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He grinned. “Why do you ask?” he bantered back lazily as the dimples on either side of his mouth deepened sexily. “Are you afraid I will?”
Charlotte lounged against the opposite counter and folded her arms in front of her as the delicious aroma of coffee filled the room. “Not at all,” she said with a confident lift of her pretty chin. Her eyes zeroed in on his, letting him know she meant every word. “No one beats me to a story.”
“Ah, I see. And what happens when you catch up with this person you’re trying to interview?” he challenged bluntly.
Charlotte shrugged, all too aware he was watching her every movement. “Then I find out what the person is hiding and write the story,” she said.
He regarded her tolerantly. “How do you know this person you are currently chasing is hiding anything?” he asked in a deep, faintly amused voice.
Charlotte pursed her lips together in aggravation. “Call it instinct.”
“And that’s all you have to go on?” he asked incredulously.
Charlotte had learned the hard way how to sniff out a fraud. “This person I’m hunting down is a celebrity who has worked hard to achieve his fame and yet he doesn’t want any publicity, period,” she explained. “In fact, he’s downright paranoid about it. That strikes me as odd and tells me there is a story there.”
Seeing the coffee had finished brewing, he reached for two mugs and filled them. “I see your point.”
Their hands brushed as he handed her a mug, and again, she tingled when they came in contact.
“On the other hand, if this guy wants to preserve his privacy, he ought to be able to do so, celebrity status or not, don’t you think?” he said reasonably.
Charlotte could see the sinewy imprint of his shoulders and the tautness of his chest beneath the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. “Only if he’s not involved in something fraudulent,” she stipulated firmly. And that had yet to be determined. “Have you read any of the work of Stephen Sterling?”
He rummaged around in the cupboard and brought out a tin of butter cookies. He opened it and Charlotte took two. He took one himself, set the box on the small kitchen table and motioned her to a chair. “Has he written anything on dirt farming in the western hemisphere?”
Charlotte sat down opposite him only because she was tired of standing. As their knees touched accidentally, she felt goose bumps break out. “No. And why would you ask that?”
He shrugged. “Because dirt farming is what I’m doing my dissertation on, and books on farming are about all I’ve read recently.”
Somehow, Charlotte just didn’t buy that, either. But she had no chance to pursue it, as he was already asking another question.
“Back to Sterling. What kind of books does he write?” he asked.
Charlotte helped herself to another cookie and sat stiffly in her chair. No way was she letting their knees come into contact again. “He writes adventure novels. So far he’s only published three, but all have been on the New York Times Best Sellers List.”
Noticing he’d nearly drained his cup, he got up to retrieve the coffeepot. He brought it back to the table and retopped both their mugs. “Lots of authors make the bestseller lists. What’s so special about this guy that you have to hunt him down?” he asked, his eyes lasering in on hers.
“It’s not just his readers who don’t know who he is. No one in the entire publishing world knows, either. His real identity is so hush-hush that not even his publisher knows who he is. All his manuscripts come through an attorney, Franklin Dunn, Jr., and he isn’t talking.”
She had even hired on as a temp in Dunn’s office, but didn’t have any luck finding anything. She still had hopes, though, of getting the information from Dunn’s personal secretary, Marcie Shackleford.
“So you’re getting discouraged?”
Ha! Charlotte thought. “Not on your life,” she said with a determined scowl. “There’s a mystery here and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.”
He shook his head. “Why are you so hell-bent on doing something that clearly looks impossible?” he asked.
“Because finding Sterling and unmasking him to the world would be a real coup.”
He savored that for a moment. Then apparently discarded her motivation as unsound. “What about the poor schmuck who writes the books?” he asked argumentatively, his dark brow furrowed in concern. “Doesn’t he have a right to privacy?”
Charlotte sighed and leaned forward urgently. “Look, if Stephen Sterling wanted privacy, he shouldn’t have written three bestsellers and earned millions of dollars. He’s the one who wanted people to buy his books, and now they’re understandably curious about him.”
