Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (26 page)

It was better this way. Beau was so grounded in his birthplace and his life that it was unlikely he could be happy anywhere else. She was—what was she? Not from around there, that was for sure. She had enjoyed her time with his friends and neighbors, but that kind of bucolic and earthy existence wasn’t for her.

No, it wasn’t.

Was it?

It had been so hard to leave him this morning. Even in sleep, he was polite. He didn’t snore, didn’t take up more than his side of the bed or steal the covers. Lying there on his stomach with the sheet cutting across the middle of his back, pristine white against copper-bronze, he was so handsomely formed, so formidable in his latent muscular power despite—or perhaps because of—the dark bruising that marked his shoulder from the pageant accident. He took her breath, even as she tried to forget all the things they had done together during the night, and of his strength that had left her sore here and there.

The last thing she’d wanted to do was wake him. If he held out a hand, smiled, said a single word, she would never be able to go.

How had it happened that she was so vulnerable to him? She’d thought she was armored against his kind, too protected by suspicion and cynicism ever to succumb. It was disconcerting to discover it wasn’t true. Her long-held skepticism made her twice as susceptible once she came across the real thing. Yes, and twice as likely to fall in love.

Love. It might be comical if it wasn’t so inconvenient, so unlikely. Yes, and so painful.

Her mother would understand that all to well. The two of them could compare their experiences of falling for the wrong man one day, if not when she went by to visit later this evening.

Tears rimmed Carla’s eyelids. One slid over, running down her cheek. She let it fall, and then another after it. She could afford a few for the ache of unrecognized dreams and what might have been. She should be allowed that much before she got back to Baltimore.

Yes, before she had to face Trevor and the Dragon Lady, before she discovered whether she could, or could not, make everything right for her perfect southern gentleman.

An elaborate spring wreath in shades of lavender and aqua decorated Diane the Dragon Lady’s apartment door. Carla lifted a brow at that indicator of exclusivity. There weren’t many apartment buildings in Baltimore where you could hang such a thing in the morning and expect to find it still in place in the afternoon.

The wreath exactly centered the door’s peephole. When she thought it likely someone was about to answer the doorbell she’d pressed, she directed a strained smile at that small opening.

“Carla, how nice to see you, no matter how unexpected,” Diane said, swinging the door open and stepping back to allow her to enter.

“Sorry it was such short notice.” She leaned to accept the air kisses Diane, white-blond hair perfectly coiffed and wearing a jewel-neck dress of blue wool with a tanzanite necklace, directed at either cheek.

“Not at all. I hope you don’t mind if the two of us aren’t private. Trevor insisted on coming over when he heard you would be here.”

The question was entirely rhetorical. The Dragon Lady was already leading the way from the apartment’s open foyer area into the living room with its spectacular skyline view.

Carla minded. To plead her case in front of Trevor was the last thing she wanted. She was glad she’d chosen her red power suit and three-inch heels, however, as the outfit equaled Trevor’s three-piece-suit formality. That it was also red for courage was her secret.

For a single instant, she longed for the casual unconcern of the jeans and T-shirts she’d worn so often at Windwood. She might have started out putting them on to fit in, but they soon became a preference. The honesty of them, without need of pretense or one-upmanship, was infinitely appealing in retrospect.

“Carla,” Trevor said, rising to his feet and smiling as if they had parted the best of friends. That single word had a stuffy, nasal sound, however, due to the damage beneath the bandage that rode the bridge of his nose.

“Trevor.” The clipped acknowledgement was the best she could do. The satisfaction she felt at seeing the results of his struggle with Beau was probably unkind of her, but she couldn’t help it.

“I’m sure you would prefer to explain the events of the past week without my presence,” he went on at once. “Diane has agreed to my being here in the interest of fairness.”

“Fairness.” She hadn’t thought he was familiar with the concept.

“I should be allowed to defend myself, don’t you think?”

“If that’s possible.”

Her smile was wintery as she set her briefcase on the freeform slab of petrified wood that served as a coffee table. Trevor was at one end of a butter-soft cream leather sofa that centered one of several Kilim rugs scattered over the wood floor. She deliberately chose an armchair closer to the loveseat where Diane had sat down.

Taking out the two manuscripts she’d brought with her, she handed them across to her former boss who now ran the magazine. “These are the two different profiles I spoke to you about on the phone, those submitted for Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict. They are quite different, as you can see. The first was written due to a misunderstanding. That was my mistake, I freely admit it. The second is a much more accurate picture of the man. I ask that the first be discarded, and the second used in the magazine.”

“A clear case of influence by the subject,” Trevor said at his most suave. “Carla went gaga over muscles and a syrupy drawl, and now wants to make this backwoods Romeo happy. The pieces are so dissimilar they could be about two different men.”

The look Carla gave him should have turned him to stone where he sat. “There is no question whatever of influence.”

“Oh, please.” Trevor gave a rueful shake of his head. “You were given a room in the man’s home, waited on hand and foot by his housekeeper, and enticed into all manner of community activities by his friends and family. I have it on good authority that fake events were set up to make him look the hero. What more evidence is needed?”

“Is that true, Carla?” Diane asked, her features set in serious lines.

“The townspeople were only trying to help. They may have arranged a few things, but Beau had no idea what they were doing. His natural and gentlemanly reaction to them was unplanned.” She had acquiesced to Beau’s request not to mention these planned incidents to save possible ridicule. In retrospect, that might have been another error.

