by Webb, Peggy
Michael was sorry when she stopped talking. That soft Southern voice was soothing.
“Here it is. Your room with a view.”
Clemmie stood in the open doorway, smiling. Michael saw that she had a lot to smile about. The room was filled with antiques, sunlight and charm. It reminded him of a movie set for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The colors of October—russet and gold and sun-burnished green—spilled through the wide expanse of windows. In the distance, a white heron rose off the sparkling blue surface of a lake. Michael couldn’t have been happier if he’d planned the setting himself.
“It’s magnificent.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Clemmie looked around the room, trying to see it through his eyes. When she came to the big brass bed, she imagined how Michael Forrest would look there, stretched out between the sheets, possibly naked. Her cheeks got hot and she spoke in a rush to cover her embarrassment. “I suppose it’s quite different from Hollywood. You are from Hollywood, aren’t you? Most movie producers are. Well, I suppose they are. I don’t know any. Except you, of course.”
Her flustered, breathless manner amused him. “Yes, I’m from Los Angeles, but I prefer this view.”
He wasn’t looking at the view at all. He was assessing her with the delicious, devil-may-care expression on his face that she’d noticed downstairs. She felt flustered and somewhat foolish. For Pete’s sake, she was practically an old maid, and didn’t have the slightest clue what do when a man looked at you that way, as if he planned to lick you from head to toe then start all over again. She wished she had Molly’s exuberance and Joanna’s daring. She wished for Bea’s sting and Janet’s or Cat’s sharp mind. Even if she had Belinda’s easy charm, she might be able to handle this bold, sophisticated man.
She cleared her throat. “If you get up early in the morning—”
“I do. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I like to jog. Perhaps you’ll join me.”
“I don’t think—”
“I like to have a companion. Especially one as lovely as you. Besides, I need a guide to show me around Peppertown.”
She wondered what he’d do if she went into a full swoon. “I was going to tell you about breakfast.”
“Tell me about breakfast.” He came toward her in a way that was nonchalant and suggestive at the same time, came so close she could feel his body heat. “I have a hearty appetite. For all things.”
Bea probably would have slapped him silly.
“Then you’ll enjoy the plantation breakfast we serve at Brady’s Boarding House.”
“I plan to enjoy everything at Brady’s Boarding House.”
She longed for every deliciously wicked thing his voice implied. As soon as she could get to her email, she’d ask the Dixie Virgins what to do about it. Living in a town of two hundred as a pillar of the community and a model of responsibility and decorum had not prepared her to face somebody who ought to be on the movie screen instead of behind the camera. But she was for darned sure going to learn. A man like Michael Forrest only came through every seventy years or so, and if she waited for the next one she’d be too old. Or dead.
“It’s my job to see that you do,” she said with determined spunk.
“A perfect arrangement.”
“Breakfast is served in the downstairs dining room between seven and eight. Family style. You are responsible for all your other meals. Woody’s Cafe is down the road. About two blocks if we had blocks to count. Hot coffee and tea are available any time.”
“And you?” He stepped so close she could see the faint shadow of his beard, as if he’d traveled all night and not had time to shave. It was very sexy. “In case I need to ask directions or anything.”
His smile was wicked as sin, his voice was pure seduction, and her Virginia was suddenly acting like an outright hussy.
“I live downstairs. My office hours are posted on the door, but I’m usually around in case of an emergency. Except on Wednesdays.”
“What do I do if I need you on Wednesday?”
The way he said need made her mouth water. “I work as church secretary on Wednesday. The church is just two miles up the road.”
Michael chuckled. “I love the way everything is up the road or down the road here. No freeway traffic to battle. It must make life very peaceful.”
“Peaceful but unexciting.”
“Do you like excitement, Clemmie?”
She laughed. “The most exciting thing I’ve done lately is go to the funeral home in Fulton with Miss Tobias to pick out her casket. She even insisted on climbing in one of them and trying it out for comfort. Fortunately for both of us, the funeral director, Mr. Landerford, was very understanding.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I’ll try to do better than that, Clemmie.” His tongue flicked over the sticky spot where the sugar roses had been. “You taste like strawberries.”
Nobody had ever licked her hand. There was no telling what he would do next. She probably could have handled a handsome stranger from Fulton, but one from the West Coast was a different story.
“There’s more where that came from.”
“There is?”
“The cake, I mean. I have plenty of birthday cake downstairs if you’d like some.”
“I’d enjoy it very much.” He calculated the effect his act was having on her. He’d never seen a woman react so strongly. If she was playing the role of innocent, she was playing it to the hilt. And it was getting to him. He decided to give them both a little relief. “I’ll join you after I retrieve my gear from that stubborn piece of junk they call a rental car.”
Clemmie got through the door and down the stairs and all the way into the kitchen without collapsing of excitement.
She was giddy and shaking, elated and scared all at the same time. Nothing like Michael Forrest had ever happened to her. She was going to grab hold and hang on for all she was worth.
