The Ghost and Miss Demure (10 page)

But, Tristam wasn’t like anyone she had ever met. He was a lot of fun and…harmless. Sweet. British.

Reassured by her admittedly facile analysis, Karo decided to try some light banter, just to show that she could be sophisticated. Hands on hips, she tipped her head to one side and appeared to give the matter some thought.

“Well, I might be willing to share the…” The rest of her sentence never got past her lips. One of Tristam’s mobile eyebrows flew upward at the word
share
, and the gold gaze sharpened into something completely different in intent from the
genial flirtation they had shared over lunch. The man who looked back at her was no longer wearing his avuncular mask; the smile that crossed his chiseled lips was anything but harmless.

“Yes…?”

Karo dropped her arms but those gold eyes remained fixed, those lean muscles tensed and ready to pounce. She found, much to her surprise, that it was both disconcerting and flattering to finally be wanted for something other than her brain. It made the knees weak. The blood sparkled. Her heart raced. She could feel herself longing to swim out into a sea of desire where his lighthearted lust would surely take them—

But then, two weeks later, it would be a sea of debts where she would be floundering alone after he fired her and took up with a twenty-year-old cheerleader from Roanoke.

Karo sighed. The mood was spoiled. She wasn’t good at this flirtation thing. Why couldn’t she ever get a job working for a woman, or a really unattractive, dark-haired man?

But this present situation was her fault entirely. She shouldn’t have teased him. Now she would have to shove the camel’s nose back out of the tent—and be polite about it.

She said in a scolding tone: “Don’t even think it! You would not enjoy an office romance. Take it from me. They’re painful and ugly, so don’t tease me, and I won’t tease you either.”

“But what if I’m not teasing?” That voice was warm. The smell of invisible coconut drifted her way.

“Of course you’re teasing,” she said briskly, trying not to inhale the yummy scent. “Is this some sort of peculiar British humor? Find an assistant, lure her to a haunted mansion, strike her with lightning, deprive her of breakfast, get her hot and filthy—and not in a good way—and then proposition her? It’s an original line of seduction, I’ll grant you. Though, it might be harassment. I’ll have to consult the union. Anyway, isn’t there a wannabe Mrs. English waiting for you somewhere? Would she approve of this?”

Karo told herself she was pleased when the golden gaze registered something that might be chagrin, and the long body relaxed against the wall in a comfortable slouch.

“Good God! You’re right. It is bad form to tackle a girl before her bath.” He turned away. “However, I think you should know that the last wannabe Mrs. English called things off before I left for the States. She said my barbed and rusty conversation had given her tetanus. She didn’t approve of my line of work either.”

“She must have been very witty,” Karo suggested, though she was in no mood to joke about anyone’s heartaches.

“Oh, very. But not particularly kind.” He reached for his suitcase. “I find that I value that rather more highly these days. Kindness and integrity. They are both difficult to find.”

Karo stretched out a grimy hand. “Don’t…” She stopped, unsure what to say, unsure if she should apologize for bringing up something painful. “That was American humor,” she said quickly.
“Aggressive irony and overstatement. Please don’t think I was making light of your relationship ending, Tristam. You really are a very nice person. It’s just that I have lots of evidence that my SOP for on-the-job romance doesn’t work. And since this is just a filler job until the Smithsonian or the Louvre snaps me up, I’d rather not…get involved.”

He looked up from his suitcase. Far from being crushed, she could see that he was struggling not to laugh.

“Trying to spare my feelings, Karo? That’s sweet of you, but hardly wise,” he said, echoing her own thoughts. “It might encourage me to pour you another brandy and proposition you over dinner just to see if I can get away with it—and that is British humor, m’dear, so don’t look so shaken by the thought. You’re perfectly safe for the next”—he looked at his watch—“eighteen hours, at the very least.”

“Eighteen hours!” she exclaimed. Then, unwisely: “Why eighteen?”

Tristam opened the door before answering. Limned by a stray strand of sunlight bleeding in from the hallway, his hair gleamed like butterscotch. His profile pure Byronic hero, he was definite centerfold material, even if the obscenely decorated door behind him made Karo shift uncomfortably. “Because Doctor Monroe said to give you forty-eight hours for the shock to wear off completely. Until then, I can’t believe anything you say.”

