Sweet Home Carolina (19 page)

To ease his conscience, she offered, “You will only be here
until the bid decision is made on Tuesday. If you like, we can stay until then.
I just thought you’d prefer to be alone.”

“I am always alone,” he said grumpily, opening the door of
the small refrigerator. “I will call Luigi. You need not worry about us. We can
feed ourselves.”

Now she really did feel guilty. It was easier to feel guilt
than acknowledge the twinge of pleasure from knowing he desired her company. “I
will prepare your meals, don’t be silly. We’re not moving the family room, so
you’ll have the stereo and television. You can have your entire team up to work
on whatever you work on all day. It’s just more convenient for me to work and
look after the kids if I stay here.”

“Hey, Aunt Amy, where do you want this?” Johnnie held up a
bed lamp, distracting her from the argument.

By the time she’d sorted out the lamp and various other
pieces of furniture she’d carried down in the pickup she’d traded for with
Flint, Jacques had disappeared.

There were only so many hours in the day. She couldn’t allow
guilt to occupy them. She’d changed back into her white shorts after church,
and later realized she was paying for her vanity in choosing her sexiest casual
outfit when she discovered the dirt smeared across her rear.

When Jacques still hadn’t returned by the time the beds were
set up and boxes arranged against one wall, Amy went in search of him. She had
to pick up the kids at Jo’s, order a pizza, and run up to the house to fix his
dinner. The Hummer was still parked in the street. He couldn’t have gone far.
Perhaps he’d been unwilling to climb those rickety stairs again with his stiff
leg.

“Did you see which way Jacques went?” she asked the nanny as
the girl climbed into Elise’s Mercedes with Flint’s boys.

“Zack?” the nanny repeated. “I saw him walk up Canary.” She
nodded toward the side street that wound up the hollow behind the town’s
business district.

Amy didn’t think walking up hills was a good exercise for
torn ligaments, but she wasn’t the man’s keeper. Waving the kids off, she
climbed into the pickup and drove around the corner to see if she could find
him. He had his own transportation, but she didn’t want to drive off after
their brief argument. She knew she should hate a man who could destroy the
town, but she wasn’t any good at hating. If she wasn’t so terrified about
losing her home, she’d enjoy Jacques’s playful humor and seductive flattery. She
enjoyed his way with children far too much already.

Her heart sank when she found him in the yard of a familiar
old house with a faded For Sale sign out front — the mill cottage.

He was prying loose the aluminum siding with his cane like a
man on a mission.

As she climbed out of the truck, he looked up and grinned in
delight. “I think it is an original Craftsman!”

She didn’t think there was one man in this entire town who
recognized the architectural significance of her secret gem — except this one. He
was too damned perceptive and clever —

Giving him the power to steal still another of her dreams.

“It is not a Craftsman,” Amy argued, wrapping her arms
around her middle to prevent herself from flinging them around the solid porch
posts and screaming —
Mine, mine, you
can’t have it!

“Of course it is. Look at the huge bungalow porch, the posts
that are wider on the bottom than the top, and under here.…” Jacques jimmied up
the tacky old vinyl. “Cedar shakes!”

“Bungalows don’t have two stories, with an attic,” she pointed
out, then wanted to smack herself. Instead of pointing out all the obvious
features, she ought to be wooing him away with promises of food. Why on earth
was he looking at houses?

And if he won the mill and knew how valuable this house was,
she’d never be able to buy it cheaply. Her heart sank down to one of her little
toes. She’d kissed this man, thought the unthinkable even knowing he would be
leaving soon. Someone really ought to just slap her.

“The previous owners popped up the top story, probably when
they added the vinyl.” Jacques tilted back his head so the blunt-cut hair at
his nape fell over his collar. “Look, the chimney is stone. Halfway up, the
color and size changes. They made it taller. I don’t suppose the seller would
let us see it tonight?”

“It’s Sunday night. I don’t suppose they would,” she said as
briskly as she could, while her heart bled. “I need to pick up the kids. Do you
want me to fix your dinner now or after I get them?” Now, now, she prayed
fervently.
Get away from my house.

