest article with him. He was relieved not to have to spend time he didn’t have browsing in the Galleria. Clapping a hand on Hank’s shoulder, he moved toward the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it, Hank.” Passing the sideboard, he took a couple of apples from a bowl and headed for the door to get his hat.
Once out of the house, he took a deep breath and followed the path leading to the barn. The air was sweet, the sky was already as blue as only a Texas sky can be and the birds were singing. The sun, high now on the east horizon, had burned off traces of morning mist. A perfect day for what he had in mind. Near the barn, Cisco, one of the two regular ranch hands on the payroll, was climbing onto the seat of a tractor hooked up to a trailer loaded with hay bales. Hunter raised his hand in greeting as Cisco headed out to pasture.
The noise faded as Hunter entered the barn. Taking in the familiar smells of hay, horses and manure, he welcomed the hush. A soft whicker came from the first stall. Jasper, an Appaloosa stallion Hunter had bought a year ago, lifted his head and flicked his ears back in recognition. Hunter pulled one of the apples out of his jacket pocket.
“Hey, boy. Ready for a ride?” Standing outside the stall, he fed the apple to the horse, rubbed him behind the ears, then reached for a bridle hanging on a hook. Jasper crunched the crisp apple and blew out a soft, gentle sound, stamping a foot. Hunter grinned, recognizing impatience as he slipped the bridle into place. “Looking forward to a good workout, huh? Well, me, too. Just let me get that saddle and we’re outta here, buddy.”
The gear was in the tack room at the rear of the barn. As soon as he saddled up, Hunter planned to spend the next few hours skirting the perimeter of the ranch. Cisco and Earl were paid to see that the fences were in good shape, but Hunter liked to check himself from time to time. After the week he’d endured, he looked forward to a few hours to himself.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Hunter turned with the saddle in his hands. Kelly Colson stood in the doorway. Blue-eyed, slim as a boy in boot-cut jeans and a baseball hat on her auburn head, she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-three-year-old veterinarian. “I thought you’d be sleeping in this morning,” he told her, hefting the saddle onto his shoulder.
She stepped aside to let him pass. “Is that why you didn’t call me?”
“I drove in early. Hank hit me at the door with paperwork. I only escaped ten minutes ago.” He hadn’t thought to call her, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You’re up early, too.”
“I never went to bed,” she said. “Tom Erickson called around midnight. His prize bull got out and was hit broadside by a teenager in a pickup. I didn’t get away until a few minutes ago. I spotted your car as I was passing on my way home.”
“Not that bull he imported from Colorado?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hunter pushed Jasper’s stall door open. A man could buy a whole ranch for what some prize bulls cost. “Were you able to save him?”
“Luckily nothing was broken, so he’ll survive.” She caught Jasper’s bridle as Hunter put the saddle blanket on his back. “He won’t be doing his job for a while, but when he’s called on to perform in a week or two, he’ll do his duty.”
“Poor baby.”
Kelly specialized in large animals, which is why she’d chosen to set her practice outside Houston. There was opportunity galore to practice in the city, where there were plenty of youngsters whose parents could afford the expense of a horse, but like Hunter, Kelly preferred breathing country air. It was one of many interests they shared. They had a lot in common, from a love of horses and country living to family history.
She watched him pull the cinch tight around the horse and then reach to adjust the stirrup. “Looks like you’ve got plans for the day.”
He glanced over at her, picking up something in her voice that made him proceed with caution. “At least, for most of the morning,” he told her. He and Kelly had drifted into a relationship of sorts lately. She’d stayed overnight at his condo once in a while when she was in the city, and they were often together on weekends when he made it out to the ranch. But today he craved a few hours by himself. “I thought I’d check the fence line,” he said, and bent back to his task, hoping she wouldn’t want to mount up and go with him.
They’d been friends since childhood, which was understandable seeing the close connections of their parents. It was when Kelly finished her training and returned to establish her practice near the ranch that he realized she wanted them to be more than friends. She was an up-front, direct kind of woman who went flat out for whatever she wanted. And she made it plain that she wanted Hunter. He admitted he hadn’t put up much resistance; even so, he’d felt a little uncomfortable the first time they’d wound up in bed. Not that the sex wasn’t good, it was. Kelly didn’t seem to feel any qualms and had settled happily into their affair. What he couldn’t quite figure out was why—to him—something didn’t feel exactly…right.
“Isn’t that Earl’s job?”
“Riding fence?” He’d almost forgotten what they were talking about. “I do it for the fun of it. He indulges me.” When she failed to smile, he reached for the reins and she let go. “I’ve been fighting traffic and breathing interstate exhaust night and day for two weeks, Kell. Once I’m out of the barn, it’s just me and Jasper and open air. You know the feeling.”
“I guess that means you don’t want company.”
He had Jasper out of the stall now. He put his foot into a stirrup and mounted up. The stallion danced and snorted, eager to be moving, but Hunter held him in check for another moment. “You’ve been working all night. Get some sleep. I’ll come over later. We’ll drive into Brenham and get something to eat.”
“Did you even think of calling me, Hunter?”
Since he wasn’t sure in his own mind why he hadn’t, he wasn’t in a mood to admit or discuss it now. “See you around seven tonight.”
Three
Erica’s Art was the name of her shop and Erica loved it. She loved stocking it with her designs and watching customers pick and choose from the collection of quilts and jackets and then leave pleased to own something she’d created. It surprised her that she was a good merchant. As an artist, she preferred solitude to produce her creations, and she was shy when she had to assume the role of salesperson. That was Jason’s thing and he was so good at it that she didn’t often have to actually deal with a customer. Everything else about the shop she loved, even the end-of-month accounting. It was satisfying to run the numbers and find they were solidly in the black.
Today, she had holed up in the office at the rear of the store preparing tax records for their accountant. Finally done, she closed the books just as a ping sounded, announcing a customer. She glanced up, caught a glimpse of a tall man entering the store before he moved from her line of vision to browse. Jason had returned from a lunch date a few minutes ago, which relieved her of having to drop what she was working on to go out and sell. She knew it was silly that she found it awkward standing by while perfect strangers fingered her quilts, or squinted critically at her jackets. She had no problem accepting that what she created and stocked in the shop wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but it was so…well, awkward pretending that it wasn’t somehow personal, when creating every design was, in fact, somehow very personal.
Turning to a shipment of fabric that had arrived an hour ago, Erica tore the wrapping from material intended for a series of jackets still in the design stage. She pulled yardage from the first bolt and ran a palm over the weave, pleased with both texture and color. She itched to get started, but she’d have to wait until Jason could help her take the shipment upstairs to her studio to begin cutting. She made all originals of her jacket designs herself before handing the pattern and fabric to the two women who sewed the numbered replicas. She never authorized more than six of a single design.
“Psst! Erica, come out here for a minute.” Jason stuck his head around the door, doing funny things with his eyebrows.
She frowned at him. “What?”
“You’ll see,” he hissed. “Just drop that and walk out here on the floor.”
“Not until you tell me why.” She’d been on the receiving end of his practical jokes before. Refusing the bait, she reached for a second bolt.
He gave an exasperated sound but had to withdraw when someone—the customer, she assumed—called, “Hey, I’m on my lunch hour here.”
“Sorry, I was just consulting with the designer,” Jason said, giving the man a boyish smile, one that was usually effective in softening up the most hardened sales-resistant browser. As she tore at the wrapping, she heard Jason launch full bore into his sales pitch. Apparently the customer’s choice was narrowed to one of the evening jackets. Dismissing them, she removed silk shantung in a stunning shade of crimson from the packing material. She held the length of silk up to the light, visualizing a beaded design. Jet beading, she decided with a forefinger pressed to her lips. With a long black skirt or skinny black pants, it would make a fabulous holiday outfit. She reached automatically for her sketch pad.
“Why don’t we ask Erica to help us out.” Jason was again at the door, but this time he’d dragged the customer with him.
It took her a moment to bring them into focus. She looked beyond Jason into dark eyes deeply set in an unshaven face of chiseled angles and shadowy planes, a bone-deep tan—which she knew did not originate in a tanning booth—and hair a rich, sun-streaked, tobacco-brown. He was tall with an athlete’s build and wore a battered leather jacket and black T-shirt. He looked tough and not quite housebroken. She noted all this with her artist’s eye before realizing with an unsettling start that he was studying her, as well. Setting her sketch pad aside, she said, “What’s the problem?”
“No problem.” Jason glanced at his customer as if dishing him up on a platter for Erica. “This is Hunter McCabe. He’s thinking of buying his mother a jacket for her birthday. Hunter, meet the artist herself, Erica Stewart.”
“My pleasure.” Hunter leaned around Jason and extended a hand.
“Hello.” With no other option, she put her hand in his and found it as hard as his jaw. She quickly withdrew hers. He definitely did not spend his days behind a desk.
“From Hunter’s description of his mother,” Jason said, beaming at the two of them, “she’s probably about your size, Erica. Am I right?” he asked Hunter.
“Yeah, but that’s pretty much where the resemblance ends.”
Erica flushed as his gaze held hers a heartbeat too long, before dropping to her chin, then drifting down past her midriff all the way to her feet. Her bare feet. She had a habit of kicking off her shoes while she worked. It irritated her that she hadn’t remembered to put them on after getting up from her desk and tackling the new shipments.
“Erica’s a size six,” Jason said helpfully. “I know it’s difficult to judge one person’s size by another, but if you think she’s about Erica’s height and weight, we should be safe in choosing a size six.”
Standing with his arms crossed, Hunter cocked his head, considering. “I’d know for sure if you’d put on one of your jackets.”
“Great idea.” This from Jason.
“Jason, I don’t think—” But he was off like a shot. “Excuse me,” she said to Hunter, then turned to find her shoes. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel stripped as bare as her feet. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself, gazing around the tiny room. Where the heck had she put her shoes?
“Looking for these?”
She turned to see him pluck her shoes from beneath the pile of wrapping paper on the floor. “Yes, thanks.” She took them and stood on one leg to put them on, thinking she must look like a flamingo. That done, she took a deep breath, straightened, tugged her sweater down over her jeans and met his eyes. He was openly amused.
“Do you always work in bare feet?”
“It’s a habit and a silly one,” she said. “I somehow shed my shoes once I get caught up in what I’m doing.” What was keeping Jason?
He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, as if settling in. “If that’s the secret to your creativity, then I’d forget trying to break it. I don’t know much about quilts or fashion, but I’m told an Erica Stewart label is the hottest thing going.”
“We’ve been very fortunate,” she said, and went back to her desk before looking at him again. “Tell me something about your mother, her hair, eyes. Just because we’re the same size doesn’t mean our style and color should be the same. Does she tend to wear subtle colors or bold ones?”
“Her eyes are blue and her hair is blond. She tints it to cover the gray, I think. Not that I’ve ever seen a gray hair.”
She put a hand to her own wild and curly mane. No matter what she did, her hair tended to take on a life of its own in Houston’s humidity. “And colors?” she prompted.
“Not too much bold stuff. Subtle, I guess.” His gaze went to her black T-shirt and jeans before wandering back to her face. “She hangs out with a lot of artists, but she doesn’t dress like one. She doesn’t look like one, either,” he added.
Jason returned just then. “The champagne silk, I think.” He displayed the jacket over one arm with a flourish. “Size six. How tall is she? Erica’s five-six. If your mother’s around the same height, this should be just perfect. Come out from behind that desk and try it on, Erica. He needs to see it on to get the full effect.”
“His mother’s a blond and she has blue eyes,” Erica said, staying put. “The champagne should be right for her. There’s no need—”
“Champagne is right for anyone, sugar. What Hunter needs to see is whether it fits. Come on.”
Before coming out from behind her desk, she shot Jason a dark look, promising retribution. Nevertheless, she allowed him to help her into the jacket, noting with a quick glance at Hunter that he was clearly enjoying the whole charade.
“You should be the model for your designs,” he said, looking her over. “You’d sell those things faster than you could make them.”
“We’re already selling them faster than we can make them.” Head cocked, Jason studied the picture Erica made wearing the jacket. “And you’re absolutely right, Hunter. Wearing that little number with those black jeans, she strikes just the right note of sexy sophistication, don’t you think?”
“Damn straight.”
With a huff of exasperation, Erica took the jacket off. The man was a potential buyer, so she bit back a tart remark and conjured up a professional smile. “If your mother is not pleased with the color or style, we’ll be happy to exchange it for something else.”
“Trust me, she’ll love it. And can I wait while you gift wrap it?”
“Certainly. Jason will take care of you.” Back behind her desk again, she picked up the sketch pad and folded her arms around it…for some reason. “Right, Jason?”
“Right, sugar. I live to gift wrap.” Jason held the jacket up and studied it with a critical eye. “I’m thinking something in that pearlized cream paper and possibly the pale gold ribbon, the gauzy stuff, Erica. What d’you think?”
“Fine.” She again made the mistake of looking into those dark, amused eyes.
“Cream and gold sounds perfect to me,” he said, grinning.
Beaming, Jason moved toward the door. “Your mom will absolutely love this, Hunter. And be sure to tell her to look at the next issue of Texas Today. Erica’s been named one of the mag’s Twenty Women to Watch.” Jason’s smile flashed at Erica. “She’s one terrific gal, our Erica.”
Grinding her teeth, Erica said, “You’ll want to start wrapping that, Jason. Mr. McCabe is on his lunch hour.”
“You betcha.” With a saucy wink, he left them.
Hunter moved from his position at the door into her office. “I saw the article in yesterday’s paper. Your stuff looked good, but I don’t think the real impact of your work was captured in a newspaper spread. Have you considered printing up a catalog? Those quilts would look great in full color, but the jackets would really pop out. It pays to advertise.”
“Are you in that line of work?”
“Advertising? No, I’m an architect.”
She couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. In jeans and a leather jacket over a dark T-shirt and scuffed boots, he didn’t look like an architect. He looked like a man who worked outdoors. “Really.”
“Cross my heart.” He said it with a slow smile. “I’m dressed for fieldwork today. I’ve got a couple of jobs going and I like to keep close tabs on any work in progress.” He glanced at his boots. “I just left a job where the crew struck a waterline and flooded the whole site.”
“So you’ll need to get back, I imagine.”
“The situation’s under control,” he said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “Tell me about the Texas Today thing. Something like that doesn’t just fall into a person’s lap. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. As I said, Jason and I have been—”
“Fortunate. Yeah, but it’s you who’s been named, not Jason. You’re the artist. You’re the designer.” He paused, looking at her. “At least, I assume the designs are yours exclusively, right?”
“They’re my designs, but Jason is a talented artist. And he’s absolutely tops in promoting our shop.” She put the sketch pad down on the desk. “Mr. McCabe, I don’t want to seem rude, but I still have a lot to do here.” She glanced at the drape of red silk spilling over her drafting board. “There never seems to be enough hours in a day to get everything done.”
“I hear you.” He stood up and looked at her ringless left hand. “Is there a Mr. Stewart?”
Not anymore. The thought came quickly and with its usual swift, piercing pain. But her reply was simply “No.”
The look she gave him was usually good at discouraging even the most determined man. Something in the tone of her voice or the look on her face usually put them off. It worked now with McCabe.
“Okay,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you.”
“Thank you. I hope your mother likes the jacket. As I said, if she’s not pleased or needs a different size or color, have her bring it in. We’ll do our best to find something she likes.”
“She’s never returned anything I’ve ever given her, but I guess there could be a first time.”
“Yes, well…be sure to pick up a card on your way out, so she’ll have our phone number.” She picked up the sketch pad again.
He glanced at it. “Something new?”
“Just some raw sketches. If I don’t make some effort to save them, they go out of my head and are lost. I try to keep—” She paused, caught herself up. She could hardly get her work done if she kept chatting with him. “I don’t want to be rude, Mr. McCabe, but I really have a lot to do.”
He smiled. “Hunter. Mr. McCabe is what my accountant calls me.”
“I’ll just check to see if Jason’s finished.” She moved from behind her desk even though she had to brush past Hunter to leave. Jason must be done but was probably dawdling over wrapping the gift in a very unsubtle attempt to prolong conversation between her and a man. He never tired of trying to stimulate her social life even though he knew she had no interest in developing a relationship. That part of her life was over.
“Okay, he was a hottie and don’t you try to tell me you didn’t notice.” Jason stood with one foot in the door of the office and an eye on the floor of the shop where a couple of customers were browsing. “Also, he did not wear a wedding ring.”
“Which means nothing. Nowadays, not wearing a ring is almost de rigueur for some men,” Erica said, tearing the wrapping from a bolt of electric-blue fabric.
“Yummy, I love it when you talk sexy.”
“Oh, would you look at this color! I love this blue. I think a lining in just the right shade of green, clear bottle-green…” Her eyes went unfocused as she visualized the effect in her mind.
“He’s just the kind of guy you should be dating,” Jason persisted, ignoring the possibility that McCabe was married. “He was driving a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV and his boots cost at least half that. If your libido didn’t perk up at just being in the room with Hunter McCabe, I’m gonna give up. It means you’re dead.”
“The best part of that sales pitch is you’re thinking of giving up.” She tossed the blue bolt aside and ripped open another one. “I think those customers are ready to check out.”
He glanced at the two women who were trying to make a decision about a quilt. “They’re not even close. I’m serious, Erica. I saw the way McCabe was looking at you, as if you were crème brûlée and he’d just been told he could have dessert.”
She placed a bolt on the growing stack behind her, then fixed him with a direct look. “Jason, how many times do I have to tell you that I am not interested in dating? And don’t start with that your-life-is-incomplete-without-sex line. I’m very satisfied designing clothes and quilts. You know yourself I don’t have enough time left over to grocery shop, so when would I have the time to have a relationship with a man?”
“If you gave yourself a chance to fall in love again, you’d make the time. It’s normal. It’s natural. All human beings need the physical and spiritual connections that come from a sexual relationship.”
“Speaking of that,” she said, tearing into another package, “what happened when you went to see your dad?”
“Same as always. Two minutes after I got there, he started. If we hadn’t been at a restaurant, it would have been a huge scene. As it was, Susan stopped him, midtirade. She handles him better than my mother ever did, which makes me wonder how it came about that he married someone who doesn’t ask how high when he says jump. My mother always rolled right over under his overbearing ways. Anyway, Susan threatened to dump her coffee in his lap if he didn’t calm down. You can imagine how lovely the rest of the meal was. If it hadn’t been for her playing mediator, I would have left in the middle of the meal. The man can be a real jerk.”
“Maybe you should cut him some slack until he comes to terms with your lifestyle, Jace.”
Leaning against the door frame, Jason got a stubborn look on his face. “That is such bullshit, Erica. He’s known forever that I’m gay. Just because I never said it, he’s trying to pretend it’s not a fact. The only reason this came up is he happened to run into Stephen and me at that restaurant and he was with a couple of VIPs he does business with, like he was so afraid they’d guess my little secret. Like it has anything to do with him, damn it. Next time, maybe I’ll bring Derek Kingsley,” he threatened darkly. “See how he reacts to that.”
“Speaking of jerks,” Erica put in dryly. “It’s Derek Kingsley, not your father, who comes instantly to mind.”
“Which is exactly the point. And until Dad accepts me for who I am, I’m going to devote myself to pissing him off.”
“Very mature of you,” she told him. “And that should make the next family gathering just lovely. Here, make yourself useful.” She shoved two of the fabric bolts into his arms. “Help me haul this stuff upstairs. I’ve got several ideas for using it and you’ve got merchandise to sell.”
Hunter hoped to avoid seeing Morton when he took his mother’s gift to her on the evening of her birthday. He planned to stay long enough to have a drink and watch her open the gift, then cut out before Morton showed up. The older he got, the less Hunter was able to handle Morton with his gigantic ego and his callous attitude toward Lillian. Tonight, for example, she would be wined and dined royally, which was Morton’s style, after which she would be relegated to the background of his life until some other event required him to turn his attention to her again. At which time he’d do something else lavish and over the top, all in keeping with his public image, of course, then go back to ignoring her. Hunter had long since stopped trying to figure out why she hadn’t walked out years ago. There was apparently something that kept their relationship together, but what it could be was a mystery to him.
Could be his disgust with Morton was plain, old-fashioned jealousy, he admitted, not of the man’s success in his career, but of the place he occupied in Lillian’s life. There had been a time when Hunter and his mother had been as close as any parent and child could be. In spite of the fact that Lillian had remarried after the death of his dad, Hunter had known he was first in her life. Even after Jocelyn’s birth, he and his mom still had a special bond. When exactly that had all changed he wasn’t quite certain, he thought now, frowning. He simply knew that he’d realized one day that their special bond was gone. She’d somehow turned into a ghost of herself and he had yet to figure out why. What wasn’t hard to see was that Morton was suddenly front and center, placing Hunter—and Jocelyn, too—as distant also-rans.
But today was his mother’s birthday and he should have outgrown old resentments. Besides, giving her the jacket as a birthday gift offered him a chance at maybe finding out a little more about Erica. If his mother had any passion besides fulfilling her role as the perfect wife to Morton, it was her participation in the arts community in Houston. If, as Hank said, she was familiar with Erica’s work, she would probably know something about the artist herself.
He couldn’t remember when he’d been as intrigued by a woman as he was with Erica Stewart, a woman he’d barely met and about whom he knew nothing. When he’d left the shop after buying the jacket, all he knew was that he wanted to see her again. In fact, for a couple of days he’d tried to think of an excuse to go back to the shop, but she’d been anything but encouraging in the few minutes he’d spent with her, and he found himself oddly unwilling to chance an outright rejection. He wasn’t sure why he was so intrigued. She was beautiful, of course, but there was something else. Those big gray eyes looked as if they held deep secrets, and her jumble of dark curly hair invited a man’s hand. But it was her mouth that he liked best—wide and bow-shaped—entirely at odds with the seriousness of her eyes and attitude. Downright sexy, it was. Hell, thinking about how she’d taste, he’d been on the point of asking her out before he remembered Kelly.
Probably a good thing the feeling wasn’t mutual.
His mother’s face lit with pleasure when she opened the door. “Hunter, darling, it’s so good to see you.”
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
She made a face. “Don’t remind me.” Lifting her cheek for his kiss, she caught his arm and pulled him over the threshold. “I’ve got your favorite, Maker’s Mark. And I wish you’d join Morton and me for dinner. He’s taking me to Annie’s. You know you’d enjoy it.”
“Too much to do after I leave here,” he told her. “I’ve got a couple of hairy jobs going and the weather hasn’t cooperated.” It had rained hard the day before and the sites were still soaked. The construction boss had been forced to send the crews home on both jobs. More rain was forecast and construction on both projects was not far enough along to do any inside work. “I’ll take a rain check, so to speak, okay?”
“I should hold you to that, but I won’t even try because I know you don’t mean it.”
“Did you hear from Jocelyn?” he asked as they left the foyer. “Where is she, incidentally? Last I heard, she was in Key West trying her hand at journalism, but to be honest, the newspaper sounded more like an underground publication than a bona fide newspaper. Let’s hope the guy who claims to be the editor doesn’t turn out to be a jerk.”
“She called to wish me a happy birthday this morning, but she wasn’t very forthcoming as to how the job was going. The last time we talked, she couldn’t say enough about her editor, but today she barely mentioned him or the job. I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, and I agree. The last thing she needs is to get involved in another rocky relationship. Of course, I can’t discuss it with Morton.”
If there was anything of consequence his mother could discuss with Morton, it would surprise him, Hunter thought. He made a mental note to check on Jocelyn. His half sister did not need another aborted relationship to add to the mistakes she’d already chalked up.
Lillian led him down a hall to the darkly sumptuous den. He deliberately avoided looking in the eyes of the massive ram that was mounted over the mantel. Morton was an avid big-game hunter and it pleased him to show the world what he shot and killed. The den was the only room in the house whose decor didn’t reflect Lillian’s gracious, tasteful influence, but it looked exactly the way Morton wanted.
Stopping at the bar, she poured Maker’s Mark in a short glass and handed it over. “Actually, Morton’s upstairs now and should be down soon to join us for a drink. He was able to leave the office early today.”
Hunter kept his reaction to that off his face and lifted the glass. “Here’s to a beautiful lady.”
“Thank you, Hunter.” She took a sip of wine from a glass she poured for herself, then brightened as he produced the gift-wrapped box. “Oh, what a lovely package. Hmm, this is probably going to be something wonderful. Dare I ask where you got it?”
“At a shop in the Village,” he said, and relaxed against the bar as she set her wine aside to open it. “And before you brag about my good taste, I’ll tell you it was Hank’s recommendation. The artist was featured in Sunday’s Zest and he seemed to think you’d appreciate something done by her.”
“Really?” Some of her pleasure seemed to fade and a tiny line formed between her eyes. But before he could question her, Morton appeared.
“Hunter. Glad to see you.” Smiling and jovial, he held out his hand and they shook. “Your mother’s looking fantastic for an old lady of fifty-seven, don’t you think?”
“She is,” Hunter said, lifting his drink. Lillian was studying the signature wrapping paper on the package. “Go ahead, open it, Mom. I have it from the designer herself that it’ll suit you.”
“Who’s the designer?” Morton asked on his way to the bar.
“Erica Stewart,” Hunter said as Lillian pulled at the gauzy bow decorating the box.
He was looking at the gift, so he almost missed a wordless exchange between Lillian and Morton as he said Erica’s name. He thought Morton muttered an obscenity, but when he glanced at the older man, he was busy pouring himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey. “Do you know her? Hank said you’d mentioned her work. He seemed to think you’d like anything she did.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Lillian murmured, removing the lid from the box. The jacket, a creation of champagne silk lavishly trimmed with Austrian crystal, was nestled in a froth of creamy tissue. Light from the chandelier overhead reflected off the crystal as Lillian stared at it, then quickly reached for the lid and covered it. Hunter thought she seemed a little pale as she set the box on the bar, and it was with some effort that she smiled. “Thank you,” she managed to say in a shaky voice. “It’s very nice.”
“You can exchange it for something you like better,” Hunter said, frowning. “They were insistent about that.”
“They?” Lillian reached for her wine and quickly took a sip.
“She has a partner. He was in the shop when I bought the jacket.” Still trying to make sense of her reaction, he added, “Do you recognize the artist?”
Lillian perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees tight together and her wine clutched in both hands. “Yes. She’s…I think…local.”
“Mom, is something wrong? You’re pale as a ghost and you look upset.”
“No, I’m fine. Just a little light-headed.” She blinked a couple of times. “I skipped lunch and shouldn’t have.” She set the wine on the coffee table in front of her. “I shouldn’t—”
“Maybe you should have a piece of cheese or something before you head out for dinner.” He glanced at Morton. “There’s something in the kitchen that she could have, isn’t there?”
“I’ll get it,” Morton said.
Lillian waved a hand and looked distressed. “Really, it’s nothing. I—”
“Humor me, Mom. While he’s gone you can tell me what you know about Erica Stewart. She was…well, I guess I didn’t know what to expect. She was kind of reserved but really helpful in choosing your gift. You’re about the same size, so she tried this one on to give me an idea whether I thought it would fit.” Her image came instantly to mind and he smiled. “She was in this black T-shirt and black jeans and she’s got this curly hair—real dark—that she kept blowing to keep off her face. And big gray eyes. I was there just as she was opening a shipment of the stuff she works with and she kept grabbing up her sketch pad and scribbling in it.” His chuckle was soft as he gazed into his drink. “She was polite—I guess she has to be—but she made it plain she wanted me to get the hell out of there so she could go back to work.”
