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