Remember When

  Franklin Mitchell said something that got a loud burst of laughter from the others at the table, and Diana shifted her gaze to the left. Conner and Missy Desmond were also at the table, and everyone was laughing except—Diana’s searching gaze collided with a pair of piercing gray eyes that locked on to hers, refusing to break the glance. Clearly disinterested in both his meal and the people at his table, he was leaning back in his chair, openly watching her, his expression strangely speculative.

  Diana couldn’t imagine why he was looking at her that way, but a polite smile seemed appropriate and she gave him one.

  He answered with a slow nod and a smile that was as warm as it was bold, but what disturbed Diana was the odd, almost calculating look in his eyes.

  Hastily, she yanked her gaze from his and joined the conversation at her own table, but her mind was on Haley Mitchell and what she was likely to say to Cole if she’d seen him arrive with Diana. Haley thrived on vicious gossip; she created it and then used it like a weapon against anyone she didn’t like, and there were many she didn’t like—nearly all of them women.

  She particularly despised Diana because one evening several years earlier, when Peter was still single and particularly drunk, he’d stood up during a wedding reception where he was a groomsman and Diana was a bridesmaid, and instead of proposing a toast to the bride and groom, which everyone thought he was going to do, he proposed marriage to Diana. She had tried to pass it off as a joke, and everyone else let it go at that—except Peter himself and Haley, who’d been in love with him for years.

  He’d married Haley soon after that, but Haley never forgot that she was Peter’s second choice, and Peter never forgot that Diana had turned him down. Haley despised Diana with a jealous loathing that seemed to grow stronger with each year, as did the rumors that Haley’s marriage was in trouble. Diana knew beyond a doubt that if Haley imagined there was anything between Cole and Diana, she’d launch a hate campaign right there at the table in front of him.

  That possibility added yet more stress to the evening that lay ahead of her, and Diana couldn’t cope with it. Instead, she looked across the table at Doug and Amy and asked what plans they’d made for the rest of Amy’s visit in Houston; then she picked up a fresh glass of wine and forced herself to concentrate on every word they said.

  She was so determined to participate and distract herself that she didn’t notice that Spence, who was on her left, had a clear view of Cole and that he was watching the other man in frowning silence. Corey noticed his grim preoccupation, however, and when the main course was being cleared away, she leaned close to him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  He waited until a waiter had finished filling his coffee cup, then tipped his head toward the head table. “Harrison’s looked over at Diana several times tonight, and I don’t like it.”

  Corey was surprised but far from displeased. In Diana’s present predicament, Corey thought that a little flattering attention from a highly desirable male couldn’t do anything but help lift her status and bolster her pride tonight. “Why don’t you like it?”

  “Because I don’t like Harrison.”

  “Why not?” Corey asked, stunned.

  He hesitated for a suspiciously long time, then tried to dismiss the matter with a shrug. “Among other things, he has a reputation for being devious and single-minded. Diana is in a very vulnerable state right now, and her guard is down.”

  “Spence, Cole is an old friend, and you’re being overprotective!”

  Laying his hand over hers, he gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re right.”

  Corey would have pursued the subject, but she was prevented from doing that by the auctioneer, who’d walked onto the stage to open the auction. He rapped his gavel on the podium, and excitement surged through the huge ballroom, silencing conversations and causing everyone to turn and look in his direction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “when we’re through here, you’ll have an additional half hour to enter your final written bids on those items being offered at the silent auction in the Empire Ballroom. That brings us to the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Without further delay or further comment, I invite you to open your hearts and your checkbooks, and to remember that every dollar of the proceeds from this auction will go directly to cancer research. Now, if you will refer to the individual catalogs at your table, you will find a complete listing of the items being auctioned off, along with a description of each.”

  There was a general rustling as people reached for their catalogs. “I know many of you are eager to get to the Klineman sculpture,” he said, and jokingly added, “in an effort to minimize your wait and heighten your tension and desire, we have placed that article partway down the list at number ten.”

