“Who are you? I don’t care what you think! Shut up!” she interjected. That only provoked him more.
In the midst of yelling Paul realized that he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. She looked upset, but not frightened … maybe that was the attraction. Maybe it was her damned calculated aura of mystery. He could see very little of her face.
She wore dark sunglasses and a black scarf with fine white dots. The scarf was wound under her chin and around her neck in a style reminiscent of the fifties. A smooth, straight strand of strawberry-blond hair peeked out decoratively on one side of her forehead.
When he stopped yelling she simply stared at him for a moment. Her driver still stood in the distance, his mouth hanging open.
“Finished?” she finally inquired.
Her skin was flushed with anger underneath a golden tan. Her nostrils flared rhythmically at the end of a short, aquiline nose. Despite the deadly way she had her lips clamped together, they looked luscious.
She smirked at him. “Whoever you are, I’m going to kick your sweating hulk off this place so fast that you’ll feel like gumbo in a hurricane.”
“You will, eh, chère?” Paul raked her up and down. “You’re not dressed for anything so physical.”
She was the epitome of fashion in a white dress with enormous padded shoulders and a skirt that barely came to mid-thigh. Skin-tight pants extended from under the skirt and stopped just below her knees, outlining extremely pretty legs. The legs, cased in white hose, continued in the same curvaceous way all the way down to her high-heeled black shoes.
“Okay, Tarzan, seen many women lately?” she inquired in a tone that could have frozen a volcano.
“Not any dressed for the circus.”
He gazed disdainfully at her knee pants. They had a tiny polka-dot print that matched her scarf. A wide black belt made her waist look too small for her height—she was only a few inches shorter than he was. Paul smiled at the indignant way her lips pursed.
Her chin came up. “A fashion critique from a wild boar is hardly worth considering.”
“You look like a piece of candy wrapped up in too much paper. By the time a man got you unwrapped, he’d forget that he was hungry.”
“I’m here on business with the producer of a movie. You couldn’t possibly work for him. He has good taste. So you must be some sort of hired help at the plantation. Consider yourself out of a job. Now get your lizard out of the road and your face out of my sight.”
“Ol’ ’gator, he doesn’t move for man nor circus woman.” Paul turned toward the chauffeur and gestured grandly. “Get her luggage out. Let her carry it. She looks capable, like she takes aerobics classes and lifts weights. With her tongue.”
“Pal,” she interjected, “you can take your attitude and put it where the sun—”
“The sun shines everywhere down here,” he finished dryly. “And it gets beaucoup hot for a woman who runs her mouth when she should be carrying her luggage to the big house.”
Caroline crossed her arms over her chest. Perspiration was already beading on her scalp. The scarf itched. “Move the alligator,” she ordered.
Paul stepped back and waved her toward the front of the limo. “You move him.”
The tension inside Caroline’s chest lightened as she considered that offer. She smiled at him in a condescending way. “All right.”
They walked to where the monstrous, muddy thing lay dozing in the center of the driveway. Her tormentor threw out a protective arm to halt her. Surprised, Caroline bumped into the muscled barrier at breast height.
Tarzan might be sweaty, dirty, and bad-tempered, but he was also a walking catalogue of perfect male parts. The pressure of his arm against Caroline’s bosom drew primitive requests straight from her hormones. We’ll take one of those, and two of those, and lots of that …
“How gallant,” she muttered, and stepped back. She feigned interest in the alligator. “Well, well, an Izod emblem with teeth.”
“Big Daddy likes to chase women. You’re not wearing any alligator skin, are you?”
“Oh, just my underwear.”
“Seems appropriate.”
Her face burned with more than the external heat. Watch this, Mr. Macho.
“Beat it, alligator, before mother nature notices that you flunked the quiz on evolution,” she said aloud for effect.
Caroline peered at the reptile with a twinge of performance anxiety. She’d never dealt with a mind quite so primitive. Even frogs were sharper than this.
