To Seduce A Rogue (Southern Heat Book 1) Read online

  Ostensibly oblivious to her unease, he drank, his gaze never leaving her face. It unsettled her, truly, the way he stared.

  But she’d be damned if she showed it.

  He placed the glass on the table. “Miles mentioned your broken fence the other night, and I thought you could use some help fixing it. Just trying to be neighborly.” He flashed a smile and a pair of overworked dimples.

  She may have accepted if the smile were genuine, but it was so different from the one she’d seen on his face when he’d talked with Miles. Too different. She eyed him suspiciously. “Neighborly? You’ll have to forgive me for being...wary.”

  He coughed or laughed into his hand.

  She jerked his glass from the table and thrust it by the side of her leg. “Mr. Chase, I must have a simple mind, because I can’t see any reason for you coming here.” She turned and circled back to the dry sink, placing his glass there with a firm crack.

  “There is nothing simple in that beautiful head.”

  Charlie’s shoulders tightened as she grasped the edge of the sink. Beautiful? Beautiful? She had heard the compliment before...but in a town as small as Edgemont, she figured it was due to poor selection. Adam Chase had probably seen lots of lovely women. Women dressed in the latest Parisian fashions, women who knew how to entice a man with a flick of their wrists. Women like her cousin Lila.

  And he thought her beautiful?

  “I guess I could use some help with the fence.” Uh, oh. Had they been talking about the fence? No. They had been talking about her mind or some such nonsense.

  A light laugh sounded behind her. “Changed your mind so quickly? Miss Whitney, you are an unpredictable woman.”

  She closed her eyes. Oh, what she would like to say to him, if only she could form a clever, coherent thought. Instead, she whipped about and marched out the door.

  “Faustus?” She slapped her hand against her leg and whistled.

  “Who names a dog Faustus?”

  “Faustus is a cat.”

  Moving in front of her, he sat on the stairs, his head just about reaching her hip. “Faustus...hmmm, I would guess that was Latin. But, considering it came from you, I’ll venture it’s a kind of whiskey at the Four Leaf Clover.”

  “Whiskey at the Four Leaf?”

  He tapped the top of her boot. “I was only kidding. Well...sort of.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve touched me. The next time you may jerk that hand back minus a finger.”

  He leaned against the top step and threw his head back, laughter flowing from him. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t quell the sudden flood of pleasure because she felt sure, with no way to explain her reasoning, that laughter from this man was rare. And as much as it chagrined her to admit it, he was appealing. All dark eyes and dimples, overburdened though they were.

  She frowned and dropped to the step beside him.

  He slanted his gaze to her, his hand covering his mouth. “I must say I’m flattered that you’ve counted the number of touches. And, I promise, I’m a quick learner.” He made a grand show of putting his hands in his lap, like a chastised schoolboy.

  My, his were the brownest eyes she had ever seen, she decided, the exact color of the southern soil she treasured.

  She squirmed and slid across the step, as far from him as she could get.

  Despite her discomfiture, the silence between them flowed—comfortably, companionably—strange for two people who were practically strangers.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Chase? Not the fence story, if you please.”

  He raised his gaze to the sky and leaned back. “After I was so ungraciously thrown out of university, I found a junior editorial job at a newspaper. It was love at first sight. An editorship is all I’ve worked for since.” Absently, he began to run his finger along his wrist. Charlie followed the movement and saw he traced a jagged, white scar. “Stokes promised me an editorship if I get the Sentinel in good shape before summer’s end.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He owns the largest newspaper in Washington, and I want in. Even if I have to leave Richmond to do it.”

  “He doesn’t care about good journalism.”

  The step squeaked as Adam turned to face her. “I’ve fought for exceptional articles and won, and I’ve fought for factual, realistic editorials and lost to political influence.” He laughed softly. “If I looked at every story after the fact, I wouldn’t have the energy or the heart to create the next day’s edition. I’ve learned to be flexible.”

