Southern Belle

As he entertained her with stories and listened to her laugh, Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company more. Elm Hathaway was certainly a welcome surprise, especially during what had been shaping up to be a tedious Christmas, thanks to Nicky’s sulks.

As a discreet waiter topped up their champagne glasses, he studied this beautiful, understated and elegant woman, simply yet chicly dressed in black velvet pants and a high-necked cashmere sweater that defined her excellent figure. Her jewelry was exquisite and unobtrusive. Apart from her obvious beauty there was something very enticing about her, he decided, something in that sexy, soft Southern drawl that charmed.

“Tell me about your home,” he said, interested in learning more about who she was, what she thought, how she felt. There was a rare unspoiled quality about her that struck a chord.

“Home? That’d be Oleander Creek, my family’s plantation.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s a wonderful old place that belonged to my great-great-grandmother. It used to be in the country but now it’s practically on the outskirts of Savannah. Although I also have a town house in the city, Oleander Creek is my real home and I love it dearly,” she sighed, and twirled her glass, eyes soft. “It’s one of those rare places where it’s possible to find real peace.” She glanced at him and he nodded.

“I know exactly what you mean. It’s the same way I feel about Graney.”

“Graney.” She pronounced the word carefully. “That sounds dreadfully grand,” she countered, a smile hovering about her lips.

“Not really.” He shrugged. “It was originally a medieval Irish castle, so I suppose that makes it fairly impressive. But behind those thick stone walls lie a plethora of problems, believe me. Trivial things,” he grinned, “such as outdated plumbing and unreliable electricity. Helps scare off unwanted guests.” He took a sip of champagne and smiled when she let out a gurgle of laughter.

“Sounds just like Oleander. Believe me, I’ve scared off my share of unwanted guests, too.”

“Do you have many of them?” he queried, interested to learn more.

“In politics, they swarm like bees to honey.” She let out a little sigh. “Harlan, my hus—soon to be ex-husband—” she corrected hastily “—hates that the place is so old,” she added, blushing. “Decrepit is the exact term he uses.”

Johnny laid his glass down and pricked up his ears. She’d mentioned earlier that she was getting a divorce, and from her description of her husband, it was no wonder. “Likes things in good order, huh?”

“Oh, yes, only the best,” she said dryly, folding her hands on the table and staring absently at the cloth. “He considers Oleander rather shabby, despite all the restoration work I’ve put into it. He wanted to bring in a New York decorator to smarten the place up and make it presentable for his Washington cronies, but I refused.” She shrugged and their eyes met. “Maybe it was wrong of me—it really is an ideal spot to entertain—but I couldn’t bear the thought of it being picture-perfect and used only for fund-raisers, or as some kind of Gone with the Wind prop for PR purposes. It’s my sanctuary and I love it just the way it is, with the stairs that creak, the layers of old dust up in the attic, the shutters that bang relentlessly in the storms during the rainy season. To me it’s just home.”

“Sounds like the old place has a lot of stories to tell.”

Elm laughed. “Many more than you can imagine. I had some pretty outrageous ancestors. My great-great-grandmother Elma is practically a legend in Savannah—the original Steel Magnolia.”

“Steel magnolia?” Johnny repeated blankly.

“It’s an expression that means a certain combination of Southern grace and inner grit. In Elma’s case, she had both in spades.” He watched her take a quick sip of champagne and settle back in her chair. “As Sherman’s forces were advancing on Savannah, a forward scouting party of maybe a half-dozen soldiers made their way to Oleander Creek and were preparing to force their way into the house when one of them slammed his rifle butt into the front step and cracked the stone. Well, Elma thought this was unpardonably rude and confronted them at the door, saying there was no way they were getting inside unless they cleaned themselves up and remembered their manners. Apparently she gave those Yankees such a tongue-lashing that they left without even looking for the gold Elma and her slaves had hidden in the bottom of the well.” She smiled and took another sip. “The crack in the step is still there.”

“Sounds like Miss Elma was an enterprising woman. Do you take after her?”

“Me? Oh, no, although I’m named after her. But she was far more courageous than I’ve ever been or had to be.”

