To Seduce A Rogue (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 4

  Why on God’s green earth would he be anticipating such hard work and modest compensation?

  He grimaced. When had the amount of money, or recognition, begun to matter? A few years ago he would have felt a great sense of responsibility and determination to get this paper going.

  How long had it been since he had experienced real skin-and-bones' journalism?

  A long time.

  Forever.

  Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he needed the opportunity to remember why he had gotten into this business in the first place. It sure as hell hadn’t been to become a wealthy, manipulative, selfish bastard.

  He dropped his head and began to walk faster, a faint sense of hope settling about him like the dust on his boots. He crossed the narrow street and entered the building boasting Livery in red letters along the top and side.

  Heat from an enormous forge immediately engulfed him. A man, his ample middle covered with a leather apron, stepped forward and grasped Adam’s hand as if they were old acquaintances. “Name’s John Thomason, but folks call me Big John. I run the town’s only livery, and I rent the best rigs, too.” He laughed, his eyes dancing. “Truth be known, I rent the only rigs, but they’re the best.”

  Adam smiled and returned the handshake. “Trust me, if I hadn’t heard you were good, my horse would not be bedding down here. The name’s Adam Chase.”

  Big John’s eyebrows rose. “Adam Chase, the new editor. And the owner of the finest piece of horseflesh I’ve seen in many a year. Come on, he’s in the back.” They walked into a spacious barn uniting the smell of hay and horse dung.

  Big John spread his hands wide. “A beautiful barn, isn’t it? We built her in two days, the menfolk and me. Animals don’t get frightened here because there’s space, and if there’s anything an animal understands, it’s space. Freedom.” It was a philosophy Adam was sure Big John had repeated at least a thousand times.

  “Taber will be fine here.”

  Big John nodded, the jowls beneath his neck shaking. “Oh, yes. I take good care of my boarders. I’ve got two sons who help out. Between us we make the horses real happy.”

  Adam hid a smile. Big John spoke as if the horses commented on the experience upon leaving. “This is an impressive barn. Looks sturdy. And roomy.”

  A loud whinny pierced the air. Adam strode to the stall where the sound had come from. A magnificent horse, tawny gold in color, standing two hands higher than any other horse in the barn, occupied the enclosure. The horse was restless, nudging the stall door with his nose and snorting. Adam stroked his long arched neck. “Taber, old boy, how was your trip?” Taber stamped a hoof in answer and Adam grinned. “We’ll see what it’s like to race hell-bent through fields again. No crowded streets for a little while.”

  He gave the horse one last touch behind a raised ear and turned to find Big John gone. The man probably thinks I’m crazy, talking to a horse. Taber is my only friend in town, though. Shouldering lonesome feelings aside, Adam paused as a giggle reverberated through the stable. Big John’s resounding baritone soon followed.

  “Mr. Thomason, I know you’ll be able to help me with this tiny problem. Daddy knew the Fourth of July picnic was coming up and to send the rig to be repaired right before the event. Can you imagine? Did he expect Mama to walk to the party? In her dress?”

  “What about you, Miss Dane? What about you having to walk there in all your finery?”

  Adam hid a grin. Big John leaned in close to the young woman, who barely reached his elbow and was probably younger than both his sons.

  She looked to be in her late teens, twenty maybe. Blond hair stacked on her head in an arrangement Adam was sure had taken hours to complete. Full lips and a pert nose set off an ethereal face. Her attire was impeccable, a style of dress common to Richmond and Washington but not Edgemont. She dressed to display her best features: ample bust and shapely hips. She reminded Adam of the women he escorted around Richmond. Women like Marilyn. Women who liked his looks, or his money, or his talent in bed—he didn’t know or care which.

  When he wanted intelligent conversation, he went to dinner with a colleague.

  Right now, though, this could be just what the doctor ordered.

  Taking a step forward, he cleared his throat.

  The young woman’s head turned, and her eyes widened. She was even lovelier than her profile suggested. “Why, Mr. Thomason, this gentleman hasn’t come to rent the rig I’ll be needing for the picnic, has he?”

