Sweet Home Carolina (16 page)

Jacques narrowed his beautiful blue-black eyes at this
reply. “You seriously believe you blew up my car?”

“That’s Jo’s theory. My theory is that machines are like
dogs and sense my fear.”

In the driver’s seat, Luigi chuckled. “Keep her out of the
Hummer, Boss.”

Amen
, Amy
whispered fervently to herself. Keep her far, far away from a man whose lean,
hungry look concealed a key to her heart. Or, at least, her libido.

* * *

“Are you sure you shouldn’t have that knee looked at again?”
Luigi demanded as he opened the door to the dinky motel room Jacques had taken
in Northfork. “That woman is a walking disaster area. You should stay away from
her.”

No doubt very smart words, but not ones Jacques intended to
follow. “The knee is fine. A little ice and elevation. Rent a nice car for
Catarina.”

“I’m not driving that lot of pretty pussies.” Luigi scanned
the room. “If they’re staying down there, they don’t need a car. Let Pascal
rent something.”

“We’ve found the cards. There is nothing for you to do up
here now.” Jacques pushed the meager bed pillows up and settled into them, then
hauled his aching leg onto the hard mattress for a rest. He’d sprained
ligaments running, had concussions from diving, broken his leg when thrown from
a horse. He’d learned how to work past physical pain.

He’d thought he’d learned to deal with emotional pain these
last years, but Amy was stripping off his shallow bandages and revealing the
raw wounds beneath. He could follow Luigi’s advice, slap the pretty bandage of
work back in place, and leave now. Or he could air the wound Amy had opened and
see what happened.

“The same can be said of you. Your job here is done.” Luigi
pointed out. “If you mean to chase after that female, I’ll be here to tow you
out of ravines.”

Jacques laughed. “You’re as superstitious as the locals. I
think I’ll attend their church tomorrow. I want to find out more about how this
town works.” He wanted to know why Amy had to sell her house. A woman like that
loved her home and did not give it up without reason. Yet she showed more
passion about obtaining the mill than about leaving her home.

It did not cost so much to live here. Surely her husband
paid for the children. She had a job. Why should she lose her house?

Personal involvement. He was digging himself into it up to
his neck — and it was holding his interest as much as his work.

“Pascal and his pals want you to work on that bid. They’ll
not be happy,” Luigi warned.

“We have telephones. I’m not a number cruncher. If they want
my approval, they can call. That’s why I hire them. Did Amy say she was cooking
at the café tonight?”

“You want her to blow up the stove? I’ll go over and pick up
something. You need to keep that leg raised.”

“I can fetch my own supper,” Jacques replied patiently. “I
know my limits and will not exceed them. I’m no longer twelve.”

“And you’re no longer twenty and able to bounce back from
another attack of female-itis. That one’s a heartbreaker. Do both of you a
favor and leave her alone.”

Luigi was most likely right, but Jacques was beyond reason.
He’d tasted her kisses. Her moans of desire still sang in her ears. He had no
place he needed to be once he won the bid. And lots of reasons to linger.

“Go guard the cards.” Jacques waved him away.

Since bank vaults wouldn’t open until Monday, they’d had to
leave the valuable pattern cards with the bankruptcy judge handling the mill’s
business. The judge’s wife had been less than enthusiastic with the dirty
assortment of crates on her carpets.

“Anyone stealing those filthy old things would have to be
crazy. Crazy people are easy to spot.” Jerking his cap on again, Luigi stalked
out.

He’d been called crazy before. Jacques shrugged and relaxed
into his pillows until he realized he’d sent Luigi away before he’d carried in
ice.

Maybe he would call Amy over here to nurse him. She would do
it, he knew, although she might pour the ice on his head first. Or parts lower.

“Yes, Bill, calculate the income from the sale of the
pattern cards into the plus side. We may as well make the bottom line look
good.”

Amy brushed a strand of hair from her perspiring forehead,
balanced the cordless between shoulder and ear, and returned to rolling up her
crystal wedding glasses in sheets of newspaper.

