Читать книгу Never Tell - Karen Young - Страница 15

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.”

But Erica didn’t respond to that. She didn’t hear it. Instead, her gaze was locked on a unique brooch that was revealed on the woman’s shoulder when she moved her hand away to take Erica’s. It was a starburst of diamonds radiating out from a single large fire opal, set in a nest of more diamonds and opals. It was the perfect accent piece for the pale champagne color of the jacket Erica had designed. But Lillian Trask’s unerring sense of style in pairing the jacket with just the right piece of jewelry was lost on Erica. She was in shock, staring in absolute horror at the brooch. Her chest felt as if all the breath was crushed from it. Something, fear or dread—or both—rose sickeningly in her. The opal at the center of the pin winked fire and terror, and both came at her in waves that stole the strength from her knees and froze the blood in her veins. She felt she might be sick and reached instinctively for Hunter.

He took one look at her face and covered the fingers she’d locked around his arm with his own. “Erica, what’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with concern.

His words were lost in the roaring of terror in her ears. With her gaze riveted on the brooch, sounds came at her as if filtered through a tunnel. The whole world had stopped as if a camera had captured a picture in a freeze-frame. Panic spiraled up from her center, mixing with the pain in her chest. She snatched her hand away from Hunter’s arm and, with a strangled sound, turned in a desperate need to run.

He stopped her, clamped both hands on her arms and forced her to look up at him. “Tell me what’s wrong, Erica,” he demanded. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you sick?”

She shook her head, glanced again at his mother, at the brooch. And again was almost overwhelmed with terrible pain. “I…I don’t know,” she stammered. Pulling away, she put both hands to her cheeks. “I…it’s…I just feel a little faint,” she told him, coming up with a lie. “The evening…ah, the…everything has been a little too much, I think.”

“I’ll take you home,” Hunter said instantly. “Let’s go.”

“No!” She put a hand on his arm and struggled to bring herself under control. “No, thank you. My…Jason will be waiting in the mezzanine.” She’d always deplored the mistaken view that some artists were unstable or, at best, overly emotional. With her heart still beating wildly in reaction to that bizarre moment—whatever it was—who could blame them?

She forced herself to turn and face Lillian Trask. It meant resisting an almost crazed urge to look at the brooch again, but she kept her gaze locked on the woman’s face. “Please forgive me for rushing away. I know my partner is wondering what happened to me.” She forced a smile, thinking it must surely look hideous. She had never felt less like smiling. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yes,” Lillian replied, then added, “Congratulations on your success.” Beside her, Morton remained silent.

“Thank you.” Taking care to walk away with some semblance of dignity, Erica fixed her eyes on the exit doors of the ballroom. Hunter kept pace beside her, but shot frequent glances at her profile as they walked. He was clearly bewildered.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about,” he said.

“I think it might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t eaten all day.” That was not quite true, but she had to come up with some excuse.

He stared at her. “Jason says you’re not comfortable doing PR and you knew this would take a lot out of you, yet you still skipped breakfast and lunch?”

“Maybe it was the champagne.” And maybe she should tell him to mind his own business, she thought. But she didn’t. Why that was, she hadn’t figured out yet. “I just felt faint for a moment.”

“You looked shocked to your toes,” he told her flatly. “Are you sure you haven’t met my mother before?”

“No. Never.”

“My stepfather?”

“No, I’ve never met either of them. I just had a…a moment when I felt faint. It happens, Hunter.”

He gave a skeptical grunt. If he could hear the way her heart was beating, he would know for sure that she was lying, she thought, clutching his arm in a death grip. But she somehow managed to make it to the mezzanine level without her knees giving way.

Jason was waiting at the escalator in animated conversation with a friend and didn’t see them approach. She was glad to see he had her shawl, as she was cold all the way to her bones. When he turned and saw her face, he stopped talking midsentence. His eyes shot straight to Hunter. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“You’ll have to ask Erica,” Hunter told him. Taking her shawl from Jason, he settled it around her shoulders.

She pulled it close, grateful for its warmth. “I was a little light-headed for a minute, that’s all. It’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be fine as soon as I get home and can k-kick off these shoes and change into something soft and c-comfortable.” She pressed her lips together, as she couldn’t seem to stop them from trembling. “W-Willie’s probably wondering what happened to me anyway.”

“Willie?” Hunter repeated.

“He’s a cat,” Jason explained. “Gray and scraggly-looking, a Willie Nelson clone.” Still watching her with narrow-eyed concern, he said, “You’ve never fainted in your life.”