  Laughter rippled around the room, and he waited until he had everyone’s complete attention before he spoke again. “Item one,” he proclaimed. “This is a small pencil sketch by Pablo Picasso. Who will open the bidding at forty thousand dollars?” An instant later, he nodded with satisfaction. “Mr. Certillo has offered forty thousand dollars. Do I have forty-one thousand dollars?” Within a few minutes, the sketch was sold for $66,000, and the next item was introduced.

  “Item two is a splendid Tiffany lamp, circa 1904. Who will offer fifty thousand dollars? . . .”

  Chapter 23

  THE “HONOR” OF BEING SEATED at the head table was one that Cole would have gladly forgone. His official host was a tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man named Franklin Mitchell, who was the vice chairman of a family-owned oil company and a conceited, superficial pain in the ass. Mitchell’s guests were his wife, his son and daughter-in-law, and a young couple named Jenkins, who appeared to be close friends of the son’s. The six of them represented the sort of arrogant superciliousness that Cole most despised.

  The other two couples at the table were a portly bachelor in his fifties named Delbert Canfield and his ancient mother, whom he dutifully referred to as “Mama,” and Conner and Missy Desmond. The Desmonds were an attractive, middle-aged couple who made a brief, valiant effort to find some sort of common ground with Cole. Unfortunately their personal interests seemed to be limited almost exclusively to their golf handicaps, their tennis games, and their friends. Since Cole was neither interested in nor conversant in those three topics, conversation lagged and then collapsed.

  Rather than waste an evening listening to idle gossip and meaningless small talk, Cole simply ignored his table companions and put his time to better use. For a while he thought about Cal’s illness and his outrageous demand that Cole marry within six months, and occasionally he allowed himself a glimpse of Diana to see how she was holding up; then he turned his thoughts to problems he could actually solve.

  By the time the first course was being cleared away, he had mentally outlined his agenda for the annual meeting of his board of directors and had decided to declare a stock dividend in advance of the meeting to ensure his proposals were ratified.

  During dessert, while Mitchell boasted about his strategy for getting himself elected president of River Pines Country Club, Cole silently mapped out his own strategy for putting Cushman Electronics at the top of the computer-chip industry.

  The auction was well underway, and Cole was working out alternative uses for his newly acquired subsidiary, in the event their new chip didn’t live up to its promise, when he realized that Franklin Mitchell was talking to him. Having failed to engage Cole in conversations on topics ranging from Cole’s ancestry and personal background to his opinion about the Houston Oilers’ chances of making it to the Super Bowl next year, Mitchell had evidently decided to introduce hunting as his next subject. “Have you done any shooting, Cole?”

  “Some,” Cole replied, stealing a glance at Diana and then reluctantly turning his attention to Mitchell. For some reason, she looked far more tense now than she had an hour ago.

  “I ought to invite you to our ranch to hunt deer. Splendid place—fifty thousand acres.
”

  He lifted white brows as wide as Cole’s thumb in expectation of a reply to an invitation that hadn’t actually been one. It was a subtle verbal trap that Cole had witnessed before, and it was invariably used by narcissistic asses like Mitchell who had to constantly prove their social superiority in any gathering that included a newcomer. Since he hadn’t actually invited Cole to the “splendid” ranch to hunt deer, any form of polite, positive response that Cole made would immediately reduce him to the status of a hopeful supplicant. In view of all that, Cole had no qualms about expressing his real opinion. “Frankly, I don’t see any point in freezing my ass off in the woods at dawn, hoping against hope that a deer will pass by.”

  “No, no, no. We don’t do that. We have feeders all over the ranch—the deer go there to be fed every day.”

  “You mean, you just hang around the feeders until the deer come to eat,” Cole speculated straight-faced, “then while they’re peacefully munching their grain, you jump out and blow a hole through them, and afterwards, you cut off their heads and hang them over the fireplace?”

  Mitchell looked irate. “It’s not the way you make it sound.”

  “Really, how is it, then?”

  “Are you against shooting?” he retaliated, growing angry at the implied criticism of his sport and casting a look over Cole that clearly questioned his masculinity.

