Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (2 page)

A pained expression moved over his face. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

She’d thought before that his show of reluctance was for form’s sake, because he didn’t want to appear conceited enough to think he fit the part for which he’d been chosen. Now she wasn’t so sure.

What was it with him? Most men would be more than pleased to be featured in the magazine.

“The profile won’t interfere with your normal routine at all,” she said as persuasively as she could manage. “It’s only a personality article with an overview of your life as a man of the so-called New South. Perhaps there is somewhere we can go to discuss it.”

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

“Now, Beau, it can’t hurt to talk.” The white-haired older woman tried to shake him a little in remonstrance, though he stood as immovable as though rooted to the spot. “Tillie told me all about this contest, and the article the young lady’s supposed to write about you being such a gentleman. Lord knows you qualify.”

“I’m a farmer, that’s all.”

“Beau?” Carla’s sardonic disbelief at the nickname came through loud and clear in her voice. “I thought your name was—”

“Robert Galahad Beauregard Benedict,” he said with a straight look from eyes in which facets shone like dark blue, mini-faceted Hope diamonds.

“Galahad Beauregard.” So that’s what the initials stood for. Good grief.

“Nobody has called me anything except Beau since first grade.”

It was a warning, Carla thought, one she should heed if she wanted any kind of cooperation from him.

“Except Tillie,” the elderly lady corrected him with a misty smile.

“That was different.” The hard cast of his features softened again as he looked down at her. “Aunt Tillie called me whatever she liked.” He glanced back to Carla, tipping his head toward his companion. “This is Miss Myrtle Chauvin, by the way, otherwise known as Granny Chauvin.”

Carla’s greeting was perfunctory as she reached to take the hand the older woman offered. She immediately relaxed her normal firm grip, however, as she felt the bony, misshapen joints of arthritis under the frail skin.

Miss Myrtle searched her face, her faded brown eyes quizzical. “Don’t you let him talk you out of this interview, dear. He’s the right man for it, mark my words. No man alive could be a more perfect gentleman.”

“No, I won’t. That is, I’m sure he’ll be an excellent subject.”

“He’ll try to weasel out of it. Stubborn, you know. Don’t let him do it.”

Carla sent a quick look at Beau Benedict to see how he was taking that analysis of his character, but his features were unreadable. It seemed an ally might be a good thing. “Perhaps you’d care to join us for coffee, Miss Chauvin?”

“I do appreciate the invitation, dear, but I still have errands to run.” She stood on tiptoe to give Beau a quick kiss on the cheek. “Besides, it looks like rain, and I want to get home before it starts. But if you need to know anything about Tillie—”

“I may give you a call.”

“Good. Make sure you do that, you hear?”

Carla watched Miss Myrtle step into the street and head toward the feed store, then glanced at the sky overhead. The sun had disappeared. Dampness hung in the air, and it was a little too warm, even for the typical early spring of southern Louisiana. It was possible it would rain soon, as the elderly woman said.

“I saw a coffee shop down the street with a sign for chocolate muffins in the window,” she said, turning back to the man beside her. “Shall we?”

A dogged frown settled on his face. “Sorry, ma’am, but I meant what I told you. I don’t fit what you have in mind. I work for a living. I get my hands dirty, sweat buckets and cuss a blue streak when I’m mad. You don’t want me in your magazine, you really don’t.”

“Understood,” she answered, facing him squarely. “But you’re it, whether I want you or not. According to the entry form, you were born and raised in this small town where your ancestors have lived and died for nearly two hundred years. You work land that’s been in your family all that time, and you live in an antebellum mansion that’s been featured in articles across the country, pinned on Pinterest hundreds of times, and used as a setting for half a dozen movies. Beyond your background,
South of Normal Magazine’s
readers voted for you as their Perfect Southern Gentleman because they thought you looked the part.”

“They were wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter. You were chosen.”

The firm lines of his mouth flattened, while a tinge of color invaded his face. “Choose somebody else. Wasn’t there a runner-up, or whatever you want to call him?”

“I’m afraid not. You were the overwhelming favorite with 89% of the votes cast. The other two candidates didn’t receive enough to count.” That was near enough to the truth that she didn’t blink when she said it. If she was fudging a bit, it was because she couldn’t stand the thought of admitting to Trevor that she’d failed to get the interview. She was also growing more determined by the minute to feature this reluctant gentleman.

“Call one of the others back. I’m not the man you want.”

Carla heard what he said, but barely took it in. Her attention was deflected by the sight of a dog emerging from the feed store across the street. It was huge, a brindle mix of brown and gray, with a boxy head and underslung lower jaw. Moving with a loose-limbed trot that covered ground at a steady pace, swinging its massive head from side to side as if scenting prey, it was coming straight at her.

It was a nightmare made real.

The fine hair on the back of her neck prickled. Nausea burned the back of her throat. She could almost feel the dog’s fangs sinking into the flesh of her leg, pulling her down, shaking her as it growled.

“What is it?” The man beside her stepped closer. Concern drew his brows together as he searched her face. “Ma’am?”

His question seemed to come from far away. She spared him a single glance. “The dog…the Rottweiler. I don’t—”

“Stay where you are,” he said quietly. “It will be all right.”

She shook her head, never taking her eyes from the animal. Panic hovered, fluttering in her chest with the runaway beat of her heart.

“Just stand still until he passes,” Benedict insisted.

“I can’t.” Carla stumbled back a step as the Rottweiler came closer.

“Don’t move. Don’t run. The last thing you want is for him to chase you.”

His voice was even and deep, more than reasonable in its warning. She knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. Her hands were shaking, and her knees wobbled below her pencil skirt. She felt lightheaded as the blood left her head, flooding into her heart and lungs. The instinct for flight was too strong to resist. She swung toward where she’d left her car.

