“I said don’t!”
She was swept into a firm embrace, spun around with dizzying speed. For a stunned moment, her mind was blank as it staggered from terror to disbelief to comprehension. She felt the roughness of brick against her back. A wall of muscle pressed against her breasts while arms like iron bands surrounded her. That scent she noticed earlier of spice soap, fresh air and clean man invaded her senses like a drug. Broad shoulders blocked her view of the street, a barrier between her and the horror the dog represented. Beneath her right hand, she could feel the calm and steady thump of a heartbeat. She was enclosed, safe.
She heard the click of tough claws on concrete. They grew louder. She shuddered as they came even with where she was held in place by hard hands, hard thighs. Regular, businesslike, unheeding, the clicking moved on, fading away down the sidewalk.
She closed her eyes on a shuddering sigh and let her forehead rest on the firm shoulder in front of her, absorbing its strength, its fearless protection. It was a long moment before she stirred again.
“You can let me go.” The words weren’t quite as even as she intended. “I-I’m all right now.”
“You’re sure?”
She gave a quick nod without quite meeting his steady blue gaze. “I’m not—I don’t usually fall into such a panic, but—”
“You don’t like dogs.”
“Only that one breed. I had a bad experience as a child.”
“With a Rottweiler.”
“A Rottweiler and a bicycle. The dog pulled me off, might have done more than put a hole in my leg if a neighbor boy hadn’t come running to chase him away.”
“Old Ruff isn’t mean. He’s a pet, most of the time. Right now, I’d say his mind is set on a certain female dog down the street. But he does like to chase people.”
It was impossible to suppress another shiver. “What does he do when he catches them?”
“Let’s say you might have needed a new skirt.”
“A new skirt?”
“I don’t know that he’d have ripped it off, but you might not have wanted to wear it again.”
She expected to see amusement in his eyes when she met them. Instead, there was simple reassurance. He was only trying to soothe her fear, not laughing at it.
Gratitude and appreciation shifted through her, along with tenuous pleasure. The combination was so foreign that it startled her. Flattening her hands on his chest, she exerted pressure. “I’m okay now, really. You can let go.”
“Right.” He eased away and lowered his hands, tucking them into the back pockets of his jeans.
In a bid for some kind of control, she slanted him a glance from the corners of her eyes. “Of course, I’m still a bit shaky. Perhaps what I need is a cup of coffee to settle my nerves.”
He watched her for long moments, his features so set she was sure he meant to refuse her again. Then a grim smile lifted a corner of his mouth, making his dimple appear.
“And a chocolate muffin, I guess. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
Chapter 2
Beau reached around Carla Nicholson to open the door of the local eatery and coffee shop known as the Watering Hole. She didn’t pause in expectation or side-step away from the swing of it as most women he knew did out of habit. The door almost hit her; would have, except he’d been half expecting her to try to get it herself. She seemed the type.
She gave him an annoyed look over her shoulder. He grinned; he couldn’t help it.
The Watering Hole was an institution, had been around for decades though it had changed ownership a couple of years back. The square oak tables covered with blue and white checked oil cloth and the heavy oak chairs had been spaced around on the oak floor from the beginning, and would be there until the end. A counter with stools topped by red plastic ran along one side, a few booths occupied the dim back regions, and a juke box from the Rock and Roll era sat in the near corner. The air was rich with the smells of fresh coffee, baked goods, roasting wieners, toasting buns and yesterday’s onions.
“Beau! Long time no see!” Zeni, the twenty-something manager, with her multi-colored hair, zombie makeup and small gold ring in her nose, waved her spatula in greeting from where she stood behind the grill. “What’ll it be?”
He gave their order, and then pulled out a chair at a window table, waiting to seat Carla. She glanced at his choice, but stepped around to the chair on the opposite side. Taking it, she lifted a brow.
Fine, if that’s the way she wanted it. Beau swung the chair he held out and dropped into it, stretching his long legs at an angle away from the small table to give her room.
“Do you always order for your dates?”
Beau met the challenge in her direct gaze head on. “Is this a date?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she said, her voice sharp as a saw brier. “You know what I mean.”
The hazel of her eyes turned as green as spring grass when she was annoyed, he saw, but weren’t nearly as warm or as soft. She was buttoned up in her mannish black, her shining, honey-blond hair tucked back in severe control. Her oval face appeared tight with stress and a little pale, and her full mouth was set in a straight line. It should have been off-putting. Instead, his fingers itched to unbutton her, take down her hair, and make her smile. Yes, and find out what her eyes and her lips looked like when she’d been thoroughly kissed.
He knew what she’d feel like, as he’d had that pleasure just now. And maybe enjoyed it a little too much, which was no doubt what caused the rest of his too-warm speculation.
“The answer to your question would be, yeah, I do the ordering,” he said with a tip of his head. “When I know what the lady wants.”
“And you always know what she wants?”
Now how was he to take that? Beau wasn’t quite sure, but didn’t mind playing along. “I do when she decides to tell me.”
“So you wait to be told.”
“Not always. Sometimes I ask.”
