Carrie sat alone at the romantic outdoor cafe table. All around her other couples dined, trading secrets in hushed whispers, many of them linking hands.
This inn was the perfect lovers’ retreat...assuming the lovers were still together, she sighed. Well, maybe her grandmother was right. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Grandma Russell, who had raised her, had insisted that things always turned out for the best. And maybe finding out Wilson was
a two-timing jerk was best done now -- and not after the wedding.
The maitre d’ appeared and offered to pour her wine, but she told him she’d wait. Carrie checked her watch and saw it was ten after eight. Terror flashed through her. What if Mike had deserted her, too? What if, despite her initial impression, he turned out to be just as gutless as Wilson and had -- at the last minute -- ridden off into the sunset, leaving her to face her grandmother, great aunts and friends all on her own?
Carrie noticed a dignified older gentleman standing near the door that led to the inn’s kitchen engaged in conversation with the maitre d’. The silver-haired man, whom Carrie guessed to be in his late sixties, stroked his goatee then sent Carrie a warming smile across the nest of tables that separated them.
He must be the innkeeper, she thought, taking a sip a water. But before she could set down her glass, he’d approached and extended his hand. “Ms. St. John,” he said with a genuine smile, “Charles Gilpatrick. I wanted to tell you what a pleasure it is to have you at our inn. I would have spoken with you yesterday evening but have just now returned from an innkeepers’ conference in Roanoke.”
Carrie gave his hand a firm squeeze and smiled back at him. “I’m so glad you came over to say hello. You’ve done a remarkable job with the inn. It’s beautiful.”
“And suiting to your taste, I trust?” he asked, releasing his grip. “We can’t have our chief financier unhappy with the accommodations.”
Carrie felt her cheeks warm at the compliment, but held a single finger to her lips. “Let’s just keep that our little, secret,” she said with a wink. “I don’t get away on vacation that often and when I do --”
“Yes, of course. I realize how difficult it must be for you not to be bothered. You are probably one of the more successful investors of our time.”
“You do go on!” she said, with a laugh.
“Well, any woman who makes the cover of Forbes by age twenty-six...”
Carried shushed him with a shake of her head. “When I’m in Virginia, Mr. Gilpatrick --”
“Please, call me Charles.”
Carrie smiled up at the ingratiating older man. “Charles. While in investment circles I may be known for my financial acumen...” A modest, self-depreciating laugh. “In Virginia, I prefer to simply be known as Carrie.”
“But of course,” Charles said, extending his grip to seal their agreement. “The girl next door. Not a problem, Ms. St John.”
“Carrie,” she corrected, graciously accepting his lingering handshake. “And, I thank you for your discretion.”
Charles lifted her hand lightly to his lips and gave the back of it a deft kiss.
“Will your fiancé be joining you for dinner?” Charles asked, straightening. “I understand his name was on the register.”
“He’ll be here any minute,” Carrie said, in an effort to reassure herself just as much as the innkeeper. Where on earth could he possibly be? Women were supposed to be the tardy ones. And clearly that was understandable, what with all the primping and trouble that went into sliding on control top panty hose without running them silly. But Mike Davis was strictly “wash and wear."
Carrie was certain he’d look just as good stepping out of a shower as he had coming out of the pool. What was keeping that infuriating man?
Mike froze in his tracks, unable to believe what he was seeing. Who was that old goat sending his roving eyes all over Carrie’s plunging neckline? And why was she laughing and tossing back her head in that coquettish fashion that said whatever he was telling her really floated her boat?
Mike blew a hard breath and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking he was probably blowing things all out of proportion. That couldn’t be Wilson, could it? Come back to claim his bride? The man was old enough to be her father!
Carrie turned her head in Mike’s direction and he ducked back behind the fanning leaves of a potted fern. Mike needed to really think this thing out. Maybe if he asked one of the waiters...
Mike jumped a mile high when he felt the feminine touch at his forearm.
“Not going to find me in there,” Carrie said, motioning to the spreading fern.
“No, of course not,” Mike said, “I just dropped a..."
Well, as he wasn’t wearing a tux, he certainly couldn’t say cufflink.
“An engagement ring?” Carrie questioned, with a teasing smile.
“Why, no. No... A pen.”
“Right,” Carrie dead panned.
Mike’s brow shot up. “Pen? Ha-ha! I said pen, didn’t I? No, I actually meant --”
Carrie twisted her lips and studied the color sweeping in rings up his neckline. Mike hadn’t dropped a darn thing into that planter. He’d been spying on her!
“Well look, if it isn’t the Hope Diamond you’ve dropped in that dirt, how about you forget about it for now and come on over to the table. There’s someone there I’d like you to meet.”
Mike looked her up and down and swallowed hard. God was she gorgeous in that long black dress. It was simple but elegant, just like her.“Oh?” Mike asked, clearing his throat. “Friend of yours? Old...friend?”
Carrie held back a laugh at his curious expression. She couldn’t decide if his color was more eggplant or pomegranate. But, why? Over Charles Gilpatrick?
“Why, yes. I suppose you could say that. At least you’ve got it half right.”
Darn it. Mike knew it! Half right meaning he’d been correct about the old part. Clearly Wilson would no longer be Carrie’s friend. But why then had she been carrying on in such a flirtatious fashion? Encouraging the geezer, who was, holy cow, old enough to be her father! When he’d agreed to pose as Carrie’s fiancé, she hadn’t told him he’d have to dust his head with baby powder!
“Listen Carrie, I don’t know if now is the time...”
But she’d already latched onto his arm and was dragging him toward her table. “No time like the present.”
The white-haired gentleman stuck out his arm. “Wilson Haywood, I presume.”
Mike firmly gripped his hand, slam-dunked by the reality. Hey, whoa! It took every ounce of restraint Mike had not to thumb his chest like an idiot and say, who me?
