“Ah, yes, the singer and her songwriter husband.” Aristide glanced back, and Joella wiggled her fingers at them. “I think you and Jacques may have much in common with your families.” He tilted his head obliquely in his wife’s direction, then caught Virginia’s elbow. “Come along, ma chère, it has been a long day.” He steered her toward Luigi.
To Amy’s amazement, Zack’s mother complied, trailing a list of complaints, and with a last, lingering look to her son holding Josh.
“That went well, no?” Zack said with a heavy hint of irony.
“That went well, yes,” Amy agreed.
Amy felt the intensity of Zack’s gaze while she watched his parents head for the door. She breathed a sigh of relief as the Saint-Etiennes walked out in Luigi’s care. Only then did she feel free to look up at Zack with the adoration she was feeling.
“Tell me I’m not crazy,” she murmured for his ears alone.
He grinned from ear to ear. “As the song says, you’re just a little impaired. But that is the only way to survive, n’est-ce pas?”
“Messy pa,” Louisa echoed sleepily. “My messy pa.” She reached over from Amy’s arms to pat Zack’s cheek.
Amy laughed until tears ran down her cheeks while Zack grinned proudly, waiting expectantly until she caught her breath.
She knew that look. It was the look of confidence he gave the world, but she understood the shadows underneath it now. His heart was in his eyes.
“Yes, Zack,” she whispered. She smiled as his brows arched while he continued to wait with his head tilted toward her as if he couldn’t quite hear her.
“Yes,” she shouted, “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll marry you!”
The activity around them faded to nothing as the world shrank to the small cocoon they occupied, and Amy knew it would always be so, no matter how glamorous their surroundings.
Epilogue
“Astonishing!” Amy swirled happily in the newly refurbished master bedroom of her dream cottage. “It’s exactly as I envisioned it. The blue bouquets on the wallpaper are perfect! Can’t you see vases of blue salvia and pink carnations and lavender in here?”
“My designers might.” Zack chuckled, watching her dance around the house to which they’d just returned from their December journey to London. “But they have much to learn from your American experts if they are to put together the Smithsonian project this spring.”
“With our fabrics,” Amy sighed in delight, patting a crocheted pillow on the four-poster bed. “You are a genius.”
“I know,” he said immodestly. “The magazine article alone should enhance our reputation. The museum tableau will cap it. We will have work to last a long, long time.”
Amy stopped her happy dance in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck and lavishly covering his face with kisses. She adored being able to do this any time she liked. She loved even better that this independent man did not push her away and tell her he was too busy for her expressions of affection. She loved that a man as strong as Zack needed her as much as she needed him. She had more blessings than she could count.
He held her closely against the wide chest she’d come to know so intimately these past months. Zack’s open emotions did not lessen his strength of character. She had watched him handle his termagant mother with amusement, set predatory old girlfriends straight, and handle delicate financial negotiations with assurance. She was the only one who could distract the arrogant prince into lingering caresses.
He kissed her nape and eased her toward the enormous bed. “It’s you who makes it happen,” he murmured. “I would not have thought to ask that our wedding gifts be donations to the victims of the flood.”
“No, but you would have given away everything we received.” She spun out of his arms to check the window overlooking the landscaping project down the hill. Zack had hired a company to repair the path so she could walk to the mill when she wished. In the morning, she would choose which shrubs and perennials she wished to plant.
Coming up behind her, Zack pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. Sliding his arms around Amy’s waist, he placed the machine in her hands. “Add the dates of all your family’s birthdays, if you please, so I may see that they receive appropriate gifts when the time comes. They have contributed as much as my associates to that treasure trove downstairs.”
Amy took the electronic menace he’d taught her to use and began poking in dates. Behind her, Zack chuckled and rocked her back and forth while she worked.
“I measure your contentment by the number of machines you do not blow up,” he said. “I have not replaced a single bulb since we returned.”
She elbowed him and continued with her typing.
“Add a week of holidays for our anniversary,” he murmured, returning to kissing her nape. “We will have a honeymoon every year. You must show me this country. I have never seen the Rockies or the Mississippi or Texas.”
“Business in Europe, play in America. Makes sense, although January isn’t the time I’d be visiting the Rockies unless you ski.” Amy handed him the BlackBerry, and it disappeared so swiftly she scarcely noticed the absence of his hand at her waist. “And you really think I can manage the mill when you go to Europe?”
“I know you can. We have good people in place. They will not even know we are gone on our honeymoon next week.” His hand rose higher, encompassing her breast beneath the scanty designer chemise he’d bought for her in Paris. “You are certain we should not bring the little ones with us? They have been so very good. We could still take a cruise ship instead of a yacht, if you wish it.”