  Unaccustomed to introductions, Big John stumbled. “This is the new editor...uh—”

  Adam grasped her hand. “Adam Chase, at your service.” He lifted his eyebrows as he brushed his lips across her gloved knuckles.

  She performed perfectly, feigning embarrassment and jerking her hand back. “Mr. Chase, how forward.”

  “Miss...” Adam looked to Big John.

  Big John flushed an even deeper shade of red. “Mr. Adam Chase, this is Miss Lila Dane.”

  Adam pulled his gaze back to her. “Miss Dane, I am no stranger to southern customs, being a southerner myself. I just tend to ignore the...formalities.”

  She smoothed a hand down the bodice of her dress. “Mr. Chase, I’ve a bit of time this afternoon.” She held out her arm, her eyes dancing. “Would you care to walk me to the mercantile?”

  Adam paused, debating the intelligence of squiring this willful young woman anywhere. The bold recklessness of her suggestion stunned him. But, hell, he knew her kind—it was all he knew. If he couldn’t control this situation, he was losing his touch.

  “Big John, it was a pleasure meeting you. I'll be back to ride this afternoon. Just leave the brushes in his stall. I can rub him down,” Adam said and took the arm Lila Dane so graciously offered.

  They strolled along the boardwalk as Lila pointed out landmarks of interest. The flirtatious spark in her gaze made him wonder how much she already knew about him.

  What did it signify? He was enjoying the promenade for his own selfish reasons. The exchange was primitive and simple. Pleasant. It didn’t leave him feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  No electricity. No midnight blue eyes. No pert little behind clothed in a pair of not-too-tight-but-tight-enough britches. No petite, feisty, dark-haired—

  “Charlotte!”

  The shout pulled Adam from his reverie. Frozen, he watched an eager young man advance upon Charlie Whitney, who had apparently just exited the post office.

  “Oh, must they cause a ruckus right here on the street. Why don’t they just get married and put everyone out of their misery. Lord knows.” Lila sighed.

  Adam swung his head around. “Pardon me?”

  “Charlotte and Tom.” She glanced at him with a frown. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” This seemed to conflict with previous information. “She’s my cousin. My spinster cousin. The man is Tom Walker. He works for my father at the bank. They’ve been buzzing around each other for two years. Or more appropriately he has been buzzing around her. Anyway” —she waved a hand in dismissal— “it’s high time Charlotte got married. My mother said it would do wonders for her disposition. If anyone needs calming down...” Lila’s tirade trailed off.

  “Mr. Chase?” She tugged on his arm.

  Adam pulled his arm from her grasp and stepped back. “Sorry. Sorry. Just surprised. The Charlie Whitney I met was not the marrying kind, or so I thought.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, angry with himself for thinking anything.

  Lila tilted her head just so. “Yes, you would have met Charlotte because of that filthy newspaper. Please don’t call her Charlie. Her parents must have been mad to ever call her that. What husband wants his wife to have a man’s name?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Disgraceful.”

  “Yes, disgraceful.”

  Charlie obviously reserved her dazzling smiles for Tom Walker. And, once again, she looked fetching as hell without trying. Simple day dresses seemed to be her style—when she was not wearing britches, that i
s. Her hair was wound in a careless knot, wisps dark as coal snaking loose to brush her cheeks. She laughed, and Adam felt an insane urge to separate them with his fists.

  For God’s sake, was he crazy?

  He snatched his hand from his pocket and secured his arm more resolutely through Lila’s. The best-looking woman in town was on his arm and three-quarters of the way to resting in the palm of his hand.

  He only wished holding Lila Dane’s interest filled him with anything but the typical emptiness.

  From the corner of her eye, Charlie saw the handsome couple enter Mr. Whitefield’s mercantile. Anger flashed through her like a rainstorm on a sunny afternoon. Lila.

  It would have to be Lila.

  “What are you dreaming about in the middle of the street?”

