Southern Hospitality Read online

  “Out for a drink, not that it’s any of your business little sister.” Trevor’s voice was amused at her harried demand. “What’s this about, wanting to quit the rally staff?”

  “You’ll have to get someone else to handle the media,” Tory said quickly, jumping up from the pale-yellow Grecian couch to pace the length of her living room. She almost regretted her sudden need to break all connection with anything that had to do with Logan Herrington. “There’s just too much to do with the shop renovations. I hadn’t realized how lousy the timing would be when I agreed to help.”

  “Look who’s talking about lousy timing. You know how hard it is to get people to do the administrative work, and you wait until barely two weeks before—” he broke off suddenly, causing Tory to stop dead in her tracks. She held her breath, cursing her stupidity at calling Trevor instead of Curtiss. There was slim chance he’d take her excuses at face value, but she knew it was a futile wish from the knowing laugh at the other end of the phone line.

  “This sudden panic wouldn’t have anything to do with our dinner guest, would it? Now that I think about it, you picked him up at the airport today, but you hardly exchanged more than two words with old Logan all during dinner,” Trevor exclaimed, highly amused by his observations. “So, what gives? Did the big, bad Yankee give you a hard time?”

  “Trevor, get real.”

  “Well, I think I should know all the details, if I have to defend your honor, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do.” His tone was overly sincere, which didn’t fool his sister, who knew he hoped she’d become frustrated with his nonsense, then make an incriminating slip. Tory smiled to herself, since nothing had actually happened between her and Logan. She decided to quit the rally to insure that nothing would. In less than twelve hours, the man had disturbed her more than any man she’d ever met. It would be best if she could avoid him whenever possible.

  “You’re weird, you know that?” she asked, forcing herself to give a light laugh. “I’ve just got too much to do. We have two wedding receptions and a huge retirement party to cater, besides getting the shops ready. Lou Abbott told me today we can probably have our grand opening at Park Plaza two weeks ahead—”

  “Ahead of what? What’s the matter?”

  “I thought I heard someone at the front door.” Tory cocked her head to the side and listened for the sound again. She had to be mistaken. No one would be knocking at her door at this time of night. “Good Lord, someone is knocking at the door.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Trevor challenged, implying that his sister was using it as an excuse to end their conversation at a highly interesting point.

  “No, I’m not kidding. Listen.” She held the earpiece in the direction of the entrance as the knocking became more insistent. “Hang on a second, there might be something wrong at the main house.”

  “Victoria, you keep talking to me while you answer the door. That phone cord of yours could stretch all the way downtown, and you don’t know who’s out there,” her brother ordered.

  “Honestly, Trev, the gate is secured at night,” she returned in exasperation, but she followed his instructions, walking toward the door as she spoke. With presence of mind, she turned on the porch light, leaving the entryway dark. The second she looked out the window that flanked the large oak door, she regretted letting her late-night caller know she was awake. For some unknown reason, Logan Herrington was standing on her doorstep.

  “Who is it? Tory?” Trevor’s anxious voice broke into her speculative thoughts.

  “Ah, it’s just Arnette,” she answered quickly, too quickly for her brother’s sensitive ears.

  “Uh-huh, and what does she want since you haven’t even opened the door?”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about the rally.” She hooked the earpiece into its cradle with Trevor still protesting. Putting the phone down on the hall stand, she toyed with the idea of not answering the door, simply turning off the lights and going to bed. She couldn’t give Logan the satisfaction, however, of knowing that she was uneasy about talking to him. Before she could reconsider, she turned the bolt and opened the door.

  The phone began ringing before she could say a word. With a sigh of annoyance, she picked up the phone and lifted the earpiece. Knowing it was Trevor, she demanded, “What?”

  “Tell me who it is, or I’m dialing 911,” he stated, matching her imperious tone.

