Ain't She Sweet?

  He slipped a thumb into the waistband of his slacks, looking arrogant and dangerous. “You think I might be getting ideas, do you?”

  “I know you’re getting ideas. You were using a Hi-Liter.”

  He chuckled and disappeared into the closet. She loved it in there, the extravagance of the polished cherry shelves and pewter fixtures, the tidiness of the drawers, racks, and compartments, the way it smelled of imported fabrics and stuffy attitude. “It’s research,” he said from inside. “And what were you doing poking around in my office?”

  “Picking up your crap.” And looking for the manuscript of Reflections, although she didn’t intend to tell him that. She straightened a lamp shade. “The chapter on auctioning off virgins is disgusting.”

  “My, my, we have been snooping, haven’t you?”

  “I need intellectual stimulation. This job’s more boring than dirt.” He hadn’t closed the closet door, so she wandered over and looked in. “I don’t think you’re doing research at all. I think you’re just being pervy.”

  “Such a harsh word. Where are my gym shorts?”

  He still wore his trousers, but the shirt was gone. She wondered how that skinny chest she remembered from high school could have turned into something so magnificent. He set his hands on his hips, and she realized he was waiting for a response.

  She licked her lips. “Beats the heck out of me.” His gym shorts were on the shelf where he’d left them, but she tried not to make his life any easier than she had to. She spotted his belt draped over the teak bench in the middle of the closet. He liked things tidy, and she had a feeling he worked hard not to pick up after himself. “I thought you exercised in the morning.”

  “In the afternoon, too, when I feel like it.”

  “And you’re feeling like it today because you’re stuck again, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you have something filthy to scrub?”

  “You’re throwing away so many pages that I need to buy you a second wastebasket for your office.”

  “Would you mind turning around so I can take my pants off?”

  “This is pretty much my only job perk, so yes.”

  An outsider would have had a hard time telling whether the slight curling at the corner of his mouth was an expression of amusement or contempt, but she liked to tell herself that he found her a lot more diverting than he wanted to. She leaned against the edge of the door. “So tell me why you’re blocked. Normally I’d recommend a sex scene—you might remember I have a fondness for them—but after what I read in that book this morning, I’m leery about encouraging you.”

  “It’s a complicated story, and I’m trying to introduce a new character. She’s giving me a bit of trouble, that’s all.”

  “Cherchez la femme.”

  “Precisely.” He picked up the belt he’d abandoned for no other apparent reason than to make her nervous. “Fannie is pivotal to the book. She’s young, well bred, but strangling on the conventions of Victorian society.”

  “I can identify with— Hey, that’s my name!”

  For once she seemed to have caught him by surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “My real name. Frances Elizabeth Carey.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you did. Nobody ever calls me Frances, but it was on all my school records.”

  “I’m sure I’ve forgotten it long ago.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t.”

  He slid the belt through his fingers. “Go back to work. You’re annoying me.”

  “She’d better not be a beautiful blonde with impeccable taste.”

  “These pants are coming off, whether you’re looking or not.” He abandoned the belt, unzipped, and dropped his trousers.

  She caught a glimpse of firm, long-muscled thighs just before she turned away. A shiver passed through her, and she reminded herself that she had more important things to think about than his body.

  She went into the bathroom and pressed one of his wet towels to her face before she hung it up. Nine days had passed, and she still hadn’t been able to find a way into the attic. Twice she’d asked him about the door, making the question casual so he didn’t get suspicious. The first time, the phone had rung before he could answer. The second time, Gordon had gone ballistic over a squirrel and stopped the conversation cold. A squirrel, for God’s sake! She hated that dog.

  The dinner party gave her a good excuse to bring it up a third time, and she returned to the bedroom, speaking just loudly enough so he could hear her in the closet. “I called the florist again this morning. I told her what you said about not wanting the arrangements to be too girly because you don’t want to keep feeding those lingering rumors that you’re gay. She’s a Christian, so she understood completely.”

