by Eve Gaddy
Her lips curved into a reluctant smile. “Close but no cigar. And I do realize you had no way of knowing you were walking into a fire. Literally,” she added, and grimaced. “It’s hardly your fault.”
“True, but don’t let that bother you. If you want to take your mood out on me, have at it.”
She choked off a laugh and opened the door. “Thanks, but I’ll restrain myself.”
He followed her outside, where he caught a whiff of river, even above the pungent smell of charred wood. “Can you see the river from the house?”
“From some of the upstairs windows. The levees weren’t always this high, but then the Corps of Engineers started channeling the Mississippi so that it rises, rather than spreads out, the way it used to. That meant floods, so they built up the levees.”
“You ever go down to the river and throw a line in?”
She stopped so suddenly that he bumped into her. At least he’d caught up with her now. The moon came out and he could see her staring at him as if he were crazy.
“Fish? Do I look like the sort of person who fishes?”
He considered her, then reached out and took one of her hands. The palm was rough, the grip strong, as he’d discovered earlier. “I don’t know. You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.” Louisiana, old money, aristocratic roots—all of that added up to what he’d thought he’d find in Casey Fontaine. “I expected a decorative Southern belle who would be afraid to get her hands dirty. Obviously, that isn’t you. You’re not afraid of hard work. So why wouldn’t you fish?”
“Fishing isn’t hard work. At least, not the kind of fishing you’re talking about. It’s a leisure activity. I don’t have time for it.” She tugged her hand out of his and started toward the garçonnière.
“No leisure activities at all?”
“I don’t have time for hobbies.” They reached their destination a few moments later. She pulled out a key, unlocked it and shoved open the door. “The garçonnière’s pretty basic,” she said. “Bedroom and bath upstairs, sitting room, kitchen and a half-bath down. In the old days, these were used as bachelor quarters.”
He stepped inside and waited as she turned the light on and entered behind him. “So, what do you do that takes up all your time?”
She crossed to the tiny kitchen and started opening cabinets. “I’m a farmer. I raise sugarcane. That keeps me plenty busy.”
He walked into the kitchen with her, watching appreciatively as she bent down to pull a coffeepot from the lower cabinet. “Too busy for anything else?”
Her head raised and her eyes narrowed. “Define ‘anything else.”’
“Like I said, hobbies. Swimming, waterskiing, tennis.” He smiled and added, “Gambling.”
“Sorry, I get enough of the great outdoors from farming. And whenever I’ve gone to a casino and gambled, I’ve felt like someone was stealing my money. No offense,” she added sweetly.
He chuckled at that. “None taken. So tell me about raising sugarcane.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d be interested.”
“I haven’t met a lot of farmers.” Certainly not any as pretty as Casey Fontaine. “Indulge me.”
“It’s too late to go into the whole thing, but if you’re really interested, ask me again another day. I’ll tell you this, though. There’s a lot more to it than most people think. We’ve been chosen by Louisiana State’s bio-agricultural research center to test a new cane hybrid. That requires skill in raising the cane, and, unfortunately, a lot of paperwork.” She glanced at him and her eyes flashed. “Farming isn’t as simple as sticking something in the ground and watching it grow.”
“I don’t know much about farming, but I do know that.”
“Sorry, I get a little defensive sometimes.” She opened another cabinet and showed him the coffee and filters. “We usually have breakfast at seven, but obviously, that isn’t going to happen in the morning. Unless Jackson goes into town and picks up beignets. You’ll probably have to make do with coffee, here. There are some soft drinks in the refrigerator,” she added, motioning to the mini-fridge.
Nick leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “So, back to hobbies. What about men? Are you too busy for them, too?”
“Men?” She looked amused. “Men aren’t a hobby.”
“They are to some women,” he said with feeling. “What do you consider them?”
She cocked her head and looked at him. “At the moment, a pain in the butt. Are you always this nosy?”
“Most of the time. It’s a failing of mine.”
She laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
Her eyes were a deep, jade green, crystal clear and beautiful, fringed with long, dark lashes. Bedroom eyes that sucked a man in deep and made him forget other women existed.
“I’m honest, all right. Can I tell you something?”
Her eyes took on a wary light. “That depends on what it is.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing terrible. I’m very attracted to you.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“I said I am attracted to you.”
She looked at him incredulously. “You’re coming on to me? Now?”
“No, I’m being very careful not to come on to you.” Though he wanted to. Badly. “I know, the timing stinks,” he added.
“Yeah, you could say that. So let me get this straight,” she said. “If we hadn’t just had a fire at Bellefontaine, you’re saying you would come on to me.”
“Oh yeah. Definitely.”
Casey stared at him, then laughed. “You’re the strangest man.”
“No, just honest.”
“Why are you flirting with me, Nick?”
He smiled but answered candidly. “Because when I flirt with you, you don’t look so sad and upset.”
She grew more pensive, wrapping her arms around her waist as if to comfort herself.
Nick suddenly knew a completely alien urge to take that burden on himself. What kind of spell was she weaving? Why was he succumbing to it so easily? Women didn’t normally affect him the way Casey did.
