Southern Hospitality (9 page)

“Trevor Eugene Planchet,” Tory began in a dangerous growl, dragging her eyes away from Logan’s pleading look for rescue as Button ran scarlet tipped fingers over his chest.

“All right, all right,” her brother begged in surrender and threw up his hands. “I’ll go draw off the two-bit vamp, but I’ll leave you with this advice. You might want to lower the zipper on your jumpsuit a little, and you definitely want to wipe off the remaining half of your Henning mustache if you want Logan to stay interested.”

He quickly made his way toward Logan before she had a chance to object. But she had more than Trevor’s teasing on her mind. She had to be cool and composed when she faced Logan. Fleetingly she wondered if keeping T.L. out of her business affairs was really worth it. Logan Herrington was much more than she bargained for when she drove to the airport yesterday, and he was here for three months.

“Now admit it, Logan, you did have a good time,” Tory announced, smiling pleasantly up at her companion as they walked away from the Bush’s front door to her station wagon. She was feeling very pleased with herself, and the world at large after a few relaxing hours with her friends. She’d regained her equilibrium by treating Logan as if he were one of her brothers. They’d managed to have an enjoyable evening after the rocky start. Logan turned out to be an amusing escort.

“Come on, didn’t you enjoy yourself just a teeny, tiny, little bit? Whoops.”

Logan smothered a laugh, grasping her firmly under the elbow as she stumbled on the uneven surface of the driveway. “Just how many wine spritzers did you have?”

Tory looked back over her shoulder at the offending gravel that had rolled under her sneaker while she thought over his question. She turned back to him, straightening her posture with exaggerated care, but couldn’t dislodge his hand. “I had three—two white and one rosé. A southern lady doesn’t over indulge in any activity or substance.”

“I thought we agreed to drop the North/South rivalry after Gary Bush named me an honorary southerner,” he commented, still trying to suppress his amusement, and retaining a firm hold on her elbow. “It was the least he could do after I won the prize for the best magic trick.”

“So he did, against my better judgment. Still, I’m sure it holds true for any lady, in any place. Now, where did I put the car keys?” She patted her hands down the length of her turquoise jumpsuit under Logan’s interested gaze. The movement allowed her to step away from him, giving her a respite from the tingling sensation in her arm. “Ah, here they are. This jumpsuit has too many pockets.”

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea for me to drive? Gary made me pledge to be protective of the ladies.”

“Gary got a little carried away because he’s only been married a year. He and Abby don’t know the honeymoon is over and are attached at the hip,” Tory stated with a grimace, but she handed him the keys without an argument. “I assure you that I’m perfectly capable of driving. My basic problem with alcohol is it makes me relax or get very honest, sometimes both. I think you just want to drive the ‘Woody.’ I saw your covetous look earlier.”

“You’ve found me out. A friend of mine at Princeton had a beauty like this. About a 1946 model, isn’t it?” Logan waited for her nod, then continued his confession. “Unfortunately, Nathan wouldn’t let anyone touch it, not even when he washed it.” He opened the passenger door with a flourish, and Tory slid bonelessly into the car.

On impulse, she captured his hand where it rested on the open window frame. “Ya know, Logan, I think I might like you after all, no matter why you’re here.”

She regretted the words the minute they were out of her mouth. Logan’s easy smile vanished. His whole body stiffened as the lines deepened in his angular face. There was almost a stricken look in his eyes, but Tory dismissed the thought, blaming it on the poor light from the yard lamp. It was simply his usual neutral expression. Suddenly she was angry with Preston Herrington. The man might be very ill, but how could he do this to his nephew? She didn’t know why Logan was here, but the reason had hurt him badly, although she was sure he wouldn’t admit it even to himself.

Shaken more than she cared to consider, Tory came to a decision. She was going to help Logan with whatever the problem was. Her voice came out low and intent. “Logan Herrington, don’t you dare turn into some grim-faced Puritan on me.”

