Sweet Home Carolina

by Rice, Patricia

  He’d suffered a lifetime of manipulation, caught between his parents and their eternal battles. He’d learned how to walk away. Walking away might be one of his best Olympic sports. He damned well ought to turn his back on the conniving, adorable little witch.

  And still he kept striding toward the rebellious flower with pink cheeks and defiant green eyes across the lot. The mayor followed, slowing him down. Jacques pounded the mayor’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over, and escaped while the other man stumbled.

  He never turned down a challenge, and she damned well knew she had thrown down a bloody huge gauntlet.

  Amy returned to basting shish kebabs but glanced over her shoulder the instant Jacques reached her. She was wearing those sexy hoops again, the ones that beckoned with their sway against the vulnerable curve of her throat. He would love to have Amy alone and wearing nothing but those provocative earrings.

  The crowd had given up on the unfamiliar verses, and Jo’s voice rang over the clearing. More fireworks exploded, leaving the damp air heavy with sulfur. He thought he might explode with them, but it wasn’t sulfur that would ignite him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, gesturing at the cheering, celebrating throng.

  “No electricity. So…we have to empty the freezers,” she called cheerfully over the myriad pops of a noisy firecracker.

  “And that explains the banner? And the fireworks?” He tried to work up a good tantrum to fight his terror of the decision she was forcing on him.

  “Oh, that.” She waved her spatula nonchalantly. “We’re showing our support. The best man won, and we want to show we’re not sore losers.”

  He’d bet even money that this highly intelligent — extremely devious — woman had incited the population into believing he would actually hire them.

  He ought to be furious at her manipulation. Instead, he felt as if she’d hit him over the head with reality and left him spinning. Amy wasn’t devious.

  She was creating fantasies. She actually thought that if she showed him the importance of the mill to the town he might develop an altruistic streak to match her own. She thought more of him than he did of himself.

  He ought to turn around and march straight back to the Hummer, leave for London tomorrow, and let Pascal handle the sale of the equipment. He could be in his computerized office, scanning in the cards, and developing new designs before the end of the week.

  But Jacques suddenly had no interest in London, offices, or designs. Why did he feel as if those things were the past, a world in which he no longer had any interest? And the brilliant green eyes challenging him and an entire town welcoming him offered a real future?

  He’d lived everywhere and never felt the need to belong anywhere. So why was he still standing here? Surely he didn’t believe he could be the hero these people thought him? That was ridiculous. He was a businessman, not a hero.

  Amy seemed to think otherwise.

  Did she really think that much of him? The possibility dazzled more than the fireworks.

  “What happened to the electricity?” he asked, sidestepping the issue. He had to conquer his rampaging libido, drag his gaze away from her dancing hoops and her sexy mole, and seek good sense.

  “Guess the town couldn’t pay the bill,” she said airily, shrugging and flipping a chicken breast. “Life goes on.”

  “Hog wallow,” he said. “The transformer blew out.”

  “The correct term is hogwash, and it doesn’t matter why the electricity is out. We still have to eat. Good thing it isn’t winter yet. Most everyone uses electric space heaters for heat because fuel oil is too expensive.”

  “You are not making me feel guilty,” he asserted firmly. “The mill has been defunct for over a year.”

  “We’ve lived in hope for a year.” Still smiling, Amy used tongs to place a charcoaled chicken breast on a grilled wheat bun, then handed it to him. “Now, we either get back to work or close up the town and move on. Tomatoes and lettuce are over on the table. That’s Jo’s punch in the red cup, so I’d be wary of drinking it if I were you.”

  She turned her tanned and attractive back on him to put a hot dog on a bun for a teenager. She didn’t raise her voice, argue, or go after him with a knife, and still, she gutted him.

  If his finer qualities rated higher than mediocre on his best day, he did not want to know about it. She definitely saw more in him than was there.

  Dave from the hardware store grabbed Jacques’s elbow. “Speech!” he yelled over the crackle of a string of firecrackers someone had thrown into the bonfire. “It’s not often this town attracts this kind of attention.”

