Sweet Home Carolina (11 page)

She didn’t need Dr. Evil telling her she was a fool to
dream. She had the freedom now to make her own life, a fun one this time.

If she could buy the mill manager’s cottage — she could set
up a handicrafts store in the front room in that bay window! She knew a B and B
wasn’t a highly profitable operation, but a small shop of her own goods….

She still needed a job with a salary and benefits. But this
inspiration gave her hope. And determination. She would win the mill for the
town and the cottage for herself, come hell or high water.

Amy returned to the kids and Jo. Hospitality had been
assuaged. She’d stay with her own kind now, thank you very much. It was high
time she realized who she really was — a country girl with a knack for
homemaking and a determined drive to achieve her goals.

* * *

Scoping the modified twelve-gauge shotgun Flint had handed
to him, Jacques still knew the moment Amy drifted away. It was as if the
sunshine dimmed and the world grew a little colder without her gaze.

Not that she let him see that she watched him. Oh, no, not
Ms. Amy. She hid behind modestly lowered lashes and pleasant smiles and small
talk. But he knew when a woman was interested. And he was interested in return.
The question was, should he pursue that interest for the short time he would be
here? In these past days, he’d learned Amy was not one of the jaded females
with whom he normally socialized. She could not be treated like one.

He could hope she expected no more than a moment out of a
lifetime. He hoped she was ready for what little he had to offer, because his
interest was hooked by her shy glances and brave words, and this shiver of
excitement hadn’t happened in too long a time to ignore it now.

He handed the weapon back to Flint. “It’s a very large
barrel for so small a target, more a contest of strength and equipment than
speed and dexterity, true?”

Flint’s bronzed face crinkled up in a smile. “A test of
testosterone, yes.”

Jacques grinned. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. If there
are wagers on this event, save your money.”

“I’m a judge. I can’t wager. But I got a feeling this is
going to be more fun than the state fair. Hey, Amy packed our basket. Why don’t
you join us? I bet our fixin’s are better than the hotel’s.”

“The company will make it so.” Whistling, Jacques accepted
Flint’s invitation and sauntered back to the blanket where Amy and her sister
sat, sipping from plastic glasses and watching the children wrestle in the
grass.

“Lemonade?” Jo offered at his approach, holding up a plastic
jug.

“Thank you, I think I will.” He gestured at Amy, who was
already looking for Luigi and his chair and preparing to get up to find both.
“You need not wait on me.” Using the cane as a brace, he swung down to the
blanket beside her. He was close enough to smell the delicate scent of jasmine
lotion that she wore. He leaned over and blew a wisp of silky hair from her
ear. “I am not made of glass. I promise,” he murmured in an insinuating tone.

To his delight, she blushed clear to her hair roots.

“Buckingham Palace?” she inquired softly, apparently to get
even with him for disturbing her. “We looked you up on the computer. It’s not
just your mother who has worked with princes.”

“Only princes can pay my prices,” he said, in hopes of
passing off his connections as a joke. He could tell by the fire in her eyes
that he’d failed.

“You think we don’t have a chance of winning that bid after
the judge finds out who you are, don’t you? With the investment money you can
command, the town can’t come close.”

In this relaxed setting that had nothing to do with business,
Jacques heard the pain and concern behind her anger, and understood far more
than he liked.

Looking around, he could see the tiny world she knew, heard
her awe at the distant planet he came from, and realized the lovely, confident
woman beside him was overwhelmed. By
him
.
By his world, his knowledge, his experience. That insight into her
vulnerability threatened to rouse his ridiculous need to protect.

“This is no topic for a holiday,” he scolded in
self-defense. Generally, women did not get angry with him, and he was
uncomfortable being the target of Amy’s resentment.

“Do you shoot?” Jo asked, handing him a tall red glass,
giving him an excuse to turn away from his irate companion.

“A little,” he said modestly. “Not guns of that caliber,
normally.”

“Look, Mommy, Unca Flint is lining them up!” Josh dashed
over to demand his share of the attention.

