A fan-favorite story from bestselling Mills & Boon American Romance author Cathy Gillen Thacker!

She Was a Lady…

Miss Charlotte Langston needs to focus on saving her family’s languishing estate. The once-gorgeous plantation is facing foreclosure unless Charlotte can earn money for the next payment. What she doesn’t need is the distraction of Brett Forrest, her sexy new caretaker, who is doing his best to make her forget her Southern manners!

But He Was No Gentleman!

Brett isn’t who he says he is, but hiding right under Charlotte’s nose seems like the perfect deception. The Southern belle could easily earn the money she needs by exposing him as the reclusive writer of a series of popular novels. But it’s much more fun to tempt her with hot kisses and feed the sparks that fly between them! What will happen, though, when the independent Charlotte finds out he’s about to buy the place from under her?

Miss Charlotte Surrenders

Cathy Gillen Thacker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Copy

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright Page

Prologue

“I want that woman off my back,” Stephen Sterling grumbled to his New York City attorney.

Franklin Dunn, Jr., picked up a gold pen and turned it end over end. “Charlotte Langston has been a pest, hasn’t she?”

“And then some.” Stephen stroked his gray goatee and sighed, then turned back to Franklin with a relentless scowl. “I’m not going to let that nosy journalist unmask me,” he vowed.

“I don’t blame you,” Franklin said. Waving his pen in lecturing fashion, he continued, “And to that end, I have a suggestion for you.”

Stephen’s bushy gray brow lifted in speculative interest. “Name it.”

“You need a spy in the enemy camp.”

Stephen grinned as he casually tucked his silk ascot into the open collar of his shirt. “Someone to keep her from finding out everything she has always wanted to know?”

“Exactly. As long as the person you hire is one step ahead of the indefatigable Miss Langston, keeping her in the dark about you will be easy,” Franklin assured him.

Stephen sat back in his chair. He ran his hand thoughtfully over the ivory handle on his cane. “You’ve got a point,” he said slowly. A wicked gleam came into his eyes. “Furthermore, I know just the man for the job.”

“Who?” Franklin sat forward expectantly.

“Brett Forrest,” Stephen said with a contemplative grin. “He’ll keep her so busy and aggravated that poor Miss Langston will never guess an enemy has infiltrated her nest.”

Chapter One

Charlotte emerged from her car, stiff from two straight days of driving, and took a good look around. The house where she and her sisters had grown up was just as she remembered it. Twelve tall white columns braced the front of the majestic three-story plantation home. Dark green shutters adorned every window and contrasted nicely against gleaming white wood. Creamy-petaled camellias with evergreen leaves surrounded the veranda on all sides. But there, the tender loving care stopped.

Her heart sinking, Charlotte realized the grounds of the rural Mississippi plantation were in terrible shape. The once beautiful lawn of Camellia Lane was now peppered with crabgrass and dandelions and streamed wetly up past her knees. The flower beds that lined the drive stood empty. Even more disturbing, one of the shutters on a second-floor window had been knocked loose by the wind and hung crooked on one hinge.

Her younger sister, Isabella, had hired a caretaker. What on earth could he be doing with his time?

Charlotte frowned. Having seen the grounds, she wondered what kind of condition the caretaker’s cottage was in. Deciding to find out, she marched down the flagstone path to the cottage, which was some distance away, and knocked on the door. Once…twice. There was no answer.

Determining she had better check on things, Charlotte unlocked the door and stormed in. The place was a wreck. Papers and books were everywhere. A state-of-the-art laptop computer and portable LaserJet printer sat on the table. Charlotte frowned. What caretaker could afford that luxury? Furthermore, what caretaker had ever been this incredibly handsome, even when sprawled on a sofa, apparently fast asleep?

Even in repose, every inch of him was tantalizingly, ruggedly male. He had dark coffee-colored hair that fell away from his face in thick rumpled waves. A full mustache emphasized rather than hid his sensually chiseled lips. High cheekbones and the squareness of his jaw added to the rakish appeal of his straight-blade nose and rectangular face.

