Southern Hospitality (3 page)

His mimicry grated on her nerves, even without his name calling. She’d give him a little southern lady’s piece of her mind. She snapped her head around to glare at him, whipping off her sunglasses to allow him the full impact of her venomous stare. Her eyes locked with the direct, slate-blue gaze that was much closer than she expected. She wasn’t prepared for the tingle of excitement that skated down her spine. Blinking rapidly she tried to maintain her composure, as well as remember her own name under his mesmerizing gaze. The man was lethal, in spite of the last twenty minutes of aggravation he’d caused. He also knew the effect he was having on her from the way his mouth was beginning to turn up on one side. She had to get him home, fast, before she did something utterly ridiculous, such as test what it would be like to kiss his square-cut lower lip.

An irate honk from the car behind them saved Tory from any foolishness.
What am I doing?
she asked herself, steering the truck through the intersection.
I almost made a pass at this infuriating man. If he was what I’d expected, a little weasel of man in a bow tie, I’d have pushed him out of the truck before we reached the city limits.

Neither of them attempted to break the less than companionable silence as Tory drove through the select subdivision that covered the northern heights above the Arkansas River. As they passed the sprawling ranch-style homes and modem Colonials, Tory tried to figure out why Logan was here. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Logan didn’t want to be here, any more than she wanted him here. When the iron fence that marked the beginning of the Planchet property came into sight, she determined it was time to do a little more probing.

“You’ll be staying at the big house with T.L. The property has been in the family since the first Planchet came up from Louisiana, and we’ve kept several acres up here tucked among the suburbanites. The house was built in the 1890s, as well as the cottage I live in,” she said in a rush while punching in the security code on the panel. The gate in front of them glided open the minute she touched the final digit. “Although I suppose Curtiss is officially your host.”

“Curtiss is the rally coordinator for the Arkansas Traveler group, right?”

“Yes. You’ll be meeting the entire family at dinner tonight,” she said, aware that he’d turned to watch her. “Trevor oversees the control crews as the rally master.”

“What do they do?”

“The control crew?” Tory took her eyes from the narrow drive for a moment in her astonishment at his lack of knowledge. Logan met her glance without blinking, giving her an almost indiscernible nod as if he regretted his question. “The control crew times each stage of the race. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

Logan moved his head from side to side twice. His shoulders had a rigid set to them, almost as though he was bracing himself for her next words. Tory was completely flummoxed. “Have you ever been to a rally?”

“No. The closest I’ve gotten has been watching a few European events on ESPN and picking up a copy of
Rally Driver,”
Logan answered, giving her a sheepish look that reminded her of her nephew, Ty Daniel.

“But—” Tory never formed her question as the elegant facade of her family home came into view. Her usual feeling of warmth at the sight of the double turreted, forest-green Queen-Anne-style Victorian house was absent. The cause for her disgust was framed in the moon-gate arch of the porch that curved around the house. She should have known that T.L. had something up his sleeve.

If T.L. hadn’t gone into business, he’d probably have made a fortune on the stage. Her daddy was one of the biggest hams she’d ever seen, and he loved to play any role that struck his fancy. One day he’d be the serious, hard-nosed business executive—silk three-piece suit and wing tips—and the next it was overalls and a baseball cap. He also had the talent for selecting the character that would irritate the people he was dealing with the most. He loved to keep everyone off balance while he choreographed every move.

She almost felt sorry for Logan, unless his uncle had given him fair warning ahead of time. She doubted it. T.L. was something that had to be experienced, and Logan was about to do just that. With his disgruntled mood over being in Little Rock, Logan was a lamb going to slaughter, and she was delivering him to the packing house.

As Tory suddenly braked to a stop, Logan wondered what caused the look of horror in her maple-colored eyes—eyes that had fascinated him from the moment she took off her sunglasses. Although he much preferred the view that was limited to Tory’s profile, he turned his head to see what caused her alarm.

