Southern Hospitality

by Sally Falcon

  “So, what can I do for you, darlin’, or did you come to keep an old man company? I’m sorry to say I have to be at the airport in the next hour and get to Texarkana to avert a drivers’ strike.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere until you give me some answers about our guest,” Tory said quietly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs to show that she had plenty of time. “If you keep to the facts and cut out the histrionics, it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. And you don’t need to waste any time by telling me he’s here to cover the rallies. The man doesn’t like the South and has never been to a rally in his life.”

  T.L. gave her a considering look over the rim of his coffee cup, a slight smile curving his lips. “That must have been some ride from the airport. Then, again, I didn’t raise stupid children.”

  “Or very patient ones.”

  “All right, all right. You’re just like your mother was when it comes to getting your own way,” he answered. He carefully placed his cup in the saucer and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his place mat. “You aren’t going to like this, but I don’t feel right about telling you all the reasons for Logan’s being here. That’s between Pres and the boy. If, and when, he wants to tell you, then so be it.”

  Goaded into a show of temper at being denied such vital information, Tory imprudently challenged T.L.’s decision by giving him some of his own back. “Then it isn’t a drug problem? He hasn’t been running with a bad crowd, losing heavily at the gambling tables in Atlantic City, and borrowing money from the loan sharks?”

  “I guess I deserved that. Are you ready to listen now, or do you have any more flights of fancy?” He gave her a look that was a mixture of sympathy and exasperation, just as he had after her one teenage traffic accident. When she nodded, he continued, “It’s nothing unsavory or illegal, so we’ll leave it at that. Now that the boy’s—”

  “Hold it, right there,” Tory broke in, putting her hand up for good measure. “From now on, call him Logan, or Herrington, or even Bubba, but please don’t call him the boy. Even if you did have three sons by different wives, you aren’t Ben Cartwright.”

  “Now that Logan is here, we’re to treat him like one of the family, and make him welcome.”

  “You wanted to welcome him by wearing your gardening clothes and laying your accent on with a trowel?” Tory chuckled, thinking about his ratty clothing and Logan’s stunned look the day before. She also knew the old fox had a purpose for doing it, but he wasn’t going to share it.

  “That was a little lapse on my part,” he admitted with an abashed grin. “From now on, we’re going to make the b—er, Logan feel at home.”

  “We are? Just how are we going to do this from Texarkana?” Tory asked, giving him enough rope to hang himself. “Logan is still in Yankee dreamland, so I know he isn’t going with you.”

  “I need you to take over as official hostess while I’m gone,” T.L. stated, his eyes never leaving her face. “Everyone else is tied up and you’ve allowed yourself three months off for your remodeling. You can plan your work schedule to suit yourself. Or so you said when Curtiss asked you to help with the rally.”

  “I feel sorry for the truck drivers in Texarkana,” Tory answered tartly, knowing she was trapped, but still trying for some remnant of defense. “Just because Trevor calls me Crusader Rabbit when I get on my soapbox occasionally, doesn’t mean I’m a pushover for everyone who needs a favor. I still have a business to run.”

  “I realize that, but this is a special case. I owe Pres a great deal after all these years. It’s the least I could do for the man who introduced me to your mother and put up with me for four years at Princeton. The damned thing is, Tory, Pres is dying.”

  Tory was stunned by the statement. Preston Herrington was a larger-than-life figure from her childhood memories. His whirlwind visits to and from exotic places had been filled with excitement and thrilling stories. She sat for a moment trying to absorb the news, then one look at T.L.’s sad brown eyes told her that he still hadn’t recovered from the shock. This wasn’t the time to question him further, so she thought of the one way to put him back to normal.

  “I have conditions to this deal. I’ll be Logan’s hostess whenever you’re out of town, if you sign a contract that states you won’t interfere with the remodeling or decorating of Bill of Fare Shoppes again—now or at any time in the future.”