“Josh needs to be in school, and Louisa has plenty of people to love on her while we’re gone. I’m thrilled to include them in our wedding, but I am not taking them on my honeymoon.” Amy turned in his embrace and stood on her toes to press a kiss to his mouth. “It was lovely of you to think of it, though.”
“I think I will soon grow tired of traveling without you,” he murmured against her lips, maneuvering her up against the new wallpaper. “And then there will be babies. I will not wish to miss a minute of their changes.”
Amy laughed as he held her captive with a hand on either side of her head, pressing kisses everywhere his mouth could reach. “You will miss the diaper changes,” she told him, brushing her lips against his bristly cheek.
They had delighted each other when they’d discovered they both wanted more children. Zack loved children as much as he loved new challenges, and she loved him even more for knowing that.
“Possibly,” he agreed, carrying his kisses down her throat to the tops of her breasts. “There will be nannies. You cannot do everything yourself.”
“But this, I will always do myself,” she murmured, burying her fingers in his hair and arching into him, thrilling to the sensation of his mouth on her breast through the silk. “You must agree to be a one-woman man or the deal is off.”
Zack grinned down on her. “Do you think me a stupid man? I have found my treasure, and I mean to keep you.” He sealed his vow with a fervent kiss.
“Promises are forever,” she reminded him softly, removing his shirt.
“Unto eternity,” he agreed with a whisper of hope.
She read the passion and intensity of his gaze and understood that her fears were his, and they would overcome them together. “We’ll celebrate one day at a time,” she assured him, wrapping her legs around his hips and trusting him to take her weight as their lips and tongues came together.
And they celebrated the day joyously, with the winter sunshine pouring through the French doors and across the bedcovers woven on the looms of their mill, to their very own design.
About Patricia Rice
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Aw
ards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
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Sample Chapter: Small Town Girl
One
His badass days were over. Flynn Clinton rubbed his whisker stubble with his damaged left hand and gazed over the dance floor filled with lithe gyrating bodies. He might be bad, but he sure the hell wasn’t young enough to make an ass of himself any more.
The thick smoke of the bar seared his eyes and throat. He’d forgotten that North Carolina was tobacco country. Smoke never used to bother him. Hell, he wouldn’t have noticed a bomb exploding when he had music pounding through him. Like a narcotic, music had blinded him. Withdrawal hurt, but he could see clearly now. Music was as addictive as cigarettes, more lethal than narcotics.
He was here because he didn’t know a better place to start searching for the writer who’d scribbled that unforgettable rhyme on the envelope he carried in his back pocket. He was just about positive the scrawl didn’t belong to his two-timing partner. He had to know the depth of the crook’s dishonesty, even if it set his gut on fire thinking about it.
But he didn’t know how to be a detective, which was why he was fretting over losing his sexy instead of taking care of business.
Surreptitiously, Flint brushed his hand over his hair to reassure himself that it hadn’t receded further. He even had friggin’ gray threading through the chocolate brown the ladies once ran their hands through.
At least months of working out his frustration in a gym had kept him wiry, even if he hadn’t been able to punch bags while wearing the cast. Maybe he’d grow a paunch to prove he was a staid old man. Then his kids really would laugh at him.
He winced, remembering the painful scene at his parents’ house earlier today. He supposed he deserved every bit of their castigation. His sons had totally ignored him while his parents had laid out the ground rules for getting the boys back into his life.
Basically, if he wanted his sons to come home, he had to change his ways.
He definitely wanted his sons back. He remembered each of their births with shocking exactitude, the awe and responsibility and love that had welled up in him the first time he’d held those tiny lives in his wicked hands. He’d made promises then that he hadn’t kept too well.
Looked like fate had caught up with him, and he had no choice except to grow up and start keeping those promises. Flint turned his back on the stage and the bright lights and signaled the bartender.
Once upon a time he would have been in the center of that crowd of hot bodies performing mating rituals to the music of a rocking band. He would have had a beer bottle in hand and been howling along with the songs as he two-stepped with the best-looking lady in the bar.
He took a long pull on the cold beer the bartender set in front of him. Dirk was an old friend who’d known him back in the days, but like any good friend, Dirk had the good sense to keep his tongue in his head.
“How’s Betty Sue?” Flint asked to open the conversation. It wasn’t as if he was here to have fun. Dirk’s bar was a place to start searching for answers. Flint fully expected the answers to be painful, but shouldering responsibility was part of his new maturity.
He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like adulthood.
“Betty went back to school and sells real estate now. Hardly ever see her.” Dirk dried a wine glass and set it on the rack. “What are you doing back in these parts?”
Flint wasn’t much inclined to share his troubles, so he shrugged and took another swig. Tomorrow, he was moving to a dry town to become the staid owner of a coffee shop, if he could pry the hooks of his old life out of his hide. “Got tired of the city lights, I guess. I’ve got two boys to raise, and I want them to grow up with a simpler life.”
