GALAHAD IN JEANS
A Louisiana Knights Novel, Book 2
Jennifer Blake
It was payback, assigning Carla the job of writing the profile for her magazine’s Perfect Southern Gentleman contest winner; her boss knows she thinks the Southern Gentleman is a myth. So she’s supposed to do a hatchet job on this Redneck Romeo? Fine, she can handle it.
Beau would avoid the starchy lady editor and her magazine feature if he hadn’t promised to cooperate; he’s an ordinary guy, no matter how often the townsfolk set him up as a hero. Yet the closer he gets to Carla, the more he’d like to be the gentleman she needs….
GALAHAD IN JEANS
Copyright © 2016 Patricia Maxwell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information contact: [email protected]
Published 2016 by Steel Magnolia Press, LLC
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
More Titles by Jennifer Blake
Chapter 1
Here he comes—
Carla Nicholson gave the man striding down the sidewalk a critical once-over as she hit the lock button on her car’s remote. A wry smile lifted one corner of her mouth.
It was him all right, your classic Redneck Romeo with Greek coin profile, sun-bleached, sandy-blond hair, hard-muscled physique in a T-shirt, and artfully faded jeans. The whole package.
Benedict was the name she’d been given for him—Robert G. B. Benedict. Voted South of Normal Magazine’s Perfect Southern Gentleman, he was supposed to be a guy to make females eighteen to eighty swoon.
She, on the other hand, was a cynical, hard to impress northeastern female. Yes, indeed, even if she had been transplanted from Connecticut to Baltimore when barely a teenager.
The guy kept coming on the far side of the street. Lean of hip and broad shouldered, with the unstudied grace of a born athlete, he strode the sidewalk as if he owned it. Maybe he did, since he could hardly take a step without someone calling out a greeting or lifting a hand to wave. An older woman scurried out of a store to catch him in a hug. He returned the embrace with gusto before tucking his elderly admirer into the curve of his arm and grinning down at her as if she was his long-lost grandmother.
The smile was killer quality, Carla had to admit. He even had the suggestion of a dimple to go with the indentation in his chin.
What a guy.
Yes, and what a crock of an assignment.
Carla swore in an exasperated whisper. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.
Well, all right, she did know. She’d been unappreciative, unaccommodating, and unwilling to lie down and take it—it being sex with her boss. She wasn’t about to change, which meant she had to interview this Don Juan of the Sticks.
More than that, she was supposed to become the guy’s shadow. She was directed to follow him around for a week with camera in hand, observing his every move, word and action. She was to find out, once and for all, if the concept of the southern gentleman was dead. Those were her editor’s orders, though Trevor Crandall, editor-in-chief of South of Normal Magazine, knew she considered the genus Southern Gentlemen to be as mythical as charming princes, cowboy heroes and knights in shining armor.
She could get out of the stupid assignment. All she had to do was pull out her cell phone and call Trevor, tell him she’d become his favorite playmate in and out of the office.
She’d rather play with the Redneck Romeo.
Jeez! Where had that come from? She didn’t mean it, of course she didn’t.
Okay, how hard could this assignment be? It was doubtful the gorgeous hunk in front of her had a lot to offer in the depth department. She should be able to expose Robert G. B. Benedict as a phony in a matter of hours, if not mere minutes. She’d whip out an article full of pithy phrases, and then drive down to the gulf coast beaches for what was left of the week she’d been allowed. Trevor would never guess part of her time was used for a mini vacation, at least not as long as she zapped the right number of words to him on schedule.
Carla heaved a sigh. No, she couldn’t do it. She was a professional. More than that, she took pride in doing the best job possible, regardless of the assignment. She’d complete this project as outlined. She would do it if it killed her, and it probably would; she’d be dead of boredom before the week was over.
Slinging her shoulder bag into place, she smoothed the front of her black pencil skirt and touched her French twist to be sure no curling tendrils had escaped. Certain she was as presentable as possible after long hours on the road, she walked toward her target. She crossed the brick-paved street with the barest glance both ways, traffic being practically nonexistent here in Chamelot, this pint-size town laid out along the curve of a lazily flowing river. It seemed nice enough, with its courthouse on the opposite river bank, along with lawyer’s offices, a funeral home and flower shop combination, department store, feed store and coffee shop. So pristine was the warm air wafting along the street that she caught the smell of roses and fresh cut greenery mixed with fresh-brewed coffee and a whiff of mud and decaying vegetation from the river.
“Mr. Benedict!”
Romeo looked up as she called out, his gaze alert. Sunlight slid like quicksilver over the bright waves of his hair and cast shadows onto his cheek bones from ridiculously long lashes. It glazed his skin with natural bronzing, but also illuminated a scar at the corner of one eyebrow and a bump across the bridge of his nose where it had doubtless been broken.