With slow determination she approached her pantry and pulled open the door. Rows and rows of glass jars lined the shelves—pickled peaches and plum jelly and green tomato relish and pear honey. She’d prepared and canned it all, every jar. That’s how she spent her summers.
She thought of her sewing machine upstairs in the third floor attic room. On cold winter days she sewed, partly to pass the time away and partly out of necessity. She made her own dresses and skirts and blouses. She even made shirts for the twins.
Beside the sewing machine was her hobby table. She shut her eyes and pictured it, filled with crooked ceramic bulldogs and tangled macramé wall hangings and lopsided pottery vases. Her hobbies helped pass the long, quiet evenings when there was nothing to do in Peppertown except listen to the frogs croak—and nobody to do it with.
Soberly she closed the pantry doors. Her life could be measured by canning jars and homemade clothes and amateur clay pots. And she was ready for a change. More than ready. Opportunity in the form of Michael Forrest had walked straight through her door, and she was determined to do something about it. Not that she had visions of anything permanent. They were from different worlds. What would man like him see in a woman like her?
Still it would be lovely to have a handsome man to take to the church social. They might even get to know one another well enough to spend some cozy evenings in the gazebo, exchanging a kiss or two.
She was still blushing at that thought when Michael Forrest walked through the door. She hoped he didn’t read minds.
He stopped and lingered against the door frame, taking in the scene. His gaze lingered on Clemmie while her blush deepened, then moved to the cake.
“I haven’t seen sugar roses since I was five years old.”
“I made them myself. Birthday cakes are one of my specialties.”
“And what are your others, Clemmie?”
“Corn chowder and biscuits and French pastry.”
He thought briefly of all the West Coast golden girls whose specialties were surfing and flirting and naughty games
. Clemmie was as fresh to him as a stiff breeze off the Pacific. Careful, he warned himself.
He left the doorway and stalked her. When he was close enough to see the tiny gold flecks in the middle of her green eyes, he stopped and smiled down at her.
“I’m dying to taste your French pastry.”
She felt her toes curl under. The way he said French pastry made her think of something risqué. Suddenly she wished opportunity had come in a less intimidating form.
Remembering that she was twenty-five years old, for goodness’ sake, and had had a romantic experience, even if it was only sweaty kisses in the back seat of Johnny Lackey’s Thunderbird more years ago than she cared to remember, Clementine Brady pulled herself together.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. French pastry day is Tuesday.”
“I can hardly wait.” He chuckled at the stiff back she presented when she walked to the cabinet. The china plates rattled as she delved among them. She actually seemed nervous. He relented a little. “Let’s be friends, Clemmie.”
She came back to the table with two china plates. “I’d like that.” Her face was bright as she cut two slices of cake. She added an extra sugar rose to his plate.
Michael took a bite of the confection.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. I can never resist sweets...of any kind.”
“Then I think you’ll enjoy our church socials. Mrs. Langtree makes the best chocolate cream pie in town.” Her cheeks turned pink again as his tongue flicked a speck of sugar off his lips. “That is,” she continued nervously, “if you want to go.”
His fork clanked against the china as he put it aside. Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned so close that she could see a tiny muscle twitching in his fine, square jaw.
“Is that an invitation?”
“No... yes... I don’t know.”
He smiled. “Do I bother you, Clemmie?”
She was the only Dixie Virgin who had never learned the art of evasion. Or any other art, for that matter.
“Yes, you do.”
“Why?”
“Most of the men I know are...” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Limp spaghetti?”
They laughed together.
“I guess you could say that.”
“Most of the women I know are not as honest as you. I like that.” He picked up his fork and lifted another sugar rose to his lips. “I like that very much.”
Clemmie began to relax. “So you came to Mississippi to film a movie?”
“Yes. A horror movie. You have some great bogs here along the Tombigbee River, and I want to use a small Southern community. Peppertown is perfect.”
“You seem awfully young to be a movie producer. I always picture them as old and fat and balding and paunchy.”
“I’m one of the new breed, Clemmie. I practically grew up on the movie set. There was never anything else I considered doing.”
“Your childhood must have been very exciting.”
“It was as exciting as hell.”
And about as much fun, he thought. His home had been an armed camp with his spoiled movie star mother and his egotistical writer father on opposite sides of the field, engaged in pitched battle. Fortunately for him, he was usually off at some snobbish, expensive camp or school. There it didn’t matter that nobody loved him. The only thing that mattered was not letting the camp director or the headmaster find out what he was really thinking.
With Clemmie’s clear green eyes watching him, he felt churlish. But why spoil her birthday with the truth? Smiling, he began to edit his childhood.
“My mother is Melody Raintree—”
“The star of How Great the Earth!”
“She’s the one. Dad wrote movie scripts, mostly for her. We traveled a lot. Home was often a trailer on location.” He could tell by the expression on her face that she thought his life had been glamorous. Glamour and mystery suited him fine. It had always served as a convenient cover for the truth.
