Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (16 page)

“In theory, anyway. Not that a person can’t love different people in different ways.” Funny how darkness and a near-death experience loosened his tongue.

“What about in different times? Maybe a love that returns in different reincarnations because the man and woman were meant to be together forever.”

“Sounds like a fine idea to me.”

“Good grief, you’re so
Princess Bride
,” she said with the ghost of laughter in her voice. “If the woman you loved shoved you off a mountain and told you to die, would you say, ‘As you wish.’?”

“Maybe, if she had a good reason.”

“Sir Galahad, the perfect knight.”

Beau was mildly annoyed at the description, but not enough to do anything about it. He’d bloodied guy’s noses for using his given name that way, too, but was willing to let it pass at this particular moment.

The truth was, he didn’t trust himself to move an inch. His arms were still wrapped around her to keep her in place, which put his wrists and clasped hands beneath her breasts. He could feel their resilient softness against the inner surfaces of his arms, while her scent of roses and lavender brought out by the wet heat between them made him a little lightheaded. The curves of her bottom pressed against the juncture of his thighs with such fidelity that he could tell she wore bikini panties, though it was not a thought he could dwell on without consequences. And consequences were the last thing he needed right now, while he was doing his best not to take advantage of this too intimate situation he’d created.

It would not be the gentlemanly thing to do, most definitely. No. No matter what it cost him to abstain.

Abstinence was good for the soul, wasn’t it? There’d better be some advantage to it he’d not seen yet, because it sucked big time.

He needed something else to think about, and fast. He was also in need of a distraction for Carla, since her car was about to sink underwater out there in the darkness. She seemed not to have noticed, though he wasn’t sure he could depend on it.

“Best I remember, the last line of Trey’s poem had something to do with rings,” he said, almost at random.

“So it did. Let me think.” She looked up at the black night sky, a move that tilted her head back against his neck so silky strands of her hair tangled in the beginnings of an overnight beard on his chin. With a casual move, she put her hands on top of his, holding them in place at her waist. “Wasn’t it something like, ‘Far more than roses, chocolates and rings—’?”

“You’re right. Before that was a couple of lines about what love is all about.”

“So what should he say? What would Trey think about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s not as if we talk about things like that.”

“No, I suppose not.” She heaved a sigh that he felt under their piled hands. “So what would you say?”

He took another look at what he could see of her face. “This isn’t about the article, is it?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter?” She turned her head so he felt the half smile that curled the corner of her mouth.

“I don’t much want my thoughts on the subject to be out there.”

Her diaphragm jerked as she huffed in disgust. “There’s a lot you don’t want to be out there.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, then, off the record. What might you come up with that rhymes with the word rings?”

He was quiet for long moments, his eyes half closed as he searched his brain for a few thoughts and the words that might come close to expressing them.

“Okay, how’s this?” Clearing his throat, he recited:

“A kiss, a touch, a smile or shared tear;

A hand to hold that conquers fear,

Far more than roses, chocolates and rings,

Love is in these little things.”

She stopped breathing. When she began again, the pace was faster. Her voice was abrupt when she spoke. “You’ve been thinking about the poem all along, haven’t you?”

“Now when did I have time for that?”

“Then you’d seen it before.”

He chuckled at her suspicion. “Or maybe I’m inspired by the time and place. Or even the company.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I thought it was romance you wanted,” he complained.

She turned away from him, gazing at the water that flowed around them as if they were a rock in a stream. A small shiver jerked through her, communicating itself to him so completely it was almost painful.

“So did I,” she said, an answer so soft he barely heard it. “So did I.”

Headlights coming from the direction of town roused Carla. She thought she might have dozed, as impossible as that seemed. Not only was she warm and cushioned by firm muscle and sinew, but her position on top of a truck surrounded by raging waters seemed uniquely secure.

Beau wouldn’t let her fall. He would keep her safe from the flood as surely as he had rescued her from the sinking car. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind.

That impression was astonishing. She had no time to examine it, however, as three vehicles materialized out of the darkness, a police car with red and blue lights flashing, a tow truck, and a pickup truck pulling a boat trailer holding an aluminum fishing boat.

It was Trey who hailed them across the water. Beau answered, and the two exchanged insults in easy camaraderie. In record time, the boat was launched and its motor putt-putting as it came toward them.

It took longer than anyone would have thought to release the clips that held the slicker around her and Beau so they could move apart. She thought Trey and the man who was with him, Sheriff Lance, exchanged looks of high amusement as they waited for the two of them to untangle themselves. It did look funny, she supposed, but what else could they have done? At least the two men refrained from saying anything about it in front of her.

Beau handed her down into the boat then climbed in after her. Minutes later, she was on dry land again. She was directed to the front seat of the police cruiser where it was warm and dry, but Beau stood talking to the others. It turned out he intended to stay and help tow his truck.

Her car would have to wait, not that she was surprised. She’d seen it disappear beneath the flood waters and figured it was unlikely to surface until they receded. No doubt it would be a total loss.

Riding with the sheriff back to town was awkward. At first, Carla was too tired and wet for casual conversation beyond expressing her appreciation for the rescue. The hot air blasting from the car’s heating system threatened to dry Carla’s clothes on her body but she couldn’t get enough of it. It also made her drowsy. Yet as the miles slid past, practicality reared its head.

She glanced at the sheriff’s stern profile in the greenish glow of the dashboard lights. He was definitely a Benedict, she thought. He had the same outstanding good looks, confident authority and unbending attitude that she’d begun to associate with Beau and Trey.

