“Beau, this is Trevor Crandall, editor-in-chief of South of Normal Magazine. Trevor, allow me to present Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict.”
“My, how formal,” Trevor said. For an instant, it appeared he might ignore the hand Beau offered in greeting, but then he reached out and clamped down on it.
Carla saw Beau lift an eyebrow a fraction, but there was no other sign he felt her boss’s attempt to crush the bones of his hand. He simply held his grip firm while meeting Trevor’s hot gaze.
It was impossible not to compare the two men as they faced off against each other. Suddenly Carla felt sorry for Trevor. He was clearly getting older, his carbon-black hair thinning, inching back from his forehead, and his waistline expanding. Though almost as tall as Beau, he looked shorter because of stooped shoulders and lack of muscle tone. He was clearly outmanned in the strength department, too, for his face grew redder every second he held on to Beau’s hand. His colorless gray eyes turned murderous and a line of perspiration appeared above his narrow mustache.
If he’d thought to intimidate Beau, he learned his mistake. The quiet confidence of her perfect southern gentleman was unshakable. It came not from a show of power but from being comfortable in his own skin, in who and what he was and where he had been brought up.
Her perfect southern gentleman?
A corner of Trevor’s mouth twitched and he released his hold, almost throwing Beau’s hand away from him. “Nice to meet you.” His tone of voice said the sentiment was an outright lie.
Beau tipped his head in a truncated bow, his gaze stern. “The same to you.”
That greeting, so lacking in warmth and welcome, was the nearest thing to an insult. Trevor might not realize it, but Carla had to press her lips together to control her amused recognition. It still quivered in her voice when she turned to the editor-in-chief. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you get the profile I sent?”
“I got it,” Trevor said. “Now that you’re done here, it’s time you got back to the magazine where you belong. I’ve come to take you home.”
“I can’t go yet. I have to see about my car. Besides, I still have the vacations days added to this assignment.”
“They’re canceled. Get packed and let’s get out of here.”
Beau stirred and the glint of blue steel appeared in his eyes. “I believe you heard the lady’s answer.”
“Butt out. This is between me and Carla.” Trevor shot him a look of loathing. “If you were the gentleman everybody claims, you’d allow us the privacy to work it out.”
“If you were a gentleman of any kind,” Beau answered, “you’d listen to what she’s saying.”
“Now see here, you dumb—”
“Trevor!” Carla snapped. Turning to Beau, she put a hand on the rigid muscles of his arm. “Please. Just give us a minute. It will be all right.”
He met her eyes, his own dark blue and searching. He didn’t like it; that much was clear. Still her plea weighed with him. He gave a hard nod before turning away. “I’ll be outside.”
She watched him go, his long strides covering ground, footsteps crunching on the gravel path, while her chest ached as if a hand was squeezing her heart. The door creaked behind him. The greenhouse was quiet.
“So that’s the way it is,” Trevor said in sneering disdain.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The assignment is done and was sent in on time. I have every intention of returning to Baltimore when I’ve settled things about the flood damage to my car. Why you felt you had to come down here is more than I can see.”
“I was worried about you. You got yourself hurt, kept running into these weird accidents.”
His expression seemed more incensed than concerned, she thought. “Things happen. And there’s nothing weird about a flooded road after days of rain.”
“I guess getting involved with this hayseed was an accident, too.”
She’d once thought of Beau that way, too. Remembering it made her cringe. “We aren’t involved, not in the way you mean.”
“How then? What did he do to make you see him as some cross between a saint and a real life knight in armor—Sir Freaking Galahad? Did he sweet talk you in that ridiculous honeysuckle and molasses drawl? Or was it something else?”
“Don’t be more crude than you can help. Though it may be beyond your cynical mind to comprehend, there are good people in this world.”
“Oh, right, and how good would that be? Moaning good? Screaming good? Oh-baby-do-me-harder good? How many times did he have to make you come before you saw things his way?”
That he could smear her time spent at Windwood with his nasty accusations made her sick to her stomach. The words that boiled up from inside her had been a long time coming, but she could no longer hold them back.
“You are a sick, deluded man, Trevor,” she said, her eyes as she met his incredulous stare far steadier than her voice. “I have no idea why you think you can say whatever you like and get away with it, but you’re wrong. You’re also badly mistaken if you think I’d go anywhere at all with you. You can take yourself back to Baltimore because I’m staying here. I’m staying until I’m ready to leave, and there’s nothing you can do about it. More than that, you’ve had the last article I’ll ever write for South of Normal Magazine, because I quit.”
“Don’t say that,” he warned in a growl. “We had something going.”
“Wrong. Whatever you thought we had was all in your head.”
His eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t. You liked me until you came down here.”
Was that ego talking, or had he really convinced himself she was attracted to him?
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let it.
“I tolerated you, Trevor, because I needed the job like rest of the women in the office. I was never going to bed with you, no matter what kind of bait you dangled in front of me.”
He spread his feet, his upper lip lifting in a belligerent smirk. “You can’t quit. I won’t let you.”
“Watch me,” she said with the lift of her chin. “Or better yet, just go. Go away and leave me alone.”