He shot a quick glance at Carrie, who slipped him a sly wink. Oh, so it was ‘show time’ was it? A little practicing up for his big debut? Yeesh! The least Carrie could have done was warn him. Well now maybe it was her turn to be caught off guard.
Mike gave the older man’s hand a firm squeeze. “Indeed it is. And, you --?”
“Sweetheart,” Carrie said, beaming a bit too radiantly in Mike’s opinion. “This is Charles Gilpatrick, the innkeeper here.”
Mike’s chest wall relaxed a notch. Of course he was the innkeeper. Who on earth else could he have been?
“I trust,” Mr. Gilpatrick said, directing his question at Mike, “you and Ms. St. John are enjoying your stay here?”
Mike stepped over and drew a tight arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “Delightful place. You should be very proud of what you’ve done with it. You’ve only been in business for about a year now, isn’t that right?”
Gilpatrick’s gray eyes warmed in appreciation. “I see Carrie’s not the only one with an aptitude for doing her homework.”
Mike pulled Carrie in a little tighter, her side heating his skin, even through his clothing. “She’s quite the student, my Carrie,” Mike said, caressing her shoulder.
Carrie squirmed in his grip, as his fire spiked through her. It started at his fingertips, where they lightly massaged and caressed her bare shoulder, ricocheted to her breastbone, then sunk low in her belly. Boy, was she done for, Carrie thought, realizing she’d missed something in the conversation and that both Charles and Mike now had their expected gazes turned on hers.
“Honey?” Mike asked, leaning over, his whisky whisper tickling her ear.
Carrie blanched, suddenly light-headed. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine,” she reported, sinking into her chair beneath the two men’s congenial laughter.
“The Merlot will be fine, Charles,” Mike said. “Thanks so much for the offer, and coming over to introduce yourself.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Charles said, departing with a nod of his head.
Carrie picked up her water glass and drained most of it while Mike sat across from her. “What was so funny?” she asked, knowing she’d embarrass herself by asking, but fearing it would be worse for her still if she never even knew.
Mike’s smile broadened over his own water glass. “Charles had offered a complimentary bottle of Virginia wine, or in your case, since you’re such a special guest -- his entire wine cellar, to which you --”
Carrie rested her near-empty water glass against the side of her flaming cheek. “Indicated I’d take the whole wine cellar.”
“More or less,” Mike replied with a grin. “But, no worries, I saved our new friend from bankruptcy by agreeing to take him up on his earlier offer of a Merlot instead.”
“I see,” said Carrie, setting down her glass.
A wine steward appeared and display a Norton Vineyard label before Mike. “Excellent year,” Mike said. “Believe that one was an award winner, wasn’t it?”
Their server nodded solemnly and uncorked the bottle with white gloved hands. After a brief wine tasting interlude, the beverage was poured and Mike and Carrie left alone to once again confront each other in peace.
“Mind telling me why we are considered such special guests in this place?” Mike asked, lifting his glass.
“Mind telling me how you know so much about Virginia wines?”
Mike lightly swirled his glass and surveyed the softly shadowed face of the woman in front of him. Elegant, sophisticated, and, if she was getting special treatment from innkeepers, most likely rich.In light of all that, Mike somehow didn’t think telling Carrie he’d spent his high school summers working the vineyards would sound all that impressive.
“Let’s just say,” Mike said, lightly clinking her glass. “I’m a man of impeccable taste.”
“To impeccable taste,” Carrie said, raising her wine to her lips.
“Seriously, Carrie,” Mike said, once they’d both set their glasses back on the table. “Why is it that we, or rather you, merit such special treatment here?”
Carrie looked at him innocently and shrugged, picking up her menu.
Mike reached out and lowered the laminated page, so he could look in her eyes. “Are you...? You’re not...?”
“What?” she asked, her eyes alighting with amusement. “Somebody famous?”
Mike leaned in just a tiny bit more. “We-ell?” he asked, drawing out the word in a blood-pounding way as sea green eyes washed all over her.
Carrie laid down her menu and gripped the table edge to get her bearings. “Nope. Nobody famous, if you must know. Just your regular old girl from Virginia. Hope that doesn’t disappoint too much.”
Uh, uh. Carrie St. John had done nothing to disappointment him yet, and she wasn’t going to start now. Her eyes were fanning wide, half playful half daring. The deepest chocolate brown, even darker by candlelight than they’d appeared in the light of day. And everything about her seemed to be drawing Mike closer. Even as he willed himself to remain stoic in his chair.
But instead of staying put, Mike found himself reaching across the table. Wrapping her satiny shoulders in his trembling grip, leaning his mouth in toward hers as the moonlight and the table and the milling voices of others all melted away.
Carrie titled her chin in expectation, but didn’t break away. Rather than pause she seemed susceptible to the same raging pull that had engulfed Mike’s senses. Her eyes lingered tantalizingly on his own -- beckoning, promising. She let out a little gasp, lightly moistening her lips.
“Ready to order?” the maître d’ inquired, jackknifing the air between them.
“Not on your life,” Mike said, slamming down his napkin.
****
Chapter Six
“Excuse me,” Carrie said, abruptly pushing back her chair. “I’m going to powder my nose.”
Thank God, Carrie could hear herself thinking. Thank God, thank God, thank God! If that maître d’ hadn’t interrupted just in the nick of time, who knows what would have happened?
Carrie knew exactly.
She pushed her way into the ladies room and made a beeline for the faucet, where she ran the water cold.
Get a grip, Carrie, she warned herself sternly, dousing some paper towels and dabbing them at her neckline and brow. Water streamed from her neck to cleavage, reminding her of the effect Mike Davis had inspired at the pool. What was it with this man and water! Every time Carrie thought of him...