  Charlie presented what she hoped was a congenial expression. “Are you on your way to work?”

  Tom captured her arm and pulled her along with him. “Yes, and I’m late as it is, but I need to speak with you.”

  Charlie’s steps slowed. Lately, when Tom wanted to speak with her, the subject made her uneasy. “Yes?” As she tilted her head, she was surprised to see he was only a few inches taller than she. Her mind drifted; the night before she’d had to stand on her tiptoes to look into Adam Chase’s eyes.

  She searched Tom’s, struggling to find a resemblance. A hint of barely concealed intensity, a shimmer of recklessness.

  Lovely eyes, yes: green, warm and sanguine. If she were searching for the perfect word to describe them, in comparison to Adam Chase’s?

  Lackluster.

  She wondered if the only emotions inhabiting them related to bank notices and drafts.

  Misreading her interest, Tom squeezed her arm and smiled. “I was just wondering if you had plans for the Fourth of July picnic?”

  Charlie fought a hard battle to keep a smile on her face. “Why, Tom, actually I hadn’t given it much thought.” Which was not entirely true. Mrs. Mindlebright’s newly minted debutantes and the biggest failure in the history of the school didn’t typically mix well.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Um...just thinking. I mean, I have a lot of work around the house. Running through a list of chores in my mind.” She closed her mouth with a snap. Babbling had never become her.

  Tom released an utterly maddening, masculine smile. “I would be glad to help, with the yard work or to chop wood. No one expects you to keep that place up single-handedly.”

  “Thank you. I certainly know there’s help if I need it.” The kind she should be running from. Trouble...in a fascinating, brown-eyed package. Her fence was repaired but at what cost?

  “How about the dance? Would you like to go?”

  Ah, Tom had that eagerness about him, the one she found so hard to deny. And, she had promised her father she would make a new life. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she said and smiled, though her shoulders slumped a little.

  Tom took that as a sign of her weariness. “Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted. I’ll come by tomorrow, and we’ll discuss the dance.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and bounded onto the boardwalk. She heard him whistling as the bank door closed behind him.

  Charlie paused at the newspaper office. A lilting Irish tune drifted from the open door. At the back, Gerald crouched over the new press. She took a deep breath of ink-stained air. Returning was the right decision. Stokes was not a good man, but she was a capable, accomplished woman. She would fight for her principles as she fought for the good of the Sentinel.

  Too, Adam Chase could teach her a lot about the business, if she could keep from killing him.

  “Gerald.”

  Gerald stepped from behind the press. For such a bear of a man, he moved quickly, and was by her side before she could speak, capturing her in a hug that lifted her off her feet.

  “Put me down,” she said, laughter bubbling through. “Put me down this instant.”

  “Your fierce words don’t scare me, sweeting. It’s good to see you. It’s been lonely.”

  She drifted to the press and ran her hand along a metal edge. “You know, it’s funny. I never expected to be forced to make decisions that are right and wrong. I think I’m doing the best thing and...this place” —she turned to face him, her eyes tearing— “means so much to me. I can’t seem to stay away.”

  He took her hands in his, and she realized how very dear this man was to her. “That’s part of growing up. Facing difficulties and making the best of them. Looking at both sides and choosing. Everything isn’t going to be fair. Lots of areas will be all jumbled and so confusing it’ll make your head spin.” His gaze shifted to their linked hands, his voice a whisper in the quiet room. “Your pa would be proud of you.”

  She saw the love and pride in his eyes. “Papa not being here is hard.” She swallowed, struggling to say the words. “Thank goodness you are.”

  “Now, who’d be here to calm down that awful temper of yours and keep you from fighting with our new editor?”

  Her smile slipped. She turned from his candid gaze. “Is he a good editor? I’ve spoken with him and as much as it pains me to say it, he seems to know the business.” She frowned. “He even seems to like it.”

  Gerald began fiddling with one of the press cylinders. “Well, I’ve only worked with him a week or so but...“ He paused and searched the floor before continuing, “He’s very impatient, a bit intense, but you should read his editorials. I reckon he stops to write every ten minutes. He says words just pop into his mind. Doesn’t want to forget them.”

