Southern Belle

“Hey! Hold it,” he exclaimed, coming around and getting in the driver’s seat, rallying as he turned the key in the ignition. “If it was a long time ago as you’re implying, maybe you were a skinny, gawky little thing. A sort of ugly duckling who’s since turned into a swan.”

“A skinny ugly duckling—” Elm spluttered, laughing, “I was never an ugly duckling.”

“In that case, you’ll just have to help me out,” he insisted, driving out of the parking lot.

“I don’t know.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Seeing you strain your memory is rather satisfying,” she remarked, leaning against the cream-colored leather, remembering the numerous times she’d haunted the basketball court and the soccer field, just waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

“I give up,” Johnny declared dramatically as the four-wheel-drive vehicle wound down the mountain and back toward the village.

“What, so easily?” She raised a brow and looked him over with a sly grin. “I seem to recall a certain basketball team captain rallying his players with a speech about never giving up and fighting until the death, et cetera, et cetera…quite dramatic stuff, really,” she added with a sigh, “and so disappointing to know it no longer holds true.”

The car braked abruptly. “My God.” He turned and stared at her. “Now I remember. Little Elm Hathaway, the Southern belle from Savannah. You had a picture of me under your pillow—” a slow wicked grin dawned “—and that bitch Janine whatever-her-name-was stole it and showed it to the whole school at dinner.”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to dwell on that,” Elm muttered hastily, blushing despite herself. It had proved the most lowering experience. “Uh, I think there’s a car behind you,” she added, trying to divert his attention.

Johnny took his eyes off her and drove once more. “Well, well. It’s a small world indeed.” He flashed her another sidelong grin. “My only excuse for not recognizing you at once are the developments since then.”

“Developments?” Elm eyed him suspiciously.

“Put it this way, you were, uh…proportionally different.”

“Proportionally?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As he watched her expectantly, clearly daring her to take the bait, it occurred to Elm that she was way out of her depth. This man was obviously a practiced playboy and entirely too aware of his own appeal. But boy, this was fun. Curiosity won and she raised a questioning brow. “Okay, I’ll bite. So tell me, was I a freak?”

“No,” he said, turning into the parking lot of the Palace, then drawing up under the porch where the valet hastened down the steps. “But even you must admit that you were a bit of a gangly girl—lovely, of course, but gangly all the same. Whereas now,” he drawled, “you look every inch a woman—with certain inches being especially impressive.”

She blushed. Well, she’d asked for that, she realized, feeling his gaze intent upon her and grateful that the valet had opened her door, providing her with a quick escape.

Elm alighted from the vehicle and strode up the steps toward the hotel entrance, ruefully aware that the passage of twenty years had done nothing to strengthen her defenses against Johnny’s charm. Thankfully, he didn’t mean anything by his nonsense; he’d probably used that line a thousand times. Johnny Graney, she reflected with a grin, was obviously a serial flirt.

And luckily, she assured herself, she was smart enough to realize it.

8

Two hours, and two glühweins later, Johnny returned to the family chalet, satisfied that he’d extracted from his old schoolmate a promise to meet for dinner. He was intrigued by the unexpected encounter and smiled to himself as he walked upstairs. Elm Hathaway was charming and intelligent and genuinely fun. A pleasant change from the majority of women he came across.

He knew he had a reputation as a playboy—his mother had asked him point blank if he was auditioning ladies for a harem—but the truth was he just plain lost interest in most of them after the first date. Beneath their flirtatious smiles and eager questions was an obvious fascination with his title and the size of his bank account; sometimes he’d barely get the woman out the restaurant door before she was bluntly offering to share his bed. No wonder he was happiest at Graney Castle—at least there he didn’t feel like a piece of prime horseflesh on the auction block.

He grinned, suspecting his teenage son Nicky would tell him to “get over it.” And, admittedly, being the object of enthusiastic female pursuit had its pluses. Still, he found himself hoping for something more. Not that he was looking for a serious relationship—his heart always had and always would belong to Marie Ange—but in certain dark moments he recognized in himself a deep loneliness, a yearning for quiet companionship.

And whose fault is that? he reminded himself sharply, feeling the inevitable pull of the past, the memory of what he’d lost. He drew himself up, determined not to let the contentment of his afternoon with Elm fade. He’d ring up the Chesery and make a reservation for tomorrow night. At least they could talk there without being constantly interrupted, and the food was delicious. He frowned. Usually he avoided being too chummy with his old Rosey friends because they reminded him of Marie Ange, of the past. But somehow Elm was different.