Jacques slid over so the boy could settle between him and
Amy. Children still made him uneasy. Admittedly, Amy made him uneasy, but he
assumed it was her open, honest nature that had him occasionally squirming with
discomfort. The children touched him on so many levels of grief and yearning
that he couldn’t begin to sort out his emotions. He could no longer avoid children
if he wished to be with Amy. He understood they were a package deal.

“Tell me which are your cousins,” he said to the boy,
seeking some topic that would keep him distracted.

“That’s Johnnie, he’s twelve,” Josh said importantly,
pointing out a gangly youngster with long dark hair and a skull-and-crossbones
earring. “And that’s Adam, he’s thirteen. He’s going to show me how to shoot.”
A slightly older youth with sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw much like Flint’s
sighted along the barrel of his air rifle beside his brother.

“They look like very competent young men.” To hide his
discomfort, Jacques took a swig of lemonade — and almost spat it out. The fiery
concoction burned all the way down.

Jo hooted with laughter at his expression. Holding Louisa,
she cackled and pounded the blanket trying to rein in her amusement, but she
only succeeded in reducing Amy to giggles.

That, he didn’t mind. Beneath her mop of loose curls, Amy looked
like a mischievous little girl when she laughed, and he had to smile at her
merriment at his expense. She covered her mouth to hold back her chuckles, but
her eyes still danced.

“Sorry,” she whispered, ever the concerned hostess. “It’s
Jo’s latest idea of a cocktail.”

“Not quite perfected yet, I assume?” he asked with as much
ease as he could manage while his eyes watered and his gullet burned.

“It might be smoother if she used something besides cheap
rotgut,” Amy admitted, pulling a bottle of beer from the cooler. “I dilute
mine.”

He accepted the cold beer without comment.

The firing began after that, and all attention returned to
the field. The shouts and yells of the audience and the blasts of the air
rifles prevented further conversation.

Josh’s little body squirmed between them, nearly upsetting
his mother’s drink. Watching the field with practiced eye, Jacques
absentmindedly lifted the youngster onto his lap to hold him still. Leaning
back against the tire of the truck behind him, his shoulder brushed Amy’s.

She glanced from him to her son in surprise, but another
volley of fire and rebel yells prevented any comment besides the brief flash of
approval in her eyes.

He felt as if a benediction had been bestowed on him just in
the simple act of holding her son. It felt so good he was almost reluctant to
set the boy aside when the adult competition began.

But knowing the prize to be won, Jacques returned Josh to
the blanket without compunction.

If the men of Northfork wanted a pissing contest, he wasn’t
so sophisticated that he couldn’t beat them at their own game.

Amy watched Jacques stroll back to the Hummer and retrieve
what appeared to be a shiny new 12-gauge from the back of the vehicle. Most of
the guns here were old, often inherited from fathers and grandfathers. The
advantage of an old shotgun was that one knew its idiosyncrasies. New ones
needed to be tried and tested.

“Ten to one he brought an arsenal with him,” Jo murmured.

“They’ll have Homeland Security checking them out,” Amy said
with amusement, torn between following Jacques and staying here, pretending she
wasn’t interested.

Why should she pretend any longer? She was a free woman — about
to be a homeless one. She might as well take advantage of this terrifying
independence to practice her flirting.

Of course, somewhere in the back of her mind, she kept
hoping she’d find a way of talking Jacques out of the mill. So she had to watch
out for that fantasy world of hers.

“Watch the kids, will you?” she said to Jo. “I’m going to
check out the duke and company.”

Her sister laughed and waved her on.

Jacques could easily have passed for royalty in this casual
crowd. Amy wondered if he even owned an ordinary cotton T-shirt or jeans. But
despite his expensive attire, Jacques’s easy manner and genuine interest in
what was being said around him gained him ready acceptance. Catarina in her
halter dress, big hat, sunglasses, and haughty attitude, looked as out of place
as a peacock among banty hens.

Amy figured she had the home court advantage. She’d let her
feminine attraction get pretty rusty lately, but she might just be ready to
brush it off and test it out. Jacques’s interest, his kindness to her children,
and his many fascinating facets had finally pushed her out of her safe place.

