Sweet Home Carolina

by Rice, Patricia

  Walking toward him under that appreciative stare, she felt heat form at the tip of her toes and work its way up to her head. His heavy-lidded gaze even had her noticing the way her hips swung as she walked on the uneven ground. She’d not worn anything fancy, just her khaki walking shorts and wedge-heeled sandals. Instead of her usual vanilla shirt, she’d pulled a rose sleeveless one out of the back of the closet and recklessly tied the tails, but Jacques’s stare had her exposed midriff blushing as heatedly as her cheeks.

  His brows rose and a slow smile curved his lips as his gaze caught on the swingy hoops in her ears that Jo had persuaded her to wear. Now, Amy felt like kicking herself for indulging in feminine vanity — she’d wanted his gaze to linger just like that, she realized.

  “Ms. Amy!” Jacques called, rising from his seat. “We have saved you a chair so you may explain this amusement to us. Where are the turkeys?”

  How many men these days actually stood up in a woman’s presence? She couldn’t resist relaxing under his genuine enthusiasm. In this sea of denim and logo-branded t-shirts, Jacques looked amazingly British and suave in his tweed sporting jacket and designer ribbed-knit shirt. She hoped he wouldn’t be too offended at Hoss’s little game.

  “Where are your crutches?” she asked, taking the chair beside him that he held for her.

  “They are no good on this terrain.” He gestured dismissively, returning to his seat. “I only need good eyes for this contest. I am in fine form,” he added with the barest edge to his voice, as if he’d had to say it more than once today.

  “Yes, I can see that,” she said drily as he handed her champagne in a glass that appeared to be Baccarat crystal. This felt way too personal, too much like flirting. She’d watched Jacques’s active mind dart from subject to subject all week, but when his attention was on her, she knew it with every female cell in her body.

  She concentrated on steadying her foolishly racing pulse by reverting to her role as mother. She turned to Luigi and gestured at Jacques’s leg. “He needs to elevate that knee. Do you have another chair?”

  Luigi smiled triumphantly and snapped open a folding stool, waiting for Jacques to lift his leg so he could position it.

  Jacques glared at her from beneath heart-stopping dark lashes. “I will get even for this, Ms. Amy. He has been pestering me all day to do this.”

  “Then Luigi has more sense than you.” She sipped the champagne to quell the tiny fires ignited by his smoky gaze and her wretched imagination. Cool and delicious, the wine tasted marvelously decadent. She could blame the pleasure bubbling through her on the champagne.

  For just one moment, she let herself relax and take in the gorgeous September day. The heat and humidity of summer had disappeared almost overnight. The sky was a sparkling blue, pines scented the air, and goldenrod had just begun to bloom along the edge of the field. She caught a glimpse of her sister tussling with Josh and Louisa, and contentment washed over her. Whatever else happened, she still had family.

  “You are so very beautiful when you look like that,” he whispered almost wistfully. “Your love for your children glows in your eyes.”

  Embarrassed, she tugged at her shirttails. She knew rose looked good on her, but she hadn’t dressed for success today. Jo was the tall and slender model type in the family, not her.

  “Love is my reward for looking like a teapot, I guess,” she admitted.

  “A teapot?” he asked in startlement, then burst out laughing. “Porcelain angel, maybe, or a Lalique Madonna, but teapot?”

  Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the sunny day, or this brief escape from the heartbreaking task of packing up her cherished belongings and deciding which to give away. But Jacques’s blatant flattery soothed raw wounds. She’d been such a dunce to let Evan’s indifference dictate how she felt about her appearance.

  She hadn’t flirted in ages, but Amy smiled and unwound under his silliness. “A Lalique, hmm? One of the crystal clear ones you can see right through? Or the mysterious opaque ones?”

  “A mix,” he said decisively. “A Madonna with child, all sparkly and mysterious. Now, down to business. If I am to win your kiss, I must understand the rules of the game. Where are the turkeys? I do not have to walk through the woods and find them, I take it?”