“Too much excitement mixed with champagne,” she told him.

“She hasn’t eaten anything today,” Hunter said, with a frown of disapproval.

“I’ll have a bowl of cereal when I get home.” With the shawl to warm her up, she was feeling more normal now, but something had happened when she was introduced to Hunter’s mother and she didn’t think it was too much champagne. She’d experienced an avalanche of emotion, not when she looked into the woman’s face or when she met his stepfather. It was when she saw Lillian Trask’s brooch. Why had she been almost bowled over by a piece of jewelry?

Without thinking what he would make of it, she turned to Hunter. “Your mother’s wearing an interesting brooch. Do you know anything about it?”

“My mother’s brooch,” he repeated blankly. “You mean that pin she’s wearing?”

“You’re asking about a piece of jewelry his mother’s wearing?” Jason was looking incredulous. His eyes went sharp with suspicion. “How much champagne have you had?”

“It’s not that. I think…I mean—” She gave them both a weak smile and shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy, but I just thought for a minute that I’d seen it before. Is it an antique?”

Hunter took a second to focus on what she said. He lifted one shoulder and said, “I don’t know. She likes jewelry and she usually buys pretty good stuff. I guess it could be old.” His gaze wandered to the arched doorway of the ballroom. Presumably his mother and Morton were still inside. “If it’s important, I’ll go back and ask her.”

“No, no. Don’t. It’s not important. I just…you know how you get a feeling of déjà vu sometimes? When I saw it, I felt it wasn’t just familiar, but that I’d seen it before and it had some special meaning. Which sounds a little nutty, I guess. I couldn’t have, right?” Seeking more warmth, she drew the folds of the shawl more snugly around herself. “It just kind of…startled me. Maybe it belonged to me in another life.” The joke fell flat because she couldn’t quite manage a real smile.

Hunter rubbed the side of his cheek, now thinking. “She’s had that pin a long time, I think. I seem to remember when I was a kid, she’d get all gussied up for one of these affairs and wear it. She’s partial to estate sales. That might be where she got it.”

Jason looked at Erica. “What, you think it was your great-grandmother’s or something?”

“No, of course not.” Her thoughts raced as she tried to make sense of her panic at the sight of it. Estate sales. She occasionally went, which could explain how she might have seen it before. But why did it give her such a shock? And it had been a shock. She’d almost passed out with the force of whatever emotion it triggered in her. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the brooch at all. Maybe the stress of the evening had simply caught up with her at that moment. Maybe the whole thing was just a nervous reaction. The auction was a crucial event for both her and Jason.

Hunter touched her shoulder. “Go home and get some rest,” he told her. “And take it easy these next few days. I just wish you’d reconsider and come with me to the ranch tomorrow. We don’t have to wait until next week.” He saw second thoughts gathering on her face and put a finger on her lips. “Don’t even think it.”

“What?” Jason asked, looking at them both.

“She’s going with me to the ranch next Sunday,” Hunter said, keeping his eyes on hers. “It’s a week away, but I couldn’t talk her into going tomorrow.”

“Not at daybreak,” she said, resisting the pleasure of Hunter’s warm palm on the curve between her neck and shoulder.

“She’s lazy in the mornings,” Jason said, grinning. “But to get her started, bring fresh kolaches and coffee and she’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

With Erica gone, Hunter was more than ready to go himself, but first he wanted a word with his mother. Instead of leaving, he walked back to the ballroom and stood for a minute at the arched doorway, searching the thinning crowd. There were still quite a few die-hard patrons of the arts lingering. If he knew his mother, she’d be among the last to leave. Morton would indulge her, not for any particular love of the symphony—or his wife—but because he liked the two of them to be seen at these events. He finally spotted her and Morton as they were separating from a couple he recognized as longtime neighbors of the Trasks’ in River Oaks.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, coming up from behind. “You about ready to call it a night?”

“Oh, Hunter.” She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re still here?”

“For a few more minutes. I hoped to catch you before you left.”

Morton made a show of studying the time on his watch. “We’re meeting the Jensons’ at their house for a nightcap in a few minutes. Is it important?”

Hunter wondered whether he and his stepfather would ever be able to exchange a word or two without wanting to argue. “I won’t keep her long,” he told Morton. “You’re valet parked?”

“Of course,” Morton said with annoyance.

“I’ll be done by the time your car’s brought up.” He took his mother’s arm and ushered her past the rest of the lingering crowd, leaving Morton to follow or do as he suggested and call for his vehicle. His stepfather was a control freak who usually manipulated a situation, not vice versa. He was irritated at being one-upped, especially by Hunter. It showed on his face as he stalked off.

