Honey and Smoke (7 page)

For a moment her willpower shattered. She sagged against him and lifted her mouth to his, savoring the storm of sensation that kissing him produced even as a cry of resistance grew inside her chest. Betty brushed her lips over the tip of his nose, then his chin, his cheeks, his eyes. He bowed his head closer and shut his eyes, then sighed in a low, hoarse way that ignited her even more.

Shaking hard, she pulled back. “I can’t, Max. I can’t. Because I know what I want from life, just like you do, and neither of us is interested in compromise.” She fought the knot in her throat and said miserably, “I moved here to forget one mistake. I won’t start over with another one.”

His troubled gaze held hers. A tinge of grim humor came into his eyes. “You’re supposed to believe that you’re the one woman who can change my mind about marriage.”

She managed a small smile. “I believed that once
before about myself and a man. I was wrong. I’m not that irresistible.”

Max frowned at her. He seemed emotionally intense, raw. Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her until she was breathless and her mouth felt swollen. Holding her arms, he continued kissing her as he stood and brought her up with him.

Wobbling on the porch steps, her quilt falling to the ground unheeded, she kissed him back in a daze of greedy passion. But she began shaking her head. Half-crying, she backed away from him and held tight to the wooden balustrade beside the steps.

“You’re irresistible in ways you never even considered,” he told her hoarsely.

He tossed his quilt on the porch rail and walked into the house. Betty took deep breaths of crisp dawn air and touched her lips with a shaky hand. When he returned a minute later, he wore his wool poncho and carried his sleeping bag.

He passed her in silence but stopped at the base of the fieldstone steps. He looked up at her without anger in his eyes, although unhappiness made his expression hard. “Later,” he said softly.

Betty watched him get into his Jeep. He tipped a hand to his forehead and gave her a small salute. She raised her hand in return, palm outward, but couldn’t bring herself to wave good-bye.

Values. In his dark, self-absorbed mood Max needed values that didn’t need to be questioned. He shoveled the last bit of concrete mix around the base of the flagpole, then got down on his hands and knees and used a trowel to smooth the mix into a flat, circular pad.

Beyond the slope of his front yard the sun was setting over the forest and distant mountains, merging their reds and golds into the sky’s soft purple. The air was pleasantly cool and smelled of wood smoke from Norma’s chimney, hidden beyond the trees at the bottom of his driveway.

Ordinarily Max loved his privacy. One of the things he enjoyed most about Webster Springs was that here, only two miles from town, it was as if no town existed.

But this evening his thoughts were filled with Betty Quint, and loneliness lay in his stomach like a stone. He’d never felt this kind of craving for someone’s company before, and he’d never wanted any other woman so badly.

“Straighten up. Stop moping,” he ordered under his breath. “You were honest with yourself and with her. She was honest with you.” He washed his hands in the spray from the hose that lay nearby, then dried them
on the tail of his sweatshirt and went to the Jeep, parked under an apple tree beside the house.

When he returned to the flagpole, he carried the carefully folded flag that his men had presented to him when he left the corps. He threaded it on the rope and ran it up the pole, then walked back a few paces and stood quietly, watching the evening wind lift the flag against the magenta sky.

He didn’t regret his decision to leave the marines, because he’d begun to look at himself in the mirror and see a crusty leatherneck who had nothing permanent or meaningful in his life except the corps. But he was proud of his career. He had believed in the good of his work, the good of his country. He still did.

Max snapped to attention and saluted the flag. Then, because the sun had nearly disappeared and a bright-orange harvest moon would soon be rising, he quickly lowered the flag.

Frowning a little, he carried it across the lawn to a wooden bench under a grape arbor. As he sat down and began folding it he wondered if Betty would think he was corny and maudlin.

No, the lady believed in traditional values, he reminded himself. Home and hearth. God, country, and marriage. Marriage. He leaned back and shut his eyes, smiling grimly. He wasn’t afraid of many things, but marriage was near the top of the list. He’d seen it break too many strong men. In a way, it had broken his father, because no woman had ever been able to replace Max’s mother. His father had told him so, more than once.