Watching Clemmie, he found himself being curious about her background. He knew it was a bad sign. Men intent on avoiding emotional entanglements should never try to understand women. But looking into those compelling eyes, he decided to break his own rule. Just this once.
“What about you, Clemmie? How did a beautiful woman like you end up in a small place like Peppertown?”
“I was born here. I’ve lived here all my life except for the two months I lived in Atlanta, right after I graduated from college.”
In spite of his intentions to keep an emotional distance, he was intrigued. “Atlanta’s a swinging city. And about as unlike Peppertown as any city can be. Is it true that most country girls long for the big city lights?”
“Perhaps.” Clemmie loved talking with her boarders. It was one of the simple joys of her work. She supposed she was too open about herself and talked entirely too much, but what was the harm? She smiled at Michael. “I suppose that adage about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence is true. It was in my case. I could hardly wait to live in a place where taxicabs outnumbered crickets.”
“And yet you stayed only two months?”
“My parents were killed in an accident.”
He felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms and hug away that little-lost-girl look. “I’m sorry, Clemmie. That must have been damned hard for you.”
“Not so hard. I had my brothers and this lovely old home. I came back to take care of David and Daniel.”
“Lucky guys.”
“Thank you. You’re kind.”
He’d never known how dangerous sweet women were. With a great effort, he abandoned his attempt at friendship and slid into his role of Michael the lady killer.
“No. I’m never kind, Clemmie, only predatory.” He reached out and took her hand. “I suppose I’ll have to fight half a dozen men off to get into your bed.”
Her face flamed so hot she thought the roots of her hair might catch fire. She fought for her composure and her hand – and lost both battles.
“Are you always so brazen, Mr. Forrest?”
“Always, especially when I see something I want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“You.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake. I’ve never—”
“No,” he interrupted smoothly, “probably not.”
“The men I know are gentlemen.”
“Limp spaghetti,” he corrected, chuckling.
“They have manners and morals. For all I know, you might even be married.”
He tipped back his head and roared. None of the women he knew had ever given a damn whether he was married. Their only concern was the size of his bank account.
“You’re delightful, my darling Clementine.”
“You’re outrageous.” She rose from her chair, lifted her chin and glared down at him. “Just to think. I was considering inviting you outside for a glass of sweet tea in the gazebo.”
“I don’t need an invitation, Clemmie. I take what I want.”
Chapter Two
She stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. She was so flustered she forgot a lifetime of training in good Southern manners and left her guest to fend for himself. In the safety of her room, she grabbed her laptop and powered up her email.
From: Clemmie
To: Joanna, Belinda, Molly, Bea, Catherine, Bea
Re: My birthday wish
Good grief. You’re not going to believe this! I wished for a hero on a white charger and ended up with knight in tarnished armor! Really!! This absolutely gorgeous man showed up out of the blue (he’s Michael Forrest, a movie producer) wanting to rent a room while he shoots a horror film. Of course, I invited him in and even gave him some birthday cake, and he ended up licking the icing off my fingers! I thought I’d faint on the spot. Instead I’m hiding in my bedroom. I’m so out of my league!
He’s the most flirtatious, outrageous man I’
ve ever met, and he’s got Virginia in such a state it’s all I can do to keep from going to closet and getting one of those crazy toys we sent each other – you remember that Christmas three years ago when we all decided we’d experiment with sex without breaking Rule Four! Anyway, I’m this close to dragging out a toy in broad daylight with Miss Josephine in the house and Mr. Right and Ready prowling around God knows where! Good lord. What am I going to do?
Clemmie
From: Belinda
To: Clemmie, Janet, Joanna, Molly, Bea, Catherine
Re: Toy VS the Real Thing
Don’t you dare settle for a toy when the Real Thing is right under your nose! For Pete’s sake, Clemmie! Go back out there and flirt with him! What are you wearing? I’ll bet it’s something practical. Put on that cute hot pink tank top and those blue jean short shorts. It’s still not too cool. You’ll knock ‘em dead! Good Lord, you’ve got a dynamite figure. Show it off! It sure worked with Reeve. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on me – and now he can’t keep them off. Thank God! He’s got my Virginia purring like a Persian cat. Why, oh, why can’t I get pregnant?
Belinda
From: Janet
To: Clemmie, Belinda, Bea, Joanna, Molly, Catherine
Re: Caution
Listen, Clemmie. You are not out of anybody’s league, and don’t you forget it. Still, you should slow down and find out more about this man. I’ve read about Michael Forrest somewhere. I can’t remember where or what, but I don’t think it was good. If I had time, I’d do a quick online search, but this medical convention has me so busy I barely have time to say hello to my husband, much less enjoy a long, leisurely turn in the marital bed. Oh, well, there’s much to be said for the quickie.
Janet
From: Molly
