Sweet Home Carolina (10 page)

No, they didn’t. It would belong to someone else in another
month.
Don’t look back.
“Remember how
I told you that this house is way too big and we’re moving somewhere nearer to
your aunt Jo?”

“Oh, yeah. And Johnnie and Adam can come play with me!”

Burying her face in Louisa’s golden hair, Amy swallowed a
sob at her child’s easy acceptance of such an earthshaking move, and
determinedly marched down to the car. She would never let her children see her
heartbreak. They were going to love their new home. The cottage had a million
times more character and more kid-friendly space than this boring old monument
to Evan’s ego. It would be perfect for them when she got it fixed up, much
closer to their aunt and grandmother.

If
she could buy
it. If she could get a job. If the mill opened again.

An entire nightmare of childhood insecurities stalked her.

* * *

“Man, that is the best lookin’ thing that ever happened to
this town,” Jo said admiringly, watching the entertainment around the Hummer
the Saturday afternoon of the turkey shoot.

Settling Josh and Louisa on the blanket with their popcorn,
Amy tried not to watch. Jacques had come into the café for breakfast and lunch
every day this past week, bringing with him whoever had tagged along to search
for the pattern cards or write up his bid. Despite his best efforts to sweet-talk
her, she’d avoided being sucked into his world as much as possible.

Her mangled ego longed to lap up his flattery, bask in his
smoldering looks, and succumb to his seductive voice. When was the last time
Evan had ever said anything complimentary? How about half past never? When had
any man actually
looked
at her, seen her
as she was, and smiled in delight? Jacques did all that and more, and it was
getting harder not to notice on a visceral level.

Staying up to midnight every night packing all her
belongings made her too weary — physically and emotionally — to manage more
than a thin layer of detachment in his presence.

“I mean, Flint is a hunk, but that there is pure eye candy.”

Amy didn’t have to look to know whom Jo was talking about.
And from the wolf whistles of the testosterone-pumped crowd, she could tell
Jacques had brought Catarina and friends.

“If you’ve brought your camera, you can take pictures.
Pictures will be all that’s left of the eye candy by next week,” Amy said
dismissively, plumping up a cushion for her mother’s lawn chair. “He’s had
Emily and everyone else digging through the mill vaults all week looking for
those design patterns. At least he’s paying them well. He only has until
Tuesday to submit a bid, and I assume if he doesn’t find what he wants, we’ll
never see him again.”

That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Rush the boy out of
town and let her life return to normal. Or what passed for normal these days. Yet
the idea of Jacques leaving was shockingly distressing.

“Shame, that,” Jo concurred with Amy’s reflection. “This
town could use a little elegant decoration. Don’t suppose that lioness draped
over his shoulder can shoot, do you? I’d like to take her on in a contest.”

“If she’s wearing Pradas and a thigh-high skirt, it would be
amusing to watch her try.” Amy couldn’t resist. Now that the kids were occupied
and her mother was gossiping with her cronies, she had no choice but to watch
the entertainment. She had to look at it that way, and not with the pang in her
insides at the sight of Catarina draped over Jacques like a Roman toga.

The instant she looked in his direction, Jacques waved for
her to join him. He was sitting in a
director’s
chair, of all things. Luigi was setting up a half-circle of them around a
picnic basket the size of a small kitchen. At Jacques’s right hand was an open
stainless-steel cooler filled with what appeared to be champagne bottles. He
must think they were at a steeplechase.

Every other family here had arrived in beat-up pickups and
minivans packed with ratty blankets and plastic coolers filled with beer. Amy
had spent a lifetime blending in. Jacques merrily flaunted his differences, and
pulled it off with sex appeal to spare. She envied his confidence.

“Go join them, Ames. Persuade them to spend a couple of
million bucks here. I’m happy to watch the kids. Grab your place in the sun
while you can.” Jo put a hand to Amy’s back and gave her a shove. “Besides, it
will juice up the competition and bring more entries if the homeboys get to
feelin’ competitive.”

“Oh, right, I so crave a mangy dogfight.” But judging from
the overflowing parking lot, Jacques had stirred up real interest in this shoot
that had languished with the local economy. She’d grant him that.

