Sweet Home Carolina

by Rice, Patricia

  * * *

  Wearily, Jacques drove the Porsche down the narrow winding mountain highway. He couldn’t remember when he’d slept last. There had been the bon voyage party in London that had gone into the wee hours, the early overseas flight where he’d spent his time reading research material, the long tedious customs lines at the airport, delays in obtaining their vehicles, all compounded by the long drive up here. And now he had to drive right back down again to the hotel, with his trick knee growing stiffer for lack of exercise.

  He’d have to find a place to stay in Northfork. He needed to be in the thick of things while he worked. It kept his mind occupied.

  But tonight, his mind was too tired to think of anything except the intriguing woman he’d just encountered. When he’d first entered the café, he’d thought he’d found a charming haven of mouthwatering aromas presided over by a curvaceous angel. Her eyes had widened in surprise at their arrival, her lush lips had parted in invitation, and for a very brief moment, he’d felt the welcome of home.

  Until the lovely angel had revealed her decidedly sharp mind and tongue. He appreciated her subtle digs and couldn’t resist his curiosity about what else hid behind her calm demeanor. A kitten with claws might be an apt description.

  He chuckled at her coup de grâce over the tea. He appreciated her stubborn refusal to be walked over. He was wary of the soft, malleable types who wrapped themselves around him. Usually, they wanted something, and became intractable when he would not give it.

  Gabrielle had been like that — soft, sweet, intelligent, and very young. But then, so had he been. He’d given his wife everything she’d wanted, so she had no reason to be stubborn. Until the day he hadn’t given her what she wanted.

  Which was why he tried to stay busy and not think. If he hadn’t been so young and stupid, maybe things would have been different. Even after all these years, the guilt and the pain ate at him.

  In some ways, staying busy acted as a tonic. He could party all night, harass his employees all day, and still live quite comfortably with himself. If he could just erase all memory of Gabrielle and his beautiful Danielle….

  It had been ten years of working and partying, and he still hadn’t succeeded in that one simple task. New tactics were needed, which was why he was in this outpost of nowhere. He was getting too old for regrets. He needed a different challenge.

  After parking outside the elegant resort his assistant had located and handing his keys to the valet without noticing his surroundings, Jacques limped into the majestically rustic lobby of the Grove Park Inn.

  Brigitte, his assistant, was already inside handling the reception desk. He assumed Luigi, his driver and bodyguard, was overseeing the luggage and checking out the accommodations. Jacques cornered Pascal and forced him to pace the spacious lobby while he worked out the kinks. Everyone else scattered looking for bars and entertainment. He’d been assured the resort had a spa. The women would be happy, and he could ease his aching ligaments in the hot waters. Perhaps an American masseuse would have a new trick to force his muscles to behave.

  “I think we’ll have some local resistance,” Jacques informed his financial adviser. Pascal dressed in black like a Parisian, carried his Nikon like a Japanese tourist, and had the razor-sharp mind of an international financier. “We need to keep the staff contained and as unobtrusive as possible until I’ve formed a solid foundation with the locals.”

  “What about Catarina? We have no control over her. I don’t know why you brought her, other than the obvious.” Pascal jingled the change in his pocket and scanned the lobby as if searching for industrial spies.

  “I did not invite her.” In truth, he would have preferred she’d stayed where she belonged. He was aware she was using him as a ticket to enhance her fading fame and boost her design business. Mixing sex with work was too messy for his preferences, so he was avoiding her. “I cannot keep her from buying a ticket. She has a good eye for color and design, so maybe we can use her and her friends. Maybe they’ll get bored and go home shortly.”

  Jacques doubted she would, but eventually she might get the message that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. He wasn’t on the lookout for permanence anymore. He’d once thought a stable home and family was everything he desired, but his parents had the right idea — you can’t lose what you don’t have.

  “We have less than two weeks to find the cards and determine if they’re worth bidding on,” Pascal said. “Perhaps we could give a party and let Catarina talk to former management, see if they are aware of the historic patterns, and where the cards might be stored.”