Trevor snorted. “So he says.”

“It made no difference, regardless,” she went on, overriding that sardonic comment. “Beau Benedict required no help. I saw more than enough unexpected events to indicate his personality. His courtesy and consideration in all things is beyond question.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did see him in action. And where did these so-called events take place? What kind occurred while the two of you were out until two o’clock in the morning?”

“We were trapped in the middle of a flood and had to be rescued,” she said, her voice as calm as she could make it. “During that time, nothing whatever happened. Unlike some men, Beau never tried to take advantage of the situation.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “If you are hinting I would have done such a thing, I suggest you think twice.”

“I hadn’t intended to bring that up,” she said with a tight smile, “but since you mention it—”

“What are you talking about, Carla?” That was Diane, sitting forward in her chair.

She told her, though she had to raise her voice to be heard over Trevor’s protests. “Circumstances in the office have become so untenable I’d been thinking of leaving the magazine well before my recent resignation.”

“Termination!” Trevor shouted.

“If I’d gone, I believe at least half a dozen other women would have done the same.”

“You’ll say anything to get out of this, won’t you?” He stared at her, his eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t have to threaten women to get them into my bed. Anyone who says different is a liar.”

He actually believed that incredible piece of self-delusion, Carla thought. “Several women in the office have made lists with dates and times of the innuendos, threats and groping they endured. I have a list myself of various propositions made to me. And I don’t believe you can deny you have a broken nose because Beau Benedict saw you twisting my cracked wrist while forcing yourself on me.”

“I most certainly can, and I do! “ Trevor touched his nose in a protective gesture. “That hayseed attacked me because he thought I’d come to take his little playmate away.”

Carla turned to Diane. “Call Beau and ask him, if you like.”

The Dragon Lady looked at Trevor. “Shall I?”

“For what good it will do,” he said, anger hardening his voice. “They’ve probably coordinated their stories already.”

He had an answer for everything, plus the advantage of being ensconced in his job as editor-in-chief. Uncertainty that she’d ever be able to make things right for Beau and the people of Chamelot was an ache inside Carla. She wanted to shout Trevor down, but she had learned a few things while in Louisiana. The person who could keep their temper in a fight usually came out ahead. Even if they didn’t, they felt better about themselves when it was over.

“There was no need for matched stories,” she said evenly. “The truth is the truth. But I believe it was you who feared losing out.”

“Hardly.”

His face was almost purple with rage as he spat that single word. He did hate any suggestion that he’d been rejected. She could almost feel sorry for him if he weren’t so vicious with it.

“What other reason did you have for flying down to Louisiana? It wasn’t as if I couldn’t handle the assignment without your help.”

“As I said before, you seemed to have turned a simple profile into a puff piece for this guy.”

“And you couldn’t question that over the phone? No. You expected me to do a hatchet job on him, whether it was warranted or not. When it didn’t happen, you decided it was because I’d lost objectivity, rather than because the selected gentleman was everything the contest entry filed for him claimed. You thought you could go down there and straighten me out, make me see things your way. When it didn’t happen, you flew into a rage and wound up in a losing fight. Now you want revenge, and think publishing the first article I wrote will not only smear the man who knocked you down, but make him loathe me. Well, I won’t let you do it.”

“Because you’re so infatuated you can’t stand the thought of him seeing your first impression of him in print.”

“Because he’s too good a person to be harmed by such a spiteful trick.”

“He’s a rube with more brawn than brains.”

“You’d find out differently if you ever got to know him. But whatever he may be, Trevor Crandall, he’s a better man than you are, and far more of a gentleman!”

The laugh he gave had an incredulous sound. “My God, I think you’re in love with him.”

She flushed; she couldn’t help it. “Maybe I am, but it doesn’t change what’s right and wrong. And what you’re doing is wrong.”

Diane sat forward. “When you say this man is more of a gentleman, Carla, exactly what do you mean?”

“She means he’s too precious for words,” Trevor said before she could speak. “He was raised by a maiden aunt who taught him to wipe his feet when he comes into the house and drink his tea with his pinky in the air. There’s a lot more to being a gentleman than that!”

Carla clung to her manners with an effort. “I mean he’s generous with his time and goes out of his way to help those in need. He listens when people talk and remembers what they say. He’s caring and gentle, knows the meaning of self-control, and never willingly hurts anyone.”

“He’s perfect.” Trevor threw up his hands in a gesture of contempt.

“Not really. He has a temper, expects a lot of people, and can be tough at times. But he knows his faults and does his best to correct them.”

“For God’s sake, Carla, resting his weight on his elbows while he’s humping you doesn’t mean he’s a gentleman.”

“And saying such a thing is a fair indication that you are the last man to judge.”

Trevor turned to Diane. “You see? I can’t be expected to work with someone who has so little respect for my opinion or for me as a person. The piece she wrote the first time around was the real deal, and it’s the one that should go into the magazine.”

“You can’t do that!”

He turned on her. “I think you’ll find that I can.”

“Enough,” Diane said, her voice stern. “The quarrel between you two, and question of gentlemanly behavior, may be all very interesting, but neither has bearing on what’s best for
South of Normal Magazine
. “I have the two pieces you have written, Carla. Trevor, I have your complaints. I will give everything my careful attention.”

“Please understand the first piece I wrote was a mistake. I—”

“You can’t really mean to print that piece of garbage in—”

“I said enough!” Diane rose to her feet. “I’ll make my decision on this tonight. You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”