  “Not at all. But I eat what I shoot.”

  Mitchell relaxed a little. “Good, good; so do we. Always. So, what do you shoot?”

  “Skeet,” Cole replied, and was instantly annoyed with himself for taking out his disdain for the rich and lazy on a man who wasn’t worth his time. Mitchell’s wife and daughter-in-law were surprisingly amused by Mitchell’s obvious discomfiture, but Delbert Canfield and his mother regarded Cole in wary, awkward silence after that. The Desmonds had been talking to each other about the sailing lessons they were taking and were unaware that anything unusual had transpired.

  The ninth item had sold for $190,000, and the auctioneer’s voice suddenly rose with excitement, providing a welcome diversion for the occupants of the head table. “This next item needs no further description,” he said, beaming with anticipation as he strode to the center of the low stage. He swept the velvet draperies back, exposing the Klineman sculpture that Cole had donated, and a sigh of admiration and expectation rippled through the audience. Conversations broke off as would-be owners gazed at the huge bronze figure and decided how high they were willing to go.

  “This is the moment many of you have been waiting for, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own this magnificent sculpture from a master who is lost to the world now. Bidding,” he said, “will begin at two hundred thousand dollars, and bids will be taken in five-thousand-dollar increments only.” His brows lifted, and a self-assured smile crossed his face as he gazed out upon the audience, letting the excitement build for a few moments; then he said crisply, “Who would like to open the bid—” A hand lifted somewhere in the audience and he nodded instantly. “Mr. Selfer has opened the bidding at two hundred thousand dollars. Do I have—yes, two hundred five thousand dollars from Mr. Higgins. And two hundred ten thousand dollars from Mr. Altour, thank you—”

  “Two hundred and fifty,” Franklin Mitchell called out.

  Cole suppressed a smirk at the idiocy that prompted an offer of $250,000 for a four-foot-tall hunk of metal that looked like bronzed bananas and body parts to him.

  “Two hundred and seventy,” someone else shouted.

  The auctioneer began to beam. He looked inquiringly to Mitchell.

  “Three hundred,” Mitchell said, thereby sinking to new depths in Cole’s personal estimation.

  “Three hundred thousand dollars, and we’ve only just begun!” the auctioneer enthused, gauging the heightened tremors of determination in the room with the accuracy of a human seismograph. “Don’t forget, this is for charity, ladies and gentlemen—”

  “Three hundred and ten,” someone else bid.

  “Mr. Lacey has bid three hundred ten thousand dollars,” he announced, then quickly added, “and Mr. Selfer has reentered the bidding.” He paused for the signal and nodded approvingly, “at four hundred thousand dollars! Mr. Selfer has bid four hundred thousand dollars! Do I have four hundred ten thousand dollars? Four hundred ten thousand dollars?” He searched the room. “Fair warning, ladies and—” He interrupted himself with another quick nod and smile to say, “We now have four hundred ten thousand dollars. We’re at four hundred ten thousand dollars. Do I have four hundred twenty thousand dollars?”

  In the end, the Klineman went for $470,000. While the audience cheered, the delighted new owner wrote out his check and handed it to one of the auctioneer’s assistants; then he got up and went to the head table to shake Cole’s hand. The handshake was more than a mere gesture of gratitude; it was one of several traditions left over from long-ago White Orchid Balls, and it symbolized an acceptable transfer of ownership and responsibility at that moment from the item’s donor to its new owner.

  As the new owner walked proudly away, the former owner looked at his watch and tried to hide his bored impatience by perusing the colorful brochure that cataloged the items being auctioned. There were four more major art items left, Cole noted, plus a dozen pieces of expensive jewelry and furs that were listed under the category “For the Ladies.” On the inside cover was a two-page explanation of the history and traditions of the hundred-year-old White Orchid Charity Ball, and Cole read the enthusiastic narrative with growing amusement.