She didn’t know whether to be flattered or ticked when the
lioness snarled unpleasantly at Amy’s approach, then repositioned to the far
side of the circle. Jacques’s gaze didn’t waver.

Walking toward him under that appreciative stare, she felt heat
form at the tip of her toes and work its way up to her head. His heavy-lidded
gaze even had her noticing the way her hips swung as she walked on the uneven
ground. She’d not worn anything fancy, just her khaki walking shorts and
wedge-heeled sandals. Instead of her usual vanilla shirt, she’d pulled a rose
sleeveless one out of the back of the closet and recklessly tied the tails, but
Jacques’s stare had her exposed midriff blushing as heatedly as her cheeks.

His brows rose and a slow smile curved his lips as his gaze
caught on the swingy hoops in her ears that Jo had persuaded her to wear. Now,
Amy felt like kicking herself for indulging in feminine vanity — she’d wanted
his gaze to linger just like that, she realized.

“Ms. Amy!” Jacques called, rising from his seat. “We have
saved you a chair so you may explain this amusement to us. Where are the
turkeys?”

How many men these days actually stood up in a woman’s
presence? She couldn’t resist relaxing under his genuine enthusiasm. In this
sea of denim and logo-branded t-shirts, Jacques looked amazingly British and
suave in his tweed sporting jacket and designer ribbed-knit shirt. She hoped he
wouldn’t be too offended at Hoss’s little game.

“Where are your crutches?” she asked, taking the chair
beside him that he held for her.

“They are no good on this terrain.” He gestured
dismissively, returning to his seat. “I only need good eyes for this contest. I
am in fine form,” he added with the barest edge to his voice, as if he’d had to
say it more than once today.

“Yes, I can see that,” she said drily as he handed her
champagne in a glass that appeared to be Baccarat crystal. This felt way too
personal, too much like flirting. She’d watched Jacques’s active mind dart from
subject to subject all week, but when his attention was on her, she knew it
with every female cell in her body.

She concentrated on steadying her foolishly racing pulse by
reverting to her role as mother. She turned to Luigi and gestured at Jacques’s
leg. “He needs to elevate that knee. Do you have another chair?”

Luigi smiled triumphantly and snapped open a folding stool,
waiting for Jacques to lift his leg so he could position it.

Jacques glared at her from beneath heart-stopping dark
lashes. “I will get even for this, Ms. Amy. He has been pestering me all day to
do this.”

“Then Luigi has more sense than you.” She sipped the
champagne to quell the tiny fires ignited by his smoky gaze and her wretched
imagination. Cool and delicious, the wine tasted marvelously decadent. She
could blame the pleasure bubbling through her on the champagne.

For just one moment, she let herself relax and take in the
gorgeous September day. The heat and humidity of summer had disappeared almost
overnight. The sky was a sparkling blue, pines scented the air, and goldenrod
had just begun to bloom along the edge of the field. She caught a glimpse of
her sister tussling with Josh and Louisa, and contentment washed over her.
Whatever else happened, she still had family.

“You are so very beautiful when you look like that,” he
whispered almost wistfully. “Your love for your children glows in your eyes.”

Embarrassed, she tugged at her shirttails. She knew rose
looked good on her, but she hadn’t dressed for success today. Jo was the tall
and slender model type in the family, not her.

“Love is my reward for looking like a teapot, I guess,” she
admitted.

“A teapot?” he asked in startlement, then burst out
laughing. “Porcelain angel, maybe, or a Lalique Madonna, but
teapot
?”

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the sunny day, or
this brief escape from the heartbreaking task of packing up her cherished
belongings and deciding which to give away. But Jacques’s blatant flattery
soothed raw wounds. She’d been such a dunce to let Evan’s indifference dictate
how she felt about her appearance.

She hadn’t flirted in ages, but Amy smiled and unwound under
his silliness. “A Lalique, hmm? One of the crystal clear ones you can see right
through? Or the mysterious opaque ones?”

“A mix,” he said decisively. “A Madonna with child, all
sparkly and mysterious. Now, down to business. If I am to win your kiss, I must
understand the rules of the game. Where are the turkeys? I do not have to walk
through the woods and find them, I take it?”