  “All right, it’s Logan. Are you happy now? And no, I don’t know what he wants because I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet,” Tory snapped, her impatience rising with every syllable. She cut the connection with a decisive click and turned to glare at the subject of her conversation as she thumped the phone back onto the hall stand. Thanks to Trevor’s untimely call, Tory’s plan to leave Logan on the doorstep was ruined. He was only a foot away. Meeting her hard stare with slightly raised eyebrows, he closed the door without a word and shut out the light from the porch.

  “Remind me not to call on you late at night,” he said softly, his voice sounding dark and mysterious in the shadowed entryway.

  “Yes, it is late,” Tory agreed. With what she hoped was a casual move, she took three steps backward into the brightly lit living room. She wondered if Logan would find it strange that she didn’t turn her back on him.

  “I was taking a walk before turning in and saw your light on,” he explained, his steps matching hers. His bland tone and cynical little half-smile told her he knew his explanation was a lie.

  “Yes, I, too, always take a walk with what looks like Daddy’s Napoleon brandy and two glasses.” Defiantly she met his slumberous look—a look as dangerous as a snake’s mesmerizing stare. She wouldn’t let him know how uncomfortable she felt in her nightshirt for anything in the world. The navy garment hung to her knees and the dark material with its bright logo allowed her to stand with her arms at her sides, seemingly at ease.

  “It’s an old New England custom to carry something medicinal on a walk, in case of frostbite.” His twisted smile turned into a predatory grin before he walked further into the room. In easy strides he moved to the lozenge shaped marble-topped table to put down his offering. “Would you care to join me?” he asked over his shoulder as he opened the bottle. When Tory didn’t answer, he turned his head, raising his eyebrows again. “I hate to drink alone.”

  Tory nodded just to keep him occupied. She had no intention of letting him stay long enough for a companionable drink. Standing her ground, showing no sign of the confused emotions that assailed her whenever Logan was near, she accepted the snifter of amber liquid.

  “Well, here’s to the ‘beginning of a beautiful friendship’,” Logan pronounced, lifting his glass expectantly.

  Tory stared at him in amazement. He couldn’t be serious, showing up on her doorstep in the middle of the night and acting as if he was paying her a friendly call. They’d only met that afternoon, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was quoting the ending line to Casablanca. Who was Humphrey Bogart and who was Claude Rains? “What do you want, Logan?”

  The only sign of emotion was the telltale tightening of his square jaw before he ambled over and lowered himself into her contour rocker, settling into the powder-blue horsehair upholstery as if he anticipated a long visit. “I thought we should discuss what we’re going to do about it,” he said quietly, hooking his ankle over his knee.

  “About what?” Tory demanded. She had to be dreaming. Logan Herrington wasn’t making himself at home in her cottage, issuing enigmatic statements. He couldn’t be asking about what she thought he was, could he? Surely he didn’t have the same chaotic reaction to her.

  “Let’s not be coy about this, Tory. We’re both mature adults.”

  “I’m not so sure we both are,” she stated, rashly moving toward him. Putting T.L.’s crystal snifter safely on the sewing table next to Logan’s chair, she placed her hands on her hips in Arnette’s favorite pose. “You have exactly five minutes to start making sense, then you’re out of here.”
/>   “Victoria Planchet, you’re a hard woman,” he answered, shaking his head mournfully. “I thought southern women were supposed to be soft, gently-spoken ladies with a kind understanding that was as delicate as a magnolia petal.”

  “You nipped at Daddy’s brandy on the way over here, didn’t you?” she inquired, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You just ran into one of the fabled steel magnolias, Mr. Herrington. I only deal with mental cases during my optimum functioning hours, which are from eight in the morning to about five in the afternoon. For you, though, it’s from noon until five past.”

  “Tory, you can’t deny there’s an inexplicable attraction between us. You can’t take away the one thing that could make this crazy trip worthwhile,” Logan stated, giving her a bewildered look. “Believe me, I don’t usually do anything like this, but I’ve never felt this way about a woman on such a short acquaintance.”

  She wouldn’t let herself think about his last statement. With Logan rising to his feet, she couldn’t be distracted from her purpose—getting him out of the cottage before she did something foolhardy. “What do you mean, make this crazy trip worthwhile? Does it have something to do with the fact you know next to nothing about rally racing?”