  “They’ll want to talk about how many employees we’ll hire.” Jacques shoved his hand through his hair and grimaced. “It is not a good thing that we befriend these people.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Pascal assured him. “We buy the mill, get what we want from it, and we can give the town the old buildings when we’re done. They can turn them into antique stores and tourist craft shops.”

  Jacques had a decided notion that was not what the sharp-clawed kitten had in mind.

  The thought made him shift uncomfortably inside his skin, but they’d be gone in two weeks. And he’d have a fascinating new project to keep his mind occupied.

  Three

  “I could start an antique store in Asheville,” Amy mused, cleaning the stove at the café after the Sunday lunch crowd departed.

  The prospective buyers who had looked at her house last night had made an offer first thing this morning. If she accepted it, she had to start house hunting immediately. And job hunting.

  Her one prayer of staying here rode on the town acquiring the mill property. Not only could the mill provide her with a decent job, but its assets included the vacant, run-down Craftsman cottage that she coveted. She had high hopes of persuading the mill committee to sell her the cottage for a price she could afford.

  But she couldn’t restore a single floor tile without money.

  “Just what the world needs, another antique store.” Jo held open the door so her friend Dot, the artist, could carry in a three-foot plaster goose. “And who would take care of the kids if you moved down there?”

  “Back in a minute.” Dot set the goose on the nearest table and rushed back out.

  Amy eyed the sculpture skeptically. “We’re selling statues now?”

  “Dot has a customer coming in tomorrow to pick it up, but she has to go out of town. I told her we’d handle it.”

  “Better have her sit it on the floor. That thing looks like it will topple any minute.” Amy started unloading the dishwasher, her mind covering so wide a field of must-dos and should-dos and what-ifs that she might as well have been spinning inside a tornado.

  No matter how much she disliked the bland McMansion, the thought of selling her children’s home terrified her. Where would they live? If the foreigners really made a legitimate bid on the mill, what would happen to the cottage?

  In her head, she’d already remodeled every inch of the old bungalow. Losing her home, her dream, and a chance at a real job all at the same time — her imagination simply couldn’t leap that many hurdles. She had enough difficulty trying to think of a mill anywhere in the state that was still open and might accept her ten-year-old degree as experience.

  Aroused to her surroundings by the bustle of activity, Louisa piped, “I’m hungry, Mommy,” from her place on the floor, where she’d been engrossed in energetic coloring.

  Jo lifted her three-year-old niece to the counter and fed her a slice of apple.

  “Besides, if you move, you’d have to sell all those gorgeous pieces of furniture you refinished. You don’t want to do that, do you?” Jo asked, continuing their interrupted conversation.

  “What else will I do with them? I’ll be lucky if any house I can afford has room for a few beds and a table.” She was trying to be practical about this, but her heart protested hysterically. The old cottage would have been an ideal fit for her antiques.

  Dot w
alked in carrying a plaster Humpty Dumpty and set it beside the goose. “Thanks, Jo, Amy! I really appreciate this.”

  “Put them on the — ” Amy started to call, but Dot had already rushed out, her long green braid flying. With a sigh, Amy shoved the still-hot-from-the-dishwasher plates on the shelf.

  “Flint and the boys can store your furniture upstairs, if you like,” Jo suggested, ignoring her friend’s weird artwork. “We’ve not found any renters for the apartment. Are you certain you have to sell the house? If the mill bid goes through, surely you’ll be hired at a decent salary. You’re the only one around here with a textile degree.”

  A ten-year-old degree with no evidence that she had ever used it since Evan had taken all the credit and never put her on the payroll. She knew she was good. She simply had no proof.

  “I’ve drained my bank account making the house payments, praying for a rainbow to save it. I’ve got to be realistic about this and find a place within my income.”