He’d come prepared to walk through the woods on torn
ligaments to win her kiss? He was pure male nuts. And she shivered a little at
the possibility that Jacques could mean anything by the sweet talk. Considering
their competition over the mill and his inevitable departure, she’d better keep
her wits firmly about her.

She noticed Luigi and Pascal plainly waiting for her reply.
Brigitte had applied suntan lotion and retired to the hood of the Hummer with a
book. Catarina was sulking on the far side of the half-circle, adjusting her
enormous sun hat.

“They don’t shoot turkeys, unless Hoss got fancy and ordered
turkey-shaped targets this year,” she explained. “‘Turkey shooting’ refers to
the kind of gun they use — usually outlaw shotguns around here. Some turkey
shoots limit the kind of weapon they use, but we’re open. Everyone brings
whatever they have.”

“Shotguns! Ah, I see.” Jacques studied the men setting up
targets at the far end of the open field. “One shoots turkeys with shotguns.
Excellent. At what distance, do you know?”

“We’ll have several competitions, especially since you
sponsored a shoot for the kids and women. But the men usually stand fifty-eight
feet from trigger to target.”

He looked at her with unfeigned interest. “Do you shoot?”

“I grew up here,” she replied. “It’s what we did for fun
when I was a kid, although we used BB guns and air rifles. I haven’t been to
one of these in years.” City-bred Evan hadn’t approved of such unsophisticated
rural activities.

“So your son will not compete?”

“This is his first shoot. I’ll wait to see if he’s
interested. His father doesn’t approve, and I hate to cause dissension.” The
story of her life — avoiding conflict.

“Target shooting is a man’s sport dating back to the
beginnings of weaponry. Why would he disapprove?”

She had assumed Jacques and his sophisticated friends had
come here to laugh at their primitive entertainment, much as Evan and his city
friends might have. She was surprised that he showed such interest. “Evan
thinks hitting a ball around a golf course is a man’s sport because it costs
more.”

Jacques laughed. “Golf was invented by poor Scots who had
only sticks and stones to play with.”

Amused, she sipped her champagne and enjoyed conversing with
someone who could see more than one side of things. “I imagine shooting was
invented by someone who was hungry and needed meat to fill a pot, so don’t go
all snobby on me.”

“No pot-filling in Europe. Not for centuries.” He waved away
her argument. “It is about equipment these days. But I see this is not so here.
May I look at these outlaw shotguns?”

“You’ve never used a shotgun?” Since he’d entered the
competition, she’d assumed he had some knowledge of the sport. Well, that took
care of one worry. She’d kissed Hoss before she’d left for college. She could plant
a smacker on him and walk away untouched when he won.

But it was a shame….

“I am a connoisseur of guns.” Jacques lowered his leg from
the stool and pushed to a standing position with the strength of his arms. “I
own a pair of Manton’s finest, but they are kept in glass cases. Modern weapons
can be exceedingly dangerous in comparison. Will you show me the field I am to
compete on?”

Amy grabbed an ebony cane with a brass horse’s head handle
that was leaning against the cooler and shoved it at him as he limped across
the weedy ground. “You don’t have to do this. Just sit and watch. No one will
think anything of it.”

Jacques took the cane, but caught up in his new obsession,
he ignored her suggestion. Accustomed to being ignored, Amy led him over to
Flint and some of the judges, then left them to their man talk.

It seemed odd to watch an elegantly dressed Brit engaged in
deep conversation with a bunch of truckers and farmers. Normally, such
disparate company would not give each other the time of day, but Jacques slid
right into the conversation as if he’d lived here all his life. She was just
used to Evan setting himself apart from his workers with designer suits and
attitude.

She had spent years believing his assurances that she needed
to copy the board of directors’ wives in their Nordstrom’s ensembles. She’d
given up gardening to keep her manicure neat and given up her weaving because
Evan didn’t like anything as plebian as a loom cluttering up the family room.

Where could she find another handloom? Maybe Flint and Jo
could sell her handicrafts in Nashville with their mother’s quilts, she
thought, with a quiver of excitement. Once upon a time, she’d loved creating
her own designs on her mother’s loom. She adored working with fabric.