Beauty and the Billionaire Beast

by Maria Hoagland

  Unlike the locked ornamental gate directly in front of the plantation house, the simple chain-link gate at this side entrance was open, tepidly welcoming visitors to the property. At least, she hoped it was the same property. Instead of driving up to the main house, the entrance led to what was probably an office. The simple clapboard structure, possibly antebellum itself, was small but in decent repair. It was fronted by a potholed, graveled parking lot. Here and there, clumps of stubborn grass and weeds thrived despite being crushed over and over. Two cars were parked in front of a dilapidated wheelchair ramp that led to a door with an Open sign. Emma sighed with relief. At least she wasn’t trespassing.

  She parked and walked toward the door with purpose, her footsteps amplified on the wooden floorboards. The door stuck as she forced it open into a small cluster of rooms. The room straight ahead was museum-like with old tools and other relics in glass cases. The room to her right was a small store with books and souvenir trinkets. The main room was weighted down with a long wooden counter, behind which a friendly face looked up from a book. The woman wore a peasant blouse with an abstract emerald-colored design woven through, a matching scarf wound around her head.

  “Welcome to Indigo Pointe Plantation.” Despite the warm greeting, the woman, perhaps just a few years older than Emma’s twenty-five years, paused. It only took a second before her eyes brightened. “Oh, wait! You’re from the tree place, right? I’m so glad you were able to come after all. I thought they didn’t have anyone available until tomorrow.”

  Not sure what to say, Emma pushed the door closed. Olive-green eyes blinked, a startling contrast to the woman’s warm Creole skin. She seemed to be waiting for some kind of recognition or reaction from Emma. “You are here about the live oaks, aren’t you?”

  The woman sounded so sure of herself, Emma almost nodded out of reflex. Emma very well could have been, given that plants were her thing. “Not technically.” She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “But if you’re having trouble with your quercus virginiana, I could take a quick peek to make sure it isn’t serious. Without looking, I’d guess it’s probably wilt disease or leaf blister, but we need to make sure because if we’re talking two-hundred-plus-year-old trees lining a drive somewhere—”

  Emma was about to say how catastrophic it would be to lose even one of those irreplaceable trees, but the stricken look on the receptionist’s face as she chewed on her bottom lip stopped Emma from listing dire consequences. To lose the centuries-old trees characteristic of antebellum plantations would be more of a financial blow than a historic attraction like this could overcome. Especially this one, it appeared.

  Pausing as if time would erase her nerdy horticulturist outburst, Emma shrugged. “Actually, I’m here to see if you do tours.” She surveyed the room for a sign with prices or times. “And although I’m not the botanist you must have called, I do know a little about plants. I could take a look while I’m here, if you like.”

  Emma wasn’t sure why she was downplaying her skills, and was just about to say something about her degree in landscape architecture when the door behind her scraped jarringly across the wood floor. Both she and the receptionist turned their attention to the door. A young couple strode in, hand in hand, laughing about something that must have happened outside. They stepped to the counter, all grins and exuding sunshine and love.

  “We’re Grae and Tate.” The young woman had a friendly smile and confident way. The kind of person Emma could be friends with. “We should be on the list for the tour?”

  “Oh, yes.” The receptionist consulted a heavy analog watch hung on a black velvet ribbon around her neck, and swallowed. She appeared anxious, probably because it was already five minutes past the hour. “The tour guide should arrive shortly. It looks like it will just be the three of you.”

  She looked at the young couple, then back to Emma. “It’s twenty dollars each for the tour, and it takes roughly an hour. Unless Mr. Lambert ends up filling in. Knowing him, it could be a much longer tour once he gets to talking.” She began collecting admissions from her customers. “I believe in fair warnings for all,” she said with a sage nod. A set of small metal wind chimes tinkled near the door, but no breeze had blown through the room. “Mr. Lambert is here.”

  It was several full seconds before Emma could understand how the woman knew Mr. Lambert had arrived.