Saturday night, and she was wrapping up her life instead of
enjoying it. She really needed that shrink Jo had told her to get.

“They are only valuable to one buyer that I know of,” she
replied to Bill’s question. “If we don’t get this bid, Jacques will walk off
with the mill’s most valuable asset and leave the place empty.”

She wasn’t ignorant. She knew what Jacques intended to do to
the mill. She was too tired to cry over it. And too mad to go down without a
fight. The town had to beat his bid.

She’d all but begged the man to listen to her. Instead, he’d
told her she was
amazingly
stubborn. Fine,
that’s what she would be.

The mayor was huffing and puffing about it being preferable
for a professional to run the mill rather than a lot of unemployed mill
workers, and she considered driving to town and cramming the receiver down his
throat. Learning to throw dishes would be just as useful.

“You have to pay professionals, Bill,” she said calmly when
he wound down. “Read the newspapers. Look around. CEOs are emptying corporate
bank accounts with golden parachutes worth millions of dollars. We can’t afford
that. We have experienced people. It just means a few minor changes in the
figures. We’ll be ready by Tuesday.”

She hoped for once in her life someone was listening as she
clicked off the phone. Maybe she should have Jo speak for her. When Jo talked,
the whole town listened. Amy really wished she could learn that trick.

Her back ached from kneeling on the floor, bending over
boxes. Her ribs ached from the beating they’d taken from the air bags. She was
lucky she didn’t have a broken nose or collarbone. Enduring unquenchable lust
for her competition added insult to torture.

She ought to take a long soak in the whirlpool. It might be
the last time she’d have that luxury. She needed to be out of here by the last
Friday of the month. That gave her barely three weeks to pack years of accumulated
junk.

She rolled another delicate glass in inky newspaper and set it
on the fancy guest-bathroom towel she was using as padding between layers.
Glasses packed, box full, she sealed the carton with packing tape and used her
Sharpie to mark the contents of a life she was leaving behind.

To save electricity, she had opened the windows instead of
turning on the air conditioner, but the day’s accumulated heat hadn’t
dissipated. She used a kitchen towel to wipe the grime and perspiration off her
face and debated which of her cooking items she could spare for the next few
weeks, and which she absolutely had to have at her fingertips until they moved.

An insistent buzz interrupted her reverie. The doorbell
hadn’t actually chimed since Evan had slammed out last year.

Who the devil would be at her door at nine at night? Running
her fingers through her dusty hair in a vain attempt to straighten it, she
crossed the living room and checked the side window.

Jacques
?

Her heart did an excited little skip, then sank to her knees
as reality set in.

He stood under the one working porch light looking as if
he’d stepped straight from a magazine ad. Wearing a sporty European-cut jacket
and clean trousers, he had one hand in his pocket, pushing back his jacket,
while he rested the other on the brass handle top of his ebony cane and studied
the geranium hanging in her recessed entry.

Curiosity forced her to open the door. Or else she feared
her racing heart was the first sign of a heart attack and she didn’t want to
die alone. Six of one, half dozen of the other.

His attention swerved instantly to focus on her, and he
beamed with the charming delight that left her defenseless.

“It is Saturday night, You are supposed to be at the café!”
He stepped inside before she could slam the door.

“We had no customers. I left early.” She stepped back,
feeling grubby in the face of his groomed sophistication.

“But the food doesn’t taste the same unless you are serving
it.” He studied her weary face, glanced around at shelves devoid of ornament,
and caught her elbow with the authority of a man accustomed to having his way.
“We will sit and drink some of your delicious tea.”

“I don’t have time to sit and chat.” She slid her elbow from
his grasp and led the way to the kitchen, trying to put as much distance as
possible between them. It didn’t help. She could feel his gaze through the
shirt on her back. Her arm still tingled from his touch.

She should get rid of him. Now.

But she couldn’t ask a guest in and not offer refreshment.
He’d have to drink iced tea out of plastic glasses. “I have to wait until the
kids are asleep before I can get any packing done.”

