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."

"I feel rather sorry for her," Mrs. Canfield admitted. "What Daniel Penworth did to her was inexcusable."

"No, it was unavoidable, " Haley argued. "Diana was like a noose around his neck. He didn't love her, and he tried to let her down gently, but Diana wouldn't give up. People think that Diana is sweet and kind, but the truth is she doesn't care about anybody or anything except herself and that stupid arts-and-crafts magazine that she runs."

Marilee Jenkins seconded all that with a nod. "I don't blame Dan one bit!"

Cole waited for someone else at the table to come to Diana's defense. Mrs. Canfield looked uneasy and Missy Desmond looked bewildered, but no one spoke a word in Diana's behalf. The auctioneer announced that the first of the ladies' items was about to be auctioned, and Cole deliberately turned his shoulder to his dinner partners.

A few tables away, a slender redhead arose to applause and began to model a magnificent diamond necklace she was wearing. She carried the whole thing off with the ease and aplomb of someone who knew she was born to be admired and "on display," smiling as she moved about the crowd, and her husband opened the bidding. As soon as her husband bid, another man at their table instantly topped his bid, grinning as he deliberately forced the husband to go higher. After that the bidding was rapid, frequently accompanied by bursts of laughter around the room, which made Cole correctly assume that the husband's friends were cheerfully forcing the husband to pay more and more.

Cole rather enjoyed watching the game, which was played with gusto as each wife and girlfriend arose to model her desired auction item, and each man involved bore the expense forced on him by his friends, who bid against him with blasé humor. His gaze kept straying to Diana's table, wondering how she was reacting, but as each item was awarded to the lady who was already wearing it, he noticed that her expression grew subtly more somber and tense.

When the time was finally nearing to auction off the necklace she was wearing, she began to fidget with it, her long fingers curling around it and then slowly flattening over it as if she wanted either to hide it or tear it off. Her entire body seemed to freeze as the auctioneer proclaimed, "Ladies and gentlemen, the next item to be auctioned off is an extraordinary example of the workmanship of a bygone era—a remarkably fine amethyst-and-diamond necklace, being shown by Miss Diana Foster."

Cole understood why she would naturally dread being the focal point of so many fascinated gossips, but not until she actually slid back her chair to stand up did he belatedly realize that her embarrassment was going to be compounded a hundred times by the conspicuous absence of Dan Penworth, who should have been bidding on that necklace. He watched her rally and manufacture a smile as she arose, and at the same time he heard whispers erupt around the room.

At the table behind him, a man jokingly remarked that Dan had probably married his Italian girl to avoid the cost of Diana Foster's necklace, and everyone laughed.

Cole felt anger and protectiveness begin to simmer inside him—emotions that leapt into steady flame as the clueless auctioneer beamed at Diana and then at the crowd in obvious expectation that her own man would open the bidding. "Opening bid will be fifteen thousand dollars. Do I have fifteen thousand dollars?" He paused, bewildered by the awkward silence. "This necklace is a bargain at twice that amount. "Will someone give me ten thousand dollars?" His expression cleared and he nodded. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Dickson…"

The bidding paused at $13,000 so that a prospective purchaser could have a closer look at it. "Poor Diana," Mrs. Canfield said, addressing her remarks to Cole. "I knew her papa very well. He'd have bought her that necklace just to put an end to this."

"Diana needed to be knocked down a peg or two, and everyone knows it," Haley Mitchell argued. "She's a conceited bitch."

Franklin Mitchell had the grace to look a little embarrassed at his daughter-in-law's language, if not her venom. He glanced at his inebriated son as if he expected him to say something, but when Peter spoke, it wasn't to contradict his wife. "Diana has always had a very high opinion of herself," he informed Cole.

"It's the truth," the senior Mrs. Mitchell said coldly.

Unaware of the very personal reasons the people at his table had for disliking Diana and relishing her plight, Cole mistakenly assumed everyone else in the ballroom was just as heartless and just as vengeful.

In his mind he saw a lovely, dainty teenager holding out a sack filled with food, her smile sunny and soft as she contrived to give him food and simultaneously spare his pride. "Could you possibly find some room for some of these canned peaches, Cole? My grandmother loves cooking and canning, but we're running out of storage space in the pantry… I hope you can help us eat some of Gram's potato salad and chicken; she made enough for an army last night!" He remembered other things, such as how perfectly neat and clean she always seemed to be, from the tips of her polished loafers to the tips of her fingers, their nails neatly filed but never polished.

Interlaced with his reverie was the auctioneer's voice: "I have thirteen thousand dollars—Do I have fourteen thousand dollars? I have thirteen thousand dollars."

"Peter," Haley said suddenly, her voice filled with excited malice. "Buy that necklace for me. I want it."

"Final warning, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer intoned.

Peter Mitchell looked at Diana, who was two tables away "modeling" her necklace, and he called out in a loud, slurred voice, "Wait—we'd like a closer look!"

Cole watched Diana turn and move obediently toward their table. He already knew that Diana had originally believed her faithless fiancé would be buying the necklace for her tonight. Now it suddenly occurred to him that she'd undoubtedly bought the purple gown she was wearing because it set the amethysts off to perfection.

He watched Diana's smile wobble as she paused across from him and subjected herself to Mitchell's leering at her breasts; he saw her fingers lift to the largest stone at the bottom of the necklace to show it to him—the long, slender, womanly fingers that had once been a girl's hand holding out offerings to him.

Mitchell reached for it, deliberately brushing his knuckles over the soft skin above her bodice. In a swift but subtle countermove, she stepped back, reached behind her nape, unclasped the necklace, and held it out to him in her hand.

Her fixed smile never wavered, but as Mitchell reached for the necklace, her gaze recoiled from his hand, bounced to Cole's face, then quickly darted away. In that one brief, unguarded moment while her gaze encountered his, Cole saw something that drove him to an instant and monumental decision.