  “You are late. Again!” Emma heard a man yelling from outside the office. There were more words she couldn’t distinguish from both sides of the argument, not that she was trying. The words were terse, their tones rough. “You’re done!” the man with authority—Mr. Lambert, Emma had to assume—said finally.

  He wasn’t yelling uncontrollably, but he was firm. And loud. Emma felt her chest tighten, as if she had to pull on thick skin to keep herself safe from this man.

  The door opened one more time, and in walked Emma’s savior from Live Oak Lane. Startled to see him in this setting and after the unwanted jolt of the overheard conversation, she watched as he wrenched the door open, clearly frustrated. Though she was sure he was the same man, he’d changed into comfortable-looking jeans and a plaid short-sleeved button-up.

  “One more thing to add to the list, Zoe,” he grumbled, and thumbed over his shoulder at the door.

  “It’s already there, Mr. Lambert.” Zoe’s voice held more than a hint of humor in it, and Emma found she preferred the woman’s way of dealing with problems with a smile rather than the grump’s irritation. Intrigued about the mysterious Mr. Lambert, Emma scrutinized Zoe’s reaction to him. The receptionist didn’t look the slightest bit alarmed, worried, or even reserved.

  “Of course, if I knew my way around a toolbox, that list wouldn’t be getting so unwieldy.”

  “We’ll get it done, boss. No worries.” Zoe tugged on the other necklace she wore, some sort of small fabric bag hung on a leather cord. A gris-gris, Emma had learned at a touristy voodoo shop in New Orleans.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Lambert’s growl was like the rumble of a summer thunderstorm, low and quiet but with a barely reined-in forcefulness. “Especially if you keep using that voodoo magic on me.”

  It was confusing. The man had been explosively angry a moment before, but had cooled as he’d stepped inside. The playful way Zoe referred to him as her boss and his reaction almost hinted at flirtatiousness, though it seemed more comfortable than that. Old friends, perhaps.

  Mr. Lambert turned a brooding look to those around him, taking a moment to size up each member of the party. Emma felt the urge to examine her clothing, expecting to find bits of dirt or dried leaves clinging to her clothes from earlier. When his eyes fell on her, Emma thought she detected a glimmer of recognition, and she smiled, but his steady gaze was distressing.

  Instead, he turned back to Zoe. “You’re not taking money from these people, are you, Zoe?” He shook his head. “The place is hardly worth a frog leg and a hushpuppy in this condition, but a year from now … well, that’ll be another story.”

  Zoe started to pull cash from the till, but Tate held up a palm to refuse. “Keep ours, if you don’t mind. We’re happy to pay, help with the needed repairs. We knew what we were getting into before we came.”

  Emma also waved Zoe off with her hand. “Add mine to the renovation fund as well.”

  “We don’t need your charity donations,” Mr. Lambert said. “We’re not as poor as that.”

  If the man bristled at admissions, maybe the place really wasn’t worth seeing. Had her great-grandfather’s journal not led her here, she probably wouldn’t stay.

  Emma couldn’t figure out what to make of Mr. Lambert. First of all, this whole “Mr. Lambert” thing was getting old. She had to find out his first name, because it was nuts thinking of someone as mister anything when he was roughly her age. At Live Oak Lane he’d been more than pleasant, flirty even. However, hearing him fire an employee made her uncomfortable. And even though she thought they’d shared a moment after he’d rescued her chair, now he didn’t even see
m to remember her. It left her uncertain and on edge, but at least he seemed pleasant enough with everyone, other than the employee—ex-employee. And the door, which he yanked open.

  He looked over his shoulder to Zoe. “We better move this repair to the top of the list.” Mr. Lambert turned back to the group, holding the door open. “If everyone will follow me into the parking lot … Ladies …”

  As the guests filed through, Emma’s interest piqued. Was the true Mr. Lambert the nice guy or the beast others seemed to think he was? Though she decided to be cautious around him, Emma would give Mr. Lambert the benefit of the doubt. He’d been kind to her, and though clearly upset, he hadn’t taken it out on Zoe, or anyone else for that matter. That was enough for now.