  He’d come prepared to walk through the woods on torn ligaments to win her kiss? He was pure male nuts. And she shivered a little at the possibility that Jacques could mean anything by the sweet talk. Considering their competition over the mill and his inevitable departure, she’d better keep her wits firmly about her.

  She noticed Luigi and Pascal plainly waiting for her reply. Brigitte had applied suntan lotion and retired to the hood of the Hummer with a book. Catarina was sulking on the far side of the half-circle, adjusting her enormous sun hat.

  “They don’t shoot turkeys, unless Hoss got fancy and ordered turkey-shaped targets this year,” she explained. “‘Turkey shooting’ refers to the kind of gun they use — usually outlaw shotguns around here. Some turkey shoots limit the kind of weapon they use, but we’re open. Everyone brings whatever they have.”

  “Shotguns! Ah, I see.” Jacques studied the men setting up targets at the far end of the open field. “One shoots turkeys with shotguns. Excellent. At what distance, do you know?”

  “We’ll have several competitions, especially since you sponsored a shoot for the kids and women. But the men usually stand fifty-eight feet from trigger to target.”

  He looked at her with unfeigned interest. “Do you shoot?”

  “I grew up here,” she replied. “It’s what we did for fun when I was a kid, although we used BB guns and air rifles. I haven’t been to one of these in years.” City-bred Evan hadn’t approved of such unsophisticated rural activities.

  “So your son will not compete?”

  “This is his first shoot. I’ll wait to see if he’s interested. His father doesn’t approve, and I hate to cause dissension.” The story of her life — avoiding conflict.

  “Target shooting is a man’s sport dating back to the beginnings of weaponry. Why would he disapprove?”

  She had assumed Jacques and his sophisticated friends had come here to laugh at their primitive entertainment, much as Evan and his city friends might have. She was surprised that he showed such interest. “Evan thinks hitting a ball around a golf course is a man’s sport because it costs more.”

  Jacques laughed. “Golf was invented by poor Scots who had only sticks and stones to play with.”

  Amused, she sipped her champagne and enjoyed conversing with someone who could see more than one side of things. “I imagine shooting was invented by someone who was hungry and needed meat to fill a pot, so don’t go all snobby on me.”

  “No pot-filling in Europe. Not for centuries.” He waved away her argument. “It is about equipment these days. But I see this is not so here. May I look at these outlaw shotguns?”

  “You’ve never used a shotgun?” Since he’d entered the competition, she’d assumed he had some knowledge of the sport. Well, that took care of one worry. She’d kissed Hoss before she’d left for college. She could plant a smacker on him and walk away untouched when he won.

  But it was a shame….

  “I am a connoisseur of guns.” Jacques lowered his leg from the stool and pushed to a standing position with the strength of his arms. “I own a pair of Manton’s finest, but they are kept in glass cases. Modern weapons can be exceedingly dangerous in comparison. Will you show me the field I am to compete on?”

  Amy grabbed an ebony cane with a brass horse’s head handle that was leaning against the cooler and shoved it at him as he limped across the weedy ground. “You don’t have to do this. Just sit and watch. No one will think anything of it.”

  Jacques took the cane, but caught up in his new obsession, he ignored her suggestion. Accustomed to being ignored, Amy led him over to Flint and some of the judges, then left them to their man talk.

  It seemed odd to watch an elegantly
dressed Brit engaged in deep conversation with a bunch of truckers and farmers. Normally, such disparate company would not give each other the time of day, but Jacques slid right into the conversation as if he’d lived here all his life. She was just used to Evan setting himself apart from his workers with designer suits and attitude.

  She had spent years believing his assurances that she needed to copy the board of directors’ wives in their Nordstrom’s ensembles. She’d given up gardening to keep her manicure neat and given up her weaving because Evan didn’t like anything as plebian as a loom cluttering up the family room.

  Where could she find another handloom? Maybe Flint and Jo could sell her handicrafts in Nashville with their mother’s quilts, she thought, with a quiver of excitement. Once upon a time, she’d loved creating her own designs on her mother’s loom. She adored working with fabric.