Charlotte could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t agree with her. His disapproval made her more determined. “Sterling’s readers have a right to know who he is,” she argued passionately. “If he’s even a him,” she finished cautiously. Noting the time, she drained her cup and got up to go. Her sisters would be home soon, and she wanted to talk to them. They had a lot to go over.
He put the lid on the cookies and walked with her back into the living room. “What makes you think Sterling’s not a guy?” he asked casually.
“Nothing.” Charlotte stepped outside and breathed in the honeysuckle-scented air. The afternoon sun shone brightly down on them. Although the grass was not cut, it was thick and beautiful and rolled out around them like a pastoral blanket of green. Just looking at the grounds filled her with the sense of coming home.
“Do the Sterling books read like they were written by a woman?” he asked.
“No, they read like they were written by a very romantic, adventurous, exciting man,” Charlotte replied. Which was, of course, why they were on the bestseller lists.
“I don’t get it.” He looked at her blankly.
Charlotte shoved her hands in the pockets of her navy blazer. She tilted her head back to better see up into his face. “It’s just that readers expect adventure novels to be written by a man,” she explained. “And that could be the reason why the author is trying so hard to keep his—or her—identity a secret. Haven’t you ever heard of the famous mystery novelist P. D. James? She was a woman, but they didn’t think men would read her books, so she went by her initials instead.”
He shook his head as if she were making no sense at all, then stroked the edges of his mustache thoughtfully. “What happens if you actually find this Sterling, and he—or she—is not all that exciting a person? Won’t that be a turnoff to people?” He leaned closer and his voice dropped to an urgent rumble. “What if you wreck this person’s career by exposing him or her? Have you thought of that?”
Charlotte’s first rule of thumb was never to allow herself to think negatively. The second was to never let anyone else’s agenda become her own. She knew what she had to do to save Camellia Lane. “First of all,” she announced confidently, aware this was none of their caretaker’s business, anyway, “I’ve read the Sterling books. You haven’t. He could be a nun in Bolivia and people would still want to read all about him. In fact, that would probably make his public persona all the more interesting.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “You’re taking an awful lot for granted. I certainly wouldn’t want to know a little old lady was really writing adventure books.”
“Writing gossip is my business. And I know what I’m talking about,” Charlotte continued stubbornly, even as she wondered why she was allowing this man to get under her skin. She faced him hotly. “I know people will be interested in finding out the truth about Sterling, whatever it is.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders in dissent. “If you say so, but I still think you ought to think twice about destroying someone else’s career.”
This was ridiculous! He was making her feel guilty about doing her job! “I want that story on Sterling.” Even more importantly, she had been promised a big bonus if she landed it. She regarded him with annoyance. He looked equally exasperated and unhappy with her.
Finally he nodded, understanding her decision, though not approving. He turned back toward the cottage. “Well, as nice as this chat has been, Miss Charlotte,” he said with a certain weary reluctance, “I better get back to my research.”
She watched as he ambled slowly away from her, his steps long and lazy and undeniably male. Even his walk was sexy!
Charlotte frowned. She just couldn’t see a flirtatious rogue like this man contentedly leading the life of a bookish scholar. And that made her wonder what he was really doing there. Was it simple coincidence that had landed this man at Camellia Lane? Or did his past bear looking into, too?
He turned to look at her when he reached the front door, as if wondering what she was doing still standing there, watching him. She paused, her heart pounding as their eyes clashed once again. Belatedly, she realized that although he knew plenty about her, she still knew nothing about him. But that, she promised herself resolutely, would soon change. “By the way, what did you say your name was?” she asked with deceptive casualness.
“Brett.” His teeth flashed white against the suntanned skin of his face in another wicked, bad-boy grin. “Brett Forrest.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_18a2744f-881c-5cdf-b87d-6e77ca6c75d4)
Brett crept soundlessly up to the open kitchen windows and took cover in the bushes that rimmed the veranda. A glance inside the wide bay windows showed the three Langston sisters making dinner. His timing was perfect.