  “Forget about the rally, I want to talk about us.” He was standing directly in front of her, getting much too close.

  “Why are you here, Logan? You act as though this assignment is some sort of penance you have to pay,” Tory countered, trying to ignore the shivers of awareness that raced through her blood. She could feel the heat coming from his body as he took another step closer.

  “It isn’t important why I’m here, only that we’ve met, and it’s something that can’t be ignored.” He raised his arms, hesitating a moment when she seemed to shrink away from him. Gently he rested his hands on her stiff shoulders.

  “We met just this afternoon. I don’t know how you do things in Boston, but in Little Rock, we believe in courtesy—even when strangers test our patience.” She was determined not to give into the temptation of his nearness, trying to convince both of them that this was ridiculous. To stay in control, she pressed her point, “Why did Preston Herrington send you to Arkansas?”

  Logan had the grace to actually blush at the direct question, but Tory never had a chance to decide if it was from guilt, anger, or frustration. His right hand moved swiftly from her shoulder to snare the nape of her neck, his lips capturing hers in a millisecond of time. Her protest was muffled by his mouth before she could utter a sound.

  The kiss took an eternity. Logan seemed to be a starving man, tasting her lips carefully at first as if afraid his long awaited sustenance would disappear like a mirage. Tory was paralyzed by the riot of fireworks that seemed to be exploding inside her head. When she didn’t resist, he grew bolder. His tongue licked at the sweetness of her lips before delving within to search for further delight. One of them made a purring sound of approval.

  Tory reached out to Logan to keep her balance because the carpet beneath her feet suddenly offered little support, but she found herself grasping empty air. Logan released her as abruptly as he kissed her. She swayed for a moment, attempting to clear her befuddled brain.

  “That, Tory Planchet, is what is between us,” he said in a clear, concise tone, although she noted he was having trouble steadying his breathing. He ran his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “Sleep on that, and I’ll get back to you around noon tomorrow.”

  He walked past her dazed figure, his eyes straight ahead, his step purposeful. The sound of the front door closing with a decisive thud brought Tory to her senses. On unsteady legs, she stumbled to the couch and dropped limply onto the satin covering.

  “He has the manners of a Yankee pig, but he certainly knows how to kiss,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair in almost the same gesture Logan used minutes before. She’d known he was going to spell trouble from the moment he walked out of the airport terminal, but nothing prepared her for the conflagration that he kindled within her with a simple kiss. No, not a simple kiss. A searing mark of possessiveness that made her want to beg for more and run away to safety as fast as she could—both at the same time.

  Sleep on that, he’d said. The arrogance of the man, Tory decided, sitting up abruptly as sanity returned to take a firm hold. She wasn’t about to be hornswoggled by any fancy city boy with a fantastic pair of lips. She groaned in despair. Hornswoggled? Her brain was going soft, or she’d been spending too much time around T.L.

  She jumped up and headed for the bedroom, determined to get a good night’s sleep. Not only did she have to face Logan with a clear head in the morning, she had to take on T.L. There was a reason for Logan being here, besides tormenting her. Tomorrow she was going to find out why.

  “Blithering idiot. Blundering fool,” Logan muttered under his breath as he crossed the moonlit lawn to the main house. He continued to berate himself as he pulled a battered baseball cap from his back pocket. He’d intended to return Tory’s cap during his visit. Of course, that wasn’t all he’d intended, but in what seemed to be a continuing pattern, he’d made a hash of the whole thing.

  Clutching the cap in his hand, he made himself a promise. He’d find a way to temper his impatience and discover a means to breach Tory Planchet’s defenses. He didn’t know why it seemed of tantamount importance. He just knew it was, almost as if she held the knowledge of an important secret. Whatever it was, he had to know what was making him behave with such uncharacteristic impetuousness.

