Jungle Fever Bundle (2 page)

Of course what really set it apart from a southern mansion was the open interior courtyard. The rectangular second story had a wide landing that completely ringed and overlooked it. The few trees there soared above the roof, maybe one hundred feet tall. Open to the weather, the courtyard also meant that each door on the second floor was visible to every other.

And yet, the plantation, the home, everything was just as she had pictured it–except for the heat. Jean stepped out of her heels, took off her slacks and tossed them next to the blouse. As the breeze’s cooling effect started to work, she looked around the room. The queen-sized four-poster bed dominated it, carved from a light-colored wood that matched the dresser, small desk, and chair. The fabrics were all floral prints and quietly delicate–a feminine room.

“So, not decorated by Clark,” she said quietly.

Like the house, he’d been everything that she had expected. After poring through the documentation, Jean felt as though she knew him. Meeting him, if only briefly, had confirmed what she’d come to believe. “Boss” his people called him and that’s exactly what he was–on paper as well as at his ranch. He’d steered the company through every research and financial hurdle that his father had left to him. Everything in the paperwork said the company was poised for greatness.
 

The photos, however, didn’t do him justice. Darkly handsome was obvious, even in a business suit, but the light khaki shirt and trousers had revealed a thickly muscular body–a body she wouldn’t mind seeing in its entirety.

She blinked and quickly put a hand to her mouth.

Good grief. Where had that come from?

Her hands went to her face as she felt her cheeks flush hot. Clark Peterson was their host, the head of his own company, and the subject of her audit. She wasn’t here to appreciate his looks.

As her hands went to her chest, she realized her heart was pounding and racing out of control.

What was going on?
It wasn’t like she’d never seen amazing men. They seemed to flock to her and she’d even been with one but…

Think about something else. Anything else.

She noticed the vase of fresh flowers on the desk and quickly strolled over to it. It was a mix of two small flowers, one vibrantly yellow and the other yellow and white. She concentrated on each in turn, purposely moving her gaze, as her heart finally began to slow. The delicate blooms provided a beautiful splash of brightness and their fragrance was sweet. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and the room began to spin. She opened her eyes and gripped the back of the desk chair but the sensation quickly passed.

Suddenly, the temperature was unbearable.

In only a few steps, she was back under the ceiling fan, feeling the cooling downwash. Up above, the rain was still coming down.

It gave her an idea.

“Maybe a shower before dinner,” she said. “A cold one.”

• • • • •

Clark stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door closed behind him. In seconds he was across it and opening the bottom drawer of the roll top desk. He yanked out the bottle of single malt scotch and the crystal tumbler and glared down at them.

His knuckles turned white as he willed them to shatter in his hands.

“I thought I was past this,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

Past
her
. He inhaled slowly through his nose. Past Linda.

Of course, the problem was that he didn’t
want
to be past her. He wanted her to be alive, to be here.

The bottle in his hand came back into focus.

With a force that rattled the top of the desk, he planted the bottle and the tumbler firmly down on the blotter. A drink wasn’t going to help, especially not now. The consortium’s science representative was across the courtyard. Tomorrow he’d begin the task of vetting the data.

I’ve worked too hard for this. Everything depends on it.

But Jean’s resemblance to Linda was remarkable. Even with her hair up and the business suit, the sight of her had sent a stab of pain into his chest that hadn’t dulled over time. It’d been over a year and still–

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes!” Clark yelled.

“Just me, Boss,” came Annan’s voice.

Clark exhaled and turned to the door.

“Yes, Annan. Come in.”

Like Tam, Annan had been at the plantation since his youth. Only in his early fifties, though, his hair was still jet black and his wiry frame ramrod straight. A good deal stronger than he looked, Annan had slowly taken on more and more of aged Tam’s physical duties–like driving the Jeep and toting luggage. One thing he and Tam shared, though, was the sunny disposition.

But the smiling eyes quickly landed on the scotch and his eyebrows furrowed. Clark took the bottle and the tumbler, dumped them unceremoniously back into the big drawer, and shoved it shut with his foot.

