by Sally Falcon
“He wants you to take Logan to the Oklahoma rally for him. The horse might have colic, and he’s Atlinger’s prize stud. They’ll lose a fortune if Morning Star dies. Curtiss has to stay here until the crisis passes,” Leeanne answered.
“Good Lord, is he crazy?”
“Please, Tory, you know he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and you’re the only one with the free time to do it.”
“All right, all right. I’ll call you back later for the details. Bye,” Tory said quickly, and hung up before Leeanne could lengthen the conversation. She had a lot to think about, and it all concerned Mr. Logan Herrington.
A brief glance at the undented pillow next to her gave her the small assurance that she’d slept alone. Tossing back the comforter she headed for the shower, hoping it would clear her head even more and bring back total recall of the previous night.
The quick shower and fresh clothing didn’t make any difference. Tory couldn’t remember a thing beyond a silly conversation in the car about magic tricks. Still tying the belt to her moss-green cotton romper, she headed for the main house in search of some answers.
“I knew I was going to regret being nice to him last night,” she grumbled, stomping across the lawn. “Who would’ve thought a properly bred Bostonian would turn out to be a voyeur? Yankee manners!”
She trotted up the back steps and through the back door, her temper escalating with each stride. When she spotted Arnette arranging flowers in the front hall, she demanded, “Where is he?”
“Oh, good morning, dear, or should I say good afternoon,” the older woman said, not bothering to look up from the carnations she was separating. “You just missed Mrs. Carter’s call. She wants to go with the all seafood menu after all, and she wants the salmon mousse with dill sauce as well.”
“Where is he?” Tory repeated and dismissed her best client’s wishes—a prominent member of the Opera Guild—as if she were a pesky gnat.
“Are you looking for Logan? He’s not here.”
“Not here? Where did he go?” That rat’s hiding from me.
“He had an interview with a Mr. Kowalski,” Arnette explained as she stepped back to survey her handiwork. “I think he said something about blind hams and an interesting story. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Blind hams? Oh, the radio operators for the rally. One of the ham radio clubs has quite a few members who are blind,” Tory returned, but her mind still wasn’t on what she was saying. “Damn the man.”
“Victoria Camille.”
The reprimand brought Tory’s attention back to the other woman, who was standing with her hands on her hips, a frown marring her round face. The stance made Tory realize she’d sworn out loud.
“What’s gotten into you, young lady? You’ve been madder than a wet hen since Mr. Herrington arrived. You haven’t been this short tempered since you sent that Callahan fella on his way.”
“Trust me, Arnette, the two have a lot in common,” Tory answered, then decided she’d said too much. “I’ll be at the Park Plaza shop for the rest of the day. Tell Mr. Herrington that I’ll see him at dinner.”
She turned on her heels and left the house before Arnette could start asking questions. Her own words were echoing in her brain. Reed and Logan were poles apart in appearance, but they were both opinionated men. That was enough for her. She’d broken her engagement six years ago because she didn’t want a man running her life, and she’d been wary of any close relationships since misjudging Reed.
They’d met in college and shared interests. Although they knew they’d be separated for a year after graduation, Reed had proposed a week before commencement. He’d been set to go to his apprenticeship in California and Tory to Paris. The moment he put the ring on her finger, the trouble began. Suddenly, he objected to her trip to France, although he’d seemed enthusiastic about her additional training only the week before. He said he didn’t want his woman gallivanting around a foreign country without his protection. Tory went despite his disapproval. After battling T.L. during most of her formative years, she wasn’t about to let Reed sway her from her purpose.
The engagement lasted a year, most of which they were separated. Tory liked to think she had more brains than to remain tied to such a chauvinistic jerk. Her first week back from Paris, Reed came to Little Rock and found fault with everything and everyone. After two days, Tory knew she’d made a tremendous mistake. He treated her as if she only had half a brain and was put on the earth to fetch and carry for him. One evening they went out with some of her high school friends, arguing on the way to the restaurant, and returning home in separate cars. Reed was dripping wet from the beer Tory poured on him after one patronizing remark too many. She’d been extremely satisfied with her handy work.
