“Give Pascal your keys. He can drive your car back to town. We must make lists of people who might help,” Jacques ordered, wishing he had a free hand to steer Amy into the Hummer before she fled. “Do you know which employees will be available to search?”
Instead of looking satisfied, his tour guide had a deer-in-the-headlights look at his instant agreement to her suggestion, as if she were afraid he was about to run over her.
Which he was, admittedly. But something about Amy made him want to reassure her. Stupid of him, he knew. She was a smart woman who could obviously take care of herself and everyone around her. Just because she was soft and curvy with big green heartbreaking eyes and a mouth so tender it demanded kissing didn’t mean she needed his help. He just had a need to smooth her path a little, sprinkle a few rose petals….
See what she was like in bed. It had been a long time since the thrill of the chase had caught up with him. He had given up foxhunting as unfair to the poor animals, but a woman as intelligent as he was…that was quite another story.
Switching a crutch to his other arm, he took Amy’s elbow and used her for a brace before she could escape. “We will just go back to the café. I will promise not to eat you.” Yet. That pouty under lip of hers was a tempting morsel he had to quit watching.
“Where is the rest of your…staff?” she asked, giving her SUV a wistful look before reluctantly following him toward the Hummer.
She was humoring him so he didn’t lose his balance, Jacques realized in amusement. He’d had so much experience with crutches, he could run a marathon on them, but if her nurturing soul needed to be useful, he could humor her in return. Only a macho jerk would reject an opportunity to wrap an arm around soft shoulders and draw them closer so he could inhale her arousing scent. Jasmine?
“This is my staff.” He gestured to Brigitte, Pascal, and Luigi. “The rest are Catarina’s entourage, as you call them. They have decided to spend the day at the spa.”
She looked nervous as he pried her car keys from her and passed them to Pascal. Luigi closed the door on the back seat of the Hummer once she was inside, and she clung to the armrest, apparently prepared to leap out if Jacques looked at her wrong. He didn’t want her to be nervous with him.
Once the car started, she released the door handle and knit her fingers together. The day was warm, and she was wearing a sleeveless woven silk shell of an almost olive hue to enhance her lovely eyes. He knew a little something about women’s clothing, and recognized the fabric of her ivory slacks as good quality, draping her admirable curves in a way that had him watching from the corner of his eye and imagining what she wore under them.
He loved her scrap of shoe that barely caressed the top of her foot, exposing perfect toes with clear polish. She crossed her legs and bounced the sandal up and down, swinging the dangling heel and exposing shapely ankles. He wondered if she knew he was watching.
“Brigitte, take notes,” he told his assistant in the front seat. “Now, Ms. Amy, who is most likely to know the location of the old pattern cards?”
“Evan,” she muttered in response to his question.
“Evan?” he asked, encouraging her.
“My ex. It used to be his job to know the plant inside and out.” Her sandal bobbed faster. “He never mentioned any historic patterns.”
“Add his name to the list,” he ordered Brigitte. “It won’t hurt to call him and ask.” He had second thoughts about that and consulted Amy. “Will it?”
She shook her head. “It will make him feel important to be consulted, and he’ll brush you off if he doesn’t know the answer. We might have better luck getting an answer from his last secretary. Emily’s parents and grandparents all worked the mill at different times.”
“Excellent. Secretaries know everything. Designers? Did you have a design department?”
He watched in delight as she bobbed her sandal and tugged her sweater, unknowingly giving him a better view of the curve of her breasts swelling above the draped shawl neckline.
Then his gaze drifted back to her vulnerable eyes. He was supposed to be immune to eyes that revealed much more than she would like. Lust was easier. He dragged his observations back to the safer territory of luscious curves.
“No,” she answered curtly. “I suggested colors and yarns. Evan located the patterns from his contacts in the industry. They had jacquard equipment, but mostly, our designs came down to colors and materials.”
“And you chose those?” he said in delight. “Like the ones in the café? You have an excellent eye.”
“For expensive yarns and fibers,” she said wryly. “I’m the reason they overextended.”
