Dear God, but he’d been intoxicated by her. He’d known she was capable of going after what she wanted, but never really expected to benefit from it. Her instant response to his every move, her lack of pretense or false modesty had enthralled him. Generous, infinitely giving, she had invited him into her fantasy, and then satisfied every yearning he’d ever known. He’d wanted nothing more than to hold her through endless nights, to touch every inch of her, know her beyond all possibility of forgetting, to love her for an eternity or two, or three.
He still wanted it.
A dozen times that morning, he took out his cell to call her. He always put it away again. What was there to say? Come back? Stay? Let me make love to you longer, deeper, more completely instead of often?
As if any of that would change her mind.
Carla didn’t belong with him. She was a city girl, used to a fast-paced existence with a thousand choices for shopping and entertainment. Her life there had nothing to do with a down home place like Chamelot. She was like Leesa, after all; Leesa, who couldn’t wait to leave this backwater or Windwood. Or him.
Funny, but it hadn’t seemed that way while she was in town. She’d fit right in, seemed to enjoy playing at being a Southern Belle. She’d fit in his arms, too, and seemed more than happy to be there.
That’s all it had been, playing, pretense, an idle affair during her vacation. And now she’d gone back to work.
That was okay; he had work to be done, too. All he needed was to get at it.
She could have waited until the pilgrimage and pageant were over. No matter, it would wind down its last few days without her. Corset or no, Mandy could probably be depended on to step back into the roles she’d handed to Carla. He’d do the waltzes that made up the pageant if it killed him.
But he wasn’t about to play old Beauregard to anybody else’s Emmeline. That part of the Windwood tours was over.
Soon it would be all over until next year. Maybe the memoires of this time would have dimmed by then. Well, or maybe somebody else could play his roles. He could probably make it happen if he put his mind to it. And he might, because he didn’t care if he never saw another hoop-skirted ball gown in his life.
Right now, he had daylilies to plant.
“What did you do to Miss Carla?”
That question came from Eloise as she rounded on him from where she stood at the kitchen sink, the parallel lines of a frown pleating her chocolate brown forehead. Beau barely glanced at her as he headed toward the coffee pot. “Nothing.”
“Must have been something. She left without saying farewell, goodbye, so long, kiss-my-foot.”
“You saw her leave?”
“Passed her on the way here, going hell-for-leather in the other direction. She waved but didn’t stop.”
“I guess you checked her bedroom.” He poured coffee while he waited for the answer. He hadn’t quite got up the nerve to look himself.
“Suitcase and everything’s gone. You don’t reckon it had anything to do with that citified man showing up here yesterday?”
“I don’t think so. She seemed okay with seeing the back of him.”
“She was all right after the tours were over, and while she was getting ready for the pageant. Whatever hit her must have come later. So what did you say to her?”
He turned to face the housekeeper, took a swallow of coffee so hot it burned all the way down. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d make it right.”
Eloise watched him for long seconds while her dark eyes softened. “I know you would, Mr. Beau,” she said before turning back to the sink. “I know you would.”
Lance wasn’t quite so understanding. He drove out to Windwood and practically pulled him off his tractor where he was setting out plants in the east field. The ache in his injured shoulder wasn’t helped by that fast descent. He would have protested, but the sheriff seemed upset enough already.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you going to let Carla get away without lifting a finger to stop her?”
Beau leaned back against the tall tractor wheel. He removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then jammed it back on his head. “She’s a grown woman. I can’t drag her back if she doesn’t want to be here.”
“She didn’t sound any too happy to be going.”
Beau’s heartbeat quickened. “You talked to her?”
“Yeah. At the convenience store when she stopped for gas.”
“Did she say—” He stopped, unwilling to make it clear how little he knew about the departure of his guest.
“Said something about being on her way to the airport, asked me to tell Big Jim to pick up his rental there.”
“She’ll have to come back to take care of the claim on her car.”
Lance shook his head. “It’s totaled, according to the guys down at the shop. I expect the insurance settlement will clear through her bank eventually.”
“And that will be that.” Beau hadn’t realized quite how much he’d been depending on her being forced to return. He looked away toward the tree line at the edge of the field where new leaves were turning bright green with spring. Inhaling to the bottom of his lungs, he let the air escape him in slow acceptance.
“Only if you let it.”
Easy enough to say, but what if he couldn’t do a thing about it?
Carla leaned her head back on the seat as the plane gathered speed down the runway. She closed her eyes that burned with unshed tears. She wouldn’t let them fall. This wasn’t the place. Besides, there was no telling when they might stop once they started.
Back there, falling further and further behind her, was Beau. Yes, and Windwood, too. Her heart ached for them, but she couldn’t go back. No matter how much she might want that, it was impossible. Everything had gone so wrong. She needed to fix it, and she couldn’t do that in Chamelot.
Of course, there was no guarantee she could fix it at all. Trevor would be back in Baltimore ahead of her, which meant he’d have time to put his story on record. He’d say he fired her because she’d lost her objectivity. She’d become too involved with her subject and so allowed herself to be swayed by the image of the perfect gentleman.