Checking out his new shotgun, Jacques smiled absently at her
approach, snapped the weapon closed and immediately transferred his vibrant
awareness to her by offering his arm. “My lady, would you be so kind as to give
me your favor in this competition?”

“You mean, like medieval ladies gave their knights?”
Deciding she could play to his charm, Amy took his arm and chuckled at the
conceit. “I would have worn hair ribbons if I’d known you would ask.”

“Take off the ring on your finger, and I would count that as
a favor,” he murmured smoothly.

Take off her wedding ring? Even in jest, she hesitated. The
ring had been a part of her for a third of her life, yet it meant nothing to
her anymore, right? Still, the idea of removing the symbol of ten years of her
life was an even bigger step than she’d anticipated.

Frowning at her thoughts as Jacques steered her through the
crowd, Amy realized after a moment that he wasn’t carrying his cane. He had the
shotgun on one arm and her on the other. He would cripple himself carrying
manliness too far.

“Will you use your cane if I take off my ring?” she
demanded, figuring she ought to have a good reason to remove it besides
flattery.

“I need two hands to shoot, and I have you for support when
I walk,” he reminded her. “I do not want to kiss a woman wearing a wedding
ring. It is bad luck.”

“Who says you’re going to win?” She hooted at his audacity,
and he slanted her a dry look that jump-started her long-dead heart. She sent
his ring finger a meaningful glance to balance herself. “Do I need to ask where
you keep your ring?”

He held up his evenly tanned hand for her to inspect. “No
ring. No impediment to my prize. I am free for the taking.”

Amy had to laugh at that. “Free spirit, maybe, but there is
nothing else free about you.”

“And you?” He raised his eyebrows and nodded at her hand
again.

His teasing attention fired way too many previously dormant
hormones. Images of kissing this man who hid his toughness behind a coat of
charm stirred them into a frenzy.

Not that she believed Jacques would be kissing her anytime
soon. Hoss was a regional champion, after all.

Amy twisted the ring until it popped off. He was right. She
shouldn’t be offering kisses to anyone as a prize while wearing it.

Her finger felt strangely bereft. She looked for a place to
put the plain gold band, but she’d left her purse back at the car.

With satisfaction, Jacques took the ring and slid it into
the deep pockets of his tailored trousers. “I will return your boon after the
contest. You have granted my fondest wish.”

“And you will be fortunate if you can lift that gun much
less aim it,” she scoffed. “Hoss is a champion turkey shooter. You still have
time to cry off.”

“What? And forfeit the prize?” he said with a glorified posh
accent and a mock bow.

Amy observed the predatory set of his square jaw, and
understood he was deliberately steering her toward a goal all his own. She had
to wonder who the real man was behind the gallant exterior.

Once they reached the shooting line, his focus diverted
entirely to the competition lining up at the targets. Some of the contestants
were wearing camouflage and lying on the ground to sight their targets. Jacques
had not come attired for rolling in the dirt. Some squatted or kneeled. Jacques
could do neither with his bad knee. A few men, apparently handicapped by attire
or arthritis or disposition, stood upright.

Two conflicting and equally strong emotions clawed at Amy’s
insides as she realized the deadly earnestness of this contest.

One was pure feminine excitement at being the object of
Jacques’s interest — enhanced by curiosity at how it might feel to be kissed by
a man with muscles of steel.

The other was complete dismay at knowing a man of this
determination could very likely rip the mill and her dreams to pieces.

Confused, she remained frozen where she was when Jacques
released her arm to check in his gun with the judges. Flint winked at her as he
examined the new shotgun. Hoss grinned and raised his gun in a gesture of
confidence. Amy’s mind was racing too fast to respond.

From this angle, she could see the stubborn jut of Jacques’s
jaw, the sharp ridge of his cheekbones, the shadowy hint of beard stubble.
Despite torn ligaments and a knee brace, he stood solidly in a professional
stance best suited to bearing the brunt of the gun’s recoil. He’d discarded his
jacket, and the short-sleeved polo shirt revealed carved biceps that could only
have been developed by serious weight training. Amy gulped and tried to ignore
the flames of interest licking at her neglected sex.