“Sounds like you got a pretty good fix on her,” Morton said, returning with a plate of small cheese squares, which he handed to Lillian. “I don’t know how your mother could add much to that character sketch, except to say we heard she’s going to be recognized in the next issue of Texas Today.” He reclaimed his drink. “She’s named as one of their Twenty Women to Watch in Texas, if you can believe that.”
“After seeing her shop, I can believe it.”
Morton was shaking his head at the inexplicability of it. “Proud of it, is she?”
“But modest,” Hunter said. “She went out of her way to credit her business partner. Seems he has a flair for marketing and promotion.”
“Credit should probably go to more than her business partner,” Morton said, taking a piece of Lillian’s cheese for himself. “There’s a sugar daddy somewhere, mark my words. She’s auctioning something at the symphony fund-raiser your mother’s friends have drummed up. You need to know somebody to get in there.”
“Someone like Mom, I assume,” Hunter said, wanting to knock the smirk off Morton’s face. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a fierce desire to defend Erica. He didn’t like the idea that Erica might compromise herself for a shot at publicizing her art.
“Considering the success of her label, the auction committee was lucky she was willing to participate,” Lillian said quietly, nibbling on a bit of cheese. “And I’m not a member of that committee.” There was some color in her cheeks now, but she still seemed not quite right to Hunter. It was always like this when he had to be around the two of them, a tense undercurrent with Morton throwing his weight around and Lillian holding her breath for fear that her son and her husband would get into a row. But Hunter wasn’t in the mood tonight.
“Is Erica going to be there or is she just donating something for the auction?” he asked.
“Why, can we stick you with a couple of tickets?” Morton said, rubbing his hands together. “Your mother’s always looking for takers. And it’ll take some of the heat off me. I warn you, though, they’re overpriced.”
“Hunter isn’t interested in charity events for the symphony,” she said softly.
“Somehow, I can’t see Erica at an event like that,” Hunter said, smiling at the memory of her standing barefoot in her office amid a sea of wrapping paper. “Won’t everybody be wearing shoes?”
“What?” With cheese suspended in midair, Lillian looked at him, frowning.
“She has this goofy habit of kicking her shoes off.” Hunter headed to the bar to refill his drink. Morton intercepted him and did the honors while Hunter took the lid off the box to get another look at the jacket. “Are you sure this is okay, Mom? There are quilts as well as these jackets. And there’re other things from some pretty spiffy designers in the shop. I don’t know anything about this stuff, but Jason was pretty proud of what they carry. Me, personally, I liked Erica’s stuff best.”
“Jason Rowland,” Lillian murmured.
Hunter gave her a quick glance. “You know him?”
“He’s Bob Rowland’s boy,” Morton told him.
“Who’s Bob Rowland?” Hunter asked.
“One of Morton’s business acquaintances.” With a look at Morton, Lillian got to her feet, setting the cheese aside. Then, to Hunter, “I could never be disappointed in any gift from you, dear. Thank you. It’s simply beautiful and I’ll treasure it.”
“If you’re sure…” He still felt something was wrong here, but he didn’t have a clue what it was.
Morton set his glass down with a thump. “Well, our reservations at Annie’s will be lost if we don’t leave soon. Hunter, you sure you won’t join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork on my desk that I can’t ignore.”
Lillian touched his arm. “When will I see you again, Hunter?”
“Not sure. I’ll call you.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Lillian returned to the den to find Morton studying the jacket, still in the box, its decorative trim twinkling like so many diamonds. “What are the chances he’d choose her shop from all the places in this town to buy a gift, babe? Damn thing looks expensive, too. She’s making a killing selling that flashy stuff.”
“I can never wear it.”
“No?”
“No.” Lillian stood with her arms tight around herself. “And it’s not flashy, Morton. It’s quite beautiful, really. I just—I mean, it’s not…possible for me to wear something Erica’s designed. I’d be afraid lightning might strike me dead.”
“Oh, get a grip. You don’t even know the woman. And go get whatever jacket you intend to wear tonight. I meant it when I said they wouldn’t hold our reservations. We’ve got twenty minutes before they go to someone else.”
With a sigh, she turned to do as she was told.
Four
Erica scribbled her signature at the bottom of the umpteenth document put in front of her and tossed the pen on the table. “Well, I hope that does it, Michael. My fingers are cramped from all that signing.”
“It’s the last for a while.” Her financial adviser collected the documents from her desk, tidied them up and slipped them into his briefcase. “We’ll watch both the stock and bond markets and if we decide you need to move some of your assets, I’ll give you a call.”
“Tell you what,” she said, standing up. Her shoulders were tight and she put a hand up to massage her neck. “I appreciate your advice, Michael, but I’ve been keeping pretty close tabs on my investments. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to make other changes.”
“Erica, Erica, Erica…” He was shaking his head. “I know you feel quite confident in some of the choices you’ve made on your own recently, but—”
“I’m happy with all the choices I’ve made recently, Michael,” she said dryly. It irritated her that he thought he needed to guide her like a blind person through the mysteries of money management.
He gave a pained smile. “Well, of course, but these are precarious times in the financial world and there are pitfalls that you may not be aware of. If you’ll allow me—”
“I’ll call you, Michael.” She’d relied on Michael Carlton’s expertise to manage her money at a time when she had little or no interest in whether it grew or not, but that had been a few years ago. She was now quite capable of managing on her own with occasional professional advice…when she asked for it.
As Michael snapped the locks on his briefcase, she came around from behind her desk to escort him out of the shop. She would have to let him out, as it was a few minutes after closing time and Jason had left for the day. But instead of following her out of her office, Michael put out a hand and stopped her.
“Since business is done for the day, how about having dinner with me?” he said. Michael was a man of medium height, dapper and exquisitely coordinated in his Brooks Brothers suit and tasseled loafers. But even features and a flair for clothes didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was about as interesting as a financial prospectus. Dinner with him would probably include a lengthy analysis of the day’s market activity.
“Thank you, Michael, but I’m working on some new designs and they’ve kept me up several nights in a row. I think I’ll have an early night.”
“You have to eat something, don’t you?” To her surprise, he reached out and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. She withdrew slightly, resisting the urge to actually slap at his hand. Was the man making a pass?
“I’ll get takeout,” she told him, her hand on the doorknob.
“Then a drink. You have time for that, don’t you?” His tone lowered and his blue eyes roved lazily over her face. He moved in a little closer and she took a matching step back against the open door. “You’ll be nice and relaxed, then you can have that takeout and snuggle in for the night. Better yet—” he gave what he probably assumed was a sexy smile “—I’ll snuggle with you.”
She thought she heard the faint tingle of the shop door and with a sigh of relief realized that Jason must have forgotten something. The tension she felt eased and she said laughingly, “Michael, you can’t be serious. What are you doing?”
Now he had both hands on her waist. “I’m making a move, Erica, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. But I knew you weren’t ready.” He pulled her a little closer and touched his lips to her temple. “You’re beautiful, but it’s like you don’t realize how beautiful. You drive me crazy.”
“Oh, please, Michael. If that’s a line, it’s a ridiculous one.”
“See, you think you have to deny it.” He sniffed her hair and it was all she could do not to laugh. Wait’ll she told Jason. He’d get such a hoot out of this. She was startled when he suddenly pulled her close enough that she felt just how aroused he was. “I love your hair. I’d like to just lose myself in it,” he said.
“Michael, stop. I mean it. You don’t want to cause a scene, do you?” Until now, she’d had both hands on his chest and felt reasonably certain she could shove him away. But suddenly he had both his arms locked around her and she couldn’t break his hold. And now he was trying to kiss her! Repulsed, she averted her face.
“Stop it, Michael!”
“Just one kiss, Erica,” he muttered, rooting around in the vicinity of her ear. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. Jesus, I want you.”
“Well, get over it,” she told him, still straining away from him. A kiss from Michael Carlton wasn’t going to be pleasant, but with his arms like a vise around her, she was afraid she was going to get one if Jason didn’t appear soon. The man was much stronger than he looked. She’d have to get rough, she supposed. Wiggling against him was doing more harm than good. And then, somehow, he forced her up against the door and was fumbling under her skirt. In no time, he’d found her panties and next thing he’d have his hand where no man had touched her in nine years!
“Michael, stop it! I mean it.” Outraged, she tried to push away from him, but he was fully aroused and now working at his zipper. My God, she thought, did he think they were going to have sex right here in her office…standing up, with her resisting in every way she could think of? There was a name for that. With a mighty heave, she shoved him back and aimed a kick between his thighs. It missed, but landed on his kneecap, knocking him off balance and giving her time to scramble out the door. She slammed it shut and twisted the lock.
For a moment, she stood outside breathing hard, thanking fate that Jason had had the forethought to install a lock on the office door to keep nosy customers out when neither of them occupied it. Just then, Michael rattled the doorknob. When nothing happened, he gave a quick, hard rap on the door. “Erica, let me out.”
“After you’ve cooled off.”
She heard a low chuckle behind her and turned, ready to light into Jason for waiting until things got out of hand before showing himself. But it wasn’t Jason standing a few feet away with his arms folded over his chest and looking mightily amused. It was Hunter McCabe.
“Are we having fun yet?”
She shoved her hair back from her face with both hands and realized that she was trembling. “I thought you were Jason.”
“Not even close.” Grinning, he moved his gaze to the door where Michael was now kicking and banging and cursing.
“Damn it, let me out of here, Erica!”
Hunter winced. “If this is the way you treat interested suitors,” he said, “it’s no wonder you’re still single.”
“I have no interested suitors and that’s the way I like it,” she said. Ignoring the racket Michael was making, she told herself she hadn’t felt so much threatened as outraged. And it was adrenaline making her a little shaky, not fear. “And how did you get in here?”
“I came in the front door.”
“That’s impossible. Jason locked up.”
“This is crazy, Erica. Open the door this instant!”
Controlling his smile, Hunter glanced at the door. “I think he means business.”
“And I think he can stay in there until hell freezes over, which is what he deserves.”
Now grinning, Hunter asked, “Will you let him out before morning?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she was just now realizing that opening the door to let him out might be a bit risky. He’d revealed a surprising streak of aggression. But he could hardly do anything with Hunter here. With a look of disgust, she flipped the lock and took a hasty step backward as the door was flung wide. It brought her up against Hunter’s solid, male frame.
Breathing hard and flushed with fury, Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Hunter firmly cleared his throat, and whatever it was died unspoken. Settling for a dignified retreat, Michael said stiffly, “That was totally unnecessary, Erica. You completely misunderstood my intentions, but we can discuss it another time.”
“I don’t think so, Michael.”
Hunter stepped around them to pick up Michael’s briefcase. “Are you going to introduce us?” he said, handing it over.
“My former financial adviser, Michael Carlton,” she said, then added in a frosty tone, “On your way out, leave the papers I just signed on the counter, Michael. The only thing we have to discuss is whatever arrangements are necessary to dissolve our association, which we’ll do first thing Monday morning by phone. Don’t—” she put up a hand as he tried again to speak “—don’t insult me further with a lame explanation for what you did. Just consider your apology offered and be thankful I don’t mention this to your father. Goodbye.”
“His father?” Hunter repeated as they watched Michael skulk out.
“Stanley Carlton. He’s a senior partner in the firm and the person I originally consulted.”
“How’d Michael get in the picture?”
“After a while, Stanley began to suggest that Michael fill in for him. Since I knew Stanley was still overseeing everything, I didn’t particularly object.” She breathed out a long breath and resisted an urge to wrap her arms around herself. “It just never occurred to me that he had anything like this on his mind,” she muttered, looking around in a distracted way for her keys. She was more than ready to go home. “All he ever seemed interested in was how to increase dividends and shelter money.”
“I don’t know why you’d assume that,” Hunter said, taking her jacket from a coatrack. “He was handed a golden opportunity, he’s male, he’s apparently not gay. I, for one, am not surprised.”
She swept up her keys and snapped off the light. “If you’re suggesting that he has an eye on my portfolio, you don’t have to draw me a picture. I get it. Now.” She paused, looking over the interior of the shop to be sure no other customer had wandered in after closing hours. Seeing no one, she allowed Hunter to help her into her jacket. “It just irritates me that I was caught off guard. I didn’t have a clue what he was thinking.”
“I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him,” Hunter said.
“You’re kidding.”
He shrugged. “Seeing you on a regular basis and being forced to keep your relationship strictly businesslike must have been torture for the poor bastard. And I wasn’t suggesting he had designs on your portfolio. I was suggesting he had designs on you, ‘the sexiest woman in the world.’” He made quotation marks with his fingers.
Okay, he was amused again, at her expense. But now Erica was beginning to see the humor in it, too. She made a disgusted sound and laughed. “You heard that?”
“It’s a good line.”
“Well, I never gave him any sign that I’d welcome that…or any line.” She sighed and looked at him. “And I should apologize that you were dragged into something so distasteful.” She paused, wondering now at his reason for stopping in. She glanced at the counter, expecting to see the gift box with the jacket he’d bought for his mother. Except for the papers that Michael had left, the counter was clear. “I assume you’re here to exchange your mother’s gift?”
“Why would I do that? She loved it.”
“Oh. Well—”
“I was driving by and realized it was closing time. I thought you might let me buy you a drink. My mother went speechless when she opened that box. Do you get that reaction often?”
Erica stuffed the financial papers in her purse. “We haven’t had a problem selling that particular style. I’m glad she liked it.” She was also glad that Jason had adjusted the lights into overnight mode so that the place was dimly lit. The way Hunter was studying her face, he’d be able to tell she was a little flustered. It was beginning to dawn on her that if she hadn’t managed to slam the door and lock Michael in her office, he might very well have finished what he started.
She blinked when, with a finger beneath her chin, Hunter tilted her face up. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No.” She shifted away from him, looked down at her keys. “It was just that he surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anything like that and he’s always seemed so…well, harmless.”
