Sweet Home Carolina (3 page)

At least the café would have one last profitable evening.

After a brief exchange, the tall Asian-looking man and a
lanky, pony-tailed twenty-something went outside to move the cars.

With his lackeys doing their jobs, the gentleman turned back
to Amy and stared at the sweating glass of ice and tea with raised eyebrows.
“What is this?”

“Tea. I have sweet tea if you prefer.” She slid him a small
plate of the mushroom appetizers thinking it wouldn’t hurt to butter up the man
paying the bill.

“Tea.” He studied the glass with curiosity. “My mother
warned me about this country, but I didn’t listen.” He lifted the glass and
sipped cautiously. “Strong. Not bad.”

He looked up at Amy with a thousand-watt smile and extended
his hand. “Hello, I am Jacques Saint-Etienne…and I have come to look at your
antique mill.”

“No, no, it is not like that,” Jacques Saint-Etienne
protested into the phone his assistant handed him. He scraped the last of the
scalloped oysters from his plate.

Amy wiped a spill on the stove and blatantly eavesdropped.

“
Sahn Eshan?
” Jo
attempted to repeat his name as she refilled tea glasses.

“Saint Stephen,’” Amy translated, warily following the
conversation. His accent became more clipped when he argued, almost British
despite the fancy French he spewed to his entourage.

“Yes, yes.” He barked irritably into the phone. “A suite,
yes. Coffee in every room. And tea. Hot tea,” he amended. “Reserve the Jacuzzi
room, if you will.”

“Uh-oh, I better go stand by my man.” Carrying a tray of
espresso for the newcomers and peach cobbler for one of the locals, Jo aimed
for the back booth where the sultry blonde had cornered Flint, who had emerged
from his office to help with the unusual rush of customers.

Riding high on spiked lemonade and oddly revived by the
exotic company, Amy hummed under her breath and poured boiling water over the
leaves of her favorite Keemun in her special china teapot. She’d heard that
comment about hot tea. And she was feeling just spiteful enough to get even for
this invasion of demanding, temperamental customers — ones she suspected would
steal her livelihood from under her nose if they could.

She helped Janey load the dishwasher while the tea steeped.
Only one of their new guests had eaten her delicious roast chicken. None of
them had touched the whipped potatoes or creamed peas. She’d had to send Flint
down to the grocery for arugula, spinach, and fresh mushrooms, or whatever
facsimile he could find, plus oysters. The local store seldom carried more than
iceberg and canned mushrooms. Seafood of any sort in the mountains was suspect.

She had created an entire new menu of salads and appetizers
to suit their vegetarian, no-carbohydrate diets out of the barest scraps at
last minute notice, and not one of them had expressed appreciation. Not even Saint
Stephen, who’d adroitly switched between flirting with every woman in the room,
barking at his cell phone, and ordering his lackeys about, all at a dizzying
pace. Amy wasn’t certain how he managed to eat a bite.

A little too aware of her own padded figure in comparison to
all these anorexic creatures, Amy poured her perfectly steeped Keemun into a
china cup with malice aforethought.

She sliced a fresh lemon and added just a touch of sugar.
The fragrance of Chinese tea leaves wafted upward from her delicate teacup as
she leaned back against the stove and took a restorative sip.

Saint Stephen snapped his cell phone shut and dropped it
into his jacket pocket. He eyed Jo’s flask with interest.

“The oysters and vegetable couscous were admirable,” he
murmured. “But I do not share my friends’ affinity for espresso. I don’t
suppose I could prevail upon you for a martini?”

Amy would have smiled at the compliment, except if he really
was the infamous idiot who meant to take the mill away from the town, she
wanted him nailed to the floor with sharp steel, not good liquor.

“This is a dry town, no alcohol,” she replied. Dry towns
tended to discourage most business types interested in the area. She could
hope.

His aristocratically thin nose twitched as his formidable
gaze settled on Amy’s cup. “Perhaps you have something that would appeal to my
more British tastes, then?” he suggested.

“British?” Amy raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea with
the bravado of half a flask of whiskey. “I may not be a world traveler, but I
recognize French and Italian when I hear it.” Still, British would explain the
posher edge to his English.