Lillian sighed. “Was that necessary, Hunter?”

Probably not, he thought, but it was difficult for Hunter to resist jabbing at Morton whenever he got a chance. A psychiatrist would call it petty retaliation after being under the man’s thumb for too many years, but there it was. “There’s something I want to ask you,” Hunter said, steering Lillian along toward the escalator. “What did you think of Erica?”

“Oh.” She stumbled in spite of the firm grip he had on her elbow. “Is that why you waited around, to ask what I think of a woman who’s caught your eye?” Her laugh was forced. Nervous. “You used to do that when you were a teenager, but never since then if my memory serves me.”

“No, that’s not the reason,” Hunter said with a smile. He didn’t bother to deny his interest in Erica. Lillian would have been clued in when he brought Erica over to introduce her. Hell, she probably guessed when he showed up at the gala without Kelly. “She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she?”

“Striking, certainly. Very sophisticated. In person, she’s nothing like I imagined her to be.”

“How is it you’ve thought about her at all? She tells me you’ve never met.”

She gave a nervous laugh. It was nervousness, he told himself, nothing real or spontaneous about it. “I wasn’t speaking of her physical appearance, but her…demeanor, I suppose you’d say. I’m familiar with her art—many people are, as you’ve seen for yourself tonight. You tend to wonder about the artist when you look at a piece of art. At least, I do. That’s all.”

What she said made sense, but for some reason, Hunter felt there was more to her reaction to Erica than her usual appreciation of anyone with enough talent to create art. She looked unsettled and tense. Almost fearful. Why would a conversation about Erica Stewart be anything but casual? She didn’t know her. Neither woman claimed to know the other. And yet…

He thought back to the moment when he’d taken Erica over to be introduced, a moment when he’d been puzzled by his mother’s reaction. Nobody’s social skills were more accomplished, but for a moment she’d seemed on the verge of losing her composure. She’d been…shaken. But why? There’d been no chance to explore her odd reaction as he’d been distracted by Erica’s spell. She’d had a similar reaction when he’d presented his birthday gift to her—a jacket she instantly recognized as an Erica Stewart creation. In hindsight, he saw she’d not been thrilled over it. He’d been so taken with Erica himself that he’d been blind to anything except his own opinion.

“What I want to ask might seem odd,” he told her now, “but Erica had a really weird reaction to that piece of jewelry you’re wearing tonight.”

“What?” She gave him a bewildered look.

“That pin.” He reached out and touched it with his finger. Although no connoisseur of women’s jewelry, he realized it was unique. Probably expensive. Definitely expensive, if those stones were diamonds, which without a doubt they were. More of them than he could count at a glance. And he didn’t know about opals, but he knew about his mother’s judgment in these things and he guessed they were valuable, too. Maybe the value of the piece was in its design, he thought, studying it closely. What the hell did he know about anything except the damn thing had spooked Erica. And he wanted to know why.

“What are you talking about, Hunter?” She brushed his hand aside and covered the brooch with her fingers.

“I know it sounds…funny, but when Erica recovered after her little spell, she talked about your pin, called it a brooch. Which was a kind of old-fashioned word to me, but that’s what she said.”

“You’re not making any sense, Hunter.”

He gave a short laugh. “I guess not. Anyway, she seemed to think she’d seen it before, maybe in an estate sale or something. You two have that in common, an appreciation of treasures of the past, you might say.”

“This pin didn’t come from an estate sale,” Lillian said. “It belonged to my grandmother. It was an anniversary gift to her from my grandfather. It has been in my family forever. It was willed to me when she died.”

“No kidding.” They were in the hotel foyer now, heading for the revolving doors where Morton would be waiting. Hunter didn’t want to explain his interest in Lillian’s jewelry to Morton. Besides, he was still in the dark over the whole thing himself. He couldn’t very well explain what he didn’t understand. “Erica said the jewels are diamonds and opals. Is that right?”

She made a little sound of exasperation. “Really, Hunter, I’m not used to having my jewelry vetted by a complete stranger.”

“I’ve made it sound cheesy, just asking about it, Mom. I apologize. Erica would probably flip if she knew I was asking all these questions. It’s just—” Spotting Morton waiting in their Mercedes, he decided to let it go until he’d had a chance to think more about it. He smiled at his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I hope you had a good time tonight. I sure did.”