“Did she survive the war?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “The tale goes that the Brigadier General commanding the Yankee scouts was none too pleased when his men came back empty-handed. He arrived at Oleander later the same day, ready to do battle with the terrible harridan his men had described, and torch the place if necessary.” She leaned her elbows lightly on the pristine white cloth and continued the story. “Instead, he found Elma in the hall, decked out in a beautiful evening gown and welcoming him and his officers to dinner in the most ladylike fashion.”

He grinned at the image. “What did the general do?”

“What could he do?” She spread her hands and laughed. “He was just a Yankee—not up to all Elma’s Southern charm. According to local historians, he sat down to dinner, enjoyed a few glasses of excellent vintage brandy, then left, loudly proclaiming the graciousness of Southern hospitality. Of course, the uncensored story passed down by one of Elma’s slaves is that he spent the night with Elma after she’d extracted his promise to furnish her with supplies and protection when Sherman reached Savannah.”

“Ah, not just an enterprising woman, but a practical one, too. And did the general keep his promise?”

“Well, Oleander’s still standing, so I guess he did. My estate manager, Ely, who’s a direct descendent of Elma’s favorite slave, still insists you can’t trust a Yankee as far you can throw him, but even he admits that the general must have been a gentleman.” She smiled at him, then lowered her gaze to her empty dessert plate.

“Do you all have a thing against Yankees?” he asked casually. “That could pose a problem.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“My mother’s a Yankee. Good Irish stock from Pittsburgh. I believe her family, the Rileys, didn’t arrive until after the Civil War, but still, I wouldn’t want you to think I was hiding my origins from you,” he teased.

“It’s certainly a thought,” she responded, eyes filled with laughter as she leaned back. “But I guess the general paved the way for you by holding his promises. Also, if I remember rightly, you’re an aristocrat. As far as Southerners are concerned, that’s definitely a plus.”

“You relieve my mind, madam,” he said, taking her hand and raising it gallantly to his lips. “For a moment there I thought I’d cooked my goose.”

Her laugh sparkled as their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Elm withdrew her hand. “Okay, your turn,” she said quickly. “What makes you spend the better part of your time at your castle, I wonder?”

“Same thing that sends you scuttling off to your plantation, I should think,” he murmured with a challenging grin, eyes seeking hers. “The desire to flee the madding crowd. Plus, I love the place. It’s home, just like Oleander is for you.”

“You never thought of moving to Pittsburgh?” she countered.

“Uh, actually, no. I love the States but I’m an Irishman through and through. Give me Dublin any day. Anyway, I have a business to run in Ireland.”

“Really?”

“Graney is a stud farm. I breed Thoroughbreds.”

“A stud farm. That must require a lot of patience.”

“It does. And I must warn you not to get me going on the subject of horseflesh. My mother claims that I can become a dead bore.”

Elm laughed and as she did so, Johnny leaned back, sipped his brandy and relaxed. All in all, it was turning out to be a very agreeable dinner.

Elm grinned, enjoying the easy intimacy between them, so deliciously alien yet somehow also familiar. She was deeply intrigued by the reserve she sensed behind his relaxed manner. Gioconda had said something about having a long story to tell her when they had a moment. And she supposed he must have been married at some point, since he had a sixteen-year-old son.

“What about your ex-wife?” she asked suddenly. “Didn’t she like it at Graney?” The words were out before she could stop herself. Deeply embarrassed by her rude question, she cringed as his eyes shuttered and he carefully chose a cigar from the waiter, who happened to stop by the table at just that moment with a humidor.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not, go ahead.” Elm wished the floor would open up and swallow her as the end of the cigar was carefully clipped off and lit. Perhaps she should just change the subject. How could she have been so gauche? It was none of her business what his ex-wife liked or didn’t like.

“I’ve never been to a place like your castle. I’ve visited quite a few English country houses, but that’s not the same, is it?” she remarked hastily.

“Very different,” he agreed blandly, fully concentrating on pulling on the cigar. “Actually, when Marie Ange was alive, we didn’t live there. We split our time between London and Paris.”

