She smiled sweetly. "It's good-bye. Isn't that a good word?"
He nodded. "Used in the proper context, it's a terrific word, but it doesn't apply in this situation. An invitation to come in would work wonders, though."
Brett started to argue the point, but a bell dinged in the back room at that moment. If she continued her debate with Sam, she would ruin a batch of candy by letting it stay in the refrigerator too long.
She stepped to one side and gestured for him to come in. "Shut the door and lock it again, please. There's some scarecrows that need my attention in the back room or I would do it myself. I don't want any more late-night visitors."
She didn't wait around to see if he did as she asked. Removing the scarecrow lollipops from the refrigerator took priority over entertaining Mr. Sam Horne. She took the mold, with its scarecrows made of four different colors of chocolate candy, and turned it upside down to release the scarecrows onto a clean cloth spread out on a long worktable. Next to them were lollipops in the shapes of autumn leaves and ears of multicolored Indian corn.
Brett worked quickly and efficiently, wiping down the mold and starting to fill it again by applying the first color, which was yellow for the hands, eyes, nose, and hair. When she was through, she slid the tray back into the refrigerator and set the timer again.
She didn't need to look up to know Sam had finally followed her into the workroom. At the moment she didn't want to analyze why she was so aware of every move he made.
Or why her palms became damp and her mouth went dry every time she looked at him.
"You have an interesting selection of merchandise out front," he said as he leaned his hip against the table she was using. "I didn't realize suckers came in that many varieties."
She quirked a brow. "Suckers come in all sizes and shapes. Wasn't it P. T. Barnum who said there was a sucker born every minute? I try very hard not to be one myself."
He gestured toward the lollipops spread out on the table. "I was talking about those things with the sticks in them."
"Oh, those suckers," she said with a cocky grin. "One of the women who works for me is from England and she refers to them as lollies. Whatever you want to call them, they are the backbone of the store."
He picked up one of the completed pumpkin lollipops and bit into it. Brett silently told herself she now needed to make seventy-six more, not seventy-five.
Sam gave her an odd look. "This tastes like pumpkin pie."
"Good. It's supposed to." She looked up as he was reaching for another one. "I'm glad you like the merchandise, Mr. Horne, but the more you eat, the more I have to make to fill orders."
He took one anyway. "So that's why you're here instead of at home."
"How did you know I wasn't home?"
"I phoned the private number at the plantation. There was no answer."
"For good reason. I don't stay there when I work late in the shop."
He had started to reach for another piece of candy, but stopped to look at her. "You don't live at the plantation? Where do you live, then?"
She didn't correct his idea that she didn't live at Maddox Hill. She pointed upward. "I fixed the rooms above this shop into an apartment." She bent over another mold. "What brings you here at this hour of the night, Mr. Horne? Or should I guess?"
"You still haven't told me why you don't want us to film on your property."
She continued working, her movements automatic. "I believe I did say I have my reasons."
"Yes, you did. But you didn't say what they were. I thought we might discuss your reservations and come to some kind of agreement."
"I thought we already had. You just won't accept it."
Sam was watching her hands as she expertly filled the pumpkin molds with orange-colored chocolate. "Can I try that?"
Surprised by his request, she looked up. "Why?"
His lopsided smile did odd things to her insides. "You have a very suspicious nature, Red. You should work on that. I, on the other hand, have a curious nature. I like to know how things work." He inclined his head toward her. "And how some people's minds work."
Brett debated for four seconds. Then she stepped back and handed the decorator bag to him. "Here you go."
He stared at the cone-shaped cloth as though it would detonate. "What do I do with this?"
She smiled slowly, her eyes shining with mischief. Laughter was in her voice when she replied, "You don't really want me to answer that, do you?"
Sam felt the tension of arousal coil in his groin when she smiled at him with a provocative gleam in her eyes. She was a sassy handful, and he intended to put his hands on her real soon.
"Let me put this another way," he drawled. "Would you please show me how to work this whatever-it-is?"
She twisted the top to push the tinted chocolate down toward the tip. Putting the bag in his hand, she wrapped his fingers around it. "When you have the tip over the mold, you squeeze a little to make the melted candy come out. You don't need much pressure, otherwise you'll overflow the mold. Put in only as much as the indentation will hold. Here, let me give you a sheet to practice on. I need these scarecrows for an order."
Sam took the sheet of molds she'd chosen from a slotted shelf above the table and looked at the shapes. "These are pigs!" he said.
"Hmm," she murmured. "So they are."
"I think you've got the wrong fairy tale. As the Big Bad Wolf, I'm supposed to sneak into your grandmother's house, not mess around with the Three Little Pigs' houses."
"That's my great-great-great-grandmother's house," she said, "and I think you'll have more luck huffing and puffing at brick houses than trying to sneak into mine."
He gave her a slow smile that made her insides feel as gooey as the candy in the decorator bag. "We'll see," he said, and turned his attention to the molds.
His first attempt overflowed. Brett didn't remind him to apply pressure to the bag gently. He would figure that out himself. His second one was better, but still too much candy came out. He scraped off the excess with his finger, breaking a number of health codes. Since she didn't plan to sell what he was making, she didn't say anything.
