Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (12 page)

Her lips parted as if she needed air. He inclined his head, hesitated in case of protest or retreat. She was still, though he could see the throb of the pulse in her throat. Her hand, with antibiotic cream still warm on her fingertips, slowly flattened against his side.

He touched her mouth with his, a delicate brush of warm lips that sought permission, promised to take it slow and easy. She sighed and eased closer, but he didn’t tighten his hold for fear he might go too far. She was wary, and why not? They were strangers. Yet in the softness of her lips under his, and the bare hint of her sweetness he could taste at their corners, was the promise of something more that might be discovered if he were patient.

He drew back, managed to find a smile. His voice was a little husky when he spoke. “Thank you.”

“For what?” She blinked almost as if awakening. Gathering up the items she’d been using, she piled them into the first aid kit and then stood clasping it to her midsection.

“For a lot of things—holding your umbrella to keep the rain out of my face, making my excuses so I could get away from Lizzie’s mom, taking care of my scrapes and scratches.”

“That’s all?” A hint of disappointment lay in the green depths of her eyes.

“By no means. Also for the kiss to make everything all better. Especially that.”

Carla heard the house phone when it rang later that afternoon. She knew who it had to be before Eloise called to her to take it. The last thing she wanted to do was answer.

She hadn’t turned her cell back on after returning to Windwood. That was deliberate, no oversight at all. She’d known Trevor would ring the house phone as an alternative, but any delay was a good delay.

“What the hell is going on down there?” he demanded the instant she picked up the extension in her bedroom. “I’ve been trying to get you all day. Does that one-horse town not have cell service? Or are you having a mental breakdown of some kind, can’t keep your cell charged as well as being freaking unable to make up your mind?”

“I can explain the mix-up,” she began.

“I should damn well hope so! I’ve got better things to do with my time than read crap that can’t be printed. I don’t get it, anyway. There was nothing wrong with the piece you sent.”

Her face burned with the anger that rose inside her. She’d known it would be this way, known she’d have to justify canceling the piece. It was guaranteed he’d make a huge deal out of her error.

“Trash the article the way I requested, Trevor. It was a mistake, that’s all. I misunderstood the situation.”

“What do you mean, you misunderstood? What’s to misunderstand? Either the guy’s a fake or for real. You’re capable of telling the difference or you’re not.”

Had he always been this snide and overbearing? Or was it only that she’d grown used to more courtesy?

“Things aren’t that cut and dried. A lot goes into this particular equation besides manners. People, relationships, motives, lifestyles and backgrounds are involved.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I guess you’re going to tell me it’s complicated.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“You don’t sound like yourself,” Trevor said with suspicion strong in his voice. “You’re usually more surgical about jobs like this. Not going soft on me, are you?”

Surgical seemed to imply cold-blooded, cutting, too impersonal to care about anything except results. Had she been that way? Was she still?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean it sounds as if something is going on down there. This guy’s not putting a move on you, is he? You’re not getting too close to your subject.”

Was pressing against Beau’s firm-muscled back on a fast ride down a dirt track getting too close? Or smoothing her fingers over his warm, bare skin while soothing his scrapes? Could you call a kiss that made the blood simmer in her veins putting a move on her? Could you, when it made her feel as if her chest was filled with molten chocolate every time she thought of it?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered with weariness in her voice. “I’m trying my best to see to it our readers gain a good understanding of the gentleman they chose. The article will be ready in plenty of time. Get rid of what I sent, because I’ll be submitting something better.”

“Better or just different? You’re still doing an exposé, right?”

“I wasn’t aware one was required.”

“Come on, Carla. We talked about this. The way I remember it, you were the one who said it would probably turn out that way.”

“Yes, well, things change. To do an exposé, there first has to be something to expose.”

The curses that came down the line were crude, lacking in imagination, and worn out from overuse. She grimaced and held the phone away from her ear until Trevor began to run down. He was still talking in vehement condemnation when she tuned in again.

“Listen to me, Trevor—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve bought into this guy’s act?”

“What if it isn’t an act,” she asked. “What if he’s the real thing?”

“Don’t you believe it! He’s after something. What does he want? What’s his angle? What’s in it for this guy? Is there some way he could profit from being featured in the magazine?”

“Not everybody is like that.” But the editor-in-chief was, of course. She’d always known that. She’d been around him so long the attitude must have rubbed off on her. She’d been a lot like that, too, until recently. It was disturbing, that recognition, but undeniable.

“Look for the money, honey. It’s always about the money.”

“You’re wrong.” Even as the words left her mouth, she remembered Windwood Daylily Farm and the high prices paid for Beau’s creations. But his cultivars were too well known to need more publicity. Weren’t they?

Trevor grunted, and then cursed again under his breath. “Know what, Carla? I still think I should come down there, see what’s happening that’s got you so confused.”

“I’m not confused, just being extra careful. You don’t want the magazine to be sued for libel, do you?” Any excuse to keep him from showing up at Windwood would do. The very idea of him coming made her feel sick. He didn’t belong anywhere near Chamelot.

“You’d rather let yourself be snowed instead? You do understand that is what’s happening.”