  She thought she heard him sigh, and she smiled to herself as he emerged from the closet wearing a pair of gray cashmere gym shorts and carrying a navy T-shirt.

  “Fascinating,” he drawled, “but I don’t remember saying a word to you about the flowers.”

  She dragged her gaze away from his chest. “If you’d show a little more interest in football, I’m sure those rumors would die a natural death. Plus you need to stop talkin’ like a sissy.”

  His lips twitched, which irritated her, because she wanted to aggravate him, not entertain him. She put a hand on her hip, fingers pointed backward, a bored look on her face. “The party’s tomorrow night, and I’m thinkin’ Diddie’s Spode might still be in the attic. I’ll go up this afternoon to check.” She held her breath.

  He pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Don’t bother. The caterer is bringing dishes.”

  “As a foreigner, you can’t be expected to know this, but in Mississippi, using caterer’s china instead of perfectly lovely family heirlooms is considered tacky.”

  “Whatever family heirlooms were in the attic are long gone.”

  “What do you mean? What happened to everything?”

  “Winnie sold whatever was up there before I moved in.” He didn’t make any attempt to soften what even the most insensitive person would know had to be a blow to her.

  “Sold?” There it was again. That alarming sense that she’d lost everything. She conjured up an image of Delilah’s big smile to hold herself together.

  “She had the right,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, I guess she did.” She made a fist behind her back and dug her fingernails into her palm. “Still, she might have overlooked some of the serving platters. Diddie had her hiding places.”

  But he was already walking out.

  The steady cadence of the treadmill usually calmed him, but it felt too tame today. He needed to be outside. Do something with his hands. Fighting off Sugar Beth’s sexual allure was difficult enough without having to fight off her charm, too, especially since he knew it was calculated. He didn’t like it. Just as he didn’t like that wicked sense of humor she was as likely to turn on herself as on him. Or the sharp intelligence that kept surfacing beneath her good ol’ girl demeanor. He’d known it was there, of course, but he’d never expected her to discover it, too.

  And where had she found her grit, not to mention that quirky, but nonetheless impressive, competence? She produced acceptable meals, better than what he made for himself, and while she ignored most of his instructions, they were generally the ones he’d conjured up to antagonize her. Somehow she winnowed out the sensible from the nonsensical and got things done. No, he didn’t like it at all.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and punched the treadmill up a few notches. She’d shown up in another of her shrink-wrapped tops today, this one the same silvery blue as her eyes. And the heart-shaped neckline dipped just low enough so he could see that bloody turquoise butterfly flitting from the swell of one breast to the other. He should have followed through on his threat to buy her a uniform, but somehow he’d never gotten around to it.

  His old resentment burned away. Bringing her to her knees wasn’t proving as simple as he?
??d thought, but then he hadn’t played his ace yet, either. He imagined those beautiful blue eyes filling with at least a few tears of honest regret. Finally, he’d be able to turn the last page on this very old, very tiresome chapter of his life.

  “I wish your mum could see her precious boyo now. Comin’ back home with his tail between his legs.”

  He turned the treadmill higher and picked up his pace, but it didn’t help. His hands craved the familiar feel of brick and stone.

  Gordon wasn’t entirely useless. Even before the carriage house doorbell rang, he began to bark. Sugar Beth set aside the book that she’d swiped from Colin’s amazing library. It continued to surprise her that Gordon trotted home with her every evening instead of staying with his beloved Colin. True, he generally managed to trip her as they walked across the yard, but he came along nonetheless, and the carriage house felt a little less lonely.

  She reluctantly rose from the couch. Even when life was going well, good news didn’t generally show up at the door at ten o’clock at night. As she made her way across the room, Gordon continued to bark. She pulled the curtain back from the sidelight and saw nothing more ominous than the outline of a young girl. “Quiet, Gordon.”