She noticed he didn't let his mistakes remain. They were wiped out and done over until they were correct. She had the proof of something she had suspected. Sam Horne was a perfectionist. That trait was a good one for a film director, but a difficult one for the people around him if he expected them to live up to his standards on a daily basis. She much preferred the other aspect of Sam's nature that she'd recognized easily, his curiosity and avid search for answers. In that, he was just like her father.
Phillip Southern was a well-known archaeologist who had spent his life searching for answers to mysteries that might never be solved. With painstaking detail, he followed each clue, never giving up until he was satisfied he'd explored as much as possible. At the present time he was investigating a recently discovered Mayan village.
The only mystery Dr. Southern hadn't been able to solve, Brett thought ruefully, was why his wife had taken her own life.
She wondered if perhaps she had more of her father's questing nature than she'd originally thought. She knew she wouldn't be able to put an end to the questions that arose from her mother's death until she found the answers.
She continued with her orders, putting another mold in the refrigerator and taking several out. After turning the candy out of the molds, she glanced at Sam. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. He was bent over the pig mold, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on filling another one.
She couldn't help wondering if he applied the same intensity to everything he did. That thought provoked some interesting scenarios that she tried to blot out of her mind. If she thought about Sam Horne, she would have to admit that he wasn't the arrogant, self-absorbed prima donna she'd expected. That man would have been easy to ignore. And to forget. This man wasn't. Brett would find it easier to shrug off an audit by the IRS than to pretend the a
ttraction sizzling around them didn't exist. Or that she wasn't drawn to his sense of humor, his inborn confidence, and the sensitivity she'd witnessed in his films.
She was doing the right thing in not thinking about him.
After consulting her next order, Brett chose the correct mold and continued the procedure, this time making more autumn leaves.
Sam finished his tray and placed his hand on the small of his back as he straightened. "This is more difficult than it looks. What do I do with this?"
"The mold goes on one of the shelves in the fridge for a few minutes to harden."
When Sam opened the door, he stared at the interior. The refrigerator had been specially fitted with a number of shelves approximately three inches apart with several deeper shelves near the top. Most of the racks were empty except for several trays of grinning pumpkins, scarecrows, and preening turkeys. He slid the mold he'd just completed onto one of the shelves, surprised at the sense of satisfaction he felt from doing such a simple thing.
Remembering all the candy bouquets and gift baskets he'd seen in the other room, he asked, "Do you make all the stuff you pack in the baskets?"
"Just the candy and occasionally some royal icing decorations for a cake. I have two people who help me when there are a lot of orders."
He walked back to the table. "Where are they tonight?"
"I don't need their help tonight."
He picked up the stack of orders and did a fast calculation of the numbers listed on them. "Do you plan on making all these tonight?"
"Hmm," she answered as she continued squeezing the candy into the leaf molds. When he didn't say anything else, she glanced up at him and saw he was frowning. "What?"
"I was going to suggest we go out for a drink somewhere and talk."
Brett turned back to her work. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm not going to change my mind. Besides, I don't drink."
"Not even water?"
"I meant alcohol, and so did you."
"Yeah, I did," he admitted with a wry smile. "I was thinking of the place just down the block, the Twelve Oaks restaurant. Taking a person out for drinks or dinner is the usual procedure when trying to soften him or her up during business negotiations. Though I usually let Darren do all that schmoozing stuff."
"But you were going to make an exception for me? How sweet," she said with a twist of sarcasm.
Her shoulder was sending slashes of pain up to her neck again, so she stopped what she was doing, straightening and shrugging her shoulders.
"What's wrong?" he asked when she grimaced.
"Occupational hazard." She massaged her left shoulder. "I thought I was in pretty good physical shape until I started this business. I made more individual confections at the hotel, but not that many repetitive projects as I do here. The repeated motion and bending over causes some discomfort after a while."
"I noticed. My back was complaining just from doing one of those sheets, and you've done seven in the same amount of time. By the looks of the supply already finished, you were at it for some time before I arrived." He moved away from the table, walking behind her. "Don't tense up any more than you already are," he said as she stiffened the moment he touched her. "Your shoulders are practically up to your ears."
Lord, his hands felt wonderful, she thought as she closed her eyes. "You have such a way with words, Mr. Horne." She made a soft sighing sound. "Your hands aren't bad either."
Sam had to struggle to keep those hands from wandering any farther than her shoulders. Not every woman looked as good from the back as she did from the front, but Brett Southern was the exception. His thumbs brushed over her spine several times, then her slender neck, drawing murmurs of pleasure from her that were not helping him control the massage or his thoughts. What he'd meant as an impersonal gesture to ease the tension in her shoulders was causing him a great deal of discomfort in his own body.
As her taut muscles loosened Brett noticed the difference in the way Sam touched her from when he'd started the massage. His fingers still flexed and rubbed over the cords in her neck and shoulders, but more slowly, and his stroking was definitely more arousing than relaxing. She could have sworn he was standing closer, too, the heat from his body warming her entire back.
