Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (13 page)

She thought she had him, playing the helpless card. He wasn’t done yet. “You drove here, didn’t you? If you can hold a car on the road, you can hold onto me for a waltz. And if you can’t, well then, I can hold onto to you.”

Her gaze darkened for a moment, but she had no comeback.

A short while later, they stood facing each other, his right hand at her waist and his left under her elbow. She grasped his shoulder with her good left hand, a hold so careful he barely noticed its weight, though he could feel the electric tingling where each fingertip touched. He was also aware of the plastic bones of her borrowed hoop skirt, sensed them pressing against him like some incredibly erotic extension of her body. She had fallen into the spirit of the thing, too, or so it appeared, for she’d swept her honey-gold hair up on top of her head while in the dressing room, making a crown-like twist with curling ends.

Between the makeshift costume and hairstyle, she looked so ultra-feminine and wholly desirable he was stunned into near silence. Why that should be was a total mystery, since he’d been waltzing with women in ball gowns with hooped petticoats for years.

The music began. He stepped forward, turning at the same time. His side was a little sore from its scrapes and bruises of the day before, but he ignored it.

Carla moved with him in perfect accord, retreating as he advanced, coming toward him as he whirled away. And then they were circling the polished floor, dipping and swaying in delirious rhythm, flying on winged feet. He smiled at the wonder in her eyes while glorying in her instinctive response to his every shift of movement. It seemed they were made to waltz together. He never wanted the music to end.

It did, of course. As it came to its long, drawn out close, he slowed and then eased to a halt. He released her, stepped back. He was breathing hard, and so was she, though his lack of air had nothing to do with the fast pace of the waltz. He searched for something to say, but nothing seemed remotely adequate.

“Is that it?” she asked finally, her voice less than even. “Did I do okay?”

“You were perfect.”

The words barely left his mouth before a hard hand came down on his shoulder. “She was full-on wonderful, and I’m kicking myself for not switching partners with you when Mandy called in sick. I’ve a good mind to steal her away and tell them to run through the waltz again.”

“Not happening,” Beau said in fair warning before turning to Carla. “My cousin Trey Benedict, who’s probably a better candidate for Perfect Gentleman than I am. If you see a guy on a Harley around town, it will be him.”

“Trey,” she said, giving him her hand while her gaze lingered on his face. “If you’re Beau’s cousin, it must mean you’re related to the sheriff and everyone else in town.”

“Mostly.” Trey’s answer was cursory as he appraised Carla.

“I do see the resemblance.”

She looked between him and his cousin as if she was seeing the resemblance there, too. Not that Beau would dream of denying it. Benedict blood ran true, especially in the male line.

“Oh, but wait,” Carla said, her gaze narrowing on Trey, lingering for a second on the old-school, black-ink tattoo of roses with thorns that was only partially visible under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You must be Tristan, the third of Chamelot’s knights.”

“You’ve heard that story, have you?” Trey’s comment was wary.

She held up the fingers of her left hand and began to count them off with those of her braced right. “Granny Chauvin mentioned it first, I think. Then there was Eloise. Merry Lou, Lizzie, a nurse at the hospital, and two women in the dressing room who button-holed me as I was getting changed just now. Shall I go on?”

“No, okay. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You tell her, Trey,” Beau said. “She won’t listen to me.”

Amusement turned her eyes a brighter hazel-green. “Face it. You guys are famous.”

“Big frogs, little pond.” Trey put a hand on Beau’s shoulder. “Except for old Galahad here, who’s going to be in the magazine.”

“Traitor.” His mutter promised retribution.

“Anyway, looks as if we need to get off the floor since they’re setting up for the next skit. When you get a chance, cuz, I need a minute.”

“Actually, they’re doing the thing with all the kids next. I’m free for a bit.” Beau glanced toward the empty seats off to one side.

Carla took that as a hint, apparently, though he hadn’t intended it that way. “If you two will excuse me,” she said easily, “I’ll go get out of this hoop.”

They watched her walk away, holding up her borrowed ball gown using the top ring of the hoop underneath the fabric, lifting it only a scant inch so it rippled gently at the hem as she moved. A lot of women in the pageant couldn’t seem to manage that trick, but walked with their hoop skirts jerking back and forth like animated hay stacks.

“So how’s it going with the Yankee lady?” Trey asked, his expression grim as he watched Beau watching Carla.

“Fine, no problem.” He faced his cousin. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“That was it, actually, how it’s going with the magazine piece and the lady writing it.”

“Carla is her name.”

“Yeah, her. You do know, don’t you, that some folks in town think you might need a little help there?”

Beau gave him a frown. “I don’t know anything of the kind.”

“Not me, understand. As far as I can see, you’ve got it covered. But, hey, they mean the best.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Don’t get all up in the air, now. But did you really think it was an accident that old Ruff took off trotting down the street past you two the other day?”

“You mean—”

“That was Elmer’s idea, being the Rottweiler was in his feed store already. He didn’t know Carla would be quite so upset about it, or he’d never have shooed him out there.”

“He was watching?”

Trey tipped his head in assent. “Along with Granny Chauvin and the whole gossiping, tobacco-chewing crew that hang out around the woodstove in back of the store. They were mightily impressed with your quick thinking.”

The back of Beau’s neck burned as he remembered exactly how he’d kept Carla from being chased by the dog. And how much he’d enjoyed it.

“You sure Granny Chauvin didn’t put Elmer up to it?” The elderly busybody had been half afraid he’d refuse to talk to Carla. And he might have except for the way she’d come unglued at the sight of that big Rottweiler mutt. Well, or the stunning effect the few minutes of his rescue had on his libido.

“Not exactly, though she’s a sly old bird, could have led Elmer into it. The barnyard fertilizer bit was sure her idea.”

