Carolina Girl

by Patricia Rice

He prayed Jared would arrive before four. He hated to call Cissy and tell her he couldn’t make it. She’d not looked happy with him this morning.

  He wished he had more experience in seducing women, but the challenge of persuading Aurora Jenkins into bed could be just what he needed to shake him out of the doldrums.

  The idea of waking up to a firecracker like Aurora captured his imagination. Did she wake up waving a gavel of justice? Would she wear frilly nightgowns like her underwear or practical nightshirts like her suits? She presented a challenge so unique that he hungered to explore far more than the physical.

  That realization rocked his world. Usually, once he released a little pent-up sexual energy, women bored him, so he didn’t expend much time or effort in learning about them. Maybe settling for easy women had been his mistake.

  Midge bounced on his back as he jogged along the shady edge of the beach where gnarled oaks and pines grew, reminding him that he was supposed to be taking care of her, not indulging in sexual fantasies.

  Ahead of him was the rock jetty that marked the edge of Cleo’s property. He knew from the maps that the state park would start beyond the jetty. Jogging past the rocky outcropping, he ran along part of the Bingham estate, but this acreage had no road access—which was why he stopped short at the sight of a surveyor’s stake.

  He ran the beach every morning and knew the stake hadn’t been there yesterday.

  At the sound of voices deeper in the thicket of woods, he jogged inland. Kismet’s family lived back here somewhere. Maybe he just heard the kids.

  Humidity and mosquitoes were a deterrent. Blackberry thickets abounded. Halting, worried about the infant on his back, Clay scanned the wooded area ahead, searching for some sign of human life forms.

  He located the yellow hard hats of the surveyors walking toward him just as he was about to leave.

  “You working for the state?” he called, unwilling to take Midge any deeper into the marshy area.

  Tucking a pencil into his shirt pocket, one of the men glanced around until he saw Clay. Shrugging, he picked up a piece of his equipment and folded it. “Nah. Just some builder.” He squinted closer at the carrier on Clay’s back. “You know you got that thing on backward?”

  Clay didn’t much care how he had the carrier on so long as it kept Midge burbling happily. “I didn’t know this land had been sold.”

  “Doesn’t have to be sold, far as I know. Just needs to be under contract.” Losing interest in the conversation, the surveyor returned to packing up his instruments.

  Under contract. With a sinking feeling, Clay jogged back down the path to the beach. Aurora wasn’t going to like this at all. Neither was Cleo. And what about Kismet’s family? If some developer had found one of the Bingham family to sign a contract, what would happen to the Watkinses? As he understood it, the kid’s family lived a precarious existence. They’d never survive if they were thrown out of their home.

  Falling back on his usual motto, he decided he had his problems; they had theirs. Since he didn’t know how to solve either, he would simply let Aurora know what he’d seen. She would know where to scout around and find out about a pending contract.

  He hated the idea that she might give up her fight to preserve the wetlands and the turtles. How would he ever get to know her then?

  Did he really want to know a warrior princess who leaped into the fray as surely as he avoided it?

  Oh yeah, he really did. There wasn’t any way this side of heaven that he was letting Aurora walk out of his life without knowing more about her. He wanted to get inside her head and see what made her tick. So much for daisy-petal picking.

  If he called her and told her about the surveyors, would she come over to see the stakes for herself?

  He wondered if she knew anything about babies. Maybe she could figure out how to pry the kid out of this harness and into bed without a screaming fit. And then they’d have a little time alone....

  One step at a time, McCloud. Slow and easy.

  o0o

  Opening the refrigerator door to discover a selection of soft drinks of a kind she didn’t drink cluttering her shelves, Aurora swore under her breath and began unloading them onto the counter. Each bright red label announced, Grand prize—one million dollars. You could be a winner!

  If she were a winner, she would be in Chicago, with a six-figure income and a condo overlooking the skyline. She’d be in charge of her life instead of facing bankruptcy and losing the only real home she’d ever known.