“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to see inside? Do you
think they kept the built-in cabinetry?” Instead of answering her question
about dinner, he climbed on the sloping porch to peer in the dirty windows, for
all the world like a boy who’d just discovered a secret cave.

Amy wanted to cry. She didn’t think there was a single man
in the entire
county
who recognized
the gem behind the dilapidated exterior. Why did this frustrating, fascinating
man have to be so smart? Even Evan hadn’t known what this house was, and he’d
run the mill that
owned
it.

She’d tried to persuade him to live here when they’d first
moved back to town, but Evan had insisted on all new everything. She’d
understood. He’d grown up in ticky-tacky housing as she had. She just admired
the timeless quality of handmade, and he preferred the planned obsolescence of
technology.

Opposites didn’t attract. They just annoyed each other to
death. The humor of that observation steadied her nerves enough to argue.

“I thought you didn’t like old things,” she said,
remembering Jacques’s comments on Europe being old and her kitchen being
modern. And then she mentally kicked herself again. He worked with historic
designs.
Duh
.

“I like modern conveniences, but they can be added anywhere.
New houses do not have the quality of materials, the labor of love, the
craftsmanship of old ones. The workers who built this were proud of their work.
They weren’t throwing up a piece of generic rubbish.”

Right on every count, but she couldn’t let him rhapsodize
about it, or with his relentless zeal, Jacques would be knocking on the
Realtor’s door next, and then he would discover his company was already bidding
on the gem.

She caught his muscled arm and leaned closer to distract him
into listening to her. “Europe is full of monuments of craftsmanship that you
can admire shortly. Would you like chicken marsala for dinner? Perhaps a small
green bean salad to go with it?” She lured him away from the window, one step
at a time.

Her position had Jacques looking down the cleavage exposed
by her golf shirt. She had not used her femininity to distract in a long time,
but apparently instinct kicked in quickly because she stuck her chest out a
little more. Fine, she would sacrifice herself for a house. It certainly
wouldn’t hurt. His gaze had all her juices flowing. She’d forgotten she had
breasts until Jacques touched them. They swelled now, aching for a repeat of
his caresses.

But despite his temporary distraction, his formidable focus
remained on
her
house. “But can you
not see?” he persisted, following her down the stairs. “This house is perfect
for you. Your beautiful antiques — the styles are Mission and Stickley, exactly
what this house needs!”

For
her
? The
madman wasn’t distracted but looking at houses — for her? Stunned, she swung
around to study his earnest gaze.

“I know.” Amy bit her lip to prevent saying more. She had
spent years refurbishing Arts and Crafts pieces that would fit the bungalow.
“But I can’t buy a house unless I have a job.” She really didn’t want to go
down this path, not the way she was feeling right now. He’d have her all warm
and fuzzy and trusting, and then he’d lower the boom. She refused to be that
easy to push over.

“You have a job,” he protested. “Perhaps business is a
little slow, but surely a place like this cannot cost much. I have just worked
on land prices for the bids, and it costs nothing here compared to other
places.”

Amy relaxed slightly when he didn’t stop but continued down
the cracked sidewalk away from the cottage. “The café puts food on the table,
nothing more.” To keep him diverted, she opened up and offered a slice of
herself. “Unless the mill reopens, we’ll have to leave town so I can look for
work elsewhere.”

“That will never do!” He halted instead of opening the door
of her truck, and stared at her in incredulity. “You are not meant to work in a
filthy mill. You belong with your children.”

With a look of annoyance, she opened the passenger door for
him. “That’s a sexist thing to say. I’ll be fine at the mill. I have a degree
in design. I’ll finally put it to use.”

Instead of climbing in, Jacques limped around to the
driver’s side to open the door for her, scowling as he did so.

“You’re limping. You need to rest that leg,” she scolded,
taking her seat so he’d go back and sit down.

“I’ll have the damned thing operated on,” he said in a
clipped tone unlike his usual cheerful one, then slammed the door after her.

