Never Tell. Karen Young

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