He stopped trying to pull away from her grasp. Tory loosened her hold slightly, sure that he wouldn’t move away. He was staring down at her in open mouthed amazement. Fleetingly, she wondered if anyone had ever seen him in such an unsophisticated pose. He worked his mouth for a minute, as if experimenting to see if it still worked. Before he could utter a sound, a group of partiers came out of the Bush’s front door.

“I refuse to be caught arguing in the driveway. The Herringtons have more dignity than that,” he muttered, pulling his hand out from Tory’s relaxed grip. He turned abruptly on his heels and stalked around the station wagon, gravel scattering under his rapid strides.

Tory waved to her friends, answering their farewells as Logan gunned the engine. She wasn’t sure what to do next. Slumping down in her seat, she fiddled with the seatbelt buckle and wondered if she dared to open her mouth again. The soft night breeze from the open window cooled her flushed cheeks as she considered her alternatives. Always one to charge her way through a situation, she decided to press on.

“Did you really learn that trick with the pitcher of milk and the newspaper this afternoon, or did you cheat, and know magic before tonight?” She kept her tone light, hoping he wouldn’t know how much she resisted the urge to blurt out,
Why did Preston send you to Arkansas?
Besides, they couldn’t keep having these stony silences every time they got into a car together.

“A magician doesn’t tell his secrets, young woman. It wouldn’t be magic anymore if everyone knew how the tricks were done,” Logan finally answered, just when she was about to give up hope. “Some of us take professional pride in our work.”

“Is that comment directed at me?” Tory asked eagerly. She sat up and turned to face him, hooking her left leg up on the seat.

“If the trick fits. Aggie magic? You call yourself a magician by holding up two fingers on each hand, putting them behind your back, and then holding up one finger on one hand and three on the other?” Logan made a clicking noise of disgust with his tongue, shaking his head at Tory’s idea of a magic trick.

“Hey, I got laughter and applause, didn’t I? What more could a performer want?” She grinned without a show of remorse, beginning to relax again because he was smiling, adapting to their nonsensical talk without batting an eyelash. There was humor in the man, and he could enjoy the ridiculous. Would she still be this pleased about this tomorrow with a clear head?

“Besides, how can you criticize my act when you don’t even know what an Aggie is?” she argued, testing to see how long they could continue discussing a subject of absolutely no importance or redeeming quality. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about the consequences.

“Do so,” Logan shot back, flashing a knowing grin in her direction.

“Do not,” she returned, her mind not fully on the matter at hand. He’d just shown her that he possessed more than just one lethal weapon to disturb her sleep. Not only did he have a chest that should be outlawed and give kisses that paralyzed all rational thought, he had a playful grin that was downright outrageous.

“An Aggie is a person of undetermined intellect who attends Texas A & M University. Such persons are treated with little, or no respect, and thought by most Arkansans, er, Arkansianians, whatever, to be subhuman.”

“Somebody told you, didn’t they?” Tory placed her arm along the back of the seat and laid her head in the crook of her arm. She was enjoying herself immensely, no matter how dangerous that was, but she was beginning to feel sleepy just as she had predicted.

“Again, as a reporter, I can’t reveal my sources,” Logan returned smoothly, eliciting a sleepy groan of frustration from the lady.

She’s gone to sleep,
Logan thought as he glanced at Tory’s heart-shaped face relaxed in slumber. A feeling of warmth rushed over him, laying to rest the frustration he’d been feeling all night watching Tory smile and joke with her friends. Somehow in less than forty-eight hours this nicely curved brunette with maple-syrup eyes had him all tied up in knots. One minute she smiled at him mischievously, the next she’d stare at him coldly, and then suddenly seem contrite.

Victoria Camille Planchet was beyond his comprehension. The past two days were almost a fantasy, out of his range of experience. Preston had really outdone himself this time by playing the omnipotent deity. The older man’s words still echoed in his brain:
At least act like a human being with blood running through your veins instead of a preppy android.
Well, the old buzzard should be laughing himself silly by now. In only two days, Logan had experienced anger, frustration, and absolute confusion. Those all qualified as honest-to-god emotions—along with passion, want, and need. All these emotions were running rampant.