“Oh.” More British humor, she assured herself as he left the room. She went on to tell herself
that Tristam probably had the very highest professional ethics, and he never got involved with his assistants. In fact, just what made her assume that she was so appealing? Especially covered in filth and sweating in a far from ladylike manner.

Well, hell. Had she sounded like a total fathead telling him she wouldn’t fall into his arms? Probably. Probably he just meant that they could take turns using the shower. Karo groaned and wondered if there was any end to her bad karma.

As an unspoken apology, she took on KP duties that evening. It was a pleasure to work in the vast kitchen, even if the larder was a little bare of ingredients. She found rice, tomatoes and an abundance of green peppers, however. A little onion, some ground beef and she had the fixings for a Texas hash.

Tristam helped out, assembling a rather simple salad from what bits and pieces he found in the refrigerator; whoever had done the last shopping hadn’t been real fond of the “green” food group, and the selection of edible leaves was commensurately small. Karo commented that in the old days of this place, their dinner would have been heavy with selections from the garden.

The lack of veggies was compensated for by a fair selection of wine—mostly local labels, but there were a few California whites tucked in among them, and a suddenly silent Tristam had chosen a Sonoma chardonnay to keep them company while they chopped and stirred.

“I’m glad you’re not a rigid vegetarian, though some endive would be nice,” Karo said wistfully.

“My ancestors didn’t battle their way to the top of the food chain so they could subsist on nuts and berries.”

“My family is all carnivore, too. Lots of chefs and gourmets. You wouldn’t believe some of the food trivia I’ve heard. Someday I’ll write a book.”

“Are you a good cook, Karo? At least, an informed one?” Tristam asked as he sliced his way through a stalk of pallid celery. “You look quite competent with a spoon and knife.”

“Worried about food poisoning?” she asked. “Or are you afraid of the peppers? I fear most traditional British cuisine is too bland for me. You’ll have to adapt if I’m cooking.”

“No problem. I like hot food. Curries, especially.” He’d answered her teasing question seriously, indicating that his mind was largely elsewhere. “It was actually an indirect way of wondering aloud about the possibility of running a small restaurant or a tea room here. A lot of the other plantations do it, and they are marginally profitable. I’m just wondering if it’s something I should suggest to Clarice for Belle Ange. This isn’t
research
—just an idea that I would like to examine.” Karo noticed his stress on the word and hid a smile.

“Clarice?” She’d meant to ask earlier when the name came up. That she sounded only gently curious made her quite proud of herself.

“Clarice Vellacourt, the current owner. She lives in Florida. Eccentric lady.”

Florida. That probably meant a nice, little old retiree. Karo liked that idea much better than a
wealthy young tobacco princess who might decide to drop in for an occasional fling with her handsome hired hand.

“Hm. I suppose you could have a small cafeteria,” she admitted. “Uh…but you weren’t thinking that I would be the cook, were you?”

“Perish the thought!”

“Okay, then. Were you thinking of sandwich type stuff?”

“Not really. People can get that anywhere. I was considering something more upscale, a little bit more unexpected. Perhaps something with a historical slant.”

Karo considered the scheme for a moment and found some objections. “It’s a good idea, but I don’t know if people would go for seventeenth-century authentic, if that is what you had in mind,” she warned. “It takes a refined palette and some adventuresome taste buds to try peanut soup or game pies. In fact, there might be some problems with offering any wild meats. They’d have to be inspected for parasites. And there’s the on-premises health inspections to consider, permits—”

“But what about things like sweet potato muffins or stew? Maybe some meat pasties—made from USDA choice,” he suggested, not entirely ignoring her practical objections, but unwilling to have the idea quashed before it was given complete birth.

“That might work. Corn cakes with honey would be good, too, and vegetables from the garden. But…” Karo paused, allowing herself to truly consider how to implement the idea.

“But what? Come along. Spit it out.”

