Southern Hospitality (7 page)

“A big help my appointment book was,” she said softly, allowing her hand to run over the smooth cardboard surface of the top box. Although her day was spent pleasantly, and productively, planning menus for both a wedding and a retirement party, it was the night she was dreading. Tonight she was supposed to attend the Bush’s party; a party she would have to invite Logan to because of her promise to T.L. Looking down at the box again, she knew he wasn’t going to like what he had to do. What she and her friends found entertaining, he’d undoubtedly find appalling.

Reluctantly, she climbed out of the truck and pulled out the box, holding it in front of her like a shield. She dragged her feet up the steps, dreading what was ahead of her. Under her breath she repeated what she’d been telling herself all afternoon whenever her memory turned traitor at the oddest moments. “He’s just a guest of T.L.’s, nothing more, nothing less—a plain, old ordinary friend of the family.”

“And that’s why I called Mrs. Carter’s son, Lloyd, Logan three times this afternoon,” she finished in disgust at her rebellious subconscious when she reached the back door. Pulling open the screen door, she stopped halfway across the threshold. The music she heard was coming from the piano, not the radio. None of the Planchets played the piano. T.L. simply bought the grand piano because he adored the cupids and garlands of flowers on the Renaissance piece with the huge cluster columns for legs. Until now, she hadn’t thought it was even in tune, but the complex Chopin prelude sounded perfect.

Drawn to the music, she stood quietly in the archway to the double sitting room. His playing was so beautiful she didn’t want to interrupt him.

She’s here,
Logan knew instinctively. The tingling sensation at the base of his spine told him. Resisting the urge to jump up, demanding to know where she’d been all day, he finished the prelude in record time. She couldn’t know that he’d spent most of the night lying awake staring at the blue-satin underlining of the half-tester over his bed. Lying awake while he alternately called himself a hormone-crazed fool and imagining Tory tangled in the sheets beside him.

He swiveled away from the mother-of-pearl and tortoise shell keyboard with a little voice inside cautioning him to go slowly. She was standing exactly where he’d first seen her last night. Today she was clutching a large box in front of her instead of carrying Amanda Sue. He drank in the sight of her, wondering how she seemed to fit into the nineteenth century surroundings of the scarlet and yellow drawing room when she was dressed in cotton slacks and a simple blouse. By rights, her curved figure should be covered in lace.

When Tory took a step forward, he nodded cautiously in greeting. He wanted her to set the tone of this meeting. If he was lucky, she would discount his visit to her cottage as a crazy Yankee stunt, and not realize how sincere he’d been. He’d meant every word he’d said, but he also knew it lacked his usual finesse. For now, he’d let Tory take the lead.

“Hello, Mr. Herrington, how’s everything going?” Tory asked brightly, stopping abruptly a few feet from him. She seemed slightly apprehensive, her pleasant half-smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You play beautifully. T.L. will be so disappointed he wasn’t here. You did know that Daddy was called out of town, didn’t you?”

He nodded again without moving a muscle, uncertain whether to stand or remain on the piano stool. Keeping his hands flat on his thighs to keep from reaching for her, he tried to gauge what was happening. Tory was talking to him as if he wasn’t much older than her nephews. She stood in front of him, shifting her feet from side to side.

“I see. Well, while Daddy’s out of town, he asked me to show you around. If you’d like, some friends of mine are having a party tonight, and they’d be pleased if you’d join us,” she went on, not quite looking him in the eye. Her arms tightened around the box making its side bow out. Suddenly her shoulders sagged and she let out her breath by pushing her lower lip forward in the intriguing way she had yesterday. “Look, there isn’t an easy way around this. Do you know anything about magic?”

“I beg your pardon?” The strange question forced the words from him in an imitation of his mother’s most offended tone. Magic was the last subject he thought would come up. For a half second, he thought Tory was going to turn and walk out of the room without answering.

She gave him an exasperated look, then tossed the box down on the marble-topped table next to her. The cardboard hit the hard surface with a slap that echoed around the quiet room. “This party we’re going to tonight has a theme to it. We’ll be celebrating Harry Houdini’s birthday, so I picked up a costume for you.”