  She flipped on the porch light. As she opened the door, Gordon trotted out and took a few exploratory laps around the girl’s ankles. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, thin, coltish, and beautiful. But it was an awkward beauty, still in its infant stage, and probably making her miserable. She’d tucked her shoulder-length straight brown hair behind her ears. Her clothes were awful—a pair of shapeless pants at least two sizes too large and a ratty man’s windbreaker that came to her hips. Her face was round and delicate, her wide mouth a little large for such fragile cheekbones. Even in the weak porch light, Sugar Beth could see her eyes, a pale blue, almost eerie with that dark hair.

  Gordon trotted off the porch to poke in the bushes. The girl stared at Sugar Beth as if she were a ghost. Sugar Beth waited for her to say something and, when she didn’t, finally spoke herself. “Can I help you?”

  The girl licked her lips. “Yes, ma’am.” She rubbed one of her thick-soled shoes over the vamp of the other. Her voice had a husky note that made her sound older than she looked.

  There was something unsettling about her, almost familiar, although Sugar Beth had never seen her. She waited, even as she felt a ripple of apprehension.

  The girl’s throat worked as she swallowed. “I’m…uh…sort of…your niece.”

  “Niece? I don’t understand.”

  But she did.

  “I’m…Gigi Galantine.”

  Her name sounded so odd combined with his. Gigi. Ryan’s daughter.

  Longing, sharp and bittersweet, squeezed her heart. Ryan’s child. The daughter who could have been hers. How was it that she’d managed to lose the only good men she’d ever loved? She’d lost Ryan through stupidity, and Emmett…Maybe as a punishment for what she’d done to Ryan.

  But this girl was also Winnie’s child, and that stopped her cold. No wonder she looked so familiar. Griffin Carey’s silver-blue eyes had found their way into the next generation.

  Gigi’s hands flew from the windbreaker pockets. “I mean, I know this is really rude and everything, to show up like this, but I thought maybe you didn’t know about me. And I know I’m not supposed to be here or anything, but I just wanted to say hi.”

  It had been a long day. Colin and his bare chest. The dinner party. Then she’d had an upsetting call from Delilah, who was bereft because Sugar Beth couldn’t come to Family Day. She didn’t need any more emotional complexity, which was exactly what this pale-eyed child promised.

  “Aren’t you out a little late?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My dad’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  Sugar Beth couldn’t imagine even-tempered Ryan killing anyone, but then he was still only eighteen in her mind, lying next to her at the lake on a bright red beach towel telling her how—once they got married—they’d leave Parrish and go live in Atlanta.

  “Maybe you’d better get home before that happens.”

  She looked down at her shoes, stubbed the chunky heel against a splintery floorboard. “I was sort of hoping maybe we could talk.” Her head came up, a trace of defiance in her eyes. “Because you’re my aunt and everything.”

  “I don’t think your parents would be too happy about that.”

  “They’re not the boss of me.”

  Sugar Beth took in the mulish set of her jaw, suppressed a sigh, and stepped back to let her in. Sooner or later, there’d be hell to pay for this, and sure as anything, Sugar Beth would be the one standing at the cash register.

  “Really? I can come in.” She nearly knocked Sugar Beth over in her eagerness to get inside.

  Gordon hopped back up on the porch and followed her. “Just for a few minutes,” Sugar Beth said as she shut the door. “I’m sure you have homework to do.”

  “No, ma’am. It’s Friday night. And I was suspended.”

  Sugar Beth couldn’t imagine Ryan and Winnie having a daughter who’d do anything serious enough to get suspended. Ryan had never gotten into any trouble, and Winnie wouldn’t even turn in homework late. “I imagine your parents are thrilled.”

  “They hate me.”

  Despite her defiance, Sugar Beth thought, she looked lost. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Maybe not hate exactly, but they’re really mad.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “You can’t take their side!” Her small fists knotted at her waist. “You just can’t.”

  Sugar Beth studied her more closely. Her face was flushed, her brow furrowed with tension. She looked as though Sugar Beth had betrayed her.