The defects should have made him less appealing. Instead, they gave him a rugged edge that sent a zing along her nerve endings. The effect was so unexpected that she stopped in her tracks a few feet away.
“Ma’am?”
Ma’am… For crying out loud.
Yet his voice went with the rest of him, a melodious baritone rumble that seemed to vibrate against her breastbone, lingering near her heart.
Oh, this was ridiculous. Leaving work and driving through the night for the interview this morning had been a bad move. She was over-tired and sleep deprived, that was it. No cause to blame her reaction on a wayward libido.
She unclenched her teeth so she could speak.
“I’m Carla Nicholson, contributing editor for South of Normal Magazine,” she said, putting out her hand as she moved forward again. “I’ve been trying to contact you regarding a profile for your feature as the magazine’s Perfect Southern Gentleman.”
“Yes, ma’am. I got your messages.”
The words were unyielding. So was the expression in the rich blue of his eyes. His elderly admirer still in the circle of his arm looked from him to Carla and back again, but he didn’t appear to notice. Nor did he release that white-haired lady as he reached to take Carla’s hand.
His palm was dry and hard, with calloused edges that suggested the mu
scles wrapping his upper body had come from something other than gym workouts. At the touch, a small shock ran up her arm.
Carla flinched with it, controlling the urge to back up a step. Added to that was the whiff she caught of his scent that seemed made of sunshine, spice and clean male. It was an instant before she could bring her mind to bear on what he had said.
“But you didn’t return my calls.” She tried for an ironic smile. “If you had, we wouldn’t be meeting in the middle of the street.”
“I’d have been in touch, eventually. Things are a bit rushed now. It’s a busy time of year.”
Yes, of course he’d have returned her calls, one fine day when the magazine’s deadline had passed and he thought she’d given up. If he expected that to happen, he would soon learn his error. “That’s okay. I checked in with the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Benedict pointed you out to me.”
“Did he now? Accommodating of him.”
“Your cousin, I understand?”
“For my sins.”
That was a southernism, she thought, no doubt meaning the sheriff being his cousin could be a negative at times. It also meant her interviewee was less than happy, but that wasn’t her problem. “I apologize for tracking you down like this, but I really need to talk to you.”
“Look,” he began.
“Now, honey,” the elderly lady at his side said, patting the muscled plane of his chest in what appeared a soothing yet most enjoyable gesture. “You know it has to be.”
“And you know—”
“That you hate the whole idea, yes indeed. But you did promise.”
Benedict glanced down at her with a droll look in his eyes. “It doesn’t count.”
“Does too, count. Tillie had her heart set on it.”
Carla glanced from one to the other, struck by the accord between the two. Affection and caring was in every word, also a deep familiarity that seemed to exclude her from both consideration and the conversation.
She wasn’t used to being ignored.
“That would be Tillie Benedict, right?” she asked. “The woman who sent in your nomination form for the contest? She’s on my list for an interview as well. Maybe we could all get together for coffee.”
Grief twisted the lined face of Benedict’s elderly companion. “Oh, no, dear. Tillie passed away about a month ago, right after the winner of your contest was announced.”
Oops. Major mistake.
“I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I didn’t realize.”
“That’s okay. No real reason you should know.”
But there was, Carla thought in angry embarrassment. The information ought to have been in the packet Trevor handed her for the assignment. That it was missing was, she strongly suspected, an underhanded attempt to make her look foolish. Her boss believed in tit-for-tat, was known for his small acts of retribution for perceived slights.
“It would have been wonderful to have her input, but I’m sure I can manage without it,” she said in an attempt at recovery. She turned to the future perfect gentleman once more. “All I need at this point is a few minutes of your time, Mr. Benedict. We need to set up a schedule for the hours I’ll be joining you in your daily routine as well as time for a few photo ops. Then I need to know the best location for these things and when we can get started.”
A pained expression moved over his face. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
She’d thought before that his show of reluctance was for form’s sake, because he didn’t want to appear conceited enough to think he fit the part for which he’d been chosen. Now she wasn’t so sure.
What was it with him? Most men would be more than pleased to be featured in the magazine.
“The profile won’t interfere with your normal routine at all,” she said as persuasively as she could manage. “It’s only a personality article with an overview of your life as a man of the so-called New South. Perhaps there is somewhere we can go to discuss it.”
“I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“Now, Beau, it can’t hurt to talk.” The white-haired older woman tried to shake him a little in remonstrance, though he stood as immovable as though rooted to the spot. “Tillie told me all about this contest, and the article the young lady’s supposed to write about you being such a gentleman. Lord knows you qualify.”
“I’m a farmer, that’s all.”
“Beau?” Carla’s sardonic disbelief at the nickname came through loud and clear in her voice. “I thought your name was—”
“Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict,” he said with a straight look from eyes in which facets shone like dark blue, mini-faceted Hope diamonds.