There wasn’t a lot she could say to that. This was an
idiotic argument. They were both trying to take care of the other. How stupid
was that? It wasn’t any of her business what he did with his leg, or his arms,
or any other body part. They were headed for a showdown, and in another day or
so, after the explosion, they’d be off in opposite directions.

If she felt strangely bereft at the thought, it was only
because Jacques and his friends had been such a welcome distraction in this
unsettling time of her life. It had absolutely nothing to do with smoldering
kisses and laughing charm and a man who actually understood about lovely old
homes and Stickley antiques.

Her nose would grow three feet if she lied to herself any
more.

* * *

Sitting in Amy’s silent family room on Sunday night, Jacques
slammed down a copy of the bid proposal Pascal had delivered to the judge. He’d
just checked the lot number of the land in the bid against the realty company’s
Web site and matched it to the old house on Canary Street. The mill owned the
house Amy wanted. “I hate this.”

“Tell it to Pascal,” Luigi growled from the recliner in
front of the television. He had a beer and pretzels and was happy for the first
time since their arrival. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I hate it that Amy isn’t here. This is her home. Look at
those rugs. Someone hand-loomed them. And the embroidered cushions on that
rocker. These are not pieces of plastic bought at the local McWalmart.”

He glared at the picture of a plastic family over the
fireplace. That was not his stubborn, creative Amy sitting in a chair beneath
the hand of a blond man wearing a satisfied smirk. The Amy he knew and
appreciated was all natural, without the lipsticked, smiling sophistication of
the woman in the painting.

The woman in the painting looked like every other woman in
his universe, primped, painted, and perfect. Could he be wrong about her?
Impossible. That painting was the human equivalent of vinyl siding over
Craftsman wood shakes.

“She’ll be keeping her furniture. It isn’t as if she sold
those, too.” Luigi turned up the sound on the car chase, clearly not
getting
it.

Jacques tightened his mouth in frustration. He couldn’t just
sit here and do nothing. Even if someone crossed the judge’s palm with silver
and Saint-Etienne Fabrications lost the bid, the mill could not last a year
under the town’s plan. He’d seen their plan. It was brave and bold and full of
heart. It just wasn’t feasible.

Which meant Amy would lose her house and move away from her
family. It would break her heart.

If he won the bid, he would own the house that ought to be
hers. He wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the panic in her eyes. She desperately wanted
that house.

And like a monumental idiot, he wanted her to have it. He
ought to examine his motivation, but he preferred simple one-two-three logic.
She wanted the house. She deserved the house. He wanted her to be happy. He
wanted her, period. He had the ability to give her what she wanted. A house was
far more practical than the bouquets and diamonds he usually showered on his
women. Amy would prefer practical. Appealingly simple and logical.

He picked up the proposal again, finally comprehending the
extent of power that this document wielded to shut down lives — lives that had
touched his this past week.

Heaven only knew, he didn’t have adequate judgment to play
God. He’d certainly displayed that flaw in glorious Technicolor. He knew business,
computers, and historical design. He was appallingly deficient at personal
relationships. Once upon a time he’d suffered from the idiocy of believing he
could overcome his family propensity for emotional devastation, but he’d
learned differently the hard way.

But if he could rent Amy’s house for a few weeks, he could
linger here a little, take a much needed vacation, and let his knee heal before
he spent hours cramped on an airplane with no exercise to keep it limber.

A small side trip off his road to success wouldn’t hurt
anyone, would it?

* * *

“He wants to rent the house until closing!” Amy paced up and
down the Stardust’s wooden floor, clutching her elbows. It was Tuesday
afternoon, the date for the court’s decision on the mill.

Outside, heavy clouds had turned the day black, and a
thunderstorm was dumping torrential rain on the mountain highway, creating
waterfalls instead of puddles, forcing the sensible to stay home. The café’s
only customers were the mayor, Dave from the hardware store, and two town
councilmen, all sipping coffee and talking desultorily while waiting for the
judge’s decision.