The temptation to lean against him was almost stronger than she could resist. Certain parts of her body that he wasn't touching were aching to feel his hands.
She was getting slightly hysterical with panic when the timer went off. Saved by the bell, she thought wildly as she stepped away from him. "Thanks," she said offhandedly, and walked over to the refrigerator.
The cool air flowed over her skin, never so welcome as it was at that moment. She would like to have stood in front of the opened refrigerator longer, but Sam might wonder what she was doing. Or worse, ask her why she was standing there. In the short time she'd known him, he hadn't been shy about asking whatever he wanted to know.
She certainly didn't have an answer for him. Or herself. Her skin felt on fire, and her blood seemed to have turned into molten lava. She didn't under-stand why she was reacting this way. It wasn't as though she'd never been touched by a man before.
But not this man.
She had to think about which tray she was supposed to take out, which irritated her even more than her response to Sam's touch. Damn him, she thought. He made her forget what she was doing. Finally figuring out the problem, she removed the correct tray and carried it over to a different area of the long table. Turning the mold over, she tapped it to release the candy onto another clean white cloth.
When she felt more in control of herself, she turned around to face him. "I have about three more hours of work. If you want to help, that's fine with me, but I don't think this is how you usually spend your free time. Why don't I just tell you again that I won't allow my mother's home to be invaded by Hollywood, and then you can trot back to your hotel room and sulk."
"San Francisco," he said easily.
"What about it?"
"That's where our headquarters are, not Hollywood."
She shook her head in exasperation. "Are all directors such sticklers for accuracy?"
He shrugged. "Beats me. I haven't worked with that many. Some of my friends are in the same line of work, but we usually don't talk shop when we get together." He inclined his head to one side and watched her with a predatory expression, like a hawk spotting a young chick. "You just referred to the plantation as your mother's. You did that on another occasion. The title is in your name. My producer checked."
Brett stepped over to the sink and turned on the faucet to wash her hands. "Legally, Maddox Hill belongs to me. My mother left it to me in her will."
Sam's eyes narrowed as he watched her. In only a few seconds she'd managed to undo all the good effects of his massage. Perhaps he was to blame by asking her questions about Maddox Hill, which she obviously didn't want to talk about. If she stood any more stiffly, she would snap in two.
His gut instinct was telling him he'd struck a nerve by talking about her mother. A very raw one. Why? he wondered. Perhaps if he prodded a little, he'd uncover a couple of Brett's mysteries. He didn't even try to tell himself it was because he was looking for a way to convince her to let him use her plantation. His interest in this intriguing and enigmatic woman was fast becoming entirely personal.
"The plantation was left to you and not your father?" he asked. "Isn't that a little unusual when the spouse is still alive?"
She grabbed a towel to dry her hands, not looking at him. "My mother was a Maddox, and therefore, so is her daughter. The plantation was originally built as a wedding present for Maletha Maddox, my great-great-great-grandmother, in the early 1800s. She left it to her granddaughter, who married a third cousin named Maddox. My mother's mother also married a distant relative named Maddox." Glancing at him, Brett smiled at his raised eyebrow. "I have a very narrow family tree. The gist of this long-winded explanation is that the property is handed down to the women in the family."
/> "Are you planning on following the Maddox tradition?"
"Alas, the supply of Maddox cousins has dwindled over the years."
"Do you have any man hovering around you on a regular basis?"
She made an exaggerated examination of the workroom. "I don't see any at the moment."
"That makes things less complicated for both of us."
She stared at him, and in her eyes he saw the same undeniable attraction he was feeling. After a moment, though, she dropped her gaze to her hands as though it was crucial to get every drop of water off them.
"I saw your recent documentary on public television about unsung heroes," she said.
Sam hadn't been expecting that. But then he should be expecting the unexpected from her by now.
He told himself that it didn't make any difference what she thought of his films. He didn't need constant approval and flattery from everyone he knew, only his own sense of accomplishment.
Oddly enough, though, Brett's opinion did matter to him.
"Is that why you don't want the public knowing about my involvement with Maddox Hill?" he asked. "You didn't like my work?"
She jerked her head up, a shocked expression on her face. "My refusal has nothing to do with your ability as a filmmaker. Your documentary about the women who sacrificed so much, sometimes even their lives, to help runaway slaves make their way north on the Underground Railroad, was very moving and extremely well done. You have to be aware of that. The issue was presented factually but sensitively. The next day I bought a couple of books, to read more about the subject. Your talent as a director has nothing to do with my decision."
"Then what does?" He took a couple of steps closer, ridiculously pleased by her approval. "My staff has checked out the other plantations within a hundred-mile radius of Fredericksburg. Other than Chatham, yours is the only one that fits all my criteria. We will guarantee to do no construction without your permission. A couple of the rooms will be used for a few shots, but most of the scenes will be exterior. As you know, the house was used as a hospital during the battle of Fredericksburg. Instead of concentrating on the military aspects of the battle, I'm featuring a physician who kept a diary during the war."
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