  If she were a winner—dreaming up another spectacular fantasy, Aurora opened one of the bottles, poured the drink into a glass of ice, and added a lemon to dilute the sugary taste—if she were a winner, she’d buy Cissy a new house. One with a guest cottage for her father.

  She’d invest in a gas station and minimart in the front yard so Cissy wouldn’t have to go into town to work....

  Oh, what the heck. Instead of flinging the cap into the trash where it belonged, Aurora checked under it.

  Grand Prize Winner! appeared before her disbelieving eyes.

  The phone rang, saving her from fainting. Clutching the bottle cap in one hand, she grabbed the phone receiver with the other, waiting for it to pour forth maniacal laughter and a voice crowing, “April fool!” Her father’s cronies had weird senses of humor.

  At the sound of Clay’s voice, she almost passed out again from sheer relief at the quick trip back to reality. His curt report of surveyors in the marsh snapped her back to the disastrous world with which she was all too familiar. Someone had bought the Bingham tract? How?

  Telling Clay she’d be over shortly, Rory hung up and looked at the cap in her hand with disbelief. She felt like an idiot for believing for even a second that she could solve all her family’s problems with a plastic bottle cap. She’d probably won a carton of soft drinks.

  Not inclined to take chances, she flipped on a fluorescent cabinet light to peer under the cap again. Her fantasies had probably short-circuited her brain. Surely no one ever won a million dollars in these contests.

  The cap’s message hadn’t changed.

  So—that didn’t mean anything. She could still have just won a Nintendo or a Barbie doll.

  Finding the kitchen scissors, she carefully peeled back the bottle label. She scanned the fine print, locating the 800 number to verify winnings. Did she really want to play the fool and call that number?

  Lifting the instructions to the light, she read the details, but her hands started shaking and she had to reread the label several times. The directions for claiming free drinks were intricate and involved caps saying Free six-pack.

  The details on claiming the grand prize simply said to call with the number inside the cap.

  She had nothing but pride to lose in trying. She could sacrifice pride for a chance at a million dollars. Suspending disbelief, attempting to achieve an air of insouciance, she picked up the phone as if she were calling for carryout pizza and dialed the 800 number.

  First ring.

  While waiting for someone to pick up on the other end, Rory idly played with lists of things she could do with a million dollars.

  The hospital bills were only a hundred thousand or so. No problem.

  Second ring.

  Heck, she could buy trucks for both Cissy and Pops with less than forty thousand.

  Third ring.

  Taxes would probably be four hundred thousand, dang the IRS.

  Fourth ring.

  Should they set aside the remainder for Mandy’s education or invest in a gas station and hope it would pay tuition?

  Starting to laugh at herself over the dilemma of riches, ready to hang up since no one seemed prepared to answer, Rory shut up the instant a recorded message began to play. As she repeated the number into the automated system and the message talked on, she slowly slid down the wall, harboring the bottle cap in a fist against her chest. She might have to hold her heart inside her chest if it pounded any faster.

  She’d won a mil
lion dollars!

  She owned a bottle cap worth a million dollars.

  Cold shivers shot down her spine every time she tried to grasp it. She let the message replay a second time.

  She was a millionaire.

  She was shaking. Things like this didn’t happen to her. She didn’t even know how to feel.

  Tears filled her eyes and laughter filled her lungs and she could hardly hold herself still.

  Clicking the cordless off, she tried to think through the haze of euphoria. She was the family financial expert. If the prize was really, really real, she had to make the decisions, and she couldn’t afford any errors.

  She had to consider Mandy’s education, her father’s retirement, the mounting medical bills, the day-to-day expenses that were never quite covered by Cissy’s minimum wage job, the pickup truck they no longer had.... The list could go on into eternity. Her need for cash to move back to the city and finance a new apartment hovered right about at the bottom—after she contributed ten percent to charity.

  It was an overwhelming responsibility, one that could make her weep in frustration. She’d never had any idea how difficult being rich could be.

