Carolina Heat (2 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t let you leave until I know if you’ll meet me tomorrow. I want a chance to take you on a real date, find out what’s going on behind those shimmering green eyes. Hell, I don’t even know your last name, or what you do.”

It took all of Annabelle’s willpower not to rub against his hand. He had a magic touch. “If I told you now, what we would talk about tomorrow?”

A wide grin took over his entire face. “Great! It’s a date.”

She gave a quick head shake. “Not quite. But I am open to the possibility. I’ll take your advice and sleep on it. You know where I’m staying, so come by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fair enough.” He scooted out and retrieved her bags.

“I’m taking a chance here, Mark. Don’t disappoint me,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But there’s a good chance I’ll dream of you tonight, Miss Annabelle.” His appraising look was more intimate than a touch, so much so that her skin tingled as the cab pulled away. And then her cell phone rang, shattering the moment. With a final wave she checked the caller ID. It was
Wanderlust
magazine’s editor.

“This is Ralph Paxton. That you, Carlyle?”

“Barely. Are you ready to tell me why I had to fly down here on such short notice?” she demanded. Jack’s voice mail said he was transferring her for the duration to Ralph Paxton, the editor of
Wanderlust
.

“Need you to do a piece on Charleston for our November issue.”

Good thing he couldn’t see her eye roll. “On what? You’re a travel magazine; I’m an investigative reporter. Since when does corruption at City Hall or port security make it into
Wanderlust’s
pages?”

“No time for details. We’ve been stuck on the tarmac for three hours, and they’re about to let us take off. Charleston, spring, you know the drill for our features reporters.”

Furious, Annabelle dropped her bags inside the gate so she could pace. “I’ve been gone for three months, Ralph. On top of that, I have a pressing personal issue topping my to-do list. Don’t tell me I flew down here just to write an exclusive about how nice the magnolias smell in May.”

“Of course not. That’s only your cover story.”

Now she was confused. “But I
am
a reporter.”

“Your cover is a travel writer,” he corrected. “Trust me, it makes a difference. Damn it, the stewardess is giving me the evil eye. Get your bearings, find your way around the city, and I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m back in the office.” He hung up before she could continue her protests. The whole thing made no sense. What on earth would a travel magazine need her to investigate?

Focused on getting inside and sinking into a soft bed, she turned her ankle on the cobblestone path. Completely frazzled, she seriously contemplated sleeping in the courtyard. Talk about an embarrassing way to meet her hosts. They hurried out to greet her only to find a limp lump with a pile of luggage sprawled at their front gate.

They politely refrained from comment on her clumsy arrival. Mr. Haley tightened his bathrobe and gathered her belongings while Mrs. Haley helped her inside, with strict orders to rest up on the sofa. Only moments later her beaming hostess handed Annabelle a tall, icy glass festooned with a bushy green sprig.

“It’s a mint julep, dear. Just the thing to relax you after all your travels. It’ll help you slide right into dreamland.” The tart concoction was Annabelle’s introduction to Southern life. Despite her worries about Vanessa, as the julep helped ease her to sleep, her last thoughts were of the dark-haired, smiling man who’d promised to dream of her tonight.

Annabelle headed down the street, alert for any sights and sounds to use in the introduction to her Charleston article. How hard could it be to throw together a few great descriptions? Between her talkative innkeepers and the weather, the piece was shaping up already. Annabelle jotted on the small notepad she carried everywhere, and then sighed. Even in crisp white shorts and a thin yellow tank she was sweltering. The heat had forced her to confine her heavy red curls into a ruthlessly tight ponytail. She walked slower than usual, out of deference to the uneven cobblestones.

Earlier this morning, while Annabelle struggled to do justice to a voluminous breakfast of grits, ham, eggs and bacon, Mrs. Haley peppered her with trivia and instructions. “Do be careful out there, Miss Annabelle. If you aren’t used to our streets, it can be all too easy to turn your heel. I’m convinced the British sent over those cobblestones to torture us.”

Annabelle lifted one eyebrow in surprise. “You imported your streets from England?”

The older woman gave a ladylike shake of her tightly curled silver head. “Let me give you your first lesson on the history of Charleston. Once South Carolina was established as a colony, England wanted our tobacco and indigo. King George sent over empty trading vessels filled only with little iron balls for ballast.”

Annabelle interrupted, already leaping to the logical conclusion. “The ballast balls were left here when they loaded all the goods to go to England.”

Mrs. Haley put a finger on the side of her nose and continued. “The colonists used them as cobblestones to pave most of the city. Very resourceful, if you ask me. Any that you walk on today will be the original stones from the eighteenth century. All the authenticity can, however, make it very treacherous.” She looked down with a smile of approval at Annabelle’s sensible flats.

So here she was, picking her way slowly and carefully across the uneven streets. Annabelle reached her goal in the next block—five horse-drawn carriages incongruously sharing the side of the road with a city bus. She passed the flower-draped buggies built for two, and stopped in front of a large trolley-like carriage hitched to four horses. A few people were already seated, fanning themselves with hats. Annabelle looked around for a ticket seller. Her eyes fell on the broad back of a man brushing down the horses.

“I’d like to join this tour,” she said.

He turned around and greeted her with a lazy smile. “It will be a sincere pleasure to have you along this fine morning. My name is Mark, and I’ll be in charge of acquainting you with our fair city.”

“Mark!” she gasped in surprise. Well, surprise both at his appearance and at the spike of hot interest that seared through her upon seeing his tan biceps bulging from beneath his sleeves. “What are you doing here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I’m your tour guide.”

“This is an unexpected coincidence.” She mentally raced through their conversation of the night before. Had she said anything to blow her newly established cover?

