Sweet Home Carolina (21 page)

The crowd had given up on the unfamiliar verses, and Jo’s
voice rang over the clearing. More fireworks exploded, leaving the damp air
heavy with sulfur. He thought he might explode with them, but it wasn’t sulfur
that would ignite him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, gesturing at the
cheering, celebrating throng.

“No electricity. So…we have to empty the freezers,” she
called cheerfully over the myriad pops of a noisy firecracker.

“And that explains the banner? And the fireworks?” He tried
to work up a good tantrum to fight his terror of the decision she was forcing
on him.

“Oh, that.” She waved her spatula nonchalantly. “We’re
showing our support. The best man won, and we want to show we’re not sore
losers.”

He’d bet even money that this highly intelligent — extremely
devious — woman had incited the population into believing he would actually
hire them.

He ought to be furious at her manipulation. Instead, he felt
as if she’d hit him over the head with reality and left him spinning.
Amy wasn’t devious.

She was creating fantasies. She actually thought that if she
showed him the importance of the mill to the town he might develop an
altruistic streak to match her own. She thought more of him than he did of
himself.

He ought to turn around and march straight back to the
Hummer, leave for London tomorrow, and let Pascal handle the sale of the
equipment. He could be in his computerized office, scanning in the cards, and
developing new designs before the end of the week.

But Jacques suddenly had no interest in London, offices, or
designs. Why did he feel as if those things were the past, a world in which he
no longer had any interest? And the brilliant green eyes challenging him and an
entire town welcoming him offered a
real
future?

He’d lived everywhere and never felt the need to belong
anywhere. So why was he still standing here? Surely he didn’t believe he could
be the hero these people thought him? That was ridiculous. He was a
businessman, not a hero.

Amy seemed to think otherwise.

Did she really think that much of him? The possibility
dazzled more than the fireworks.

“What happened to the electricity?” he asked, sidestepping
the issue. He had to conquer his rampaging libido, drag his gaze away from her
dancing hoops and her sexy mole, and seek good sense.

“Guess the town couldn’t pay the bill,” she said airily,
shrugging and flipping a chicken breast. “Life goes on.”

“Hog wallow,” he said. “The transformer blew out.”

“The correct term is
hogwash
,
and it doesn’t matter why the electricity is out. We still have to eat. Good
thing it isn’t winter yet. Most everyone uses electric space heaters for heat
because fuel oil is too expensive.”

“You are not making me feel guilty,” he asserted firmly.
“The mill has been defunct for over a year.”

“We’ve lived in hope for a year.” Still smiling, Amy used
tongs to place a charcoaled chicken breast on a grilled wheat bun, then handed
it to him. “Now, we either get back to work or close up the town and move on.
Tomatoes and lettuce are over on the table. That’s Jo’s punch in the red cup,
so I’d be wary of drinking it if I were you.”

She turned her tanned and attractive back on him to put a
hot dog on a bun for a teenager. She didn’t raise her voice, argue, or go after
him with a knife, and still, she gutted him.

If his finer qualities rated higher than mediocre on his
best day, he did not want to know about it. She definitely saw more in him than
was there.

Dave from the hardware store grabbed Jacques’s elbow.
“Speech!” he yelled over the crackle of a string of firecrackers someone had
thrown into the bonfire. “It’s not often this town attracts this kind of
attention.”

Dave pointed at a circle of men in rumpled white shirts
gulping down free hot dogs and hamburgers while keeping an eye on the Hummer,
Luigi, and Jacques. They were also holding plastic cups of Jo’s fiery cocktail.
Around them, television camera crews waited, leaning on their equipment and
watching the circus. The media.

Trying to disguise his inner panic, Jacques set the plastic
cup aside and slathered Amy’s relish on his bun. He’d learned to appreciate the
salad dressing concoction she’d served him for lunch this past week. It beat
ketchup, any day.

He studied the reporters waiting expectantly. What in hell
would happen if he announced his true intentions? Would the crowd shoot him
like a turkey? Beat him into the blacktop? He figured he and Luigi could double
up a lot of soft bellies and maybe cut a swath to escape, but fighting his way
out of town didn’t appeal to his pride. He knew he’d been had. He glanced back
at Amy, and she gave him a wink.