“No man’s harmless in a situation like that. He’s probably been fantasizing about you for a while and thought he’d take his chances. I’m glad I happened to show up when I did, but to tell the truth, you didn’t look as if you needed much help.”
“Well, he made me mad. I told him to stop and he didn’t.” The adrenaline rush was fading a little now, and standing alone in her shop with a man like Hunter gave her an entirely different feeling. “Maybe the next time a woman tells him no, he’ll believe it,” she said with a militant look in her eye.
“I think he got the message,” Hunter said dryly. “If not, his bruised knuckles will remind him.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “He was banging pretty hard on the door, wasn’t he? I hope he has trouble typing on his stupid computer.”
Grinning, he propped an elbow on the counter. “Seeing how ticked off he was, I’m wondering how you were going to let him out of there. Did you realize you had a tiger by the tail?”
“Not until I slammed the door. I owe you for arriving when you did.”
“Then how ’bout that drink? I’m thinking a margarita, top shelf. Cuervo Gold.”
She felt a new rush of nerves. “Oh, I don’t—”
He straightened up with a pained look. “Please don’t say it. You don’t drink.”
“I do, but—”
“Good. There’s a quiet little bar about three blocks away. You can follow me in your car or I’ll drop you back here when we’re done.”
A few minutes ago, when she’d turned and found Hunter and not Jason at her back, she’d been surprised by her reaction. In his battered leather jacket, his worn jeans and boots, he’d looked a lot more dark and dangerous than Michael, who’d just assaulted her. But it wasn’t fear that had streaked through her. Just the opposite. Something more elemental and exciting. She wasn’t used to reacting to a man in that way, and had almost forgotten what it was like.
“I’ll follow in my car,” she said. And without giving herself time for second thoughts, she walked with him to the door.
Five
Hunter picked a booth toward the back of the bar for its privacy. This was his first opportunity to spend one-on-one time with Erica and he intended to make the most of it. Since buying the jacket, he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind. He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but sitting across from her now, he knew he didn’t want to be anywhere else at the moment.
When their margaritas were set in front of them, he lifted his, waited for her and then touched his glass to hers. He’d like to say something she’d find sexy and charming, but he had a feeling she was a woman who wouldn’t appreciate anything that sounded like a practiced line, and besides, she struck him as needing a slow hand. He had a feeling, too, that it would be worth the wait. “To a new financial adviser,” he said.
“Absolutely.” She took a dainty taste. A bit of salt clung to her lip and she licked it off. As he watched her, it was all he could do not to reach out and maybe run his thumb over the enticing curve of her lower lip, then bring it up to his lips for a taste of her.
“Hmm, that’s good,” she said. “Tart-sweet and smooth as silk.”
“It hits the spot,” he agreed.
“The margaritas are so good here. In fact, Jason and I often stop after we close the shop. I can only have one, though. Two and there’s no way I would be able to do any work when I get home.”
“What kind of work is waiting for you at home?”
“New designs. For the jackets, there’s always next season to be working on. The quilts are not seasonal, but I can duplicate a design only a few times, so I have to keep coming up with new ones. I’ve been amazed at how well they sell, but it means I feel pushed to keep ahead of the demand.”
“Couldn’t someone else work at the shop? Besides Jason, I mean. That would leave you free to create new designs during the day.”
“Not really. My studio is upstairs, which is where a lot of the actual physical labor is done and, to tell the truth, it doesn’t seem like work. But I don’t like selling so much. That’s Jason’s thing.” She shrugged and smiled. “I’m cranking out the product and he sells it. For us, it’s been a winning combination.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, hitching his chair forward. He’d like to take her hand, but he sensed she’d shy away from anything approaching intimacy. “You spend your days at your studio above the shop, then you work on creating new designs in the evenings at home. When do you have time to socialize?”
“I guess I don’t have much of a social life.” She was sitting with elbows on the table, holding the margarita loosely in both hands, but as he leaned closer, she eased back, pushing at her dark hair and tucking a strand behind one ear. “It’s not the way many people would choose to live, but it suits me.”
“My mother mentioned one of your creations will be auctioned at the gala next weekend. That should generate even more demand.”
“It’s incredible. I don’t know how that happened, I really don’t. I had a call from the auction chairperson just out of the blue. I was thrilled as it certainly is a golden opportunity.”
“No inside connections, huh?”
“At the symphony?” She smiled. “No. I haven’t even been to the symphony in years, not since—” She stopped and, with a stricken look, quickly reached for the napkin and touched it to her lips. When she raised her eyes to his a moment later, they were calm and clear. “Are you a fan?”
“Not really. My mother used to nag me about going, but I liked baseball better.” He decided not to try digging out the reason for whatever that look meant, at least not right now. “You’ll be there when they auction your jacket, I assume?” When she nodded, he added, “Do you have a date?”
“A date?”
“An escort. You’re not going alone to the gala, are you?”
“Oh, no. Jason and I are going together. He’s almost as excited as I am.”
“You and Jason are very tight.”
“We are.” She twirled the stem of her drink and smiled. “He’s not only my business partner, but he’s also my best friend. In fact, the shop was his brainchild. I’d still be designing in the spare bedroom of my house and squirreling everything away in a closet if he hadn’t practically shoved me out of that house and back into the real world.”
“What was going on that you’d retreated from the real world?”
She stopped and actually pressed her fingers to her lips. “I’m talking too much. I don’t—it’s the margarita.” She fiddled with her napkin, hesitating so long that he thought she wouldn’t say any more. He guessed she’d probably gone through a rough divorce and he wondered at the stupidity of a man to let a woman like her get away.
“It was a dark time for me,” she explained finally. “I’d thrown myself into designing to keep from…simply dying.” She gave a soft laugh. “That sounds pretty melodramatic, but that was how I felt at the time.”
“Was it a nasty divorce?”
Her face went quiet and sad. “No.” After a second, she looked up at him. “Could we change the subject?”
“I have an idea.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Okay, so long as we change the subject.”
“It’s changed.” He held up both hands. “You come to the gala with me and let Jason find himself a real date.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with my original plan.” She gave him a smile as if to take the sting out of her refusal.
“Why am I not surprised?” he said dryly. Leaning back, he laid an arm over the back of the seat. “But just so I have the full picture here, you’re not involved with anyone right now, are you?”
She took a tiny sip of her drink. “Under the circumstances, anyone who was seriously interested wouldn’t be very long, would they?”
“Depends on the circumstances.”
Her smile faded as she studied the remains of the margarita in her glass. “My days are crammed with the demands of my work and the shop, Hunter. That’s my life now and I like it as it is. It only makes sense that good relationships blossom when a couple has the luxury of time to spend together, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess that does make sense.” Kelly and her expectations flashed in his mind. He wasn’t spending enough time with her for a relationship to blossom—to use Erica’s word—and he wondered at his lack of motivation to make that happen. He wondered at the strength of his desire to get to know Erica and knew his curiosity about Kelly had never been as keen. The thought made him uncomfortable. Just being here doing what he was doing made him uncomfortable, but he was doing it, anyway.
“Mom mentioned you’re going to be named one of Texas Today’s Twenty Women to Watch,” he said. “Congratulations. I know a few professional women who would kill for that.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d commit murder for it, but I was pretty happy.” Taking a sip of her drink, she again licked a tiny salt speck from her lips. She looked away, her gray eyes thoughtful. “Speechless would be a better word,” she told him dryly. “I don’t know how it happened and I’m not sure I deserve it.”
Was she serious? He studied her face. Or was she simply being modest? That wouldn’t surprise him, but there seemed something more than simple modesty behind her words. “What does that mean? Of course you deserve it. They don’t come up with that list by pulling names out of a hat. You’ve earned it with your art and the commercial success you’ve made marketing it.”
“With Jason’s help, don’t forget,” she said with a tiny smile. Then, as she traced the rim of her glass, her smile slipped away. “He says I’m imagining things, but from time to time, I’ve felt that more than a couple of the lucky breaks I’ve had are—” She gave him a quick look. “Don’t laugh, but it’s almost as if I have an unseen patron, someone who, every now and then, gives me a little boost.”
“What counts as ‘a little boost’?”
“Well, the auction opportunity at the gala, for example. And the spread in the Sunday paper is another. You don’t get those perks out of the blue.”
“Word of mouth is a powerful thing. Your art is upscale, which means it appeals to an upscale crowd, people with taste like my mother. Hank said he heard her mention how much she admired you, which is how I decided on the Erica Stewart jacket for her birthday. A word here, a word there, and your label is hot. Enjoy it while you can. Make the most of it.”
“I—we intend to.” She leaned back with her fingers linked loosely on the stem of the almost-done margarita. “Who’s Hank?”
“You’re not the only one with a partner and Hank’s mine. Hank Colson. We’re co-owners of a ranch near Brenham. Do you ride?”
“Sure, cars, planes and bikes,” she said, reaching for a pretzel.
He chuckled. “Horses. Do you ride horses?”
“Not in a long, long time.” The troubled look in her gray eyes was gone. Now he saw only amusement as she played with the pretzel.
“But you know how?”
“I do. In fact, when I was a teenager, riding was a passion. I actually had a horse.”
“Was that here in Texas?”
“Right here in Houston,” she replied, raking crumbs off the table onto her napkin.
“So you have family here?”
“Not anymore. When I was sixteen, my parents got a divorce and both remarried, Dad first, two years later. Keeping a horse takes time and effort. It turned out to be more bother than either of them could manage at the time.” She glanced at her watch, quickly finished off her drink and stood up.
“And that’s the last time you were on a horse?” He was on his feet now, too.
“That’s it,” she said with a wry shrug. “I missed it, missed Misha—that was her name. But I got over it…after a while.”
“So, are your parents still here in Houston?”
“No. My father and his new bride moved to Austin, and as soon as I graduated from high school, my mother remarried and moved to Dallas. They both started new families.”
“And where did that leave you?”
“Left behind?” She said it with a short laugh, but as she was turned from him, reaching for her jacket, he couldn’t see her face. “Hey, it was no big deal. I got over it. Besides, blended families are the norm, not the exception. I survived.”
“I bet it was about the time you had to give up your horse that you discovered art.”
She gave him a startled look. “I didn’t discover art when I was sixteen. Riding was a passion, but art was an obsession. And since I was dealing with a lot of pain then, it became more important,” she confessed, then added ruefully, “To tell the truth, I probably would have glommed on to just about anything to escape reality. Little did I know—” She stopped, almost biting her tongue. “It’s the margarita. And no lunch. That must be why I’m telling you all this,” she said, with a look of chagrin. “I haven’t thought about Misha in a long, long time, or what I felt when my parents divorced.”
Judging by the look on her face, he guessed she’d revealed more about herself than she intended. It made her all the more appealing to him. He reached into his jeans pocket for his wallet, took out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table. “You say you were sixteen when you had Misha?”
“Yes.”
“I’m guessing she was a mare, smallish?”
“Yes.”
He reached over and took the jacket from her. “I’ve got just the mount for you at the ranch, lady. In fact, that’s her name—Lady. Not very original, but she’s a sweet-tempered little mare and she’ll take you for a ride that’ll be so smooth you’ll think you’re at home in a rocking chair.”
“And when would I find time for that?”
“Sunday. Nobody works on Sunday.” Taking his time, he settled the jacket on her shoulders, then did what he’d wanted to do from the moment he’d first met her. He lifted her hair from the collar of her jacket and let it curl around his fingers, just for the feel of it. And just for a heartbeat, he let himself breathe in the scent of it.
Then she was moving away, adjusting the jacket, brushing at the front of her denim skirt, settling the strap of her purse on her shoulder. At the door, when he moved to open it, she glanced up into his eyes. “We never got around to talking about your work,” she said. “Does it gobble up as much of your time as mine does?”
“It would if I let it,” he told her. “But I make time to go to the ranch. Nothing like being on one of my horses, my hat on my head, the wind in my face. God, it’s heaven.”
“Spoken like a true Texan.”
“Born and bred.”
They were on the sidewalk now. She turned and gave him her hand. “Thanks for a very pleasant hour. I don’t usually talk so much.”
“You didn’t give me an answer about Sunday. Will you go out to the ranch with me?”
“I—”
“Don’t say no. You’ve already turned me down for the gala, but you can make it up to me by letting me pick you up Sunday morning, bright and early.”
“After being up till all hours after the gala? I don’t think so.” She paused, seeing his expression. “I haven’t been on a horse in at least a dozen years, Hunter. I don’t even know if I still know how to ride.”
“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. And we’ll make it next Sunday.” He tipped her chin up. “C’mon, you’ll love it, I promise.”
She gave a soft laugh, rolled her eyes and, for once, didn’t pull away. “Okay. I guess.”
His reaction then was instinctive. Looking down at her, at the curve of her pretty mouth and fantasizing how it would taste ever since she’d taken the first sip of that margarita, he just went with instinct. He bent and kissed her. He meant it to be quick and casual, a slightly less-than-serious salute to the hour they’d spent together. But that was before he found her lips so warm and soft…and tasting of margarita…and something a thousand times more potent. With both hands plunged into her hair and holding her just where he wanted her, he forgot to be brief. Or casual. And the fact that she fell right into the kiss with him made it worth the risk of rushing her. It also made it almost impossible to stop.
But they were on the sidewalk. All around them, bar patrons came and went. He broke the kiss…reluctantly. Set her down on her heels—she looked dazed, her eyes wide. He found he still held her chin and he rubbed his thumb over that tantalizingly curved lower lip before letting her go. But he took his time about it.
“I’ll call you,” he said, then watched her as she ran to her car.