“Where are you moving?” he asked casually, poking with his
cane at a box marked
tea set
and
glancing around instead of taking one of the matching golden oak kitchen chairs
she offered.

“To the apartment over the café for now. We close on the
house at the end of the month, so I’ve been moving things down there every time
I go in.”

He didn’t argue when she set a plastic glass of ice and tea
in front of him and poured more for herself. Hot tea on a hot night was
obscene. He was learning their ways.

“Sit.” He gestured imperiously at a chair.

A few hours ago, he’d been swallowed up by his staff,
plotting the demise of the mill at the judge’s house. She’d gone to work as
usual, feeling gut sick that she’d just given him the excuse he needed to steal
the mill, instead of talking him out of it, as she’d hoped.

She was amazing all right. Amazingly stupid.

Figuring he wouldn’t sit unless she did, Amy took a chair,
trying to relax. She’d needed a break anyway. When he finally sat opposite her
and, at her pointed look, obediently propped his bad leg on another chair, she
unleashed her curiosity. “I assume you’re not here just to tell me I’m not at
the café.”

Jacques flashed his devastating smile. “Direct and to the
point. I like that. I could say I was bored sitting in the motel, pining for
your company. We are very good together.”

“Hmmm,
amazing
,”
she murmured, avoiding his wicked gaze. Just the image of Jacques on a motel
bed was enough to raise her libido to full throttle, without putting herself
into the picture. “And I could say,” she said, mimicking him, “that you have
Catarina to visit, and I’d rather climb in my whirlpool and pretend today never
happened. I don’t know why you’re still in Northfork now that you’ve found what
you want.”

“But I want many things, and Catarina is not one of them.
Your bath sounds tempting though.”

His boyish grin sent her hormones spinning even though she
could swear she was too tired to even think of sex. If nothing else, she was
comfortable handling little boys. “Stop that,” she told him crossly, irritated
with herself more than with him. “We had an overreaction to the accident this
afternoon. That’s all. So if you came up here looking for more of the same, you
can go away now.”

“While admittedly,” he continued as if she hadn’t said a
word, “sharing a bath with you is one of my fondest desires, I would settle for
just the whirlpool,” he said with such fervency he almost sounded sincere. “My
room does not have one. You have a marvelous house. I have never seen so many
modern conveniences.” He studied the flashing clock in the built-in microwave
and the stainless fixtures that had been cutting edge when she’d had them
installed. “In Europe, all is old, old, old. This is as modern as my late
Porsche.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it’s not working.
You can afford the resort in Asheville. I’m sure if you ask, they’ll let you
admire their kitchen.” She wouldn’t ask what he wanted again. She didn’t think
she could face the humiliation. Mama had warned that men thought divorced women
were easy, and Amy had certainly made it seem that way by her behavior earlier.
She still cringed in embarrassment.

And burned with the desire for a human touch again. She
refused to believe it was just Jacques’s touch she craved. That would be too
desperate. She studied her glass instead of the mouth that had driven her wild
in one-point-two seconds, faster than his Porsche.

“I am trying to find a way to beg you to take me in,” he
said, forcing Amy to jerk her head up and stare at him in incredulity.

When she said nothing, he continued, the expression in his
dark eyes intense, as if willing her to cooperate. “The motel is old and musty
and has no whirlpool. My leg cannot bend so easily for the long drive down the
mountain to the resort. It would be a kindness if you can find a place for me
here until I find something else. I will pay generously.”

Amy could only stare at the confident idiot. If she let
herself fully comprehend his request, she would burst into tears. “Do I look
that desperate?” she asked before she could bite her tongue.

“
I
am that
desperate,” he replied. “It would be a kindness, and I will try very hard not
to impose upon you in any way.”

If he’d tried to deny her question or answered with
flattery, she wouldn’t have taken him seriously. Instead, his look of
discomfort seemed real, and her stomach hurt as if she’d been punched. He was sitting
here like a very human man, not an object she could classify as Enemy or Fraud
or Foreign or all those other classifications she’d used to keep a distance
between them. She had never been able to deny someone in need.