  She laughed out loud at that—probably with hysteria—and turned on the phone again, a rush of adrenaline shooting straight to her head.

  She wanted the bottle cap in a safety-deposit box before her luck changed. Then she needed to find a lawyer to help her consider all the tax ramifications and set up a trust fund before she cashed in her prize. If she had a prize. She wouldn’t believe it until she had it in hand. She wished Cissy were here instead of at Iris’s. She needed a reality check.

  Calling a college friend, she obtained the name of a good tax attorney in Charleston.

  Talking to the lawyer popped the first of her fantasy bubbles. He was even more skeptical than she at the likelihood of collecting a million dollars from a bottle cap.

  Setting up a date to bring it in, she called the bank about a safety-deposit box. All the local boxes were full.

  She needed to take the cap to Charleston, but the city was over an hour away, and she’d promised Clay she’d come over. Actually, picking up a phone and calling her was so inconsistent with his uncommunicative nature that she really had ignored his urgency for far too long.

  She had to continue as normal. Even a million dollars—or half, after taxes—couldn’t buy the Bingham tract. She couldn’t let riches go to her head.

  After frantically searching for a safe hiding place, she stuffed the cap in her underwear drawer and dashed out to the car. She needed Clay’s pragmatism to bring her back to earth. She’d take flight otherwise.

  Driving down the highway with the Beamer’s top down, and the Carolina blue sky for her ceiling, Rory couldn’t believe she was hiding a million-dollar bottle cap in her underwear drawer—and driving up McCloud’s lane as if his sensible patience were the answer to her prayers.

  Or maybe she was here because some yahoo calling himself a Purple Knight had sent her a love note, and she really wanted to believe the enigmatic man who had spent the night on the beach watching turtles would talk to her about starry, starry nights. She longed for a man with a touch of romance in his soul, instead of the ones she’d known who had stock certificates in their blood.

  She ought to have learned by now. A sweet-talking Purple Knight was about as trustworthy as million-dollar bottle caps. For all she knew, the message was spam from a con man selling real estate on the moon—

  Rory hit her brake and stared out the windshield as she turned into Cleo’s drive. What the dickens did McCloud have on his back? A baby? The sight was almost enough to drive all thought of the bottle cap out of her head. Almost.

  The infant carrier was little more than a knapsack against Clay’s broad shoulders. An awkward knapsack given that it was on backward, but who cared with all that broad expanse of muscled chest exposed by a T-shirt pulled taut by the weight?

  “Cute albatross,” she commented, swinging her legs out of the car as Clay opened the door for her.

  “Humor, har, har.” Offering his hand, he assisted her from the low-slung sports car. “I think the albatross is supposed to hang in front.”

  “So’s the baby carrier.”

  She wasn’t a small woman, but Clay pulled her upright with ease, while wielding a backpack full of baby. She squinted at the sleeping infant, trying to piece together the conflicting images of bad-boy biker in long hair and tight shirt with the innocence of the babe on his back.

  She wasn’t ready to raise her hopes any more than they already were by sharing her news, if it really was news. Babies and Clay McCloud were an excellent distraction.

  “She’s supposed to cuddle up against your chest.” She wanted to reach over and lift the sleeping infant from her awkward position, but she knew nothing about babies. She was mightily impressed that McCloud did. And that he looked quite comfortable in this interesting new role.

  “Is that why I can’t lift her out of there? How in hell is it supposed to go on?” He strained his neck attempting to look over his shoulder. “She’s still there, isn’t she? She’s mighty quiet.”

  Laughing inwardly, somehow relieved that he wasn’t as adept as he appeared, Rory studied the situation. “She’s sleeping. Here, let me unstrap this thing. The poor little mite is practically falling out.”

  Taking a deep breath, Rory stepped close enough to unbuckle the main harness cutting into Clay’s muscular shoulder. The opportunity to hold the baby while touching Clay excited her in more visceral ways than a prize that might not be real.