After Reed, she’d evaluated exactly what type of man she wanted in her life. He’d be quiet, sensitive, and understanding. The man she married, if she married, would be supportive and caring. None of these characteristics had anything to do with a self-possessed Yankee who had the nerve to undress a woman when she was unconscious. That was something an amazing chest and bone-melting kisses couldn’t make up for, Tory decided.
Tonight she would lay down the ground rules for the rest of Logan’s visit once and for all. And if that didn’t work, maybe she’d resort to a pitcher of beer again—a full one this time.
Chapter Five
Logan took his eyes off the straight stretch of highway in front of him to study his traveling companion. Tory was slumped down in her seat with her feet braced against the dashboard and a new baseball cap pulled down over her eyes. She hadn’t said more than a dozen saccharin-sweet words to him since she arrived at the house with the Winnebago and handed him the keys. He knew she was angry with him and why, but his mind kept wandering to dangerous territory. Was she wearing another set of mind-boggling lingerie under her jeans and cotton blouse?
Clearing his throat as they passed a mileage sign to Fort Smith, he knew they couldn’t go on like this for another four or five hours. He also had to get his mind off the vision of Tory in her bedroom. “If I apologize, will you start talking to me again without smothering me with southern charm?”
She uncrossed her arms and tipped her cap back enough to uncover one eye. “I was just being polite.”
“Tory, you’re madder than hell about me putting you to bed the other night, and we both know it,” Logan said without hesitation. “I’m sure if I’d been around yesterday, or hadn’t gone out to dinner with Trevor, we’d have had this out already.”
“Okay,” she answered, sitting up and readjusting her cap. Turning to face him, she hooked her leg up onto the console. “I was spitting mad yesterday morning when I woke up and realized that an absolute stranger undressed me. Of course, it didn’t help that I’d just learned I was going on a three-day trip with the same person.”
“I really didn’t look, at least no more than necessary. The Herringtons have set the standard for good manners in Boston for over two hundred years.” Logan flinched at his own words, he’d gone from lame to pompous in a matter of seconds. “You really shouldn’t worry so much, you have a beautiful body.” Oh, Lord, that makes it even worse.
“I knew I should have taken Trevor up on his offer.”
Logan wished he dared look to see Tory’s expression, but he had to keep his eye on the car in front of them that was slowing for the exit. “What did he offer to do?”
“He knows some truckers that might be willing to break a few of your bones,” she announced quite happily. “You’d only shown up on my doorstep at midnight when he offered.”
“I can imagine. He gave me a rather cautionary brotherly talk last night.”
“He did?”
“Mmmmm-hmmmn. He explained that young women of the southern persuasion were delicate flowers that had been gently nurtured.” Logan schooled his features to be properly earnest, just as Trevor’s had been. He knew it was a red herring, but Tory was talking to him. It would als
o be nice to have her mad at someone else for a change.
“Tell me he didn’t, please?” Tory begged in a tone that told Logan he’d succeeded in diverting her.
“He didn’t mention any names, if that’s any comfort.” His lips twitched slightly at Tory’s answering groan. “And he had this curious habit of fingering his steak knife during the entire conversation.”
“It’s definitely time for Dwayne and Little Otis.”
“Who?”
“I have some truckers of my own, if necessary,” she said with a hint of pride.
“Does this mean you’re still mad at me?”
“Just don’t let it happen again,” she warned, but he could detect some humor in her tone.
Logan didn’t realize until that moment how tense he’d been, his body stiff as his hands clenched the steering wheel. He made a conscious effort to relax, but cautioned himself to be on his guard. There was the ever-present danger of putting his foot in his mouth again. “So, how does a delicate flower meet truckers?”
