Never Tell

“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.