right next to each other, both headed for the exact same place. Securely seated inside, Hunter finally asked.
âMegan . . . what happened to you?â
âI was carjacked,â I replied drily. Hmm, was that the sauce or the pillstalking?
âIt must have been gang-related,â he said, excited. âThere was an article about this just the other day. The police have noticed a big uptick in carjackings in the metroplex. They said lots of these incidents are younger members out to âmake their bones.ââ
Make their bones?
I sighed. It was going to be a long evening.
The thirty-minute trip in to Dallas cemented my initial impression of Hunter Carmichael. Passably smart, too eager with a compliment, and not nearly as worldly as he imagined, he would do well in the sterile if rewarding corporate law world, which was his passion.
In that brief span I learned more than I ever hoped to about his firm, Kemper Dean, the sort that has little to do with practicing law and everything to do with the business of making money. Hunter was already plotting his ascent from slave to master. As he prattled I tried to feign interest, but this was not a strong suit.
Too bad heâs not hot
, I thought, gazing out the window at the passing buildings,
because if there was ever a
night I might be reckless . . .
We exited the freeway, turned on Harry Hines Boulevard, and immediately stopped, becoming the caboose in a train of limos delivering guests to Brookline Country Club. Bumper to bumper we crept along until we finally enteredthe gates. Built in the forties on the site of an old nursery, Brookline was the most beautiful club in townâan oasis where ancient Italian stone pines towered over long, low brick buildings draped in ivy. In the daytime it was shaded and calmâat night dramatic and cool. Tonight was beyond dramatic.
âHoly cow,â Hunter said. Indeed.
Up ahead swirling klieg lights fired shafts of light deep into the night sky. Under the portico, valets rushed forward to hold the doors as High Society clambered out while photographers, dressed in 1940s-style suits and armed with antique Speed Graphic cameras, swarmed the red carpet. Guests posed, teeth flashed, flashbulbs popped and fizzled. It could have been a movie premiere at Graumanâs Chinese Theatre seventy years earlier.
With just a few cars left in front of us, I realized I would soon be out there under the hot lights. And in this corner . . . Rocky Marciano.
âItâs so
exciting
.â Hunter leaned forward and gaped through the windshield.
Not the word I would have chosen.
âYou know,â he said, turning to me with a toothy smile, âI worked the partners hard to be an escort to this seasonâs parties.â
âReally? Why?â
âIâm in the market for a wife.â
âSeriously?â I asked, now unable to hide my disdain. âArenât you a tad young?â
âIâm twenty-sixâlots of people get married at my age. And debutante parties are a terrific way to meet educated, well-bred girls from the best families.â
âMy dad talks about cows in much the same way,â I said.
âYou know,â he went on, oblivious to my sarcasm, âsome of the guys go through the deb announcement like itâs a racing form. Rate the girls on their looks, try to pick the winners, stuff like that. But not me.â He caught my reaction and realized what heâd implied about my own looks, then hastily added, âIâm all about finding someone for the long haul. Getting married is a very big step on the way to making partner at a firm like Kemper Deanâit shows youâre solid, committed.â
I had never met anyone with so many unromantic phrases in handâ
racing form? Long haul? Solid?
Marriage to Hunter sounded a lot like a life in trucking.
âI see. I donât suppose love figures into