  Amy could mouth the words pragmatically, but the sentimental mother inside her wept at the idea of leaving behind all the childhood markers the house represented. On their birthdays, Josh and Louisa had drawn pencil lines on the bathroom doorframe marking how much they’d grown. Josh would have to leave behind his playground designed for his fascination with trains. She’d stenciled pink ribbons around Louisa’s nursery before her daughter was born and embroidered pillows to match for the rocking chair. She knew she could do it all again — eventually — but she needed the security of a home to go to before she could consider this move with anything other than a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  “Well, with real estate soaring like it is, you ought to make a tidy profit. It’s a good thing your lawyer wrung the house out of Evan.” Done wiping tables, Jo unfastened her apron from her church dress and sent her sister a sympathetic look.

  “I borrowed against that profit and have been living off it this past year,” Amy reminded her. “Selling the house will pay off the mortgages and leave me a few thousand for starting elsewhere.”

  “Well, you know Flint and I will back you, whatever you choose to do,” Jo said. “All these years you’ve put up with me, it’s my turn to be the sensible one. Without you paying for Mama’s medicines, we’d be up a creek by now.”

  “There you go — I’ll buy a trailer up the creek.” Amy managed a smile, although the idea of eccentric Joella being the responsible sister threatened to give her hives. She was used to doing the caretaking, not the other way around.

  “I’m going to bake some cupcakes.” For distraction, Amy kissed her docile youngest’s curls. She always baked when she was worried, which explained her extra pounds lately. “Are you going to decorate them, sweetheart?”

  “Pig cakes,” Louisa agreed serenely. “With snoses.”

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t take her with me? It’s no problem, really,” Jo offered.

  “Josh needs some male bonding time with your guys. He doesn’t need his kid sister crowding him. The lunch rush is over. I’ll just do the baking and take her home.”

  “All right then, give Aunt Jo sugar.” Jo hugged her niece and accepted a ripe kiss. “You be good now. I’ll pick you up with Josh and the boys after school tomorrow, and we’ll all go to my house and parta-aay.”

  “Dora the Explorer,” Louisa demanded.

  “Cartoons instead of partying,” Jo agreed blithely. “Are you sure you can handle the café next week without me?” She directed this last at Amy.

  “It’s a kitchen, Jo. I can handle it,” Amy assured her.

  She was less sure of herself after Jo departed, and Saint Stevie sauntered in without his retinue. The tiny piece of her that still believed in dreams had been hoping he was an illusion that would disappear with the sunrise.

  Instead, he looked more solid and gorgeous in daylight. Sporting a movie actor’s groomed stubble, a small gold stud in one ear, a fabulous black-and-tan silk shirt rippling over a chest-hugging black knit, and a pair of tan slacks that had to have been tailored for him, he defied any category of man with which she was familiar.

  His lanky, tailored elegance gave the appearance of height, but he didn’t loom like a formidable gorilla over her five-foot-two frame as so many men did.

  “Ah, my fair lady!” he exclaimed, limping to the counter with a brilliant smile and a wolfish gleam in his eye as he unexpectedly swept Louisa into his arms, tickling her until the room chimed with childish delight.

  It had been a long time since Louisa had opened up and laughed like that — since Evan had left, to be precise. It was hard saying anything nasty to a man willing to take time to make a child laugh.

  Unable to resist any man who liked children, Amy added Keemun leaves to the teapot and filled it with boiling water while Saint Stevie admired her daughter’s coloring efforts and asked questions about the pictures portrayed in the book.

  “Your daughter?” he asked, taking a seat at the counter and bouncing the beaming little girl on his knee.

  “Louisa,” Amy agreed. “Do you have children?”

  A shadow crossed his face, but he tugged his ear and smiled again. “I don’t really lead a life that suits family.”

  Well, at least the man was honest. She poured the tea — into a persimmon Fiestaware cup this time — and pushed it toward him. “What would you like?”

  He looked momentarily perplexed at the question, and then apparently realized he was sitting at a counter where food was served. “The tea is perfect, thank you.” He glanced around. “Where is everyone?”

  “It’s two on Sunday afternoon and we only serve brunch on Sundays. The rest of the world is eating dinner, napping, or watching football. Where’s your entourage?”

