Never Tell

“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.”