He called his mother on his cell phone from the car. While it rang, he rubbed a hand over his mouth, where he could still taste Erica’s lip gloss. He shifted in his seat to accommodate a helluva hard-on and gave a short, incredulous laugh. What the heck had just happened? It was a simple kiss, done on impulse. A spur-of-the-moment thing that had turned into more than he’d intended. If they’d been in a private place instead of on a public sidewalk, he didn’t know what it would have led to. He only knew that he hadn’t felt such a deep and elemental desire for a woman, especially one he hardly knew, since he’d first discovered girls in the eighth grade and fastened his adolescent craving for sex on Cindy Walker.
“Hello?”
“Mom.” He shifted the phone to his other ear and signaled to enter the on-ramp to the interstate. “It’s me, Hunter.”
“I know. Caller ID is a wonderful thing.” There was a smile in her voice.
“Mom, do you still have tickets to that symphony gala you mentioned when I brought your gift over?”
“Why? You aren’t thinking of going, are you?” She was clearly surprised.
“I might.” Glancing over his left shoulder, he crossed two lanes of the crowded interstate. “Can you get me a ticket?”
“Just one? If you’re going, you’ll want to bring someone, won’t you?”
“Oh. Well, I guess. Sure. Two, then.”
“I take it you haven’t checked with Kelly to see if she’s free?”
“No, but it’s not her kind of thing. No horses.” He kicked the SUV into passing gear to get around an eighteen-wheeler. “About the tickets. Do I need to pick ’em up before that night, or what?”
“I’ll leave them with someone at the door. I’ll let you know who when I get a name.”
“Leave it on my voice mail, will you, Mom? It’s this Saturday night, right?”
“Yes. And you have really left it late to ask Kelly.” There was a note of concern in her voice. “I hope she’s free. Oh, I’m just thrilled that you’ve decided to go. Some of my friends haven’t seen you in ages, Hunter.”
“Uh-huh. Are you wearing your Erica Stewart jacket? It’s the kind of thing you’d wear to an event like this, isn’t it? It adds a little pizzazz to wear something from an artist whose stuff just happens to be up for auction, don’t you think?”
She took so long to reply that he thought he lost the connection. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” she murmured. “And I haven’t really thought too much about what I’ll wear, to tell the truth.”
“Well, that’s a first.” He merged smoothly into the exit lane. “I’ve spent a few years watching you get all decked out for occasions like this, and I remember you fretting for days over what to wear. Wear that jacket and you’ll turn a few heads.”
“I’m beyond turning heads by a few years, Hunter,” she said dryly.
“No way, you’re gorgeous and you’ll still be gorgeous when you’re ninety.”
“Thank you, son.”
He thought he heard a catch in her voice. “Gotta go, Mom. I’ll send a check for the tickets. And hey, thanks.”
Lillian clicked the phone off and stood with it in her hand, thinking. It was a toss-up to decide which was more unusual—Hunter’s sudden and unusual interest in going to the symphony gala, or his interest in what she might be wearing, which was also sudden and unusual. He’d never before expressed the slightest interest in what she wore. Like countless moms before her, she’d long ago become used to being almost invisible to her son as far as her physical appearance went.
It was that damn jacket.
“Who was that on the phone?”
She blinked and turned to face Morton, who stood in the arched entrance to the den with a half-finished drink in his hand. “It was Hunter.” Realizing she still held the phone, she replaced it. “He wants tickets to the symphony gala. Two tickets.”
“What’s the problem? You’ve been trying to drag him to one or another of your artsy affairs for years, so now he’s going. Why do you look as though it’s bad news?”
“He wants me to wear the jacket.”
“What jacket?” He watched her walk past him to the bar and pull a wineglass from a line of stems suspended from a rack beneath the counter.
“The Erica Stewart jacket he gave me for my birthday.” After dropping ice into the glass, she poured only a scant shot of gin before adding a wedge of fresh lime. She was trying to limit her drinking. It’s numbing effect had become too inviting lately.
“Is that what’s making you look so glum?” Morton finished his drink and moved behind the bar to pour himself another. “You said you loved it when Hunter gave it to you. So, wear it. Make him happy. God knows, you’ve never hesitated to put Hunter’s happiness above your own before.”
His jealousy of Hunter was a familiar bone of contention between them, but Lillian wasn’t in a mood to take him on just now. “He wanted two tickets, but I don’t think the other one is for Kelly. When I mentioned he’d waited until it was pretty late to ask her, I had a feeling he hadn’t even thought of asking her.”
“Meaning he’s got some other woman in mind,” Morton said, recapping the whiskey bottle. “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s been your and Hank Colson’s fantasy that those two would get together someday, but if that was what Hunter wanted, he’d have done it by now. No red-blooded thirtysomething puts off marrying if he’s found the woman he wants.” Using a swizzle, he noisily stirred the fresh drink. “Kelly’s a nice gal, smart and fairly attractive, but I don’t see him putting a ring on her finger.”
“It’s her. That’s why he’s suddenly interested in going.”
“Kelly? You just said—”
“No. Erica.” She walked to the window and stood looking out.
“Erica?” He stared at her, the swizzle going still in his hand. “You lost me. We’re talking about Kelly, aren’t we?”
“Erica Stewart. The artist. Didn’t you hear it in his voice when he brought me the gift? He couldn’t stop talking about her. He was…dazzled.”
“Dazzled.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, following the lights of a neighbor’s car across the street. “I’m imagining things. I’m seeing a disaster where there’s nothing. I’m jumping to a ridiculous conclusion. But I just have this dreadful feeling, Morton. What if he—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lillian, get hold of yourself. He’s got tickets to bring a date, and if it was her, he’d have mentioned it since we could hardly shut him up when he was over here talking about her last week. You’re right about that, at least. Besides, he’d only met the woman that day and she’s been on the agenda for the symphony thing forever, which means she’s had her plans made forever.” He crossed the room and picked up the remote for the television set. “It’s time for the news. Sit down and relax. Forget about Erica Stewart. The woman’s ancient history as far as we’re concerned.” And with that, he clicked the remote, tuned in the local station and settled back to view current events in Houston and the crime of the day.
Six
Erica cocked her head and studied the look of a jacket she was designing for a client. “No…no…no…” she mumbled, reaching for an eraser. She carefully removed the neckline she’d sketched in a minute ago. Third try and it was still wrong, totally wrong, she thought with disgust. She sat for a minute, then took up her pencil again and drew a few more lines to see if a mandarin collar would work. She knew before she’d made half-a-dozen lines that it was wrong, too. With a muttered curse, she flung the pencil in a nearby tray, ripped the sheet from her sketch pad and crumpled it in both hands. It hit Jason in the chest, dead center, when he appeared at the door.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded, wading through a sea of balled-up paper on the floor. “You’ve been in here scribbling and muttering to yourself all morning. Take a break. Make yourself a cup of tea. Chill out.”
“Tea won’t help,” she growled, and shoved back off her stool. Looking around, she found the photographs of the client whose jacket she was designing. “Look at her,” she said, thrusting the prints at him. “I’ve tried boxy, I’ve tried slightly nipped at the waist, I’ve tried classic blazer, but nothing seems right. She’s expecting something nice, something flattering, and everything I’ve dreamed up looks like something she could have found on Harwin Street.”
“Natalie Rodrigue,” Jason said, studying a photo. “It’s not the jacket, sugar, it’s the client. Coco Chanel couldn’t design a jacket to make the woman look good.” He sat on her stool and crossed his legs. “It doesn’t matter what you come up with, she’s gonna be so proud to wear an original Erica Stewart that she’ll think it’s gorgeous. She’ll think she’s gorgeous.”
Erica studied another photo. “Maybe no collar at all…” Then, with a curse, she flung it away. “I hate the fabric she chose, anyway. I wanted her to pick the flat black silk, but she wants brocade. It’ll make her look as big as…as—”
“As she is?”
She gave a short laugh. “I guess that’s the problem.” She bent down and began gathering up wads of paper. “One of these days, I’m going to be brutally honest with a client and just say flat out, ‘Spend your money on a piece of jewelry instead of a jacket that will do nothing to flatter you. At least you can pass diamonds on to your grandchildren.’”
“Okay, sugar, spit it out. What is wrong with you? And don’t bother telling me it’s nothing. I haven’t seen you so agitated since we were negotiating for this building and the landlord forced a five-year lease on us.”
“Because there was no guarantee we’d be in business that long and we’d both mortgaged most of our assets.”
“Considerable for you, but peanuts for me.”
“Which you had to borrow from your mother, God bless her.”
“Off the subject, Erica. What’s bugging you today? And don’t give me that garbage about the creative process being stressful. You usually turn out jackets and quilts at the same pace as a rabbit giving birth. For which I’m thankful, as it’s the source of our bread and butter, but you don’t usually have a face like a thundercloud and you don’t usually have any difficulty making a client look elegant.”
She chose to interpret that as an insult. “Well, if my work is the next thing to assembly-line trash,” she muttered, “maybe I should look for another line of work.”
He actually turned pale. “My God, don’t even joke like that, Erica. And you know that’s not what I meant.” Leaving the stool, he caught her by the arm and led her to a small couch set against the wall. After urging her down, he took a seat facing her. “Now, tell Daddy Jason all about it. When I left the shop last night, you were in a huddle with Michael Carlton.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh, Jesus. Have you lost all your money? Is that it? Has that goof-ball blown your nest egg and you’re penniless?”
“No, but that reminds me, Jason. Did you realize you failed to lock up when you left the shop last night?”
He frowned. “Did I? Let me think…Oh, now I remember. When I was closing out the register, I had another one of those crazy calls from the idiot who lives in the apartment next door to mine complaining again about my dog barking. I guess I forgot. Shit!” He smacked himself on the forehead. “I’m the idiot, aren’t I? Why, did something happen? Is that what’s wrong?”
“Michael hasn’t mismanaged anything, and fortunately nothing happened when you left the door unlocked…unless—”
“Unless what?” As his eyebrows went up, the telephone rang. “Wait, hold that thought.” Rising, he moved across the room and, with his back to her, answered the phone, then stood listening. After a minute, he turned with a gleam in his eye, raised his hand and pointed his index finger at Erica as if it were a gun barrel. “Yeah, good to hear from you, Hunter. Sure, she’s right here.”
Erica sprang off the couch as soon as she realized it was Hunter on the phone. Shaking her head and flapping her hands wildly, she mouthed, “I’m not here.” She’d spent a long and sleepless night and Hunter was the reason. Nine years and she had avoided any attempt by a man to get close enough for intimacy. But she’d been almost seduced by their conversation in the bar, then rocked to her core by that kiss. She’d been so rattled that when she got in her car, she started making plans to call him first thing and cancel their date. So, why hadn’t she?
To block her escape, Jason casually stepped in front of her, still chatting with Hunter. “So she tells me. And your timing’s perfect. You interrupted the lecture she was giving me for failing to lock up last night. But I swear, I thought I locked the damn door.”
He paused to listen, ignoring the motion Erica made to slice his throat. “Horseback riding, you say? No, she didn’t mention it. But it sounds like fun to me.” With his shoulder propped on the door frame, he crossed his ankles. “Nothing like country air and a horseback ride to clear away the smog and renew the spirit, I always say.”
The only time Jason had ever been on a horse was when he’d modeled Western gear at the Houston Rodeo. Rolling her eyes, Erica reached over and took the phone from him. “Hello.”
“Hi, it’s Hunter.”
Even braced for it, her tummy took a tumble at the sound of his voice. “Hi.” She glanced over and met Jason’s wickedly dancing eyes and instantly turned her back on him. “How are you?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“I’m fine. Busy.”
“Yeah, I guessed that. Okay, I’ll be quick. I realized after I left last night that I don’t know where you live. We can be at the ranch by eight if we leave early enough on Sunday morning, but I need your address. Are you an early riser or one of those types that sleeps in on the weekend?”
“You didn’t forget it’s next weekend, not this Sunday?”
“Not unless I can talk you into changing your mind.”
“Maybe I will at that,” she said, bending over to pick up a wad of paper on the floor. “Actually, Hunter, I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t.” He paused, then went on before she could speak. “Don’t think of reasons not to come…just this once. If it turns out that you don’t like Lady—”
“It’s not that I won’t like your horses, Hunter. I just have so much on my plate at the moment that I don’t think it’s a good time to do…this.”
“You work hard. Give yourself a break. I guarantee when you get back home, you’ll thank me.” Then he seemed to run out of words, finishing with simply “I wish you’d come, Erica.”
Was that uncertainty in his voice? A plea? She’d pegged him from the start as a supremely confident male. He’d definitely seemed in command last night. But whatever it was she heard in his voice now, it weakened her resolve more than flashy charm or blatant flirtation ever could.
“Well…okay. But I’ll need to get back at a reasonable hour.” She gave him her address.
“In that case, we’ll get an early start. Is six too early?” he asked.
Yes, but if she was going to do this, she supposed she owed him the courtesy of going along with his plans. “Six is fine. I’ll be ready…next Sunday.” She clicked off quietly and replaced the phone in its cradle. It was only when Jason firmly cleared his throat that she turned to look at him. “What?”
He was gazing at her in amazement. “You’ve really made a date? With a man who isn’t selling fabric or insurance?”
“Don’t you have a customer on the floor?”
“No. And any customer who has the bad timing to come into the shop right now will just have to wait.” He waded through the sea of discarded sketches and sat down. “Tell me everything. Leave no detail out.”
“There is nothing to tell.” She bent and began collecting the discarded sketches from the floor. “Last night, Hunter came in just as Michael was leaving.” She straightened up, arms full of paper. “He owns a ranch near Brenham and apparently he stables a few horses. I think he enjoys getting away from the city. He must, as he’s there almost every weekend.”
“So he just dropped by the shop and asked you to spend the weekend—” He stopped with a look of consternation. “You can’t go this weekend. You have to be at the symphony gala Saturday night.”
“I’m not spending the weekend with him. I haven’t lost my mind. I told him it would have to be the following Sunday.”
