Jacques thought he deserved an Academy Award by the time Luigi pulled up in front of the café. He’d done a superior job of keeping up an amusing conversation with the towheaded charmer while a knifing pain of regret minced his gut into pâté. He’d thought he’d gone beyond grief years ago, but the interaction with the child was too close and personal without a shield of activity and people to protect him.
He could have had a son of his own by now. He hoped any son of his would have been as bright and eager as this child, with his mother’s shy smile and inquisitive mind. Danielle had been a mama’s girl, loving frilly dresses and shiny shoes, and he’d worshipped her, but he’d never had a son to wrestle about the floor and romp in the grass with. And now he was too set in his ways — and too busy — for wrestling and romping.
An auto accident on a snow-laden highway had stolen that dream ten years ago, and it was too late to regret his decision not to pursue another. He couldn’t let a child’s smile and a woman’s winsome nature make him question his choices or distract him from his goals — not for more than a day or two, anyway.
You can’t lose what you don’t have, he reminded himself. He’d lost quite enough for one lifetime and doubted he’d survive losing more. He’d learned to endure physical pain as an athlete. He’d just have to learn to endure a little emotional discomfort for as long as it took to get those designs.
Under the interested stares of an audience of locals, Jacques swung his crutches into the café. He glanced at his Rolex. It was two-thirty on a Monday afternoon. Shouldn’t the place be nearly empty if it closed at three?
“Hey, Hoss, what are you doing here?” Amy asked, confirming Jacques’s suspicion that the number of customers at this hour was unusual.
While Amy helped Josh onto a counter stool, Jacques took a seat at the booth occupied by Pascal and Brigitte. Both were sipping espressos and pushing french fries around their plates with distaste.
“You found a grill for the panini?” he asked Brigitte.
“I will have to order it,” Brigitte said. “I could not locate a local shop.”
“Bed, Bath and Beyond in Asheville,” Amy suggested, returning to their table. “But if you’re staying in Asheville, you don’t need a grill. I’m sure the resort can fix paninis if you ask.”
Jacques gestured for her to sit across from him, next to Brigitte. She hesitated, but he would not speak until she finally surrendered and joined them. It was obvious Amy did not quite grasp the intensity of his determination once he’d made up his mind, but she would.
“I am staying here in Northfork,” he enunciated carefully, looking straight at her. “I need to spend more time at the mill and speak with these people whose names you will give me.”
He smiled hopefully to get his point across, while erasing her concerns. An interesting blush stained her cheek, and she tightened her lips and looked away rather than flirt with him. It was a challenge wooing a woman who didn’t wish to be won.
Did he wish to woo her? He would be here only briefly, but he had a feeling they could warm the cockles of each other’s hearts very nicely, and still part friends.
She had recently come out of a broken marriage. Perhaps temporary was exactly what she needed.
“Hey, Amy, you gonna introduce us to your friends?” The man she’d called Hoss earlier propped a possessive hand on the back of the booth behind her. Tall, forty-something, muscular and stocky, with gray in his close-clipped beard, the stranger eyed Jacques as if he were not human.
Not wishing to drag out the crutches to stand, Jacques merely extended his hand. “Jacques Saint-Etienne. My assistant, Brigitte. My adviser, Pascal. How do you do?”
Hoss gripped his hand and squeezed. Jacques squeezed harder.
He didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the other man wince. Interestingly, Amy tugged Hoss’s work shirt to force him to release his grip in an apparent attempt to protect her guest. Jacques grinned at the idea of his needing a woman’s protection.
“Cut it out, Hoss. Jacques is here about the mill. Hoss owns the white-water rafting company on the river.”
“Jack, is it?” Hoss asked. “I thought you was buying the mill, Amy.”
“You know perfectly well that the town is trying to buy the mill, so quit your country bumpkin act. Everyone profits if the plant is returned to production, no matter who buys it. Now play nice,” she scolded mildly.
She wanted the town to acquire the mill. That explained a great deal. Jacques suffered a twinge of guilt at her words. He wasn’t in the business of operating mills and had no intention of putting the outdated plant into production. The logistics were far more than his small company could manage. He could not see how it mattered to a woman like Amy, who had family all around her and no need of a filthy mill.