  “Despite what Zoe called me, I’m Theo,” he said once he rounded the group into a small circle in the parking lot. “If you’ll follow in your cars, we’ll take a short drive over to the main property and go from there.”

  His battered pickup led them through yet another gate at the back of the lot. When she rounded the corner, Emma caught her breath with a start. In contrast to Live Oak Lane’s impeccably manicured trees, Indigo Pointe’s double line of ancient oaks felt wild and free, more natural than the staged Live Oak Lane. Thick trees with gnarled, twisting branches blocked the sun, veiling the air with an eerie undertow. Emma could see it in the shadows, feel it in the humidity. Ghosts of the past reached forward like a tangled vine.

  A shiver ran down her spine as her eyes followed the allée to a double row of simple wooden structures that had to have been slave cabins. There were too many of them, placed too symmetrically, each exactly like the next. The gravity of it hit her as no other plantation on her trip had, making the air difficult to breathe.

  Even in the gloom—or perhaps because of it—the scene was overwhelmingly, achingly beautiful in its natural, historic feel. Theo led their train of vehicles into a small gravel pullout and Emma rushed to park. She stepped from the car, taking a deep breath and allowing the quietness to settle into her. She’d stepped into a dichotomous fairy-tale land of good and evil, wealth and poverty, hope and disillusionment.

  While the others slowly climbed out of their cars, Emma pulled out a camera and headed toward the trees, staying just far enough back to capture the three-foot picket fence of decaying wood at the head of the allée. She snapped a couple of photos of the lichen growing on the boards and the resurrection ferns in the V of the trees.

  Many of the oak leaves were edged in brown—something that didn’t usually happen until they were shed from the tree every March. She stepped closer, verifying her suspicion of leaf blister. While the disease looked alarming with its misshapen and prematurely browning leaves, it was fairly benign. She reached out to examine the closest branch. Several leaves were cupped and twisted, thicker and tougher than a healthy, leathery leaf. Several were infected with a fuzzy ball about the size of a BB on the backside. She bent over and picked up a couple of the grounded leaves. For the most part, they looked normal. A couple of different issues were at play, but with the proper care, the trees would remain healthy.

  “If you’ll all gather over here,” Theo called her back to them, waiting until she rejoined them before continuing. “We’ll take a tour of the gardens behind the house before we go inside. But don’t worry, you will get your chance to take all the pictures you want.” He rolled his eyes, and she felt the sting.

  As if all she wanted were some lame pictures. She’d only meant to help. Saving the trees would mean so much more to her than some photo that would end up buried in her computer files.

  To their right, a split-rail fence edged a pen of various grazing farm animals. To the left were several buildings arranged in a square around an elaborate garden with the main house at the far end. With Grae and Tate wrapped up in each other, Emma found herself walking in step with Theo, but riveted by the scene around her. Perhaps not so much with the garden’s originality, but with its potential.

  Theo went through his spiel about the Greek Revival style of the home and garden, but Emma’s trained eye snagged on the exceptions, instances where the cultivation and care of the garden had altered the plan over the past century and a half. The maze of shrubbery came almost to Emma’s shoulders and needed a good trim to look uniform and healthy and to encourage new growth between the individual plants. The brick pavers were in decent shape, but a few were cracked or displaced and could be attended to with little effort.

  Overall, the property had a wildness about it that mirrored the man walking next to her. An overgrown, untamed feeling she felt emanating from both. Yet it was exactly those qualities that enchanted her like none of the others had.

  Chapter 3

  As the tiny group headed toward the gardens, Theo couldn’t help but notice everything about the beautiful brunette who walked alongside him. Her petite frame made him feel like a giant, yet she didn’t seem to notice. Occasionally, he caught the light floral scent from when he’d met her earlier, and every once in a while, he heard a few stray notes of a song she hummed that he almost recognized. If he could just get enough notes in a row …

  It had been a long time since someone had caught his attention as she did, but Theo needed to pull his thoughts together if he wanted to make a good impression. Having owned the plantation a few short weeks, he’d been on the tour only twice to familiarize himself with the process, but he hadn’t yet run one himself. Of course, there would have to be an enchanting distraction his first time through.