“What do you really know about Brett Forrest?” Charlotte asked Isabella as she took the makings for a salad out of the refrigerator and carried them to the long chef’s table in the center of the room.
“He’s working on a Ph.D. And he’s very nice.” Isabella slid breaded chicken into the frying pan, wiped her hands on the apron around her waist and then turned to Charlotte. “What else is there to know? Why are you so suspicious?”
’Atta girl, Isabella, Brett thought. Defend me to that snoopy older sister of yours. Throw her off the scent.
“I am suspicious,” Charlotte answered as she began to slice carrots with a vengeance, “because Brett Forrest is no nerd. Yet he wants us to think he’s one.”
“I don’t know about that,” Paige interrupted. “Anyone who would seriously devote his life to studying what kind of crops can be grown in the dirt sounds like a nerd to me.”
“Exactly!” Charlotte crowed triumphantly. “But aside from the books cluttering the cottage, have either of you seen any hard evidence that he is interested in farming? There was no dirt under his fingernails, no calluses on his palms. The guy had muscles, but they weren’t the kind you get from toting bags of fertilizer around on your shoulder. They were the fluid kind you get from jogging six miles a day or playing tennis.”
Paige whistled. “Sounds like you noticed quite a bit about our new caretaker, Charlotte,” she teased.
Brett had noticed quite a bit about Charlotte, too. He had never seen a more fiery Southern beauty, with her dark curly hair, sassy mouth and flashing green eyes. All the Langston women were beautiful. But it was Charlotte who caught his eye. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, and that, unfortunately, had nothing to do with the mission he’d been sent here to do.
“These days a man doesn’t have to dress in overalls and a straw hat to farm,” Isabella chided, adding more chicken to the sizzling skillet on the stove. “Maybe Brett wants to be a gentleman farmer.”
Actually, Brett thought, all the reading he’d been doing so he could be conversant on farming was leading him in that very direction, to his great surprise.
“Ha! There’s nothing gentlemanly about him!” Charlotte claimed.
No doubt she was thinking of the way he had pinned her to the sofa now, Brett thought. Okay, so that had been uncalled for. He admitted it. But she had deserved it for storming his cottage without invitation while he was trying to nap.
“Exactly what happened between the two of you during your first meeting, Charlotte?” Paige persisted with an impish grin as she emptied a package of frozen corn into a saucepan.
Brett peeked around the bushes and saw Charlotte’s slender shoulders stiffen. “Nothing I would care to recount,” she told Paige tersely.
Brett knew he shouldn’t recount it, either. But memories like that were hard to resist. The feel of Charlotte beneath him, her silky hair spread out on the sofa cushion. The fire in her eyes as she gazed hotly up at him. The passion in her low, throaty voice as she talked about her work as an investigative reporter.
“Furthermore, I really think you should fire him, Isabella!” Charlotte continued stubbornly.
Brett frowned and stepped a little farther back into the bushes.
“I can’t do that, Charlotte!” Isabella replied hotly.
“Why the devil not?” she demanded as she finished with the carrots and began tearing lettuce into bite-size pieces.
“Because—” Isabella used a long-handled fork to turn the sizzling pieces of chicken in the skillet on the stove “—I promised Brett he could stay at Camellia Lane until he had finished his dissertation. And we need someone out here during the day to keep an eye on the place.”
To Brett’s disappointment, Charlotte wasn’t the least bit mollified by sweet Isabella’s logic.
“We also need a decent caretaker. Look at the grounds, you two.” Charlotte lifted both slender arms. “They’re a wreck!”
“Well, that’s as much your fault as ours,” Paige interjected calmly, sloshing fizzy diet soda over the ice in her glass. She paused to take a dainty drink. “With all of us working, Isabella and me locally, and you out-of-state, Charlotte, none of us has time to cut grass. Frankly, I think we should just sell the plantation and be done with it.”