After a long pause, she spoke. “My home almost burned down.”
“I know. It must be hard to take in.” He’d seen how much it bothered her, and Jackson, too, when they’d feared the whole place would collapse. But Nick had never had a place to call home, had never been anywhere he couldn’t leave as easily as he’d come to it. What would it be like to have a home, he wondered, one that had been in your family for generations? One that mattered to you.
“It is. I don’t want to see the damage in the morning. I’m afraid of what we’ll find.”
“You’ll feel better after you’ve slept. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Maybe.” She walked out of the tiny kitchen and toward the door. Once there, she stopped and turned around. “So the flirting was purely altruistic?”
He crossed the room until he was standing in front of her. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
She considered him. “No.”
He allowed his voice to deepen, soften. “You’d be right. Smart woman.”
“True,” she said, and flashed him a smile. “Smart enough to recognize a flirt when I see one.”
He watched her walk away and rubbed a hand over his chest. What a woman.
AS SHE’D SUSPECTED, Casey didn’t sleep well. Her dreams were full of fire, smoke and fear. And if she wasn’t dreaming about the fire, or lying awake worrying about how bad the damage would prove to be, she was thinking—or worse, dreaming—about Nick Devlin. He must be a devil, she thought, because she couldn’t figure out why he’d made such an impression on her in such a short time.
Consequently, she didn’t hear the alarm, and woke to Jackson banging on her door telling her the Fire Inspector was due in half an hour. Luckily, she’d showered the night before, but she wondered if her hair still smelled like smoke. She wasn’t sure any amount of shampoo could fix that. She threw on some clothes, an old T
-shirt, jeans and sneakers, brushed her hair and ran downstairs.
At the foot of the stairs she hesitated, torn between putting off her first sight of the house in the daylight and getting the worst part over with. She squared her shoulders and went out the front.
It was as bad as she’d feared. The exterior was charred, parts of it badly burned. There were holes in the roof made by the firemen in order to get more water in. All the cabinetry had burned, and there were ashes where the table had once stood. She felt nauseated just looking at the wreckage.
After circling the building, she found Jackson on the back porch, a screened-in area that ran half the length of the house. Hanging ferns, potted flowers of all varieties, and heavy, plantation-style cane furniture made this area one of Casey’s favorites.
Whenever she had some time, she liked to curl up with a book or magazine underneath the lazily turning ceiling fans and watch the wildlife along the levee. Or watch the birds clustered around one of the many beautiful fountains that graced the grounds of Bellefontaine. When Betty canned, the porch doubled as another kitchen. Luckily, it had a stove and refrigerator separate from those in the kitchen, so they would still have a place to cook.
Jackson was reading the paper, just as he did every morning. Except, this wasn’t a typical morning. She nodded at him, then grabbed a cup and poured some coffee from the carafe on the table. “Where did you come up with the coffeepot? Don’t tell me it was spared?”
He glanced up from the paper. “Nope. Raided the other garçonnière. I brought the microwave over, too. Megan and Tanya have already moved back to the big house.”
“Good, the microwave will come in handy.” Especially since that and a toaster were about the only cooking utensils Casey used. She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “No need to ask who prepared this. It’s awful.”
“Don’t gripe. You didn’t have to make it,” he reminded her.
“Have you seen the kitchen yet?” she asked, cradling her coffee cup.
He raised his head and looked at her. “I took a look first thing this morning. Unfortunately. What about you?”
Casey nodded. “Just now. Jackson, it’s a total loss.”
“Maybe. But I think it looks worse than it is. I’m sure we’ll be able to have it restored, but it’s going to take some work.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, and drank more coffee. She fidgeted a bit, then changed the subject. “Where’s Betty?”
“Picking up some staples. And some beignets.” He shook out the paper and folded it.
Megan’s favorite. Casey smiled, wondering what magnitude of bribe Jackson had offered Betty to get her to stop at the Dubonnet Café in town, a place modeled after the Café du Monde in New Orleans. Betty liked to make her own beignets, which, she claimed with some justification, were infinitely superior. But Betty wouldn’t be baking beignets anytime soon, not until things settled down.
“Betty will be here before long. With the kitchen off-limits and smoke damaged to boot, we don’t even have milk or bread.” He sipped his own coffee. “Tastes okay to me. But you’re welcome to make some more.”
Casey threw him a dirty look. If anyone made worse coffee than Jackson, it was her. Sometimes she thought if Betty wasn’t there to take care of them, they’d starve to death. “Have you called Maman and Duke yet?” Casey couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t called her father Duke. Some people thought it odd, but the whole world called him Duke…if not “The Duke.”
“No. I checked their itinerary and they’ll be unreachable for a few days. They’re on a sailboat in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. I don’t think this is a conversation for ship-to-shore radio.”
Casey winced. “You’re right about that. It will be bad enough over the telephone.” Their parents’ tour around the world was their first extended trip together in Casey’s memory. Though Duke had left Casey and Jackson in charge of the plantation, he’d done it grudgingly. She knew he and Jackson had had words about it.
