Always

by Carol Rose

  That they would come together was a foregone conclusion. A ripple of heat had seared Cole's gut the moment he'd laid eyes on Ms. Prescott. And although she'd shuttered her expression quickly, Cole had seen an answering flare of desire in her face.

  Cole focused on the Le Monde's menu. He had brought her here deliberately, but she had done no more than glance at the elegant decor of the most exclusive restaurant in the parish, leaving Cole to wonder if she dined here frequently. Le Monde was a rare haven of gleaming cutlery and heavy linen table covers, perfectly suited for the heiress of Oakleigh.

  He frowned briefly. It seemed odd that he'd never heard of Elinor's existence until today. Never, in all the years his father had labored futilely to maintain the huge house, had old man Prescott mentioned the existence of a granddaughter. Or any grandchildren, for that matter.

  Cole knew he couldn't question her too closely about this curious circumstance. Elinor Prescott didn't know of his connection to Oakleigh, and he preferred to keep it that way.

  He'd gone through a broker to make his offer on the house just a month before, and taken great pains that his identity not leak out.

  It was a challenge of sorts, to buy the plantation house out from under Daniel Prescott. Sure, Cole could have waited a few more years. Prescott was already old when Cole had been a grubby little kid roaming Oakleigh's overgrown grounds. He couldn't live much longer.

  But the memories rankled. How many times had Cole watched as Daniel Prescott belittled his father, deriding John Whittier's decision not to seek work on the off-shore drilling rigs?

  Elinor glanced up over her menu and met his eyes. Cole smiled reassuringly. Regardless of what had happened between her grandfather and him, Cole wanted this woman. That she was the granddaughter of a man he despised added only the slightest spice to it. She wasn't what he would have expected from the Prescotts. Worshipping the trappings of wealth clearly wasn't her style. Her scornful glance at his limo had made that plain.

  Cole knew he was facing a tough sale, tougher perhaps than anyone in Bayville. The woman wasn't wooed by the money he could bring to the town. And whenever he approached her, she prickled like a hedgehog. But the fact didn't faze him. She reacted to him, and that was a start.

  A waiter materialized at Cole's side and took their orders.

  "So tell me about your work," Cole invited, when the man had gone.

  "I work out of my home, do accounting for a number of small businesses," Elinor responded, her face serene as her fingers fiddled with her napkin. "Routine stuff, usually."

  "It's the routine stuff that sinks most small businesses," Cole observed. "I bet your clients don't even realize how important you are to them."

  She flushed ever so faintly, struggling, he knew, with the urge to demur that trembled on her tongue. He'd have to step lightly in his campaign to win her over. Modest women took a certain amount of finesse.

  If he came right out and said that he found her powerfully, gloriously seductive, she'd be so aghast, she'd turn tail and run.

  "I'm not so sure about that," Elinor said finally, after a large swallow of water from her glass. "But I've managed to keep most of them from death-by-audit."

  Cole laughed then. "Good grief, woman, you can do that? I've needed someone like you for years. The IRS seems to gobble up my tax attorneys and spit them out."

  "You are in a slightly different bracket from my clientele," she observed, her voice cool. "I'm sure I wouldn't be of any help to you."

  "Don't sell yourself short," Cole suggested softly. "Haven't you heard that good help is hard to find?"

  "I have heard something of the sort," she agreed dryly, "but I don't have much personal experience with that particular problem since I haven't tried hiring servants recently."

  "I'm not too interested in servants," Cole said with a touch of compassion, knowing it must be difficult for her to accept the financial ruin of the great Prescotts of Oakleigh. "But I am determined to get the very best personnel for the Whittier plant in Bayville. And I think you're excellent executive material."

  Dangling the carrot, Elinor thought. "No, I don't think so, thank you. I'm happy with my own business." She despised the ways of politics and big business, the subtle exchange of favors.

  At that moment, their waiter appeared with their meal. When he was gone, they began eating in silence. Elinor wished the evening were over. Despite his moneyed confidence, Cole Whittier packed enough charm to knock the socks off a nun.

  Cole's eyes rested on her speculatively as he ate. Obviously, he hadn't expected her to turn him down that flatly.