  She didn’t need Dr. Evil telling her she was a fool to dream. She had the freedom now to make her own life, a fun one this time.

  If she could buy the mill manager’s cottage — she could set up a handicrafts store in the front room in that bay window! She knew a B and B wasn’t a highly profitable operation, but a small shop of her own goods….

  She still needed a job with a salary and benefits. But this inspiration gave her hope. And determination. She would win the mill for the town and the cottage for herself, come hell or high water.

  Amy returned to the kids and Jo. Hospitality had been assuaged. She’d stay with her own kind now, thank you very much. It was high time she realized who she really was — a country girl with a knack for homemaking and a determined drive to achieve her goals.

  * * *

  Scoping the modified twelve-gauge shotgun Flint had handed to him, Jacques still knew the moment Amy drifted away. It was as if the sunshine dimmed and the world grew a little colder without her gaze.

  Not that she let him see that she watched him. Oh, no, not Ms. Amy. She hid behind modestly lowered lashes and pleasant smiles and small talk. But he knew when a woman was interested. And he was interested in return. The question was, should he pursue that interest for the short time he would be here? In these past days, he’d learned Amy was not one of the jaded females with whom he normally socialized. She could not be treated like one.

  He could hope she expected no more than a moment out of a lifetime. He hoped she was ready for what little he had to offer, because his interest was hooked by her shy glances and brave words, and this shiver of excitement hadn’t happened in too long a time to ignore it now.

  He handed the weapon back to Flint. “It’s a very large barrel for so small a target, more a contest of strength and equipment than speed and dexterity, true?”

  Flint’s bronzed face crinkled up in a smile. “A test of testosterone, yes.”

  Jacques grinned. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. If there are wagers on this event, save your money.”

  “I’m a judge. I can’t wager. But I got a feeling this is going to be more fun than the state fair. Hey, Amy packed our basket. Why don’t you join us? I bet our fixin’s are better than the hotel’s.”

  “The company will make it so.” Whistling, Jacques accepted Flint’s invitation and sauntered back to the blanket where Amy and her sister sat, sipping from plastic glasses and watching the children wrestle in the grass.

  “Lemonade?” Jo offered at his approach, holding up a plastic jug.

  “Thank you, I think I will.” He gestured at Amy, who was already looking for Luigi and his chair and preparing to get up to find both. “You need not wait on me.” Using the cane as a brace, he swung down to the blanket beside her. He was close enough to smell the delicate scent of jasmine lotion that she wore. He leaned over and blew a wisp of silky hair from her ear. “I am not made of glass. I promise,” he murmured in an insinuating tone.

  To his delight, she blushed clear to her hair roots.

  “Buckingham Palace?” she inquired softly, apparently to get even with him for disturbing her. “We looked you up on the computer. It’s not just your mother who has worked with princes.”

  “Only princes can pay my prices,” he said, in hopes of passing off his connections as a joke. He could tell by the fire in her eyes that he’d failed.

  “You think we don’t have a chance of winning that bid after the judge finds out who you are, don’t you? With the investment money you can command, the town can’t come close.”

  In this relaxed setting that had nothing to do with business, Jacques heard the pain and concern behind her anger, and understood far more than he liked.

  Looking around, he could see the tiny world she knew, heard her awe at the distant planet he came from, and realized the lovely, confident woman beside him was overwhelmed. By him. By his world, his knowledge, his experience. That insight into her vulnerability threatened to rouse his ridiculous need to protect.

  “This is no topic for a holiday,” he scolded in self-defense. Generally, women did not get angry with him, and he was uncomfortable being the target of Amy’s resentment.

  “Do you shoot?” Jo asked, handing him a tall red glass, giving him an excuse to turn away from his irate companion.

  “A little,” he said modestly. “Not guns of that caliber, normally.”

  “Look, Mommy, Unca Flint is lining them up!” Josh dashed over to demand his share of the attention.

