Sweet Home Carolina (41 page)

He kissed her nape and eased her toward the enormous bed. “It’s
you who makes it happen,” he murmured. “I would not have thought to ask that
our wedding gifts be donations to the victims of the flood.”

“No, but you would have given away everything we received.”
She spun out of his arms to check the window overlooking the landscaping
project down the hill. Zack had hired a company to repair the path so she could
walk to the mill when she wished. In the morning, she would choose which shrubs
and perennials she wished to plant.

Coming up behind her, Zack pulled his BlackBerry from his
pocket. Sliding his arms around Amy’s waist, he placed the machine in her
hands. “Add the dates of all your family’s birthdays, if you please, so I may
see that they receive appropriate gifts when the time comes. They have
contributed as much as my associates to that treasure trove downstairs.”

Amy took the electronic menace he’d taught her to use and
began poking in dates. Behind her, Zack chuckled and rocked her back and forth
while she worked.

“I measure your contentment by the number of machines you do
not blow up,” he said. “I have not replaced a single bulb since we returned.”

She elbowed him and continued with her typing.

“Add a week of holidays for our anniversary,” he murmured,
returning to kissing her nape. “We will have a honeymoon every year. You must
show me this country. I have never seen the Rockies or the Mississippi or
Texas.”

“Business in Europe, play in America. Makes sense, although
January isn’t the time I’d be visiting the Rockies unless you ski.” Amy handed
him the BlackBerry, and it disappeared so swiftly she scarcely noticed the
absence of his hand at her waist. “And you really think I can manage the mill
when you go to Europe?”

“I know you can. We have good people in place. They will not
even know we are gone on our honeymoon next week.” His hand rose higher,
encompassing her breast beneath the scanty designer chemise he’d bought for her
in Paris. “You are certain we should not bring the little ones with us? They
have been so very good. We could still take a cruise ship instead of a yacht,
if you wish it.”

“Josh needs to be in school, and Louisa has plenty of people
to love on her while we’re gone. I’m thrilled to include them in our wedding,
but I am
not
taking them on my
honeymoon.” Amy turned in his embrace and stood on her toes to press a kiss to
his mouth. “It was lovely of you to think of it, though.”

“I think I will soon grow tired of traveling without you,”
he murmured against her lips, maneuvering her up against the new wallpaper.
“And then there will be babies. I will not wish to miss a minute of their
changes.”

Amy laughed as he held her captive with a hand on either
side of her head, pressing kisses everywhere his mouth could reach. “You will
miss the diaper changes,” she told him, brushing her lips against his bristly
cheek.

They had delighted each other when they’d discovered they
both wanted more children. Zack loved children as much as he loved new
challenges, and she loved him even more for knowing that.

“Possibly,” he agreed, carrying his kisses down her throat
to the tops of her breasts. “There will be nannies. You cannot do everything
yourself.”

“But this, I will always do myself,” she murmured, burying
her fingers in his hair and arching into him, thrilling to the sensation of his
mouth on her breast through the silk. “You must agree to be a one-woman man or
the deal is off.”

Zack grinned down on her. “Do you think me a stupid man? I
have found my treasure, and I mean to keep you.” He sealed his vow with a
fervent kiss.

“Promises are forever,” she reminded him softly, removing
his shirt.

“Unto eternity,” he agreed with a whisper of hope.

She read the passion and intensity of his gaze and
understood that her fears were his, and they would overcome them together.
“We’ll celebrate one day at a time,” she assured him, wrapping her legs around
his hips and trusting him to take her weight as their lips and tongues came
together.

And they celebrated the day joyously, with the winter
sunshine pouring through the French doors and across the bedcovers woven on the
looms of their mill, to their very own design.

With several million books in print and
New York Times
and
USA Today’
s
bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s
hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances
have won numerous awards, including the
RT
Book Reviews
Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have
been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical,
regency and contemporary categories.

A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is
married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of
Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides
in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a
member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.

For further information, visit Patricia’s network:

http://www.patriciarice.com

http://www.facebook.com/OfficialPatriciaRice

https://twitter.com/Patricia_Rice

http://patriciarice.blogspot.com/

http://www.wordwenches.com

http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/Patricia-Rice/

One

His badass days were over.
Flynn Clinton rubbed his
whisker stubble with his damaged left hand and gazed over the dance floor filled
with lithe gyrating bodies. He might be bad, but he sure the hell wasn’t young enough
to make an ass of himself any more.

The thick smoke of the bar seared his eyes and throat. He’d
forgotten that North Carolina was tobacco country. Smoke never used to bother
him. Hell, he wouldn’t have noticed a bomb exploding when he had music pounding
through him. Like a narcotic, music had blinded him. Withdrawal hurt, but he
could see clearly now. Music was as addictive as cigarettes, more lethal than
narcotics.

He was here because he didn’t know a better place to start
searching for the writer who’d scribbled that unforgettable rhyme on the
envelope he carried in his back pocket. He was just about positive the scrawl
didn’t belong to his two-timing partner. He had to know the depth of the
crook’s dishonesty, even if it set his gut on fire thinking about it.

But he didn’t know how to be a detective, which was why he
was fretting over losing his
sexy
instead of taking care of business.

Surreptitiously, Flint brushed his hand over his hair to
reassure himself that it hadn’t receded further. He even had friggin’ gray
threading through the chocolate brown the ladies once ran their hands through.

At least months of working out his frustration in a gym had
kept him wiry, even if he hadn’t been able to punch bags while wearing the cast.
Maybe he’d grow a paunch to prove he was a staid old man. Then his kids really
would laugh at him.

