by Sally Falcon
She marched back into the house without another word. Logan picked up his suitcase, looking expectantly at Tory to lead him to his room. After Arnette’s departing orders, he was in no doubt about who was the boss. T.L. was already bending his stocky frame to clean up his beer cans.
“This way, Logan,” Tory muttered, jerking her head in the direction of the screen door. She spun around on one heel with a squeak of her sneaker before he could answer. With a nod to T.L., Logan obediently followed. He wasn’t sure what to expect on the other side of the door, but he knew his visit to Arkansas wasn’t going to be as boring as he had anticipated.
Chapter Two
Logan didn’t try to keep up with Tory’s brisk pace along the hallway that stretched through the middle of the house. The view of her gently swaying hips needed to be appreciated from a distance. Although his attention was centered on Tory, he had an impression of the rooms they passed. Arnette was humming in the kitchen just inside the back door, and there were brief glimpses of rooms with heavy, ornate furniture, and vivid colors through open archways. The rug beneath his feet in the hall and on the stairs wasn’t new, but was a high quality Turkish style that he knew was well cared for and expensive. All around him was the pleasant smell of lemon oil from the gleaming woodwork.
Tory disappeared through the first door at the top of the stairs. Logan regretted that they’d reached their destination so quickly; and it wasn’t just because he couldn’t watch her enticing figure unobserved any longer. He strongly suspected this would be his last chance to be alone with Tory, if she had her way. Her heart-shaped face had been devoid of expression since he’d admitted knowing nothing about rally racing. He wasn’t, however, about to explain the reason for his uncle’s assignment. He could imagine the look of disdain he’d receive from the lady.
Tapping one foot, Tory was standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed below her breasts. No, he wasn’t about to explain until he’d been here a little longer, and he’d gotten to know Tory much better. Right now, his intentions of friendship seemed ludicrous with Tory standing next to the huge sleigh bed that seemed to dominate the room. She looked very fragile and delicate surrounded by the rich rosewood furniture and the heavy royal-blue velvet that draped the room from the windows to the half-tester over the bed.
“Well, this is it,” she stated in a monotone, her eyes following his quick inspection of the room.
“What?” Logan practically snapped, wondering if she’d been reading his mind. Then he rapidly dismissed the thought. She couldn’t know he’d been picturing her in the lace frippery that Victorian ladies always wore beneath their somber gowns, playing chaste maid to his urbane, but licentious, gentleman.
“This is your room. I hope you find it comfortable, even though it used to give Trev nightmares when he was younger,” she explained while giving him a considering look. “T.L. is into the heavier and more ornate the furniture, the better. I confiscated most of the Duncan Phyfe and Hepplewhite when I moved to the cottage.”
“Where is the cottage exactly?” Logan asked in a bid to keep her talking and in the room. He tossed his belongings onto the satin brocade bedspread without a second thought.
“It’s just a stone’s throw from the house. I think you can see it from here.” She turned to the window nearest her. “Yes, you can see the top of the roof from here.”
Logan went to stand behind her, looking over her slender shoulder to where she was pointing. Ignoring the delicious smell of jasmine that clung to Tory, he concentrated on the lawn that stretched out to a stand of oak trees where two turrets peaked out from the budding foliage. “It’s a replica of the house?”
“Yes, only it’s a single story instead of three. My great-great grandfather built it for his mother-in-law, sort of a dower house,” she confirmed, turning as she spoke. Her startled expression told Logan she hadn’t known he was so close. Involuntarily her hands came to rest on his shoulders to keep from tumbling backward onto the window seat.
Logan was willing to oblige and placed his own hands lightly at her waist. All he wanted to do was kiss her, but by the expression on Tory’s lovely face—once she’d gotten over her surprise—all she wanted to do was hit him.
“I have to go now,” she said, her voice low and husky with a slight catch in it. She swallowed quickly, wetting her lips and giving him an almost beseeching look.
