Never Tell. Karen Young
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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