  “Flexible? Regarding your principles?” She looked away but could feel his gaze on her. “As I already told you, I won’t sell myself like that.”

  “You’ll never work for a newspaper in any town, in any city, where you respect every man you work for, where you like everything you write. I didn’t come here to be anyone’s puppet. Stokes could have sent an inexperienced editor if that was his aim.” He tapped his boot against the step. “Use Stokes, use me. Learn everything you can while I’m here.”

  She turned to him, intent on refusing his request, only to find his gaze locked on her. Quite without reason, she wondered how he regarded her.

  And, she wondered why she cared.

  “I can see the wheels turning, Charlie. Just think about it while we repair the fence.”

  “You’re sure you want to help?”

  He nodded and stood.

  She sighed. What was she getting herself into?

  Their rocking chairs swaying in agreement, Charlie and Adam sat in quiet contemplation on her front porch, the repaired fence standing as straight and proud as a palace guard before them. A brilliant red and gold sunset lay beyond the mountains.

  Charlie rolled her head to look at him. Adam Chase was definitely a surprise. He was considerate, even congenial, when he didn’t monitor every action. When he spoke of things that were of great importance to him, his face softened, and emotion flowed into his eyes. Once or twice, he seemed to recognize this was happening and glanced away.

  If not for the rocking of his chair, she would have thought him asleep. She wanted to thank him and better to do it while those dark eyes of his were not lighting a small fire in her stomach. “Thank you for the help today. I’m not sure why you did it...but I appreciate the effort. Sometimes it’s hard to do everything yourself.”

  “There are so many sounds here we lose in the city. Sounds I have not heard in years.” His voice was soft, low.

  His eyes had not opened so she continued to stare. He had been speaking like this all day. Not about the newspaper or anything they could possibly debate, but normal things like rain and the exquisite color of butterflies, the unconditional love of dogs and horses, and the calming sound of the ocean as it rolls into the shore. He shied away from discussing his childhood; she did as well. All things considered—quite unbelievably—she had enjoyed the day. Enjoyed speaking to someone about subjects independent of the latest Beautification Society meeting or the best way to raise a cash crop.

  His eyes fluttered open. He looked drowsy and sated. “I came to help you for a number of reasons. I was curious. Miles puts a lot of stock in you, and I’m coming to respect his judgment. Also, from what I’ve read, you’re a good writer, a little rough around the edges, but that’s where I come in. And, you know this town.” He covered his mouth and yawned. She watched the muscles in his neck elongate. “You would be good for the Sentinel. You know that. The experience would be good for you. Plus” —he closed his eyes— “I need your help.”

  She gazed across the yard, stunned.

  He needed her help.

  She wanted to do it. The absence of her father and the newspaper had left a vacant gap in her heart, in her life. She longed to hear the peculiar sound of the press, to smell the sharp scent of ink, to discuss the latest news, to decide the length of stories, and to hold the finished product in her hands and know it had come from her hard work. But the Sentinel was Stokes’ concern now, wasn’t it?

  O
r was it Adam Chase’s?

  A loud meow pierced the silence. They jumped as if a gun had discharged behind their backs, then turned to each other and laughed.

  She leaned in and snapped her fingers. “Faustus is a naughty kitty, not coming home for two days.” The large, orange cat sauntered to the rocking chair and began to run his back against it. Charlie scratched his ears and murmured childlike phrases.

  “So, this is the illustrious Faustus. He’s a...big fellow. What do you feed the thing?” Adam grimaced as Faustus strolled to his chair and began to meow.

  Charlie grinned. “He likes to be scratched behind his ears or under his chin.”

  “No, thank you. I am not, and never will be, a cat man.” He wrinkled his nose in displeasure, but trailed a hesitant finger underneath Faustus’ adequate chin.