“Why so soon? I thought the conversation was just getting interesting.” Logan tried to look as innocent as possible, although the aching that was beginning to take hold of his body was anything but. His hands tightening against the gentle curve of her waist when she started to step away also belied his words. “Would you like me to apologize now or later?”
“Apologize for what?” she returned, remaining motionless as she blinked up at him, her maple-brown eyes widening in confusion.
“Apologize for whatever I’ve done that has you treating me like yesterday’s trash, or for something I’m about to do,” Logan murmured. He couldn’t resist raising his hand to tip back her cap for a better view of her face. Neither of them noticed that it fell off, landing silently on the floor.
“There’s nothing you need to apologize for except being here, and that won’t send you back any sooner,” she stated with heat, the soft bewilderment in her eyes quickly changing to indignation. “Now, before you do anything stupid, I suggest you unhand me, or I’ll deliver a very well placed kick, Mr. Herrington.”
Logan stepped back at once, not because of her threat, but because he knew he’d pushed her too far, too quickly. He turned to the side, sweeping his arm out to point her way to the door. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at dinner then, Ms. Planchet.”
She left the room without a backward glance. Logan stood where she left him, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, I certainly impressed the hell out of her with my smooth approach.”
In a very short time he’d become fascinated with Tory Planchet and impatient to know more about her. Who was this woman who drove a mint condition 1938 truck with practiced ease? Did she really go to Las Vegas after a year at Vassar? He didn’t have any answers, and he wasn’t sure he really cared, except that learning the answers meant spending more time with Tory. Right now, he wanted to know that he’d see her on a regular basis over the next three months. Unfortunately, that prospect seemed very dim at the moment, thanks to his ham-handed pass.
Jerking off his tie, Logan reflected that his dealings with Tory thus far were not going to win him any prizes. His stupid comment about Scarlet O’Hara had been unnecessary and petty, although it accomplished one thing. He’d wanted to know the color of her eyes. But nothing he’d imagined came close to the clear, sparkling gaze—the color of maple syrup—that was framed by black-velvet lashes. She couldn’t be called beautiful, and he considered that a compliment. Her expressive face and those wide, brown eyes could make a man promise her anything she wanted. No, there wasn’t a thing that the fictional Scarlet could teach Tory. With a single, stunning look, she’d frozen his next sarcastic words in his throat and had him gaping like a fool.
“Uncle Pres will be so pleased with my progress at this point,” Logan murmured, dragging his fingers through his thick hair in an absentminded gesture before unbuttoning his shirt. The first person he had encountered, he’d managed to alienate in less than a half hour, a new record even for him.
He shrugged off his shirt, crushing it into a ball without realizing it and tossed it on the bed. It would be a challenge to change Tory’s mind about him, but one he was able to meet. A Herrington always got what he went after. He had plenty of time, some ninety days and nights, to change the lady’s mind about Yankees. It was the nights that interested him the most, he decided, walking to the window for another glimpse of the cottage. He was confident that before too many nights passed he’d discover just how Tory decorated her bedroom.
The subject of his plans stood on the porch considering her next move. Her own words haunted h
er all the way down the stairs and out of the house. I suggest you unhand me? Yuck, yuck, yuck. How melodramatic can you get, Victoria? Her caustic thoughts kept her from thinking about how tempting it would have been to stay in Logan’s room.
“Well, I suppose it was better than an I’m-not-amused—just barely,” she muttered, walking to the porch railing. Curtiss was welcome to their newly arrived guest. She would only deal with him during the actual rallies. That meant she only had to worry about turning into an imbecile twice in the next three months.
Looking across the lawn, she considered tracking down another Planchet imbecile, one in jeans and suspenders with razorback hogs running rampant all over them. She spotted him lounging on one of the gazebo benches. He was still in good-ole-boy mode, which meant she wouldn’t get anything worthwhile out of him. She’d wait until he changed roles again, dressing himself in pinstripes and smoking his two-fifty cigars. Then she’d find out more about Logan Herrington’s visit. She smiled at the prospect as she skipped down the porch steps.