A man of about sixty sat contentedly rocking in a chair that was perfectly framed by the graceful lines of the porch entrance. He wasn’t hard to miss because he stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the stately house. Logan was more familiar with Colonial and Federal architecture, but he recognized the Planchet house as a showpiece of its period. A glowing example that didn’t need a man dressed in dirty jeans, a threadbare shirt, and gaudy suspenders marring its splendor.

With a feeling of dread, Logan knew who the man with the litter of empty beer cans at his feet was. “Is that your father?”

“Yup, that’s my
Paw,”
Tory replied through clenched teeth.

Logan noticed her lilting voice suddenly had a flat, nasal quality. He gave her a sharp look, but she was already scrambling out of the truck, shutting her door with a slam.

“Well, girl, what took ya so darn long?” T.L. bellowed from the porch as his daughter ate up the ground between them in a straight legged stride. “T’ain’t hardly anyplace further away than a twenty minute jaunt from here.”

Logan got out of the truck cautiously, his eyes never leaving the pair who were now eye to eye on the porch. He couldn’t hear Tory’s reply because she didn’t attain T.L.’s decibel level. As the two continued their heated discussion, Logan pulled his suitcase and coats out of the back of the truck. As he shook out his coat and jacket, he wondered if Preston would allow him to stay at a hotel during his stay, or even take a temporary apartment. With one twanging sentence, the broad-faced T.L. Planchet had set his teeth on edge. Given three months of the man, Logan knew he would undoubtedly leap off the overhang where the ground fell away on the far side of the house.

“Well, Mr. Herrington, how was yer trip?” T.L. asked anyone within twenty miles as Logan placed his foot on the first step of the porch.

“Fine, sir, just fine,” Logan murmured, ascending the seven wooden steps that brought him level with the others. Reluctantly, he put down his suitcase to clasp the hand T.L. stuck out. While Logan had his entire arm pumped by the older man, he looked toward Tory for some help. She stared back at him blandly, only raising her eyebrows in mild inquiry. Her expression gave nothing away as she rocked back and forth from the heels to the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back.

Logan’s shoulder was saved from being dislocated by a feminine voice from behind the wood-framed screen door. “T.L., is that your company?”

“Sure is, Arnette. Come on out and meet Pres’s boy,” T.L. bellowed over his shoulder and released his death grip on Logan’s hand.

Rapid footsteps on a bare wood floor were the only answer to the summons. A slender woman close to T.L.’s age appeared in the doorway. Logan almost heaved a sigh of relief at her appearance as she opened the door. She was dressed in a casual cotton dress of a delicate rose color with an apron in a complimentary, tiny-figured design tied around her waist. Her blond hair was lightly streaked with gray and pulled into a demure bun.

“T.L., why are ya’ll standing out here on the porch?” Arnette demanded in a gentle but firm voice, placing her hands on her hips. “What will Mr. Herrington think of our manners, especially with this mess I told you to clean up still here?”

“Now, Arnette—”

“Don’t try to sweet talk, Tyrone Lucius,” the lady interrupted, actually admonishing him by shaking one finger at him. The action reminded Logan of Babs scolding Preston for overworking. “I told you I wanted this house spotless with company coming, and the whole family descending on us for dinner. You have no more sense than little Ty Daniel. Now, introduce me to this nice young man.”

“Arnette Montgomery, this is Logan Herrington, our guest for the next three months,” T.L. said immediately, his voice lowering to a reasonable level. “Arnette is my very own benevolent despot, boy. She’s taken care of this household for almost twenty years.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Montgomery,” Logan responded, trying to suppress a smile at T.L.’s cowed expression. His uncle looked the same after one of Babs’s lectures, and his aunt usually had the same amused gleam of triumph in her eyes as the lady who now graciously shook his hand.

“You call me Arnette, just like your uncle Pres does,” she said quietly, giving the two Planchets that flanked her a derisive look. “At least I can be assured of a real gentleman with manners to appreciate my work in the next few months. Any relative of Preston Herrington’s knows how to behave.”