  She was beautiful for sure, as well as perceptive and observant. She walked confidently, noticing everything as her eyes and camera paused on things that made him wish, more than ever, that the place was up to his usual standards. Fascinated, Theo watched as she gracefully rose on tiptoes to angle her camera through the branches of one of the younger trees.

  What must she see through that camera lens? If only he’d taken the time to pull out the garden shears rather than taking over the tour, but somebody had to do it. That so-called history major from whichever of the zillion New Orleans area universities wasn’t worth the paper his résumé was written on. Not only was he perpetually late and hung over if his bloodshot eyes were any indication, but Don didn’t know what he was talking about, which was inexcusable. To Theo, things like accuracy of historical details on the plantation tour were more than niceties; they were essentials.

  The couple for this morning’s tour had signed up online, and Theo had been loath to cancel on out-of-towners even with the property in its disappointing condition. Indigo Pointe had been running tours for the better part of thirty years, and Theo wouldn’t interrupt the market flow, no matter how slow the trickle. It would be easier to increase a weak dribble than start over after completely stopping it. Advertising had been altogether too weak, but he wouldn’t push that until the place was in much more marketable shape. He’d been so focused on acquiring the property for nostalgic reasons, he hadn’t worried much about business viability. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a decision he wound up regretting.

  How surprised he’d been when he walked into the office and found the beautiful woman he’d encountered at Live Oak Lane that morning. He hadn’t been sure how to address the situation after his embarrassment over firing Don, which she had to have overheard. Once again, he’d let his explosive temper get the better of him. All he could think to do was to pretend he didn’t recognize her, though any red-blooded man wouldn’t have bought it.

  The woman wasn’t exactly forgettable. She was beautiful in a classic sense, with thick, long hair so dark it was only one shade away from black. Her huge, almond-shaped eyes were a deep brown with something else—a little green, perhaps, or even copper? He’d have to get a better look.

  He led the tour down a dirt path beyond the pair of late-nineteenth-century barns toward the back of the main house and its parterre garden. The sun was out now that the rain had stopped, which added to the vibrant greens of the plants but surely encouraged more weed growth even as
they spoke. The air was temperate despite the early summer date. He’d take a mild June day while he could, especially if he got to spend a few of these hours with a woman who reminded him there was more to life than work.

  He swept his arm around him, pointing out each of the matching structures set symmetrically around the garden, as he spoke. “The original owner, an immigrant from Germany, started with a traditional Creole home, quite a bit more modest than what you see here. Two generations later, the grandson who inherited the property decided to improve his image by remodeling his ancestral home in the Greek Revival style. That was when the gardens and additional buildings were added. In accordance with the style, each building has its mirror image across the garden square, with the exception of the big house.”

  He turned to face the much smaller building opposite the main house. It took center stage a short walk from the mansion through the garden. “Any guesses what this structure might be?”

  He liked this part of the tour, and although he’d heard that many guests guessed correctly, there were sometimes some humorous suggestions.

  “Some sort of Grecian temple?”

  Did the woman ever let go of her guy’s hand? They were at that cute stage of their relationship. Not for the first time, Theo felt a slight pang of jealousy. He hadn’t experienced a relationship like that in quite a while, and being confronted with it now made him realize how much he missed sharing his life with someone special.

  “But,” Grae refuted her own prediction, “I’m guessing that building” —she pointed over at the small church on the east side of the property— “is where they worshipped.” She didn’t seem to have a real theory of the purpose of the miniature building.

  “I’m going with outhouse,” her boyfriend suggested.

  “You got it,” Theo said to the man, not allowing himself to be disappointed. It probably took a kid to come up with something creative.