Halfway across the lawn she looked back at the house on impulse and was immediately sorry. Logan was staring down at her from his bedroom window. She couldn’t gauge how long he’d been standing there. He had enough time to take off his shirt before pulling aside the patterned sheer curtain that would obstruct his view. It also gave her a clear view of his very nice chest that was now spectacular, his shirt having masked the light covering of golden-brown hair over taut flesh.
Tory swallowed the sudden constriction in her throat, cursing Arnette for swearing by vinegar and newspaper, which made the windows so clear, almost non-existent. She could still feel the warmth of Logan’s hands on her waist. Now, she had this enticing picture of his gorgeous chest to carry around in her already confused brain.
Purposely she broke the hold of his slate-blue eyes, turning once more to the haven of her cottage. Work was what she needed to get her mind off her theatrical daddy and the encroaching stranger. She held her head high, her back straight, and walked with a relaxed, measured stride as she thought about calling her contractor to check on whether the marble countertops had arrived. Logan Herrington and his marvelous chest were of little importance to her. She had a business to get off the ground, and couldn’t waste time standing around fixating on some overbearing, opinionated, domineering man. She’d already learned the hard way that that type of man wasn’t for her, and it certainly didn’t mix well with her career. She’d concentrate on getting Bill of Fare Shoppes ready to open, and leave Logan Herrington to the rest of her family.
As Logan looked around the large dining room table at the Planchet family, he could imagine his mother’s reaction. She’d approve of Sanders, his wife Adele, and their son Basil—the picture of the successful executive and family—although Enid Macomb Herrington never allowed children at her table. Looking at T.L., who had only added a broad yellow tie with a florescent-green palm tree to his earlier outfit, and the other boisterous Planchets, Logan could hear his mother’s words the night before he left Boston.
“Preston, who are these people?” she’d asked her brother-in-law who was seated yards away at the far end of the formal dining room. The best Irish linen, sterling silver, and Waterford crystal graced the perfectly appointed table even for a family dinner of four. “You’re sending my son off to some godforsaken place to stay with these people we know nothing about.”
“I know something about them,” Preston returned in a voice as quiet as Enid Herrington’s, but it carried easily down the table.
“That is precisely my point, Preston. If you don’t mind my being so blunt, you have the judgment of a toad at times,” Enid answered, her voice growing even softer, which was sign that she was becoming angry.
“Mother, this really isn’t—”
“Not now, Logan,” his mother interrupted, waving aside his words with a practiced flip of her hand. “Your uncle and I are discussing this.”
Logan lapsed into silence, but almost lost his composure when he glanced at Babs across the table. She was crossing her eyes, giving her opinion of the other woman’s behavior.
“Nothing you have to say will change the situation, Enid. Logan’s agreed to go on this assignment,” Preston stated, tossing his napkin down next to his dessert plate. “Now, I’m feeling slightly fatigued so Babs and I will forego the traditional idle after dinner chitchat.”
“Well, I’ve never—”
“Yes, you have, Enid, a number of times—whenever I’ve been excessively rude,” Preston broke in as he rose cautiously to his feet. “And you undoubtedly will again, since I also have the manners of a toad when it suits me. Just remember one thing, my dear. I alone control H.P.G., so whatever I say goes, goes.”
Logan had spent the rest of the evening placating his mother. It hadn’t been so much to settle her nerves, but to keep her from taking her anger out on Babs once he was gone. Preston and Enid were constantly at war, although usually an armed truce. When open warfare broke out, it was Babs who always got caught in the middle.
“Logan, hepps,” the childish words brought him back to the present, along with a chubby, dimpled hand clutching his sleeve. He turned his attention to the blond-haired, blue-eyed, three-year-old temptress who’d staked her claim on him before dinner.
“Amanda Sue, Mr. Logan is eating his dinner. He doesn’t want to help cut up your meat,” Tory told her niece gently from where she sat on the other side of the child. She gave Logan an apologetic look over the little girl’s head, meeting his gaze for the first time all evening.
