Never Tell

Three

Erica’s Art was the name of her shop and Erica loved it. She loved stocking it with her designs and watching customers pick and choose from the collection of quilts and jackets and then leave pleased to own something she’d created. It surprised her that she was a good merchant. As an artist, she preferred solitude to produce her creations, and she was shy when she had to assume the role of salesperson. That was Jason’s thing and he was so good at it that she didn’t often have to actually deal with a customer. Everything else about the shop she loved, even the end-of-month accounting. It was satisfying to run the numbers and find they were solidly in the black.

Today, she had holed up in the office at the rear of the store preparing tax records for their accountant. Finally done, she closed the books just as a ping sounded, announcing a customer. She glanced up, caught a glimpse of a tall man entering the store before he moved from her line of vision to browse. Jason had returned from a lunch date a few minutes ago, which relieved her of having to drop what she was working on to go out and sell. She knew it was silly that she found it awkward standing by while perfect strangers fingered her quilts, or squinted critically at her jackets. She had no problem accepting that what she created and stocked in the shop wouldn’t appeal to everyone, but it was so…well, awkward pretending that it wasn’t somehow personal, when creating every design was, in fact, somehow very personal.

Turning to a shipment of fabric that had arrived an hour ago, Erica tore the wrapping from material intended for a series of jackets still in the design stage. She pulled yardage from the first bolt and ran a palm over the weave, pleased with both texture and color. She itched to get started, but she’d have to wait until Jason could help her take the shipment upstairs to her studio to begin cutting. She made all originals of her jacket designs herself before handing the pattern and fabric to the two women who sewed the numbered replicas. She never authorized more than six of a single design.

“Psst! Erica, come out here for a minute.” Jason stuck his head around the door, doing funny things with his eyebrows.

She frowned at him. “What?”

“You’ll see,” he hissed. “Just drop that and walk out here on the floor.”

“Not until you tell me why.” She’d been on the receiving end of his practical jokes before. Refusing the bait, she reached for a second bolt.

He gave an exasperated sound but had to withdraw when someone—the customer, she assumed—called, “Hey, I’m on my lunch hour here.”

“Sorry, I was just consulting with the designer,” Jason said, giving the man a boyish smile, one that was usually effective in softening up the most hardened sales-resistant browser. As she tore at the wrapping, she heard Jason launch full bore into his sales pitch. Apparently the customer’s choice was narrowed to one of the evening jackets. Dismissing them, she removed silk shantung in a stunning shade of crimson from the packing material. She held the length of silk up to the light, visualizing a beaded design. Jet beading, she decided with a forefinger pressed to her lips. With a long black skirt or skinny black pants, it would make a fabulous holiday outfit. She reached automatically for her sketch pad.

“Why don’t we ask Erica to help us out.” Jason was again at the door, but this time he’d dragged the customer with him.

It took her a moment to bring them into focus. She looked beyond Jason into dark eyes deeply set in an unshaven face of chiseled angles and shadowy planes, a bone-deep tan—which she knew did not originate in a tanning booth—and hair a rich, sun-streaked, tobacco-brown. He was tall with an athlete’s build and wore a battered leather jacket and black T-shirt. He looked tough and not quite housebroken. She noted all this with her artist’s eye before realizing with an unsettling start that he was studying her, as well. Setting her sketch pad aside, she said, “What’s the problem?”

“No problem.” Jason glanced at his customer as if dishing him up on a platter for Erica. “This is Hunter McCabe. He’s thinking of buying his mother a jacket for her birthday. Hunter, meet the artist herself, Erica Stewart.”

“My pleasure.” Hunter leaned around Jason and extended a hand.

“Hello.” With no other option, she put her hand in his and found it as hard as his jaw. She quickly withdrew hers. He definitely did not spend his days behind a desk.

“From Hunter’s description of his mother,” Jason said, beaming at the two of them, “she’s probably about your size, Erica. Am I right?” he asked Hunter.