A rush of horrified realization made Elm look straight at him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—it was extremely bad manners of me, I—”

“Don’t. He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “How could you possibly have known? It was a natural conclusion to think I was divorced. You may remember Marie Ange. We met at Rosey. Anyway, it all happened a long time ago, so don’t feel bad.” He squeezed her hand.

Elm mustered a smile, still chiding herself. Then she glanced uneasily at the snifter the waiter had placed before her. It was foolish to accept an after-dinner drink, but she could use it after her faux pas.

“Now, tell me some more about your life in Savannah,” Johnny said, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I imagine a politician’s wife has an inordinate amount of duties to perform?” He quirked a brow and raised his glass.

She shrugged, thankful for the change of subject. “There are lots of political and social functions, but I try to limit my involvement where I can. I far prefer to work on my own projects. At present, I’m restoring the gardens at Oleander with the help of some residents from the local shelter for abused women.”

“That sounds very laudable.”

“Not at all. I hope I can help restore some harmony in their lives, that’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m sure it’s a very worthwhile thing you’re doing for these women. And the gardens,” he added with a smile.

“Well, I discovered the original garden plans purely by accident while cleaning out the attic one day and that’s how the idea was born, thanks to a good friend of mine who runs the shelter. We both agreed it might be a wonderfully therapeutic experience for these women to be involved in the restoration project.”

“And what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“Oh, the rest of the time I paint.”

“What medium do you paint in?”

“Oils. I do some abstract, but mostly landscapes. The occasional portrait.”

“Do you exhibit?”

“Now and then. But organizing an exhibit is time-consuming. Somehow, other things always end up taking precedence.” She paused a moment, staring into the distance. Then she shrugged and gave him a rueful grin. “I’m not going to let that happen again. Let things get in the way, I mean. Indeed, Gioconda won’t let me. She’s been trying to persuade me to commit to an exhibit in Italy—I’m half afraid she’s going to lock me in a room with only my paint brushes until I cry uncle and allow her to organize the opening party for me in Florence.”

Johnny watched as she eyed the cognac, biting her lip as though deciding whether or not she should drink it. The gesture was so unintentionally erotic that he almost lost his focus.

“This meal was perfectly delicious,” she said, laying her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to roll me out of here if I’m not careful. I haven’t stopped eating since I arrived.” She glanced about the restaurant, seemingly enchanted by the atmosphere, the open fireplace, the low-beamed ceiling and the intimacy.

“That’s what Gstaad’s all about—relaxing, eating and having fun.”

“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “I’d forgotten how people here in Europe know how to enjoy life.” Her huge chestnut eyes had taken on a wistful expression that gave her an air of vulnerability. She was a compelling and complex woman, he decided, with an intriguing layer of uncertainty beneath that well-bred confident exterior. She was also perceptive, he mused; she’d sensed his discomfort at discussing Marie Ange and had immediately tried to redirect the conversation. Usually he deeply resented personal questions, and yet he hadn’t minded Elm’s. For some reason he didn’t feel threatened—although part of him knew he should, for she was entirely capable of upsetting his well-ordered world.

He hadn’t come to Gstaad for a fling, but he felt a surprisingly strong sexual attraction to her, and he hoped that the subtle undercurrents he’d sensed signaled an equal interest on her part. The question was whether either of them was in a position to do anything about it. The prospect was both alluring and dangerous. He’d be willing to bet that if they acted on their impulses, they’d both be getting far more than they bargained for.

He watched as she took a fleeting look at her wrist. “Oh, dear. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Time’s flown. Maybe I’d better be getting back to Gioconda’s.”

“Already?” he asked, surprised at the regret he felt that the evening was coming to an end.

“It’s getting late.”

“Really? Gosh! I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t realize Gioconda had turned into such a stickler—an eleven o’clock curfew’s pretty strict.”

Elm laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not good at this,” she admitted, pressing her long, smooth hands together again in an elegant yet nervous gesture. “It’s been a long time since I went out to dinner with anyone except my hus—ex—oh, God, when will I get this right? Soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“How long?” he asked softly.