The slight widening of her eyes told him she got the point. Trouble was, thinking about the questions he could put to her in the dark was getting to him, too. He needed to back off before he embarrassed himself.
Zeni arrived just then, setting their orders off her tray and plunking down a sugar bowl, cream pitcher and two set-ups of paper napkin-wrapped utensils. Curiosity was written all over her face as she looked at Beau. “Anything else, folks?”
“I’m good,” Carla said.
“We’re fine, thanks,” Beau agreed with a nod and a smile.
He took his coffee black, but sat back and watched as the lady editor added enough cream to hers to turn it almost white. As she stirred it into a small whirlpool, a wavelet slipped over the side of the cup and puddled in the saucer.
“Wait a second,” Beau said as she started to sip the brew. He reached out with his napkin to catch the drip that was about to spot the pristine white collar of her blouse.
Surprise rose in her eyes, lingering there as she stared at him across the top of her coffee cup. Then she took the napkin from his hand, using it to absorb the spill in her saucer.
“Do you do that kind of thing all the time, or is it supposed to impress me?” she asked as she attended to the small task.
“What kind of—” He stopped, drew a deep breath as irritation crept over him. All he’d done was try to be helpful. “It was nothing. Really. Aunt Tillie would have said I flubbed it, that I should have offered my handkerchief.”
“You carry a handkerchief?” She ran her gaze over him as if looking for it.
Beau reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the white cotton square. When he was sure she’d seen it, he put it away again and picked up his coffee cup.
“Consider me impressed,” she said in even tones.
“No need to be. It’s nothing more than habit.”
“Encouraged by your late aunt.”
He gave a short laugh. “Demanded, is more like it.”
“Why her? Why not your parents?”
“No parents.”
A frown appeared between her brows. “Everyone has parents.”
“Some don’t count. The fact is, Aunt Tillie took me in as a baby and raised me the best way she knew how.”
“She was your great-aunt, I think Miss Chauvin said?”
“My grandmother’s younger sister.” This was turning into quite an interrogation. Fine. He’d gotten himself into it, so might as well answer whatever he was asked. For now.
“She must have been quite old, past the age to rear a child.”
“Probably, though she didn’t seem to mind. She’d never married, never had kids of her own.”
“A spinster with strict ideas on how to rear children.”
“Boys, anyway.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, but pulled the pleated paper away from his muffin before cutting it into quarters with his fork. Picking up a quarter of it on the fork tines, he took it in one bite.
She was watching him, her eyes narrowed.
He swallowed the mouthful of rich chocolate muffin. “What?”
“Nothing,” she answered, looking at the muffin she’d picked up whole, as if she intended to bite into it like an apple. She put it back on her plate and leaned to pick up the strap of her oversized shoulder bag she’d set on the floor. Pulling it onto her lap, she took out a file folder and small laptop. “We are here to talk about the interview, if you’ll remember. The piece will be titled ‘A Day in the Life of a Southern Gentleman’ or something similar. For it, I need to spend time with you, really get to know you.”
“Time.” His voice was flat, without encouragement.
“A couple of days, at least, or longer if necessary. I’ve been given a week for the project.”
“I don’t think—” he began.
“Nor do I, really, but the more photos, candid and posed, that I can gather, and the more comments, the better the piece will be.”
“You have the wrong man, ma’am. I thought I’d made that clear.”
Her smile turned brittle. “Could be, though only time will tell. I can’t expect the magazine’s editor-in-chief to accept that judgment based on a single meeting.”
“This person calls the shots?”
“He does, unfortunately.”
The dry note in her voice told Beau there was something more involved in that bit of information. Whatever it might be was none of his business. His problem at the moment was with Carla Nicholson.
She wasn’t going to give up, he saw that clearly. It was doubtful Granny Chauvin would, either, now that she’d met Carla and knew firsthand that she’d come to do an article. It seemed the only way he was going to get out of this deal was to show he didn’t fit the image. If he could give the lady writer a strong enough disgust for him, maybe she’d pack up her notebook and little recorder and go away.
The drawback to that was the need to let her hang around for a short while, at least, asking questions, poking into what didn’t concern her. He wasn’t sure he could put up with it.
On the other hand, he did appreciate independent women. Aunt Tillie had been the epitome of a southern lady, yet did as she pleased all her life. He was used to women who said exactly what they meant, and didn’t back down from a word of it.
He’d also enjoyed those few minutes when the magazine lady came unglued because of old Ruff. The glimpse of a more fragile personality had been instructive, even if his brain had been short-circuited by the feel of her curves against him. He’d wanted to stand there, holding her, until the world spun to its end, wanted to soothe and touch her until she trembled from something more promising than fear.
Could be he’d get a little too used to having her around.
No.
He could get rid of her, he knew he could. All he had to do was figure out the how of it. Yes, and maybe the when.
“Tell you what,” Beau said finally. “You come out to Windwood tomorrow, and we’ll give the interview a try.”
Carla swallowed the bite of muffin in her mouth, and washed it down with a hasty swallow of coffee. “You mean come to your home? You’ll talk to me in depth?”