  Jacques slid over so the boy could settle between him and Amy. Children still made him uneasy. Admittedly, Amy made him uneasy, but he assumed it was her open, honest nature that had him occasionally squirming with discomfort. The children touched him on so many levels of grief and yearning that he couldn’t begin to sort out his emotions. He could no longer avoid children if he wished to be with Amy. He understood they were a package deal.

  “Tell me which are your cousins,” he said to the boy, seeking some topic that would keep him distracted.

  “That’s Johnnie, he’s twelve,” Josh said importantly, pointing out a gangly youngster with long dark hair and a skull-and-crossbones earring. “And that’s Adam, he’s thirteen. He’s going to show me how to shoot.” A slightly older youth with sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw much like Flint’s sighted along the barrel of his air rifle beside his brother.

  “They look like very competent young men.” To hide his discomfort, Jacques took a swig of lemonade — and almost spat it out. The fiery concoction burned all the way down.

  Jo hooted with laughter at his expression. Holding Louisa, she cackled and pounded the blanket trying to rein in her amusement, but she only succeeded in reducing Amy to giggles.

  That, he didn’t mind. Beneath her mop of loose curls, Amy looked like a mischievous little girl when she laughed, and he had to smile at her merriment at his expense. She covered her mouth to hold back her chuckles, but her eyes still danced.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, ever the concerned hostess. “It’s Jo’s latest idea of a cocktail.”

  “Not quite perfected yet, I assume?” he asked with as much ease as he could manage while his eyes watered and his gullet burned.

  “It might be smoother if she used something besides cheap rotgut,” Amy admitted, pulling a bottle of beer from the cooler. “I dilute mine.”

  He accepted the cold beer without comment.

  The firing began after that, and all attention returned to the field. The shouts and yells of the audience and the blasts of the air rifles prevented further conversation.

  Josh’s little body squirmed between them, nearly upsetting his mother’s drink. Watching the field with practiced eye, Jacques absentmindedly lifted the youngster onto his lap to hold him still. Leaning back against the tire of the truck behind him, his shoulder brushed Amy’s.

  She glanced from him to her son in surprise, but another volley of fire and rebel yells prevented any comment besides the brief flash of approval in her eyes.

  He felt as if a benediction had been bestowed on him just in the simple act of holding her son. It felt so good he was almost reluctant t
o set the boy aside when the adult competition began.

  But knowing the prize to be won, Jacques returned Josh to the blanket without compunction.

  If the men of Northfork wanted a pissing contest, he wasn’t so sophisticated that he couldn’t beat them at their own game.

  Nine

  Amy watched Jacques stroll back to the Hummer and retrieve what appeared to be a shiny new 12-gauge from the back of the vehicle. Most of the guns here were old, often inherited from fathers and grandfathers. The advantage of an old shotgun was that one knew its idiosyncrasies. New ones needed to be tried and tested.

  “Ten to one he brought an arsenal with him,” Jo murmured.

  “They’ll have Homeland Security checking them out,” Amy said with amusement, torn between following Jacques and staying here, pretending she wasn’t interested.

  Why should she pretend any longer? She was a free woman — about to be a homeless one. She might as well take advantage of this terrifying independence to practice her flirting.

  Of course, somewhere in the back of her mind, she kept hoping she’d find a way of talking Jacques out of the mill. So she had to watch out for that fantasy world of hers.

  “Watch the kids, will you?” she said to Jo. “I’m going to check out the duke and company.”

  Her sister laughed and waved her on.

  Jacques could easily have passed for royalty in this casual crowd. Amy wondered if he even owned an ordinary cotton T-shirt or jeans. But despite his expensive attire, Jacques’s easy manner and genuine interest in what was being said around him gained him ready acceptance. Catarina in her halter dress, big hat, sunglasses, and haughty attitude, looked as out of place as a peacock among banty hens.

  Amy figured she had the home court advantage. She’d let her feminine attraction get pretty rusty lately, but she might just be ready to brush it off and test it out. Jacques’s interest, his kindness to her children, and his many fascinating facets had finally pushed her out of her safe place.