  Dave pointed at a circle of men in rumpled white shirts gulping down free hot dogs and hamburgers while keeping an eye on the Hummer, Luigi, and Jacques. They were also holding plastic cups of Jo’s fiery cocktail. Around them, television camera crews waited, leaning on their equipment and watching the circus. The media.

  Trying to disguise his inner panic, Jacques set the plastic cup aside and slathered Amy’s relish on his bun. He’d learned to appreciate the salad dressing concoction she’d served him for lunch this past week. It beat ketchup, any day.

  He studied the reporters waiting expectantly. What in hell would happen if he announced his true intentions? Would the crowd shoot him like a turkey? Beat him into the blacktop? He figured he and Luigi could double up a lot of soft bellies and maybe cut a swath to escape, but fighting his way out of town didn’t appeal to his pride. He knew he’d been had. He glanced back at Amy, and she gave him a wink.

  Five minutes ago he would have done handstands for that charming wink from the prim Miss Amy. Now, he saw he’d seriously underestimated the power of a woman. He glanced at the stage where Jo was finishing up her song. Flint leaned against the gazebo, arms crossed, watching his wife, but the instant Jo finished singing, they both turned expectantly in Jacques’s direction.

  “Speech, Zack,” Jo called into the microphone.

  The crowd picked up the cry. Speech, speech!

  Hoss and Jimbo, the local rock-climbing expert, leaned against each other, sipping from red plastic cups and grinning. Even Marie Sanderson picked up little Louisa and let her wave at him.

  It was a damned Mickey-Rooney-Judy-Garland presentation. Jacques’s mother had all those corny films on tape and played them while she worked. His father called her art saccharine for good reason. She called her paintings an emotional tribute to hard work and sacrifice. They were both right. Jacques had just never expected to walk into a scene from one of his mother’s sentimental paeans to the working man.

  He glanced at Luigi and the Hummer. He could escape. He didn’t have to do this.

  Josh tugged on his trouser leg, drawing his attention downward.

  The child handed him a melting ice cream cone. “You can have a lick if you want,” he said seriously.

  A tidal wave of emotion buoyed Jacques and swept him out to sea, far beyond the safe waters he knew and into dangerous undertows.

  “Thanks, son,” he muttered, pretending to lick and handing it back to the boy. “That’s good stuff.”

  Josh nodded seriously. “Think Luigi would like some?”

  “I think he would, if you go straight to him and come right back here.”

  The boy grinned. “Yeah, that’s what Mommy always says.”

  The crowd continued shouting, “speech, speech,” and grew silent as Bill and Dave shoved Jacques toward the stage.

  And he let himself be shoved.

  Seventeen

  “You are one mean woman, Amaranth Jane,” Jo murmured in admiration after abandoning the gazebo to Jacques and joining her sister at the grill. “How did you know he wouldn’t go straight for the airport from the courthouse?”

  “Because he hasn’t packed his suitcase,” Amy answered absently. Her heart had stopped beating, and she wasn’t entirely certain her lungs still worked while she waited to hear his decision. The world stopped turning the instant Jacques stepped
up to the microphone.

  She was pretty certain he’d been furious with her when he realized how she’d put him on the spot. But she’d damned well take red-hot pokers to his hide before she’d let him turn his back on the town and walk away unscathed. Maybe people didn’t listen to her, but a crowd like this was hard to ignore.

  A teeny tiny frozen part of her prayed frantically that he was the strong, good man she saw beneath the designer clothing. Nothing in her life had ever led her to believe men were anything except pigeon droppings, and yet she still hoped for the best. Jo used to call her Calamity Jane. Pollyanna Jane was more like it. Despite all the dire warnings in her head, hope filled her heart. She’d thought Evan had beaten the optimism out of her. Apparently, she was wrong. Her breath caught as Jacques stepped up onto the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the mike. He stood tall and confident on the bandstand, observing the crowd from beneath an unruly lock of hair. Even the fireworks silenced at his words. “Hoss and Jimbo,” he added, quirking an eyebrow at the two big men who’d teased him mercilessly. The crowd laughed.

