“They have been here a very long time. I would say they are safe, but — ”
“The river floods, word gets out, things happen,” Flint said gruffly, coming to stand over them. “I vote we lock up the junk.”
“The river floods?” Jacques began hurriedly stacking the aging cardboard as if the river would steal it before he could escape.
“It doesn’t flood often, and it hasn’t rained in a month, so I think we’re safe,” Flint said gravely, the hard planes of his face effectively concealing his smile.
His movie star looks expressing relief, Jacques rose stiffly and dusted off his knees. Bent over like that, he exposed the grass and mud stains of his ruined trouser seat.
She bit back a snicker, but he seemed to hear her anyway. Straightening, he cast her a sideways glance, then turned and checked the back of his trousers. He made a wryly Gallic expression, brushed ineffectively at the stains, and then shrugged his broad shoulders.
“But a storm could come up any time,” Flint continued, ignoring their byplay. “The last hurricane through here wiped out a lot of houses and changed the river’s path. Better to be safe than sorry.”
“These are mountains,” Jacques protested. “How can you have hurricanes in mountains?”
“It happens, usually when one comes up from the Gulf.” Standing, Amy looked around for containers to carry the priceless cards. Anything but look at Jacques, who was dashing even wearing muddy pants. Evan had carried a lot of fat around his middle. His back had never formed a V from broad shoulders to narrow hips like Jacques’s did. And she shouldn’t be noticing. Or aching to dust his butt. “It doesn’t take much to make the river flood.”
Together, they scavenged the buildings for file drawers and crates to carry the heavy old plates, rollers, and boxes of cards. When they ran out of room, Jacques used his expertise to choose the pieces to be left behind. Amy had the feeling that if he could stuff them in his pockets and down his shirt like valuable jewels, he would. He shut the lid on the window seat with obvious regret — more regret than he’d displayed for the smashed Porsche. The man was a fascinating contrast of ideals.
Now that Jacques had found his prize, no one seemed willing to talk of it. Had he said one word about putting the mill back in operation, questions would have flown. Amy filled the strained silence with small talk.
“I need a pickup like this to start hauling stuff down to the apartment,” she mused aloud, climbing into the narrow backseat of Flint’s extended cab. “I don’t think I can get the mattresses into our SUV.”
Flint slid in beside her, letting Luigi drive and leaving the larger front passenger seat for Jacques and his stiff knee. “You can use this truck if you want. We ought to trade. The boys are getting too big for backseats like this.”
“Child seats would fit back here, wouldn’t they?” She’d rather talk of anything than wonder what was behind Jacques’s studious frown right now.
“Yup, and still have room for groceries. There’s just no room for legs.” Flint squeezed sideways to stretch his into her space.
Flint was a good-looking, muscular hunk, and Amy could see why her sister adored him. But their legs were touching, she was practically sitting in his lap, and she didn’t feel an iota of excitement. Jacques, on the other hand, was as far from her as he could be, and his every move and gesture raised goose bumps of awareness.
“I’ve been thinking of trading in the SUV.” She continued the desultory conversation rather than shout sense at Jacques. He wouldn’t listen to her anyway.
“I’ll make you a good deal,” Flint offered, continuing the pretense that they hadn’t just terminated the town’s dream. Or maybe he was so oblivious he didn’t understand what Jacques meant to do. “My pickup for your gas-guzzler, plus the difference in blue book value.”
She nodded agreement. “Elise can draw up something if you talk Jo into it. Maybe we ought to work out rent on the apartment. I might have to move in for a while.”
“You are moving?” Jacques swung around in the seat and pierced her with his sharpshooter gaze.
“I’ve sold my house,” she said with as much dignity and composure as she could manage. “So if the insurance company intends to sue me over your car, they’ll get nothing.”
“The car is nothing but metal and plastic,” he said dismissively. “It obviously had faulty wiring. My lawyers will threaten their lawyers. It’s no matter. Why sell your house if you have no place to go?”