  “You mean you don’t like animals? How could you not like animals?”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. Faustus meowed when the scratching stopped. “Hold on now, I didn’t say I hated animals. Only, I do not love cats. Actually, horses are my great weakness. In fact, mine should be arriving any day now. An associate from Virginia, on a round-about way to Charleston, is bringing him through.”

  A horseman. Charlie could imagine him astride a horse. She was glad he couldn’t see the flush settling on her cheeks.

  “Taber’s a beautiful beast. A palomino the color of spun gold with a tail that reminds me of ivory. Pure. And fast. Some say the fastest horse in Richmond.”

  “Taber? What an unusual name.”

  “It was my brother’s middle name.” Damn, Chase. Why mention that? Adam took hold of himself as he felt his composure slip.

  “Do you ride often?”

  He found himself rubbing the crescent scar on his wrist. He pulled his hands apart. “I like to ride often. Every day if I can. Sometimes it’s my only way to escape.”

  “Escape from what?” Her words floated to him.

  Like shadows on the surface of a stream, anxiety, grief and fear darkened his mind. He turned his head and looked into the twilight. Fireflies flitted around the porch. Croaking frogs sounded like thunder in the quiet night. He rose from the chair. It rocked silently behind him. “Do you mind?” He gestured to the cheroot he held in his hand.

  She shook her head.

  He lit a match and brought the flame close to his face, a flicker behind the curve of his hand.

  She stopped rocking for a moment and inhaled a breath. “My father smoked. We spent many a night looking at the stars, watching for the first—sometimes the only—snowfall of the winter. And, we talked.”

  He slanted a glance at her, then looked back toward the horizon. It sounded as if she had loved her father very much. She was lucky. When had he thought about his father in loving terms? Had he ever? The last time they’d spoken had been a disaster.

  He had tried to avoid a confrontation. God, by that time he had wanted nothing to do with his father. After Eaton’s death, he hadn’t cared to ever see the man again. Adam grimaced and closed his eyes. He could still hear his father yelling.

  Sometimes he wondered if that last, horrible argument had stained his character. Unable to love after Eaton’s death, Adam knew he was growing more like his father with each passing day. Powerful. Wealthy. Relentless? He hoped not. He prayed not. His inherited wealth, combined with the status of his position, was bringing its own destiny. He wanted to control that destiny, but he often felt like a marionette whose father was tugging the strings from above or, as was more likely, below.

  A sharp pain brought him out of his trance. He swore and dropped what was left of his cheroot over the railing of the porch.

  Charlie jumped from the chair. “What?”

  “I burned my damned finger.” He laughed. “My God, what an idiot.”

  “Let me see it.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house.

  He felt the heat from her touch all the way to the tips of his toes. To hell with the burn on his finger. None of the women he had bedded had ever held his hand as gently as Charlie Whitney was right now.

  She put his hand beneath a glass lamp inside the door. “I see where it’s red. I have salve.” She walked to the kitchen and came back with a jar that, when opened, emitted a smell worse than horse dung and rotten eggs mixed together.

  He put his uninjured hand to his nose. “Whoa, what’s in that stuff?”

  She just shook her head as she applied the salve.

  He glanced at the top of her head, the glow from the lamp highlighting steaks of auburn in her hair. Sudden, unexpected tenderness rushed through him. For this petite woman who was so strong in mind and spirit. His mother had been the last woman to touch him like this.

  To take care of him.

  “For your information, this is salve I’m lucky to get. It’s a miracle medicine. The ingredients are a secret.”

  “Well...it smells like one helluva secret.”

  She smiled softly, the dim light making her eyes appear the exact color of the ocean where he had spent summers as a child. The lingering distress from his memories vanished like smoke on the horizon.

  She finished applying the ointment and closed the jar. He drew a deep breath. He could feel her. Smell her. Roses and smoke, and a peculiar scent that must be her own.

  She smelled wonderful.

  “There. Now it won’t blister as badly.” She stepped into the kitchen and replaced the jar in the cupboard.