“Yeah, but that’s pretty much where the resemblance ends.”

Erica flushed as his gaze held hers a heartbeat too long, before dropping to her chin, then drifting down past her midriff all the way to her feet. Her bare feet. She had a habit of kicking off her shoes while she worked. It irritated her that she hadn’t remembered to put them on after getting up from her desk and tackling the new shipments.

“Erica’s a size six,” Jason said helpfully. “I know it’s difficult to judge one person’s size by another, but if you think she’s about Erica’s height and weight, we should be safe in choosing a size six.”

Standing with his arms crossed, Hunter cocked his head, considering. “I’d know for sure if you’d put on one of your jackets.”

“Great idea.” This from Jason.

“Jason, I don’t think—” But he was off like a shot. “Excuse me,” she said to Hunter, then turned to find her shoes. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel stripped as bare as her feet. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself, gazing around the tiny room. Where the heck had she put her shoes?

“Looking for these?”

She turned to see him pluck her shoes from beneath the pile of wrapping paper on the floor. “Yes, thanks.” She took them and stood on one leg to put them on, thinking she must look like a flamingo. That done, she took a deep breath, straightened, tugged her sweater down over her jeans and met his eyes. He was openly amused.

“Do you always work in bare feet?”

“It’s a habit and a silly one,” she said. “I somehow shed my shoes once I get caught up in what I’m doing.” What was keeping Jason?

He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, as if settling in. “If that’s the secret to your creativity, then I’d forget trying to break it. I don’t know much about quilts or fashion, but I’m told an Erica Stewart label is the hottest thing going.”

“We’ve been very fortunate,” she said, and went back to her desk before looking at him again. “Tell me something about your mother, her hair, eyes. Just because we’re the same size doesn’t mean our style and color should be the same. Does she tend to wear subtle colors or bold ones?”

“Her eyes are blue and her hair is blond. She tints it to cover the gray, I think. Not that I’ve ever seen a gray hair.”

She put a hand to her own wild and curly mane. No matter what she did, her hair tended to take on a life of its own in Houston’s humidity. “And colors?” she prompted.

“Not too much bold stuff. Subtle, I guess.” His gaze went to her black T-shirt and jeans before wandering back to her face. “She hangs out with a lot of artists, but she doesn’t dress like one. She doesn’t look like one, either,” he added.

Jason returned just then. “The champagne silk, I think.” He displayed the jacket over one arm with a flourish. “Size six. How tall is she? Erica’s five-six. If your mother’s around the same height, this should be just perfect. Come out from behind that desk and try it on, Erica. He needs to see it on to get the full effect.”

“His mother’s a blond and she has blue eyes,” Erica said, staying put. “The champagne should be right for her. There’s no need—”

“Champagne is right for anyone, sugar. What Hunter needs to see is whether it fits. Come on.”

Before coming out from behind her desk, she shot Jason a dark look, promising retribution. Nevertheless, she allowed him to help her into the jacket, noting with a quick glance at Hunter that he was clearly enjoying the whole charade.

“You should be the model for your designs,” he said, looking her over. “You’d sell those things faster than you could make them.”

“We’re already selling them faster than we can make them.” Head cocked, Jason studied the picture Erica made wearing the jacket. “And you’re absolutely right, Hunter. Wearing that little number with those black jeans, she strikes just the right note of sexy sophistication, don’t you think?”

“Damn straight.”

With a huff of exasperation, Erica took the jacket off. The man was a potential buyer, so she bit back a tart remark and conjured up a professional smile. “If your mother is not pleased with the color or style, we’ll be happy to exchange it for something else.”

“Trust me, she’ll love it. And can I wait while you gift wrap it?”

“Certainly. Jason will take care of you.” Back behind her desk again, she picked up the sketch pad and folded her arms around it…for some reason. “Right, Jason?”