“Well, kiss my grits.”
She stuffed an armload of paper into the trash can. “You are so not funny.”
Jason leaned back with an innocent look on his face and crossed his legs. “I told you he was prime stuff, not that you’ve ever paid any attention to my opinion before. But at least now I know what’s got your panties in a twist.”
“Wasting a whole morning trying to get a design right is what’s making me crazy,” she said, scooping up the photos of her client. Then, frowning, she stood looking at them. “I don’t know why I agreed to go. Maybe it was because Michael acted like such an idiot and Hunter appeared at precisely the right moment. Or maybe it was the margaritas. But I only had one.”
“Whoa. Hold it. What margaritas?” He gave a wide swipe of his arm, taking in the small office. “We serve no margaritas in here, sugar. Did you actually have dinner with him?”
“One drink. At Monty’s Bar.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But somehow I found myself talking about when I had Misha and how much I loved her. Next thing I know, I agreed to go with him to his ranch. Next Sunday.”
He studied her in delight for a minute. “Well, it’s about time some guy storms the citadel, but go back to Michael acting like an idiot. I agree he’s dull and boring, but if he didn’t bring news of a financial disaster, what makes him idiotic?”
“Having the gall to force himself on me.” She shoved the trash can back in its place beside her drafting table with more force than necessary, still outraged. “Apparently, he thinks I’m beautiful and sexy and with a little foreplay, I might be willing. His idea of foreplay was to grope me in spite of the fact that I kept saying no. I had to wrestle my way out of the office and lock him inside to keep him from throwing me to the floor and having his wicked way with me.”
Jason’s good humor evaporated. “Are you serious?”
“I know it’s hard to believe. He’s always seemed so…geekish. I fired him as soon as I unlocked the door and let him out.” Recalling the moment, she grinned. “You should have heard him yelling and kicking, banging on the door with his fists. If Hunter hadn’t come in when he did, I would have left him in there all night cooling his heels.”
“Our hero.”
“Well, he was a welcome sight at just that instant.” She lifted her shoulders in a who-knows-why shrug. “Maybe that was why I found myself agreeing to go to Monty’s for a margarita.” And then making a date to go horseback riding. And then kissing him madly on a public sidewalk. But she wasn’t about to tell Jason any more, not until she figured it out herself.
Seven
The symphony gala was well under way when Erica and Jason entered the lobby of the hotel and made their way up the wide staircase that brought them to the mezzanine level. She pulled the ends of a tasseled shawl around herself and edged a bit closer to Jason. She was nervous. It had been a long time since she’d attended an event where there would be music and dancing in a crowd of elegantly dressed people. That had been part of another life.
“I love a party,” Jason said, taking her by the arm at the foot of the stairs.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
“Champagne, music, all these guys in tuxes, what’s not to love?” He flashed a smile at a dashing couple strolling by. “I bet our snazzy little jacket will go for no less than fifteen hundred, what do you think?”
“I have no idea. I worry that it’ll go begging.”
“Not a chance. Wait and see.”
At the entrance to the ballroom, the attendant took their invitations and they went inside. With her stomach in a knot, she stood looking over the crowd. Men in black tuxes, women dressed to the nines, a din of cocktail chatter and laughter, all so familiar, so much a part of a life that had stopped short nine years ago. Nothing short of the opportunity to promote the Erica Stewart label could have dragged her here otherwise.
Jason spotted a familiar face, gave her a gentle nudge in another direction and said, “Let’s mingle, partner. You know more of these people than I do, even if you haven’t seen them in years.” And off he went.
Erica did indeed spot familiar faces, including the owner of the ad agency she used, several clients who’d commissioned various pieces of her art, her church’s minister and his wife, and a professor from Rice University, where she’d spoken to art students. Nursing a glass of champagne, she drifted from group to group and found, after a while, that some of her tension had faded. As long as she didn’t stop and give herself a chance to remember the last time she’d been here, she was fine.
“Erica! Erica Stewart, is that really you?”
She turned as someone caught her hand and recognized Lisa Johns, an attorney whose famous married client—a pro sports hero—was fighting a paternity claim by a stripper in a topless bar. “Hi, Lisa. Yes, it’s really me.” Erica returned her air kiss with a smile while her heart gave a little bump. Seeing Lisa would force her back in time whether she wanted it or not. It had been foolish to think—to hope—otherwise. “How are you?”
“Giving them hell every chance I get.” Lisa squeezed her hand, then stood back, taking stock of Erica. In her little black dress, short and chic, her hair pulled to one side with a diamond clip and her strappy three-inch heels, Erica knew she looked her best. “Goddamn, you’re as gorgeous as ever, more so. And making such a stir with your art. It makes my heart go pitty-pat. I’m bidding on that gorgeous jacket, not that it’ll look the way it should on me. But what the hell.”
Lisa, a defense lawyer, was as tough—and tough-talking—as any male counterpart and twice as smart. She had a reputation among lawyers for taking no prisoners. “It’s good to see you, Lisa. You’re making quite a stir yourself with your client. This time, he’s got to be worried.”
“I wish. Maybe then he’d keep it in his pants, but he’s mine and until he runs out of money or I simply kill him myself, I guess I’ll have to stay in there pitching. No pun intended.”
Erica laughed. “As his attorney, should you be saying things like that?”
“Shit, you’re family, darlin’.” She paused, took a good, long look into Erica’s eyes, and when she spoke, her tone gentled. “Tell me, how long has it been?”
“Nine years,” she said quietly. Nine years since Lisa Johns had shared an office with Erica’s husband, David. Nine years since those carefree evenings when Lisa and her current lover would pop in at Erica and David’s house to drink wine and talk, plan and dream. Nine years since it had all ended.
“Yeah. God, how time flies. Nine years.” Lisa grabbed a fresh glass of champagne from a tray-bearing waiter as he passed and took a good gulp. “You know, every now and then when I’m slogging away on a case, I’ll come across something David wrote, or some research he authored, and it’ll hit me in the tummy. It still seems so unfair, so senseless. If I could ever get my hands on the bastard who did that, I think I’d forget my calling as a defense lawyer. There’s nothing mean enough to throw at people like that, you know?”
“I try not to think about it, Lisa.”
“Jesus.” She reached over and hugged Erica. “I’m an idiot. I’ve had too much champagne. Let’s change the subject, ’cause I haven’t seen you in so long and when I spotted you across the room, I couldn’t wait to get over here.” She finished off the rest of the fresh glass, deposited it with another tray-bearing waiter and gave a big sigh. “I meant it when I said you’re looking fantastic. And it’s great your label is taking off big-time. I saw one of your quilts in a house a year or so ago. This gal had it hanging on the wall of her den, Erica. God, it was stunning, a piece of art in fabric. And those fabulous jackets you’re designing are all the rage. I’m gonna have one, I swear.”
“Come by the shop,” Erica said, smiling. “I have a couple that would look wonderful on you.”
Lisa cocked her head with a bemused look. “But I thought painting was your forte, not fabric design. I read the Zest article in the paper, but I didn’t see any evidence of your art from the pictures they took of your shop. Which reminds me, when do you have time to paint?”
“Actually, I don’t.” She managed a smile and gave her stock answer to the familiar question. “What with the shop and keeping up with demand, I’m just too busy.” Painting had once been as vital to her as the air she breathed, but that, too, was nine years past. She had discovered then that only a very few things in life were really vital for survival.
Suddenly, Lisa paused and looked about curiously. “Where’s your date? You didn’t come to this thing stag, did you?”
“No, he’s around somewhere mingling, as he calls it.” She turned, scanning the floor trying to find Jason in the crowd. And then her heart skipped a beat. Threading his way through the crowd—and the object of more than a few admiring female glances—was Hunter McCabe. Even half a ballroom away, she could see that he was heading directly to her. What was he doing here? She knew—knew—this was not Hunter’s kind of thing.
“Well,” Lisa said, following Erica’s gaze, “I don’t think I’d let that one mingle any farther than two feet from my side. Are there any more like him? I’m available.”
“He’s not mine,” she murmured, but Lisa was right. He did look good in a tux.
“Then if I were you, I’d do whatever it took to remedy that.”
Erica watched him with the eye of an artist, thinking he looked almost as good as he did in that battered bomber jacket and jeans. The truth was, he was a man who was so comfortable in his skin that he’d even look good in nothing. At that thought, she caught herself up short, because it was too incredibly easy to imagine him wearing nothing but confidence and that rakish grin.
“Hey, there.” Before she realized his intent, he’d caught hold of both her hands and pulled her toward him in a move so natural that she never thought of resisting. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said after kissing her cheek.
Flustered, she inhaled subtle aftershave and not-so-subtle male. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.
“And I may not last much longer,” he told her, looking over the crowd with something in his face—a subtle twist of his mouth—that told her she’d been right. This wasn’t his kind of thing. So what in the world was he doing here? He glanced then at Lisa. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not a bit,” Lisa said, extending her hand with a speculative look in her eye. “I’m Lisa Johns, an old friend of Erica’s.”
“Hunter McCabe,” he said. Then, after a beat, he recognized her. “Joe Crenshaw’s defense attorney, right?”
“That would be me, yes. God bless cable TV.”
He was shaking his head, smiling. “Crenshaw’s something else. I can’t wait to open the sports page to see what he’s been up to next.”
“Me, too.” Lisa took a healthy swallow of her drink. “But, unlike you, I pray his antics are confined to the sports page and not the headlines.”
“I hear you,” Hunter said, still smiling. “I suspect you’d have to lock him in his room every night to keep him out of trouble.”
“I keep thinking he’ll grow up,” Lisa said, “but when will it happen? He’s thirty-four.” She glanced beyond them and made a face. “Uh-oh, I see I’m being summoned.” She flashed a smile at Hunter, then gave Erica a warm hug and whispered, “If he’s not your date, sweetie, he should be. Bye now.”
Erica watched Lisa make her way across the ballroom toward a tall man with iron-gray hair and an air of authority. She turned away, putting a hand over her tummy.
“What’s wrong?” Following her gaze, Hunter frowned, looking over the crowd.
“It’s nothing.” The man who’d summoned Lisa was the firm’s senior partner. And David’s mentor. If Edward Kerr realized she was here, he’d probably feel honor-bound to speak to her. She couldn’t allow that.
She turned to look at Hunter. “I’ve been circulating, as Jason calls it, for an hour. I’d like to get away from the noise for a few minutes. Would you excuse me?”
“A break sounds good to me, too. Let’s try the mezzanine. C’mon.” He settled a hand at her waist and made a startled sound as he encountered bare skin. Her dress had long sleeves and a boat neckline that came up to her throat in front, but in back it plunged almost to her waist. “Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack,” he said, eyeing the enticing line of her spine.
She knew the dress was a bit risqué, but Jason had persuaded her to wear it. This was her first appearance in public, he told her. She should make a statement. In fact, it had been Jason who had chosen the dress for her in a chic little boutique in River Oaks, telling her that if she refused to wear one of her own designs, she needed to wear something equally stunning.
Apparently, Hunter thought it was stunning.
Without another word, he guided her toward an area at the edge of the room. Several people recognized him as they wove through the crowd, but other than brief nods and even briefer smiles, he didn’t stop until he reached the wide stairs that led to the mezzanine.
She sighed with relief as the noise of the party receded. “I can’t go far,” she told him. “The auction is due to start in a little while.”
“I know,” he said, pulling her behind a huge column. “I’ve spent the last hour talking to people I don’t particularly like and listening to enough cocktail chitchat to remind me why I avoid these things. I need a minute to breathe something besides expensive perfume and hors d’oeuvres too pretty to eat.”
She smiled and decided against resisting. “If it’s that bad, why did you come?”
“I came because I knew you’d be here.” His gaze drifted over her, lingering long enough to make her skin tingle. “You look fantastic in that dress…what little there is of it.”
“I have a shawl to cover—”
He touched her lips with a finger. “Don’t even think it. I thought you’d probably wear something you designed, but now I’m glad you didn’t.”
The way he was looking at her renewed her misgivings about him. Not only was he an extremely attractive man, but he was stirring feelings in her that she hadn’t felt in years. She’d met many men and had had many opportunities to begin new relationships in the years since losing David, but she’d never been even remotely tempted. It shook her that Hunter threatened those defenses.
“Something upset you back there,” he said, studying her face. “It was when Lisa left. Want to tell me about it?”
She’d already told him more than enough about herself. “It was nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a little tense over the auction. I know it’s a wonderful opportunity to promote the Erica Stewart label and I’m appreciative of the opportunity, but to tell the truth, I’ll be glad when it’s over and I can go home.”
One wall of the mezzanine was all glass. He led her across the floor and they stood looking out over the city. “I’ve always admired Houston’s beautiful skyline,” she said. “Are you responsible for any of it?”
He moved his gaze away from her reluctantly and pointed to a cluster of buildings due east of downtown. “See the steeple on that church way over there? Look just to the left of it. I was the architect on that building.”
“Only that one?”
“There are several others, but that’s the only one visible from here.”
“It must be thrilling to design something so…important and then to see it come to life.”
“It’s not so different from what you do, is it?”
“A quilt compared to a stunning high-rise?”
“Art is art,” he told her. “As for importance, one of your quilts will probably be some woman’s treasure a hundred years from now when my building is crumbling.”
“You are very good for my ego,” she said, smiling.
“I’m hoping to be good for a lot more than that,” he said. Again she felt a quiver of alarm, but before she had a chance to respond, he glanced at the time on his watch. “It’s time we headed back. The auction will begin in a few minutes and Jason will be wondering what happened to you.”
She let him take her arm and in moments they were entering the ballroom. Jason obviously had been looking for her. He looked relieved when he spotted her and hurried toward them. She turned to take her leave of Hunter, but he caught and held her hand.
“After the auction, there’s someone I want you to meet,” he told her, but Jason had reached them and she didn’t have a chance to respond.