Dirk snorted. “I think they’re building snowmen in hell these days. Tell me another one. Did the rebel finally find a cause?”
Flint contemplated the possibility for all of a second before shaking his head. “It’s complicated. Melinda dying sudden like that tore the kids to pieces. Even at their age, they understand alcohol and driving don’t mix. The counselor says they’re feeling rejected as well as grieving.”
Another reason why they thought he was a major asshole. He didn’t blame them. He’d never had a problem with alcohol until the divorce. According to his mother, his drunken accident on top of Melinda’s had robbed the boys of all security.
Currently, the kids liked it right where they were—with their yuppie grandparents who provided a fancy house with a big rec room, video games, and soccer. In addition, his parents provided a stable home that didn’t include two screaming semi-adults who used to spend most of their time anywhere but with their offspring.
That was going to change. He couldn’t bring back Melinda, may she rest in peace, if peace was what she wanted. And he wasn’t about to bring back the open lifestyle they’d shared. This time, he was taking a different route. Somewhere in this wide world had to be the maternal sort of woman who would provide the nurturing his kids needed. He’d woke up and smelled the coffee, so to speak.
While Dirk made sympathetic noises about Melinda’s death, Flint turned to gaze over the tables of couples laughing and talking while he looked for a way to broach the subject fretting at his mind. “You’ve got a good crowd.”
It wasn’t the kind of crowd that would include the kind of woman he was looking for as wife, but it was just the kind of crowd that would attract RJ and his friends. He had a bone to pick with his best old ex-friend, as Croce phrased it, but he had no desire to be sued again, so he was moving cautiously.
“Asheville is booming,” Dirk agreed. “We do pretty well on weekends with the tourists. It’s a little slower the rest of the week.”
Flint nodded as if he understood. He’d learn soon enough. Even a bonehead like him could figure out why business was better on weekends. Maybe he could figure out how to do something about it. He’d need more cash than weekends could bring in if he meant to give his kids the same lifestyle that his parents provided.
“I remember playing here back when. Betty Sue used to wait tables then, didn’t she?”
“Yup, but she had highfalutin’ ideas of how a bar should be run, and I wasn’t adding no ferns to keep her happy. It’s been easier since she quit to have the kids.”
“Amen to that, brother. Women don’t understand that a man needs a place where everything stays the same so he feels comfortable. You can’t fill a bar with frilly girl things.” Flint sure intended to keep his shop just the way it was, a place a man could read a newspaper and drink his coffee in peace. He had fond memories of his dad taking him and his brothers there for fat muffins on Sunday mornings. That’s what he wanted for his boys.
Flint stopped from reaching for his beer as a frilly girl thing caught his eye. “Although I sure don’t mind admiring the women ornamenting a place.”
Dirk chuckled. “You haven’t changed all that much after all. I swear, I never saw a woman in here besides Betty Sue until you started playing.”
“I was never much of a player,” Flint protested, but he was talking guitar, and he knew Dirk was talking women. He’d learned a lot since those days. Women messed with his head. He didn’t particularly like them anymore except in his bed, and it
had been a scary long time since he’d seen one there. But for his boys, he was willing to look around again for someone a little more suitable than their mother, some quiet, mousy woman who would love them and leave his head alone. Melinda had taught him that wild women don’t make good parents.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t howl a little tonight, especially if he could howl with that blond number flirting those long, fake lashes at him. He leaned his elbows back on the bar and enjoyed the view. “You got a film crew in town that’s bringing in starlets?” he inquired, winking at the blonde but not making his move yet.
“Not hardly. It’s the usual lot out there far as I can see, mostly locals at this hour. It’ll pick up later. Who you eyeballing?”
“The blond, bronze bombshell with the big gold earrings.”
“Ah, you’ve got good taste,” Dirk responded with an inflection that passed right over Flint’s head and out the door.
He was too busy studying the scenery. His engines were revved and roaring as she leaned forward to say something to one of her girlfriends—giving him a full view of her most excellent cleavage. She wore a big gold heart that dangled right between her breasts. Over this past grim year, he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this part of the game, the teasing and being teased.
He ought to be too old for this. With his hand aching like it was decrepit, he’d been feeling too old for it just five minutes ago. Irritating how one flirtatious look from a pretty young thing and an instant hard-on could turn him into a randy chowder head.
He turned back to the bar. “Bring me another, and hit me if I look again.”
***
“He’s checking you out, girl. Quit pretending you don’t notice.”
Joella Sanderson sipped her daiquiri and pretended not to notice. “I’m not doing men anymore, remember?”
Sweet Home Carolina Page 31