  “And you don’t think it’s a terribly uncomfortable position for me?” he asked in aggrieved tones.

  She knew better than to listen. He was looking down her blouse and wrapping her hair around his finger again. She was already tingling enough without his encouragement.

  “I saw a utility truck out on the highway as I drove by.” She tried sticking to business as she unfastened the buckle.

  She and Clay both caught the strap to prevent it from falling. His rough hand covered hers, and she felt the contact all the way to her toes. “There wasn’t any name on it.”

  “It’s probably not local. The bank wouldn’t want gossip starting.” He swung the carrier off his shoulder. While she held it upright, he removed the sleeping baby and cuddled her across his shoulder.

  In awe at his seeming expertise, Aurora followed him up the shell sidewalk. “I can’t believe Cleo trusts you with her kid when you can’t even put a carrier on right.”

  “Cleo knows I’m not totally helpless,” he asserted in protest, opening the door for her. He ruined his plea by continuing, “Besides, she had to run Matty to the doctor and thought Jared would be home soon.”

  “I never saw you as the family sort.” She supposed she might have, had she taken time to think about it. He was living near his brother, helping her because his sister-in-law loved it here. Inside the hard-ass image he liked to project was a man who might be worth knowing, if she dared.

  She wasn’t real good at risk-taking.

  Now that she was here, she wasn’t at all certain why. She couldn’t do anything about the surveyors. She couldn’t tell Clay about the bottle cap before she told her family. What had prompted her to come at his call?

  Following him back to the bedroom, she saw that he didn’t need her help with the kid. He arranged Midge in her crib as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

  Admiring the colorful collection of butterflies and dragons hanging over the bed, Rory wasn’t prepared when Clay straightened, caught her waist, and hauled her against him. Breathless, she gazed up at the bronzed planes of his face and tried to read his expression, but he was an unfathomable man.

  “I’m not the family sort. I was just handy. Don’t get any ideas.”

  He didn’t give her time to question. He opened his mouth over hers, and the world went away. She didn’t care about bottle caps, surveyors, sleeping infants, or relatives who might walk in at any m
inute. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she wanted only the soul-stirringly deep intimacy of Clay’s mouth taming hers. His arms enfolded her waist as if he would never let go, and his body pressed along the length of hers so she understood how it would be if he laid her on his bed and covered her with his weight.

  Realizing how much she wanted to know how that would feel, and how wrong it would be if she did, Rory whipped her head to the side so his lips merely grazed her ear, settling there to nibble. She pushed back but he didn’t release her. “Let go,” she murmured.

  Clay released the pressure of his embrace to rest his hands on her hips. His kisses caressed her cheek. “Don’t want to,” he muttered. “You smell good. You feel good.”

  And so did he—feel good, that is—but she wasn’t about to admit that. “You stink.” She pulled back, out of his tempting hands. “What have you been into, skunk?”

  “Baby puke.” Without missing a beat, he stripped off his shirt, heaved it at a hamper of dirty baby clothes, and reached for her again.

  Confronted with all that lovely bare chest, Rory hastily backed off. “We’re not going there, McCloud,” she warned.

  “Yeah, I think we are, but I can wait. You taste too good for me to give up this soon.” Catching her hips but giving her space, he nibbled her ear again, kissed her nose, then looked down at her with a wary expression. “You don’t have some other guy waiting back in the big city, do you?”

  Flustered, she inched out of his reach. “I don’t have time for men. I don’t have time for you. Take my word for it, McCloud, I’m outta here as soon as I have things back in order.” Soon...if the cap was real.

  “There’s no harm in living in the moment,” he said without a hint that her objection had made any impression.

  Of course it hadn’t. He didn’t care if she left tomorrow, so long as he got what he wanted today.

  She didn’t sell herself that cheaply.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aurora hung up Cleo’s telephone with a sick feeling to replace her earlier joy. “I sent Pops out to talk to Iris. She thinks someone found out about Billy and he sold out.”