  According to the brochure, the early balls were never open to the public, but limited only to prominent Texas families. Among the interesting little insights included was the information that from the inception of the auction to the present day, those items meant specifically for the feminine gender, such as jewelry and furs, were always modeled by the ladies, for the ladies.

  In an effort to atone for upsetting Mrs. Canfield and Delbert earlier, Cole laid down the brochure and gestured toward it with a forefinger. “Based on what I read in here, you have an interesting set of customs associated with this ball, Mrs. Canfield.”

  Delbert’s mama looked wary but hopeful at his sudden change in attitude. She was at least eighty, with bluish white hair, the complexion of a china doll, and a bosom that was weighted down with ropes of pearls. “Many of them go back a hundred years,” she said.

  Cole nodded encouragingly. “According to the brochure, items of special interest to women, such as jewelry and furs, are always modeled by other women who attend the auction, rather than simply being put on display.”

  “There’s a delightful logic behind that tradition,” she told him, warming to her subject with girlish delight. “You see, in the early days of the ball, it was assumed that whatever jewelry or fur a lady chose to ‘model’ was something that she—and therefore the others at the ball—expected her husband to buy for her.”

  “It sounds like a sort of gentle extortion,” Cole suggested with a trace of a grin.

  “That’s exactly what it was!” she confirmed with shameless glee. “Oh, and it did run the prices of things up wonderfully for charity’s sake. Why, when Delbert’s father and I were first married, I chose an enormous ruby brooch to wear. Naturally, I assumed Harold would know the tradition, but he didn’t, and I didn’t get the brooch that night. I was ever so disappointed, and embarrassed, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cole said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Not as sorry as Harold was the next day,” she countered with a gruff smile. “Why, I couldn’t hold my head up around my friends for an entire week.”

  “That long?” Cole joked.

  She nodded. “That’s how long it took Harold to find another ruby brooch in New York and have it sent here.”

  “I see.”

  With that, Cole ran out of small talk. He opened the brochure and scanned the remaining items, trying to calculate how much longer it would be before he could leave the ballroom
and return to the pile of pressing work spread out on a coffee table in his suite upstairs. Under the heading “For the Ladies,” he counted twelve items, all jewelry and furs. Next to each item were the words “Shown by . . .”

  The last item in that category captured his attention. It was donated by a local jeweler and was being “shown by” Miss Diana Foster. According to the brochure, the item was “A splendid necklace and earrings of perfectly matched deep purple amethysts surrounded by 15 carats of fine white diamonds and set in 18-karat gold. From the collection of the late Countess Vandermill, circa 1910.”

  Cole lifted his gaze from the brochure and looked at Diana. She was talking to Corey and looked perfectly composed, but she was noticeably paler than she’d been earlier. He knew how miserable she’d felt about making a conspicuous entrance, and he knew how much she must be dreading having to model that necklace.

  Missy Desmond was looking at her own brochure and evidently reached the same conclusion. “Poor Diana Foster!” she exclaimed. “I wonder why she didn’t ask them to find someone else to model that necklace.”

  Cole thought the answer to that was obvious: since Diana’s name was already in the printed brochure, she wouldn’t have been able to withdraw without calling it to the attention of one thousand people.

  Across the table, Haley Mitchell, who had felt more than a little slighted that Cole Harrison had apparently recognized Diana Foster from their teenage acquaintance but not herself, watched his gaze stray yet again to Diana, and so did her husband, who’d been drinking steadily from the moment the meal began. Leaning sideways, Peter whispered, “Diana seems to have made a new conquest. Harrison can’t keep his eyes off of her.”

  “Just like you can’t,” Haley snapped back, incensed that her husband had dared to mention Diana’s name to her and even more enraged because what he said about Cole Harrison was true. Turning to Missy Desmond, she said, “The reason Diana Foster didn’t let someone else model that necklace is because she couldn’t bear to pass up being in the spotlight, not even for five minutes.” She leaned forward and included her friend, Marilee Jenkins, in the conversation. “Have you noticed that tonight she’s playing the martyr? Just look at that brave little smile she’s wearing.”