“Hunter.” Jason extended his hand. “I thought I recognized you across the room earlier.” He gave them both a mock scowl. “I leave Erica to work this crowd and next thing I know, she’s disappeared and so have you.”
“I needed a minute to breathe,” she told him.
“I tried to talk her into running away with me,” Hunter said, “but she kept talking about this auction she didn’t want to miss.”
“Yeah, and if we don’t head over there right now, we will miss it. It’s just starting. She’s nervous, so she refuses to be up front and center,” he told Hunter. “Luckily, I’ve staked out a good location where we can see the action and still be almost invisible.” He turned to go, but Hunter held her in place with a firm hand on her waist.
“Don’t let her leave after the auction, Jason,” Hunter said. Then he tipped her face up and kissed her full on the mouth. “I’ll find you after,” he promised.
As they went their separate ways, nobody noticed Lillian watching from across the room.
Lillian managed a bright smile and pretended to listen while one of Morton’s associates talked. Thanks to Hunter, she’d been functioning on sheer bravado for the last half hour. Her delight in having a rare evening in her son’s company was gone. She realized, when Hunter joined her and Morton without a date, that he wasn’t at the gala because he’d had a change of heart about these worthy events. No, from the way he kept looking about, scanning faces, moving restlessly to the bar and listening to conversations with only half an ear, she knew he was there to see someone. And when he spotted Erica Stewart and began making his way across the ballroom directly to her, she knew with a sinking heart, why he’d come.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured to herself.
That kiss hadn’t been casual. She saw his face. Saw Erica’s reaction. She knew Hunter had been intrigued by the artist from the moment he met her. She realized he could have been seeing her ever since. What a cruel twist of fate that would be, she thought, fingering the brooch pinned on her shoulder. But it wouldn’t be surprising. Erica was a beautiful woman. Hunter was a man in his prime. No matter how much she and Hank wished it, there was no serious commitment on his part in his relationship with Kelly. Morton was right about that.
Murmuring something in reply to a remark by Morton, she watched Erica and Jason approach an area near the stage where the auction was beginning. She looked quite stunning, Lillian thought. The little black dress was chic and sophisticated and just right for the occasion. Many eyes would be on her tonight, and with her dark hair clipped to one side, her face coolly aloof, she seemed remote and mysterious. An artist whose inner life was hidden. She would be a big hit. Lillian sighed. Why wouldn’t Hunter be captivated?
“Do you want me to bid on the spa weekend?”
Lillian blinked, realizing Morton had spoken. “What?”
“The spa weekend,” he repeated with some irritation. “What’s the matter with you tonight, Lillian? You’ve been off in la-la land ever since we got here. I don’t know what John Molinara thought with you standing there like a mannequin. You didn’t say ten words. Hell, I thought you’d be tickled pink with Hunter making an appearance for the first time in years. It’s no wonder he disappeared. Probably remembered why he hates these things and left.”
“Sorry,” she said, still twiddling with the brooch. “I did hear you invite John and Rita to dinner. I’ll make it up to them then.”
“Glad to hear it.” He took her arm in a firm grasp. “The auction’s getting under way. Let’s move a little closer. Neither of us is looking forward to this part of the evening, but take my advice and do what I’m doing, just close your eyes and don’t look when they put up the Erica Stewart piece. And you never answered. Do you want me to bid on the spa weekend?”
“I’m not upset because something by Erica will be auctioned. I’m upset because I realize that Hunter is here because of her, Morton. The reason he disappeared is that they left together for a while, just the two of them.”
“Oh, come on. You’re imagining things.”
“I didn’t imagine anything. I saw them.” She didn’t tell him about the kiss.
Morton still scanned the room. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think he’d leave without telling me. I also don’t see him having much interest in the auction…unless he wants to bid on Erica’s piece.” She touched her forehead. “This whole evening has been so stressful. I’m not like you, Morton. I just can’t be around her and not be reminded. I’m not able to put this out of my mind and go on with life as if nothing happened. I never will be.”
He finally lost his temper. “It’s ancient history!” he hissed in her ear. “Stop dwelling on it. You talk about this to anybody—anybody, Lillian—and everything we’ve worked for is down the tubes. I mean it. I want that appointment from the president, and it’s dead, lost forever, if I’m even touched by a breath of scandal.”
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, with a catch in her voice. “I’m the last person to ever talk about it.”
Eight
The auction was a huge success. People bid outrageous amounts, or so it seemed to Erica, for luxury items that included a five-day ski vacation in Aspen, a set of leather luggage, a sitting with a professional photographer, a weekend stay at a spa, five nights in Las Vegas, a seven-day cruise on a luxury liner. It seemed incredible to her that an Erica Stewart jacket was even on the list. Even more incredible was the final bid on the jacket.
“Twenty-two-hundred bucks,” Jason said, openly gleeful that his estimate came up short. “Shows what I know.”
“I’m glad it’s over,” Erica said. She admitted to feeling good at having made a contribution to a worthy cause.
“I guess you know who won the bid?” He was practically salivating.
“No, who?”
“Barbara Bush’s friend. I was in River Oaks one day with Stephen and they were together, leaving the spa. He recognized them. Well, I mean, anybody would recognize Barbara Bush, but Stephen knew her friend from the hospital. She volunteers.”
“I’m impressed.” She was, really. But now her main thought was to slip away as gracefully as possible, in case Jason had more networking in mind. “Don’t even think about bullying me into more self-promotion, Jason. My feet say it’s over.”
Jason’s gaze shifted to a point beyond her shoulder. “Look who’s here.”
“I wondered how long you could stay upright in those heels.” Hunter’s voice at her ear gave her a start. He edged Jason aside and took possession of her elbow. “Not that they don’t do things to your legs that make me crazy. They do. But keep ’em on ten more minutes, please. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“You don’t need me,” Jason said, dropping behind after giving her a wink that Hunter missed. “I’ll meet you at the escalator on the mezzanine when you’re done.” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes?”
“Give or take,” Hunter said, already steering her away from the auction area. “This won’t take long. I know it’s late and you’ve had a big night.” As they passed the bar, he nodded to a couple waiting for fresh drinks who tried to stop him, but he flashed an apologetic smile without slowing his pace. “I want you to meet my mother. She’s wearing the jacket.”
Erica followed his gaze across the room where a woman, blond, slim and elegant, stood close to a confident-looking man with thinning gray-blond hair and a florid complexion. Hunter’s father? If so, she couldn’t see any resemblance. He was shorter than Hunter, but only barely. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place how or when she might have met him. The woman she’d never seen before.
“She’s very attractive,” Erica said of his mother, meaning it.
“I think so. She doesn’t look familiar?”
Shaking her head, Erica added, “Why?”
“My mother has two passions. One is her husband, Morton Trask. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s the CEO of CentrexO.”
She instantly recalled why he’d looked familiar. “Anyone who reads the newspaper or watches the news has heard of him, but I wouldn’t have made the connection with you.”
“He’s my stepfather.”
She heard a slight edge in his tone and glanced up to see his face, but there was nothing to be read in his expression. Another half-dozen steps and they would be close enough for introductions. “And her other passion?”
“Art. And the arts community. She knows a lot of struggling artists, and I think she probably takes a particular artist under her wing from time to time. She’s never admitted that, of course. She knows I think she’s too naive to tell real artists from con artists. God knows how many times she’s been duped.”
And as Morton Trask’s wife, she would be in a position to make a difference to talented artists who might never make it otherwise, Erica thought. CentrexO’s influence was everywhere in Houston, but from the sound of it, Mrs. Trask’s interest was more personal. If she used her position to benefit starving artists, Erica could think of worse things.
She studied the Trasks closely as Hunter guided her toward them, thinking they looked exactly what they were—the cream of Houston society. In fact, the woman in conversation with them now was Melissa Reynolds, a TV anchor at one of Houston’s local network channels. Jason was right to be thrilled over the publicity value of tonight’s event. It wouldn’t hurt having her label mentioned on the nightly news as well as on the society page.
Hunter paused a few feet back to let the anchorwoman make her farewells. His mother reached over and air-kissed Reynolds’s cheek, then turned and saw him with Erica in tow. Her moment of eye contact with Erica was brief, a mere nanosecond, but it was long enough for the practiced smile on her face to change. A hand flew to her throat and something like fear flashed in her eyes. But, with a quick intake of breath, she recovered just as quickly, leaving Erica thinking she must have somehow alarmed the woman.
“Hunter, here you are,” she said, as coolly gracious as the wife of Morton Trask must always appear. “We wondered if you’d left early without telling us.”
“Not before I introduced you to the artist who designed your jacket,” he said, nudging Erica closer with his hand, warm and firm on her bare back. “This is Erica Stewart, Mom. I wanted her to see how terrific it looks on you. Erica, my mother, Lillian Trask.”
With her fingers still spread wide over her chest, Lillian looked into Erica’s eyes. “Hello. It’s…I’m so pleased to meet you. Your art is…simply wonderful.”
This was not a woman Erica would have expected to stammer over an introduction under any circumstances. She was unsettled, for some reason. Erica glanced quickly at Hunter and found he’d marked his mother’s reaction, too. He was frowning. Puzzled, Erica extended her hand. “Thank you,” she said.
Lillian Trask’s palm touched hers in a contact so brief it almost missed. Then she turned to Hunter’s stepfather. “This is my husband, Morton Trask.”
But Erica didn’t respond to that. She didn’t hear it. Instead, her gaze was locked on a unique brooch that was revealed on the woman’s shoulder when she moved her hand away to take Erica’s. It was a starburst of diamonds radiating out from a single large fire opal, set in a nest of more diamonds and opals. It was the perfect accent piece for the pale champagne color of the jacket Erica had designed. But Lillian Trask’s unerring sense of style in pairing the jacket with just the right piece of jewelry was lost on Erica. She was in shock, staring in absolute horror at the brooch. Her chest felt as if all the breath was crushed from it. Something, fear or dread—or both—rose sickeningly in her. The opal at the center of the pin winked fire and terror, and both came at her in waves that stole the strength from her knees and froze the blood in her veins. She felt she might be sick and reached instinctively for Hunter.
He took one look at her face and covered the fingers she’d locked around his arm with his own. “Erica, what’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with concern.
His words were lost in the roaring of terror in her ears. With her gaze riveted on the brooch, sounds came at her as if filtered through a tunnel. The whole world had stopped as if a camera had captured a picture in a freeze-frame. Panic spiraled up from her center, mixing with the pain in her chest. She snatched her hand away from Hunter’s arm and, with a strangled sound, turned in a desperate need to run.
He stopped her, clamped both hands on her arms and forced her to look up at him. “Tell me what’s wrong, Erica,” he demanded. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you sick?”
She shook her head, glanced again at his mother, at the brooch. And again was almost overwhelmed with terrible pain. “I…I don’t know,” she stammered. Pulling away, she put both hands to her cheeks. “I…it’s…I just feel a little faint,” she told him, coming up with a lie. “The evening…ah, the…everything has been a little too much, I think.”
“I’ll take you home,” Hunter said instantly. “Let’s go.”
“No!” She put a hand on his arm and struggled to bring herself under control. “No, thank you. My…Jason will be waiting in the mezzanine.” She’d always deplored the mistaken view that some artists were unstable or, at best, overly emotional. With her heart still beating wildly in reaction to that bizarre moment—whatever it was—who could blame them?
She forced herself to turn and face Lillian Trask. It meant resisting an almost crazed urge to look at the brooch again, but she kept her gaze locked on the woman’s face. “Please forgive me for rushing away. I know my partner is wondering what happened to me.” She forced a smile, thinking it must surely look hideous. She had never felt less like smiling. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Yes,” Lillian replied, then added, “Congratulations on your success.” Beside her, Morton remained silent.
“Thank you.” Taking care to walk away with some semblance of dignity, Erica fixed her eyes on the exit doors of the ballroom. Hunter kept pace beside her, but shot frequent glances at her profile as they walked. He was clearly bewildered.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about,” he said.
“I think it might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t eaten all day.” That was not quite true, but she had to come up with some excuse.
He stared at her. “Jason says you’re not comfortable doing PR and you knew this would take a lot out of you, yet you still skipped breakfast and lunch?”
“Maybe it was the champagne.” And maybe she should tell him to mind his own business, she thought. But she didn’t. Why that was, she hadn’t figured out yet. “I just felt faint for a moment.”
“You looked shocked to your toes,” he told her flatly. “Are you sure you haven’t met my mother before?”
“No. Never.”
“My stepfather?”
“No, I’ve never met either of them. I just had a…a moment when I felt faint. It happens, Hunter.”
He gave a skeptical grunt. If he could hear the way her heart was beating, he would know for sure that she was lying, she thought, clutching his arm in a death grip. But she somehow managed to make it to the mezzanine level without her knees giving way.
Jason was waiting at the escalator in animated conversation with a friend and didn’t see them approach. She was glad to see he had her shawl, as she was cold all the way to her bones. When he turned and saw her face, he stopped talking midsentence. His eyes shot straight to Hunter. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“You’ll have to ask Erica,” Hunter told him. Taking her shawl from Jason, he settled it around her shoulders.
She pulled it close, grateful for its warmth. “I was a little light-headed for a minute, that’s all. It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be fine as soon as I get home and can k-kick off these shoes and change into something soft and c-comfortable.” She pressed her lips together, as she couldn’t seem to stop them from trembling. “W-Willie’s probably wondering what happened to me anyway.”
“Willie?” Hunter repeated.
“He’s a cat,” Jason explained. “Gray and scraggly-looking, a Willie Nelson clone.” Still watching her with narrow-eyed concern, he said, “You’ve never fainted in your life.”
“Too much excitement mixed with champagne,” she told him.
“She hasn’t eaten anything today,” Hunter said, with a frown of disapproval.