“They’re delivery men for the construction crew that’s working on my shops.” The pride was back in her words tenfold.
“Your shops? What do you sell?”
“Food, wonderful food. I have a catering business that I’m expanding to include three retail stores,” she explained easily, and Logan knew that he’d picked the right subject, for once. “In fact, if we have time on the way back I want to stop at Wiederkehrs vineyards to see about handling some of their wines in the shops.”
“Who’s your clientele?” He decided not to ask about the quality of Arkansas wines since the conversation was going so well.
“Mostly singles, or people who don’t like to cook or have the time to do something out of the ordinary. Trevor suggested it after I’d been getting requests for private dinners, as well as the usual parties and receptions.” Tory laughed suddenly, catching Logan by surprise. “Actually, Trevor was my inspiration. He kept conning me into making him elegant dinners for two. I’m sure there are some delicately nurtured flowers out there who were led astray by my big brother after a dinner I prepared.”
“So, that’s why you have so much free time. I was beginning to wonder if you were on vacation.”
“Not really. I’ve slowed down operations while the shops are being renovated, and I’m at the mercy of my family’s sob stories. That’s why I’m on the way to Oklahoma in a motor home.”
“Why are we using this anyway? I admit I’m getting used to finding a different vehicle every time I go somewhere.” Logan had forgotten to ask Trevor about the car situation the night before, and about T.L.’s profession. “Trevor showed up yesterday morning in a 1956 Thunderbird. This Winnebago is the first vehicle your family has that isn’t over twenty years old.”
“It’s T.L.’s way of keeping up with the Rockefellers, though he has quite a way to go before he has anything like the museum over on Petit Jean Mountain,” Tory answered, seeming to forget her earlier animosity. “The truck and station wagon are his, along with about fifteen other cars of various ages. The T-bird belongs to me and Trevor. We trade off every three months and drive one of T.L.’s in the meantime. As for our current mode of transport, it belongs to Curtiss, and I haven’t the faintest idea why he said to take it.”
“What exactly does T.L. do for a living?” He was certain that there was more to his uncle’s old friend, and perhaps his profession could give him a clue. The Planchets were an influential family and vintage cars weren’t cheap.
“Oh, dear, hasn’t anyone told you?”
“Is it illegal? Preston didn’t tell me anything beyond my assignment, and Trevor was talking car rallies when he wasn’t giving advice.”
“Daddy’s in garbage.”
Logan took his eyes off the road to give Tory a skeptical look. She was grinning from ear to ear.
“He really is. His corporation runs one of the largest waste hauling firms in the Southwest,” she went on, not bothering to hide her amusement at his flabbergasted expression. “Don’t worry, it kind of hits everyone that way if they don’t know before they meet him.”
“Apparently they didn’t meet him the way I did,” Logan said dryly, giving her a pained smile. “Or does he only do that for visitors from the North?”
“Yes, well, Daddy has a strange sense of humor at times,” she stated, matching his tone and shrugging. “Did Trevor or Curtiss give you any instructions about the race tomorrow?”
Logan could tell she wanted to change the subject, and he gladly complied. He did promise himself they would get back to the subject of T.L., although he wasn’t anxious to dwell on it right now. It could lead to the reason he was in Arkansas, which he didn’t want to discuss yet. He’d finally managed to get on solid, fairly compatible ground with Tory. His exile to the South wasn’t something he wanted to talk about until he’d known her a little longer.
Without hesitation, he launched into the explanation Trevor had given him about the similarities and differences between the Cherokee Challenge and the Arkansas Traveler. It was a safe subject, and he could question Tory about her part in the rallies for his articles as well.
He still had a lot to learn about this form of racing since he’d only seen the European version on television. How was a standard street car modified to withstand the rough terrain of dirt roads that were specially selected for each stage of the race? How were the cars timed on each stage, and what were the regulations for driving on public roads between stages? Was it true that the driver with the fastest accumulated time wouldn’t be named the winner if he’d been penalized for starting too soon, or driving too fast between stages? Were the stages run during the day, then repeated over the same ground at night to test the skill of the driver? That should keep them occupied for a good portion of the trip.