“What is it, Annan?” Clark said.

“Mrs. Juntasa says dinner is at seven,” he said, in his high nasally twang.

Clark had spoken to Mrs. Juntasa before the guests had arrived and, now that he thought about it, he knew that Annan must have heard him tell them seven. He took in a deep breath and slowly let it go. As he crossed his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the edge of the desk.

“You saw her,” Clark said.

“Yeah, Boss,” Annan said quietly.

Of course he’d seen the resemblance. You couldn’t miss it.

Clark only nodded.

What was there to say?

“You’ll be helping Mrs. Juntasa serve?” Clark asked.

“Yes, Boss,” Annan chirped, bobbing his head.

“Seven,” Clark confirmed.

“Yes, Boss,” Annan said again as he backed through the door and softly closed it.

Clark continued to stare at the intricately carved wood for a few moments and then he heard voices. He cocked his head a little and listened. Then he heard the sound of running feet. Quietly, he went to the door and slowly opened it just a crack.

Across the near corner of the courtyard, Jean stood in her doorway as though she were waiting for someone. She was backlit. The light easily passed through her silk blouse, outlined her slim torso, and also hinted at the fullness of her figure.

Suddenly, Annan came running down the hall, a stack of towels in his arms.

Clark grimaced–the first oversight.

Though he couldn’t make out Annan’s words as he handed her the towels, he could clearly hear Jean since she faced his direction.

“Really, Annan,” she implored. “Please don’t think a thing about it. I’m sure these would have been set out tonight.” Annan made some reply. “Of course,” Jean said and put a hand on his upper arm. “I know,” she said in a soothing tone that went with her brief touch. Annan said something and bobbed his head. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m sure I have everything I need. Thank you so much. The room is lovely.”

Annan made a brief reply as he backed up and Jean nodded and shut the door. As Annan hurried away, Clark silently closed his door. Though Jean hadn’t seemed upset, Clark would have a quick word with Annan. They couldn’t afford mistakes–any of them.

A silk dress had made sense in New York when Jean was packing. The snow had barely left the ground. But here, it was like wearing a thick sweater. Not that she minded dressing up. In fact, the formal dining room made her feel just a bit underdressed if anything.

She was still taking it all in when she realized that Clark had pulled out her chair for her.

“Oh,” she said as she quickly sat. “Thank you.”

George sat opposite her and Clark took his place at the head of the table. They made for a tiny threesome at the end of the long room. The china, silver service, and crystal goblets were immaculate, sparkling in the flickering light of several large candelabras in the room. Annan was already pouring red wine. The only thing that was missing was the ceiling fan.

“Thank you, Annan,” Clark said as Annan finished pouring.

Annan set the wine on the sideboard and turned back to the table. As he’d done continuously on the drive, Jean noticed him quickly look at her and then away.

Clark picked up his wine.

“I propose a toast,” he said.

George had almost started to drink his and stopped. Jean picked up her glass.

Although George hadn’t changed clothes, Clark was wearing the formal men’s wear of Thailand. Over dark slacks, he wore a long-sleeved, white, cotton shirt with a mandarin collar. It looked cool and comfortable, everything that Jean wasn’t. It also looked fitted, tapered at the waist. Instead of draping from his broad shoulders, it seemed to hang more from the front of his chest. Jean didn’t need to imagine what his arms looked like. As he’d helped with the luggage in the afternoon, she couldn’t help but notice.

Clark lifted his glass.

“Kra-tie mai jhun,” he said.

Behind him, Annan smiled broadly.

“Only a rabbit aims for the moon,” translated Clark. When Jean tilted her head at him, he smiled and continued. “It’s a Thai proverb that means you have to stay grounded. There’s no point in aiming at impossibilities.” He looked into her eyes. “But tonight is the beginning of possibilities.” He paused and, for a moment, she thought he focused on her lips. He abruptly looked away, turning to George. “And it’s also the result of many years of staying grounded.” He raised his glass to them both. “To possibilities.”

