Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2)

GALAHAD IN JEANS

Copyright © 2016 Patricia Maxwell

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Published 2016 by Steel Magnolia Press, LLC

Here he comes—

Carla Nicholson gave the man striding down the sidewalk a critical once-over as she hit the lock button on her car’s remote. A wry smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

It was him all right, your classic Redneck Romeo with Greek coin profile, sun-bleached, sandy-blond hair, hard-muscled physique in a T-shirt, and artfully faded jeans. The whole package.

Benedict was the name she’d been given for him
—
Robert G. B. Benedict. Voted
South of Normal Magazine’s
Perfect Southern Gentleman, he was supposed to be a guy to make females eighteen to eighty swoon.

She, on the other hand, was a cynical, hard to impress northeastern female. Yes, indeed, even if she had been transplanted from Connecticut to Baltimore when barely a teenager.

The guy kept coming on the far side of the street. Lean of hip and broad shouldered, with the unstudied grace of a born athlete, he strode the sidewalk as if he owned it. Maybe he did, since he could hardly take a step without someone calling out a greeting or lifting a hand to wave. An older woman scurried out of a store to catch him in a hug. He returned the embrace with gusto before tucking his elderly admirer into the curve of his arm and grinning down at her as if she was his long-lost grandmother.

The smile was killer quality, Carla had to admit. He even had the suggestion of a dimple to go with the indentation in his chin.

What a guy.

Yes, and what a crock of an assignment.

Carla swore in an exasperated whisper. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.

Well, all right, she did know. She’d been unappreciative, unaccommodating, and unwilling to lie down and take it—it being sex with her boss. She wasn’t about to change, which meant she had to interview this Don Juan of the Sticks.

More than that, she was supposed to become the guy’s shadow. She was directed to follow him around for a week with camera in hand, observing his every move, word and action. She was to find out, once and for all, if the concept of the southern gentleman was dead. Those were her editor’s orders, though Trevor Crandall, editor-in-chief of
South of Normal Magazine
, knew she considered the genus Southern Gentlemen to be as mythical as charming princes, cowboy heroes and knights in shining armor.

She could get out of the stupid assignment. All she had to do was pull out her cell phone and call Trevor, tell him she’d become his favorite playmate in and out of the office.

She’d rather play with the Redneck Romeo.

Jeez! Where had that come from? She didn’t mean it, of course she didn’t.

Okay, how hard could this assignment be? It was doubtful the gorgeous hunk in front of her had a lot to offer in the depth department. She should be able to expose Robert G. B. Benedict as a phony in a matter of hours, if not mere minutes. She’d whip out an article full of pithy phrases, and then drive down to the gulf coast beaches for what was left of the week she’d been allowed. Trevor would never guess part of her time was used for a mini vacation, at least not as long as she zapped the right number of words to him on schedule.

Carla heaved a sigh. No, she couldn’t do it. She was a professional. More than that, she took pride in doing the best job possible, regardless of the assignment. She’d complete this project as outlined. She would do it if it killed her, and it probably would; she’d be dead of boredom before the week was over.

Slinging her shoulder bag into place, she smoothed the front of her black pencil skirt and touched her French twist to be sure no curling tendrils had escaped. Certain she was as presentable as possible after long hours on the road, she walked toward her target. She crossed the brick-paved street with the barest glance both ways, traffic being practically nonexistent here in Chamelot, this pint-size town laid out along the curve of a lazily flowing river. It seemed nice enough, with its courthouse on the opposite river bank, along with lawyer’s offices, a funeral home and flower shop combination, department store, feed store and coffee shop. So pristine was the warm air wafting along the street that she caught the smell of roses and fresh cut greenery mixed with fresh-brewed coffee and a whiff of mud and decaying vegetation from the river.

“Mr. Benedict!”

Romeo looked up as she called out, his gaze alert. Sunlight slid like quicksilver over the bright waves of his hair and cast shadows onto his cheek bones from ridiculously long lashes. It glazed his skin with natural bronzing, but also illuminated a scar at the corner of one eyebrow and a bump across the bridge of his nose where it had doubtless been broken.

