HE OFFICIAL PRESS AREA WAS CORDONED OFF WITH A VELVET rope on the far side of the mezzanine above the lobby, not far from the ballroom where the auction items were on display. In keeping with his promise to Unified's public relations department, Cole presented himself to the members of the press and did his best to look delighted to be there. He said he would grant brief interviews to the local reporters from CBS and ABC, then posed for pictures and answered routine questions for the reporter from the Houston Chronicle and the local stringer from USA Today.

The ABC interview was the last. Standing beside Kimberly Proctor, with the round light of the Minicam aimed straight at him like an unblinking Cyclops, Cole listened to the attractive blonde enthuse about the one-hundred-year history of the White Orchid Ball and some of the traditions behind the auction; then she waved the microphone in his face. "Mr. Harrison, we've all been told by the committee that you've donated the most valuable of all the items in tonight's auction. Just how much is the Klineman sculpture worth?"

"To whom?" Cole countered dryly. Privately, he'd always thought the modernistic piece was a monstrosity, but he'd bought it at a bargain and now it was worth five times more than he'd paid.

She laughed, "I mean, what is it appraised for?"

"A quarter of a million dollars."

"You're a very generous man!"

"Tell that to the IRS, won't you?" he said wryly; then he terminated the interview himself by giving her a brief smile and a curt nod before he stepped out of the camera's range. The tactic surprised her and she followed him. "Wait—I—I was wondering if we could get together later—for a chat."

"I'm sorry," Cole lied politely, "but you'll have to contact our PR department and schedule an interview."

"I wasn't actually thinking of an interview," she said, gazing directly into his eyes and softening her voice. "I thought perhaps we could have a drink somewhere—"

Cole cut her off with a shake of his head, but he softened the automatic rejection with a politely regretful smile. "I'm afraid I don't have even fifteen minutes to myself before I leave Houston tomorrow."

She was lovely, well-spoken, and intelligent, but none of that mattered to Cole. She was a reporter, and if she'd been the most beautiful, brilliant, desirable woman on earth, with the purest motives in the world, he still would have avoided her like the plague. "Perhaps another time," he added; then he stepped around behind her and out of the area, leaving her to interview more eager candidates who were lined up on the other side of the velvet rope.

"Mr. Harrison!" someone else in the press area called, but Cole ignored that reporter and kept walking as if he'd never heard of anyone by that name, stopping only to accept a glass of champagne from a waiter.

By the time he had made his way around the perimeter of the mezzanine to the opposite side, where the festivities were scheduled to take place, at least a dozen people had nodded greetings at him and he'd returned them without having the slightest idea who any of the people were.

Ironically, when he finally did recognize two faces in the crowd, they belonged to the only two people who tried to avoid greeting him—Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hayward II. In fact, they swept past their former stable hand with their heads high and their eyes like shards of ice.

Cole paused outside the doorway of the room where the most expensive of the items to be auctioned were on display, and he heard his name being whispered occasionally as the patrons of the ball identified him, but the name that seemed to be most frequently on everyone's lips was Diana Foster's. Only tonight, she was being generally referred to as "Poor Diana Foster," and by women who occasionally sounded more malicious than empathetic to Cole.

From his point of view, the White Orchid Ball fulfilled three distinct and different needs—the first was to provide an opportunity for the wives and daughters of the very rich to get together in elegant surroundings, to show off their newest jewels and latest gowns, and to gossip about each other while their husbands and fathers talked about their golf games and tennis matches.

The second purpose was to raise money for the American Cancer Society. The third was to offer Houston's financially affluent and socially prominent citizens an opportunity to demonstrate their social consciousness by outbidding one another for dozens of extravagantly expensive items that were donated by other members of the financially affluent and socially prominent.

Tonight's Orchid Ball was bound to be an unparalleled success in all aspects, Cole decided.

Armed security guards were positioned in front of the doors to the room where the auction items were on display, and an argument broke out right beside him as a photographer in a red-and-white-checked shirt tried to sidle past one of the guards. "No one but guests are allowed in here after seven o'clock," the guard warned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm from the Enquirer," the photographer explained, trying to keep his voice low and still be heard over the roar of the crowd. "I'm not interested in the stuff they're auctioning off, I'm interested in getting a picture of Diana Foster, and I saw her up here on the balcony a while ago. I think she went in there."

"Sorry. No one but guests for the auction are allowed in there now."

The full realization of Diana's sordid plight filled Cole with a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. He'd seen her on television, and he knew she was a grown woman now, but in his mind, he still thought of her as an ingenuous teenager, sitting Indian fashion on a bale of fresh hay, her head tipped to the side as she listened intently to whatever he was saying.

The doors to the ballroom where the banquet and auction were to take place were still closed, and Cole glanced impatiently at his watch, anxious to get in there and to get the whole thing over with. Since that was impossible, and since he had no desire to strike up a conversation with any of the people who seemed to be trying to catch his eye, he stepped into the shadow of a copse of trees, surrounded and obscured by their glittering branches, and lifted the glass of champagne to his lips.