  “My entourage?” Sculpted lips turned up temptingly at the corner, and Amy resisted drooling at the image they invoked of sultry kisses.

  “My staff,” he corrected. “Bertollio is what you call a gofer, Pascal is my adviser, Brigitte is my assistant….”

  Amy held up her hand. “More than I need to know if you will only be here a few days.”

  She definitely did not need to drool over a man who had just admitted he was commitment-phobic. Just because he gave her a glimpse of a fascinating world outside her own did not make him drool material.

  He lowered his long lashes and watched her from beneath them until her lost hormones ignited all over again. He probably knew exactly how that look affected her, damn his sexy eyes.

  “Ah, that is a pity,” he lamented, sipping his tea, pretending he wasn’t turning her into a puddle of melted butter. “I had such hopes of taking a little dove for ice cream on this beautiful day.” He murmured French endearments and tickled Louisa again.

  Amy’s heart cracked when Louisa lit up with delight at the attention and attempted to repeat his phrases. Had she been neglecting her children that much?

  Of course she had. Until Evan had left, she’d never worked away from home. Since then, she had done everything possible to juggle the café and her commitments and make up for their father’s absence, but the day simply wasn’t long enough.

  “Can I have ice cream, Mommy?” Louisa piped, just as the rotten scoundrel had to have known she would. Amy refused to fall for shallow charm and good looks ever again.

  “If you are very good while I clean up here, you can have a chocolate-raspberry-vanilla with sprinkles on top,” Amy assured her.

  “Can he have some, too?” she asked politely, not knowing Saint Stevie’s name.

  “You must call me Jacques, mademoiselle,” he assured the child, carefully enunciating the French Zhock for her. “And I would be very pleased to have chocolate-raspberry-vanilla with sprinkles on top.”

  “Zock,” she replied with satisfaction. “I wanna go play Dora now.”

  Louisa squirmed from his knee and dashed off to Flint’s office and the DVD Jo had given her last Christmas.

  Christmas. There was that dirty word again.

  “More tea?” Amy lifted th
e teapot questioningly, as any good waitress might.

  The timer on the oven started shrieking. It hadn’t worked since the clock stopped.

  He lifted his smooth eyebrows questioningly at the racket while nodding for the refill. “You are cooking something?”

  “Just myself,” Amy muttered. She filled his cup, then slammed her hand against the clock. The buzzer stopped. She had just been admiring a man who would destroy the future of her children. Jo was right. She needed to have her head examined.

  “I have come here for a reason,” he said when she didn’t explain the shrieking timer or her comment. Sipping his tea, he turned the stool to study the plaster goose and Humpty Dumpty.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Resisting giving him the scone she’d saved for her break, Amy took down the mixing utensils.

  “I am sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,” he said in a tone of regret, turning his full attention back to Amy. “My staff was rude and demanding last evening, and they did not express proper gratitude for your outstanding efforts.”

  Amy couldn’t resist his contrite expression — it looked good on his Hugh Grant face. “Your tip said all that needed to be said,” she admitted, reaching for the scone in the warming oven. “But if they plan on eating here again, you’d best warn me in advance. I can still get fresh greens, but not at an instant’s notice.”

  “When in Rome, they must eat as Romans do.” He gestured dismissively, then eyed the fat, currant-filled scone she placed in front of him with surprise. “What is this?”

  “A scone,” she said, annoyed with herself for giving in to his charming apology. “I can’t provide clotted cream though. What’s your preference? Butter, jam, honey? Scones are British, aren’t they?”

  His smile brightened like a harvest moon as he sniffed the still warm biscuit. “My mother used to cover them in strawberries. Jam is fine, thank you.”

  “It’s too late in the season for fresh strawberries, but I have some of mama’s homemade jam.” Amy was quite certain she had lost her mind when she offered this stranger the delicacy reserved for her family. Did she think buttering him up would persuade him to go away? That was quite a head trip, if so. “I have whipped cream if you want the whole shebang,” she added, because that’s how she would have fixed it.