“It sounds interesting.” He hated costume parties. A bunch of grown people dressed up in ridiculous clothing and acting silly wasn’t his idea of a good time. Carefully schooling his features to show only mild inquiry, instead of his abject horror, Logan waited for her to continue.

“It does? Oh, good,” she said hesitantly, blinking owlishly at him in surprise while wiping the palms of her hands against her hips. Giving him a guarded look, she suggested, “Why don’t you go ahead and try on your costume then. We’ll see if it needs any alterations.”

It was an effort for Logan to take his eyes from Tory’s hands moving against her rounded hips and look at the box. He got to his feet, still trying to show some enthusiasm.
After all,
he reasoned while giving Tory a slight smile,
what can be so bad about a magician’s costume? White tie and tails were fairly standard.

“There’s a half-bath under the stairs, so you don’t have to go up to your room.” Tory’s eyes never left his face as his picked up the box.

Logan headed for the hallway, but he was more than tempted to rip the box open then and there. Her agitation wasn’t from offering him a starched shirt and cummerbund.
Is this her retaliation for last night? Is the tux some horrible electric blue or blood red?
No matter what, he was going to wear it, whatever her intent. A Herrington never backed down.

Tory almost collapsed onto the scarlet-velvet ottoman the second Logan disappeared into the hall. His unexpected acquiescence had her completely baffled after being prepared for almost anything. The moment he turned away from the piano to stare at her with that unnerving slumberous slate-blue gaze, she almost dropped the box as her knees turned to silly putty. This favor for T.L. was probably going to turn her into a blithering idiot before Logan headed North again.

She knew she should have gotten a regulation tuxedo, but she couldn’t resist the temptation of something more contemporary. She was going as Doug Henning, complete with spangled jumpsuit and high-topped sneakers, so David Copperfield had seemed the logical choice. Maybe she should have told him about the magic trick he’d have to perform for his supper and get all the bad news out of the way fast. Last year’s party for Bach’s birthday would have been a piece of cake for Logan because everyone had to play a minuet. Of course, he wouldn’t have liked the knee breeches or powdered wig, she realized, and sat gnawing her lower lip. She should have gotten a tuxedo.

Propping her chin in her clasped hands, she admitted to herself that she hadn’t because she was afraid Logan would look as awful as Sanders did in one. Her poor brother looked like Opus the penguin from the cartoon strip in formal dress. But she knew Logan would look just right. Hadn’t he just sat there in an Oxford-cloth shirt, buttoned all the way to the neck, and looked just fine? The only other men she’d seen carry that off without looking like they’d lost their nerd packs were Cary Grant and Sam Elliott.

“It fits, I think.”

Logan’s husky voice made her head snap up. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. He looked wonderful in the dark clothing. His golden-brown hair was highlighted by the contrast and now his eyes were more blue than gray. The unconstructed jacket accentuated the width of his shoulders, and she didn’t want to even consider what the pants, undoubtedly a size too small, did for the man’s thighs. Who cared if David Copperfield had dark hair and gorgeous black eyes after this?

“Yes, it should do nicely,” Tory agreed, and got slowly to her feet. Now that the initial shock was over, she noticed that there would have to be some adjustments. He’d buttoned the shirt all the way to the top and the shirt cuffs down. He was also standing ramrod straight, as if
he’d been called to attention for inspection. “Just a few changes and you’ll be set.”

“Who am I?” he asked quietly as she walked around him.

“What?” she said absently, not really hearing his question. She’d suddenly realized what she was going to have to do. She, Victoria Camille Planchet, was going to unbutton the man’s shirt halfway to reveal the chest that haunted her dreams, and she would have to touch him to accomplish it.
I really should have gotten the tuxedo.

“Who am I supposed to be?”

Tory stopped a few inches from him, staring down at his wrists and pretending they weren’t centimeters from his well developed thighs. She looked up at him and blinked. “Oh, you’re David Copperfield. Haven’t you seen him on television?”