He had to be at least six foot four of solid male muscle and was probably in his mid-thirties. He wore faded jeans, a sparkling white T-shirt and a light gray sweatshirt bearing the Yale insignia.

Some caretaker, Charlotte thought irritably, as she ran her hands through her dark curly hair. She could be a robber, ready to steal Camellia Lane blind and he would never know.

She stepped closer, put a hand out to touch his shoulder.

The next thing she knew she was flat on her back, beneath him, one of his hands circling her waist. The other held both her hands above her head.

“You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you’re doing breaking into my cottage,” he warned mildly.

Charlotte had thought he was handsome when he was sleeping. It was nothing compared to the way he looked when he was awake. His lashes were long and thick, his eyes a vivid electric blue. His mouth was soft but firm beneath the thick mustache. True, he needed a shave. She could see the eighth-of-an-inch bristles of his beard against the suntanned hue of his skin, but he smelled of Old Spice. Charlotte had always loved that cologne.

“Unhand me this instant!” she demanded, wiggling furiously and feeling every soft, slender inch of her torso and legs brush up against every hard, unyielding inch of his. Heat started at the base of her throat and swept up into her face.

“Not,” he bargained wickedly, settling more comfortably between her thighs, “until you tell me who you are.”

The mischievous glint in his eyes indicated he knew his sensual tussling with her was completely unnecessary, if entirely pleasurable. Charlotte glared up at him, fighting the tingles of awareness with every ounce of fortitude she possessed.

At her response, he did everything to suppress a grin. He knew, of course, that he could let her go now that they’d quickly established she was no threat. But the feel of her beneath him, her silky hair spread out on the sofa cushions, the feistiness in her emerald green eyes, was hard to resist. This woman presented a challenge for any man brave enough to take her on. And he never had been able to resist a challenge. Particularly the beautiful, hot-tempered, female kind.

“Your name first,” he demanded again and was rewarded with another burning flash of her emerald eyes.

Charlotte’s breasts rose and fell with each agitated breath she took. She regarded him imperiously. “I am Charlotte Langston, you fool!”

Finally, it seemed, she had gotten through to him.

“Charlotte Langston,” he repeated, stunned. He loosened his grip on her slightly. His electric blue gaze swept the band collar of her starched white shirt and the navy-and-gold tapestry vest before returning to her face. “You’re Miss Charlotte?”

“Yes, I am Miss Charlotte,” she bit out, her face flooding with telltale heat as her formidable temper rose another notch. She couldn’t believe she was wrestling on the sofa with the new caretaker, never mind almost enjoying it. “Now let me up before I do something we’ll both regret, like punch you in the nose,” she snapped.

He grinned at that, as if he were thinking he’d like to see her try. Wordlessly, he stood and offered her a hand.

Aware her trouser legs had hiked up almost to her knees in the struggle and one of her heels had fallen off, Charlotte struggled to get herself together.

Her composure restored, she bent to rummage for her shoe.

He scooped it up first, then knelt in front of her and slipped it on for her. “I apologize for flipping you onto your back like that,” he said as he continued to kneel like an errant knight paying homage to his queen. “But you shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

Charlotte stood. Not surprisingly, after what she had just been through, her knees felt a little wobbly. “I knocked,” she defended herself sharply, irritated that their brief tussle on the sofa had left her feeling so unsettled. “You didn’t answer.”

Again, that slow, sexy grin that wreaked havoc with her insides. “That’s ’cause I was asleep.”

Charlotte arched a brow. Her dark green eyes glinted with a deep disapproval she made no move to hide. “At two in the afternoon?” she asked.

“Give me a break.” Irritated, he pivoted away from her and began to gather up the papers he had strewn across the table. He shoved them all in a brown accordian envelope and secured them with a string. “I was up all night working,” he continued with a beleaguered frown.

“On Camellia Lane?” she asked in patent disbelief.