  “I guess we don’t come from a long line of horse traders for nothing,” T.L. answered with the special sigh parents reserve for times when their children have tried their patience the most. Tory knew it was a sham. His brown eyes were gleaming with approval for the diversion she provided and her crafty proposal. “Though come to think of it, this should be to my advantage. The last time I gave your contractor a little suggestion to improve things, you sent me a hefty bill for the cost of changing it back to the way you wanted it. I’ll dictate the contract on the way to the airport and have it delivered to the cottage.”

  “Fine, we’ll shake on the agreement now. I’ll have it notarized the first chance I get.” She wasn’t able to repress her grin of triumph over the deal, jumping to her feet and sticking out her hand. T.L. would never renege once he’d shaken hands on an agreement, but she wanted it in writing just the same.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come to work for me? I could use a tough negotiator like you,” T.L. asked for the hundredth time as his large hand swallowed hers.

  “Yes, because within a half hour I’d come to blows with you or Sanders, probably both. I love you both, but I wouldn’t work for two such pig-headed men,” she admitted with an apologetic shrug.

  “I can see your point. Two Planchets in one office is courting danger, but three could be downright explosive,” he murmured. “I’m counting on you to help Logan get settled and that’s enough.”

  More than enough, Tory decided, but kept her skepticism to herself. Something in her expression must have told T.L. she wasn’t enchanted with the idea. “Just do your best, darlin’. Now, give your daddy a kiss for luck and beat it.”

  “You old rogue,” she said affectionately as she bent to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You knew I’d do it, even if you were entertaining Attila the Hun.”

  He gave a wink and admitted, “You did surprise me with your little bargain, though. I must be getting old.”

  “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, you old fox. Remember, I learned from the master.” Tory left him to finish his breakfast with a silly grin on his face. She wished she was as happy with the outcome, although it was a godsend that she didn’t have to worry about T.L. pestering her contractor any more.

  Halfway down the hall to the back door, she realized that she was tiptoeing and looking cautiously back over her shoulder toward the stairway. She called herself ten times a fool for being so apprehensive about meeting Logan. “Oh, get a grip, Victoria,” she groaned under her breath as she hurried out the back door with only a quick wave to Arnette. “He’s just a very irritating man. You’re just off balance because your daily routine has been out of whack since the remodeling started.

  “You’re also beginning to talk to yourself uncontrollably,” she announced as she took the last step to the ground in a disgusted jump.

  What was she going to do with him? Most women would be ecstatic at being asked to spend time with a wealthy, eligible man, who wore his clothes well and looked just as good without them. Well, she wasn’t most women. She didn’t like to be categorized or to put people into categories, even if their square peg seemed custom made for the proverbial round hole. Logan already had the habit of changing shape when she least expected it. Who would he be the next time she saw him?

  She headed for the cottage, determined to drag out her appointment book the minute she stepped through the door. If she went through her normal tasks, she’d forget all about Logan Herrington, and whether he would try to kiss her again, or if he would act as if last night never happened. Establishing a routine and sticki
ng to it wouldn’t allow her any time to think about a passionate, but obnoxious Yankee. It was so simple, she laughed out loud, almost skipping the rest of the way back to the cottage.

  By early afternoon, Tory wasn’t as optimistic as she stopped the truck at the back of the house. She turned off the engine and slumped down in the driver’s seat. Giving the suit boxes on the seat next to her a morose look, she unfastened her seat belt, but she didn’t move.

  “A big help my appointment book was,” she said softly, allowing her hand to run over the smooth cardboard surface of the top box. Although her day was spent pleasantly, and productively, planning menus for both a wedding and a retirement party, it was the night she was dreading. Tonight she was supposed to attend the Bush’s party; a party she would have to invite Logan to because of her promise to T.L. Looking down at the box again, she knew he wasn’t going to like what he had to do. What she and her friends found entertaining, he’d undoubtedly find appalling.

  Reluctantly, she climbed out of the truck and pulled out the box, holding it in front of her like a shield. She dragged her feet up the steps, dreading what was ahead of her. Under her breath she repeated what she’d been telling herself all afternoon whenever her memory turned traitor at the oddest moments. “He’s just a guest of T.L.’s, nothing more, nothing less—a plain, old ordinary friend of the family.”