“Nonsense.” He brushed aside the suggestion. “With the labor costs here, a wealthy market was your only option. Management did not manage cash flow correctly.”
She looked at him with curiosity. “You know mill management?”
Jacques shrugged. “I know money. I know textile markets. And I know history.”
“Saint-Etienne Fabrications is the finest historical reconstruction firm in Europe,” Brigitte said without inflection. “They reproduce historical fabrics and wall coverings for museums and palaces.”
“I am just the whiz kid,” Jacques said deprecatingly. “I find the appropriate historical designs and create the programs to replicate them. A little knowledge goes a long way.”
“Virginia Adams is his mother,” Brigitte added, as if that explained all.
Apparently, it did. Jacques almost squirmed under Amy’s astonished regard. He didn’t want to be known for his damned mother. She had no part in his company. His family had a civilized relationship. His mother traveled the world hawking her art and her knowledge. His father traveled collecting art and knowledge. Jacques had spent his growing up years in boarding schools. It worked out well as long as none of them required any emotional commitment.
“Virginia Adams, the art historian who helped restorations from the White House to Buckingham Palace?” she whispered. “That Virginia Adams? Her knowledge of British and American art and design is famous.”
“Infamous, more like.” It was his turn to mutter.
“Infamous? She’s highly respected,” Amy argued, finally stopping her nervous bouncing and turning to look at him fully.
“It is nothing.” Jacques waved off the subject. “Let us go back to our list.”
“His father, her husband, is an international art collector and historian. The two cannot live in the same country without starting a small war,” Brigitte said matter-of-factly.
“Whatever could they fight over?” Amy was now talking to Brigitte and ignoring him. “I would think they’d have a lot in common.”
“They disagree on the color red,” Brigitte said with a shrug. “One is French, the other British-American, each with their own prejudices.”
“It is a match made in hell,” Jacques finished curtly as the Hummer stopped in front of the café. “And now we have wasted our meeting on old news. Let us try to be more productive over lunch.”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Amy protested. “I have to pick Josh up at school. I’ll make a list of employees who might help and give you a call later.”
“Nonsense.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Brigitte, you will get out here. You and Pascal can reserve us a table. Luigi will take us to the school. Give him the directions.” He sat back and crossed his arms expectantly.
Amy studied him through narrowed eyes, but he had her number. She had little practice in defying direct orders.
“Reservations are hardly necessary,” she said quietly. “It’s well past the lunch hour. There is no reason for Brigitte to get out.”
Jacques grinned. “There is if she knows what’s good for her.”
And Brigitte did. He hired only bright assistants. She was already out of the obnoxious tank of a car Luigi had insisted on renting.
“Now, where is this school? Josh? Is he your little boy? He will like a ride in this car, no?”
Amy rewarded him with a suspicious glance — obviously she was very bright — gave the directions to the elementary, and returned to nervously slapping her sandal up and down. “Yes, of course, he’s a first grader. Listen, I’ve already had lunch, and the café closes at three. We really should save this for the phone.”
“The café closes? How can that be? Where will we eat?”
“In Asheville, I assume, since you don’t like red meat or iceberg lettuce. That’s about all the steak house down the road serves. The Stardust only serves dinner on weekends, and now that the tourist season is over, we may quit doing that.”
Amy watched as he mulled that over. Despite his nonchalance, Jacques was obviously a man who took control and kept it. It should be interesting to see how he dealt with this minor hitch in his plans. She was beginning to understand that, despite his tailored elegance, he wasn’t the kind of man who would walk away from an obstacle as she’d expected.
It was hard to ignore the sense of anticipation that seemed to crackle in the air when he was around. If she’d let herself think about it at all, she’d know it was because his flamboyant charm covered a deep pool and not shallow waters, and she wanted to see what he did next.
His slacks outlined the brace on his knee, but the man exuded male energy that negated any minor handicap. Amy wore heels so she didn’t feel short next to everyone else, but sitting down, he still towered over her. She wouldn’t call herself fragile, but she’d seen the strength of Jacques’ upper arms when he wielded the crutches. This was not a man she’d want to tangle with physically or intellectually.