  “He’s good,” Jo acknowledged reluctantly.

  He’d have to be better than good, Amy figured, but she strained to hear what he had to say rather than talk over him.

  “Every one of you is aware of the difficult economy,” Jacques continued, scanning the silenced crowd like a politician. “Quality goods cannot compete on a scale with cheap foreign markets.”

  The crowd murmured agreement. Amy’s fingernails bit into her palms, and she realized she was shivering in anticipation. He looked so comfortable up there, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, shoving back a nubby-textured raw silk sports coat that must have cost more than her wedding dress. He had that self-deprecating Hugh Grant smile happening, with just a hint of dimple. He appeared human and accessible and not like the robot of riches that he portrayed. Every particle of her that was female whimpered in lust.

  And believed in him.

  That realization almost took her down. How had he released the hope she’d locked away?

  “I represent hundreds of stockholders,” Jacques continued in a booming voice that carried through the night, “people like you, who expect me to make money on the savings they’ve entrusted to me.”

  Amy tightened her lips to keep from uttering an expletive. Jacques looked directly at her, and she figured this was where he cut off the limb she’d climbed on to get in his face. She could survive the fall. She simply didn’t want all these anxious people going down with her.

  She wished she could disappear in a puff of smoke rather than disappoint her friends and family, but she stood firm, meeting his gaze without wavering — although the raw strength of his direct midnight stare might give her a heart attack.

  She wasn’t backing down to any man ever again. Hands on hips, she glared back. Jacques grinned.

  “But a conscientious Christian lady in this town has shown me that sometimes it’s better to tend our fields and earn smaller profits now in order to reap greater rewards in the future.”

  Oh Lord. What was he saying? Amy grabbed her throat, and she really did stop breathing.

  He held the crowd spellbound, although several people glanced her way. She wasn’t used to being the object of anyone’s attention, so she disregarded the stares, focused on Jacques, and prayed furiously.

  If he did what he appeared to be doing, she’d gladly believe in Santa Claus.

  “I’m not making any promises,” he said, “but I want to try hiring a small — very small — skilled workforce to produce the historic designs for which this mill was once famous.”

  A cheer or two rang out, but battered by too many defeats, the town waited for the other shoe to fall. Small didn’t encompass much.

  A tear trailed down Amy’s cheek, and she waited, torn by anxiety.

  “If we make this production a success, your mill, and make no mistake — the mill is as much yours as mine — will have room to grow for years into the future. I’ll begin hiring mechanical staff to repair and maintain the equipment starting Friday of this week.” He shouted this last over the explosion of screams and cheers and firecrackers.

  The remainder of the fireworks left over from their rained-out Fourth of July celebration exploded in a bouquet of sparks against the black clouds overhead. The local band plugged into the generator and struck up a guitar-whining “Star-Spangled Banner” at the burst of an American flag in red, white, and blue stars across the sky.

  Tears poured down Amy’s cheeks, and sobs racked her. The crowd shouted, “Zack, Zack,” and Jo leaned over to whisper, “Guess there should be a Union Jack up there, too, hmm?”

  Laughing in relief, hugging herself to hold in her hysterics, Amy nodded. It wasn’t everything she’d wanted, but it was a start. And Jacques had done it. He was opening the mill — they had a future!

  Instead of meekly caving to Jacques’s distracting charm, she’d pushed back, and he’d responded just as she’d hoped he would, proving he was the savvy man she thought she’d seen beneath the surface glamour. She was still too rattled to completely grasp what had just happened.

  When she saw him heading their way carrying Louisa and followed by their mother, her remaining defenses shattered. She couldn’t face him without her shield of anger. She couldn’t trust herself not to fall into his arms and sob all over him. And she knew where that led.