“Right, sugar. I live to gift wrap.” Jason held the jacket up and studied it with a critical eye. “I’m thinking something in that pearlized cream paper and possibly the pale gold ribbon, the gauzy stuff, Erica. What d’you think?”

“Fine.” She again made the mistake of looking into those dark, amused eyes.

“Cream and gold sounds perfect to me,” he said, grinning.

Beaming, Jason moved toward the door. “Your mom will absolutely love this, Hunter. And be sure to tell her to look at the next issue of Texas Today. Erica’s been named one of the mag’s Twenty Women to Watch.” Jason’s smile flashed at Erica. “She’s one terrific gal, our Erica.”

Grinding her teeth, Erica said, “You’ll want to start wrapping that, Jason. Mr. McCabe is on his lunch hour.”

“You betcha.” With a saucy wink, he left them.

Hunter moved from his position at the door into her office. “I saw the article in yesterday’s paper. Your stuff looked good, but I don’t think the real impact of your work was captured in a newspaper spread. Have you considered printing up a catalog? Those quilts would look great in full color, but the jackets would really pop out. It pays to advertise.”

“Are you in that line of work?”

“Advertising? No, I’m an architect.”

She couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. In jeans and a leather jacket over a dark T-shirt and scuffed boots, he didn’t look like an architect. He looked like a man who worked outdoors. “Really.”

“Cross my heart.” He said it with a slow smile. “I’m dressed for fieldwork today. I’ve got a couple of jobs going and I like to keep close tabs on any work in progress.” He glanced at his boots. “I just left a job where the crew struck a waterline and flooded the whole site.”

“So you’ll need to get back, I imagine.”

“The situation’s under control,” he said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “Tell me about the Texas Today thing. Something like that doesn’t just fall into a person’s lap. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. As I said, Jason and I have been—”

“Fortunate. Yeah, but it’s you who’s been named, not Jason. You’re the artist. You’re the designer.” He paused, looking at her. “At least, I assume the designs are yours exclusively, right?”

“They’re my designs, but Jason is a talented artist. And he’s absolutely tops in promoting our shop.” She put the sketch pad down on the desk. “Mr. McCabe, I don’t want to seem rude, but I still have a lot to do here.” She glanced at the drape of red silk spilling over her drafting board. “There never seems to be enough hours in a day to get everything done.”

“I hear you.” He stood up and looked at her ringless left hand. “Is there a Mr. Stewart?”

Not anymore. The thought came quickly and with its usual swift, piercing pain. But her reply was simply “No.”

The look she gave him was usually good at discouraging even the most determined man. Something in the tone of her voice or the look on her face usually put them off. It worked now with McCabe.

“Okay,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you.”

“Thank you. I hope your mother likes the jacket. As I said, if she’s not pleased or needs a different size or color, have her bring it in. We’ll do our best to find something she likes.”

“She’s never returned anything I’ve ever given her, but I guess there could be a first time.”

“Yes, well…be sure to pick up a card on your way out, so she’ll have our phone number.” She picked up the sketch pad again.

He glanced at it. “Something new?”

“Just some raw sketches. If I don’t make some effort to save them, they go out of my head and are lost. I try to keep—” She paused, caught herself up. She could hardly get her work done if she kept chatting with him. “I don’t want to be rude, Mr. McCabe, but I really have a lot to do.”

He smiled. “Hunter. Mr. McCabe is what my accountant calls me.”

“I’ll just check to see if Jason’s finished.” She moved from behind her desk even though she had to brush past Hunter to leave. Jason must be done but was probably dawdling over wrapping the gift in a very unsubtle attempt to prolong conversation between her and a man. He never tired of trying to stimulate her social life even though he knew she had no interest in developing a relationship. That part of her life was over.

“Okay, he was a hottie and don’t you try to tell me you didn’t notice.” Jason stood with one foot in the door of the office and an eye on the floor of the shop where a couple of customers were browsing. “Also, he did not wear a wedding ring.”