“I said don’t!”

She was swept into a firm embrace, spun around with dizzying speed. For a stunned moment, her mind was blank as it staggered from terror to disbelief to comprehension. She felt the roughness of brick against her back. A wall of muscle pressed against her breasts while arms like iron bands surrounded her. That scent she noticed earlier of spice soap, fresh air and clean man invaded her senses like a drug. Broad shoulders blocked her view of the street, a barrier between her and the horror the dog represented. Beneath her right hand, she could feel the calm and steady thump of a heartbeat. She was enclosed, safe.

She heard the click of tough claws on concrete. They grew louder. She shuddered as they came even with where she was held in place by hard hands, hard thighs. Regular, businesslike, unheeding, the clicking moved on, fading away down the sidewalk.

She closed her eyes on a shuddering sigh and let her forehead rest on the firm shoulder in front of her, absorbing its strength, its fearless protection. It was a long moment before she stirred again.

“You can let me go.” The words weren’t quite as even as she intended. “I-I’m all right now.”

“You’re sure?”

She gave a quick nod without quite meeting his steady blue gaze. “I’m not—I don’t usually fall into such a panic, but—”

“You don’t like dogs.”

“Only that one breed. I had a bad experience as a child.”

“With a Rottweiler.”

“A Rottweiler and a bicycle. The dog pulled me off, might have done more than put a hole in my leg if a neighbor boy hadn’t come running to chase him away.”

“Old Ruff isn’t mean. He’s a pet, most of the time. Right now, I’d say his mind is set on a certain female dog down the street. But he does like to chase people.”

It was impossible to suppress another shiver. “What does he do when he catches them?”

“Let’s say you might have needed a new skirt.”

“A new skirt?”

“I don’t know that he’d have ripped it off, but you might not have wanted to wear it again.”

She expected to see amusement in his eyes when she met them. Instead, there was simple reassurance. He was only trying to soothe her fear, not laughing at it.

Gratitude and appreciation shifted through her, along with tenuous pleasure. The combination was so foreign that it startled her. Flattening her hands on his chest, she exerted pressure. “I’m okay now, really. You can let go.”

“Right.” He eased away and lowered his hands, tucking them into the back pockets of his jeans.

In a bid for some kind of control, she slanted him a glance from the corners of her eyes. “Of course, I’m still a bit shaky. Perhaps what I need is a cup of coffee to settle my nerves.”

He watched her for long moments, his features so set she was sure he meant to refuse her again. Then a grim smile lifted a corner of his mouth, making his dimple appear.

“And a chocolate muffin, I guess. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

Beau reached around Carla Nicholson to open the door of the local eatery and coffee shop known as the Watering Hole. She didn’t pause in expectation or side-step away from the swing of it as most women he knew did out of habit. The door almost hit her; would have, except he’d been half expecting her to try to get it herself. She seemed the type.

She gave him an annoyed look over her shoulder. He grinned; he couldn’t help it.

The Watering Hole was an institution, had been around for decades though it had changed ownership a couple of years back. The square oak tables covered with blue and white checked oil cloth and the heavy oak chairs had been spaced around on the oak floor from the beginning, and would be there until the end. A counter with stools topped by red plastic ran along one side, a few booths occupied the dim back regions, and a juke box from the Rock and Roll era sat in the near corner. The air was rich with the smells of fresh coffee, baked goods, roasting wieners, toasting buns and yesterday’s onions.

“Beau! Long time no see!” Zeni, the twenty-something manager, with her multi-colored hair, zombie makeup and small gold ring in her nose, waved her spatula in greeting from where she stood behind the grill. “What’ll it be?”

He gave their order, and then pulled out a chair at a window table, waiting to seat Carla. She glanced at his choice, but stepped around to the chair on the opposite side. Taking it, she lifted a brow.

Fine, if that’s the way she wanted it. Beau swung the chair he held out and dropped into it, stretching his long legs at an angle away from the small table to give her room.

“Do you always order for your dates?”

Beau met the challenge in her direct gaze head on. “Is this a date?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she said, her voice sharp as a saw brier. “You know what I mean.”

The hazel of her eyes turned as green as spring grass when she was annoyed, he saw, but weren’t nearly as warm or as soft. She was buttoned up in her mannish black, her shining, honey-blond hair tucked back in severe control. Her oval face appeared tight with stress and a little pale, and her full mouth was set in a straight line. It should have been off-putting. Instead, his fingers itched to unbutton her, take down her hair, and make her smile. Yes, and find out what her eyes and her lips looked like when she’d been thoroughly kissed.

He knew what she’d feel like, as he’d had that pleasure just now. And maybe enjoyed it a little too much, which was no doubt what caused the rest of his too-warm speculation.

“The answer to your question would be, yeah, I do the ordering,” he said with a tip of his head. “When I know what the lady wants.”

“And you always know what she wants?”

Now how was he to take that? Beau wasn’t quite sure, but didn’t mind playing along. “I do when she decides to tell me.”

“So you wait to be told.”

“Not always. Sometimes I ask.”

The slight widening of her eyes told him she got the point. Trouble was, thinking about the questions he could put to her in the dark was getting to him, too. He needed to back off before he embarrassed himself.

Zeni arrived just then, setting their orders off her tray and plunking down a sugar bowl, cream pitcher and two set-ups of paper napkin-wrapped utensils. Curiosity was written all over her face as she looked at Beau. “Anything else, folks?”

“I’m good,” Carla said.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Beau agreed with a nod and a smile.

He took his coffee black, but sat back and watched as the lady editor added enough cream to hers to turn it almost white. As she stirred it into a small whirlpool, a wavelet slipped over the side of the cup and puddled in the saucer.