In the years since he'd worked in Houston and lived in the Haywards' stable, he'd attended hundreds of black-tie affairs all over the world. He was frequently bored at them, but he was never uncomfortable. Houston was the exception. Something about being at a function like this in Houston made him feel like an impostor, a fraud, an interloper.

From his vantage point inside the whimsical forest glade, he idly watched the crowd without consciously admitting to himself that he was watching specifically for a glimpse of Diana… And then the crowd parted and he saw her, standing beside a wide pillar near the elevators about fifteen yards from him.

A sharp jolt of recognition was immediately followed by relief and then pure masculine admiration as his gaze drifted over "Poor Diana Foster."

Instead of the wan, humiliated creature he'd feared he'd see, Diana Foster had lost none of the quiet, regal poise he remembered her having. Draped in a gown of royal purple silk that clung to her full breasts and small waist, she moved serenely through the artificial twilight of a make-believe forest, untouched by the clamor and bustle all around her—a proud young Guinevere with delicate features, a small chin, and large, luminous green eyes beneath thick russet lashes and exotically winged brows. Her coloring was more vivid now, Cole thought, and the tiny cleft in her chin was nearly invisible, but her hair was the same—heavy and lush, glistening like polished mahogany with red highlights beneath the light of the chandeliers. A splendid necklace of large, square-cut, deep purple amethysts, surrounded by diamonds, lay against her throat, a perfect complement to the gown. She belonged in striking gowns and glittering jewels, Cole decided. They suited her far better than the pleated pants and conservative blazers she used to prefer.

He stood in the shadow of the trees, admiring her surface beauty but far more intrigued by the indefinable, but unmistakable "presence" that made Diana stand out so clearly, even in the shifting kaleidoscope of movement and color that swirled around her. It was as if everything and everyone except Diana was in motion, from the twinkling tree limbs shifting in the subtle currents of air conditioning, to the men and women who moved about in a blur of vivid hues and animated voices.

She was listening attentively to a man who was speaking to her—a man who Cole was nearly certain was Spence Addison. Addison moved away from her, and Cole stepped out of the shadow of the trees and stopped, willing her to look his way. He wanted her to recognize him; he wanted her to give him one of her unforgettable smiles and to come over to talk to him. He wanted all that with a surprising amount of anticipation.

It was possible she'd snub him as the Haywards had done a few minutes ago, but somehow he didn't think she would. Until now, Cole's youthful dream of a triumphant return to Houston had seemed meaningless to him, which was why even Cole realized how incongruous it was for him to suddenly want the satisfaction of having Diana Foster take notice of him tonight—or, more correctly, of the man he had become.

Based on the icy stares he'd gotten from Charles and Jessica a few minutes ago, Cole doubted that they'd been eager to tell anyone how successful their former groom had become. In that case, there was a possibility that Diana had no idea whatsoever that Cole the stable hand—who'd enjoyed her girlhood conversations and shared her sandwiches—was the same Cole who had just been named Entrepreneur of the Year by Newsweek magazine.

The ballroom doors were thrown open, and the entire crowd seemed to shift in unison, obscuring his view as people began making their way into the ballroom. Rather than have Diana disappear into the crowd or enter the ballroom through the doors closest to her before he could speak privately to her, Cole started toward her, but his progress was hampered by the surge of people moving in the opposite direction toward the ballroom. When he finally cleared the last human obstacle, only a hundred or so people were lingering on the mezzanine, but one of them was talking to Diana, and it was Doug Hayward.

Cole slowed to a stop and stood off to the side; then he raised his glass to his mouth, hoping Hayward would walk away. He had no way of knowing if Charles Hayward's attitude toward Cole was now shared by his son, but Cole didn't want to risk having that mar his first meeting with Diana in more than a decade.

Hayward wanted to escort her into the ballroom, but to Cole's relief, Diana refused. "Go ahead without me," she told him. "I'll be along in a minute. I want to get some fresh air first."

"I'll go with you," Hayward offered.

"No, don't, please," Diana told him. "I just need to be alone for a few moments."

"Okay, if you're sure that's what you want to do," Hayward said, sounding reluctant and frustrated. "Don't be long," he added as he started toward the open ballroom doors.

Diana nodded and turned, walking swiftly toward a door with an Exit sign above it.

Cole had enough experience with women to know when one was on the verge of tears, and since she'd told Hayward she wanted to be alone, he felt he should allow her that privilege. He started to turn toward the ballroom, then stopped, assailed by an old memory—Diana telling him about her fall from the horse: "I didn't cry… Not when I broke my wrist and not while Dr. Paltrona was setting it."

"You didn't?"

"Nope, not me."

"Not even one tear?"

"Not even one."

"Good for you," he'd teased.

"Not really." She'd sighed. "I fainted instead."

As a child, she'd been able to bravely hold back her tears of pain and fright, but tonight, as a woman, she was apparently hurt beyond all endurance. Cole hesitated, torn between the male's instinctive urge to avoid any scene involving a weeping woman—and a far less understandable impulse to offer her some sort of strength and support.

The latter impulse was slightly stronger, and it won out: Cole headed slowly but purposefully for the doors beneath the Exit sign; then he made a brief detour for champagne, which he felt sure would buoy her up a little.