His mother was Virginia Adams. Amy couldn’t decide whether to weep or knock her head against a wall. A man with those kind of high-powered connections would not want to run their tiny little country mill. He moved on a scale so far beyond that of her world that she could scarcely imagine it. His smiles were meaningless. He was simply using her to get whatever it was he wanted, and that seemed to be the pattern cards.
Sinking deeper into the leather seat and glaring out the window, Amy decided that when her ship came in, she’d hire a therapist to find out why the only men who interested her were men who wanted to use her.
“You are open for breakfast and lunch, no?” he asked, tapping his fingers against his knee and studying the more immediate problem of food.
“We are open for breakfast and lunch, yes,” she agreed, trying to be polite, as one would to a guest, but fearing the sarcasm bled through. Or her fear. “But the lunch menu is hamburgers and not sun-dried-tomato paninis. This is a blue-collar town where people work hard and eat large. French fries are as close to European dining as you’ll get.”
She felt him turn that sizzling blue-black gaze on her and wished the driver would turn up the air-conditioning before she roasted beneath the blaze of Jacques’s regard.
“You can prepare tomato paninis?” he inquired.
Assertive, she told herself. Be assertive. “It requires equipment the restaurant does not own.” Well, that wasn’t exactly assertive, but it was better than admitting that she could prepare them, yes.
“Ah, if that is all….” He snapped open his cell phone, pushed a few numbers, and as the Hummer skirted the line of parents waiting to pick up their children at the elementary school, he began a rapid spate of French to his assistant.
Amy was ready to crawl under the front seat as people stared at the flat-topped monstrosity bypassing the line.
While Jacques talked, Amy leaned forward to talk to the driver. “You’ll block the school buses,” she explained quietly. “Pull around back where the teachers park. I can go in and find Josh.”
Instead, the driver halted the Hummer directly in front of the school, next to the line of buses and cars, climbed out, and held open the door for her.
Amy thought she would shrivel up and die of embarrassment as she took his hand and climbed down. As Evan’s wife, she’d been one of the wealthiest women in town, but she had never, ever flaunted the fact. She’d grown up here. These people had known her as a snot-nosed kid. Pretension would only get her snubbed at church on Sunday.
Chin high, she marched up the walk as if she arrived in a chauffeured Hummer every day. One day out of a lifetime was no big deal.
Josh ran out to meet her, and with relief Amy kneeled down to hug his sturdy little body. She didn’t mind if he got chocolate stains on her silk shell — it was washable, and she reveled in the nondemanding love and acceptance of his hug. She blew a raspberry on the back of his neck just for the reassuring familiarity of his giggle.
Holding his hand, she hurried back to the drive, praying a dozen buses weren’t blowing their horns in fury.
The Hummer wasn’t there.
She almost had a panic attack until she realized Luigi had merely circled the drive and was pulling back around again. She was used to being abandoned. She wasn’t used to intelligent drivers.
Luigi parked, and Amy hurriedly opened the latch before he could get out and perform the whole door-opening ceremony again. Josh was wide-eyed and openmouthed as she lifted him into the back and scrambled up after him. She buckled him into the middle seat and slammed the door after her, under Luigi’s disapproving gaze.
Off the cell phone now, Jacques held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Master Josh. Did you have an entertaining day at school?”
So eager for male attention that he would have spilled his guts to any hobo wandering through town, Josh bounced excitedly and began reciting his day in detail, punctuated with a barrage of questions about the masculine vehicle they were riding in.
Amy gave up any hope of fighting her competition when — instead of impatiently brushing off Josh’s questions — Jacques answered them all in a manner a small boy could comprehend. She wondered if he knew pain shadowed his eyes when he looked at Josh. It could be his knee, of course, but somehow, she didn’t think so.
If she didn’t drive the man out of town soon, she could learn to adore him just for taking time to listen to her children. Obviously, Josh wasn’t the only one starved for male attention.