He jerked his head in a nod. “I’m probably going to regret this, but here’s the deal…”
“Yes?” She watched the strong planes of his face as he paused in search of words, absorbing its serious cast and the intent look in the dark blue of his eyes.
“You can hang around, ask whatever you like,” he said, “but I don’t have to answer. If I object to whatever line of questioning you’re following, I’ll tell you and it will stop right there. You can go wherever you like in the house and grounds as long as you don’t get in the way. If anything comes up you don’t particularly like, or you change your mind about me and this gentleman thing, you’re free to go.”
“I see.”
Carla did, too. He expected her to object. Ordinarily, she would have, in spades. But that was with interviewees who cared about losing out on the exposure. As difficult as it was to fathom, Beau Benedict had no interest in being honored, didn’t care an iota about having his face and his story in a magazine. From his point of view, she was invading his privacy. And he was allowing it only to—what? Be nice?
She didn’t think so.
So why agree? Unless the irritating man meant to see to it that she changed her mind about wanting him? Wanting him as an ideal Southern Gentleman, of course, nothing more. Nothing more at all.
“We’ll start tomorrow then? Not this afternoon?” she asked, meshing her fingers together on top of her notepad and recorder as she leaned forward.
“Any reason to be in a hurry?”
Her smile was as persuasive as she could make it. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we will be done.”
He didn’t answer, but mainly because he had little chance. The Watering Hole’s glass door swung open and Granny Chauvin stepped inside in a swirl of damp wind.
“Oh, good! You’re still here,” she exclaimed, beaming as she came toward them.
Carla got to her feet. “Actually, we were leaving.”
“Not so fast, there, honey bun,” Granny said with a grin. “I got dibs, since I’ve known this good-looking devil a lot longer than you.” She turned a look of appeal upon him as she put her hand on his shoulder. “Beau, honey, I bought myself a half dozen bags of barnyard fertilizer at the feed store. Sam is out on a delivery, and that boy behind the counter can’t leave the cash register. Besides, I don’t trust him. He’s got one of those stud things in his tongue, looks like a fish hook stuck in a worm when he talks.” She batted her eyes at him. “If you load my bags for me, I know you’ll pick out the cleanest ones so my car won’t get dirty.”
“Sure thing.” He took out his billfold and dropped a twenty on the table, then got to his feet.
Carla reached for the money and handed it back to him. “This was my treat.”
“Not happening.” He didn’t even glance at her as he put the money beyond her reach, on the far side of the table, and set his coffee cup on it. “Now, let’s get this barnyard stuff loaded for you,” he said to Granny Chauvin, as if being asked to handle cow manure was a rare treat. “Where are you parked?”
“Right in front of the feed store, of course, since I knew what I was after.”
“Give me your keys and I’ll take care of it. You can keep Miss Nicholson company until I get back.”
The elderly lady gave up her keys without a murmur. From the rather smug look on her face, Carla thought she’d expected nothing less than to have him take charge.
The two of them didn’t remain in the Watering Hole, but followed Beau Benedict out onto the sidewalk. Together, they stood watching him walk away.
Handsome, ultra-polite, charming in his country way, good to look at both coming and going, he was a great subject for her article. Carla knew she should be happy with the way things had turned out. She might have been, too, except she didn’t trust ultra-attractive men. Not at all. Not ever.
Granny Chauv
in heaved a sigh. “Now there’s a backside worth looking at, don’t you think? If only I was forty years younger!”
Carla gave a low laugh. She couldn’t help it; the sentiment was so unexpected. That it was on target was beside the point, even if the view truly was riveting.
Her fingers itched for her electronic notepad to jot down that observation, but she’d already put it away. Besides, she didn’t want to activate the defenses of the lady beside her.
“Is Robert—or Beau—always so accommodating?” she asked with amusement lingering in her voice.
“What? Oh, you mean is he putting on an act for you? Heavens to Betsy, child! Beau’s been loading my barnyard fertilizer for me since he was old enough to lift the bags. His aunt was a stickler for that kind of thing, men seeing to it women never had to pick up anything heavier than a baby. Not that babies are light, you understand, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
“His late aunt, not his mother?” The question was a shameless attempt to learn more than she’d been told about his background. What choice did she have if she couldn’t get a decent answer from her quarry?
“Oh, his mama’s gone, too, you know. Never made it out of the delivery room, poor little thing. Only seventeen and not married. Never would name the daddy.”
So that was why he’d said he had no parents. Was it also one of the reasons he preferred his privacy?
“He was a baby when his great-aunt took him, I think he said.”
“Oh, yeah, he was Tillie’s from the get-go. She’d never married, so it was quite a change. But she always said it was the best thing she ever did in her whole life, that Beau was a blessing for which she thanked the Good Lord every single day.”
“It sounds as if she adored him.”
“She did that, but you’re never to think she spoiled him. He learned to work hard, to clean up after himself and to mind his manners. Tillie was a woman of high standards, and she made sure he followed them. He was a good boy and made a fine man. Always has been, always will be.”
A sardonic smile tilted Carla’s mouth as she listened to this rather biased endorsement. “Sounds too good to be true.”
Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Page 2