Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (25 page)

But perhaps he knew or guessed, for he shifted, rising above her. He covered her, spreading her thighs as he settled between them. He took her mouth once more, plumbing it with his tongue. Then he opened her wet, hot folds with the tip of his molten length and slid inside.

She convulsed in his arms, crying his name and pressing her forehead to his shoulder while internal muscles clenched around him. He was still, kissing her hair, holding her close until the paroxysm passed.

He took her then in a plunge so deep she thought he touched her heart. She flexed her knees, taking him in the same way, anointing him in profound welcome. They moved together in fervent striving, an endless jolting of the senses that neither wanted to end. They held it at bay while their breaths mingled and heartbeats synchronized in frantic effort.

The first warning was an interior turning, like a massive upheaval of nerves. She stiffened, her breathing ragged. He stroked her through it, feeding the astonishing joy, taking it to the last flurry of pleasure. And when it faded, he drove deep a final time. Immediately, he disengaged, rolled away to expend his semen in the crumpled folds of what must have been his shirt.

For long moments, she lay staring into the darkness as recognition of his consideration for her settled in her mind. Neither of them had been prepared with protection. She had not thought of it at all, not at any time, and had given him little opportunity. He was not, apparently, the kind of man who kept a drawer full of condoms handy for emergencies. He had done what he could to protect her, then, by withdrawing at the right moment.

“So much for being a boy scout,” he said, flinging the shirt off the bed, supporting himself on one elbow.

“Or girl scout.” Her voice was wryly amused.

“It doesn’t always work. If not—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

He was silent for long moments. “If not,” he repeated, “I will want to know.”

Hard on the words, he pushed off the bed and padded into the connecting bathroom. She heard a cabinet open and close. Moments later, he was beside her once more where she lay supine, too boneless to move. Something small and scratchy landed on her stomach.

She flinched a little, but reached to capture whatever it was in her hand. Her fingers closed around a couple of small foil packages. “What is this?”

“Exactly what you think, though I can’t vouch for their expiration dates.” Dry amusement laced his tone.

“So something of a boy scout, after all. But it’s a little late, isn’t it?“

“You left out a part of the quote you paraphrased.”

“Did I?” The query was definitely intrigued.

“
You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how
. Or loved, in your version.”

“Yes? So?”

“You forgot the ‘and often’ part.”

She got it, even as she thought in fierce gladness that he certainly did have the know-how, as well as the willingness and strength to use it.

She received the loving, too, in the dark hours between midnight and dawn. She took it with gratitude, and returned it with as much generosity as she could dredge up from her lonely heart. Because he also deserved to be loved. And was, completely.

She was gone. Beau knew it the instant he opened his eyes.

If he had been less amazed by the way she had come to him, he might have guessed it would be this way. Goodbye had been in her kiss, her touch, her smile there in the hallway when she asked him to help her out of her gown.

Why? What made her go? Was it something he’d said or done? The way he bloodied Crandall’s nose? The way he exhausted her in the dark. How he made love?

Was it simply that she had what she came for, local interest, local color, his background—him. And so it was time to go?

Dear God, but he’d been intoxicated by her. He’d known she was capable of going after what she wanted, but never really expected to benefit from it. Her instant response to his every move, her lack of pretense or false modesty had enthralled him. Generous, infinitely giving, she had invited him into her fantasy, and then satisfied every yearning he’d ever known. He’d wanted nothing more than to hold her through endless nights, to touch every inch of her, know her beyond all possibility of forgetting, to love her for an eternity or two, or three.

He still wanted it.

A dozen times that morning, he took out his cell to call her. He always put it away again. What was there to say? Come back? Stay? Let me make love to you longer, deeper, more completely instead of often?

As if any of that would change her mind.

Carla didn’t belong with him. She was a city girl, used to a fast-paced existence with a thousand choices for shopping and entertainment. Her life there had nothing to do with a down home place like Chamelot. She was like Leesa, after all; Leesa, who couldn’t wait to leave this backwater or Windwood. Or him.

Funny, but it hadn’t seemed that way while she was in town. She’d fit right in, seemed to enjoy playing at being a Southern Belle. She’d fit in his arms, too, and seemed more than happy to be there.

That’s all it had been, playing, pretense, an idle affair during her vacation. And now she’d gone back to work.

That was okay; he had work to be done, too. All he needed was to get at it.

She could have waited until the pilgrimage and pageant were over. No matter, it would wind down its last few days without her. Corset or no, Mandy could probably be depended on to step back into the roles she’d handed to Carla. He’d do the waltzes that made up the pageant if it killed him.

But he wasn’t about to play old Beauregard to anybody else’s Emmeline. That part of the Windwood tours was over.

Soon it would be all over until next year. Maybe the memoires of this time would have dimmed by then. Well, or maybe somebody else could play his roles. He could probably make it happen if he put his mind to it. And he might, because he didn’t care if he never saw another hoop-skirted ball gown in his life.

Right now, he had daylilies to plant.

“What did you do to Miss Carla?”