“Does Chamelot have a rental car agency?” she asked. “It looks as if I’ll need something to drive until I find out what’s become of my car.”

“Big Jim’s Auto Repair can fix you up. His loaners may not be brand new or whistle clean, but they’re safe.”

“If I call the shop—”

“He’ll deliver a ride of some kind to Windwood.”

One problem solved. What was next? “I don’t suppose you have any idea when the river will go down?”

“No. Or what shape the car you were driving will be in when it does.”

“I was thinking more of my purse that’s still in it, also my credit cards, apartment key, cell phone. Well, everything I own that’s of any value.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for the vehicle, but there’s no guarantee your belongings will show up if we find it.”

“I understand.”

They drove through town, crossing a modern bridge the gray color of concrete, and then out into the country again along a winding lane that seemed an alternate route back to Windwood. Rain still spattered the windshield in the form of showers that they ran into and out of again. Water filled the ditches on either side. Nothing looked familiar, but that wasn’t surprising; she’d never been this way before.

“Exactly what happened back there?” Lance asked when Chamelot lay well behind them. “How did you and Beau wind up on top of his truck?”

Carla told him, censoring nothing, sparing nothing of her part in it. Summing it up, she said, “I suppose I might have come out of the whole thing alive if Beau hadn’t been there, but I doubt it.”

“Pulling you out was the least he could do after getting you into such a mess.”

“It wasn’t his fault. I’ve never seen that much water over the road before, and hope I never do again. I’ve seen warnings about the dangers on television, but I was into it before I realized.”

“Happens that way,” he allowed. “Still, it’s nice of you to defend Beau.”

“I don’t know that I’m defending him, exactly.” She frowned at windshield wipers that clacked back and forth in front of her.

“Whatever you say. But you don’t seem to blame him for what happened to that wrist of yours, either.”

Was the sheriff suggesting she was falling for Beau? Or only that she was too willing to overlook his faults? After a moment, she realized there was a way to disabuse the man of any wrong notions while also serving her purpose. She’d almost forgotten, in the myriad events lately, that she was supposed to be doing a profile.

“I suppose you’ve known Beau most of his life,” she began with what she hoped was a disarming air.

“Just about.”

The unyielding note in his voice rang a bell, but she ignored it. “The exception being his time in the military? Enlisting seems odd for such a hometown guy. Why do you think he did it?”

“Aunt Tillie was against high school and college sports, thought they led to injuries and scorn for academics, so he was never a jock. Then he was maybe tired of being Beauregard Benedict, always on his best behavior, always out there—voted prom king and Most Handsome for his graduating year, with top honors as class president and valedictorian. I expect he wanted to be anonymous for a while, just one of the guys. Maybe he felt the need for less petticoat rule and more male bonding.”

“Rule by his great-aunt, you mean.”

“You could say that.”

“But he came back here when his enlistment was up.”

“After his second hitch, you mean. By then he’d figured out Aunt Tillie was the lesser evil—not that she was ever that bad. Anyway, he had good training for holding the line when it was important.”

She could easily see that. “He was a Ranger and in the Middle East. Do you think he saw much combat?”

“Probably was in a firefight or two.” The glance Lance sent her way was decidedly cool. “It’s not something he talks about.”

“No.” Beau had certainly avoided any hint of it with her. “You two were teens together, along with Trey, I believe. Granny Chauvin said something about fist fights back then?”

The sheriff’s lips firmed as if holding back a sharp answer, but then he relented. “A few. Nothing serious.”

“So Beau had a temper, maybe still does.”

“What he had was a dislike for punks that called his mother names or thought he was too pretty to take them on. He taught them to mend their ways.” The sheriff paused long enough to glance at her before turning his attention back to the road. “So what is this? I thought Beau had already been chosen as the Gentleman of the Year or whatever. Why are you digging for dirt?”

She wasn’t doing that. Was she? Had it become such a habit under Trevor’s influence that she didn’t know any other way? “I need a little more background, is all. Beau seems so perfect, almost too perfect. People identify better with someone who has a few faults.”

“Sounds like you want dirt to me.”

Maybe she did, at that. Could be Beau was a little too perfect for her comfort.

“So you’re telling me there is none, that he’s as squeaky clean as he seems? This in spite of a nose that looks as if it was broken more than once, his ex-wife running around on him, and his great aunt attempting to whitewash him into sainthood?”

“Let me give you some advice, lady,” the sheriff said in flat tones. “Don’t push it. Beau is a gentleman through and through, but he’s also human. More than that, he doesn’t stick his nose into other people’s business, and sure won’t appreciate interference in his.”

“That’s his only flaw, preferring his privacy?”

The sheriff grunted, but made no reply. Neither did Carla speak again until it was necessary to thank him for delivering her home and to say goodnight.

Even so, Lance Benedict waited until she reached the back door and let herself in the dark house with the key from where Eloise left it, under the flower pot shaped like a frog. He only drove away after she flipped on the lights.

It was strange to be alone in the old mansion. Carla stood for a moment, listening to the silence, getting her bearings. A shudder moved over her as she thought of how close she’d come to never seeing it again. Yes, and how much she would have regretted it.

Hot chocolate seemed like a good remedy for the chill that lingered inside her. Padding to the refrigerator, she took out the milk and chocolate syrup, then searched out a heavy mug.