“Which means nothing. Nowadays, not wearing a ring is almost de rigueur for some men,” Erica said, tearing the wrapping from a bolt of electric-blue fabric.

“Yummy, I love it when you talk sexy.”

“Oh, would you look at this color! I love this blue. I think a lining in just the right shade of green, clear bottle-green…” Her eyes went unfocused as she visualized the effect in her mind.

“He’s just the kind of guy you should be dating,” Jason persisted, ignoring the possibility that McCabe was married. “He was driving a sixty-thousand-dollar SUV and his boots cost at least half that. If your libido didn’t perk up at just being in the room with Hunter McCabe, I’m gonna give up. It means you’re dead.”

“The best part of that sales pitch is you’re thinking of giving up.” She tossed the blue bolt aside and ripped open another one. “I think those customers are ready to check out.”

He glanced at the two women who were trying to make a decision about a quilt. “They’re not even close. I’m serious, Erica. I saw the way McCabe was looking at you, as if you were crème brûlée and he’d just been told he could have dessert.”

She placed a bolt on the growing stack behind her, then fixed him with a direct look. “Jason, how many times do I have to tell you that I am not interested in dating? And don’t start with that your-life-is-incomplete-without-sex line. I’m very satisfied designing clothes and quilts. You know yourself I don’t have enough time left over to grocery shop, so when would I have the time to have a relationship with a man?”

“If you gave yourself a chance to fall in love again, you’d make the time. It’s normal. It’s natural. All human beings need the physical and spiritual connections that come from a sexual relationship.”

“Speaking of that,” she said, tearing into another package, “what happened when you went to see your dad?”

“Same as always. Two minutes after I got there, he started. If we hadn’t been at a restaurant, it would have been a huge scene. As it was, Susan stopped him, midtirade. She handles him better than my mother ever did, which makes me wonder how it came about that he married someone who doesn’t ask how high when he says jump. My mother always rolled right over under his overbearing ways. Anyway, Susan threatened to dump her coffee in his lap if he didn’t calm down. You can imagine how lovely the rest of the meal was. If it hadn’t been for her playing mediator, I would have left in the middle of the meal. The man can be a real jerk.”

“Maybe you should cut him some slack until he comes to terms with your lifestyle, Jace.”

Leaning against the door frame, Jason got a stubborn look on his face. “That is such bullshit, Erica. He’s known forever that I’m gay. Just because I never said it, he’s trying to pretend it’s not a fact. The only reason this came up is he happened to run into Stephen and me at that restaurant and he was with a couple of VIPs he does business with, like he was so afraid they’d guess my little secret. Like it has anything to do with him, damn it. Next time, maybe I’ll bring Derek Kingsley,” he threatened darkly. “See how he reacts to that.”

“Speaking of jerks,” Erica put in dryly. “It’s Derek Kingsley, not your father, who comes instantly to mind.”

“Which is exactly the point. And until Dad accepts me for who I am, I’m going to devote myself to pissing him off.”

“Very mature of you,” she told him. “And that should make the next family gathering just lovely. Here, make yourself useful.” She shoved two of the fabric bolts into his arms. “Help me haul this stuff upstairs. I’ve got several ideas for using it and you’ve got merchandise to sell.”

Hunter hoped to avoid seeing Morton when he took his mother’s gift to her on the evening of her birthday. He planned to stay long enough to have a drink and watch her open the gift, then cut out before Morton showed up. The older he got, the less Hunter was able to handle Morton with his gigantic ego and his callous attitude toward Lillian. Tonight, for example, she would be wined and dined royally, which was Morton’s style, after which she would be relegated to the background of his life until some other event required him to turn his attention to her again. At which time he’d do something else lavish and over the top, all in keeping with his public image, of course, then go back to ignoring her. Hunter had long since stopped trying to figure out why she hadn’t walked out years ago. There was apparently something that kept their relationship together, but what it could be was a mystery to him.