“Your car cost as much as my house,” she said tightly. She wasn’t relieved at his dismissiveness. “I blew up your car! We could have been killed. Don’t tell me it’s no matter.”
Tight-lipped, Jacques turned to Flint. “She is avoiding the subject. Why is she selling her house?”
Flint bared his teeth in the grin that had won Jo’s heart. “Jo says Amy blows up things when she’s upset. We didn’t want her blowing up a house.”
Amy’s first impulse was to protest, but then she realized that in his own foolishly male mind, Flint was protecting her. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she couldn’t afford her house, but she’d rather not show Jacques any sign of weakness.
Jacques narrowed his beautiful blue-black eyes at this reply. “You seriously believe you blew up my car?”
“That’s Jo’s theory. My theory is that machines are like dogs and sense my fear.”
In the driver’s seat, Luigi chuckled. “Keep her out of the Hummer, Boss.”
Amen, Amy whispered fervently to herself. Keep her far, far away from a man whose lean, hungry look concealed a key to her heart. Or, at least, her libido.
* * *
“Are you sure you shouldn’t have that knee looked at again?” Luigi demanded as he opened the door to the dinky motel room Jacques had taken in Northfork. “That woman is a walking disaster area. You should stay away from her.”
No doubt very smart words, but not ones Jacques intended to follow. “The knee is fine. A little ice and elevation. Rent a nice car for Catarina.”
“I’m not driving that lot of pretty pussies.” Luigi scanned the room. “If they’re staying down there, they don’t need a car. Let Pascal rent something.”
“We’ve found the cards. There is nothing for you to do up here now.” Jacques pushed the meager bed pillows up and settled into them, then hauled his aching leg onto the hard mattress for a rest. He’d sprained ligaments running, had concussions from diving, broken his leg when thrown from a horse. He’d learned how to work past physical pain.
He’d thought he’d learned to deal with emotional pain these last years, but Amy was stripping off his shallow bandages and revealing the raw wounds beneath. He could follow Luigi’s advice, slap the pretty bandage of work back in place, and leave now. Or he could air the wound Amy had opened and see what happened.
“The same can be said of you. Your job here is done.” Luigi pointed out. “If you mean to chase after that female, I’ll be here to tow you out of ravines.”
Jacques laughed. “You’re as superstitious as the locals. I think I’ll attend their church tomorrow. I want to find out more about how this town works.” He wanted to know why Amy had to sell her house. A woman like that loved her home and did not give it up without reason. Yet she showed more passion about obtaining the mill than about leaving her home.
It did not cost so much to live here. Surely her husband paid for the children. She had a job. Why should she lose her house?
Personal involvement. He was digging himself into it up to his neck — and it was holding his interest as much as his work.
“Pascal and his pals want you to work on that bid. They’ll not be happy,” Luigi warned.
“We have telephones. I’m not a number cruncher. If they want my approval, they can call. That’s why I hire them. Did Amy say she was cooking at the café tonight?”
“You want her to blow up the stove? I’ll go over and pick up something. You need to keep that leg raised.”
“I can fetch my own
supper,” Jacques replied patiently. “I know my limits and will not exceed them. I’m no longer twelve.”
“And you’re no longer twenty and able to bounce back from another attack of female-itis. That one’s a heartbreaker. Do both of you a favor and leave her alone.”
Luigi was most likely right, but Jacques was beyond reason. He’d tasted her kisses. Her moans of desire still sang in her ears. He had no place he needed to be once he won the bid. And lots of reasons to linger.
“Go guard the cards.” Jacques waved him away.
Since bank vaults wouldn’t open until Monday, they’d had to leave the valuable pattern cards with the bankruptcy judge handling the mill’s business. The judge’s wife had been less than enthusiastic with the dirty assortment of crates on her carpets.
“Anyone stealing those filthy old things would have to be crazy. Crazy people are easy to spot.” Jerking his cap on again, Luigi stalked out.