Casey and Duke didn’t clash quite as much, probably because her interest lay almost completely in the growing of the cane, and Duke found farming the least fascinating part of the sugar business. But Jackson showed every sign of following in his father’s footsteps. Wheeling and dealing came naturally to her brother. So far, Duke hadn’t given him much credit, and even less control over the plantation or the business end of it. It had to chafe, though Jackson was usually good at hiding his feelings.
The Duke found giving up control difficult, if not impossible. It didn’t matter to him that his son was twenty-eight, his daughter thirty-one. He didn’t think they had the experience to handle things without him. It was only at Angelique’s insistence that he’d gone on the trip at all.
“Actually, I think their being unreachable is probably a blessing,” Casey said. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them about the fire.”
“Not tell them?” He looked surprised, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Why not?”
“It’ll just worry them, and then Duke will be chomping at the bit to come home. You know he won’t think you and I can handle it.”
“True. And Maman has really been looking forward to this trip.” He nodded and set the paper down. “It’s not as if Duke’s going to do anything we couldn’t do. Except drag Maman home immediately once we give him the news.”
They looked at each other for a moment and then both smiled. “All right,” Jackson said. “I’ll tell Aunt Esme. I have a feeling she’ll agree it’s best not to tell them for now.” He glanced out the window and called out to his friend. “Nick, we’re on the porch.”
Nick opened the screen door and stepped inside, a coffee mug in his hand. Casey looked at it longingly. It was bound to be better than what she was drinking.
“’Morning.” He nodded and smiled at Casey. “Didn’t you say the Fire Inspector was coming?” he asked Jackson.
“Yeah, he should be here any minute now.” The front doorbell rang just then, a ponderous series of gongs.
Casey laughed as Nick’s eyes widened. “One of the earlier Fontaines went in for gothic sound effects. Duke—our father—has always liked it.”
Jackson got up. “I’m sure that’s Jensen. Are you coming, Casey?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Anything to put off seeing that wreckage again. Once had been bad enough. She fiddled with the coffee cups, pretending to tidy the tabletop. Seeing the destruction in the light of day had really shaken her. Even the Civil War hadn’t brought Bellefontaine down. The thought of a grease fire doing what the Yankee Army hadn’t been able to do made her cringe.
“Cheer up,” Nick said, as if reading her mind. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking.”
He was far too perceptive for her tastes. How could he see through her so easily, when even her own family was fooled by her tough-girl facade? “No? Someone deliberately tried to burn down Bellefontaine. How much worse could it be?”
“They could have succeeded.”
Her gaze dropped and she rubbed her temples. “You’re right, of course. And no one was hurt. So it could be worse. But the house…the kitchen…”
“That isn’t as bad as you’re thinking, either. I took a look at it. The kitchen’s probably a total loss, but at least from the outside, the fire doesn’t seem to have spread any farther.”
She made an impatient gesture. “I know, I saw it, too.” There was so much work to be done. “We still have to find someone to restore it. Bellefontaine is a historical landmark. We can’t just have any old carpenter fix it. We need a licensed craftsman, and a person like that isn’t so easy to find.”
“I can help you out there.”
Frankly skeptical, she said, “Right. You just happen to know a licensed craftsman who specializes in historic landmarks.”
“Sure do. Adam Ross. He’s an old friend of mine. Actually, he was one of my college roommates.”
“Is there anyone who isn’t an old friend of yours?”
�
��You,” he said, and smiled. “But I was thinking you might be a new one. I’ll get you Adam’s number. Check out his references—I think you’ll be impressed.”
Ross was worth a try. She didn’t know of anyone, though Esme might. “Thanks. If this works out, we’ll owe you one.”
“Yeah?” He gave her that devil’s smile again. “I like the sound of that.”
“Nick—”
He was suddenly standing a few inches in front of her. She found herself mesmerized by those incredible blue eyes. How did he do that?
“Have dinner with me.”
“What is this, more flirting in the line of duty?”
“Believe me, Casey,” he said, his mouth lifting at the corners, “I don’t ask a woman out because I think it’s my duty. When I ask a woman out it’s because I want to be with her.”
Unwillingly fascinated, she continued to stare at him. What would that mouth feel like if— She cut the thought off, irritated at her own weakness. Well, no wonder. She was grasping at any distraction, knowing she had to face the fire inspection. And Nick Devlin was some distraction.
Finally she said, “You move fast.”
“Sometimes.” He touched her hair. “Your hair is beautiful. But you know that, don’t you?” He rubbed a strand between his fingers. “Soft. Like silk.”
She stepped back and shoved her hands through the hair he’d been fondling, tossing it behind her. “It’s just hair. I’ve been thinking about cutting it.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
Damn it, what was with her? She stuck her hands in her pockets and glared at him. It had been a long time since she’d met a man who actually interested her enough to consider going out with him. She wasn’t entirely comfortable about that. Why Nick? Anyone that smooth was probably too much like her ex-fiancé, Jordan Whittaker. Suave, charming…and a notorious womanizer. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
“Look, Nick, I don’t—”
“Why don’t you think about it?” he suggested.