“Galahad Beauregard.” So that’s what the initials stood for. Good grief.
“Nobody has called me anything except Beau since first grade.”
It was a warning, Carla thought, one she should heed if she wanted any kind of cooperation from him.
“Except Tillie,” the elderly lady corrected him with a misty smile.
“That was different.” The hard cast of his features softened again as he looked down at her. “Aunt Tillie called me whatever she liked.” He glanced back to Carla, tipping his head toward his companion. “This is Miss Myrtle Chauvin, by the way, otherwise known as Granny Chauvin.”
Carla’s greeting was perfunctory as she reached to take the hand the older woman offered. She immediately relaxed her normal firm grip, however, as she felt the bony, misshapen joints of arthritis under the frail skin.
Miss Myrtle searched her face, her faded brown eyes quizzical. “Don’t you let him talk you out of this interview, dear. He’s the right man for it, mark my words. No man alive could be a more perfect gentleman.”
“No, I won’t. That is, I’m sure he’ll be an excellent subject.”
“He’ll try to weasel out of it. Stubborn, you know. Don’t let him do it.”
Carla sent a quick look at Beau Benedict to see how he was taking that analysis of his character, but his features were unreadable. It seemed an ally might be a good thing. “Perhaps you’d care to join us for coffee, Miss Chauvin?”
“I do appreciate the invitation, dear, but I still have errands to run.” She stood on tiptoe to give Beau a quick kiss on the cheek. “Besides, it looks like rain, and I want to get home before it starts. But if you need to know anything about Tillie—”
“I may give you a call.”
“Good. Make sure you do that, you hear?”
Carla watched Miss Myrtle step into the street and head toward the feed store, then glanced at the sky overhead. The sun had disappeared. Dampness hung in the air, and it was a little too warm, even for the typical early spring of southern Louisiana. It was possible it would rain soon, as the elderly woman said.
“I saw a coffee shop down the street with a sign for chocolate muffins in the window,” she said, turning back to the man beside her. “Shall we?”
A dogged frown settled on his face. “Sorry, ma’am, but I meant what I told you. I don’t fit what you have in mind. I work for a living. I get my hands dirty, sweat buckets and cuss a blue streak when I’m mad. You don’t want me in your magazine, you really don’t.”
“Understood,” she answered, facing him squarely. “But you’re it, whether I want you or not. According to the entry form, you were born and raised in this small town where your ancestors have lived and died for nearly two hundred years. You work land that’s been in your family all that time, and you live in an antebellum mansion that’s been featured in articles across the country, pinned on Pinterest hundreds of times, and used as a setting for half a dozen movies. Beyond your background, South of Normal Magazine’s readers voted for you as their Perfect Southern Gentleman because they thought you looked the part.”
“They were wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter. You were chosen.”
The firm lines of his mouth flattened, while a tinge of color invaded his face. “Choose somebody else. Wasn’t there a runner-up, or whatever you wan
t to call him?”
“I’m afraid not. You were the overwhelming favorite with 89% of the votes cast. The other two candidates didn’t receive enough to count.” That was near enough to the truth that she didn’t blink when she said it. If she was fudging a bit, it was because she couldn’t stand the thought of admitting to Trevor that she’d failed to get the interview. She was also growing more determined by the minute to feature this reluctant gentleman.
“Call one of the others back. I’m not the man you want.”
Carla heard what he said, but barely took it in. Her attention was deflected by the sight of a dog emerging from the feed store across the street. It was huge, a brindle mix of brown and gray, with a boxy head and underslung lower jaw. Moving with a loose-limbed trot that covered ground at a steady pace, swinging its massive head from side to side as if scenting prey, it was coming straight at her.
It was a nightmare made real.
The fine hair on the back of her neck prickled. Nausea burned the back of her throat. She could almost feel the dog’s fangs sinking into the flesh of her leg, pulling her down, shaking her as it growled.
“What is it?” The man beside her stepped closer. Concern drew his brows together as he searched her face. “Ma’am?”
His question seemed to come from far away. She spared him a single glance. “The dog…the Rottweiler. I don’t—”
“Stay where you are,” he said quietly. “It will be all right.”
She shook her head, never taking her eyes from the animal. Panic hovered, fluttering in her chest with the runaway beat of her heart.
“Just stand still until he passes,” Benedict insisted.
“I can’t.” Carla stumbled back a step as the Rottweiler came closer.
“Don’t move. Don’t run. The last thing you want is for him to chase you.”
His voice was even and deep, more than reasonable in its warning. She knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. Her hands were shaking, and her knees wobbled below her pencil skirt. She felt lightheaded as the blood left her head, flooding into her heart and lungs. The instinct for flight was too strong to resist. She swung toward where she’d left her car.
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