Twelve

Amy retired to the Music Barn’s restroom, ostensibly to clean up after the accident. In reality, she needed private time to fall apart.

Staring at her reflection in the fluorescent light of the renovated Music Barn, she gripped the porcelain sink and tried not to shatter into a thousand bits. Her breasts were on fire. Her panties were wet. Parts of her that even Evan had left unstirred ached with hunger. Men shouldn’t have hard muscles like Jacques’s. They made a woman weak.

That was half the problem. She was a woman now, not the child she’d been when she’d met Evan. She had a grown woman’s desires for a mature adult male. A raging river of yearning scoured her insides — including her brain, obviously — leaving her hollow of everything but need.

Outside the restroom, she could hear Jacques ordering Luigi about as if nothing had ever happened. He could wield his charm like a sword to challenge people, or he could use it to purr and persuade. That he used honesty and logic — despite his obvious reluctance to admit the truth — was far more devastating.

With a character as strong as his, he could lead men into enemy fire. He’d said everything she hadn’t wanted to hear, and still, she’d kissed him. The man was terrifying.

She was terrified. She wasn’t the kind of woman who rolled in the grass half naked. But the grass stains on her Liz Claibornes said otherwise.

She’d forgotten how it felt to be held and loved. Her breasts had forgotten the wonderful arousal of a man’s caress. She refused to heed the physical craving gripping her lower parts. She could not get involved with a man who would be here today and gone tomorrow, probably killing all her dreams while he was at it. Her mother had done that, and look how horribly that had turned out.

She ignored the niggling voice that said a hasty hot affair would burn out these desires quickly enough. She knew herself better than that. She would do emotional back flips and turn herself into a pretzel for any man she chose to go to bed with. So not going there again.

Then what had just happened out there?

Jacques had happened. He was the salt that made the water boil over. She had no business driving exotic race cars or kissing a fancy stranger who could charm a cardinal from a cherry tree. She was the kind of girl who went to church on Sundays and baked cupcakes for school parties. She was way over her head trying to deal with this charismatic James Bond.

He charmed with words she wanted to hear, and she believed them — because he was honest with words she didn’t want to hear.

Amy rolled her eyes at her reflection, pulled a wet wipe from her purse, and tried to wash the evidence of her stupidity from her face. Maybe the Sanderson women had some kind of malfunctioning gene when it came to smooth-talking men. Her mother had fallen for a good-looking musician who’d walked away one day and never returned. Jo had fallen for two slick bastards before getting smart and landing salt-of-the-earth Flint. Amy had been sensible in choosing stable, sturdy Evan, but even that hadn’t worked.

Except Evan had consistently lied to her. And Jacques had been brutally honest.

Excited shouts in the plant warned that she was missing the action. She’d have to quit hiding.

Flint had brought Luigi in his pickup with a hitch for pulling out the Porsche, but once Luigi had seen the car, he’d decided to call a tow truck rather than risk more damage. She shuddered at the image of that beautiful ruined car in the ravine.

From the exclamations in the other room, she gathered Jacques had now found what he wanted. She wouldn’t be seeing him again. That was fine. That was more than fine. That was safe.

She scraped the dirt off her shirt and shorts where she could, tucked her shirttails into her waistband, ran a comb through her hair, and threw back her shoulders like a soldier marching off to war. After what they’d done, she just didn’t think she could look Jacques in the eye once she went back out there.

The instant she walked into the cavernous building, Jacques waved enthusiastically, and she was hooked all over again. In one hand he held an ancient wooden pattern card, and in the other, the cardboard versions mechanically punched out in the sixties.

“It is a treasure trove!” he shouted, referring to the once-upholstered window seat the men had torn apart in their search.

He’d thrown off his muddied sports coat in the unair-conditioned heat. His trousers were filthier than hers. He had a bruise forming on his forehead, and twigs in the mink-brown hair brushing his nape. And he looked happier than a child with a brand new bike.

“Museum pieces!” he called in ecstasy. “Some of these designs have not seen the light of day in decades, maybe centuries.”

How was she supposed to resist a man who could be as thrilled with an old-fashioned fabric design as she could?

“At least the seventies,” she said, tongue in cheek, taking the mechanized cards from his hand. Reading the design in the cards was as impossible as reading the data on a punch card. The wooden cards from before the turn of the twentieth century were even more fascinating and impractical. No wonder her mother had called them junk.

Luigi and Flint merely poked with disinterest through the window seat. Jacques sprawled out his injured leg to lay the flat wooden plates out on the floor in some futile attempt to determine their relationship with one another.

The town couldn’t afford to keep museum pieces like that. With a lump in her throat, Amy kneeled on the other side of the cards. She didn’t want to get caught up in his excitement. The town’s future demanded that she remain businesslike.

It was damned hard to do while sitting near a man whose shoulders strained the seams of his expensive shirt. Just the dark hair on his forearms had her remembering how those muscled limbs had felt around her.

