really.
Of course, much of that was probably due to the fact that her father had spent virtually Lanie’s entire life building a political career with his wife at his side, something that had prevented both him and Luanne from being the kind of parents Lanie would have liked them to be. It wasn’t that her parents hadn’t been attentive and affectionate when they were around—they had been. The times Lanie had spent in their company had always been wonderful. Those times had just ended too soon.
So Lanie had never been good at establishing and maintaining sturdy relationships with other people. And she hadn’t exactly been molded into the most responsible, reliable person, either. She’d just never known what it meant to have boundaries. Since no one had ever really said no to her while she was growing up, she had always been one to act on whim. Hey, why not? No one had ever told her she couldn’t.
So when she was five years old and had wanted a kitten, she’d brought one home from a neighbor’s litter and had kept it hidden in her room…until the smell from the closet alerted the housekeeper to the animal’s presence. Well, how was Lanie supposed to know kittens needed a litter box?
And when she was ten and had decided after bedtime one night that she wanted to spend the night with her friend Susan, she’d packed her backpack and crept down the stairs so as not to wake her nanny—her parents, of course, hadn’t been at home—then she’d ridden her bike the two miles to Susan’s house. Well, how was she supposed to know the nanny would be frantic about her disappearance? The woman wasn’t even supposed to know she was gone!
And when she was fifteen and had figured it was time to learn to drive a car, she’d gotten into her daddy’s convertible and started driving. Well, how was she supposed to know how to work a stick shift? Crashing through the garage door that way could have happened to anyone!
Regardless of how often Lanie had found herself in a bind, though, her father had always been there to bail her out of it, one way or another. Either he’d used his money or his influence—or both—and somehow, the problem just always went away. Looking back, Lanie supposed it had just been easier and less time-consuming for her father to do that than to sit down and talk with his daughter and try to help her learn from her mistakes. He was a very busy man, after all. He had a lot of important things to do. And a lot of important places to go. And a lot of important people to meet. He took his obligations very seriously.
Unlike Lanie, who was never serious for a minute. Life was for living, however she wanted to live it. She’d decided a long time ago that she’d just do what she wanted when she wanted to do it, and she’d never be serious for a moment.
Unfortunately, no one tended to take a person like that seriously. So any romantic relationships Lanie had over the years ended up being frivolous. Oh, sure, she always liked the guys she got involved with—one or two of them she’d even loved for a little while—and she always had a good time with them. But that was all those associations ever were—a good time. Of course, some had ended on a sour note when Lanie found out the guy’s only interest in her was as a conduit to her father or her family fortune. But even those guys had been surprisingly easy to get over.
Fun. That was all Lanie had ever wanted out of life. And that was all she ever really looked for. And invariably, in one way or another, she found it.
Now Luanne Meyers caught Lanie’s free hand in her own, bringing her daughter’s attention back around to where she was standing. “There’s someone here tonight who wants to talk to you,” her mother told her, her eyes fairly sparkling with glee, her lips turning up at the ends with just the hint of a secret smile.
Uh-oh, Lanie thought. The last time her mother’s eyes had sparkled like that, it had been because she was about to introduce her daughter to an eighty-two-year-old millionaire rancher who’d just buried his fifth wife.
“Um, who?” Lanie asked warily.
“Oneida Steadmore-Duckworth,” her mother told her, beaming.
Yikes, Lanie thought. Oneida Steadmore-Duckworth was the chairwoman of the annual Women of the Lone Star charity auction. If she wanted to talk to Lanie, it was because she wanted to put her on a committee of some kind. And Lanie had hit her committee quota for the year, thank you very much. Six months ago, as a matter of fact.
“Tell her I’ll be right there,” Lanie said. “I need to go to the ladies’ room first and make myself presentable.”
It was only a small lie, she consoled herself. After three club sodas, she did, without question, need to go to the ladies’ room. And she did doubtless need to make herself presentable, since she’d been pigging out on desserts for the last half hour. And she would certainly be right there—only after Mrs. Steadmore-Duckworth had moved on to another unsuspecting victim.
Before excusing herself from her mother, Lanie stole another glance in the direction of Miles Fortune, only to find that he had disappeared. She scanned the crowd for some sign of him, but he was gone.
Ah, well, she thought. Easy come, easy go.
Scurrying off to the ladies’ room, Lanie took her time seeing to her various needs. Then she tucked a few errant strands of hair back into the topknot and adjusted the shoulder-length tendrils that dangled free. She applied a fresh layer of Rouge Rage to her mouth and dabbed at a smudge of eyeliner beneath her lashes. She tugged her little blue dress back into place and smoothed a hand over the silky, barely there fabric. Then she glanced at her diamond wristwatch and sighed.
Damn. It had only been ten minutes since she’d left her mother. No way would Mrs. Steadmore-Duckworth be put off yet. That woman was tenacious when it came to organizing committees. Now Lanie was going to have to go to the extra trouble of “accidentally” getting lost on her way back to the ballroom.
Exiting the ladies’ room, she veered right when she should have turned left to get back to the ballroom and made her way down a hallway identical to the one she had traveled after leaving the ballroom. Gee, if she wasn’t careful, she really would get lost, she thought. She’d never realized how big this hotel was, or how so many parts of it resembled so many other parts of it. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all….
Miles Fortune couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be dragged to a $100-a-plate fund-raiser where the focal point of the event was dessert. And not normal dessert like apple pie or peach cobbler or chocolate chip cookies, either. Now, had it been a bourbon whiskey tasting, he could understand going to all the trouble and expense. But truffles? Tiramisu? Sorbet? Soufflé? What the hell kind of self-respecting male attended an event where such words were commonplace, without even putting on a disguise and assuming a fake name first?
And why did desserts have such sissy names to begin with? Miles wondered further as he looked around. Even a perfectly good word like punch got ruined at an event like this by having someone put the word fruit in front of it. If he ruled the world, after-dinner fare would have names like Cherry Flamethrower or Coconut Jackhammer or good old-fashioned Rocky Road. Hell, where was a good beer pie when you needed one?
“Miles, you must try the chocolate bombe.”
Yeah, Chocolate Bomb, that’d be a good one, too, he thought. Oh, wait. Evidently, that was one.
He turned to the woman who had just suggested it, Jenny Stovall, who’d been on the planning committee of the event. She was also the woman who’d roped Miles into attending it. Her husband, Dennis, was Governor Meyers’s campaign manager, and a friend of Miles’s from college. Jenny, Miles saw, was busily sampling one of everything she’d been able to get her hands on. But since the normally