Standing on tiptoe she caught his arms, and it seemed to Hunter that she clung to him for a moment. “I was thrilled that you came, Hunter,” she said huskily.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you again sometime,” he said, wishing to make up for upsetting her. She was upset. He didn’t know why, but he knew it had little to do with her jewelry and everything to do with Erica Stewart.

He walked her to the Mercedes, where a valet held the door open. “About that pin, Mom,” he said. She stopped, studying him with a questioning look. “Is opal your birthstone?”

“Why, no. Why do you ask?”

“Oops.” He grinned at her, hoping to lighten her mood. “Because I’ve heard that you should beware of owning opals if they’re not your birthstone. They’re bad luck. But since yours are a legacy from the past and it’s no fault of yours that you own these, their power is kaput.”

He had failed to lighten her mood he realized as he stood at the curb waiting for the valet to seat her in the Mercedes. She looked straight ahead as Morton pulled abruptly away, but it was a night with a full moon and when the car turned the corner, Hunter saw her face. Even with the tinted windows, he could see that it was ghostly pale.

“Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me what that was all about.” At the wheel of his Nissan, Jason shot across three lanes of Southwest Freeway traffic and settled in at a nice, steady seventy miles an hour pace before adding, “And I’m not some dude who’s got the hots for you, sugar, so don’t give me that line about not eating and your stress level knocking you to your knees. I’ve seen you when stress is bad and I’ve seen you when life itself is bad. This was one of the latter, not the former.”

Erica sighed and fixed her gaze on the rear of an eighteen-wheeler just ahead of them. “I don’t know what it was, Jace. I just took a look at that piece of jewelry and it felt as if I was suddenly hurled back in time. A horrible time. I thought I was going to be sick.”

“Maybe it was the shrimp.”

“I was so busy networking, as you instructed, that I really didn’t eat anything.”

“No kidding?”

“Cross my heart.”

Jason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “Maybe there is something about the jewelry.”

“But what? I’ve never seen Mrs. Trask in my life. Her face was totally unfamiliar. Mr. Trask, yes. Everybody’s seen him from time to time. You’d have to live in a time warp in Houston not to. But I barely remember even looking at him, I was so busy trying to keep from passing out with horror.”

“You say you felt as if you were hurled back in time. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. You remember reading about Alice falling down the rabbit hole? Well, that’s the best way I can describe what happened. Except that I didn’t see anything or remember anything. All I felt was…emotion. I was terrified, Jace.” She bent her head in her hands. “Those people must think I’m crazy.”

“When you told Hunter and me about it, you said it felt like a déjà vu moment. A psychiatrist might suggest there’s something buried in your memory bank and the pin was like a key unlocking it.”

“Oh, please, Jason. That only happens in the movies. I wasn’t an abused child, I didn’t witness my parents doing something heinous, and my nanny didn’t lock me in a dark closet. There’s nothing traumatic in my childhood.”

“What about the trauma nine years ago? Seems to me that qualifies as something you’ve buried in your memory bank.”

For a beat or two, she couldn’t speak. The pain of it could still almost crush her. And Jason was the only person in her world who would dare remind her. “I don’t see how a silly pin could have anything to do with that,” she said quietly. Then, turning her face away, she closed her eyes, ending their conversation.

That night, she had the dream again. But this time, she wasn’t wandering aimlessly, but moving through a huge room, smoke-filled and crowded. The hotel ballroom? As she walked, people moved about, talking and laughing. She heard snatches of music, the clink of glasses, smatterings of applause. She glimpsed faces and felt people turning to watch her making her way toward…whatever it was. And with the familiar heady anticipation building inside her, she moved toward that something—something wonderful. Now she saw Jason, who seemed to urge her on, but when she wanted him to come with her, he simply melted into the crowd as if he had never been there. Then she saw Hunter standing in the arched doorway, smiling. Beyond him was his mother wielding a pair of scissors, cutting her new jacket into shreds. She wanted to tell Hunter to stop her, but now he was disappearing, too, swallowed up in nothingness just as Jason had done. And then, suddenly, the promised joy was gone and she felt only deep disappointment and pain. Terrible, terrible pain.

She woke up to find herself sitting straight up in bed with Willie pressed against her, purring. She buried her face in her hands and found it wet with tears. Shakily, she wiped them away and drew in a long, shuddering breath. She was suddenly cold, bone cold. She reached for Willie and lay back, pulled the blanket up and covered them both. The cat was warm. Holding him close calmed her, helped to banish the dream. In a minute, she turned to look at the clock on the bedside table: 3:10 a.m. Hours yet until daylight. She was never able to sleep after the dream, anyway. She pushed the covers aside, kissed Willie on the top of his head and got up.