Kitabı oku: «Never Tell», sayfa 5
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.”
