Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (3 page)

“Wait a second,” Beau said as she started to sip the brew. He reached out with his napkin to catch the drip that was about to spot the pristine white collar of her blouse.

Surprise rose in her eyes, lingering there as she stared at him across the top of her coffee cup. Then she took the napkin from his hand, using it to absorb the spill in her saucer.

“Do you do that kind of thing all the time, or is it supposed to impress me?” she asked as she attended to the small task.

“What kind of—” He stopped, drew a deep breath as irritation crept over him. All he’d done was try to be helpful. “It was nothing. Really. Aunt Tillie would have said I flubbed it, that I should have offered my handkerchief.”

“You carry a handkerchief?” She ran her gaze over him as if looking for it.

Beau reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the white cotton square. When he was sure she’d seen it, he put it away again and picked up his coffee cup.

“Consider me impressed,” she said in even tones.

“No need to be. It’s nothing more than habit.”

“Encouraged by your late aunt.”

He gave a short laugh. “Demanded, is more like it.”

“Why her? Why not your parents?”

“No parents.”

A frown appeared between her brows. “Everyone has parents.”

“Some don’t count. The fact is, Aunt Tillie took me in as a baby and raised me the best way she knew how.”

“She was your great-aunt, I think Miss Chauvin said?”

“My grandmother’s younger sister.” This was turning into quite an interrogation. Fine. He’d gotten himself into it, so might as well answer whatever he was asked. For now.

“She must have been quite old, past the age to rear a child.”

“Probably, though she didn’t seem to mind. She’d never married, never had kids of her own.”

“A spinster with strict ideas on how to rear children.”

“Boys, anyway.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, but pulled the pleated paper away from his muffin before cutting it into quarters with his fork. Picking up a quarter of it on the fork tines, he took it in one bite.

She was watching him, her eyes narrowed.

He swallowed the mouthful of rich chocolate muffin. “What?”

“Nothing,” she answered, looking at the muffin she’d picked up whole, as if she intended to bite into it like an apple. She put it back on her plate and leaned to pick up the strap of her oversized shoulder bag she’d set on the floor. Pulling it onto her lap, she took out a file folder and small laptop. “We are here to talk about the interview, if you’ll remember. The piece will be titled ‘A Day in the Life of a Southern Gentleman’ or something similar. For it, I need to spend time with you, really get to know you.”

“Time.” His voice was flat, without encouragement.

“A couple of days, at least, or longer if necessary. I’ve been given a week for the project.”

“I don’t think—” he began.

“Nor do I, really, but the more photos, candid and posed, that I can gather, and the more comments, the better the piece will be.”

“You have the wrong man, ma’am. I thought I’d made that clear.”

Her smile turned brittle. “Could be, though only time will tell. I can’t expect the magazine’s editor-in-chief to accept that judgment based on a single meeting.”

“This person calls the shots?”

“He does, unfortunately.”

The dry note in her voice told Beau there was something more involved in that bit of information. Whatever it might be was none of his business. His problem at the moment was with Carla Nicholson.

She wasn’t going to give up, he saw that clearly. It was doubtful Granny Chauvin would, either, now that she’d met Carla and knew firsthand that she’d come to do an article. It seemed the only way he was going to get out of this deal was to show he didn’t fit the image. If he could give the lady writer a strong enough disgust for him, maybe she’d pack up her notebook and little recorder and go away.

The drawback to that was the need to let her hang around for a short while, at least, asking questions, poking into what didn’t concern her. He wasn’t sure he could put up with it.

On the other hand, he did appreciate independent women. Aunt Tillie had been the epitome of a southern lady, yet did as she pleased all her life. He was used to women who said exactly what they meant, and didn’t back down from a word of it.

He’d also enjoyed those few minutes when the magazine lady came unglued because of old Ruff. The glimpse of a more fragile personality had been instructive, even if his brain had been short-circuited by the feel of her curves against him. He’d wanted to stand there, holding her, until the world spun to its end, wanted to soothe and touch her until she trembled from something more promising than fear.

Could be he’d get a little too used to having her around.

No.

He could get rid of her, he knew he could. All he had to do was figure out the how of it. Yes, and maybe the when.

“Tell you what,” Beau said finally. “You come out to Windwood tomorrow, and we’ll give the interview a try.”

Carla swallowed the bite of muffin in her mouth, and washed it down with a hasty swallow of coffee. “You mean come to your home? You’ll talk to me in depth?”

He jerked his head in a nod. “I’m probably going to regret this, but here’s the deal…”

“Yes?” She watched the strong planes of his face as he paused in search of words, absorbing its serious cast and the intent look in the dark blue of his eyes.

“You can hang around, ask whatever you like,” he said, “but I don’t have to answer. If I object to whatever line of questioning you’re following, I’ll tell you and it will stop right there. You can go wherever you like in the house and grounds as long as you don’t get in the way. If anything comes up you don’t particularly like, or you change your mind about me and this gentleman thing, you’re free to go.”

“I see.”

Carla did, too. He expected her to object. Ordinarily, she would have, in spades. But that was with interviewees who cared about losing out on the exposure. As difficult as it was to fathom, Beau Benedict had no interest in being honored, didn’t care an iota about having his face and his story in a magazine. From his point of view, she was invading his privacy. And he was allowing it only to—what? Be nice?

She didn’t think so.

So why agree? Unless the irritating man meant to see to it that she changed her mind about wanting him? Wanting him as an ideal Southern Gentleman, of course, nothing more. Nothing more at all.

“We’ll start tomorrow then? Not this afternoon?” she asked, meshing her fingers together on top of her notepad and recorder as she leaned forward.

“Any reason to be in a hurry?”

Her smile was as persuasive as she could make it. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we will be done.”