She swung away, turning her back on him. He lunged after her. Grabbing her injured wrist, he twisted it, grinding the bones together.
She cried out, dropping her daylily flower as she doubled over with pain. He jerked her back around and pulled her against him, snaking one arm around her waist while clutching her breast with his free hand. His wet, rubbery mouth came down on her neck, his mustache scratched it, and he stuck out his tongue to lick her skin.
Abruptly Trevor surged backward. Carla staggered, pulled off balance, before he let her go. The meaty thud of flesh against flesh sounded behind her.
She swung in time to see Trevor crash headfirst into a bench loaded with pots of daylily seedlings. Beau lunged after him, jerked him upright with a fist twisted in his shirt front, and hit him again. Blood splattered from Trevor’s nose and his eyes rolled back in his head. Beau opened his fingers and let him fall.
Carla took a stumbling step forward. Beau caught her upper arms, scanning her face with anxious eyes.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, though her wrist ached with a fierce bite that told her whatever healing had taken place was now undone. Glancing down, she saw her flower on the ground and bent toward it.
Beau leaned at once to retrieve it for her, placing it gently in her hands. She stared down at it while her vision blurred and tears clung to her lashes.
“It’s broken,” she said, the words no more than a gasp as she looked up at him.
“It’s doesn’t matter.” He wiped at her tears with the pads of his thumbs, his voice quiet. “I’ll give you another one.”
But it did matter. The bloom was damaged beyond saving, so its life had been even briefer than the single day it was promised. Before that, it had been cut off from the source of life. As beautiful as it had been, the pollination Beau had carried out was never meant to be useful.
Though it was only a flower, that seemed a fate worth a few tears.
Chapter 16
It was one flower out of many, Beau thought, not worth a single one of Carla’s tears. It was the plant that was important.
He was puffed up with pride by how much she’d liked the daylily he’d named for her, also the fact that she understood what he’d seen in it. Still, his fields would turn into an absolute sea of flowers in a few weeks, all colors, shapes, sizes and values, as far as the eye could travel.
Trouble was, Carla wouldn’t be at Windwood to see it. That thought didn’t sit well. It didn’t sit well at all.
She’d be here a few more days, or at least that’s what Mandy had told him. He’d have to make the most of the time he had left.
Behind him, her creep of a boss stirred and shoved himself up to a sitting position in the middle of the greenhouse walkway. He wiped his nose with his hand then blanched at the sight of the blood.
Beau took out his handkerchief and tossed it to the man, though all he received for his trouble was a glare. Crandall mopped his face before he cursed. “I’ll have you arrested for assault, you dumb redneck. We’ll see how much you strut when they take you away in handcuffs.
“Shut up, Trevor,” Carla said, her voice weary. “You got what you deserved. I don’t know what you expected, anyway. I did tell you Beau was in Special Forces.”
“Does that turn you on? Is that why you’re spreading your legs for him?” He mopped some more, cursing thickly through what was likely a broken nose.
Beau reached for the editor, dragging him to his feet. “Shut your mouth,” he said in quiet ferocity, “or you’re going to have so much wire in it you’ll have to eat through a straw for a year.”
“I’ll charge you assault and sue you for damages. You’ll be in court so long and so often I’ll wind up with every cent you own and every stick of this old family plantation of yours.”
Beau laughed. “You think so, do you? You may not have noticed, but you’re in Chamelot, Louisiana now. Any legal charges will have to be filed in this jurisdiction where half the people in town are relatives, including the sheriff, and the rest are friends. If I file counter charges of trespass and criminal assault on a lady, what do you think will happen, you stupid, overbearing piece of shit?”
The last was whispered in Crandall’s ear for maximum effect, as well as to prevent blasting Carla’s ears with it. Not that he thought she’d never heard the words before, but because that was the way it worked.
Crandall shut his mouth and tried to jerk away. Beau allowed it on the third attempt, though it went against his better judgment. He really had a strong itch to see Lance come cuff the fool and take him down to the sheriff’s office.
The fancy editor smoothed the wrinkles out of his expensive shirt front. Raising a black look from that task, he stared from Carla to Beau and back to her again. “I’ll go then, if that’s the way you want it, but you haven’t heard the last of this. I’m still editor-in-chief at South of Normal Magazine, and you know what? That last piece you sent is gone, kaput, deleted into the ether. But I still have the other one. I still have one to run.”
Carla made a small sound of distress that was quickly smothered by a hand over her mouth. Above it, she stared at Crandall as if he were Beelzebub himself. Maybe he was; Beau couldn’t say for sure. But watching Crandall swing around and high-tail it out of the greenhouse, he wished like hell he’d blackened both the guy’s eyes while he had the chance.
Carla didn’t linger. The instant she heard Crandall’s rental crank up and leave the place, she was out of the greenhouse and striding back toward the house. She watched the ground as she walked, clasping her arms around her as if she was cold.
Beau called after her, offering to take her back the same way they’d come, on the back of the ATV. Apparently, she’d had enough of men in close quarters for the day. She shook her head and kept walking.