  Amy turned and ran for the protection of the darkened café.

  * * *

  Fighting his way through reporters, cameras, and microphones shoved in his face, Jacques watched the reward he’d worked to earn run away, and he froze in shock. What the devil had he done wrong?

  He wasn’t used to women running away, especially after he’d handed them what they wanted. He had expected.… Hell, he’d expected her to act like the women in his set — flinging themselves in his arms and kissing him all over and pretending they were his for the asking.

  He hadn’t been thinking with his head at all. He’d just committed himself to the impossible in return for another chance to get his hopes crushed.

  The little girl in his arms shouted “Wheee!” and pounded his starched shirt with grimy hands at the sight and sound of rockets ringing through the air. He was still stunned by what he’d done, but Amy’s reaction topped his performance in spades.

  “Amaranth doesn’t like people to see her cry,” Marie said matter-of-factly, reaching for Louisa. “She’s probably scrubbing pots.”

  Marie wandered off with her granddaughter, leaving Jacques to sort it out. Why would she cry?

  Men pounded his back again. Jimbo handed him another of Jo’s plastic cups. He was called “Zack” so many times he forgot he’d ever been called anything else.

  He tried to follow the path Amy had taken, but men with weathered faces and oil-stained hands approached him, asking questions about the jobs he’d offered. Women hung in the background, listening eagerly, their lined faces shining with hope.

  He felt like a shit.

  He offered so little, and they thanked him too much. He’d just wanted an excuse to stay and play a while longer. He really wasn’t making that much of a difference. The business would probably lose so much money the first year that he’d still end up selling the place.

  His competitive instincts despised losing money. He hated losing, period. The odds were totally against him.

  But maybe it was time to start testing odds instead of taking on sure things?

  Tightening his mouth in resolve, Jacques shook off his shock, pounded the backs of men twice his size until they staggered, and forced his way through the crowd in the direction he wanted to go.

  Toward Amy — Amaranth Jane. Somehow, the outlandishly defiant name finally fit her.

  He approached the Stardust from the side alley. He didn’t see any light in the upstairs loft she and the children had moved into. Striding around Myrtle the Pig on the corner, he saw a small light through the café’s mullioned
front window.

  He leaned against the door and it opened. People seldom locked doors in Northfork, but the café was usually locked to indicate when it was closed.

  Amy didn’t look up at his entrance. In the light of a kerosene lamp, she carefully smoothed creamy icing over an array of cupcakes. Patiently, she pressed candies into them, then licked crumbs off her fingers before reaching for a towel.

  “You ran away,” he said accusingly.

  She didn’t answer, but returned to pressing candies into icing.

  He didn’t know what he was doing here in this preposterously decorated room on the far side of the world from anywhere. He had probably just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  He’d done it for her. And she had run away. Why?

  A brown curl fell over Amy’s nose, and she blew it away while she carefully placed a candy corn nostril on a pig snout.

  In that moment, watching her gentle patience, something hard and brittle inside Jacques shattered. Emotions he did not dare examine broke free, and he acted on a flood of longing for something he could not name. He leaned over the counter, tucked the escaped curl behind her ear, and brushed his lips against hers, reveling in their surprise and the hungry clinging that declared her true desires.

  Amy gasped and backed away, rubbing her icing-coated hands on her apron. Through the dim light of the lantern, he saw her eyes widen like big cat eyes. Bracing his hands on the counter, Jacques vaulted over it rather than waste time letting her escape around the barrier.

  “You are a vixen, Amaranth Jane,” he murmured, crowding her against the cold stove. “And I demand a reward for performing to your expectations.”

  “I didn’t…. I….”

  He hushed her with a kiss. She twisted her fingers in his shirt as if to shove him away, but she forgot to shove. Her mouth was as hot and eager as his once he persuaded her to open for him. In triumph, he clasped his arms around her lovely bare waist and lifted her against him, savoring the crush of her ripe breasts against the hard wall of his chest while they drank of each other.