He winced, remembering the painful scene at his parents’
house earlier today. He supposed he deserved every bit of their castigation. His
sons had totally ignored him while his parents had laid out the ground rules for
getting the boys back into his life.

Basically, if he wanted his sons to come home, he had to
change his ways.

He definitely wanted his sons back. He remembered each of
their births with shocking exactitude, the awe and responsibility and love that
had welled up in him the first time he’d held those tiny lives in his wicked
hands. He’d made promises then that he hadn’t kept too well.

Looked like fate had caught up with him, and he had no
choice except to grow up and start keeping those promises. Flint turned his
back on the stage and the bright lights and signaled the bartender.

Once upon a time he would have been in the center of that
crowd of hot bodies performing mating rituals to the music of a rocking band. He
would have had a beer bottle in hand and been howling along with the songs as
he two-stepped with the best-looking lady in the bar.

He took a long pull on the cold beer the bartender set in
front of him. Dirk was an old friend who’d known him back in the days, but like
any good friend, Dirk had the good sense to keep his tongue in his head.

“How’s Betty Sue?” Flint asked to open the conversation. It
wasn’t as if he was here to have fun. Dirk’s bar was a place to start searching
for answers. Flint fully expected the answers to be painful, but shouldering
responsibility was part of his new maturity.

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like adulthood.

“Betty went back to school and sells real estate now. Hardly
ever see her.” Dirk dried a wine glass and set it on the rack. “What are you
doing back in these parts?”

Flint wasn’t much inclined to share his troubles, so he
shrugged and took another swig. Tomorrow, he was moving to a dry town to become
the staid owner of a coffee shop, if he could pry the hooks of his old life out
of his hide. “Got tired of the city lights, I guess. I’ve got two boys to
raise, and I want them to grow up with a simpler life.”

Dirk snorted. “I think they’re building snowmen in hell
these days. Tell me another one. Did the rebel finally find a cause?”

Flint contemplated the possibility for all of a second
before shaking his head. “It’s complicated. Melinda dying sudden like that tore
the kids to pieces. Even at their age, they understand alcohol and driving
don’t mix. The counselor says they’re feeling rejected as well as grieving.”

Another reason why they thought he was a major asshole. He
didn’t blame them. He’d never had a problem with alcohol until the divorce. According
to his mother, his drunken accident on top of Melinda’s had robbed the boys of
all security.

Currently, the kids liked it right where they were—with
their yuppie grandparents who provided a fancy house with a big rec room, video
games, and soccer. In addition, his parents provided a stable home that didn’t
include two screaming semi-adults who used to spend most of their time anywhere
but with their offspring.

That was going to change. He couldn’t bring back Melinda,
may she rest in peace, if peace was what she wanted. And he wasn’t about to
bring back the open lifestyle they’d shared. This time, he was taking a
different route. Somewhere in this wide world had to be the maternal sort of
woman who would provide the nurturing his kids needed. He’d woke up and smelled
the coffee, so to speak.

While Dirk made sympathetic noises about Melinda’s death,
Flint turned to gaze over the tables of couples laughing and talking while he
looked for a way to broach the subject fretting at his mind. “You’ve got a good
crowd.”

It wasn’t the kind of crowd that would include the kind of
woman he was looking for as wife, but it was just the kind of crowd that would
attract RJ and his friends. He had a bone to pick with his
best old
ex-friend
, as Croce phrased it, but he had no desire to be sued again, so
he was moving cautiously.

“Asheville is booming,” Dirk agreed. “We do pretty well on
weekends with the tourists. It’s a little slower the rest of the week.”

Flint nodded as if he understood. He’d learn soon enough. Even
a bonehead like him could figure out why business was better on weekends. Maybe
he could figure out how to do something about it. He’d need more cash than
weekends could bring in if he meant to give his kids the same lifestyle that his
parents provided.

“I remember playing here back when. Betty Sue used to wait tables
then, didn’t she?”

“Yup, but she had highfalutin’ ideas of how a bar should be
run, and I wasn’t adding no ferns to keep her happy. It’s been easier since she
quit to have the kids.”

“Amen to that, brother. Women don’t understand that a man needs
a place where everything stays the same so he feels comfortable. You can’t fill
a bar with frilly girl things.” Flint sure intended to keep his shop just the
way it was, a place a man could read a newspaper and drink his coffee in peace.
He had fond memories of his dad taking him and his brothers there for fat
muffins on Sunday mornings. That’s what he wanted for his boys.

Flint stopped from reaching for his beer as a frilly girl
thing caught his eye. “Although I sure don’t mind admiring the women
ornamenting a place.”

Dirk chuckled. “You haven’t changed all that much after all.
I swear, I never saw a woman in here besides Betty Sue until you started
playing.”

“I was never much of a player,” Flint protested, but he was talking
guitar, and he knew Dirk was talking women. He’d learned a lot since those days.
Women messed with his head. He didn’t particularly like them anymore except in his
bed, and it had been a scary long time since he’d seen one there. But for his
boys, he was willing to look around again for someone a little more suitable
than their mother, some quiet, mousy woman who would love them and leave his
head alone. Melinda had taught him that wild women don’t make good parents.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t howl a little tonight, especially
if he could howl with that blond number flirting those long, fake lashes at him.
He leaned his elbows back on the bar and enjoyed the view. “You got a film crew
in town that’s bringing in starlets?” he inquired, winking at the blonde but
not making his move yet.

“Not hardly. It’s the usual lot out there far as I can see,
mostly locals at this hour. It’ll pick up later. Who you eyeballing?”

“The blond, bronze bombshell with the big gold earrings.”

“Ah, you’ve got good taste,” Dirk responded with an
inflection that passed right over Flint’s head and out the door.