“Hey, Hoss, you got the turkey shoot lined up yet?” a blue-jeaned farmer-type called from the counter.
Hoss turned toward the speaker. “Ain’t got enough entries yet to make it worth my time, Jimbo.”
“Now that Jo isn’t the prize, you’re not offering anything worth ours,” George Bob, the man introduced as the local insurance agent, complained.
The young waitress arrived with glasses of water — with lemon slices, Jacques noticed with approval. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Heat up some of the soup I have in the freezer,” Amy told her before Jacques could say a word. “There are some seven-grain rolls left in the bread drawer, and chicken salad in the blue container on the second shelf. I’ll be there in a minute to help, and I’ll clean up so you can leave on time.”
The waitress looked relieved and rushed away. With increased interest at this bossy side of the lady, Jacques raised a questioning eyebrow.
Amy pushed up from the booth and shrugged. “It’s that, or french fries. At least the minestrone is vegetarian. Back in a minute.”
Across from him, Brigitte snickered into her espresso.
“When in Rome,” Pascal quoted back at him, “you take orders from Romans.”
Not only had the woman chosen his meal, she’d walked off and left him! Obstinate. And bossy. Intriguing. Jacques surreptitiously watched Amy behind the counter. There was something ultimately sexy about a woman preparing a nurturing meal.
“Laugh, if you will,” he said gallantly, “but see, she is taking care of the boy, and her hired help, and us, all at once.” He nodded toward the counter where Amy was kissing her son’s head and handing him a plate of peeled fruit, while helping the young waitress prepare a plate for their late customers. “She is kind even to strangers who are her adversaries.”
He’d not intended to get involved when he’d come here. He had just been looking for new mountains to climb. It looked as if he’d found more challenge than he’d anticipated.
“Hey, Ames, reckon Flint would want to join the turkey shoot if he’s in this weekend?” Hoss had returned to the counter when Amy did, as if he were standing guard over her.
Jacques narrowed his eyes and considered the beefy older man following her around. Surely this was not his competition?
“Ever shot a turkey?” Pascal murmured, following his thoughts.
“There are some turkeys I would not mind shooting,” Jacques replied noncommittally, sipping his water.
“Flint might if the boys are allowed to enter,” Amy replied while arranging the chicken salad on a bed of lettuce. “You’d snare him even faster if you let Jo shoot.”
Male laughter erupted throughout the café. A lifetime of competition had enhanced Jacques’ ability to size up the opposition. He observed the byplay with interest.
“Girls can’t shoot!” Jimbo protested from the counter. “It takes a man to handle a shotgun.”
“Maybe we could set up some targets for the kids and women and their little popguns,” some other wit in a John Deere cap suggested.
Target shooting was for women and children? Jacques heard Pascal snort derisively, but he held his tongue. This wasn’t their world. He was just an observer. For now.
He smiled in pleasure as Amy returned to the table with an overflowing tray of deliciously arranged food.
“It’s not much,” she apologized, distributing the plates. “The minestrone is made with vegetable stock, but if you’re not vegetarian, you might try the chicken salad on the rolls. I think you’ll like it.”
She looked more delectable than the food with her cheeks pink and her eyes shining, and the shimmery thickness of her hair brushing the delicate curve of her nape. He knew she was as aware of him as he was of her.
“This is extremely generous of you,” he said with genuine delight, hoping to distract her from her nervousness. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had prepared food with their own hands just for him. “We certainly didn’t mean to make you work on your day off.”
He shot a severe look to Brigitte, who immediately removed her Gallic nose from the air and murmured her gratitude. Pascal expressed his thanks in French, to which Amy responded in a halting high-school accent, before she retreated to the counter.
“Hey, Amy, I betcha if both you and Jo would offer kisses as prizes, we could get more entries!” Hoss called, still in pursuit of his own agenda.