  Elinor paused between bites, toying with her fork. "About the reason for this dinner tonight? You were right. I do have some serious concerns about the factory."

  Cole sat back in his chair. "Of course you do. It's another indication of your intelligence. Although you're wrong in assuming that's the only reason for my wanting to see you tonight."

  "It's my reason for being here," Elinor stated firmly. "Are you aware that the Lanier property contains some of the most beautiful land along the river?"

  "Yes," Cole answered. "I grew up here, remember? But the factory would bring a greater prosperity to this area."

  She glanced down. "I suppose that would be your response. As if there's always some other place for people to enjoy the land."

  Cole leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting with sudden suspicion. "You have a special place you love? On the Lanier site?"

  She dropped her napkin into her lap, not meeting his gaze. "Yes, I do. It's a wonderful, quiet place I discovered when I moved here two years ago. I'd hate to see it turned into a toxic dump."

  "So would I, Elinor," he retorted, an edge of anger seeping into his tone. "None of my plants create the kind of problems you're talking about. And if they did, I wouldn't be likely to do that to my own hometown."

  "I'd hope not," she muttered.

  They finished the elegant meal, Elinor declining any dessert. Cole obviously wasn't in the mood to linger over coffee. He signaled the waiter, who swiftly and discreetly attended to the business of the check.

  Elinor shivered as Cole's hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her down the steps to the car. The limousine sat at the curb as they walked out of the restaurant.

  She wasn't sure who'd won this evening's skirmish, but she felt a shade tattered by the battle. Cole Whittier's money didn't interest her, but his sensuality and the hot interest that flared in his eyes scared the heck out of her. It took everything she had not to succumb to the answering warmth that welled up inside her.

  She slid into the limo, with the same sense of distaste she'd felt toward it from the first moment. In a way, she was glad he'd used the car tonight. Its opulence and decadent excess helped remind her of just why Cole Whittier wasn't a man she could trust.

  He climbed in next to her, leaning forward to speak quietly to the driver before pressing the button that shut the window between seats.

  Elinor sat back against the cool leather seat, nervously aware of Cole's presence beside her. He sat negligently turned, the stark white of his custom dress shirt bright in the dimness of the car's interior. She could smell his warm muskiness, a heady drift of something elemental.

  He was at least six inches away, not encroaching on her space. Yet, she felt his presence like a warm bath of sensation, liquid and potent.

  "I noticed earlier that you've done wonders with the cottage," he complimented. "That place was a ruin twenty years ago."

  "It was pretty wrecked when I moved in two years ago," Elinor said, resisting the urge to shift away from the magnetic spell of his closeness.

  "Do you know," Cole murmured, "rumor has it that the plantation owner long ago built the cottage for his lady love? She was supposedly a captivating slave woman he kept tucked away for his own carnal pleasures."

  The embers simmering low in Elinor's body flared to life at the softness of his voice. She pushed the sensation aside. It was easy to imagine hi
m as a slave owner, powerful and supremely confident. Any woman he kept tucked away would probably have been exhausted by his passion.

  "The story goes," he continued, "that she bore him ten children. And when he freed them all, he kept the woman, still tied to him by passion, forever."

  "I don't imagine it was forever," Elinor demurred dryly as the car pulled up in her driveway. "After ten children, he probably tired of her and sent her out to the fields to work. That's what many of the plantation owners did."

  Cole chuckled as the driver opened Elinor's door. “You’re such a romantic, Ms. Prescott."

  All the way up the pathway to the cottage steps, Elinor rehearsed. Handshake, polite smile, chaste passivity if he tried to kiss her. But with his powerful body close beside hers as they walked up the dark path, she had her doubts.

  She had a hard time sitting next to him passively. How would she be able to resist responding if he actually held her in his arms?

  Their steps echoed on the wooden steps as Elinor retrieved her key from her tiny evening purse. She briskly inserted the key and opened the door, turning around to him with her hand outstretched.

  "Goodnight, Mr. Whittier." Her smile felt pasted on. "Thank you for the lovely meal."