He’d been called crazy before. Jacques shrugged and relaxed into his pillows until he realized he’d sent Luigi away before he’d carried in ice.
Maybe he would call Amy over here to nurse him. She would do it, he knew, although she might pour the ice on his head first. Or parts lower.
Thirteen
“Yes, Bill, calculate the income from the sale of the pattern cards into the plus side. We may as well make the bottom line look good.”
Amy brushed a strand of hair from her perspiring forehead, balanced the cordless between shoulder and ear, and returned to rolling up her crystal wedding glasses in sheets of newspaper.
Saturday night, and she was wrapping up her life instead of enjoying it. She really needed that shrink Jo had told her to get.
“They are only valuable to one buyer that I know of,” she replied to Bill’s question. “If we don’t get this bid, Jacques will walk off with the mill’s most valuable asset and leave the place empty.”
She wasn’t ignorant. She knew what Jacques intended to do to the mill. She was too tired to cry over it. And too mad to go down without a fight. The town had to beat his bid.
She’d all but begged the man to listen to her. Instead, he’d told her she was amazingly stubborn. Fine, that’s what she would be.
The mayor was huffing and puffing about it being preferable for a professional to run the mill rather than a lot of unemployed mill workers, and she considered driving to town and cramming the receiver down his throat. Learning to throw dishes would be just as useful.
“You have to pay professionals, Bill,” she said calmly when he wound down. “Read the newspapers. Look around. CEOs are emptying corporate bank accounts with golden parachutes worth millions of dollars. We can’t afford that. We have experienced people. It just means a few minor changes in the figures. We’ll be ready by Tuesday.”
She hoped for once in her life someone was listening as she clicked off the phone. Maybe she should have Jo speak for her. When Jo talked, the whole town listened. Amy really wished she could learn that trick.
Her back ached from kneeling on the floor, bending over boxes. Her ribs ached from the beating they’d taken from the air bags. She was lucky she didn’t have a broken nose or collarbone. Enduring unquenchable lust for her competition added insult to torture.
She ought to take a long soak in the whirlpool. It might be the last time she’d have that luxury. She needed to be out of here by the last Friday of the month. That gave her barely three weeks to pack years of accumulated junk.
She rolled another delicate glass in inky newspaper and set it on the fancy guest-bathroom towel she was using as padding between layers. Glasses packed, box full, she sealed the carton with packing tape and used her Sharpie to mark the contents of a life she was leaving behind.
To save electricity, she had opened the windows instead of turning on the air conditioner, but the day’s accumulated heat hadn’t dissipated. She used a kitchen towel to wipe the grime and perspiration off her face and debated which of her cooking items she could spare for the next few weeks, and which she absolutely had to have at her fingertips until they moved.
An insistent buzz interrupted her reverie. The doorbell hadn’t actually chimed since Evan had slammed out last year.
Who the devil would be at her door at nine at night? Running her fingers through her dusty hair in a vain attempt to straighten it, she crossed the living room and checked the side window.
Jacques?
Her heart did an excited little skip, then sank to her knees as reality set in.
He stood under the one working porch light looking as if he’d stepped straight from a magazine ad. Wearing a sporty European-cut jacket and clean trousers, he had one hand in his pocket, pushing back his jacket, while he rested the other on the brass handle top of his ebony cane and studied the geranium hanging in her recessed entry.
Curiosity forced her to open the door. Or else she feared her racing heart was the first sign of a heart attack and she didn’t want to die alone. Six of one, half dozen of the other.
His attention swerved instantly to focus on her, and he beamed with the charming delight that left her defenseless.
“It is Saturday night, You are supposed to be at the café!” He stepped inside before she could slam the door.
“We had no customers. I left early.” She stepped back, feeling grubby in the face of his groomed sophistication.