The defects should have made him less appealing. Instead, they gave him a rugged edge that sent a zing along her nerve endings. The effect was so unexpected that she stopped in her tracks a few feet away.

“Ma’am?”

Ma’am…
For crying out loud.

Yet his voice went with the rest of him, a melodious baritone rumble that seemed to vibrate against her breastbone, lingering near her heart.

Oh, this was ridiculous. Leaving work and driving through the night for the interview this morning had been a bad move. She was over-tired and sleep deprived, that was it. No cause to blame her reaction on a wayward libido.

She unclenched her teeth so she could speak.

“I’m Carla Nicholson, contributing editor for
South of Normal Magazine
,” she said, putting out her hand as she moved forward again. “I’ve been trying to contact you regarding a profile for your feature as the magazine’s Perfect Southern Gentleman.”

“Yes, ma’am. I got your messages.”

The words were unyielding. So was the expression in the rich blue of his eyes. His elderly admirer still in the circle of his arm looked from him to Carla and back again, but he didn’t appear to notice. Nor did he release that white-haired lady as he reached to take Carla’s hand.

His palm was dry and hard, with calloused edges that suggested the muscles wrapping his upper body had come from something other than gym workouts. At the touch, a small shock ran up her arm.

Carla flinched with it, controlling the urge to back up a step. Added to that was the whiff she caught of his scent that seemed made of sunshine, spice and clean male. It was an instant before she could bring her mind to bear on what he had said.

“But you didn’t return my calls.” She tried for an ironic smile. “If you had, we wouldn’t be meeting in the middle of the street.”

“I’d have been in touch, eventually. Things are a bit rushed now. It’s a busy time of year.”

Yes, of course he’d have returned her calls, one fine day when the magazine’s deadline had passed and he thought she’d given up. If he expected that to happen, he would soon learn his error. “That’s okay. I checked in with the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Benedict pointed you out to me.”

“Did he now? Accommodating of him.”

“Your cousin, I understand?”

“For my sins.”

That was a southernism, she thought, no doubt meaning the sheriff being his cousin could be a negative at times. It also meant her interviewee was less than happy, but that wasn’t her problem. “I apologize for tracking you down like this, but I really need to talk to you.”

“Look,” he began.

“Now, honey,” the elderly lady at his side said, patting the muscled plane of his chest in what appeared a soothing yet most enjoyable gesture. “You know it has to be.”

“And you know—”

“That you hate the whole idea, yes indeed. But you did promise.”

Benedict glanced down at her with a droll look in his eyes. “It doesn’t count.”

“Does too, count. Tillie had her heart set on it.”

Carla glanced from one to the other, struck by the accord between the two. Affection and caring was in every word, also a deep familiarity that seemed to exclude her from both consideration and the conversation.

She wasn’t used to being ignored.

“That would be Tillie Benedict, right?” she asked. “The woman who sent in your nomination form for the contest? She’s on my list for an interview as well. Maybe we could all get together for coffee.”

Grief twisted the lined face of Benedict’s elderly companion. “Oh, no, dear. Tillie passed away about a month ago, right after the winner of your contest was announced.”

Oops. Major mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I didn’t realize.”

“That’s okay. No real reason you should know.”

But there was, Carla thought in angry embarrassment. The information ought to have been in the packet Trevor handed her for the assignment. That it was missing was, she strongly suspected, an underhanded attempt to make her look foolish. Her boss believed in tit-for-tat, was known for his small acts of retribution for perceived slights.

“It would have been wonderful to have her input, but I’m sure I can manage without it,” she said in an attempt at recovery. She turned to the future perfect gentleman once more. “All I need at this point is a few minutes of your time, Mr. Benedict. We need to set up a schedule for the hours I’ll be joining you in your daily routine as well as time for a few photo ops. Then I need to know the best location for these things and when we can get started.”