“No, I don’t. Nothing like that is going on.”

“Has this guy tried to get in your pants?”

“Could you possibly be more vulgar?” Her mother had never cared for the editor-in-chief, had always said he put on a show to cover up what he was inside. Smart woman, her mother.

“If he hasn’t, he will. You can bet on it. Crap, Carla, I thought you were the last person to be swayed by a pretty-boy face and the kind of ancestor worship that was on the old lady’s entry form for this guy. You were fine when you sent the piece I’ve got here on my desk. What’s happened since then to change things?”

A lot had happened, really, but nothing he needed to know about. He might guess, but he couldn’t be sure. And even if it was true, it was no business of his.

“I told you, that was a mistake. It’s been cleared up now.”

“And you really expect me to believe that? You want me to believe whatever you say, publish whatever you write, bend over backwards to make things easy for you because you’re such a fine writer. Suppose I do that, Carla. What’s in it for me?”

Acid suggestion was plain in his voice. He thought he was negotiating from a position of power, that she wanted all the things he’d mentioned, wanted the kind of position at the magazine that he might be willing to extend for a price.

It was something that had bothered her about Trevor from the moment they met, this implicit idea that she was, or ought to be, out for whatever he could do for her. He couldn’t imagine she’d prefer to succeed on her own merit.

He was like her father had been in many ways. Charming when he wanted to be, nice manners when he thought it mattered, good looks if you went for slick sophistication that depended on a good barber and expensive men’s shop. The trouble was, he had no moral compass for business or pleasure; he was always out for whatever, and whomever, he could get.

“What’s in it for you is an article that will be worth reading, Trevor. It will be along shortly. Wait for it.”

Carla didn’t slam the receiver down into its old fashioned cradle; she had more self-control than that and more pride. But she did lift it again when she was sure the connection was broken. All he’d get was a busy signal when he called back.

It was more satisfactory than doing nothing.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you know how to waltz?”

Beau made that appeal as he came to a halt beside Carla. She was sitting with young Lizzie Masters and her mother while they waited for the pageant rehearsal to begin. Lizzie had on a knee-length skirt with layers of petticoats and pantaloons, ready to take her place in the children’s skit that took place later in the pageant. Her mom had taken a couple of roles in the past, but declined this year because of odd hours with her job. Beau suspected it had more to do with lack of money for the elaborate costumes required, but couldn’t figure out a way to remedy that without damage to her pride.

“You’re asking me?” Doubt and surprise brightened the green of Carla’s eyes to shades of spring moss and peridot.

“Right. Do you?”

“Well, I took ballroom dancing as an elective in college, and the class included the waltz. But that was ages ago.”

“Perfect. My partner for the big cotillion scene has come down with a stomach bug. We need a sub, if you don’t mind pitching in.” What he said was true enough, but he was the one who had suggested Carla. She was a good match for the other dancers, and looked to be a nice fit for the extra practice hoop skirt hanging in the dressing room. Mostly, he craved the feel of her in his arms.

“What? No, I can’t do that,” Carla protested in what looked like real dismay.

“It’s just practice, filling in to make the numbers come out even. You’ve watched the scene often enough in the last couple of days to know what to do. Mandy, Lance’s wife who you’ll be replacing, will be as good as new before the big night.”

At least everyone hoped she would. Beau was torn about that. It wasn’t his fault if he liked the idea of dancing with the lady editor better than with the sheriff’s charming wife. He adored Mandy, but it wasn’t the same.

“Come on, Miss Carla. It’ll be fun,” Lizzie said, taking her hand and holding it between her two smaller ones.

“Thanks, squirt,” Beau said with a quick downward smile. “Glad to see you didn’t get sick after standing around in the rain. How’s Twitter doing?”

“He’s okay, but he sits in his cage looking out the window a lot.” The girl heaved a sigh that sounded almost as despondent as the bird seemed to be feeling.

“At least he’s safe there,” Carla’s smile was warmly sympathetic as she patted the girl’s hand that was still clasped in hers.

The look on her face did strange things to Beau’s breathing. She was a natural with kids. He wondered if she recognized the rapport she’d established with Lizzie. Yes, and he couldn’t help speculating on what it would feel like to have that look of affection directed his way.

He’d kissed her. He’d held her close and tasted her lips, and she hadn’t socked him in the jaw. She hadn’t packed up and left, either. Did that mean something? Or did it only prove the kiss meant less than nothing to her?

He couldn’t stop looking at the smooth and luscious curves of her mouth, remembering them against his own and the head-spinning magic of her response, brief as it had been. He tried to make sure she didn’t catch him watching her, but didn’t know how long he could manage it. No, or how long it would be before he did something stupid like trying for a repeat performance of that kiss.

He needed to get a grip. Carla was a city girl from Baltimore. Her time in Chamelot was limited. When she had what she came for, she would be gone. Anything between them had to be short-lived; there was no other way. The sooner he got that through his head, the better off he’d be.

“The waltz is up next,” he said with a wheedling grin as he tipped his head to see her face. “What do you say?”

“I only have one hand to hold on with, or have you forgotten?” A smile brightened her eyes as she spoke.