“Do too,” Amanda Sue insisted, turning her limpid eyes up at Logan by cocking her head to the side and giving him a beseeching look through the fringe of her bangs.
“Of course, he does,” Logan agreed, unable to resist that look and hoping to avert a scene. As he went about his task, he surreptitiously watched Tory talking to Curtiss’s wife, Leeanne, who had barely said a word all evening.
When Tory stepped into the living room earlier, Logan wasn’t sure it was the same woman he’d met that afternoon, but this woman was just as riveting to his senses. She stood framed in the archway, an arrestingly sophisticated figure in a silky paisley cossack blouse and a pencil-slim maroon skirt. Her glossy brown/black hair was down, coming almost to her shoulders with the sides swept back by gold barrettes. She had aimed a haughty look in his direction and gone to greet the rest of her family.
“Oh, for heaven sake, Pooh, leave Curtiss alone,” Tory called across the table to her oldest brother. “What you don’t know about animals could fill volumes. Let Curtiss handle his own practice.”
Sanders sent his sister a scathing look before patting his thin mouth with his napkin. “Victoria Camille, I’ve told you countless times how irritating that repellant name is. I don’t want to remind you again.”
Logan felt like an observer at a tennis match as he turned to watch Tory’s reaction. Her brilliant smile slammed into his heart at high velocity, although it was actually aimed at her brother. “Yes, I know, dear Pooh, that’s why I always remember to use it when you’re being your most pompous.”
“Now, Piglet, you’re stealing my material,” Trevor broke in, his grin taking the sting out of his reprimand. Of the three brothers he resembled Tory the most—with the exception of a nose that had been broken at least once. “It was my favorite book, and I christened everyone appropriately.”
“And created yourself Christopher Robin, the only human in the book,” Curtiss added, shaking his shaggy blond head in disgust.
“You’re just mad because you weren’t born yet, and I was over that phase by the time you came along,” his brother shot back in triumph.
“Now, ya’ll, I’m gettin’ tired of this bickering. You’re all supposed to be adults,” T.L. interrupted, giving his grown children a dark look. “What’s our company gonna think?”
Later Logan was appalled by what he did next, even though it earned a look of approval from Tory. At T.L.’s question he burst into laughter
, suddenly understanding the meaning of the nicknames. Trevor had been a Winnie-the-Pooh fan and gave his family the names of the characters. Pooh lived in the woods under the name of Sanders. The image of the forty-year-old business man dressed in his Brooks Brothers suit with his head stuck in a pot of honey was the ludicrous picture in his mind. His sense of humor overcame his sympathy for the other man’s displeasure with his sister.
“I’m sorry, but it suddenly struck me as funny,” he explained weakly as all eyes were trained on him. Enid Herrington would send him to his room without any supper for such a gaffe. “Please, tell me some more. I was an only child, so life wasn’t terribly exciting as a juvenile.”
As Curtiss and Trevor competed to tell the most outrageous story, Logan caught Tory giving him an assessing look. His mother certainly wouldn’t approve, but he was beginning to enjoy himself. Arkansas might not be as horrible as he had anticipated. A noisy dinner with the Planchets was a vast improvement over his usual solitary meals at his townhouse. The only thing that would give him more satisfaction would be an intimate dinner for two with Victoria Camille Planchet. He promised himself that pleasure as he turned his head to snare the lady’s startled gaze. The becoming stain of rose across her cheeks told him she was all too aware of his thoughts.
“Trev, I want off the rally,” Tory said into the black candlestick phone the second her brother answered at his end.
“What? Geez, I just walked in the door.” he replied impatiently. “Why didn’t you say something at dinner earlier? It’s almost midnight.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Tory shot back, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. She’d spent the past few hours wondering just what to do about her Herrington situation, and waiting for Trevor to get home so she could settle it. “I started calling you twenty minutes after you went off the air at ten-thirty, Mr. Sportscaster, who always forgets to turn on his answering machine. Where have you been?”