  His hand enveloped hers, warm and steady. Elinor's thoughts zipped back to their first handshake and how surprised she felt at his strength. Weren't wealthy men supposed to be soft from sitting behind desks?

  Again, he held her hand, his face unreadable in the dark. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Elinor," he drawled. "I've enjoyed your company immensely."

  "Oh, how nice," she uttered disjointedly, feeling stupidly disappointed as he released her hand. "Well..." She fumbled with the door behind her. "Goodnight again."

  "Elinor!" he called to her softly, drawing her glance back over her shoulder.

  "Yes?" she hesitated, half-turned on the threshold, her heart throbbing in breathless anticipation. He loomed, powerful and heady in the darkness, so close she could barely think.

  He leaned to her, his warm breath brushing her cheek. "You really ought to get a light on this porch. For your own safety."

  She didn't like the limo. Cole sat back in the seat as the blood pounded through his veins, a rage of hormonal disappointment. The last thing he'd wanted to do was walk away leaving Elinor Prescott untouched. But the play of the game dictated it.

  All her defenses were up. He flattered himself enough to think he'd done her armaments some damage tonight, but not enough to start a siege. Not yet.

  So he'd tantalized her, just enough to leave her wanting. Although she couldn't possibly be wanting as much as he was at this moment. Cole stretched his legs out in front of him, grateful for the space the limo afforded him. He relaxed, slowing the surging urgency in his groin while his mind replayed his strategy.