That part might be true to a certain extent, though she would deny to the last that it made a difference.
So she’d changed her mind about the southern gentleman myth. What of it? She was allowed.
Trevor would no doubt call Beau a Redneck Neanderthal too quick with his fists, but it was a total lie. She needed to make that clear to prevent any attempt to add it to his profile, which Trevor was all too likely to do.
Such petty revenge was his style.
He wouldn’t be charging anybody with assault; she was reasonably certain of that. Whatever Beau has said to counter the threat had turned Trevor greener than the greenhouse daylilies. He hadn’t been able to get away from Windwood fast enough, probably hadn’t stopped running until he was back in his Baltimore apartment.
She was out of a job, but Carla couldn’t be too concerned about it. Working with Trevor was not possible. She knew what she’d like to do, but couldn’t quite see her way to it. It depended on so many other things.
Tired, she was so tired. She hadn’t slept much during the night. Beau hadn’t allowed it, for one thing, but she’d needed desperately to make the moments last. Even after he finally slept, she lay staring into the darkness, steeling herself for what had to be done.
She could have stayed, could have talked to him. He might have understood.
But remaining would have let Trevor win by default. She couldn’t do that; too much was at stake. She couldn’t bear the thought of South of Normal Magazine’s readers thinking badly of Beau, not because of something she’d written. She just couldn’t.
Of course Beau might not care whether she stayed. Or if he’d ever cared, he might never forgive her for leaving.
Would he believe she was running away from what happened last night? She supposed she was, in a way. If he didn’t miss her t
his morning, if he didn’t want her or didn’t know what to say to her, then she preferred not to know it.
She was the one who propositioned him. He could hardly be blamed for accepting; it would have been bad manners to refuse, now wouldn’t it? And she really didn’t want to put him to the trouble of finding a polite way to say he wasn’t interested in more than one night. Even worse would be maybe learning, one fine day, that he couldn’t do it, so fell into a relationship out of compassion.
It was better this way. Beau was so grounded in his birthplace and his life that it was unlikely he could be happy anywhere else. She was—what was she? Not from around there, that was for sure. She had enjoyed her time with his friends and neighbors, but that kind of bucolic and earthy existence wasn’t for her.
No, it wasn’t.
Was it?
It had been so hard to leave him this morning. Even in sleep, he was polite. He didn’t snore, didn’t take up more than his side of the bed or steal the covers. Lying there on his stomach with the sheet cutting across the middle of his back, pristine white against copper-bronze, he was so handsomely formed, so formidable in his latent muscular power despite—or perhaps because of—the dark bruising that marked his shoulder from the pageant accident. He took her breath, even as she tried to forget all the things they had done together during the night, and of his strength that had left her sore here and there.
The last thing she’d wanted to do was wake him. If he held out a hand, smiled, said a single word, she would never be able to go.
How had it happened that she was so vulnerable to him? She’d thought she was armored against his kind, too protected by suspicion and cynicism ever to succumb. It was disconcerting to discover it wasn’t true. Her long-held skepticism made her twice as susceptible once she came across the real thing. Yes, and twice as likely to fall in love.
Love. It might be comical if it wasn’t so inconvenient, so unlikely. Yes, and so painful.
Her mother would understand that all to well. The two of them could compare their experiences of falling for the wrong man one day, if not when she went by to visit later this evening.
Tears rimmed Carla’s eyelids. One slid over, running down her cheek. She let it fall, and then another after it. She could afford a few for the ache of unrecognized dreams and what might have been. She should be allowed that much before she got back to Baltimore.
Yes, before she had to face Trevor and the Dragon Lady, before she discovered whether she could, or could not, make everything right for her perfect southern gentleman.
Chapter 19
An elaborate spring wreath in shades of lavender and aqua decorated Diane the Dragon Lady’s apartment door. Carla lifted a brow at that indicator of exclusivity. There weren’t many apartment buildings in Baltimore where you could hang such a thing in the morning and expect to find it still in place in the afternoon.
The wreath exactly centered the door’s peephole. When she thought it likely someone was about to answer the doorbell she’d pressed, she directed a strained smile at that small opening.
“Carla, how nice to see you, no matter how unexpected,” Diane said, swinging the door open and stepping back to allow her to enter.
“Sorry it was such short notice.” She leaned to accept the air kisses Diane, white-blond hair perfectly coiffed and wearing a jewel-neck dress of blue wool with a tanzanite necklace, directed at either cheek.
“Not at all. I hope you don’t mind if the two of us aren’t private. Trevor insisted on coming over when he heard you would be here.”
The question was entirely rhetorical. The Dragon Lady was already leading the way from the apartment’s open foyer area into the living room with its spectacular skyline view.
Carla minded. To plead her case in front of Trevor was the last thing she wanted. She was glad she’d chosen her red power suit and three-inch heels, however, as the outfit equaled Trevor’s three-piece-suit formality. That it was also red for courage was her secret.