  “And that’s why I called Mrs. Carter’s son, Lloyd, Logan three times this afternoon,” she finished in disgust at her rebellious subconscious when she reached the back door. Pulling open the screen door, she stopped halfway across the threshold. The music she heard was coming from the piano, not the radio. None of the Planchets played the piano. T.L. simply bought the grand piano because he adored the cupids and garlands of flowers on the Renaissance piece with the huge cluster columns for legs. Until now, she hadn’t thought it was even in tune, but the complex Chopin prelude sounded perfect.

  Drawn to the music, she stood quietly in the archway to the double sitting room. His playing was so beautiful she didn’t want to interrupt him.

  She’s here, Logan knew instinctively. The tingling sensation at the base of his spine told him. Resisting the urge to jump up, demanding to know where she’d been all day, he finished the prelude in record time. She couldn’t know that he’d spent most of the night lying awake staring at the blue-satin underlining of the half-tester over his bed. Lying awake while he alternately called himself a hormone-crazed fool and imagining Tory tangled in the sheets beside him.

  He swiveled away from the mother-of-pearl and tortoise shell keyboard with a little voice inside cautioning him to go slowly. She was standing exactly where he’d first seen her last night. Today she was clutching a large box in front of her instead of carrying Amanda Sue. He drank in the sight of her, wondering how she seemed to fit into the nineteenth century surroundings of the scarlet and yellow drawing room when she was dressed in cotton slacks and a simple blouse. By rights, her curved figure should be covered in lace.

  When Tory took a step forward, he nodded cautiously in greeting. He wanted her to set the tone of this meeting. If he was lucky, she would discount his visit to her cottage as a crazy Yankee stunt, and not realize how sincere he’d been. He’d meant every word he’d said, but he also knew it lacked his usual finesse. For now, he’d let Tory take the lead.

  “Hello, Mr. Herrington, how’s everything going?” Tory asked brightly, stopping abruptly a few feet from him. She seemed slightly apprehensive, her pleasant half-smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You play beautifully. T.L. will be so disappointed he wasn’t here. You did know that Daddy was called out of town, didn’t you?”

  He nodded again without moving a muscle, uncertain whether to stand or remain on the piano stool. Keeping his hands flat on his thighs to keep from reaching for her, he tried to gauge what was happening. Tory was talking to him as if he wasn’t much older than her nephews. She stood in front of him, shifting her feet from side to side.

  “I see. Well, while Daddy’s out of town, he asked me to show you around. If you’d like, some friends of mine are having a party tonight, and they’d be pleased if you’d join us,” she went on, not quite looking him in the eye. Her arms tightened around the box making its side bow out. Suddenly her shoulders sagged and she let out her breath by pushing her lower lip forward in the intriguing way she had yesterday. “Look, there isn’t an easy way around this. Do you know anything about magic?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The strange question forced the words from him in an imitation of his mother’s most offended tone. Magic was the last subject he thought would come up. For a half second, he thought Tory was going to turn and walk out of the room without answering.

  She gave him an exasperated look, then tossed the box down on the marble-topped table next to her. The cardboard hit the hard surface with a slap that echoed around the quiet room. “This party we’re going to tonight has a theme to it. We’ll be celebrating Harry Houdini’s birthday, so I picked up a costume for you.”

  “It sounds interesting.” He hated costume parties. A bunch of grown people dressed up in ridiculous clothing and acting silly wasn’t his idea of a good time. Carefully schooling his features to show only mild inquiry, instead of his abject horror, Logan waited for her to continue.

  “It does? Oh, good,” she said hesitantly, blinking owlishly at him in surprise while wiping the palms of her hands against her hips. Giving him a guarded look, she suggested, “Why don’t you go ahead and try on your costume then. We’ll see if it needs any alterations.”