“I think what I would do is lay on a dinner once a week. Like every Sunday. Take advance reservations and so on. And perhaps offer holiday dinners for Thanksgiving and in December. If you let people eat off old china in the dining room and charged the earth for it, I bet they’d come in droves—and it would be something that would set Belle Ange apart from the other plantations. Just in case the defrocked priest doesn’t pack ’em in.”

She smiled a little as she said this, but Tristam didn’t smile back. His brain was making calculations. “I like it. Work up a menu, would you? Make a list of swishy extras, and I’ll see about what sort of permits are needed to run a kitchen. Then we’ll get on to finding a chef. I have a chap in mind. He’s up in Maine and absolutely hates the winters there.” Tristam looked over when she made a small sound of protest. “What is it? You don’t feel competent to work on a menu without the chef’s approval? Or do you want to talk to the licensing board first?”

“Well…No, of course I’m competent.” And she was a wiz at research—as they both knew. So what if she wasn’t a restaurateur? Wasn’t this exactly the kind of wild-hare action she loved to contemplate and lacked the real nerve to try on her own? She had to learn to wheel and deal now that she had left the slow-paced world of academia behind. Besides, she knew all about boards of every type from Williamstown. She could cope with this.

Karo had another thought. “If we could find some old cookbooks in the library, or better still, some handwritten recipes, we could have some commemorative cookbooks printed up—you know
the kind, Historical Feasts at Belle Ange. I bet dinner guests would buy them like…well, like hotcakes.”

Tristam laughed. “Excellent. That’s the kind of stuff we need. Remember, royalties go on paying forever. And we can sell them online, too.” He pulled a PDA from his shirt pocket and started writing with a stylus. All leafy greens were shoved aside.

“Royalties?” she asked, startled.

“Of course. Haven’t you ever published?”

“Nothing popu lar.” And rarely under her own name.

Tristam looked up and smiled slightly. “Well, this can be your first. What about postcards? We should have some made. Are you any good with a camera?” he asked hopefully.

“Not
that
good! But I know someone in Williamstown. He does a lot of those tintype antique photos. He’s a bit of a diva, but he could give us something unique and very historic.”

Karo was still reeling from the idea of royalties.

Tristam looked up again, and this time he smiled a killer smile. Karo felt a small frisson of excitement shudder through her. For the first time, she allowed herself to hope that there was some potential for this stop-gap job to become an actual career.

A career with Tristam?
her brain asked.
As a partner? A lover?

Karo paused for a mental ten-count as she reviewed that idea. Planning ahead was not her forte, and the very thought of taking the first step back onto the road to romantic ruin was terrifying.
An incentive plan to total breakdown. The classic bringer of the worst kind of buyer’s remorse. There was probably a very good reason why he was still footloose and fancy-free, she reminded herself. And hadn’t she already decided that on-the-job romance wasn’t for her?

Of course, if she were always on the move, what chance would there be forming real attachments with someone not in the business? She could see herself as old and gray and still alone. She and Tristam would have spent decades with all the irritations of a long-term relationship but none of the recompense.

Karo gave herself a mental slap: one thing at a time. She had known Tristam for a matter of hours. Sheesh! She hadn’t been herself since coming to Belle Ange, and that was a fact.

“Do you really trust me this much, Tristam? After my grand entrance yesterday?” she asked worriedly. “I mean, I don’t think I would trust me so very soon. I might be a flake.”

“Of course I trust you. My instincts are almost infallible. ‘You stick with me, babe. We’re goin’ to the top!’ ”

His Bogart was terrible. Karo loved it anyway. Tristam made her feel terrific, that life was full of possibilities after all. So what if her other relationships had been dumb and futile and bad for her nervous system and career? Tristam was right. They made a great team. There was no reason that they couldn’t go all the way to the top on this one. Belle Ange really could be a four-star hit in the guidebooks and a credit to her name and resume. And, editorial credit for a cookbook? Just imagine!

“Tristam, I—” The flicker of the overhead lights and the roll of heavenly drums interrupted the impulsive words that were ready to roll off of her tongue.

“Yes?” he asked after the reverberations died.

The power went out before she could answer. “Damn!” Tristam said, reaching into the cupboard for the matches and candles that the owner kept on nearly every flat surface in every room. “Looks like we’re in for more rain.”