Big Daddy’s large, dark eyes opened slowly. He rose to all fours. He waddled off the road, his body swinging from side to side. She exhaled in relief. Caroline smiled sweetly at the shocked man beside her.
“I’m a professional animal trainer,” she explained. “It’s all in knowing how to pitch your voice.”
Disgust flooded his expression. “Dumb luck.”
“No, that’s how you get a girl.”
His eyes flared with amusement and he whistled softly under his breath. “Hinting for some fun? Can’t take you up on it. Might get frostbite.”
Caroline grimaced. This was hopeless. “I’m not going to ask you to tell me your name. Primitive organisms don’t have names. But I assure you that you’ll hear about this from the owner.”
“Already heard.” It was obvious that he’d been waiting for this moment. He bowed and smiled with grand satisfaction. “That’s me. The owner.”
Her back stiffened slowly. Then one corner of her mouth drew up in sardonic amusement.
Watching, Paul gave her credit for having a sense of humor.
“Dr. Belue, I presume,” she said flatly.
“Blue to my friends.” He paused. “But you can call me Dr. Belue.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Even behind the dark sunglasses he could tell that her eyes were wide with astonishment over his identity. What color were those eyes? He had an overwhelming need to find out. With a quick, catlike flick of his hand he slipped the glasses off her face.
He’d never forget her reaction as long as he lived. Her eyes—he didn’t even notice their color—narrowed in distress. One hand flew toward the left side of her face, then wavered as if she were ashamed of her reaction, and dropped back to her side.
She glared up at him, knowing that he couldn’t help staring at the jagged white scar that ran from the corner of her left eye back into the hair at her temple, hating the fact that the good, honest challenge in his gaze softened with pity.
Caroline jerked her sunglasses out of his hand and nearly stabbed herself in the eyes putting them on again. Then she turned the air blue with invective. She’d do anything to make him fight again. Anything was better than sympathy.
He cocked his head to one side and gave her a rebuking look that was even more upsetting because she sensed that he understood her defensiveness.
Shaking, Caroline withdrew behind her icy facade. Her voice dropped to a low level that was at least formal, if not calm. “You’re about as likable as a bad fungus, and I’d rather spend time in hell than in this sweltering little backwoods Eden. But I’ll survive. I want a room. Your best room, with air-conditioning. It better have a telephone. And I’ll give your cook a grocery list. I’m a vegetarian.”
Anger clouded his gaze again. “You’re a pain in the ass, Mademoiselle Fitzsimmons,” he corrected her.
“Precisely. I’ve had years of practice and the best teachers.”
She turned on one heel and went back to the car. She slammed the door and sat in the dim, quiet interior, staring straight ahead, tears glittering in her eyes.
Her triumphant return to Louisiana didn’t feel that way at all.
Two
Her visions of Scarlett and Rhett faded as soon as she saw the main house. This was Tara after the war.
“This is a punishment,” she said numbly. “I’ve been cursed.”
The driver set her luggage on the patio and waited expectantly. Caroline dabbed at her dewy face with a
pink tissue and tried to forget what Dr. Belue had just done to her emotions.
Grande Rivage hadn’t been grand for at least fifty years. She leaned against the limousine, staring up at large columns devoid of paint and an upstairs gallery that sagged slightly on one side. Dingy, torn curtains fluttered in the windows. Peeling white shutters hung askew from the dormer windows on top.
But the ghost of majesty was still evident, and she couldn’t deny that it appealed to her. A parade of tall doors fronted the house on both stories, and most of them were open to let the breeze through.
The house was sturdily built of handmade red brick; the years couldn’t ruin such craftsmanship. A beautiful filigreed iron balustrade decorated the gallery, and huge azaleas nestled against the red-tiled patio that skirted the bottom story. The first floor opened directly onto that ground-level patio.
Thick honeysuckle and jasmine climbed the trunks of overhanging oaks that must have been planted when the house was built. The paddlelike leaves of giant magnolias fluttered in the sultry air. Caroline searched for descriptions that would do the old home justice. Provocative. Romantic.