As he conversed easily with Tory for almost the first time since they had met, he wondered when he’d spent this much time talking with an individual. He was sure that Preston would be pleased. In Boston, he never seemed to have time for this type of communication. His conversations were with H.P.G. employees, or brief comments in passing at some function his mother had organized. It seemed as though he’d spent more time interacting with people as individuals in the past four days than he had in years. Underlying his discovery was amused speculation over what his mother’s reaction would be when she discovered those people were in the garbage business.
Tory surveyed the motel room that was wall-to-wall people; the crowd a mixture of drivers, crew members, and organizers. Tonight they partied and told wild stories, then tomorrow they drove, partying again afterward with more wild stories of the day’s events. There were a few familiar faces from the last time she headed a timing crew—and one very familiar face.
Logan was standing near the beer keg talking to Harry Scranton, who was in charge of the radio operators. His face was intent as he listened to the older man. They both were oblivious to the redhead who draped herself provocatively against the doorjamb behind them. Tory wasn’t.
“Little Miss Tory isn’t enjoying herself,” announced a gruff voice in her ear, taking her attention away from the trio on the other side of the room.
“Will I ever be old enough to lose that name, Alf?” she asked the balding man of fifty standing next to her.
“Nope, I can still see the freckled-face, pig-tailed little monster who was eating a candy apple near my leather upholstery.” His pained expression showed he clearly remembered the afternoon T.L. had brought his daughter along to inspect Alf’s Dussenberg. “And that’s why I made sure your friend over there is bunking with Harve Waggoner.”
“Does he snore?”
“I don’t know, does he?” His blue eyes twinkled with amusement and interest.
“Alf, you old scamp,” Tory returned, refusing to be drawn in.
“Would you be happier if Harve did snore? If that smart-looking Yankee is giving you any problems, I can make better arrangements.”
“No, Logan’s be
en a perfect gentleman.” Damn him, she finished to herself. The man had her more confused now than he had the night he showed up on her doorstep. They’d spent hours cooped up in the front of the Winnebago, conversing like old friends. If she’d met Logan today for the first time, she’d have liked him without reservation.
“You don’t need to worry about Midge Nesbitt, although I think you’ve singed her around the edges a little with that ladylike glare,” Alf observed. “She’s just bored because Walt’s wrapped up in the other room watching old racing videos. She’s not really on the look out for a new co-driver for the night.”
“It’s none of my concern,” Tory stated with more conviction than she felt. She wanted to go over and tell Midge to get bored someplace else besides sidling up next to Logan, but she didn’t want to acknowledge the possessive feelings that were fueling her anger. It was bad enough that she’d let the incident of Logan putting her to bed go by so easily. A scene would have been anticlimactic, or so she told herself, because she hadn’t been able to confront him until almost a day later.
“The boy might not know about car rallies, but he does have class. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man brush off a woman like that, and have her smiling about it,” Alf commented in admiration as Logan disengaged himself from Midge and the group he’d been talking with for the past half hour. “I’ve seen that woman practically take the skin off a control crew that didn’t do things her way. She’s a demon for getting any time she can shaved off by fair means, or foul.”
“She goes with Walt?” Tory asked and gave the curvaceous redhead with perfectly manicured, two-inch fingernails a searching look. It wasn’t that much of a surprise, but it kept her from thinking about Logan’s tall figure, which was headed straight toward her and Alf.
“Honey, she’s ranked in the top five co-drivers nationally,” the older man explained, laughing at Tory’s grimace. “And be glad you’re a spectator tomorrow, instead of working one of the controls, ’cause she’s not happy your fella left her. Apparently he didn’t manage it as smoothly as I thought from the look she’s giving him.”