He didn’t answer, but mainly because he had little chance. The Watering Hole’s glass door swung open and Granny Chauvin stepped inside in a swirl of damp wind.

“Oh, good! You’re still here,” she exclaimed, beaming as she came toward them.

Carla got to her feet. “Actually, we were leaving.”

“Not so fast, there, honey bun,” Granny said with a grin. “I got dibs, since I’ve known this good-looking devil a lot longer than you.” She turned a look of appeal upon him as she put her hand on his shoulder. “Beau, honey, I bought myself a half dozen bags of barnyard fertilizer at the feed store. Sam is out on a delivery, and that boy behind the counter can’t leave the cash register. Besides, I don’t trust him. He’s got one of those stud things in his tongue, looks like a fish hook stuck in a worm when he talks.” She batted her eyes at him. “If you load my bags for me, I know you’ll pick out the cleanest ones so my car won’t get dirty.”

“Sure thing.” He took out his billfold and dropped a twenty on the table, then got to his feet.

Carla reached for the money and handed it back to him. “This was my treat.”

“Not happening.” He didn’t even glance at her as he put the money beyond her reach, on the far side of the table, and set his coffee cup on it. “Now, let’s get this barnyard stuff loaded for you,” he said to Granny Chauvin, as if being asked to handle cow manure was a rare treat. “Where are you parked?”

“Right in front of the feed store, of course, since I knew what I was after.”

“Give me your keys and I’ll take care of it. You can keep Miss Nicholson company until I get back.”

The elderly lady gave up her keys without a murmur. From the rather smug look on her face, Carla thought she’d expected nothing less than to have him take charge.

The two of them didn’t remain in the Watering Hole, but followed Beau Benedict out onto the sidewalk. Together, they stood watching him walk away.

Handsome, ultra-polite, charming in his country way, good to look at both coming and going, he was a great subject for her article. Carla knew she should be happy with the way things had turned out. She might have been, too, except she didn’t trust ultra-attractive men. Not at all. Not ever.

Granny Chauvin heaved a sigh. “Now there’s a backside worth looking at, don’t you think? If only I was forty years younger!”

Carla gave a low laugh. She couldn’t help it; the sentiment was so unexpected. That it was on target was beside the point, even if the view truly was riveting.

Her fingers itched for her electronic notepad to jot down that observation, but she’d already put it away. Besides, she didn’t want to activate the defenses of the lady beside her.

“Is Robert—or Beau—always so accommodating?” she asked with amusement lingering in her voice.

“What? Oh, you mean is he putting on an act for you? Heavens to Betsy, child! Beau’s been loading my barnyard fertilizer for me since he was old enough to lift the bags. His aunt was a stickler for that kind of thing, men seeing to it women never had to pick up anything heavier than a baby. Not that babies are light, you understand, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“His late aunt, not his mother?” The question was a shameless attempt to learn more than she’d been told about his background. What choice did she have if she couldn’t get a decent answer from her quarry?

“Oh, his mama’s gone, too, you know. Never made it out of the delivery room, poor little thing. Only seventeen and not married. Never would name the daddy.”

So that was why he’d said he had no parents. Was it also one of the reasons he preferred his privacy?

“He was a baby when his great-aunt took him, I think he said.”

“Oh, yeah, he was Tillie’s from the get-go. She’d never married, so it was quite a change. But she always said it was the best thing she ever did in her whole life, that Beau was a blessing for which she thanked the Good Lord every single day.”

“It sounds as if she adored him.”

“She did that, but you’re never to think she spoiled him. He learned to work hard, to clean up after himself and to mind his manners. Tillie was a woman of high standards, and she made sure he followed them. He was a good boy and made a fine man. Always has been, always will be.”

A sardonic smile tilted Carla’s mouth as she listened to this rather biased endorsement. “Sounds too good to be true.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Tillie never could stop his fighting. He’s got a temper when he’s riled. Only it takes a lot to rile him these days.”

Carla was glad to hear the last, since she strongly suspected Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict might become more than a little riled before he’d seen the last of her.

“It looked to me as if Beau means to talk to you,” the elderly woman said. “That right?”

“More or less. I’m to see him tomorrow out at his house, but he hasn’t agreed to the extended interview stipulated in the contest rules.”

“I doubt he ever knew about that, dear, and men don’t like surprises. He may be hard to handle, but no matter. He’ll come around.”

Carla gave her a rueful smile. “I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, I have faith in you. You managed to wrangle an invitation to Windwood, and that’s something right there.”

“Windwood is the name of the plantation, right?”

“Right you are, one of the oldest anywhere around, older even than the town. Speaking of which, you should be sure to ask him about Chamelot’s true knights.”

“Knights? As in armor?” Swords and horses?”

“Exactly. Chamelot is an old French name for Camelot, you know, that perfect place for happy ever aftering, as the song goes. What could be better than a trio of Louisiana knights like Beau and his cousins? They go right well with the medieval fair, though there’s the pageant, too.”

The knights business sounded more than a little far-fetched, but Carla let it pass. “A fair? Here? I hadn’t realized.”

Granny Chauvin grinned at her. “You’d be surprised what all we get up to for such a small town. I don’t think you need to worry you’ll have nothing to write about.”

“I’m beginning to think you may be right.”

“Always, dear. You’ll see.” Granny Chauvin glanced up at the sky as thunder rolled like a drumbeat signaling the start of the rain. “We’d better run, now, before we get wet!”

Granny Chauvin turned out to be a good meteorologist. The rain still fell next morning, light but steady, as Carla turned into the driveway for Windwood Plantation. It had come down all night, turning the world soggy and gray. Now it splattered fat drops onto her windshield as she passed under the dark, arching limbs of the double line of live oaks that flanked the arrow-straight, unpaved avenue.