Sweet Home Carolina by Patricia Rice Page A

win the mill for the
town and the cottage for herself, come hell or high water.
    Amy returned to the kids and Jo. Hospitality had been
assuaged. She’d stay with her own kind now, thank you very much. It was high
time she realized who she really was — a country girl with a knack for
homemaking and a determined drive to achieve her goals.
    * * *
    Scoping the modified twelve-gauge shotgun Flint had handed
to him, Jacques still knew the moment Amy drifted away. It was as if the
sunshine dimmed and the world grew a little colder without her gaze.
    Not that she let him see that she watched him. Oh, no, not
Ms. Amy. She hid behind modestly lowered lashes and pleasant smiles and small
talk. But he knew when a woman was interested. And he was interested in return.
The question was, should he pursue that interest for the short time he would be
here? In these past days, he’d learned Amy was not one of the jaded females
with whom he normally socialized. She could not be treated like one.
    He could hope she expected no more than a moment out of a
lifetime. He hoped she was ready for what little he had to offer, because his
interest was hooked by her shy glances and brave words, and this shiver of
excitement hadn’t happened in too long a time to ignore it now.
    He handed the weapon back to Flint. “It’s a very large
barrel for so small a target, more a contest of strength and equipment than
speed and dexterity, true?”
    Flint’s bronzed face crinkled up in a smile. “A test of
testosterone, yes.”
    Jacques grinned. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. If there
are wagers on this event, save your money.”
    “I’m a judge. I can’t wager. But I got a feeling this is
going to be more fun than the state fair. Hey, Amy packed our basket. Why don’t
you join us? I bet our fixin’s are better than the hotel’s.”
    “The company will make it so.” Whistling, Jacques accepted
Flint’s invitation and sauntered back to the blanket where Amy and her sister
sat, sipping from plastic glasses and watching the children wrestle in the
grass.
    “Lemonade?” Jo offered at his approach, holding up a plastic
jug.
    “Thank you, I think I will.” He gestured at Amy, who was
already looking for Luigi and his chair and preparing to get up to find both.
“You need not wait on me.” Using the cane as a brace, he swung down to the
blanket beside her. He was close enough to smell the delicate scent of jasmine
lotion that she wore. He leaned over and blew a wisp of silky hair from her
ear. “I am not made of glass. I promise,” he murmured in an insinuating tone.
    To his delight, she blushed clear to her hair roots.
    “Buckingham Palace?” she inquired softly, apparently to get
even with him for disturbing her. “We looked you up on the computer. It’s not
just your mother who has worked with princes.”
    “Only princes can pay my prices,” he said, in hopes of
passing off his connections as a joke. He could tell by the fire in her eyes
that he’d failed.
    “You think we don’t have a chance of winning that bid after
the judge finds out who you are, don’t you? With the investment money you can
command, the town can’t come close.”
    In this relaxed setting that had nothing to do with business,
Jacques heard the pain and concern behind her anger, and understood far more
than he liked.
    Looking around, he could see the tiny world she knew, heard
her awe at the distant planet he came from, and realized the lovely, confident
woman beside him was overwhelmed. By him .
By his world, his knowledge, his experience. That insight into her
vulnerability threatened to rouse his ridiculous need to protect.
    “This is no topic for a holiday,” he scolded in
self-defense. Generally, women did not get angry with him, and he was
uncomfortable being the target of Amy’s resentment.
    “Do you shoot?” Jo asked, handing him a tall red glass,
giving him an excuse to turn away from his irate companion.
    “A little,” he said modestly.