Could be his disgust with Morton was plain, old-fashioned jealousy, he admitted, not of the man’s success in his career, but of the place he occupied in Lillian’s life. There had been a time when Hunter and his mother had been as close as any parent and child could be. In spite of the fact that Lillian had remarried after the death of his dad, Hunter had known he was first in her life. Even after Jocelyn’s birth, he and his mom still had a special bond. When exactly that had all changed he wasn’t quite certain, he thought now, frowning. He simply knew that he’d realized one day that their special bond was gone. She’d somehow turned into a ghost of herself and he had yet to figure out why. What wasn’t hard to see was that Morton was suddenly front and center, placing Hunter—and Jocelyn, too—as distant also-rans.

But today was his mother’s birthday and he should have outgrown old resentments. Besides, giving her the jacket as a birthday gift offered him a chance at maybe finding out a little more about Erica. If his mother had any passion besides fulfilling her role as the perfect wife to Morton, it was her participation in the arts community in Houston. If, as Hank said, she was familiar with Erica’s work, she would probably know something about the artist herself.

He couldn’t remember when he’d been as intrigued by a woman as he was with Erica Stewart, a woman he’d barely met and about whom he knew nothing. When he’d left the shop after buying the jacket, all he knew was that he wanted to see her again. In fact, for a couple of days he’d tried to think of an excuse to go back to the shop, but she’d been anything but encouraging in the few minutes he’d spent with her, and he found himself oddly unwilling to chance an outright rejection. He wasn’t sure why he was so intrigued. She was beautiful, of course, but there was something else. Those big gray eyes looked as if they held deep secrets, and her jumble of dark curly hair invited a man’s hand. But it was her mouth that he liked best—wide and bow-shaped—entirely at odds with the seriousness of her eyes and attitude. Downright sexy, it was. Hell, thinking about how she’d taste, he’d been on the point of asking her out before he remembered Kelly.

Probably a good thing the feeling wasn’t mutual.

His mother’s face lit with pleasure when she opened the door. “Hunter, darling, it’s so good to see you.”

“Happy birthday, Mom.”

She made a face. “Don’t remind me.” Lifting her cheek for his kiss, she caught his arm and pulled him over the threshold. “I’ve got your favorite, Maker’s Mark. And I wish you’d join Morton and me for dinner. He’s taking me to Annie’s. You know you’d enjoy it.”

“Too much to do after I leave here,” he told her. “I’ve got a couple of hairy jobs going and the weather hasn’t cooperated.” It had rained hard the day before and the sites were still soaked. The construction boss had been forced to send the crews home on both jobs. More rain was forecast and construction on both projects was not far enough along to do any inside work. “I’ll take a rain check, so to speak, okay?”

“I should hold you to that, but I won’t even try because I know you don’t mean it.”

“Did you hear from Jocelyn?” he asked as they left the foyer. “Where is she, incidentally? Last I heard, she was in Key West trying her hand at journalism, but to be honest, the newspaper sounded more like an underground publication than a bona fide newspaper. Let’s hope the guy who claims to be the editor doesn’t turn out to be a jerk.”

“She called to wish me a happy birthday this morning, but she wasn’t very forthcoming as to how the job was going. The last time we talked, she couldn’t say enough about her editor, but today she barely mentioned him or the job. I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, and I agree. The last thing she needs is to get involved in another rocky relationship. Of course, I can’t discuss it with Morton.”

If there was anything of consequence his mother could discuss with Morton, it would surprise him, Hunter thought. He made a mental note to check on Jocelyn. His half sister did not need another aborted relationship to add to the mistakes she’d already chalked up.

Lillian led him down a hall to the darkly sumptuous den. He deliberately avoided looking in the eyes of the massive ram that was mounted over the mantel. Morton was an avid big-game hunter and it pleased him to show the world what he shot and killed. The den was the only room in the house whose decor didn’t reflect Lillian’s gracious, tasteful influence, but it looked exactly the way Morton wanted.