Maybe he had a latent and heretofore unrecognized urge to play the knight in shining armor for some damsel in distress, or maybe his next action was merely the civilized version of a prehistoric male swinging his club at an adversary to prove his superiority. Maybe he was subconsciously aware that fate was offering him an opportunity to solve not only Diana's problems but his own. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

But whatever his motives, the outcome was a foregone conclusion, even before Mitchell looked over at the auctioneer and announced, "I'll make it fifteen thousand dollars."

"Twenty-five," Cole snapped before the other man had drawn a breath.

The auctioneer looked stunned but ecstatic. "Ah-ha! We have a new and serious bidder in the competition," he informed the audience with a triumphant smile. "Mr. Harrison has just jumped the bid by ten thousand dollars," he continued, attracting the attention of people who hadn't been particularly interested in the necklace until then, "and he hasn't yet had a close-up view of this unique piece! Miss Foster," he said to Diana, "will you please allow Mr. Harrison a moment to inspect the extraordinary quality and color of the stones, as well as the superior craftsmanship of the necklace itself."

With a smile that clearly showed relief, Diana hastily obeyed the suggestion to move around the table to Cole. When she reached his chair, she held the glittering necklace out to him in her hand, but Cole ignored it completely and looked at her face instead. With a warm, teasing smile, he said, "Do you like it?"

Diana saw the amusement glinting in his silvery eyes, and she sensed instinctively that he wasdeliberately prolonging the moment and playing to their audience, but she was desperately anxious to getout of the spotlight, rather than share in the increased glare that came as another hundred pairs of eyes swiveled toward Cole Harrison. Diana didn't care who bought it; she only wanted the ordeal to end. "It's beautiful," she proclaimed with an emphatic nod.

Cole leaned back in his chair, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and his smile turned lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to ponder his purchase and was actually enjoying the audience's attention. "Yes, but do you like it?"

"Yes, honestly! It's splendid." In the sudden hush of curiosity stealing over the ballroom, Diana's breathlessly emphatic declaration rang loudly enough to cause a ripple of good-natured laughter.

"Then, you think I should buy it?"

"Of course, if you have someone to give it to."

The auctioneer sensed instinctively that the audience's interest had peaked and would soon begin to ebb. "Mr. Harrison," he asked, "are you satisfied with your inspection, sir?"

Cole's smile turned openly admiring as he studied Diana's face. "Extremely satisfied," he said, plainly referring to Diana and not the necklace.

"Then the bidding will continue," he told the audience. "Mr. Harrison has offered twenty-five thousand dollars. Do I have thirty thousand dollars?" He looked expectantly to Peter Mitchell, who nodded.

He looked around the room to see if anyone else signaled, and when they didn't, he looked to Cole. "Mr. Harrison?"

If Diana hadn't been so unhappy and so tense, she'd have laughed at Cole's infectious grin as he casually held up four fingers, jumping the bid to $40,000 as nonchalantly as if it were forty cents.

"Forty thousand dollars!" The auctioneer crowed. "Mr. Harrison had bid forty thousand dollars, and all of it is destined for charity. Mr. Mitchell?" he urged. "Will you make it forty-five?"

Haley Mitchell nodded yes to her husband, but Peter Mitchell hesitated, glowering at Cole. In response, Cole relaxed further back in his chair and quirked a challenging brow at him. "No," Mitchell bit out.

"Fair warning," the auctioneer called. "Sold!" he proclaimed. "For forty thousand dollars to Mr. Cole Harrison!" Turning toward Cole, he added, "I know I speak for all the patrons of the White Orchid Ball when I say that we are deeply grateful for your extraordinary generosity to our very worthy cause tonight, Mr. Harrison. And may I also say," he joked, "that I sincerely hope the lucky lady who receives that necklace not only appreciates your generosity but also your excellent taste!"

"I hope she does, too!" Cole replied, evoking a burst of laughter as he grinned with a relaxed affability that was in complete opposition to the chilly indifference he'd displayed all night. Then he added, "Let's see what she thinks—"

The audience warmed instantly to this fascinatingly intimate glimpse of the enigmatic tycoon whom one columnist had described as having a circuit board for a brain and a computer for a heart. They watched, captivated, as he slid his chair back and slowly stood up.

Diana was so upset at being kept in the limelight that she tried to step backward as soon as he lifted the ends of the necklace from her outstretched palm. Cole prevented her escape by stepping forward, draping the necklace around her throat, and reaching behind her neck to close the heavy clasp.

Diana stared at him in wide-eyed confusion.

He looked back at her in expectant silence.

The audience erupted with laughter and applause, and in the back of the room, cameras lit up like a swarm of startled lightning bugs.

"Well?" Cole teased, thereby confirming to everyone within hearing that she was definitely the lucky lady. "What do you think about my taste?"

Diana suddenly concluded that he was pretending to give her the necklace, just as he'd pretended to kiss her outside on the terrace earlier that night to fool the photographer. Presenting her with the necklace was merely a very clever— and very kind—public ploy to help her save face. "I think you have wonderful taste," she assured him with belated enthusiasm. I think you are a magnificent fake! she thought with amused admiration.

"Are you impressed enough to dance with me?" he challenged, positively exuding sophisticated charm. "I hear music in the next room." Without waiting for an answer, he took her elbow and propelled her past a maze of tables and delighted guests, toward the adjoining ballroom. Their audience realized the show was over and began a slow exodus to the next room.

They were halfway across the ballroom when Diana stopped short. "Wait," she said with a sheepish smile, "I want to introduce you to the rest of my family! After what just happened, they'll be dying to meet you." She turned around and began slowly wending her way through the emerging crowd.