  She didn't like the limo? The limo had to go. Some things were easy discards in the game of life, when the goal was worth the sacrifice.

  ~~~********~~~

  Two

  Standing alone in the silent, overgrown garden, Cole surveyed the huge house, the center point of his plans. Soon he wouldn't need to tread quietly, to inspect it in secret. Soon it would be his.

  Oakleigh sat solidly on a gentle rise, its faded grandeur facing the distant river. Twenty-eight massive columns surrounded the house on three sides. Their once-white plaster surfaces were faded now, chipped and cracking under the onslaughts of nature. It seemed a haunted place, magic and monumental, a relic of an era long past.

  Cole walked through the dusky afternoon half-light, remembrance washing over him like a jasmine-scented wind. Oakleigh evoked all the magnificence of the antebellum South, an era when plantation masters presided over hundreds of slaves, and ruled their kingdoms as they saw fit. The house itself had been built by slaves, a work force that had devoted years to erecting the monumental Greek Revival-style edifice.

  Through the jumble of overgrown gardens, Cole ambled, letting the sense of the place slip back under his skin, as familiar as his own heartbeat. The scents of the underbrush, damp and rich, rose up to assault him with memories. For years after he'd left Bayville, he'd pushed the image of Oakleigh into the recesses of his mind. It had lain dormant, a time bomb of tangled emotion inextricably linked to the memories of his father.

  For Cole, the house stood as a symbol, a resolution to years past when he'd grown up in the shadow of the big house. Soon it would be his. He'd have come full circle from a shack on the wrong side of the tracks to the big house on the hill.

  In a way, it was for his father. John Whittier had been a handyman, Oakleigh's only defense against time, and only then when Daniel Prescott could no longer endure the decay. Although his father had never spoken of it, Cole knew he'd always felt a deep affinity for the pile of cypress and brick that was Oakleigh. When Prescott had called, John Whittier had gone, lovingly repairing the roof, fixing broken windows, and trying his best to push back the encroaching gardens.

  A bird's low trill sounded high above Cole. Once a meticulously tended arboreal paradise, the grounds of Oakleigh had long ago yielded to the wilderness. A tangle of wisteria hung in twisting brown ropes from the sturdy limbs of an oak. Other than the occasional rustle of animal life, the grounds were silent. Cole leaned against the trunk, satisfied that he couldn't be seen from the house, and mentally began the restoration of Oakleigh.

  Minutes later, he heard a woman's voice coming closer, half-humming, half-singing. A path ran through the garden, six or eight feet from where he stood. Belatedly, Cole remembered where the path led, and knew with certainty that Elinor was about to discover him.

  She came around the corner in the path, walking easily, her head tilted back to follow a jay's flight. A thin finger of sunlight found its way through the trees and stroked her chestnut hair as she passed. Out of her path of vision, Cole took the opportunity to watch her without her awareness.

  Elinor was beautiful, her body swaying easily as she walked. A soft rose-colored sweater hugged her body lovingly above the graceful sweep of her moss-green skirt. Cole felt his pulse leap at the sight of her.

  She was closer now, lost in her daydreams and still unaware of his presence. Cole listened to her melodic humming and waited for the moment of discovery. Any second now, she'd catch sight of him, and would naturally wonder at finding him skulking here.

  He'd had enough warning to come up with the outlines of a plan. As plans went, it was pretty sketchy, but he'd made do with less before. Deciding to take whatever advantage he could, Cole boldly stepped forward. "Out for a stroll, Red Riding Hood?"

  Elinor's step faltered as he shocked her out of her preoccupation. "Oh! Good grief, Cole." She hesitated on the path, obviously thrown off balance. "You startled me."

  "You don't expect to find strange men lurking in the woods when you're on your way to grandfather's house?" he teased.

  "Not usually," she admitted with the barest hint of a smile.

  "And you're wondering what on earth I'm doing here," he concluded, once more taking the initiative.

  "Well . . . yes."

  "I came by hoping to call on your grandfather," Cole lied, regretting the necessity.

  "You did?" Her face looked skeptical as he skirted an overgrown rosebush to join her on the path.

  "Yes. And as I walked up the drive, I felt like I'd stumbled into a lost world." He gestured toward the huge house, looming pale and ghostly at the end of the path.

  Elinor's eyes glanced briefly at the house. "It is otherworldly, isn't it?" She glanced back at him. "You came to see my grandfather?"

  "He's always been a significant member of the community," Cole offered in explanation, his senses distracted by her soft scent. "And I thought it would be polite to come by and let him know what my plans are for the manufacturing plant."

  A faint sadness settled in Elinor's eyes. "That's very sweet of you, Cole, but I'm afraid my grandfather isn't able to take much part in the community these days. Even if he'd want to, whi
ch I doubt."

  "He wouldn't?" Cole murmured, battling an insane urge to reach out and stroke her fair skin. She would be soft, he knew, like a pale rose. Would her scent drift up to him, heady and overpowering, if he crushed her in his arms?

  She shook her head. "My grandfather is an irascible old coot and has been most of his life, apparently." She paused, her face puzzled. "You lived here as a boy; surely you knew him."

  "Why, Miss Elinor," Cole chuckled. "You have a mistaken idea of my social status. Everyone in town knew who your grandfather was, but I certainly wasn't one of his privileged inner circle." Technically, it was the truth.

  "I don't suppose he had time for children," Elinor mused as they slowly walked together toward the big house.

  Again, Cole wondered at her relationship with the old man. Hadn't he had time for her as a child?

  "Age has taken a hard toll on my grandfather," she confided. "His eyesight isn't good now, and he's frequently forgetful. It's very difficult for him, and I'm tempted to blame his unhappy personality on his poor health, but, Charlie, the man who takes care of him, says he's always been that way."

  "You didn't see your grandfather much when you were growing up, did you?" Cole asked, his mind busily digesting everything she'd said as they left the path and walked on to the ragged green lawn. He'd forgotten about Charlie, and that was a mistake, because Charlie had never been anyone's fool.

  "No, we never visited," she answered candidly. "My father and grandfather had a huge fight when I was small and they never made it up. Actually, I think my father would have liked to before he died, but my mother was always bitterly angry toward grandfather."

  "Parents leave a tremendous legacy, don't they?" Cole said softly, the memory of his own father as tangible as the great columns of Oakleigh.

  "Yes, they do," Elinor agreed, pausing on the low front step to meet his eyes.

  "Will you introduce me to your grandfather?" he entreated, his tone low. God only knew why he was pushing this. Being recognized by Charlie or the old man would jeopardize all his plans, but he had a sudden urge to see just what Elinor had taken on in coming back to get to know her grandfather. There was no one else but her and old Charlie to care for Daniel Prescott.