He flashed a wide smile. “My mother is from West Virginia,
my father is from Paris. I have a villa in Italy, but I was raised in London. I
eat
British
.”

“You ate oysters instead of the steak I offered,” Amy
argued. “Even I know Brits like their beef.”

Saint Stevie was probably in charge of tips. She should be
waiting on him hand and foot. But she’d done that all evening, and he hadn’t
bothered to express his appreciation — until she’d deliberately taunted him.
Now
she had his attention. Men, European
or not, were all alike. She was learning to play this game.

“I like oysters. That does not change my nationality. Is
that hot tea I detect?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Keemun. Would you like to
know the province?”

“I would like the tea, please,” he said decisively, shoving
the icy glass away. “Hot.”

Hmmm, Mr. Pretty Boy wasn’t averse to giving orders instead
of flattery. Orders, she hadn’t learned to ignore, especially when they
involved food and hospitality.

Now that she had his attention, she counted this round won,
and reverted to her true nature, sort of. She shuffled through the café’s
cluttered cabinet until she located Jo’s prized Fiestaware cups, in orange, and
poured tea from her delicate, hand-painted Staffordshire pot into one. Let the
rich man see how the other half lived.

“Lemon?” she asked sweetly.

He studied the obnoxious color and design of the chunky
Depression-era American cup that she pushed toward him. “Please.”

Someone had taught him manners, too. Amy rewarded him with a
saucer of lemon wedges. “Our mill isn’t an antique.” She saw no reason to delay
the confrontation.

“According to my research, the first mill was built here in
1855 by Ezekial Jekel, who married a local southern belle and applied his
Yankee ingenuity to harnessing the river.” The facts reeled off his tongue
without hesitation. He sipped the tea with a nod of approval. “Delicious, thank
you.”

She admired his research, but his knowledge made her stomach
hurt. His interest wasn’t that of a tourist.

At Jo’s signal for two espressos, Amy returned to work.
Tourist revenue had paid for the espresso machine. Most of the locals preferred
their caffeine fix with the cheap bottomless-cup special. Sliding the slender
mugs onto a doily-decorated tray, she handed the order across the counter to
her sister.

Oddly, the gentleman didn’t turn to admire Jo’s generous
assets encased in her best red hostess gown with the plunging neckline. His
smoldering gaze remained fixed on Amy, and she hid a shiver of reaction. She
definitely didn’t need bored, irresponsible playboys in her dysfunctional life,
especially ones who wanted something she was much too wise to give.

“Impressive research,” she acknowledged once Jo departed.
“But the current buildings were designed in 1955 and the machinery updated in
1999. The plant was in operation until last year. The fabrics you see in here
were all created on those looms by our local employees.”

Sipping his tea, the newcomer half turned to study the rich
purple-and-rust tapestried upholstery and wine-colored table damask. “Foolishly
expansive for so small an operation, but well done. Your mill has a reputation
for sound design and expensive products.”

From this angle, Amy could see the beard stubble on his
angular jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. If there hadn’t
been some danger that he was her worst enemy, she would have urged him to go
home and get some rest.

“Foolishly expansive?” she asked, smothering her instinctive
need to nurture.

“Materials such as those are labor intensive and best left
to third world countries.” He turned back and held out his cup for more tea.
“It is a pity American labor is so high, but a world economy is necessary if we
are to sell our products in sufficient quantity to make a profit.”

She poured the tea very carefully. After all, passive
aggression did not include scalding customers with boiling liquids. “I hope
Chinese peasants are prepared to buy your products since our unemployed workers
are barely able to put food on their tables.”

“Do I detect a certain hostility to my venture?” He lifted
dark eyebrows questioningly.

Behind thick lashes, he had eyes so deep they almost looked
black, but Amy caught a hint of blue when he tilted his head to study her. She
didn’t know for certain what his venture was, but she had enough clues to worry.

“No hostility at all,” she said smoothly, “if you intend to
hire the employees the mill laid off when it closed.”

“The mill went bankrupt because it couldn’t afford those
employees,” he pointed out. “You cannot sell fabric higher than the market
rate, and that doesn’t cover your labor cost.”