Beau cleared away the mess in the greenhouse, saving what he could, tossing the rest before locking the place down. By the time he made it back to the house, Carla was upstairs, changing for the Windwood home tour. It was a good thing, since the first of the day’s visitors were already coming up the drive.
He sent word that someone else could take over the role of Emmeline if her wrist was too painful. The offer was refused, and he let it go. He’d have liked to pretend it was for some good, altruistic reason, but was well aware it was no such thing. He really wanted that kiss when she descended the stairs as the lovely Emmeline. He was going to have it, maybe several times, as he intended to hang around the foot of the stairs for every tour, all day long.
If he was anywhere near being the gentleman everybody seemed to think, he’d let it go. He’d keep out of her way until she had her insurance settlement and could get herself a new car and go.
Well, the devil with that. He wasn’t doing it unless she told him point blank to leave her alone. She was perfectly capable of it, he knew; look at the way she’d handed Crandall his walking papers. He’d almost felt sorry for the man for a few seconds.
Almost.
Of course he’d wanted to tear him limb from limb seconds later. He could still feel the satisfaction of planting a fist in his face and watching him go down. The problem was it had been too easy, with too little excuse to beat him to a pulp.
Crandall had deliberately hurt Carla. He’d known she fractured the bones in her wrist, could see she still wore a brace. He’d thought he could control her with pain. That idea was so vile it made Beau think thoughts so murderous they almost scared him. If Crandall ever set foot on Windwood again, if he ever showed his face in Chamelot, he would be one sorry sucker.
But what did that say about him? Where did it leave him if Carla had been sickened by his violent reaction? It had been a long time since his temper had burned so hot, longer since he’d failed to control it. What if she was as disgusted and disappointed as Aunt Tillie had always been?
He didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but it didn’t matter. He was tired of living in the past with his life as well as with the pilgrimage and the pageant. Carla wasn’t Leesa. She might be more in your face, but that meant she wasn’t the kind to sneak around behind a man’s back. She’d lay what she wanted on the line, once she figured it out.
He was a patient man. He had today and maybe tomorrow, and for now that was enough.
Regardless, he had one small bit of satisfaction. When Carla made for the house, she still had the broken flower in her hand that he’d cut for her.
The crowds that tromped through Windwood were far larger than they’d been on the last visitor’s day. The visitors whispered and laughed among themselves, and kept their cameras and smart phones ready. Some didn’t bother to go upstairs, but crowded into the hall where they had a good view of the stairs, or else waited with him on the front porch.
When Carla descended with the tale of Emmeline tripping from her tongue, the cameras began to click. As he entered, waited, and then kissed her, the racket was like a field of fall grasshoppers. Even the local newspaper photographer was on hand, grinning like a hyena as he stood on a chair for the best shot.
Beau didn’t care. He got his kisses, four in the morning and four in the afternoon, while hot blood surged through his veins. He counted each one, because they might have to last him a lifetime.
Carla returned them; he had that satisfaction. Yet she had little to say to him or anyone else. Though she managed to smile for the visitors, and to eat a light snack after the final tour, the dark green depths of her eyes held a look that seemed haunted.
The two of them left for the pageant in good time, mainly because Carla had discovered cars and huge hoop skirts didn’t go well together so wanted to get dressed at the gym. They weren’t alone. The parking lot was already filling up, and people stream
ed inside to get a good seat. To avoid the crowd, they drove around to the rear door
Carla headed for the dressing rooms. Beau was already in costume so gave the work crew a hand with the backdrop for the skit about the arrival in the wilderness. They were having trouble making the forest primeval stand up and look properly menacing.
“Beau! Over here!”
It was Lance yelling at him from where he was wheeling a covered wagon into place. The sheriff didn’t take part in the skits because he might be called out in the middle of one, but he pitched in wherever there was a need. Beau joined him at once, putting a shoulder to the wagon to roll it along.
“Could be fireworks tonight,” Lance said in quiet warning. “Merry Lou’s in deep trouble. Seems Jim put in a security camera down at the dealership.”
“Don’t tell me she was caught keying more cars.”
“Spray paint.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah. Black. With words like cheater and lying skunk and others not quite as polite.”
Beau couldn’t help laughing. “You have to admit she’s gutsy.”
“It’s not likely to help her in divorce court. And Jim’s on the warpath now. Merry Lou moved out a couple days ago, so this is one of the few places where he knows he can find her.”
Good old Jim knew that because he and Merry Lou were both in the steamboat skit. Before the breakup, they had been picked to play a businessman and his wife off to summer in Saratoga. “He wouldn’t start anything,” Beau said with a shake of his head. “Not in the middle of the pageant.”
Lance snorted. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Neither would Beau.
That turned out to be a darn good thing.
The couple’s quarrel began backstage. Merry Lou called Jim every name to which she could lay tongue. He accused her of trying to destroy his business and spray painting cars at his dealership. She denied it at first, but then seemed ready to spit in his eye when he told her he had her on film from his security camera. They continued in sibilant whispers during the pioneer skit and on through the Fandango, and were still at it as the curtain rose on the steamboat landing tableau.
Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Page 17