“I’ll have a bowl of cereal when I get home.” With the shawl to warm her up, she was feeling more normal now, but something had happened when she was introduced to Hunter’s mother and she didn’t think it was too much champagne. She’d experienced an avalanche of emotion, not when she looked into the woman’s face or when she met his stepfather. It was when she saw Lillian Trask’s brooch. Why had she been almost bowled over by a piece of jewelry?
Without thinking what he would make of it, she turned to Hunter. “Your mother’s wearing an interesting brooch. Do you know anything about it?”
“My mother’s brooch,” he repeated blankly. “You mean that pin she’s wearing?”
“You’re asking about a piece of jewelry his mother’s wearing?” Jason was looking incredulous. His eyes went sharp with suspicion. “How much champagne have you had?”
“It’s not that. I think…I mean—” She gave them both a weak smile and shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy, but I just thought for a minute that I’d seen it before. Is it an antique?”
Hunter took a second to focus on what she said. He lifted one shoulder and said, “I don’t know. She likes jewelry and she usually buys pretty good stuff. I guess it could be old.” His gaze wandered to the arched doorway of the ballroom. Presumably his mother and Morton were still inside. “If it’s important, I’ll go back and ask her.”
“No, no. Don’t. It’s not important. I just…you know how you get a feeling of déjà vu sometimes? When I saw it, I felt it wasn’t just familiar, but that I’d seen it before and it had some special meaning. Which sounds a little nutty, I guess. I couldn’t have, right?” Seeking more warmth, she drew the folds of the shawl more snugly around herself. “It just kind of…startled me. Maybe it belonged to me in another life.” The joke fell flat because she couldn’t quite manage a real smile.
Hunter rubbed the side of his cheek, now thinking. “She’s had that pin a long time, I think. I seem to remember when I was a kid, she’d get all gussied up for one of these affairs and wear it. She’s partial to estate sales. That might be where she got it.”
Jason looked at Erica. “What, you think it was your great-grandmother’s or something?”
“No, of course not.” Her thoughts raced as she tried to make sense of her panic at the sight of it. Estate sales. She occasionally went, which could explain how she might have seen it before. But why did it give her such a shock? And it had been a shock. She’d almost passed out with the force of whatever emotion it triggered in her. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the brooch at all. Maybe the stress of the evening had simply caught up with her at that moment. Maybe the whole thing was just a nervous reaction. The auction was a crucial event for both her and Jason.
Hunter touched her shoulder. “Go home and get some rest,” he told her. “And take it easy these next few days. I just wish you’d reconsider and come with me to the ranch tomorrow. We don’t have to wait until next week.” He saw second thoughts gathering on her face and put a finger on her lips. “Don’t even think it.”
“What?” Jason asked, looking at them both.
“She’s going with me to the ranch next Sunday,” Hunter said, keeping his eyes on hers. “It’s a week away, but I couldn’t talk her into going tomorrow.”
“Not at daybreak,” she said, resisting the pleasure of Hunter’s warm palm on the curve between her neck and shoulder.
“She’s lazy in the mornings,” Jason said, grinning. “But to get her started, bring fresh kolaches and coffee and she’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
With Erica gone, Hunter was more than ready to go himself, but first he wanted a word with his mother. Instead of leaving, he walked back to the ballroom and stood for a minute at the arched doorway, searching the thinning crowd. There were still quite a few die-hard patrons of the arts lingering. If he knew his mother, she’d be among the last to leave. Morton would indulge her, not for any particular love of the symphony—or his wife—but because he liked the two of them to be seen at these events. He finally spotted her and Morton as they were separating from a couple he recognized as longtime neighbors of the Trasks’ in River Oaks.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, coming up from behind. “You about ready to call it a night?”
“Oh, Hunter.” She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re still here?”
“For a few more minutes. I hoped to catch you before you left.”
Morton made a show of studying the time on his watch. “We’re meeting the Jensons’ at their house for a nightcap in a few minutes. Is it important?”
Hunter wondered whether he and his stepfather would ever be able to exchange a word or two without wanting to argue. “I won’t keep her long,” he told Morton. “You’re valet parked?”
“Of course,” Morton said with annoyance.
“I’ll be done by the time your car’s brought up.” He took his mother’s arm and ushered her past the rest of the lingering crowd, leaving Morton to follow or do as he suggested and call for his vehicle. His stepfather was a control freak who usually manipulated a situation, not vice versa. He was irritated at being one-upped, especially by Hunter. It showed on his face as he stalked off.
Lillian sighed. “Was that necessary, Hunter?”
Probably not, he thought, but it was difficult for Hunter to resist jabbing at Morton whenever he got a chance. A psychiatrist would call it petty retaliation after being under the man’s thumb for too many years, but there it was. “There’s something I want to ask you,” Hunter said, steering Lillian along toward the escalator. “What did you think of Erica?”
“Oh.” She stumbled in spite of the firm grip he had on her elbow. “Is that why you waited around, to ask what I think of a woman who’s caught your eye?” Her laugh was forced. Nervous. “You used to do that when you were a teenager, but never since then if my memory serves me.”
“No, that’s not the reason,” Hunter said with a smile. He didn’t bother to deny his interest in Erica. Lillian would have been clued in when he brought Erica over to introduce her. Hell, she probably guessed when he showed up at the gala without Kelly. “She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she?”
“Striking, certainly. Very sophisticated. In person, she’s nothing like I imagined her to be.”
“How is it you’ve thought about her at all? She tells me you’ve never met.”
She gave a nervous laugh. It was nervousness, he told himself, nothing real or spontaneous about it. “I wasn’t speaking of her physical appearance, but her…demeanor, I suppose you’d say. I’m familiar with her art—many people are, as you’ve seen for yourself tonight. You tend to wonder about the artist when you look at a piece of art. At least, I do. That’s all.”
What she said made sense, but for some reason, Hunter felt there was more to her reaction to Erica than her usual appreciation of anyone with enough talent to create art. She looked unsettled and tense. Almost fearful. Why would a conversation about Erica Stewart be anything but casual? She didn’t know her. Neither woman claimed to know the other. And yet…
He thought back to the moment when he’d taken Erica over to be introduced, a moment when he’d been puzzled by his mother’s reaction. Nobody’s social skills were more accomplished, but for a moment she’d seemed on the verge of losing her composure. She’d been…shaken. But why? There’d been no chance to explore her odd reaction as he’d been distracted by Erica’s spell. She’d had a similar reaction when he’d presented his birthday gift to her—a jacket she instantly recognized as an Erica Stewart creation. In hindsight, he saw she’d not been thrilled over it. He’d been so taken with Erica himself that he’d been blind to anything except his own opinion.
“What I want to ask might seem odd,” he told her now, “but Erica had a really weird reaction to that piece of jewelry you’re wearing tonight.”
“What?” She gave him a bewildered look.
“That pin.” He reached out and touched it with his finger. Although no connoisseur of women’s jewelry, he realized it was unique. Probably expensive. Definitely expensive, if those stones were diamonds, which without a doubt they were. More of them than he could count at a glance. And he didn’t know about opals, but he knew about his mother’s judgment in these things and he guessed they were valuable, too. Maybe the value of the piece was in its design, he thought, studying it closely. What the hell did he know about anything except the damn thing had spooked Erica. And he wanted to know why.
“What are you talking about, Hunter?” She brushed his hand aside and covered the brooch with her fingers.
“I know it sounds…funny, but when Erica recovered after her little spell, she talked about your pin, called it a brooch. Which was a kind of old-fashioned word to me, but that’s what she said.”
“You’re not making any sense, Hunter.”
He gave a short laugh. “I guess not. Anyway, she seemed to think she’d seen it before, maybe in an estate sale or something. You two have that in common, an appreciation of treasures of the past, you might say.”
“This pin didn’t come from an estate sale,” Lillian said. “It belonged to my grandmother. It was an anniversary gift to her from my grandfather. It has been in my family forever. It was willed to me when she died.”
“No kidding.” They were in the hotel foyer now, heading for the revolving doors where Morton would be waiting. Hunter didn’t want to explain his interest in Lillian’s jewelry to Morton. Besides, he was still in the dark over the whole thing himself. He couldn’t very well explain what he didn’t understand. “Erica said the jewels are diamonds and opals. Is that right?”
She made a little sound of exasperation. “Really, Hunter, I’m not used to having my jewelry vetted by a complete stranger.”
“I’ve made it sound cheesy, just asking about it, Mom. I apologize. Erica would probably flip if she knew I was asking all these questions. It’s just—” Spotting Morton waiting in their Mercedes, he decided to let it go until he’d had a chance to think more about it. He smiled at his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I hope you had a good time tonight. I sure did.”
Standing on tiptoe she caught his arms, and it seemed to Hunter that she clung to him for a moment. “I was thrilled that you came, Hunter,” she said huskily.
“Maybe I’ll surprise you again sometime,” he said, wishing to make up for upsetting her. She was upset. He didn’t know why, but he knew it had little to do with her jewelry and everything to do with Erica Stewart.
He walked her to the Mercedes, where a valet held the door open. “About that pin, Mom,” he said. She stopped, studying him with a questioning look. “Is opal your birthstone?”
“Why, no. Why do you ask?”
“Oops.” He grinned at her, hoping to lighten her mood. “Because I’ve heard that you should beware of owning opals if they’re not your birthstone. They’re bad luck. But since yours are a legacy from the past and it’s no fault of yours that you own these, their power is kaput.”
He had failed to lighten her mood he realized as he stood at the curb waiting for the valet to seat her in the Mercedes. She looked straight ahead as Morton pulled abruptly away, but it was a night with a full moon and when the car turned the corner, Hunter saw her face. Even with the tinted windows, he could see that it was ghostly pale.
“Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me what that was all about.” At the wheel of his Nissan, Jason shot across three lanes of Southwest Freeway traffic and settled in at a nice, steady seventy miles an hour pace before adding, “And I’m not some dude who’s got the hots for you, sugar, so don’t give me that line about not eating and your stress level knocking you to your knees. I’ve seen you when stress is bad and I’ve seen you when life itself is bad. This was one of the latter, not the former.”
Erica sighed and fixed her gaze on the rear of an eighteen-wheeler just ahead of them. “I don’t know what it was, Jace. I just took a look at that piece of jewelry and it felt as if I was suddenly hurled back in time. A horrible time. I thought I was going to be sick.”
“Maybe it was the shrimp.”
“I was so busy networking, as you instructed, that I really didn’t eat anything.”
“No kidding?”
“Cross my heart.”
Jason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “Maybe there is something about the jewelry.”
“But what? I’ve never seen Mrs. Trask in my life. Her face was totally unfamiliar. Mr. Trask, yes. Everybody’s seen him from time to time. You’d have to live in a time warp in Houston not to. But I barely remember even looking at him, I was so busy trying to keep from passing out with horror.”
“You say you felt as if you were hurled back in time. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. You remember reading about Alice falling down the rabbit hole? Well, that’s the best way I can describe what happened. Except that I didn’t see anything or remember anything. All I felt was…emotion. I was terrified, Jace.” She bent her head in her hands. “Those people must think I’m crazy.”
“When you told Hunter and me about it, you said it felt like a déjà vu moment. A psychiatrist might suggest there’s something buried in your memory bank and the pin was like a key unlocking it.”
“Oh, please, Jason. That only happens in the movies. I wasn’t an abused child, I didn’t witness my parents doing something heinous, and my nanny didn’t lock me in a dark closet. There’s nothing traumatic in my childhood.”
“What about the trauma nine years ago? Seems to me that qualifies as something you’ve buried in your memory bank.”
For a beat or two, she couldn’t speak. The pain of it could still almost crush her. And Jason was the only person in her world who would dare remind her. “I don’t see how a silly pin could have anything to do with that,” she said quietly. Then, turning her face away, she closed her eyes, ending their conversation.
That night, she had the dream again. But this time, she wasn’t wandering aimlessly, but moving through a huge room, smoke-filled and crowded. The hotel ballroom? As she walked, people moved about, talking and laughing. She heard snatches of music, the clink of glasses, smatterings of applause. She glimpsed faces and felt people turning to watch her making her way toward…whatever it was. And with the familiar heady anticipation building inside her, she moved toward that something—something wonderful. Now she saw Jason, who seemed to urge her on, but when she wanted him to come with her, he simply melted into the crowd as if he had never been there. Then she saw Hunter standing in the arched doorway, smiling. Beyond him was his mother wielding a pair of scissors, cutting her new jacket into shreds. She wanted to tell Hunter to stop her, but now he was disappearing, too, swallowed up in nothingness just as Jason had done. And then, suddenly, the promised joy was gone and she felt only deep disappointment and pain. Terrible, terrible pain.
She woke up to find herself sitting straight up in bed with Willie pressed against her, purring. She buried her face in her hands and found it wet with tears. Shakily, she wiped them away and drew in a long, shuddering breath. She was suddenly cold, bone cold. She reached for Willie and lay back, pulled the blanket up and covered them both. The cat was warm. Holding him close calmed her, helped to banish the dream. In a minute, she turned to look at the clock on the bedside table: 3:10 a.m. Hours yet until daylight. She was never able to sleep after the dream, anyway. She pushed the covers aside, kissed Willie on the top of his head and got up.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/karen-young/never-tell-39787817/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Karen Young
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Haunted by the memories of an August night nine years ago when a car crash robbed her of her family, artist Erica Stewart has focused her life on her thriving Houston boutique. No one is more surprised than Erica when a new man walks into her life.Texas born and bred, Hunter McCabe is a successful architect who is smitten the moment he meets Erica. He′s determined to pursue her–despite her efforts to keep him at a distance.But someone is watching the dance of attraction between Erica and Hunter with growing alarm. Someone who understands the dangerous connection between Hunter′s powerful, politically connected family and the accident that shattered Erica′s life. Someone who understands that soon secrets will be revealed and lies will be exposed…And that murder is the only guarantee of silence.