“Well, let’s see.” She twiddled the snifter. “I married Harlan right out of college, so a long time. Twelve years, still more if you count the engagement.” She gave a nervous laugh and glanced quickly up as the waiter hovered solicitously, seeing if they needed anything.

Smiling, Johnny reached across the table and took her hand in his, casually turning her fingers. “I was thinking that perhaps we could either go to the Bellevue—probably meet up with some of our old pals.” He grimaced comically. “Or preferably we could go somewhere else on our own for a nightcap. That is, if Gioconda won’t get too worried about the lateness of the hour.”

“Oh, shut up,” she giggled, allowing his bronzed hand to stay put over hers,

“Well?” he prodded, “any thoughts on the matter?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured cautiously, and he wondered if she was conscious of his fingers lightly clasping hers.

“I’ve got a perfect compromise,” he said temptingly. “How about going to the Green Go at the Palace Hotel for old times’ sake?”

“You mean dance as if we’re teenagers again?”

“Hell, why not? Let’s go relive our youth.”

“Your youth, perhaps, not mine,” she chuckled. “I can assure you that we never danced together as teenagers—I expect I would have expired from the thrill.” She drew her hand away, pausing for a moment. He could read her hesitation, her doubt that this was all happening too fast, then sensed the moment when she was ready to take the plunge.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Yes. Why not?”

Late that night, Elm curled under the duvet, her feet aching deliciously from hours of dancing, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. Johnny was handsome, gallant and wonderful and not at all daunting. Still, all evening she’d been conscious of his strong masculine aura, the magnetic pull of his personality; all the things she’d imagined he would be when she’d scribbled her longings and dreams in her tattered high-school diary. It seemed so ridiculous, like a soppy novel, that he was turning out to be exactly the kind of man she’d imagined in her fevered schoolgirl dreams. She thought of the chaste kiss he’d dropped on her cheek as he brought her to Gioconda’s door, and realized wistfully that had she not married Harlan so young and for all the wrong reasons, she might have instead built a life with someone like Johnny.

She tucked her arms under the pillow, propped up her neck and stared at the silver moon piercing the crack in the curtains, picturing what people back in Savannah would say if they knew she’d danced the night away in the arms of an Irish viscount. She burst out laughing, imagining the shocked murmurs, the conjecturing gleam in the eyes of her peers, the rabid curiosity. It was liberating to realize she didn’t give a damn. In the past weeks her priorities had suddenly changed, and kowtowing to Savannah society, with its petty, restrictive rules, wasn’t even on the list.

Thinking of Savannah brought Harlan to mind, and she sighed heavily. Of course, the divorce wasn’t de facto yet. There would probably be some bitter battles up ahead, she acknowledged. Harlan wouldn’t easily relinquish all their marriage had brought him. For him, it had meant an entrée into a world that would otherwise have been far harder to broach. It wasn’t her that he’d wanted, she thought angrily, but rather everything that she represented. And if she hadn’t been so blind, so determined to maintain the fiction that her marriage was fine, she might have recognized sooner that, emotionally, it had been over for a while.

Had she ever really been in love with Harlan, or had she just fallen for his good looks and suave manner? Surely she’d felt true affection for him at the beginning? He’d been so charming and ambitious, had seemed so much like her father. Indeed, the two men had taken an instant liking to each other; they supported the same causes, and Harlan had flattered George Hathaway with assurances that he was the younger man’s role model. She’d known that by marrying Harlan, she’d be able to give her father the son he’d always wanted, one who could fulfill the ambitions he hadn’t believed his daughter could meet.

Of course, it hadn’t taken her long after the wedding to find out just how selfish Harlan could be, and to realize that his boyish good looks and suave manners were all part of the same facade he used with his electorate. And if you looked carefully enough you’d realize that his smile never reached his eyes.

Still, she’d spent a good part of her life at his side, and there had been some great times together. Moments of affection and intimacy that she still believed were real, especially before his political career took off and he’d begun to spend so much time in D.C. She sighed again. It was sobering to realize there just hadn’t been enough of those moments to make the marriage worth fighting for.

In fact, all that was left of her relationship with Harlan was the print on their marriage license, and soon that, too, would be gone; even now, Meredith was working on finalizing the details and paperwork for the divorce.