He shook his head and corrected her. “My dissertation. Didn’t your sister Isabella tell you? Guess not, from that scowl on your face. I’m a doctoral student. I’ve been working on my dissertation for several years now—”

“You’re a little old to be a student, aren’t you?” Charlotte interrupted suspiciously. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about this guy just didn’t ring quite true to her.

“I’m thirty-five.” His glance skimmed her wickedly from head to toe. His lips curved in a teasing smile. “How old are you?”

Thirty-three, Charlotte thought, but she had no intention of telling him that!

“Uh-oh. That look means you’re over thirty for sure. But not to worry,” he drawled with an exaggerated Southern accent as his bold glance slid over her heart-shaped face. He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body, but she didn’t move away as he whispered in her ear. “You still look damn fine to me, Miss Charlotte. Damn fine!”

Irritated to find herself secretly pleased at his approval, Charlotte planted both her hands on her hips and glared at him wordlessly.

His roguish grin widened, as if he knew he had annoyed her every bit as much as he meant to. “Besides,” he continued lazily, rubbing the underside of his chiseled jaw, “no one’s too old for an education.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Charlotte shot back. She looked him up and down in the same manner he had just surveyed her, taking in his ruggedly handsome face. Ignoring the rapid pounding of her heart, she said, “By the time you’ve hit your mid-thirties, if you don’t have a real job…” She let her words trail off sarcastically.

To her frustration, he looked not the least bit offended by her tone. Eyes twinkling with unstinting humor, he said lazily, “Being a caretaker is a real job, Miss Charlotte.”

Charlotte thought of the condition of the grounds, and rolled her eyes in a demonstration of exasperation. “You’d never know it, by the way you take care of this place.” She grasped his arm above the elbow and dragged him over to the window. Promptly dropping her hand from the tantalizing sinew of his bicep, she pointed to the outside. “The grounds are a wreck. The grass hasn’t been cut, the camellias around the main house weeded or the honeysuckle around the cottage cut back.”

He pivoted toward her, legs brushing hers slightly. Towering over her by a good ten inches, he held up a palm to halt the flow of her criticism. “Isabella hired me to watch over the place during the day while she and Paige are gone,” he announced flatly. Still watching her face, he crossed his arms in front of him implacably. “To get me to do repairs and cut grass, you’d have to pay me a salary, and I’m not getting money to stay here.”

Charlotte blinked, the wind temporarily taken from her sails. “That’s all?” If what he said was true and she guessed from his expression it was, then Isabella had really dropped the ball on this one.

“That’s all,” he confirmed matter-of-factly, keeping his sober glance on Charlotte’s upturned face. “Otherwise, I never would have agreed to stay here.”

It figured, she thought. Every time she left something to her softhearted sisters, it got screwed up. Isabella, in particular, needed to learn how to drive a harder bargain. “Where’d you meet my sister, anyway?” she asked, backing away from him casually and returning to the center of the room. She didn’t know if it was the sheer size of him, but every time she was close to him her heart beat a little too fast for comfort.

“I met Isabella at the Poplar Springs Public Library. I was doing some research on farming methods in Mississippi. But enough about me and my work.” Hand on her shoulder, he propelled her into the adjacent kitchen, which to Charlotte’s surprise was extremely neat and tidy. He picked up a pot and poured coffee into a stoneware mug. Wordlessly, he offered it to her. Although she was dying for a cup after her long drive, she declined. No way was she drinking that noxious brew.

“So. What do you do for a living, Miss Charlotte?”

She wondered why he was asking. Deciding she’d better try to find out why he was so curious about her, Charlotte played along cautiously. “I’m a reporter for Personalities, the gossip magazine.”

“Gossip, huh?” He lounged against the counter. Seemingly unable to take his eyes from her face, he asked innocently enough, “What happens if you don’t find any dirt on a person? Do you make something up?”

“No, of course not,” Charlotte snapped indignantly. Beginning to feel a little too attracted to him again, she prowled the kitchen restlessly. Had it always been this small? She hadn’t noticed before. “Besides, there’s always something to find,” she continued with an airy wave of her hand.

