Miss Charlotte Surrenders

What was she up to now? he wondered, drinking in the lilac fragrance of her perfume. And did it have anything to do with Stephen Sterling?

Paige hurried after her sister. Brett heard them murmuring in apparent disagreement, and then Charlotte saying, “I don’t care if he is a funny and charming dinner companion or how big a help he is in the kitchen! I’m telling you, there’s something about that man that just isn’t right!”

Her instincts were right on target about that, Brett thought, as he continued to set the table while Isabella looked for something in the pantry. He wasn’t here to study farming or complete a dissertation. He was here for one reason and one reason only—to prevent Charlotte from following through on her mission to unmask Stephen Sterling.

* * *

HER DISCUSSION with Paige finished, Charlotte hurried toward the library. It was six o’clock. Dunn’s law office was closing down for the day. If she wanted to make a call, she’d have to do it now.

She went swiftly to her desk, sat down and picked up the phone. “Marcie Shackleford, please.”

Seconds later, a melodious voice came on the phone. “Marcie Shackleford.”

“Hi. This is Charlotte Langston—”

“The nosy reporter who tried to break into the firm’s computer?”

“I see you remember me,” Charlotte said carefully.

“I certainly do. And I have no intention of talking to you!” Marcie Shackleford retorted.

“Wait—” Charlotte said. But it was too late. Marcie had already hung up.

Scowling, Charlotte replaced the antique black-and-gold phone in its cradle and saw Brett Forrest hovering just inside the library door. She hated not getting what she wanted…especially when someone was there to see her fail. Although Brett was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t overheard anything of importance.

And again, it hit her like gangbusters. Something about him just wasn’t right. He was too handsome, too sexy, too stealthy and too nosy.

In fact, he reminded her of herself. Was it really possible that he was another reporter, tracking her because he wanted to steal her story? And if that was the case, how was she going to get him to back off? Charlotte sensed he was every inch as tenacious as she was.

Brett stayed where he was, looking impossibly at home among the polished black walnut doors. His boldly assessing glance covered the wide floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held thousands of her father’s books on the Civil War. It drifted across the plush emerald green sofa, matching side chairs and slightly darker green carpet, before moving lazily to the huge black walnut desk and matching typewriter stand. Behind that was a twelve-rung ladder used to gather books from the uppermost shelves. Charlotte was well aware there were cobwebs hanging from some of the rungs, as it hadn’t been used in ages.

Finally, his glance made it to the desk she sat behind. He grinned. “Okay to come in now?” he asked lazily.

Like he wasn’t already halfway in the room, anyway, Charlotte thought. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He continued to lounge against the doorframe, hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. “Isabella sent me to ask you if you wanted to open a bottle of wine with dinner since it’s your first night home.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’ll tell her to open one, then.” He paused, but didn’t say anything.

Charlotte knew he wanted to ask her something. Her irritation grew. She barely knew this man, and already it seemed he wouldn’t give her any peace. “Was there something else?” she snapped.

“Yes.” Looking like he was immensely glad she had asked, Brett came back into the room. He turned and shut the door quietly behind him. “There’s a rumor in town that you and your sisters are going to lose this place. Is it true?”

It was against Charlotte’s principles to discuss private family matters with outsiders. But in this case, it might help Brett cut her some slack, particularly if he were, as she half suspected, a reporter competing on the same story as she.

“Unfortunately, yes. Unless we can come up with fifty thousand dollars, we will lose this place.”

Brett glanced at the shelves that lined three sides of the large library. “It may be presumptuous of me to ask,” Brett said as he came around to take a seat in one of the armchairs on the other side of the desk, “but have you and your sisters ever considered growing cotton again? I understand your family did quite well once.”

Charlotte sighed. She only wished that farming were as easy or profitable as it looked. “That was years ago, when my mother was still alive. She had the green thumb and all the know-how in the family. Plus, at that time we had a much better cash flow and the money to hire a crew to do the actual farming.”

“What happened to change all that?” he asked.

His question was outrageously personal, considering it was coming from the hired help. But when Charlotte looked into Brett’s eyes, she saw a heartfelt sympathy that worked like a balm on her weary heart and soul. She had been carrying the weight of the family’s losses for so long, she needed to unburden herself to someone. He was an unlikely confidant, yet it might be easier to talk to a stranger. Besides, Charlotte reasoned pragmatically, this was a good chance for her to test his knowledge about farming. “You’re apparently an expert on the subject. Do you think we should grow G. herbaceum?”

Brett shook his head, his expression serious. He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “Too coarse. I’d recommend G. barbadense.”

Charlotte propped her chin on her hand and tried to give the impression she was genuinely interested in farming herself. “How far apart should the hills be planted?”

Half of his mouth crooked up in a faint smile. “Thirty centimeters.”

Swallowing around the growing knot of tension in her throat, Charlotte kept her eyes on his as she asked, “What should we do about weeds?”

He stared at her for a moment. “You can use a herbicide or the rows can be flamed. Either method will work.”

He knows I’m testing him. But determined to find out the truth about him, anyway, she plunged on. “What pests do we have to watch out for these days?”

He shrugged. Smiled again. Almost mischievously. “Same as always. The boll weevil and the pink bollworm.”

Damn. He did know his stuff, Charlotte thought, stifling a sigh. She tossed down the pen she’d been gripping. So much for her theory. Only the most devoted agriculturalist would know all that. Unless, of course, he had just memorized all this as part of his cover. Or had once lived on or near a cotton plantation himself.

“So, who took over the farming when your mother died?” Brett asked.

“My father.” Charlotte picked up her pen again. She sat back in her chair, wishing Brett would look at something else besides her face. “Unfortunately, he had no talent for it and we lost money on every crop.”

“And so he just quit?” Brett asked gently.

Charlotte closed her fingers around her pen. These memories were even more painful for her. “Actually, he became ill,” she said softly. “Cancer.”

Brett drew an audible breath. “I’m sorry. That must have been rough on you and your sisters.”

Charlotte nodded and once again met Brett’s eyes. His look was so compassionate and understanding she found herself telling him even more. “It was. Paige was still in high school at the time. Isabella and I were in college.” Charlotte stood and began to roam the length of the library restlessly. She touched the spines of the books that had once belonged to her father.

“We came home to be with him, and over the course of the next two years he tried every treatment available and then some.” Charlotte swallowed. “A couple of times we thought he was going to go into remission, but he never did. When he died, our debts were substantial, so we did what the family had always done—talked to Hiram Henderson at the local bank. He gave us two alternatives—sell Camellia Lane, or take out a mortgage on the property, with a balloon payment at the end of ten years. We opted for the mortgage and used the money to pay off our debt, and to help us finish our studies. I graduated first and went to New York. I wasn’t making much money initially, but I paid a portion of the mortgage and set aside everything I could for the balloon payment. Isabella and Paige both did the same.”

“So how come you don’t have that money to make the payment, then?” Brett asked, his brow furrowing.

Charlotte returned to sit behind the desk. “Because this house—which happens to be nearly one hundred and fifty years old, by the way—is a money pit.”

“So why not sell it?”

“Because it’s our home.” Charlotte smiled, unable to help the sentimental note in her low voice. “We grew up here. And we love it. Besides,” she added, shrugging, “this property has been owned by the Langston family since 1842, and we promised our parents we would keep it in the family.”

“So back to cotton farming,” Brett said casually. “Why not try that again, if money is such a problem for you?”

Charlotte bit her lip. “My sisters and I looked into it,” she admitted.