“You want Flint to aim for your head?” Amy shooed the young waitress toward the door and began loading the dishwasher. “It’s three o’clock, you clowns. You don’t have to entertain the company any longer.” Although Amy had to admit that she appreciated having them here to shield her from Jacques’s searing gaze. She really didn’t want to know what was going on behind those long lashes and knowing eyes as he observed everything around him.
“We’re just looking after you, Ames,” George Bob replied, rising and pulling out his wallet.
She was almost two years older than George. As much as she might welcome his presence, Amy disregarded his paternal attitude. She handed him his change.
“Reckon Amy’s reputation is safe here with the girls,” Jimbo drawled for everyone to hear.
Amy threw his coins in the register and attempted a glare. “Watch your mouth, Jim, or I’ll have to wash it out with soap.”
“He didn’t say a dirty word, did he, Mommy?” Josh asked, following the adult conversation with interest.
“I took French class with your mom,” Jimbo explained, sliding his billfold into his back pocket. “She knows how to say dirty words in three languages.” Tugging on his cap, Jimbo waved at Jacques’s table. “See y’all later, Jackie.”
Amy sent Jacques an anxious glance, but he was watching with amusement. No matter what his intentions, she hated having a customer insulted. Just because Jacques dressed fancy didn’t make him a wimp, but the men around here didn’t understand anyone different from them. Any female with operating hormones could tell the newcomer was hot enough to scorch.
“Well, if Flint won’t let Jo be the prize, how about you, Ames? It’s for a good cause.” Hoss leaned against the counter, not ready to leave until she threw him out.
The annual turkey shoot was a haphazard event designed to raise money for Fourth of July fireworks and Christmas decorations. Winning a kiss from Jo had been a popular contest these last few years, but Jo was a married woman now. And Amy wasn’t any longer.
“What about Sally?” she argued. “Have you asked her?”
“Aw, c’mon, Amy, give us real men a chance for a change. You don’t need to go lookin’ for furriners. We’ll raise enough to buy a new star for the tree if you’ll say yes.”
She hadn’t thought Hoss looked at any woman except Jo. A blush crept up her neck even though she knew he was all bluster and few brains. She hadn’t kissed any man except Evan in ten years.
“When is this event?” Jacques asked in a quiet manner that still made him heard above the ringing register.
Hoss turned. “This weekend, if Amy will agree. Why, you interested in rifle shooting?”
Turkey shoots were all about heavy shotguns and manly men. Hoss had asked about the ladies’ rifle competition with a smirk that Amy knew meant he’d set this up intentionally.
Before she could intervene in a contest of twisted machismo, Jacques tugged his ear and smiled that boyish smile that made her knees melt and sent warning signals singing through her blood. Why the devil did he have that effect on her?
“I’ll even sponsor an event, if you like,” Jacques suggested. “Do you know skeet shooting?”
“Skeet? Ain’t no critters called skeet around here.” Hoss crossed his arms, leaned his hip against the counter, and regarded the table of strangers as if this were a spaghetti western, and he were Clint Eastwood.
Amy smacked him against the back of his head with a plasticized menu. “They shoot skeet all the time. Don’t let the local yokel fool you.”
Hoss belatedly dodged her blow and shot her a mournful look. “Aw, Ames, you’re gonna take all the fun out of it. Jackie here’s gonna think we’re easy marks.”
“Can I shoot skeet, too?” Josh asked eagerly.
“If your mother agrees, Master Josh. I will sponsor an event for children, as well. Ms. Amy, would you be so good as to tell me the appropriate prize for children?”
“What event you gonna enter?” Hoss demanded, pushing his luck.
“Any event in which Ms. Amy is the prize, of course.” Jacques held out his hand to Pascal, and a money clip stuffed with green appeared in his palm. “What is the entry fee?”
Amy thought she might just sink through the floor. She had no desire at all to be the prize in this masculine tug-of-war. She had no idea why a man like Jacques would allow himself to be drawn into Hoss’s little joke, but she had to end this now.
“Jacques, you don’t have to do this. Hoss got his name because he’s always horsing around.” And because he could be a horse’s ass, she should have added. He just wanted to best the rich stranger in a sport he excelled at — and suck as much money from him as he could.