As for Harlan, it was undoubtedly the political ramifications of the divorce that would bother him most. Probably her father as well, she noted sadly. He didn’t know yet, and she would have to tell him soon, perhaps after Christmas. He had such high hopes for Harlan, she knew, feeling guilty for being the cause of such disruption and wondering if it was fair to do this to them when an election was around the corner. Harlan, for all his faults, was truly a brilliant politician, and had done a lot of good for the people of Georgia. Daddy was right. He had what it took.

Elm sighed and turned on her side, recognizing that there was never a right time and that she must go ahead, whatever the consequences. She’d spent a lifetime trying to please them all, trying to be the perfect daughter, wife and hostess—she would have tried mother, too, had life offered her the chance.

In a strange way, her evening out with Johnny tonight had helped clarify the issues for her. Her marriage was truly over, and she now had the freedom to make her own choices. It would be hypocritical to deny the riveting attraction she’d experienced tonight as Johnny had twirled her about the floor to the infectious beat of salsa, false to pretend she didn’t want to enjoy something more than Harlan’s selfish bursts of sex. The temptation of discovering what it felt like to be properly held in a man’s arms—a man who might actually think of her pleasure and happiness before his own—was devastatingly alluring. She swallowed, throbbing with anticipation, shocked to find her mind running ahead of itself when all they’d done was dine and dance together.

A smile touched her lips as she recalled the walk home afterward in the bitingly cold, starry night, arm in arm, sliding down the hill, catching each other on icy patches and laughing like kids. What if Johnny was right and, as he’d whispered when they’d parted, their paths had crossed again for a reason?

Elm sat straight up and tucked her knees under her chin, pulled the duvet closer and wondered what sort of a lover he would be. Generous? Giving? Tender? God, she was thirty-four years old and the only man she’d ever slept with was Harlan, her first real boyfriend. Still, she mustn’t let her naiveté run away with her. It was all very suave and sophisticated to have a passing fling with someone—if you were like Gio, that is, and that was the kind of world you moved in. But it wasn’t hers and somehow Elm wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for this yet.

With a yawn, she snuggled under the goose-down cover, half ashamed of her silly recurring schoolgirl fantasies as she recalled the feel of his arms about her as they’d swayed on the dance floor, the scent of his aftershave and the strange comfort it had afforded her. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was just seeking a comfort zone.

But Johnny was a gentleman and would never make a move without her consent, she realized. If she wanted something more than casual friendship, she’d have to signal that. What would he do, she wondered suddenly, if she let down her guard and was frank about her interest?

Realizing she would never get to sleep, Elm switched on the bedside lamp and popped a pill, still toying with the idea of crossed paths and destiny. Just before her eyes closed, she wondered about the consequences of flouting destiny.

Then she let out another sleepy yawn. There was no end to the justifications you could come up with if you really put your mind to it, she reasoned drowsily. The real truth, she acknowledged, eyes closing, was that even if she were bent on seducing Johnny, she wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.

9

She had a sensational body, Harlan reflected, letting his hand slide over Teresa’s voluptuous naked butt. And boy, could she move it. What a great piece of ass, he sighed happily. Now he understood why Tyler Brock had moved her into his Skidaway mansion so fast. She was as hot as chili pepper, even if she couldn’t speak a damn word of English. Anyway, who needed language to have good sex?

She stretched on the large bed like a cat, her dark hair brushing against his skin, and moaned in satisfaction. Turning her around, he lay back against the pillows and let her come down on him, her tongue playing havoc with his balls. Then she straddled him, and he let her guide him inside her, delighting in her damp heat, the way she rode him and the sensuous roll of her hips that caused all sorts of indescribable sensations. Closing his eyes, Harlan indulged himself. Then two delectable realizations hit simultaneously; that he was fucking a hot little whore in Elm’s very own bed, which was no more than she deserved for all the trouble she was causing, and that there was something wonderfully empowering about screwing a woman while Brock unknowingly picked up the tab. The combination made him come in a quick, hot spurt that left him incredibly satisfied.