Then she tried to shrug off such whimsy. At least the lawn was cut—well, in the spots that still had grass.
“Caroline!”
She turned toward Frank’s relieved voice. He came across the lawn from a camper’s nightmare of trailers, vans, and utility vehicles clustered among a grove of trees in the distance. Beyond the grove she saw white outbuildings, fences, and pastureland dotted with tiny, striped ponies. What?
Near the trailers a few members of the crew had set up a volleyball net and were sweating through a vigorous game. Frank trotted up to her, clapping happily, his sandy brown hair ruffled by a warm breeze. But he looked tense, like the movie producer he was, conscious of the minutes ticking his money away.
“Caroline, how was your trip?”
She smiled and returned Frank’s hug. Then she held him at arm’s length and didn’t mince words. “I just met Dr. Belue. He hates me. And I hate him.” She quickly told him about the encounter.
Frank’s happy expression fell ten feet. Then he shrugged. “I’m surprised it took so long.”
“Why does he want to get rid of me?”
“He thinks you’re a waste of time. He thinks his wolf will eat you alive. You’ll have to tread lightly.”
“I’m not worried about the wolf. I’ll get wolfie back to work for you, Frank.” She patted his back. “Just relax and stop having those migraines. Gretchen’s concerned about you.”
“I know. I’m overreacting. It has something to do with ten million dollars of investors’ money.”
“The wolf won’t be a problem,” she emphasized. “But I can’t stay in the same house with the mad doctor. Are you sure there isn’t a trailer available?”
“Sweetness, I had enough trouble getting the ones we have. We’re not exactly in the middle of civilization, you know.”
“An understatement. The road signs to this place ought to read Nowhere and Oblivion.”
“Very funny.”
She gestured toward the house. “You said it was charming. So are the ruins of Greece, but I wouldn’t want to live in them.”
“The torn curtains and peeling paint are our doing. The house was presentable before we dressed it for the film.”
“Haunted-house theme?”
“My dear, you obviously haven’t read the script I sent. The Legend of Silver Wolf is a kiddie flick about a wolf who rescues two children lost in the swamp. He leads them to this spooky old house where a hermit lives. The hermit is really a sweet, lonely old man. Silver Wolf saves everybody from some villains.”
She arched one brow. “I met one of the villains a few minutes ago. Terrific casting.”
Frank laughed wearily. “I like Blue,” he told her. “And I respect him. He’s operating this place on a shoestring. He runs an endangered-species habitat, and except for a few government grants, he’s pretty much self-supporting.”
“Oh? He protects the declining population of male macho mutants?”
“Panthers, Caroline. He’s trying to save a rare species of panther. He also works with ferrets and birds, not to mention half a dozen other things. He’s a very private man and he doesn’t like having us around. But he needs the money.”
The sound of running hooves made them both turn quickly. The chauffeur hid behind a column. A half-dozen llamas trotted around the corner of the house and passed in front of them. A young man in khaki shorts trotted with them, waving a short stick.
He waved at Frank. Frank waved back. “Hi, Ed.”
Caroline brushed her hand in front of her face as dust rose in a cloud. “Who was that?”
“Ed Thompson. Zoologist. Works for Blue.”
“Llamas aren’t endangered.”
“Blue sells them as exotic pets. There’s good money in llamas. He also sells miniature zebras.”
Caroline looked toward the pasture. The striped ponies, of course. “This place has everything,” she added grimly, “Including one giant Cajun turkey.”
“Gobble-gobble,” a deep voice said behind her.
She turned slowly, gazed up into cool blue eyes, and smiled. The man was as provocative as his home. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Dolittle.”
If she sniffed one more time, he’d throw her out of his house on her designer-clad fanny.
She did it so delicately, barely making a sound. In fact, maybe the sniffing was his imagination. It was just the way she glided around beside him through the large, austere rooms, still wearing her sunglasses and scarf as if she were afraid of contamination. She kept her hands clasped behind her back.