For a single instant, she longed for the casual unconcern of the jeans and T-shirts she’d worn so often at Windwood. She might have started out putting them on to fit in, but they soon became a preference. The honesty of them, without need of pretense or one-upmanship, was infinitely appealing in retrospect.
“Carla,” Trevor said, rising to his feet and smiling as if they had parted the best of friends. That single word had a stuffy, nasal sound, however, due to the damage beneath the bandage that rode the bridge of his nose.
“Trevor.” The clipped acknowledgement was the best she could do. The satisfaction she felt at seeing the results of his struggle with Beau was probably unkind of her, but she couldn’t help it.
“I’m sure you would prefer to explain the events of the past week without my presence,” he went on at once. “Diane has agreed to my being here in the interest of fairness.”
“Fairness.” She hadn’t thought he was familiar with the concept.
“I should be allowed to defend myself, don’t you think?”
“If that’s possible.”
Her smile was wintery as she set her briefcase on the freeform slab of petrified wood that served as a coffee table. Trevor was at one end of a butter-soft cream leather sofa that centered one of several Kilim rugs scattered over the wood floor. She deliberately chose an armchair closer to the loveseat where Diane had sat down.
Taking out the two manuscripts she’d brought with her, she handed them across to her former boss who now ran the magazine. “These are the two different profiles I spoke to you about on the phone, those submitted for Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict. They are quite different, as you can see. The first was written due to a misunderstanding. That was my mistake, I freely admit it. The second is a much more accurate picture of the man. I ask that the first be discarded, and the second used in the magazine.”
“A clear case of influence by the subject,” Trevor said at his most suave. “Carla went gaga over muscles and a syrupy drawl, and now wants to make this backwoods Romeo happy. The pieces are so dissimilar they could be about two different men.”
The look Carla gave him should have turned him to stone where he sat. “There is no question whatever of influence.”
“Oh, please.” Trevor gave a rueful shake of his head. “You were given a room in the man’s home, waited on hand and foot by his housekeeper, and enticed into all manner of community activities by his friends and family. I have it on good authority that fake events were set up to make him look the hero. What more evidence is needed?”
“Is that true, Carla?” Diane asked, her features set in serious lines.
“The townspeople were only trying to help. They may have arranged a few things, but Beau had no idea what they were doing. His natural and gentlemanly reaction to them was unplanned.” She had acquiesced to Beau’s request not to mention these planned incidents to save possible ridicule. In retrospect, that might have been another error.
Trevor snorted. “So he says.”
“It made no difference, regardless,” she went on, overriding that sardonic comment. “Beau Benedict required no help. I saw more than enough unexpected events to indicate his personality. His courtesy and consideration in all things is beyond question.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did see him in action. And where did these so-called events take place? What kind occurred while the two of you were out until two o’clock in the morning?”
“We were trapped in the middle of a flood and had to be rescued,” she said, her voice as calm as she could make it. “During that time, nothing whatever happened. Unlike some men, Beau never tried to take advantage of the situation.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “If you are hinting I would have done such a thing, I suggest you think twice.”
“I hadn’t intended to bring that up,” she said with a tight smile, “but since you mention it—”
“What are you talking about, Carla?” That was Diane, sitting forward in her chair.
She told her, th
ough she had to raise her voice to be heard over Trevor’s protests. “Circumstances in the office have become so untenable I’d been thinking of leaving the magazine well before my recent resignation.”
“Termination!” Trevor shouted.
“If I’d gone, I believe at least half a dozen other women would have done the same.”
“You’ll say anything to get out of this, won’t you?” He stared at her, his eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t have to threaten women to get them into my bed. Anyone who says different is a liar.”
He actually believed that incredible piece of self-delusion, Carla thought. “Several women in the office have made lists with dates and times of the innuendos, threats and groping they endured. I have a list myself of various propositions made to me. And I don’t believe you can deny you have a broken nose because Beau Benedict saw you twisting my cracked wrist while forcing yourself on me.”
“I most certainly can, and I do! “ Trevor touched his nose in a protective gesture. “That hayseed attacked me because he thought I’d come to take his little playmate away.”
Carla turned to Diane. “Call Beau and ask him, if you like.”
The Dragon Lady looked at Trevor. “Shall I?”
“For what good it will do,” he said, anger hardening his voice. “They’ve probably coordinated their stories already.”
He had an answer for everything, plus the advantage of being ensconced in his job as editor-in-chief. Uncertainty that she’d ever be able to make things right for Beau and the people of Chamelot was an ache inside Carla. She wanted to shout Trevor down, but she had learned a few things while in Louisiana. The person who could keep their temper in a fight usually came out ahead. Even if they didn’t, they felt better about themselves when it was over.
“There was no need for matched stories,” she said evenly. “The truth is the truth. But I believe it was you who feared losing out.”
“Hardly.”
His face was almost purple with rage as he spat that single word. He did hate any suggestion that he’d been rejected. She could almost feel sorry for him if he weren’t so vicious with it.
Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Page 19