  “You’re sounding like you admire him!”

  “And you, sweeting, are going to have to be open-minded. Not everyone writes, or thinks, the same way.”

  The man Gerald described did not sound like the man she’d met. Were his light smiles and teasing gestures deliberately misleading? Because, on her porch the night before, he had let her see another side.

  Darker...tormented.

  She snatched a rag from the page frame and began to rub imaginary dust from the press. She wrinkled her nose and released a sharp breath. Her heartbeat accelerated. With a slow hand, she lifted the rag to her nostrils.

  The scent did not wait for an invitation.

  A unique aroma: smoke, sweat and something that just last week would have been unfamiliar. She turned the bandanna—how had she thought it a rag?—in her hand. It was the one Adam Chase had used to wipe his brow the day before.

  She’d known his scent. Her heart had known even before her mind.

  Charlie gripped the edge of the press, the rag dropping to the floor. Maybe...maybe the man is transferring some of his restlessness to me. I don’t know what it is, but I...don’t...like...it.

  “Charlie?”

  She whipped around, her teeth coming down hard on her bottom lip. She grimaced and brought her hand to her mouth. “What? What were you saying?”

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Gerald lifted a brow. “The press,” he clarified when none was forthcoming.

  She summoned a weak smile and moved to the desks sitting in the corner. They were much as she had left them, except her father’s looked like it had tangled with a Tomcat in knee-deep water.

  She settled into her father’s chair. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as an image of Adam Chase, words spouting from his mind like steam from a geyser, faster than his hand could record them, swept through her mind.

  Charlie lifted his pencil and twirled it between her fingers. The tip was dull, unlike hers, which was always sharp. Papers were scattered all across the desk, ink-stained and crumpled. How could he work in the middle of this mess?

  You’re going to have to be open-minded.

  She grabbed the first editorial she could reach. Should We Use Taxation to Establish the Public Education System? Hmmm...currently a very controversial issue. She scanned the page. She sighed. Concise and well-written.

  Her gaze fell to his signature: A Jared Chase. “Why A. Jared Chase?” she whispered.

/>   “Those were my father’s wishes, Miss Whitney.”

  5

  Desire

  To wish or long for; crave; want.

  Charlie jumped from the chair. Adam flashed a devil-may-care smile, his indifference evident in the way he perched against the desk. She flushed. His writing had engrossed her so that she had not even heard the office door open. The loose pane always rattled.

  Without warning, he leaned forward. She scooted back.

  He reached into the back pocket of his trousers. A handkerchief. Waving it like a cease-fire flag, he gently dabbed her lip.

  Her lids fluttered as she ran her tongue along the small cut. Her gaze settled on his. He was scrutinizing her with a peculiar, contemplative expression, and she felt the breath rush from her lungs.

  She watched as he forced his hand by his side, the handkerchief helplessly crushed in his fist. He blinked, and the dark eyes that had engaged her in a heated struggle only moments before narrowed and released her with such abruptness that she flinched. His lips closed and tightened, and a muscle in his jaw began to jump. He shoved clenched fists in his pockets as he pushed off the desk.

  Bewildered, Charlie could only wonder what the hell had just happened to them.

  Adam did not suffer a similar quandary. Dammit, he knew.

  He also knew how to stop it.

  The only element throwing him off was the depth of his attraction for her. Stronger than any he remembered having experienced, without provocation, in his life.

  Editing himself, he decided that attraction was not the right word. He actually felt a sort of oneness when he looked into Charlie Whitney’s eyes. God, she was a provincial little thing, her emotions carved in her forehead. He had never been able to read Marilyn like that.

  And had never cared to.

  He gave her a long, hard look. Did Tom Walker know how to handle such a spirited woman? Did he kiss her? Really kiss her, with his lips, his hands, his passion? Did he make her writhe and moan as he tasted her, as she begged for more?