That question came from Eloise as she rounded on him from where she stood at the kitchen sink, the parallel lines of a frown pleating her chocolate brown forehead. Beau barely glanced at her as he headed toward the coffee pot. “Nothing.”

“Must have been something. She left without saying farewell, goodbye, so long, kiss-my-foot.”

“You saw her leave?”

“Passed her on the way here, going hell-for-leather in the other direction. She waved but didn’t stop.”

“I guess you checked her bedroom.” He poured coffee while he waited for the answer. He hadn’t quite got up the nerve to look himself.

“Suitcase and everything’s gone. You don’t reckon it had anything to do with that citified man showing up here yesterday?”

“I don’t think so. She seemed okay with seeing the back of him.”

“She was all right after the tours were over, and while she was getting ready for the pageant. Whatever hit her must have come later. So what did you say to her?”

He turned to face the housekeeper, took a swallow of coffee so hot it burned all the way down. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d make it right.”

Eloise watched him for long seconds while her dark eyes softened. “I know you would, Mr. Beau,” she said before turning back to the sink. “I know you would.”

Lance wasn’t quite so understanding. He drove out to Windwood and practically pulled him off his tractor where he was setting out plants in the east field. The ache in his injured shoulder wasn’t helped by that fast descent. He would have protested, but the sheriff seemed upset enough already.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you going to let Carla get away without lifting a finger to stop her?”

Beau leaned back against the tall tractor wheel. He removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then jammed it back on his head. “She’s a grown woman. I can’t drag her back if she doesn’t want to be here.”

“She didn’t sound any too happy to be going.”

Beau’s heartbeat quickened. “You talked to her?”

“Yeah. At the convenience store when she stopped for gas.”

“Did she say—” He stopped, unwilling to make it clear how little he knew about the departure of his guest.

“Said something about being on her way to the airport, asked me to tell Big Jim to pick up his rental there.”

“She’ll have to come back to take care of the claim on her car.”

Lance shook his head. “It’s totaled, according to the guys down at the shop. I expect the insurance settlement will clear through her bank eventually.”

“And that will be that.” Beau hadn’t realized quite how much he’d been depending on her being forced to return. He looked away toward the tree line at the edge of the field where new leaves were turning bright green with spring. Inhaling to the bottom of his lungs, he let the air escape him in slow acceptance.

“Only if you let it.”

Easy enough to say, but what if he couldn’t do a thing about it?

Carla leaned her head back on the seat as the plane gathered speed down the runway. She closed her eyes that burned with unshed tears. She wouldn’t let them fall. This wasn’t the place. Besides, there was no telling when they might stop once they started.

Back there, falling further and further behind her, was Beau. Yes, and Windwood, too. Her heart ached for them, but she couldn’t go back. No matter how much she might want that, it was impossible. Everything had gone so wrong. She needed to fix it, and she couldn’t do that in Chamelot.

Of course, there was no guarantee she could fix it at all. Trevor would be back in Baltimore ahead of her, which meant he’d have time to put his story on record. He’d say he fired her because she’d lost her objectivity. She’d become too involved with her subject and so allowed herself to be swayed by the image of the perfect gentleman.

That part might be true to a certain extent, though she would deny to the last that it made a difference.

So she’d changed her mind about the southern gentleman myth. What of it? She was allowed.

Trevor would no doubt call Beau a Redneck Neanderthal too quick with his fists, but it was a total lie. She needed to make that clear to prevent any attempt to add it to his profile, which Trevor was all too likely to do.

Such petty revenge was his style.

He wouldn’t be charging anybody with assault; she was reasonably certain of that. Whatever Beau has said to counter the threat had turned Trevor greener than the greenhouse daylilies. He hadn’t been able to get away from Windwood fast enough, probably hadn’t stopped running until he was back in his Baltimore apartment.

She was out of a job, but Carla couldn’t be too concerned about it. Working with Trevor was not possible. She knew what she’d like to do, but couldn’t quite see her way to it. It depended on so many other things.

Tired, she was so tired. She hadn’t slept much during the night. Beau hadn’t allowed it, for one thing, but she’d needed desperately to make the moments last. Even after he finally slept, she lay staring into the darkness, steeling herself for what had to be done.

She could have stayed, could have talked to him. He might have understood.

But remaining would have let Trevor win by default. She couldn’t do that; too much was at stake. She couldn’t bear the thought of
South of Normal Magazine’s
readers thinking badly of Beau, not because of something she’d written. She just couldn’t.

Of course Beau might not care whether she stayed. Or if he’d ever cared, he might never forgive her for leaving.

Would he believe she was running away from what happened last night? She supposed she was, in a way. If he didn’t miss her this morning, if he didn’t want her or didn’t know what to say to her, then she preferred not to know it.

She was the one who propositioned him. He could hardly be blamed for accepting; it would have been bad manners to refuse, now wouldn’t it? And she really didn’t want to put him to the trouble of finding a polite way to say he wasn’t interested in more than one night. Even worse would be maybe learning, one fine day, that he couldn’t do it, so fell into a relationship out of compassion.