He shrugged and proceeded down the corridor, wondering if Nicky was home. He must make a call to Graney, too, and talk to O’Connor before he left for the evening, to get the latest report on Blue Lavender. He’d ponder the unexpected appeal of Elm Hathaway later.

She most definitely would not “go for it,” Elm reflected, amused, recalling Gioconda’s excited outburst when she’d told her of the encounter. But now, as she sat across from Johnny in the intimate yet elegant ambience of the Chesery, she was glad she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. The Chesery was one of Gstaad’s best traditional restaurants and it was almost impossible to get a table.

Pretending to study the menu, Elm eyed the man sitting across the table. It was easy to see why she’d fallen for him all those years ago. It wasn’t just his patent good looks or seductive charm or lethally athletic figure that attracted, but the warmth and intelligence that lay behind his smile. Although he came across as somewhat guarded in his manner—not distant, exactly, for he was quite playful, as she’d learned yesterday afternoon—she sensed that he was simply a man who didn’t reveal himself easily to others. And this atmosphere—superb quality and efficiency enveloped in an intimate yet highly sophisticated setting—suited him perfectly. Her mouth curved and she surveyed him and the appetizer, oeuf surprise, a delightful concoction of scrambled egg placed in an eggshell and topped with caviar. Johnny looked deliciously elegant in a blazer and tie, and utterly at home in this charming restaurant where waiters addressed him by name and he called the shots.

Harlan would hate him, she thought wryly, for Johnny was the type of man Harlan could only pretend to be—effortlessly confident and in control, someone whom others instinctively looked to as a leader. Harlan had his own brand of power, to be sure, but the truth was, his backers—including her father, she reminded herself with a twinge of unease, remembering this morning’s stilted phone conversation with him—could take that away as quickly as they’d given it to him.

She had sensed the concern in her father’s voice, but already he seemed, albeit reluctantly, to have accepted the fact that she’d had to get away, even if he didn’t agree with it. But then, he still didn’t know the real reason for her departure. Her divorce from Harlan was going to be a bitter pill for the senator to swallow, and she wanted to tell him herself when the time was right.

But enough of that, she decided, determined not to spoil the evening, and bit back a smile at a sudden vision of Gioconda, wagging her finger and admonishing her not to waste her thoughts on a failed marriage, or on a faithless, feckless man like Harlan, when she had such a magnificent specimen within arm’s reach.

And she was right. For Johnny was proving to be an amusing dinner companion, regaling her with hilarious stories of his son Nicky’s escapades. She felt young and carefree as she laughed at Johnny’s hilarious description of Nicky’s unfortunate decision to host a sidewalk sale of Grace Graney’s prized collection of Ming porcelain—at decidedly bargain prices—realizing that she’d laughed more since being here in Gstaad than she had in the past twelve years. And that laughter was something she’d missed.

The meal was delicious, but by the time they’d reached dessert, even Elm, with her lack of experience, could sense that Johnny hadn’t invited her out just to talk about their old school days. Most definitely not. The realization that he was obviously attracted to her was remarkably enticing, she admitted, savoring a shudder of excitement and a tiny spoonful of delectable chocolate mousse. More surprising was the recognition that she, too, was drawn to him.

Not that she could act upon that attraction, of course. She hadn’t come to Gstaad for romance. She was still a married woman, after all, one who’d never thought of betraying her vows even at the worst of times. Yet Johnny was making it plain that he found her company very pleasant—and he struck her as the type of man who didn’t hesitate to go after what he wanted.

The thought was so shockingly alluring that Elm nearly choked on the mousse. Before, whenever she’d sensed that a man was interested in her, she’d distanced herself automatically. But then, she’d been married—really married, not filing for divorce—and living behind a wall of Southern protocol, the subtle protection offered by her husband and her father’s position and the strict rules of the society she lived in. She’d let those walls imprison her, separate her from the hopes and dreams she’d once aspired to.

And suddenly she longed to break free.

This, even more than her own growing fascination with the man across the table, made her realize she must be very, very cautious. She didn’t want to be one of those women who left their husbands, only to enter into a series of scorching relationships that ended with them burned and bewildered several months later. Better to just enjoy this pleasurable evening and allow herself to bask in the feeling of being admired, not criticized, and then give Johnny a firm handshake of thanks and farewell.

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.