Never Tell
Haunted by the memories of an August night nine years ago when a car crash robbed her of her family, artist Erica Stewart has focused her life on her thriving Houston boutique. No one is more surprised than Erica when a new man walks into her life.Texas born and bred, Hunter McCabe is a successful architect who is smitten the moment he meets Erica. He's determined to pursue her–despite her efforts to keep him at a distance.But someone is watching the dance of attraction between Erica and Hunter with growing alarm. Someone who understands the dangerous connection between Hunter's powerful, politically connected family and the accident that shattered Erica's life. Someone who understands that soon secrets will be revealed and lies will be exposed…And that murder is the only guarantee of silence.
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Dear Reader,
What would you do if everything you held dear in the world was suddenly gone? Would you have the courage and sheer grit to pick up the pieces and build a new and different life for yourself?
Intriguing questions like this seemed to fuel my creative engine when I began to think about the plot for this book. In Never Tell, as always, I’ve plunged my heroine into a kind of hell where she’ll need courage, self-reliance and, yes, sheer grit just to survive. I promise that her plight will touch your heart, and her struggle to overcome the truly dreadful hand she’s been dealt will leave you feeling that there is always hope after tragedy. There are enduring friendships to be treasured. And there is always love to be found in the world…if we just open our hearts to receive it.
I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing the story. I would love to hear from you! If you would like to be part of my mailing list, please write me at P.O. Box 141, Pearland, Texas 77588-0141. Or visit my Web site at www.authorkarenyoung.com.
Happy reading!
Karen Young
Also by KAREN YOUNG
IN CONFIDENCE
PRIVATE LIVES
FULL CIRCLE
GOOD GIRLS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to several people for their generous support and suggestions during the development of this book. To Emilie Richards and Erica Spindler for the brainstorming session in Santa Fe. To Joanna Wayne and Gloria Alvarez for one of those “why-didn’t-I-think-of-that” ideas. To Barbara Colley for keeping me focused. To Jon Salem for…well, he knows why.
Warm and loving thanks to Alison Simmons for her generous donation of time and ideas on a part of this business of writing that seems to come naturally to her, but not to me. Thank goodness she works cheap! And finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, whose thoughtful insights are always right on.
In loving memory of Linda Kay West
Contents
One
The telephone shrilled the fourth ring, but Erica Stewart resisted coming fully awake. Let it go to voice mail, she thought, while a part of her still struggled to finish the dream. The phone rang again and Willie, her cat, nudged her hand with his head. Purring loudly, he climbed on her chest and pawed at the blanket. With a sigh, she raised herself on one elbow and looked at the caller ID, then groggily reached over and picked it up. “What?” She knew she sounded grumpy, but she wasn’t at her best before coffee and all her friends knew that.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
“This had better be good, Jason,” she grumbled, falling back against her pillow. “It’s Sunday. You know it’s the only day I can sleep in.”
“You’ll forgive me when you hear this,” her business partner and quintessential morning person said. “Have you seen the Sunday Chronicle?”
“You woke me from a sound sleep, Jason. I’m still in bed. And thanks to you, Willie’s now meowing to be fed. So, no, I haven’t seen the newspaper.”
“Wait’ll you see the article in Zest, sugar. It’s fantastic. It’s gonna mean success with a big S for us. Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m coming over.”
“Can’t you just—” She stopped, realizing the line was dead. Grumbling, she threw off the covers and glared at Willie, who was wailing now. “I’m up, I’m up.”
When Jason knocked on her door fifteen minutes later, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He had a bakery box in one hand, a newspaper under his arm and a cardboard tray holding two cups of Starbucks coffee in the other. “Here, straight house blend, no frills, just the way you like it,” Jason said, thrusting the coffee at her. Then, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he offered the box. “Kolaches. Mixed varieties.”
He knew she had a weakness for the delicious pastry stuffed with everything she shouldn’t eat. Why was it some people preferred to skip breakfast altogether when for her it was the best meal of the day? And irresistible. With a sheepish groan, she grabbed the box, turned and led the way into her kitchen.
The table in her breakfast nook was littered with fabric scraps, scissors and parchment-paper patterns. Sitting in the midst of that was her laptop. She remembered looking at the clock around 2:30 a.m. and thinking she should shut down and go to bed. She did, finally, about an hour later, knowing it was Sunday and she would be able to sleep in.
“Whoa, somebody’s been busy,” Jason said, looking at the mess on the table.
“Until the wee hours,” Erica said, setting the coffee and kolaches on a countertop nearby. She collected the material scraps and dropped them into a box, tossed the paper patterns into a tall trash can she’d placed beside her chair and shoved the computer to the opposite side of the table. “But it was worth it. I finished the design for Jill McNeal’s evening jacket. I’m really happy with it, Jason. I think she’ll be pleased.”