“She didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah, she did. All she had to do was ask, and there you were, hefting fifty pound bags of the stuff, showing off your muscles and manners at the same time. You should have heard her cackle about how she and the lady reporter enjoyed watching that.”

“You’re joking.”

“Hey, just telling you what Granny said.”

Beau closed his eyes for a long moment. “And Lizzie and her parakeet?”

“I wouldn’t think so, not really. She’s too fond of that bird to risk him.” Trey gave him a keen look. “But I can’t swear to it since she’s also pretty fond of you.”

“Jeez, what were they thinking?”

“Everybody likes you, Beau, and they do believe you fit the gentleman mold. But it’s mainly about Aunt Tillie. She was such a great lady, did so much for this town. They know how she felt about this magazine contest—how certain she was you were what they wanted. Looking forward to seeing that come to pass, waiting for it, loving you in that part, was what kept her alive toward the last. They want it to work out right, even if she’s not here to see it.”

Beau nodded his understanding while swallowing to ease the knot in his throat. His thoughts raced at the same time. The things different folks had done made him out to be something he wasn’t. Carla needed to know that. All he had to do was figure out the best way to tell her.

It wasn’t going to be any fun. He dreaded the change in the way she looked at him, though it was inevitable. It was possible she’d decide he wasn’t suitable to be in her magazine.

That would be good, right? Wasn’t that what he’d wanted?

“Why are you spilling the beans?” He narrowed his gaze on Trey’s face. “Why aren’t you joining in with the rest?”

“A couple of reason,” his cousin said with deadly seriousness. “First off, it seems they’re ganging up on you. As one of the knights, I can’t allow that, especially when I know the whole thing is nothing you ever wanted. Then there’s this bit they want me to do. It just goes against the grain.”

“And that would be?”

“They think I should ask you to help me write a poem.”

Hilarity flared in Beau’s chest. He tamped it down, though the revulsion in Trey’s expression nearly undid him. “A poem.”

“A love poem for some woman I’m supposed to be desperately in lust with. Beats all, doesn’t it?”

“I’d say so.” Beau couldn’t imagine Trey writing poetry like some lovesick swain from the nineteenth century. Even less could he feature the women Trey usually went for appreciating such a gesture.

Outrage turned Trey’s dark eyes black. “What kind of guy goes around writing love poems in this day and age? But if I wanted to do it, it’s downright ridiculous that I’d need your help. I can write my own, thank you very much.”

“Right,” Beau drawled, wiping a hand over his face to hide a grin.

“Mostly, though, I don’t see how you writing a poem for me, like that French guy with the big nose—”

“Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“Whoever.” Trey made an impatient gesture. “How’s that going to impress the magazine lady, tell me that? And how would she ever know you did it? I’m not reading any poem in public, and that’s final.”

“Maybe we were supposed to work on it together.”

“What, the two of us? I still don’t see—”

Beau gave him a sardonic look. “Not me and you, Trey.”

“Oh, I get it. You and Carla.” His cousin rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess that could be romantic.”

“Romantic? Last I heard, this was about being a gentleman. And I don’t recall ever hearing that writing poetry made men in the South more gentlemanly.”

“Some didn’t have a lot else to do, apparently. But that’s not me.”

Beau tipped his head. “You mean you didn’t write a few lines, being that you need no help?”

Trey studied the toe of his running shoe. “I might have made a start, in case you needed something.”

“Let’s see it.”

“It’s gibberish.”

Beau said nothing, but only held out his hand. After a moment, Trey took a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and slapped it into his outstretched palm.

It looked like a bit of doggerel, not that Beau knew too much about it. At least the thing rhymed after a fashion.

The click of high heels on the hardwood floor caught his attention. Glancing up, he saw Carla walking toward them, already changed back into her jeans and a lavender shirt over a green tank top. She hesitated, maybe because it appeared they had their heads together in serious conversation. Beau gave her a smile of reassurance and waved her forward to join them.

“What’s happening?” she asked as she paused beside him.

She was bound to be curious. She didn’t mean anything by it. “How are you at writing poetry?”

“I scribbled a few verses during my teens, the usual angst-ridden stuff.” She looked from him to Trey and back again. “Why”

“Trey, here, needs us to finish an effort he started.”

She turned her searching gaze on his cousin. “Really.”

“It was a joke. Forget it.” Trey tried to snatch the folded paper out of Beau’s hand.

“We’ll look at it over coffee after we leave here,” Beau said easily. “No need to be bashful. We may not come up with a masterpiece, but we’ll figure out something.”

“I’ll bet you will,” Trey said under his breath. “I’ll just bet you will.”

The Watering Hole was busy, Carla saw as she stepped through the door. It seemed most of those attending the rehearsal had the same idea as Beau, to wind down from the frenetic activity with pie and coffee. Some had waited until afterward to eat; the place smelled of grilled meat and onions, toasted buns and coffee, all overlaid by the milky scent of ice cream and musty smell of age.

Her interest was piqued. She’d gleaned from something heard the last few days that the place belonged to Trey, whom she’d met earlier. He’d bought the town institution a short while ago, and kept it going out of nostalgia as much as anything, though he also owned a number of other convenience stores and truck stops with eateries attached. It put a different aspect on things for her.

Beau was right behind her, after lingering outside to close his umbrella. She asked him if he’d been a boy scout as a teen, as he was always prepared, but he didn’t seem to appreciate her humor. Maybe the question had been a shade flippant, since he’d gone to the trouble, yet again, of jumping out of his truck with the big striped golf umbrella, then moving around to protect her from the rain as he opened the door for her. Still, he was the one who insisted she ride to the coffee shop with him, leaving her car at the old gym to be picked up later.