  He wiped his hand across his forehead, shocked to see that it shook ever so slightly. “I need to go. The test run with the new press is tomorrow. Poor Gerald has been like a kid at Christmas, waiting to get his hands on the thing.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Charlie?”

  Her impenetrable gaze met his.

  “Think about coming back to the Sentinel.” He couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was considering it or not. She was a stubborn woman—strong and single-minded. If he wasn’t careful, she would have him admiring her.

  “I’ll think about it,” was all she said.

  He stalled, realizing that he needed to get out of there. Here he was, convincing her to work for him while trying desperately to keep his eyes off her clinging britches. During their work on the fence, her hair had come loose and was floating about her face like a storm cloud. She neither cowered nor flinched under his perusal. Her gaze remained steady, sea blue and challenging. He found her self-assurance both endearing and bothersome.

  He could not allow his fascination with this young woman to continue.

  Fascination.

  This thought, above all others, acted like a hand and pushed him into motion. He turned and strode through the door, the dark night swallowing him.

  “Thanks, Chase,” he heard her call as he crossed the yard.

  He hesitated in the lane for one, brief second, thinking to march right back to her and...what?

  He left without saying goodnight.

  4

  Impatience

  Eager desire for relief or change; restlessness.

  The next day dawned without Adam having gotten much sleep. He growled and kicked a rock from his path, which only served to place a nice, long scratch on the toe of his Hessians.

  He crossed the boardwalk, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side, muscles tightening beneath his shirtsleeves. Anyone who knew him would have recognized impatience in the firm set of his jaw, his determined stride. Unfortunately, his impatience was directed at himself.

  It was not enough to be an assistant editor. He wanted an editorship. Yesterday—not the five years he should have to wait.

  And he had to get the Sentinel in order before Stokes would grant that request.

  It wasn’t that he was cheating...at least, not really. He was an excellent journalist and a fine editor. The main obstacle to receiving an editorship before now was his tendency to go off half-cocked in search of a story.

  He would be the first to admit that his way of writing could be...dangerous. He nev
er recommended it to anyone, especially an inexperienced reporter. Often, a journalist defended the accuracy of his story with a pistol.

  He wished it were not the case, but the turbulent issues heated his blood.

  And his ambition.

  There would likely not be a single story to excite him in Edgemont. He would probably be lucky to get aroused the old-fashioned way.

  Although...South Carolina was a powder keg itching to blow—with men like Stokes lighting the fuse. The political whisperings of the last ten years were chaotic to say the least. Maybe there would be a few attractive stories. As crazy as it seemed, getting the Sentinel on its feet might be an adventure. It was only a trifling newspaper, of course, but he had the capital needed to update the equipment. A rotary press, quality newsprint and lead type had been a necessity. Really, as much as he wished the job had gone to someone else, he believed in bringing the press to smaller towns.

  Towns just like Edgemont.

  Adam laughed and shook his head. He was trapped. Trapped by one simple, yet quite irrefutable, fact.

  He believed in the power of the press.

  Trapped by that and a set of dazzling blue eyes.

  Yes, he thought, let’s be honest, shall we?

  Okay, honestly, Charlie Whitney was a good writer. He had been shocked to see articles on higher education for women, features detailing the agricultural movement and one particularly scathing commentary concerning newspapers underwritten by a party and used as a hired mouthpiece. That piece had been very impressive, which was regrettable, considering it was exactly the kind they would not be able to publish again.

  He halted to pull his soaked shirt from his skin and cursed the heat. Resuming his steps, he popped his fingers against his hand.

  Two people. Three including himself.

  Even for a weekly, that was cutting it close. He would need to use contributing editors on a freelance basis. He had already contacted a few reliable correspondents in Richmond. The next month would be predictable: long nights, writing, proofreading, typesetting, editing.

  Like a cool draft that catches you by surprise on a summer night, the tremor of anticipation that darted through him shocked him to his core. Was he looking forward to this?