In the same way his drawl became more clipped as he spoke,
his carved features sharpened, his dark gaze smoldered, and Amy would have to
quit calling him Saint Stevie if he got any hotter. She was starting to suspect
a hungry wolf lurked beneath the designer sheep’s wool.

“The rich will pay whatever it takes to get what they want,”
she replied, then snapped her mouth shut. No sense in giving away her market
plans.

“Don’t be naïve. The wealthy like a good bargain as much as
any, and they can find them in the Asian bazaars. Your only hope is
computerized looms and designs, and that takes expensive technology you don’t
possess.”

“Computerization doesn’t put cash into the local economy,”
she argued. “Any plant, anywhere in the world can produce computerized design.”

“Exactly,” he said with satisfaction, setting down his empty
cup and rising to offer his hand. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with someone
who so thoroughly understands the business. I don’t believe I caught your
name?”

“Amaranth Jane Sanderson Warren,” she replied with every
name she could legally claim, “textile designer and former wife of Northfork
Mills’ CEO.” Not offering her hand in return, she smiled pleasantly over her
teacup.

* * *

Wearily, Jacques drove the Porsche down the narrow winding
mountain highway. He couldn’t remember when he’d slept last. There had been the
bon voyage party in London that had gone into the wee hours, the early overseas
flight where he’d spent his time reading research material, the long tedious
customs lines at the airport, delays in obtaining their vehicles, all compounded
by the long drive up here. And now he had to drive right back down again to the
hotel, with his trick knee growing stiffer for lack of exercise.

He’d have to find a place to stay in Northfork. He needed to
be in the thick of things while he worked. It kept his mind occupied.

But tonight, his mind was too tired to think of anything
except the intriguing woman he’d just encountered. When he’d first entered the
café, he’d thought he’d found a charming haven of mouthwatering aromas presided
over by a curvaceous angel. Her eyes had widened in surprise at their arrival,
her lush lips had parted in invitation, and for a very brief moment, he’d felt
the welcome of home.

Until the lovely angel had revealed her decidedly sharp mind
and tongue. He appreciated her subtle digs and couldn’t resist his curiosity
about what else hid behind her calm demeanor. A kitten with claws might be an
apt description.

He chuckled at her
coup
de grâce
over the tea. He appreciated her stubborn refusal to be walked
over. He was wary of the soft, malleable types who wrapped themselves around
him. Usually, they wanted something, and became intractable when he would not
give it.

Gabrielle had been like that — soft, sweet, intelligent, and
very young. But then, so had he been. He’d given his wife everything she’d
wanted, so she had no reason to be stubborn. Until the day he
hadn’t
given her what she wanted.

Which was why he tried to stay busy and not think. If he
hadn’t been so young and stupid, maybe things would have been different. Even
after all these years, the guilt and the pain ate at him.

In some ways, staying busy acted as a tonic. He could party
all night, harass his employees all day, and still live quite comfortably with
himself. If he could just erase all memory of Gabrielle and his beautiful
Danielle….

It had been ten years of working and partying, and he still
hadn’t succeeded in that one simple task. New tactics were needed, which was
why he was in this outpost of nowhere. He was getting too old for regrets. He
needed a different challenge.

After parking outside the elegant resort his assistant had
located and handing his keys to the valet without noticing his surroundings,
Jacques limped into the majestically rustic lobby of the Grove Park Inn.

Brigitte, his assistant, was already inside handling the
reception desk. He assumed Luigi, his driver and bodyguard, was overseeing the
luggage and checking out the accommodations. Jacques cornered Pascal and forced
him to pace the spacious lobby while he worked out the kinks. Everyone else
scattered looking for bars and entertainment. He’d been assured the resort had
a spa. The women would be happy, and he could ease his aching ligaments in the
hot waters. Perhaps an American masseuse would have a new trick to force his
muscles to behave.

“I think we’ll have some local resistance,” Jacques informed
his financial adviser. Pascal dressed in black like a Parisian, carried his
Nikon like a Japanese tourist, and had the razor-sharp mind of an international
financier. “We need to keep the staff contained and as unobtrusive as possible
until I’ve formed a solid foundation with the locals.”