She was conducting an inspection, and she made it obvious that his house wasn’t going to pass.
“Nice possibilities,” she said about the tall ceilings with their ornate molding.
“Great potential,” she said of the hardwood floors.
“Modern plumbing,” she noted of the kitchen. “Fascinating.”
That was the last straw. He turned toward her and uttered one earthy, concise word.
“I wouldn’t describe it as that bad,” she countered.
“If you don’t like it, get out.”
“There are cables and camera equipment all over the place. Every room but the kitchen is sprayed with fake cobwebs and dust. The furniture looks like rejects from a Victorian nightmare. Is the upstairs this way too?”
“The furniture was brought in for the movie. Upstairs is my domain. No one’s allowed up there. Especially you.”
She sighed elaborately. “And thus, where is my room?”
“Behind the kitchen.”
While she stared at his back in disbelief, he led her through the large, cheerful, amazingly clean kitchen to a tiny room with one window.
Caroline did a slow turn, taking in a twin-size metal bedstead and an ancient dresser.
“Is this the cook’s room? Is she on vacation, or did she break parole and go back to the comforts of prison?”
“There’s no cook.”
Her gaze stopped on the floor fan that sat atop the dresser. “There’s no air-conditioning!”
“Come back in five years. By then I might have a central unit installed.”
“There’s no phone!”
“Use the one in Frank’s trailer.” His blue gaze flickered down her body, pausing blatantly at her breasts and hips. “Since you and Frank are so close.”
Caroline had been considering setting fire to the drab little room in protest. Now she considered setting fire to Dr. Belue. His insulting once-over made her skin feel hot enough to scorch his throat when she strangled him. She pivoted on one heel and faced him, then whipped her glasses off and stared straight into his eyes. “Are you insinuating something?”
Blue smiled wickedly. The madder he made this Beverly Hills bunny, the sooner she’d leave. “You look like the type who wouldn’t have any scruples about married men.”
Her eyes narrowed. He wa
s only trying to provoke her. He wanted to get rid of her. She had to keep remembering that. Caroline scanned his naked chest and all the territory below it with nonchalant approval. “Ah, yes, married men are what I crave. Too bad you’re single. Otherwise I’d seduce you.”
“You’d walk bowlegged for a week afterward.”
Caroline clasped a hand to her heart dramatically. She ignored the sensual loosening his words produced in her lower body. He was a volcano—unpredictable but fascinating. “How lovely. There must be dozens of bowlegged women around here.”
“Hundreds.”
“Hundreds of women with bad taste. Amazing.”
“Hundreds of women with dazed smiles.”
Caroline tsk-tsked, shaking her head. “You’ll have to forgive me for ignoring an opportunity to join their ranks. Nothing personal. It’s just that I prefer not to mate outside my species.”
“And you wouldn’t want to make Frank jealous.”
Her grim amusement faded and her voice became somber. “Frank respects you. How can you accuse him of cheating on his wife?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Caroline felt bare as he looked deeply into her eyes.
“I’m not serious,” he admitted finally. “I just don’t understand why you took this job for him if you hate being here so much.”
“He’s been under a lot of pressure lately. Your manic-depressive wolf didn’t help his stress level any. He’s a good friend. He was almost my brother-in-law once upon a time.”
“Hmmm. In a lucid moment Frank’s brother realized his folly and broke the engagement?”
“He had severe diabetes. He died on his thirtieth birthday from a heart attack. Satisfied?”
He was silent for a moment, studying her shrewdly. “I apologize for doubting your sainthood.”
“Spare me the alligator tears.”
Her breath short, feeling a little light-headed from their intense conversation and her proximity to his half-naked body—didn’t the man own a shirt?—she twisted back toward the room and swung out a disparaging hand. “I really must have a bedroom upstairs. Something bigger. With air-conditioning.”
“You’re out of luck unless you want to sleep with me.”
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