  Her empty bed beckoned, and Sugar Beth took the path of least resistance. “All right. I’m on your side.”

  Gigi bit her lip, her silvery eyes filling with anxious hope. “Really?”

  “Why not?”

  “I knew you would be.”

  Terrific. Now what? “You want a Coke?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Good Southern manners beneath that angry defiance.

  Sugar Beth headed into the kitchen where she extracted two cans of Coke from the refrigerator. As an afterthought, she unwrapped a Devil Dog and dropped it on one of Tallulah’s Wedgwood plates. She considered the matter of glasses but decided late-night hospitality had its limits.

  Gigi followed her into the kitchen, then crouched down to rub Gordon’s stomach. He splayed his legs, ears flopping on the linoleum, his expression one of basset bliss. “You have a very nice dog.” She rose as Sugar Beth set the cans on the table. Gordon hopped up, too, and rubbed his head against the girl’s ankles, the friendliest pet on the planet. Gigi gazed back toward the living room. “You have some very nice antiques, too.”

  “They were my Aunt Tallulah’s.”

  “I know. Mom used to bring me here sometimes. She didn’t like kids very much.”

  “Tell me about it.” She gestured toward the chair across from her.

  Gigi moved a little awkwardly, as if she still hadn’t quite gotten used to the new growth in those long legs. “It’s hard to believe she was the object of Lincoln Ash’s passion.”

  Sugar Beth smiled. “You know about that?”

  “Everybody does.” She settled at the table and began fiddling with the Coke can. The Seth Thomas clock ticked away in the next room. She reached down to scratch Gordon’s head.

  “How old are you, Gigi?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Sugar Beth remembered thirteen. She’d grown real breasts that year and made Ryan Galantine realize there was more to life than sports and Donkey Kong. She pushed the plate with the Devil Dog across the table. Gigi broke off a corner but didn’t put it in her mouth.

  “So how did you get suspended?”

  “I never got suspended before, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything. I
don’t know you.”

  “It’s sort of complicated.” The Devil Dog disintegrated into a pile of crumbs as the story spilled out, slowly at first, then gathering momentum. Kelli Willman’s betrayal. Gigi’s friendship with Chelsea…The argument…The locker…The broken wrist…Gigi had a disconcerting way of mixing teenage slang with adult word choices. Her mother’s daughter. As she wound down, she looked both miserable and defiant. She knew she’d done wrong, but she wasn’t ready to cop to it.

  If Sugar Beth had knocked somebody into a locker when she’d been thirteen, Diddie would have blown a smoke ring and said that well-bred young ladies didn’t push people into lockers, even girls who deserved it. A lady simply walked away, threw a divine party, and neglected to invite the offending party.

  Thanks a big heap, Diddie. Really useful advice.

  This was as good a time as any to see what Gigi Galantine was made of. “I’ll bet Chelsea’s sorry she called you stuck-up.”

  Gigi liked that, and she nodded vigorously. “I’m not stuck-up. I mean, it’s not my fault we’re rich.”

  Sugar Beth waited. Gigi began chewing on her lip again, no longer looking quite so self-satisfied. “I wouldn’t have said Chelsea was fat if she hadn’t already been mean to me.”

  “But Chelsea is fat, right?”

  “Her mom lets her eat a lot of junk.”

  Sugar Beth suppressed the urge to hide the Devil Dog under her napkin.

  Gigi took another sip of Coke and kept her eyes on the can as she set it back down. “My mom drove me over there and made me apologize, but Chelsea wouldn’t even look at me. Her wrist was in this cast.”

  Sugar Beth shoveled a little more dirt into the grave Gigi had dug for herself. “I guess people get what they deserve.”

  Gigi looked less certain. “I don’t think she was feeling too good that day. And she doesn’t have as many, you know, advantages as I have. Like a dad and being affluent and everything.” Another storm cloud formed. “But her mom’s like her best friend. Her mom understands things.”

  Unlike Gigi’s mom who apparently didn’t…“So what are you going to do?”