“To possibilities,” she and George echoed.

Like Clark, Jean only took a sip. Even under the best of circumstances she’d flush from alcohol, let alone in this climate. George, though, apparently had no such problem. Half the wine was gone when he set it back down.

“Wonderful,” he said, smiling.

Jean sipped her water and was aware of Annan at the sideboard.

“Are your rooms comfortable?” Clark asked, looking from George to her.

“Oh very,” said George, fingers resting on the stem of the glass.

“It’s beautiful,” Jean replied, smiling at him. “And very comfortable.”

“Anything missing?” Clark asked, looking her directly in the eye.

She flicked her eyes to Annan who was staring at the far end of the room, his face a stone.

“Not a thing,” Jean chirped a bit too loudly. “I mean, it’s perfect,” she said, more quietly.

Clark seemed to study her for a moment, the corner of his mouth crooking up a tiny bit.

“Good,” he said, as Annan poured wine for George. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“So, Clark,” George began.

As Clark turned to George, Annan finished pouring and his smiling eyes met hers briefly. He gave her a little wink. She quickly looked down into her lap to hide her smile.

“You’ve done,” continued George, “what a dozen different research arms of a dozen different rubber companies couldn’t do.”

“Not just me,” Clark said. “My father before me and also my staff.”

Though Jean listened as Clark recounted the story, she was already very familiar with it. Clark's father had begun cross-breeding
Hevea brasiliensis
, the rubber tree of the Amazon, with indigenous varieties back in the 60s. Generation after generation of plants had been selected, pollinated, and grown to maturity and then their properties tested. Finally, they had produced the offspring that consistently performed better than any other.

“Higher latex yield, shorter maturation cycle, and–”

“Resistance to drought,” finished George. “Yes. Truly remarkable. And all without direct genetic modification. Very impressive.”

“All it took was hard work and time,” Clark said.

“Two things very much in small supply in today’s corporate world,” said Jean.

Annan was serving salad and moved from her to George.

“Especially when it comes to a multi-billion dollar business like rubber,” she finished.

“So says our forensic accountant,” said George, nodding at her. “A mind for numbers.”

“Forensic accountant,” said Clark in his deep and smooth voice. “I must confess I’d never heard of such a thing.”

“An uncommon specialty,” Jean replied. “It takes a certain kind of person.”

Clark's eyebrows went up as he speared some salad with his fork.

“And what type of person would that be?”

“Someone not given to trust,” she said quickly and stopped. Her chest tightened and her mouth went dry.
I’ve never said that to anyone.
It was the absolute truth–something she’d always known about herself–but
why say it now?
She took a sip of water.

“I’m not sure I see the connection,” Clark said.

“I need to know
a lot
about a person before I feel like I really know them,” she said, replacing the water glass. “I may know more about you than you. You might be surprised what letters and numbers can tell.”

“Surprise me,” he said and took a bite of salad.

She cleared her throat.

“Clark David Peterson,” she said. “Age thirty-six. Graduated top of his class from Columbia with a major in biological chemistry. Graduate degree in cellular biology. Captain of the heavyweight rowing team.” She continued for five minutes as George finished his salad and wine and Annan started clearing the first course. She covered school, business, and patents, groups and clubs to which he belonged, charities to which he and his family contributed, and then his family. How his parents met, his father’s military service. The establishment of the Peterson Ranch as a Thai corporation and its recent brush with bankruptcy. As Annan refilled George’s glass, she was still talking about family.

“Married two years ago to Linda Malloy,” she said. “Who you met in New York–”

“Ah!” George interjected. “May I ask what this
wonderful
wine is?”

Jean stopped and looked at him. He was smiling and regarding his glass. But when she looked at Clark, it was as though he hadn’t heard George. He was staring at
her
, tight-lipped, one fist gripping the wine stem and the other his fork. She swallowed.

“Is it local?” George asked.

Eventually, Clark tore his gaze away from her. Without the crushing weight of his glare, her stomach lurched and she took a deep breath.