Mark reached past her to accept money from a family of four. “I hate to bother a beautiful lady such as yourself with a triviality, but the tour is twenty dollars.” His tone was practiced, and missing the flirtation of the night before. With the rest of the tour group gathering, he maintained a professional distance.

“Of course. I was just about to ask the price.” Annabelle handed over her money and scrambled into the carriage, feeling equally the warmth of his hand on her back and the wide smile he’d bestowed upon her. Undeniable sparks had flown between them last night. Under different circumstances she would’ve eagerly accepted his company. Only a minute ago, her stomach twisted in excitement upon realizing it was him.

But today wasn’t merely a pleasant morning of sightseeing. Annabelle fluffed her already limp bangs with one hand. She was here to do a job, and needed to stay focused. No gawking at men with dreamy accents. And on that thought the carriage jolted, the horses started their leisurely gait, and the entire contraption began to sway.

“Welcome to historic Charleston! Our route this morning will start down Rainbow Row, a street of authentic, brightly colored antebellum homes.” Mark turned around to face his audience and winked at them over the microphone. “Admittedly, some of them are just authentically
restored
, but still a pleasure to gaze upon.”

Annabelle let his words wash over her while she took in the lush greenery. The picturesque magnolia trees would do nothing to help her yet-to-be-revealed investigation, but they’d give her something else to scribble down for her cover story. A guided tour served a dual purpose. It’d provide background fluff about the beauty of Charleston in late spring without wasting time on real research, and at the same time help her become familiar with the city’s layout for when she started officially snooping into Ralph’s mystery.

Annabelle jolted when the carriage stopped abruptly. She grimaced, rubbing her knee where it collided with the seat in front of her. Horse-drawn carriages
looked
nice enough, but as sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, she wished she’d signed up for a smooth, air-conditioned bus tour.

Mark’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We’ll stop here at the Battery for ten minutes. This is a chance for you to stretch your legs while you look at the cannons. Keep in mind, ladies and gentlemen, these are not reproductions. Both the cannons and the balls piled next to them are the genuine article. In case any of you are leery about the safety factor, let me reassure you all the cannons have been filled with cement to prevent any possible injuries. Although,” he continued, tongue-in-cheek, “it’d be difficult for the cannons to fire regardless of the cement, unless one of you brought along a healthy stash of gunpowder.” There was a smattering of polite laughter, and then people began to disembark.

Annabelle remained in her seat, digging through her voluminous tote for her notebook. She wanted to jot down a few impressions. And to her way of thinking, if you’d seen one cannon, you’d seen enough.

“Most people take a picture.” The deep male voice in her ear made Annabelle jump. Her notebook and pen flew out of her fingers and sailed onto the grass. Mark bent to lean in under the awning towards her. She favored him with a cool glare, partly for startling her, and mostly to take out on him the annoyance she felt with herself at her adolescent reaction to his presence.

“Would you mind retrieving my things?” Annabelle pointed with her chin to where they lay by his feet.

“Sorry if I startled you.” In a fluid motion, he returned the notebook and pen to her lap, and then took up a lazy stance against the side of the carriage. “I only meant to say that usually people record their vacations on film, rather than committing their memories to paper. It almost looks like you’re taking notes. Now, I pride myself on giving an entertaining and informative tour, but I didn’t realize I was
this
interesting.” He shot her a self-deprecating grin.

Annabelle’s lips twitched in response, despite herself. It was always a nice surprise to meet a man who didn’t take himself too seriously. She decided to test out her cover story. “Pictures aren’t enough in my business; I need the thousand words to go along with them. I’m a travel writer.”

“Miss Annabelle the travel writer—I never would’ve guessed,” he said, with a slightly bemused look.

“And why is that? There’s no stereotype for the genre.”

He crossed behind the carriage and settled himself next to her, long legs hanging out the open side. Long, tan, muscled legs dusted with dark hair that her fingers itched to touch. “Of course there is! Full safari gear; khakis, the little pith helmet, maybe even a rifle for protection…” His voice trailed off as she smirked at him.

“Only if I was writing about the bushlands of Africa fifty years ago. You can’t be serious?”

“No, I’m not.” Mark winked at her. “The real reason I didn’t peg you as a travel writer is because you’ve been oblivious to the surroundings since we started the tour. I can’t imagine you’d be able to write a single word about anything we’ve passed.” He nudged the corner of her notebook, trying to angle it to read her earlier notes.

She flipped the cover shut before he could see anything. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” Annabelle replied lightly as she fanned herself with the tiny book. “I caught up on my sleep last night, so it must be the humidity. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right person.” Mark tipped his straw boater low over one eye. “If you’d be willing to extend your tour, I’ll take you someplace guaranteed to cool you down.”

Before she could respond, he grabbed hold of the awning and swung to the ground as the other passengers started to re-board. He became the genial host again, asking a toddler if he’d climbed on the cannons, and helping settle two elderly ladies. Moments later the horses began plodding down the street, and the carriage resumed its gentle swaying motion.

As Mark waxed on enthusiastically about the full historical significance of the cobblestones—
and how many more times would she have to hear
that
story?
—Annabelle once more ignored her surroundings. She stared at Mark, or rather, tried to surreptitiously stare at him. He certainly had the good looks to match his considerable charm. Tall, dark and handsome might be a cliché, but it still packed a sensual punch.

Why not be a little adventurous and go with him? After all, last night she’d all but promised him a date. Trying to get out of it now would only lead to difficult questions. If nothing else, she’d get a better feel for the layout of the city after an extra hour with Mark. Giving in to impulse, Annabelle adjusted her plans to include the first man to catch her eye in a very long time.