“What room have you prepared for Logan, Arnette?” Tory broke in before Logan could ask just when the older woman had met his uncle. This was the first he’d heard that Preston had ever been in Arkansas.

“I put him in Trev’s old room in the east turret,” Arnette answered, then glanced at her watch. “Tory, you get Logan settled, then get dressed in something presentable for dinner. T.L., you pick up those cans like I told you, or you can find your dinner out at Curtiss’s stable with his horses. Excuse me now, Logan, I have a cake to get in the oven.”

She marched back into the house without another word. Logan picked up his suitcase, looking expectantly at Tory to lead him to his room. After Arnette’s departing orders, he was in no doubt about who was the boss. T.L. was already bending his stocky frame to clean up his beer cans.

“This way, Logan,” Tory muttered, jerking her head in the direction of the screen door. She spun around on one heel with a squeak of her sneaker before he could answer. With a nod to T.L., Logan obediently followed. He wasn’t sure what to expect on the other side of the door, but he knew his visit to Arkansas wasn’t going to be as boring as he had anticipated.

Chapter Two

Logan didn’t try to keep up with Tory’s brisk pace along the hallway that stretched through the middle of the house. The view of her gently swaying hips needed to be appreciated from a distance. Although his attention was centered on Tory, he had an impression of the rooms they passed. Arnette was humming in the kitchen just inside the back door, and there were brief glimpses of rooms with heavy, ornate furniture, and vivid colors through open archways. The rug beneath his feet in the hall and on the stairs wasn’t new, but was a high quality Turkish style that he knew was well cared for and expensive. All around him was the pleasant smell of lemon oil from the gleaming woodwork.

Tory disappeared through the first door at the top of the stairs. Logan regretted that they’d reached their destination so quickly; and it wasn’t just because he couldn’t watch her enticing figure unobserved any longer. He strongly suspected this would be his last chance to be alone with Tory, if she had her way. Her heart-shaped face had been devoid of expression since he’d admitted knowing nothing about rally racing. He wasn’t, however, about to explain the reason for his uncle’s assignment. He could imagine the look of disdain he’d receive from the lady.

Tapping one foot, Tory was standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed below her breasts. No, he wasn’t about to explain until he’d been here a little longer, and he’d gotten to know Tory much better. Right now, his intentions of friendship seemed ludicrous with Tory standing next to the huge sleigh bed that seemed to dominate the room. She looked very fragile and delicate surrounded by the rich rosewood furniture and the heavy royal-blue velvet that draped the room from the windows to the half-tester over the bed.

“Well, this is it,” she stated in a monotone, her eyes following his quick inspection of the room.

“What?” Logan practically snapped, wondering if she’d been reading his mind. Then he rapidly dismissed the thought. She couldn’t know he’d been picturing her in the lace frippery that Victorian ladies always wore beneath their somber gowns, playing chaste maid to his urbane, but licentious, gentleman.

“This is your room. I hope you find it comfortable, even though it used to give Trev nightmares when he was younger,” she explained while giving him a considering look. “T.L. is into the heavier and more ornate the furniture, the better. I confiscated most of the Duncan Phyfe and Hepplewhite when I moved to the cottage.”

“Where is the cottage exactly?” Logan asked in a bid to keep her talking and in the room. He tossed his belongings onto the satin brocade bedspread without a second thought.

“It’s just a stone’s throw from the house. I think you can see it from here.” She turned to the window nearest her. “Yes, you can see the top of the roof from here.”

Logan went to stand behind her, looking over her slender shoulder to where she was pointing. Ignoring the delicious smell of jasmine that clung to Tory, he concentrated on the lawn that stretched out to a stand of oak trees where two turrets peaked out from the budding foliage. “It’s a replica of the house?”

“Yes, only it’s a single story instead of three. My great-great grandfather built it for his mother-in-law, sort of a dower house,” she confirmed, turning as she spoke. Her startled expression told Logan she hadn’t known he was so close. Involuntarily her hands came to rest on his shoulders to keep from tumbling backward onto the window seat.