The low rumble of another powerful vehicle forced her to glance out the window again. A shiny black Hummer sporting satellite antennas drew up behind the sports car. Amy mused, how far would a Porsche travel after being slammed into by a Hummer propelled by a semi?
Deciding bad news could wait, she checked the various pots on the stove and missed seeing how the Porsche owner squeezed out of the low front seat into traffic. Jo’s chuckles as she exchanged observations with the locals sipping coffee at the counter were sufficient commentary for amusement.
The café’s red door swung open. Amy unconsciously waited for a biting What a dump! from the owner of a car that cost more than her house.
“Catarina, look!” a smoky baritone with a sexy accent Amy couldn’t quite place called to someone outside. “Did you see the brilliant pig on the corner?”
She couldn’t resist. Just like everyone else, she checked out the new arrivals.
The speaker was a lean, elegantly dressed gentleman propping open the door to let in an entourage of characters as out of place as their vehicles. Given the amount of animal-skin fabrics, feathered collars, and leather worn by the gentleman’s exotic entourage, they looked like escapees from a zoo in this land of denim and polyester. But the gentleman holding the door looked as if he’d been born to wear a top hat and tux.
“Do you think he’s the ringmaster?” Jo murmured in amusement, echoing Amy’s thought.
At that instant, the object of their fascination whipped off his designer shades and winked in their direction. Amy almost dropped the mushrooms. The stranger’s scorching gaze paused on her and triggered her hormones like neglected hand grenades. She could have sworn he actually saw her, except no man who looked like that ever noticed her when she stood next to Jo.
He could have just walked off the pages of a fashion ad, one of those where the male models had six-pack abs and deliberately mussed hairstyles that cost a fortune to achieve. Straight-cut brown hair brushed his nape and fell Hugh Grant-style across his wide brow. A black ribbed polo shirt pulled taut over his admirable chest, and the camel sports jacket topping it was probably Armani and tailored to emphasize his square shoulders.
The likes of Hugh Grant didn’t appear around here without reason, and after the mayor’s call, she had a sinking feeling that she knew the reason.
The visitors milled about the nearly empty café, gazing at the unconventional décor as if hoping a real restaurant would pop out from under the eccentric tablecloths.
“Are we too early for dinner, my fair lady?” the stranger asked playfully.
It took Jo’s elbow in her ribs before Amy realized he was talking to her and not to her beautiful, blond baby sister. Jo was already peeling off her apron in preparation for acting as hostess. The foreign gentleman watched Amy expectantly, making her nervous.
“Dinner’s on,” she agreed with assumed nonchalance. “Take seats anywhere.”
“You are a lifesaver,” he purred in a wickedly sexy voice that had every woman in the café panting. “We’ve just driven up from the airport in Charlotte, and there wasn’t a decent eatery in sight.”
“There’s a Cracker Barrel on the interstate,” Jo said with amusement, gathering napkins and silverware.
“What’s a Cracker Barrel? It sounds appalling.” The gentleman sauntered—Amy swore that was the only word that could describe the way he caught his hand in his pants pocket and gracefully dodged tables and chairs without looking at them—to the counter.
He smelled even better than he looked. The subtle scents of musk and pine woods intertwined with the aroma of her cooking, and her mouth nearly watered as he took one of the seats at the counter, putting his boyishly tousled hair within reach. Dark eyes watched her with impish laughter. She poured another swallow of Jo’s lemonade.
Not wishing to see shiny cars smashed into grease slicks, Amy nodded toward the door. “There’s no parking allowed on the street. The police don’t tow cars because they’re usually scrap metal before tow trucks can reach them. There are parking lots coming into and on the way out of town.”
Before the European hunk could respond, a lithe, towering beauty swayed up to brush her breasts against his shoulder, drape her tousled mane of tawny-streaked hair down his front, and whisper in his ear.
Amy recognized the Italian accent. Although she couldn’t translate the words, she maliciously translated body language to What are we doing in this hole, sweetikins, let’s go somewhere fabulously expensive and sip champagne and make beautiful love.
James Bond turned on his stool to wrap an understanding arm around the lioness. He patted her hip and responded reassuringly in Italian; then to Amy’s amazement, he gently nudged Blondie away and turned the intensity of his focus back to her.
Amy’s wariness shield shot into full alert.
“You will pardon my friends? I was so eager to arrive I did not think of their needs. They deserve a lovely resort, do they not? Can you recommend such a thing?”
“An hour back down the road in Asheville. Would you like coffee, tea?” Amy lifted the coffee carafe in an age-old gesture of hospitality that she couldn’t neglect despite all suspicion.
“Tea, if you would be so kind.” He smiled in delight, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. He turned and spoke more unfamiliar words to his audience.
The blonde in the slinky leopard-print skirt sulked, and a tall man with an Asian cast to his eyes replied in a bored French drawl.
Not knowing whether to provide sweet or unsweetened iced tea, Amy poured unsweetened and pushed the sugar packets in the gentleman’s direction, then took another sip of her spiked lemonade.
She began filling cups and glasses to Jo’s hand signals and sighed in relief when Janey, their teenage waitress, shoved open the door, followed by the first of the local curiosity seekers. The Porsche was better than a neon sign. Word spread fast in a town like this, and the visitors were better than any entertainment they’d had since the last country music show at the Barn. Well-heeled foreigners didn’t often find the less-traveled paths through these mountains.
At least the café would have one last profitable evening.
After a brief exchange, the tall Asian-looking man and a lanky, ponytailed twenty-something went outside to move the cars.
With his lackeys doing their jobs, the gentleman turned back to Amy and stared at the sweating glass of ice and tea with raised eyebrows. “What is this?”
“Tea. I have sweet tea if you prefer.” She slid him a small plate of the mushroom appetizers thinking it wouldn’t hurt to butter up the man paying the bill.
“Tea.” He studied the glass with curiosity. “My mother warned me about this country, but I didn’t listen.” He lifted the glass and sipped cautiously. “Strong. Not bad.”
He looked up at Amy with a thousand-watt smile and extended his hand. “Hello, I am Jacques Saint-Etienne…and I have come to look at your antique mill.”
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 Awards. 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.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
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Praise for the novels of Patricia Rice:
“Carolina Girl is full of the warmth, humor and poignancy that make Rice’s books very special.”
–Romantic Times
McCloud’s Woman: “Intriguing and passionate.”
–Booklist
Almost Perfect: “Brilliant and riveting, edgy and funny.”
–Mary Jo Putney
Author’s Note
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not inspired by any person known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
Copyright & Credits
Small Town Girl
Copyright © 2011 Patricia Rice
Online edition Copyright © 2011 Patricia Rice
Cover credit: Mandala 2011
First published by Ballantine Books, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2006 Rice Enterprises, Inc.
Sweet Home Carolina
Copyright © 2007 Rice Enterprises Inc.
Online edition Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice
Originally published 2007 by Ivy Books, The Ballantine Publishing Group
Cover Copyright © 2011 Mandala
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Book View Café edition
10 January 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-144-3
Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice
www.bookviewcafe.com
Small Town Girl Page 34