But what if he never stopped wanting Betty Quint? How could he see her around town and resist an urge to seduce her by any means, fair or foul? Max groaned in bitter amusement and rubbed his forehead. He’d met her only four days ago, and yet here he sat, wrestling with his conscience, his libido, and a deep, growing sense that he’d never forgive himself if he let her get away.

This was worse than marriage.

Betty checked her bank balance. Dismayed, she checked it again. The bank machine patiently ground out another receipt while she gripped the steering wheel of her economy-model van. She grabbed the new receipt and inhaled sharply as it confirmed what the first one had said.

After a moment she slowly tucked the receipt into her leather purse, muttering under her breath, “That’s what you get for being a fool, Betty Belle.” The man in the cattle truck behind her honked his horn impatiently. She waved and quickly guided the van out of the drive-through and onto Main Street.

As she drove past handsome old one-story buildings that housed clothing boutiques, craft shops, and cafés, she propped an elbow on the window casing and leaned her head on one fist, tired and lost in plans. A block further she entered the town square, circled the stately courthouse that was now an arts center and museum for mountain crafts, then pulled down a side street to a restored Victorian-era cottage painted blue with white trim.

Betty parked at the curb for a moment and watched workmen set the restaurant sign into postholes they’d dug among the azaleas by the front walk. It was a handsome wooden sign painted blue to match the house, with the restaurant’s name set in large, scrolling white letters.
Betty’s Restaurant
.

She laughed despite the lump in her throat. You couldn’t get more simple than that, and she liked it. It sounded friendly and unpretentious, while the house looked more formal. That was the combination she’d wanted, not as casual as most barbecue restaurants, but a home-style place at heart.

She drove around back and entered a graveled lot shaded by hickory trees. The trees had been a good-luck
sign, she’d thought when she’d bought the house. Her barbecue was hickory smoked. But good luck seemed to be fleeing as fast as the bank’s computer could register her debits.

Her stomach in knots, she parked near the newly installed trash dumpster and sat with a pad and pen, working out her finances.

Max Templeton entered her mind, as he had so many times over the past few days. She could imagine his amazement if he knew just how little money she had. Would he be sympathetic or grimly amused at the idea?

Poor little rich girl. She’d spent years throwing away her time and money on a struggling musician, and now she was struggling along on a business loan and a dwindling savings account.

No, Max would be sympathetic, she thought dully. He’d probably offer her a strong shoulder, an attentive ear—and a lot of other body parts that she’d have trouble resisting.

She set her jaw and made some calculations. She’d drive down to the storage warehouse in Atlanta and gather a few of the furnishings that she’d moved from her condo and sell them.

The one thing she would
not
do was ask her parents for a loan. Her father would remind her that she’d gotten herself in this fix by foolishly spending five years as the girlfriend and sole support of Sloan Richards, needy musical genius.

Now, without anyone’s help, she was going to recover her dignity. She reached into a box on the passenger seat, lifted a bottle of thick red barbecue sauce, and gazed grimly at the homemade blue-and-white label.
Betty’s Barbecue Sauce
. Simple name. Incredible taste. The key to financial success.

Men. Who needed them? In particular, Max Templeton. Who needed him? She put the bottle back distractedly and sighed. Some questions were best left unanswered.

•  •  •

Every October the chamber of commerce held Its charity auction and dinner dance. Looking around the big, rustic room of the local winery, Betty felt more at home than she ever had at any of Atlanta’s charity galas.

It had been a week since the emotional night with Max at her house, and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t look for him tonight. But she knew he’d been invited, and she glanced repeatedly toward the double doors at the far side of the room, where people were entering.

Despite every rebuking thought she directed at herself, her heart beat fast with anticipation. She made herself study the scenery.

This winery, set in a lush mountain valley, was hardly like its classical equivalents in France. The main building was a two-story country inn with lots of gray stone and hand-hewn timbers. This room was filled with primitive antiques, and the walls were hung with quilts. The pegboard floor was dotted with round braided rugs, and the giant fireplace hearth was decorated with pumpkins and bundles of cornstalks.