“Over my dead body!” Charlotte said, and Brett frowned. From what he could tell, if the sisters would just agree to sell their money-absorbing ancestral home, then all of his and Stephen Sterling’s problems would be solved.
“Father would never have wanted us to sell Camellia Lane,” Isabella concurred solemnly, to Brett’s disappointment. “Not if we could possibly avoid it.”
“Oh, we’ll avoid it all right, because there is no way I’m going to allow Camellia Lane to be sold,” Charlotte told her sisters flatly.
“Then how, pray tell, are we going to come up with the fifty thousand dollars we owe the bank?” Paige retorted.
Fifty thousand! Brett thought. What kind of trouble were these ladies in?
“We don’t have that kind of money,” Paige continued. “Nor are we liable to get it from Isabella’s work as a librarian, mine as a cosmetics sales rep, or your work as a magazine writer, Charlotte.”
“Face it,” Isabella said, looking sadder than Brett had yet seen her, “we all love our work and adore this place, but we can’t afford to keep up Camellia Lane on our salaries, even with two of us living here full-time.”
“Look, I feel bad that my work is in New York,” Charlotte said, looking at her sisters apologetically. “I know I haven’t been doing my share, in the physical sense, the last ten years. But I plan to make that up to you both by getting the fifty thousand we need.”
“Oh, really?” Paige pulled a package of rolls out of the freezer and set them on the counter to defrost. “And how are you going to do that? By selling off one or both of us to white slavers?” Paige shot back.
Catfight! Brett thought.
Charlotte glared at Paige. “I am going to do an exposé on Stephen Sterling,” Charlotte announced, moving closer to the blue, beige and white floral priscilla curtains. “And when I do, the magazine has agreed to pay me a bonus of fifty thousand dollars. Voilèa! All our problems will be solved.”
No wonder she wanted to go all out to find Sterling, Brett thought. The money from the article would allow her to save her beloved Camellia Lane.
“Now back to our situation with that worthless caretaker you hired,” Charlotte continued autocratically.
Brett decided this was his cue. He bounded up the back steps, rapped on the kitchen door and stepped inside, before Charlotte had the chance to talk the other two into kicking him off the property.
“Hi,” he said cheerfully, stepping inside.
He had been in the spacious plantation kitchen many times, but tonight the cozy square room seemed filled with life. Charlotte especially seemed right at home.
“Oh, hello, Brett! You’re just in time,” Isabella said, looking pleased to see him. She moved gracefully across the terra-cotta tile floor and sent him a welcoming smile. “Dinner is almost ready.”
“What do you mean dinner is almost ready?” Charlotte asked suspiciously. She glared at Brett, then her sisters.
“Brett eats dinner with us every evening,” Isabella said, using a sponge to wipe a splatter from the beige ceramic tile above the stove.
“Didn’t we tell you?” Paige asked innocently as she began to unload the dishwasher.
“No,” Charlotte said, still looking at both her sisters meaningfully. “You didn’t.”
“Want me to set the table as usual?” Brett asked. If he didn’t want to be kicked out by Miss Charlotte, he knew he’d better make himself useful.
“Please.” Isabella smiled.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Charlotte said slowly. She looked at both her sisters pointedly. “We have pressing financial matters to discuss. I was hoping we could do it over dinner.”
“Brett knows we’re having some problems on that score,” Isabella said delicately.
“What?” Charlotte did a double take.
“I had to tell him,” she explained with an airy wave of her hand. “So he’d understand why there was no salary with the job.”
Charlotte glanced at her watch and frowned. She appeared deep in thought. “How long before the chicken is done, Isabella?”
Isabella shrugged. “Another thirty minutes.”
“If you all will excuse me, I’ve got some work to do in the library,” Charlotte said. She pivoted on her heel and brushed past Brett without a word.