Jacques winked at her admonition, making it clear that she was the reason he was doing this. “I assure you, Amy, this will be my pleasure.”
Amy contemplated what might be under the café floor if she sank through it. Spiders, mice, cobwebs, all would be more acceptable than this insane contest. Were they really betting on a kiss from her? Her, Amy Warren, Miss Invisible USA? What the hell did they hope to gain from this?
But as Jacques laid his money on the table and Hoss scooped it up, Amy couldn’t prevent her neglected hormones from boiling over at the thought of Macho Man claiming his prize. Just watching Jacques’s confident laughter had her way past over stimulated without imagining kissing him. She was so not going there.
The café phone rang, distracting her from that embarrassing leap of imagination. Relieved to be removed from the action, she grabbed the receiver as the rest of her customers, except for Playboy and Company, filed out.
“Stardust, Amy here,” she said curtly.
“Amy, they accepted the counter offer!” her real estate agent crowed. “You’ve sold your house.”
Shocked, Amy grabbed the stove to keep her knees from crumbling out from under her. She’d sold her house?
It was real, then. Instead of cheering, panic grabbed her. They had nowhere to go.
She scarcely heard the agent’s litany of explanations of what would happen next. Her mind leaped like a frog from one terror to the next. She couldn’t find a new home without knowing if she had a job.
If the town lost the mill bid…. Her gaze widened in horror as the agent rattled on, and Amy watched the man who threatened her future complacently plot with his partners across the room.
By the time she hung up the phone, Jacques was looking at her with lifted eyebrow, and his staff had hurriedly finished their meal and departed. She didn’t even feel guilty for deserting her hostess duties and driving them away.
She needed to write up his bill and get him out of here so she could think, even if what she really wanted to do was reach across the counter and shake him until he spilled his plans for the town’s future. Her hand trembled as she scribbled on the café’s green order form and tried not to look at him again.
“Is everything all right?” Jacques asked, setting down his cup and reaching for his wallet.
No, everything wasn’t all right, especially when the sympathy in his voice made her want to fall into his arms and weep. Better for all concerned that she saw him as the fly in her ointment, the bad guy she was supposed to chase out of town as quickly as she could say “vintage patterns.” She summoned her courage and slapped the meal ticket on the table. “Just exactly what are your intentions?” she demanded, unable to phrase her desperation more precisely.
Jacques’ look of mischief warned that not only had she garbled the question, but he hadn’t taken it seriously.
“Purely dishonorable, I assure you,” he replied, rising from the booth — putting him entirely too close, to her flushed embarrassment. If he touched her, she’d probably faint.
The villain practically exuded sexy. And the heated look he bestowed on her left no possibility of mistaking his meaning, which flustered her even more. She was a mother. She didn’t do dishonorable.
Shaken in too many ways to comprehend, Amy let her anxiety run away from her common sense. “I mean about the mill.” She backed up a step, but didn’t retreat entirely, determined to have facts to base her decision on. “The town is bidding on the mill to put families back to work. If you win the bid, will you find the patterns and abandon us?”
How pitiful was that? Amy bit her tongue to keep from spilling her guts and her tears. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. She needed the answer too much.
Jacques’s grin disappeared. He removed a large bill from his wallet and laid it on the counter. “I never make promises. We shall just see what happens next, shall we?”
If there was concern or regret in his reply, she refused to acknowledge it. Nor did she acknowledge his hesitation as he continued to watch her, waiting for…what? Acceptance? Anger? She shook her head, saying nothing.
He walked out without waiting for change, leaving her hot and bothered and wondering if she was her own worst enemy.
With her stomach sinking to her aching feet, Amy almost wished he’d lied, so she could despise him for being the same calculating fraud as Evan.
But he hadn’t lied. He wasn’t Evan, and she couldn’t despise him for stating the cold, hard facts, just as she’d asked him to do. This was purely business to him.
If only she could let her heart freeze over in anger.
But she’d never learned to hate, and she couldn’t start now. Not with the first man who’d caught her interest in a dozen years — even if he had the power to destroy her and her home in the name of all-mighty business.