She wanted to return to their earlier argument, but she doubted if he’d even hear her, so intense was his concentration.

It was contagious. Fascinated in spite of herself, she skimmed the wooden plates with her fingers, wondering how many hands had touched them, what kind of mind had created this bit of brilliance so long ago. “Can you really determine the patterns without building a loom and running the design?” She used to do her own weaving, had created her own design cards, but even she couldn’t see the whole without threads.

“Computers,” he muttered, looking for markings on the plates. “We match the holes using my software program. Designs are done on CAD/CAM these days, but we can translate these once the computer matches the order.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just copy the design from the material you already have?”

“I have a few pieces, a few patterns. I do not have them all. And it is better to have the actual weft pattern. My business depends on historical accuracy.”

“How much do you think they’re worth?” she asked, then kicked herself when Jacques’s dark eyes sent her a laughing look. As if he would tell her. So much for businesslike.

“To me, they are priceless. To anyone else, they are junk.”

Damn if her hormones didn’t have her head spinning when he looked at her like that — with respect for her knowledge. Maybe she ought to go to bed with him — or somebody — so she could think straight again.

“Then let us have the mill, like I said earlier, and we’ll sell the patterns to you at a price that won’t make your board of directors flinch.” She waved her hand grandly. “Everyone wins.” Apparently some part of her head still worked. That was a realistic suggestion.

Jacques glanced up as if she’d startled him out of deep thought, then shook his head. “Amy, you are an amazingly stubborn woman.” His voice trailed off as he returned his concentration to the cards.

She had no idea what he meant by that. She’d always done what Evan had told her. That didn’t sound like stubborn. Hiding hopes that they could still make a deal, she stuck with the tangible. “Is it safe to leave them here? Should we take them to the bankruptcy judge and ask that he lock them up?”

Jacques sent her an admiring look that almost had her melting between the wide cracks of the worn floor.

“They have been here a very long time. I would say they are safe, but — ”

“The river floods, word gets out, things happen,” Flint said gruffly, coming to stand over them. “I vote we lock up the junk.”

“The river floods?” Jacques began hurriedly stacking the aging cardboard as if the river would steal it before he could escape.

“It doesn’t flood often, and it hasn’t rained in a month, so I think we’re safe,” Flint said gravely, the hard planes of his face effectively concealing his smile.

His movie star looks expressing relief, Jacques rose stiffly and dusted off his knees. Bent over like that, he exposed the grass and mud stains of his ruined trouser seat.

She bit back a snicker, but he seemed to hear her anyway. Straightening, he cast her a sideways glance, then turned and checked the back of his trousers. He made a wryly Gallic expression, brushed ineffectively at the stains, and then shrugged his broad shoulders.

“But a storm could come up any time,” Flint continued, ignoring their byplay. “The last hurricane through here wiped out a lot of houses and changed the river’s path. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“These are mountains,” Jacques protested. “How can you have hurricanes in mountains?”

“It happens, usually when one comes up from the Gulf.” Standing, Amy looked around for containers to carry the priceless cards. Anything but look at Jacques, who was dashing even wearing muddy pants. Evan had carried a lot of fat around his middle. His back had never formed a V from broad shoulders to narrow hips like Jacques’s did. And she shouldn’t be noticing. Or aching to dust his butt. “It doesn’t take much to make the river flood.”

Together, they scavenged the buildings for file drawers and crates to carry the heavy old plates, rollers, and boxes of cards. When they ran out of room, Jacques used his expertise to choose the pieces to be left behind. Amy had the feeling that if he could stuff them in his pockets and down his shirt like valuable jewels, he would. He shut the lid on the window seat with obvious regret — more regret than he’d displayed for the smashed Porsche. The man was a fascinating contrast of ideals.

Now that Jacques had found his prize, no one seemed willing to talk of it. Had he said one word about putting the mill back in operation, questions would have flown. Amy filled the strained silence with small talk.

“I need a pickup like this to start hauling stuff down to the apartment,” she mused aloud, climbing into the narrow backseat of Flint’s extended cab. “I don’t think I can get the mattresses into our SUV.”

Flint slid in beside her, letting Luigi drive and leaving the larger front passenger seat for Jacques and his stiff knee. “You can use this truck if you want. We ought to trade. The boys are getting too big for backseats like this.”

“Child seats would fit back here, wouldn’t they?” She’d rather talk of anything than wonder what was behind Jacques’s studious frown right now.

“Yup, and still have room for groceries. There’s just no room for legs.” Flint squeezed sideways to stretch his into her space.

Flint was a good-looking, muscular hunk, and Amy could see why her sister adored him. But their legs were touching, she was practically sitting in his lap, and she didn’t feel an iota of excitement. Jacques, on the other hand, was as far from her as he could be, and his every move and gesture raised goose bumps of awareness.

“I’ve been thinking of trading in the SUV.” She continued the desultory conversation rather than shout sense at Jacques. He wouldn’t listen to her anyway.