Five minutes ago he would have done handstands for that
charming wink from the prim Miss Amy. Now, he saw he’d seriously underestimated
the power of a woman. He glanced at the stage where Jo was finishing up her
song. Flint leaned against the gazebo, arms crossed, watching his wife, but the
instant Jo finished singing, they both turned expectantly in Jacques’s
direction.

“Speech, Zack,” Jo called into the microphone.

The crowd picked up the cry.
Speech, speech!

Hoss and Jimbo, the local rock-climbing expert, leaned
against each other, sipping from red plastic cups and grinning. Even Marie
Sanderson picked up little Louisa and let her wave at him.

It was a damned Mickey-Rooney-Judy-Garland presentation.
Jacques’s mother had all those corny films on tape and played them while she
worked. His father called her art saccharine for good reason. She called her
paintings an emotional tribute to hard work and sacrifice. They were both
right. Jacques had just never expected to walk into a scene from one of his
mother’s sentimental paeans to the working man.

He glanced at Luigi and the Hummer. He could escape. He
didn’t have to do this.

Josh tugged on his trouser leg, drawing his attention
downward.

The child handed him a melting ice cream cone. “You can have
a lick if you want,” he said seriously.

A tidal wave of emotion buoyed Jacques and swept him out to
sea, far beyond the safe waters he knew and into dangerous undertows.

“Thanks, son,” he muttered, pretending to lick and handing
it back to the boy. “That’s good stuff.”

Josh nodded seriously. “Think Luigi would like some?”

“I think he would, if you go straight to him and come right
back here.”

The boy grinned. “Yeah, that’s what Mommy always says.”

The crowd continued shouting, “speech, speech,” and grew
silent as Bill and Dave shoved Jacques toward the stage.

And he let himself be shoved.

“You are one mean woman, Amaranth Jane,” Jo murmured in
admiration after abandoning the gazebo to Jacques and joining her sister at the
grill. “How did you know he wouldn’t go straight for the airport from the
courthouse?”

“Because he hasn’t packed his suitcase,” Amy answered
absently. Her heart had stopped beating, and she wasn’t entirely certain her
lungs still worked while she waited to hear his decision. The world stopped
turning the instant Jacques stepped up to the microphone.

She was pretty certain he’d been furious with her when he
realized how she’d put him on the spot. But she’d damned well take red-hot
pokers to his hide before she’d let him turn his back on the town and walk away
unscathed. Maybe people didn’t listen to
her
,
but a crowd like this was hard to ignore.

A teeny tiny frozen part of her prayed frantically that he was
the strong, good man she saw beneath the designer clothing. Nothing in her life
had ever led her to believe men were anything except pigeon droppings, and yet
she still hoped for the best. Jo used to call her Calamity Jane. Pollyanna Jane
was more like it. Despite all the dire warnings in her head, hope filled her
heart. She’d thought Evan had beaten the optimism out of her. Apparently, she
was wrong. Her breath caught as Jacques stepped up onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the mike. He stood tall
and confident on the bandstand, observing the crowd from beneath an unruly lock
of hair. Even the fireworks silenced at his words. “Hoss and Jimbo,” he added,
quirking an eyebrow at the two big men who’d teased him mercilessly. The crowd
laughed.

“He’s good,” Jo acknowledged reluctantly.

He’d have to be better than good, Amy figured, but she
strained to hear what he had to say rather than talk over him.

“Every one of you is aware of the difficult economy,”
Jacques continued, scanning the silenced crowd like a politician. “Quality
goods cannot compete on a scale with cheap foreign markets.”

The crowd murmured agreement. Amy’s fingernails bit into her
palms, and she realized she was shivering in anticipation. He looked so
comfortable up there, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, shoving back a
nubby-textured raw silk sports coat that must have cost more than her wedding
dress. He had that self-deprecating Hugh Grant smile happening, with just a
hint of dimple. He appeared human and accessible and not like the robot of
riches that he portrayed. Every particle of her that was female whimpered in lust.