A trio of bearded men stood in one corner playing old folk tunes on a dulcimer, fiddle, and guitar. The banquet tables were set with handmade stoneware goblets and pewter utensils; a candlelit jack-o’-lantern grinned in the center of each table.

Betty swirled her glass of muscadine wine and glanced around the banquet table at her fellow diners. The men wore nice suits and the women pretty gowns, but Betty knew they’d have been the object of polite ridicule in her old circles, where no man was well dressed unless he owned at least one custom-made tuxedo and no woman would have been caught dead wearing a gown that had come from a department store rack.

“Quaint crew, aren’t they?” her date whispered in her ear.

Betty twisted to look at Jay Steinberg, a friend she’d known since they were both chubby, braces-wearing nerds at an exclusive private high school. Jay was tall, lean, and handsome in an offbeat sort of way, with thick black hair and, despite his orthodontic history, an intriguing gap between his front teeth. He wore his Armani suit with perfect style. His tie was silk; his wristwatch, Cartier. He had already been made a full partner in an Atlanta architecture firm.

“They’re all very nice,” she said, frowning a little as she tried to remember whether Jay had always had a condescending air about him.

“Oh, I’m not putting them down. It’s fascinating to see how the rural middle class lives.”

She bent close to his ear and whispered, “Oh, yes! If you look closely, you’ll see them do odd, puzzling things—like eat dinner, laugh, talk, and enjoy themselves.”

Jay chortled and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Betty, you’re being a crab. I drove all the way up here from Atlanta just to be your escort. The least you can do is indulge my sense of humor.”

Betty sat back, took a swallow of wine, and wished that the appetizer would arrive so that Jay would have something to do with his mouth besides talk. Her gaze darted to the double doors at the end of the room.

Max was looking straight at her.

He was also looking at Jay. He didn’t look happy, though he should have, since a statuesque redhead in a tight black dress was holding his hand.

He idly stroked the lapel of his jacket aside and lifted a gold watch from a pocket on his vest. Whether custom-made or not, his black pinstripe suit fit his powerful body to perfection. Apparently, black string ties were his trademark, because he wore one again now.

Betty knew she should look away, should just nod and feign a casual greeting, but all she could do was stare at him.

He seemed to be having the same problem with her. The redhead, whom Betty dimly recalled having seen behind the counter of a bakery in town, was tugging on his hand and pointing to a banquet table where people were waving to them. Finally he blinked, returned the watch to his vest pocket, gave Betty a courteous smile with a hard edge to it, and accompanied his date to their table.

“Now
that
man has style,” Jay commented, craning his head. “And she’s Incredible.”

Betty fiddled with her napkin and rearranged her forks. When unnerved, she distracted herself with details. Once, after an argument with Sloan, she’d cleaned all the windows on the converted school bus she used on her catering jobs. Now she began polishing her knife.

Jay knew her too well. “Oh, Betty, I’m so rude,” he apologized. “Forgive me.”

“For ogling the redhead?” She patted his arm. “Go ahead. I was the one who introduced you to your first serious girlfriend, remember?”

“You’re a doll. Do you know the redhead?”

“No.” She thunked her knife down. She wasn’t going near Max and his date, not even for Jay’s benefit.

Jay looked forlorn. “Her friend looks like Clint Eastwood in a bad mood. I suppose I better corral my lecherous thoughts.”

“I’d put them in a deep freeze if I were you. I know Clint, and he’s the type who’ll twist your nose off if you make a pass at his lady.”

“Ouch. You sound proud of him.”

“Something like that.”

When the shrimp cocktails arrived, she tried to keep her gaze on her plate. Invisible magnets seemed to pull her eyes toward Max. Finally she couldn’t bear the intrigue and looked up. Max was taking a sip from his goblet, his head tilted toward the conversation of Grace Larson and her husband Ernie, the mayor.

Betty felt a poignant stab of disappointment, then chided herself for thinking that Max would be watching her. She muttered to herself and finally pivoted toward Jay. “Kiss me, you fool,” she ordered.