“But the food doesn’t taste the same unless you are serving it.” He studied her weary face, glanced around at shelves devoid of ornament, and caught her elbow with the authority of a man accustomed to having his way. “We will sit and drink some of your delicious tea.”
“I don’t have time to sit and chat.” She slid her elbow from his grasp and led the way to the kitchen, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. It didn’t help. She could feel his gaze through the shirt on her back. Her arm still tingled from his touch.
She should get rid of him. Now.
But she couldn’t ask a guest in and not offer refreshment. He’d have to drink iced tea out of plastic glasses. “I have to wait until the kids are asleep before I can get any packing done.”
“Where are you moving?” he asked casually, poking with his cane at a box marked tea set and glancing around instead of taking one of the matching golden oak kitchen chairs she offered.
“To the apartment over the café for now. We close on the house at the end of the month, so I’ve been moving things down there every time I go in.”
He didn’t argue when she set a plastic glass of ice and tea in front of him and poured more for herself. Hot tea on a hot night was obscene. He was learning their ways.
“Sit.” He gestured imperiously at a chair.
A few hours ago, he’d been swallowed up by his staff, plotting the demise of the mill at the judge’s house. She’d gone to work as usual, feeling gut sick that she’d just given him the excuse he needed to steal the mill, instead of talking him out of it, as she’d hoped.
She was amazing all right. Amazingly stupid.
Figuring he wouldn’t sit unless she did, Amy took a chair, trying to relax. She’d needed a break anyway. When he finally sat opposite her and, at her pointed look, obediently propped his bad leg on another chair, she unleashed her curiosity. “I assume you’re not here just to tell me I’m not at the café.”
Jacques flashed his devastating smile. “Direct and to the point. I like that. I could say I was bored sitting in the motel, pining for your company. We are very good together.”
“Hmmm, amazing,” she murmured, avoiding his wicked gaze. Just the image of Jacques on a motel bed was enough to raise her libido to full throttle, without putting herself into the picture. “And I could say,” she said, mimicking him, “that you have Catarina to visit, and I’d rather climb in my whirlpool and pretend today never happened. I don’t know why you’re still in Northfork now that you’ve found what you want.”
“But I want many things, and Catarina is not one of them. Your bath sounds tempting though.”
His boyish grin sent her hormones spinning even though she could swear she was too tired to even think of sex. If nothing else, she was comfortable handling little boys. “Stop that,” she told him crossly, irritated with herself more than with him. “We had an overreaction to the accident this afternoon. That’s all. So if you came up here looking for more of the same, you can go away now.”
“While admittedly,” he continued as if she hadn’t said a word, “sharing a bath with you is one of my fondest desires, I would settle for just the whirlpool,” he said with such fervency he almost sounded sincere. “My room does not have one. You have a marvelous house. I have never seen so many modern conveniences.” He studied the flashing clock in the built-in microwave and the stainless fixtures that had been cutting edge when she’d had them installed. “In Europe, all is old, old, old. This is as modern as my late Porsche.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it’s not working. You can afford the resort in Asheville. I’m sure if you ask, they’ll let you admire their kitchen.” She wouldn’t ask what he wanted again. She didn’t think she could face the humiliation. Mama had warned that men thought divorced women were easy, and Amy had certainly made it seem that way by her behavior earlier. She still cringed in embarrassment.
And burned with the desire for a human touch again. She refused to believe it was just Jacques’s touch she craved. That would be too desperate. She studied her glass instead of the mouth that had driven her wild in one-point-two seconds, faster than his Porsche.
“I am trying to find a way to beg you to take me in,” he said, forcing Amy to jerk her head up and stare at him in incredulity.
When she said nothing, he continued, the expression in his dark eyes intense, as if willing her to cooperate. “The motel is old and musty and has no whirlpool. My leg cannot bend so easily for the long drive down the mountain to the resort. It would be a kindness if you can find a place for me here until I find something else. I will pay generously.”
Sweet Home Carolina Page 12