And believed in him.

That realization almost took her down. How had he released
the hope she’d locked away?

“I represent hundreds of stockholders,” Jacques continued in
a booming voice that carried through the night, “people like you, who expect me
to make money on the savings they’ve entrusted to me.”

Amy tightened her lips to keep from uttering an expletive.
Jacques looked directly at her, and she figured this was where he cut off the
limb she’d climbed on to get in his face. She could survive the fall. She
simply didn’t want all these anxious people going down with her.

She wished she could disappear in a puff of smoke rather
than disappoint her friends and family, but she stood firm, meeting his gaze
without wavering — although the raw strength of his direct midnight stare might
give her a heart attack.

She wasn’t backing down to any man ever again. Hands on
hips, she glared back. Jacques grinned.

“But a conscientious Christian lady in this town has shown me
that sometimes it’s better to tend our fields and earn smaller profits now in
order to reap greater rewards in the future.”

Oh Lord
. What was
he saying? Amy grabbed her throat, and she really did stop breathing.

He held the crowd spellbound, although several people
glanced her way. She wasn’t used to being the object of anyone’s attention, so
she disregarded the stares, focused on Jacques, and prayed furiously.

If he did what he appeared to be doing, she’d gladly believe
in Santa Claus.

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, “but I want to try
hiring a small —
very small
— skilled
workforce to produce the historic designs for which this mill was once famous.”

A cheer or two rang out, but battered by too many defeats,
the town waited for the other shoe to fall.
Small
didn’t encompass much.

A tear trailed down Amy’s cheek, and she waited, torn by
anxiety.

“If we make this production a success, your mill, and make
no mistake — the mill is as much yours as mine — will have room to grow for
years into the future. I’ll begin hiring mechanical staff to repair and
maintain the equipment starting Friday of this week.” He shouted this last over
the explosion of screams and cheers and firecrackers.

The remainder of the fireworks left over from their
rained-out Fourth of July celebration exploded in a bouquet of sparks against
the black clouds overhead. The local band plugged into the generator and struck
up a guitar-whining “Star-Spangled Banner” at the burst of an American flag in
red, white, and blue stars across the sky.

Tears poured down Amy’s cheeks, and sobs racked her. The
crowd shouted, “Zack, Zack,” and Jo leaned over to whisper, “Guess there should
be a Union Jack up there, too, hmm?”

Laughing in relief, hugging herself to hold in her
hysterics, Amy nodded. It wasn’t everything she’d wanted, but it was a start.
And Jacques had done it. He was opening the mill — they had a future!

Instead of meekly caving to Jacques’s distracting charm,
she’d pushed back, and he’d responded just as she’d hoped he would, proving he
was the savvy man she thought she’d seen beneath the surface glamour. She was
still too rattled to completely grasp what had just happened.

When she saw him heading their way carrying Louisa and
followed by their mother, her remaining defenses shattered. She couldn’t face
him without her shield of anger. She couldn’t trust herself not to fall into
his arms and sob all over him. And she knew where that led.

Amy turned and ran for the protection of the darkened café.

* * *

Fighting his way through reporters, cameras, and microphones
shoved in his face, Jacques watched the reward he’d worked to earn run away,
and he froze in shock. What the devil had he done wrong?

He wasn’t used to women running away, especially after he’d
handed them what they wanted. He had expected.… Hell, he’d expected her to act
like the women in his set — flinging themselves in his arms and kissing him all
over and pretending they were his for the asking.

He hadn’t been thinking with his head at all. He’d just
committed himself to the impossible in return for another chance to get his
hopes crushed.

The little girl in his arms shouted “Wheee!” and pounded his
starched shirt with grimy hands at the sight and sound of rockets ringing
through the air. He was still stunned by what he’d done, but Amy’s reaction
topped his performance in spades.

“Amaranth doesn’t like people to see her cry,” Marie said
matter-of-factly, reaching for Louisa. “She’s probably scrubbing pots.”