  It was an effort for Logan to take his eyes from Tory’s hands moving against her rounded hips and look at the box. He got to his feet, still trying to show some enthusiasm. After all, he reasoned while giving Tory a slight smile, what can be so bad about a magician’s costume? White tie and tails were fairly standard.

  “There’s a half-bath under the stairs, so you don’t have to go up to your room.” Tory’s eyes never left his face as his picked up the box.

  Logan headed for the hallway, but he was more than tempted to rip the box open then and there. Her agitation wasn’t from offering him a starched shirt and cummerbund. Is this her retaliation for last night? Is the tux some horrible electric blue or blood red? No matter what, he was going to wear it, whatever her intent. A Herrington never backed down.

  Tory almost collapsed onto the scarlet-velvet ottoman the second Logan disappeared into the hall. His unexpected acquiescence had her completely baffled after being prepared for almost anything. The moment he turned away from the piano to stare at her with that unnerving slumberous slate-blue gaze, she almost dropped the box as her knees turned to silly putty. This favor for T.L. was probably going to turn her into a blithering idiot before Logan headed North again.

  She knew she should have gotten a regulation tuxedo, but she couldn’t resist the temptation of something more contemporary. She was going as Doug Henning, complete with spangled jumpsuit and high-topped sneakers, so David Copperfield had seemed the logical choice. Maybe she should have told him about the magic trick he’d have to perform for his supper and get all the bad news out of the way fast. Last year’s party for Bach’s birthday would have been a piece of cake for Logan because everyone had to play a minuet. Of course, he wouldn’t have liked the knee breeches or powdered wig, she realized, and sat gnawing her lower lip. She should have gotten a tuxedo.

  Propping her chin in her clasped hands, she admitted to herself that she hadn’t because she was afraid Logan would look as awful as Sanders did in one. Her poor brother looked like Opus the penguin from the cartoon strip in formal dress. But she knew Logan would look just right. Hadn’t he just sat there in an Oxford-cloth shirt, buttoned all the way to the neck, and looked just fine? The only other men she’d seen carry that off without looking like they’d lost their nerd packs were Cary Grant and Sam Elliott.

  “It fits, I think.”

  Logan’s husky voice made her head snap up. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. He lo
oked wonderful in the dark clothing. His golden-brown hair was highlighted by the contrast and now his eyes were more blue than gray. The unconstructed jacket accentuated the width of his shoulders, and she didn’t want to even consider what the pants, undoubtedly a size too small, did for the man’s thighs. Who cared if David Copperfield had dark hair and gorgeous black eyes after this?

  “Yes, it should do nicely,” Tory agreed, and got slowly to her feet. Now that the initial shock was over, she noticed that there would have to be some adjustments. He’d buttoned the shirt all the way to the top and the shirt cuffs down. He was also standing ramrod straight, as if he’d been called to attention for inspection. “Just a few changes and you’ll be set.”

  “Who am I?” he asked quietly as she walked around him.

  “What?” she said absently, not really hearing his question. She’d suddenly realized what she was going to have to do. She, Victoria Camille Planchet, was going to unbutton the man’s shirt halfway to reveal the chest that haunted her dreams, and she would have to touch him to accomplish it. I really should have gotten the tuxedo.

  “Who am I supposed to be?”

  Tory stopped a few inches from him, staring down at his wrists and pretending they weren’t centimeters from his well developed thighs. She looked up at him and blinked. “Oh, you’re David Copperfield. Haven’t you seen him on television?”

  “Did he make the Statue of Liberty disappear?”

  “That’s the one. Give me your hands,” Tory ordered while she gave exaggerated attention to the line of his jacket across his shoulders.

  He obeyed immediately, holding them out like a child having his hands checked before dinner. Tory stared at the long, sensitive fingers and the light dusting of golden hairs near his wrists, wondering if she could do this with her eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, she reached for his cuff and unbuttoned it without making too much contact with his warm skin beneath. The second one was easier. Then she swallowed heavily and grasped each hand as she pushed the material of his silk shirt and jacket halfway up his arms.