“Did he make the Statue of Liberty disappear?”

“That’s the one. Give me your hands,” Tory ordered while she gave exaggerated attention to the line of his jacket across his shoulders.

He obeyed immediately, holding them out like a child having his hands checked before dinner. Tory stared at the long, sensitive fingers and the light dusting of golden hairs near his wrists, wondering if she could do this with her eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, she reached for his cuff and unbuttoned it without making too much contact with his warm skin beneath. The second one was easier. Then she swallowed heavily and grasped each hand as she pushed the material of his silk shirt and jacket halfway up his arms.

She took a step back, going through the motions of judiciously studying the effect, all the while mustering her courage to touch him again. Thankfully, he was standing as still as a mannequin. “Okay, now we need to loosen a few buttons.”

She almost gave a yelp of joy when Logan said, “I’ll do it.”

“Hmmm, pull out the collar just a little, and we’ll see if that does the trick, so to speak,” she quipped and gave him an approving grin. He was being so cooperative that she was beginning to wonder why she’d been nervous about the costume.

Logan didn’t dare answer her, knowing his voice would come out roughened by his suppressed emotions. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand having her undivided attention on his body without doing something about it. He let out his breath in relief when she walked behind him, momentarily taking temptation out of sight.

“Hey!” He whirled around as the touch of a slender finger drew a white-hot line down his spine. His affronted exclamation was met by a delicious giggle.

“Sorry I startled you, but you’re so stiff. Do all Yankees look like they have a poker stuck, um, to their backbones?” Tory asked with widened brown eyes and an unrepentant grin that raised his blood pressure another twenty points.

“I have excellent posture. It’s something to be proud of in Boston,” he replied, adjusting his jacket with a show of dignity that also kept his hands busy when all he wanted to do was grab her and shake her. Or kiss her. Anything that would have her in his arms.

“Oh, Logan, it isn’t your posture. It’s your attitude, I think,” she said gently, as if trying not to hurt his feelings.

“What about my attitude? Would it be better if I slouched, wore suspenders, and scratched my stomach?” As amazing as it seemed, he realized that she hadn’t a clue that she was responsible for his
attitude.

“You’re not posing for a portrait every second of the day. You can relax and still stand up straight,” she explained patiently, using her nephew tone again. “Take off the jacket and turn around.”

He started to shrug out of the jacket, hoping they would get this torture over with quickly. Then, with the garment halfway down his arms, he gave her a suspicious look over his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

That’s what you think, lady,
he mentally shot back, but he tossed aside the jacket anyway. Tory placed her hands tentatively at the back of his neck and began to knead the stiff muscles. Fatalistically, Logan gave himself up to Tory’s delightful torture, slowly relaxing under her ministrations.

As she worked her way down his back, he knew he was going to die a slow and painful death. The pants of his outfit had been simply snug when he first put them on. They’d become increasingly uncomfortable with Tory’s slim fingers moving freely over his body. He wasn’t going to be able to stand much more and maintain the slender hold on his sanity. Another minute and he’d have Tory beneath him on the oversized cabbage roses in the carpet.

“Don’t move.”

He gladly obeyed. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to without pulling her into his arms, throwing all his noble intentions out the window.

“Now, shake out your arms a little. Very good, Logan. Okay, walk toward me.”

Walk? Can I do that? Yes, yes, I can,
he discovered, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t so difficult, if he focused on the fat cherub on the piano just to the right of Tory’s shoulder.

“No, it just won’t do. Logan, you walk like you’re on a bed of nails,” she said, shaking her head and walking toward him clicking her tongue.

Oh, please God, say she isn’t. She is. She’s going to massage my legs.
All rational thoughts left him. What happened was going to happen, he decided, looking down at the top of Tory’s head as she knelt at his feet. He might as well enjoy what she was doing. If she did the same thorough job that she’d done on his back, Tory Planchet would be as knowledgeable as his tailor in a matter of minutes. He closed his eyes, knowing a smile was stretching his mouth from ear to ear.
Please, sweetheart, don’t stop now.