With another glance at Tory’s sleeping figure, he wasn’t sure he wanted it any other way. When she and Trevor rescued him from the cloying woman with the unlikely name of Button, he determined that he’d try to go easy again. He grimaced at himself in the rearview mirror, remembering how quickly Tory had made him forget his good intentions that afternoon. He wasn’t going to do it this time. He knew how to conduct a civilized relationship with a woman and had never before found it necessary to grab a woman into his arms. It just wasn’t dignified.

He was a Herrington. The Herringtons were
the
example of how to behave. His mother had drilled into his head that he should always remember his name and fine ancestry even under the most adverse conditions. Herringtons were leaders, role models for those less fortunate—those who weren’t Herringtons. The only problem was that Enid Herrington had never told him how a Herrington should react to physical desire. He pictured his slender, elegantly pale, blond-haired mother, and wondered if she’d felt desire for any man in the twenty years since his father had died, or even before that.

“You’re on your own for this one, old boy,” he muttered and stopped the car at the closed gate of the Planchet property.

“Logan?” Tory’s question was soft and drowsy. He knew it was a sound he wanted to hear again when they woke up together following an unforgettable night in each other’s arms.

“The gate’s closed.” His voice was huskier than usual.

“Oh, the code is two, three, four, eleven.”

In a matter of minutes they arrived at the main house. Logan turned off the engine, but didn’t make a move to leave the car. He turned to his companion, who’d snuggled back to sleep. Gently he feathered a finger over the fringe of her bangs and down her cheek, pushing her hair back from her soft cheek to loop behind her ear. She smiled as though his touch pleased her. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t sit here all night staring at Tory in the moonlight, even though she seemed content to stay right where she was.

“Tory?” His soft question had no effect. He tried again in a conversational tone, brushing her cheek with the side of his finger.

“Inna minute,” she mumbled, batting away his hand with a wide sweep of her hand.

“We can’t stay here all night.” Logan gave a resigned sigh, knowing what he was going to have to do. He restarted the car and drove the short distance to the cottage. Tory didn’t stir once, even when he repeated her name three times. She simply burrowed deeper into the seat.

Logan climbed out of the car, wondering how much one man could possibly endure. “How can anyone find the front seat of a car comfortable?”

When he reached the other side of the car, he stopped for a minute to assess the situation. He wasn’t going to carry Tory over a pitch dark stone walkway to end up at a locked door. Giving the sleeping figure another look, he turned and headed for the cottage. The key box was above the lintel, the second place he looked. Entering the house, he turned on lights as he searched for Tory’s bedroom.

Standing on the threshold of the room, he knew he should immediately turn around and go shake Tory awake. It was a room that he’d like in his own townhouse; a room where he wanted to make love to Tory. A mahogany field bed, draped with a crocheted canopy, dominated the room. He forced himself to look around the rest of the cream-and-rose colored room. By admiring the Empire dressing bureau and enclosed basin stand, he wouldn’t think about the soft bundle of femininity who lived here, and who he’d soon carry through the doorway. Absently he remembered Tory’s comment about smuggling most of the Hepplewhite and Duncan Phyfe pieces from the main house.

Walking slowly back to the car, he wondered—not for the first time—about the Planchet family. It kept his mind off how inviting the canopied bed looked, even without Tory in it. Most of the furniture in the main house and cottage weren’t reproductions, but authentic antiques. Where had they come from, and what did T.L. do for a living?

Furniture and T.L.’s occupation were forgotten as soon as he opened the passenger door. At a light touch on her shoulder, Tory turned trustingly into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. Logan kept his body rigid as he carried her up the walkway, wondering what he’d done to deserve such exquisite torture. Tory snuggled her head into the crook of his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck.

With long strides, he made it into the bedroom in record time. In a Herculean effort, he kept from dropping Tory when she nuzzled the sensitive skin under his ear, murmuring, “So nice.”