“I’ll make you a good deal,” Flint offered, continuing the pretense that they hadn’t just terminated the town’s dream. Or maybe he was so oblivious he didn’t understand what Jacques meant to do. “My pickup for your gas-guzzler, plus the difference in blue book value.”

She nodded agreement. “Elise can draw up something if you talk Jo into it. Maybe we ought to work out rent on the apartment. I might have to move in for a while.”

“You are moving?” Jacques swung around in the seat and pierced her with his sharpshooter gaze.

“I’ve sold my house,” she said with as much dignity and composure as she could manage. “So if the insurance company intends to sue me over your car, they’ll get nothing.”

“The car is nothing but metal and plastic,” he said dismissively. “It obviously had faulty wiring. My lawyers will threaten their lawyers. It’s no matter. Why sell your house if you have no place to go?”

“Your car cost as much as my house,” she said tightly. She wasn’t relieved at his dismissiveness. “I blew up your car! We could have been killed. Don’t tell me it’s no matter.”

Tight-lipped, Jacques turned to Flint. “She is avoiding the subject. Why is she selling her house?”

Flint bared his teeth in the grin that had won Jo’s heart. “Jo says Amy blows up things when she’s upset. We didn’t want her blowing up a house.”

Amy’s first impulse was to protest, but then she realized that in his own foolishly male mind, Flint was protecting her. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she couldn’t afford her house, but she’d rather not show Jacques any sign of weakness.

Jacques narrowed his beautiful blue-black eyes at this reply. “You seriously believe you blew up my car?”

“That’s Jo’s theory. My theory is that machines are like dogs and sense my fear.”

In the driver’s seat, Luigi chuckled. “Keep her out of the Hummer, Boss.”

Amen, Amy whispered fervently to herself. Keep her far, far away from a man whose lean, hungry look concealed a key to her heart. Or, at least, her libido.

* * *

“Are you sure you shouldn’t have that knee looked at again?” Luigi demanded as he opened the door to the dinky motel room Jacques had taken in Northfork. “That woman is a walking disaster area. You should stay away from her.”

No doubt very smart words, but not ones Jacques intended to follow. “The knee is fine. A little ice and elevation. Rent a nice car for Catarina.”

“I’m not driving that lot of pretty pussies.” Luigi scanned the room. “If they’re staying down there, they don’t need a car. Let Pascal rent something.”

“We’ve found the cards. There is nothing for you to do up here now.” Jacques pushed the meager bed pillows up and settled into them, then hauled his aching leg onto the hard mattress for a rest. He’d sprained ligaments running, had concussions from diving, broken his leg when thrown from a horse. He’d learned how to work past physical pain.

He’d thought he’d learned to deal with emotional pain these last years, but Amy was stripping off his shallow bandages and revealing the raw wounds beneath. He could follow Luigi’s advice, slap the pretty bandage of work back in place, and leave now. Or he could air the wound Amy had opened and see what happened.

“The same can be said of you. Your job here is done.” Luigi pointed out. “If you mean to chase after that female, I’ll be here to tow you out of ravines.”

Jacques laughed. “You’re as superstitious as the locals. I think I’ll attend their church tomorrow. I want to find out more about how this town works.” He wanted to know why Amy had to sell her house. A woman like that loved her home and did not give it up without reason. Yet she showed more passion about obtaining the mill than about leaving her home.

It did not cost so much to live here. Surely her husband paid for the children. She had a job. Why should she lose her house?

Personal involvement. He was digging himself into it up to his neck — and it was holding his interest as much as his work.

“Pascal and his pals want you to work on that bid. They’ll not be happy,” Luigi warned.

“We have telephones. I’m not a number cruncher. If they want my approval, they can call. That’s why I hire them. Did Amy say she was cooking at the café tonight?”

“You want her to blow up the stove? I’ll go over and pick up something. You need to keep that leg raised.”

“I can fetch my own supper,” Jacques replied patiently. “I know my limits and will not exceed them. I’m no longer twelve.”

“And you’re no longer twenty and able to bounce back from another attack of female-itis. That one’s a heartbreaker. Do both of you a favor and leave her alone.”

Luigi was most likely right, but Jacques was beyond reason. He’d tasted her kisses. Her moans of desire still sang in her ears. He had no place he needed to be once he won the bid. And lots of reasons to linger.

“Go guard the cards.” Jacques waved him away.

Since bank vaults wouldn’t open until Monday, they’d had to leave the valuable pattern cards with the bankruptcy judge handling the mill’s business. The judge’s wife had been less than enthusiastic with the dirty assortment of crates on her carpets.

“Anyone stealing those filthy old things would have to be crazy. Crazy people are easy to spot.” Jerking his cap on again, Luigi stalked out.

He’d been called crazy before. Jacques shrugged and relaxed into his pillows until he realized he’d sent Luigi away before he’d carried in ice.

Maybe he would call Amy over here to nurse him. She would do it, he knew, although she might pour the ice on his head first. Or parts lower.