  There was only one thing he knew for certain. He didn’t want Tory to know why he’d been sent here. Around her he felt almost ashamed of his exile, which was ridiculous, but he wanted it kept from her just the same. He’d tell her himself, in his own way, when he judged that the time was right. Certainly not before he saw her brown eyes in passion, soft and darkened to the color of semi-sweet chocolate, her face flushed with excitement.

  As he reached the steps to the porch, he ruthlessly erased the tantalizing image that would keep him awake all night. He needed a good night’s sleep to deal with this strange situation. Perhaps that was all he needed to release him from his obsession. In the morning, he’d discover that Tory Planchet was just an ordinary woman.

  Chapter Three

  “Morning, Arnette,” Tory announced the moment she walked into the kitchen early the next morning. The wonderful smell of fresh baking filled her senses, but she was here for one reason and wouldn’t be sidetracked. “What’s the old buzzard up to this morning?”

  “Just let me get this last batch out of the oven, hon. You know where the coffee is,” Arnette answered with a welcoming smile as she took a tray of warm cookies from the oven.

  Tory crossed to the coffee maker under the clear-glass cupboards. She followed the cardinal rule of the kitchen as she poured herself a cup of rich, fresh ground coffee; never bother Arnette when she was in the middle of anything. But when she idly glanced at the cookie sheet that Arnette was deftly balancing, every other thought went out of Tory’s head.

  “What is T.L. wearing this morning, and why are you making snickerdoodles?” Tory shot out, looking at the sugar-and-cinnamon topped confections with horror. They were T.L.’s traveling snacks.

  “If you want to know anything about your daddy, just march yourself into the dining room, young lady.” Arnette didn’t bother to look up from her task. “These cookies have to be ready when he is. So, go ask him what you want to know.”

  Tory turned on her heels, careful not to spill her coffee, and made a beeline for the dining room. The old goat was going to sneak out of town and leave her with Logan without so much as a goodbye. She was brought up short on the kitchen’s threshold at the thought of Logan. Spinning around, she said, “Is our resident royalty out of bed yet?”

  “If you mean Mr. Herrington, no, he isn’t. What have you got against that nice young man?” Her curiosity pulled Arnette’s attention away from the cookie sheet to give Tory a searching look.

  “
You wouldn’t understand.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, needing to escape the older woman’s eagle eyes. As soon as she was out of sight in the hallway, Tory hesitated. She wasn’t sure exactly what T.L.’s game was, but it certainly had something to do with the mysterious purpose of Logan’s trip, which wasn’t to report on any car rally. The most obvious motive of matchmaking simply didn’t apply. T.L. wasn’t a parent who insisted that marriage was the answer for his offspring, with two of his three marriages ending in divorce. He was pleased that Sanders and Curtiss had started families, but he didn’t harangue Trevor or Tory continually about their single status.

  She took a deep breath to help collect her thoughts. This had to be handled with a level, cool head. She couldn’t let T.L. think she had an inordinate interest in Logan. T.L. didn’t need to know that she’d tossed and turned all night long with countless dreams about their visitor. First the disgruntled traveler at the airport, then the nice man that Amanda Sue commandeered as her willing slave, followed by the arrogant, demanding man in her cottage. The most prominent image was Logan stripped to the waist, only he wasn’t standing framed in his bedroom window. He was standing at the end of her bed.

  The sounds of Arnette bustling around the kitchen behind her brought Tory out of her dangerous memories of the night. It wouldn’t do for the other woman to find her daydreaming in the hall. With a deep swallow of Arnette’s coffee, Tory headed for the dining room.

  T.L. sat in solitary splendor at the head of the long, mahogany table. “Well, darlin’, what has you up this early?” he exclaimed in greeting before taking a bite from the ham biscuit in his hand. He was dressed in a subdued brown-and-pale-blue plaid suit that allowed Tory to relax her fixed smile slightly. He was dressed for a fairly rational discussion.

  “Seven-thirty seems late, since I’m usually up at five to get the baking started. Even with three months off, I can’t seem to shake the habit,” she said, slipping into the chair next to him. She refused his silent invitation to share his breakfast, but poured herself more coffee from the Blue Willow coffee pot in the center of the table.