Miss Charlotte Surrenders

Brett grinned and rubbed his jaw. “Liked my kiss that much?” he drawled smugly, just as Charlotte’s two sisters drove up.

Chapter Three (#ulink_01c9851b-3874-5699-8618-1ab9f1e86545)

“What’s going on here, Charlotte?” Isabella demanded in a shocked tone.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to seduce the hired help,” Paige drawled, a hand splayed dramatically across her chest.

“Very funny.” Charlotte glared at Paige before turning back to Brett. She gave him her most lethal look.

He smiled back at her, pleased at the unprecedentedly passionate response he had wrung from her, without even half trying. Charlotte’s cheeks grew even warmer, but she continued to regard him stonily.

Finally, Brett got her message. “I think this is my cue to leave, ladies,” he announced to Paige and Isabella. His expression was both rueful and full of mirth.

Paige and Isabella both chuckled, despite Charlotte’s silent admonition not to do so.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Paige called airily after Brett.

Arms crossed defiantly in front of her, Charlotte watched Brett strut down the walk to the caretaker’s cottage. She was still tingling all over. And all because of a stupid little kiss. “Don’t encourage him,” she warned her sisters with a scowl as they retreated to the kitchen.

“Why not?” Paige teased as she flicked on the lights and brought out a pitcher of ice tea. “You apparently were.”

“All right, you two, don’t start!” Isabella ordered, halting the free-for-all. Then she looked at Charlotte, her expression serious. “How did the meeting at the bank go?” she asked as she brought out the glasses.

“Not good.” Charlotte sat down at the table with a sigh and began slicing up the lemons. “Hiram Henderson refused to give us an extension on the balloon payment. It’s pay up, as scheduled, or they’ll foreclose.”

“Well, that doesn’t leave us in a very good position,” Paige said, as she poured ice tea. “Together, we only have four thousand dollars.”

“Which leaves us forty-six thousand short of what we need,” Isabella said with a worried frown. She went to a drawer and brought out a calculator. “Maybe if we talked to a lawyer—”

“I already spoke with Jared Fontaine,” Charlotte said. “He says, legally, there’s nothing we can do. The bank has every right to demand we pay up as scheduled.”

They stared at one another in glum silence. “This is just impossible,” Paige said, looking near tears.

It wouldn’t be, Charlotte thought, if Marcie Shackleford would agree to help her locate Stephen Sterling. But since that wasn’t likely to happen, she would have to employ a back-up plan for saving Camellia Lane. She looked at her sisters. “I have an idea how we can raise money quickly.” It had come to her on the drive home.

“How?” Paige and Isabella asked in unison.

“By holding an antebellum-period costume ball and buffet dinner here.”

“Kind of like a charity thing?” Paige asked, beginning to smile again.

Charlotte nodded. “We can call every historical society and women’s club in the state. We can’t charge admission, of course—that would be illegal. But we can have a party here, because it’s a private residence, and we can suggest gifts of two hundred and fifty dollars a plate to help us save Camellia Lane.”

Charlotte picked up the calculator and did some quick calculations. “As long as we have two hundred and fifty people or so attend, we should be able to carry it off.”

* * *

WHILE PAIGE AND ISABELLA began making phone calls, Charlotte walked into the kitchen to start dinner. To her surprise, Brett was already there. In jeans and the usual sweatshirt, he looked casual and relaxed.

Trying not to notice the way the late afternoon sunlight spilling in through the open windows brought out the highlights in his tousled brown hair, Charlotte walked by him and peeked in the skillet on the stove.

“Breast of chicken florentine,” he explained.

It smelled delicious, Charlotte thought. Brett came up behind her. Placing one hand on her shoulder, he reached past her and took the lid off a saucepan. “The spinach is cooking in here. And here—” he closed in on her slightly, the fronts of his thighs brushing the backs of hers as he lifted yet another lid “—we have some rice.”

Warming everywhere they touched, and even places they didn’t, Charlotte said, “It looks wonderful.” Turning slightly, she slipped out from under his hand, so they were no longer touching.

Brett grinned down at her, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I aim to please you, Miss Charlotte. I surely do.”

Again, warmth swept through Charlotte in undulating waves. She knew he was not talking about the dinner he was cooking. He was thinking about that outrageous kiss he had pressed upon her. The one she was still reeling from.

Aware her lips were tingling, she marched past him and went back over to the counter, where he had been slicing the tops off strawberries. “What’s all this?” she asked briskly.

Brett trailed after her lazily. “Strawberry shortcake and whipped cream. Isabella told me it was your favorite. So I figured we’d have it for dessert.”

He was probably trying to get back in her good graces, Charlotte thought. Well, it wasn’t going to work.

Brett dipped the end of a plump, juicy strawberry into the fluffy mound of real whipped cream in the mixing bowl. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” he said.

Mouth-watering, Charlotte thought, recalling that it had been hours since she had eaten.

“Here. Have a bite.” He lifted the strawberry to her mouth. Her eyes locked with his, Charlotte bit down on the berry. It was luscious and sweet. She didn’t know what he had done to that whipped cream, but it was heaven!

Brett smiled down at her, intensifying her sensual awareness of him until she nearly lost her breath. “Good, huh?” he whispered.

Charlotte nodded as she savored the ripe berry with sinful relish, letting its sweetness melt on her tongue. Reluctantly tearing her eyes from his, she looked around for a napkin to wipe the excess cream from her lips. Before she could find one, Brett volunteered to help out once again. “Here, I’ll take care of that,” he said softly. Before she could react, he dabbed her lip with his fingertip, gently wiping it clean, then sucked the whipped cream off his fingertip. “Want some more?”

For a second, Charlotte was unsure whether he meant the whipped cream and strawberries or another kiss. Telling herself she had to stop thinking like that, she shook off the sensuous aura that seemed to surround her whenever she was with him. “No thanks,” she said hoarsely.

Face flaming, she whirled away from him and went to get a glass of water from the tap.

“Sure now?” Brett asked. “There’s no law that says you have to have your dessert last, you know.”

If there had been a law, he would have broken it, Charlotte fumed. She drank thirstily. And could still taste the salty tang of his skin, and the whipped-cream-drenched berry on her lips.

Brett watched her drain the glass.

“How about just one more?” he asked.

Even one more would be too much, Charlotte thought. “I didn’t come in here to indulge myself in sweet treats!” she said hotly, and again Brett grinned wickedly. “I came in here to start dinner,” Charlotte continued archly. “Since you have already done that, I’ll use the time to talk to you about the plans my sisters and I are making.” Briefly, she explained about the party, adding, “I know the deal was you didn’t have to do any of the physical labor on Camellia Lane, but in view of the party we’re having, that stipulation has now changed. You’ll either have to help us get ready for the ball, or move out immediately. Today.”

Personally, Charlotte was hoping Brett would decide to vacate. But, as she could have predicted, she had no such luck. “Normally, I would have to say no to such a request. My dissertation and all. But since you and your sisters have gone all out to make sure I feel at home here at Camellia Lane, of course I’ll put aside my own work for a week or so, to help you out.”

No one had to tell Charlotte how cozily at home Brett had made himself there, she grumbled silently to herself, suppressing a sigh. In fact, it was his sheer accessibility that bothered her. He was up to something, and now she was more determined to check him out, to find if he really was writing a dissertation on dirt farming.

The only way she knew to do that was to get a look at the files in his portable computer’s hard drive.

* * *