He quaffed some of the awful coffee, grimaced as it hit his taste buds, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So how come you aren’t working on a story now?” he asked curiously.

“I am working on a story,” Charlotte explained, wishing he didn’t look and smell quite so good. Having someone this handsome and mischievous underfoot could prove quite distracting. “As a matter of fact, I’m hunting someone down as we speak,” she finished, telling herself she could handle being temporarily cooped up in here together if he could.

His blue eyes focused on hers contemplatively. “Well, now, that sounds ominous,” he drawled.

Charlotte did not consider either her work or her conversation with the hunky new caretaker inconsequential. Her shoulders tensed as her defenses slid back into place. “It often is for my quarry,” she admitted seriously. “Remember the treasury secretary scandal and the Bel Air madam? Those were both my stories, and I broke them.” She was unable to keep the pride from her voice. There was nothing like the satisfaction she felt when she exposed corruption or deceit of any kind.

Evidently deciding he’d had enough of the poison he’d been drinking, he tossed the remains in the sink and began washing out the pot. Charlotte watched as he set about efficiently making a fresh pot, using vanilla-almond beans.

He had great hands, she thought absently. Large, square, capable ones with nimble fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

“So…who is this person you’re hunting down?” he asked conversationally.

He certainly was presumptuous. Charlotte tossed her head. Dark, silky hair flew in every direction as she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking all these questions? Are you trying to steal my story?” she prompted, only half kidding. There were a lot of gossip reporters tracking down Sterling. It was possible their handsome new caretaker was one of them.

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

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.

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.

“And?”

“Have you ever priced a piece of farm equipment? We don’t have the capital nor the know-how to get back into it.”

“If you did, would you?” Brett persisted.

Charlotte didn’t have to think very long about that. “Probably.”

“That being the case, would you mind if I took some soil samples of your fields and sent them off to be analyzed?”

“For what purpose?” Charlotte regarded Brett suspiciously. He suddenly seemed awfully eager to help her.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, as if it were no big deal. “I could tell you how much it would cost for you to get back into farming again. Maybe project some future earnings for you,” he suggested mildly.

Charlotte wasn’t sure she would trust any estimate he gave her, but she decided to play along with him. If nothing else, taking soil samples would keep him busy and out of her hair. “All right.”

“So what next, in the meantime?” Brett asked.

Charlotte sighed, looking down at her calendar. “I’ve got an appointment with Hiram Henderson tomorrow. I’m going to try and talk him into giving us an extension on that balloon payment.”

“Are your sisters going with you?”

Charlotte hedged. “They want me to try and talk to him alone.”

“How come?”

“They think I can be charming, in the way that he expects,” Charlotte said with a beleaguered sigh.

“Which is…?”

“You know, the typical old-fashioned Southern-lady thing. Soft and pretty and delicate on the outside, hard as driven steel on the inside.”

“Hmm,” Brett said.

Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that hmm. She glanced at the clock.

She had spent almost fifteen minutes talking to him. She had also told him far more than she had intended. Worse, he seemed to empathize with everything she and her sisters had been through.

“Hadn’t you better go back and tell Isabella to open that bottle of wine?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Brett lazily unfolded himself from the chair and shoved a hand through the dark, rumpled waves of his hair. “I almost forgot why I came in here.”

I’ll bet, Charlotte thought as she scrutinized him silently. She waited until he had left, then picked up the phone and dialed one of her reporter friends. “Listen—ever heard of a reporter named Brett Forrest?”

* * *

CHARLOTTE WAS IN a bad mood as she got out of her car the next afternoon and headed for the bank. No one had heard of Brett at any of the magazines. Nor had he worked for any of the wire services. Nor, as far as she could discover, published anything at all. Therefore, if he was a reporter, he hadn’t made a name for himself yet. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be trying to do so at this very minute, Charlotte told herself firmly. After all, there had to be some reason he was so intent on nosing into her business. He had to be trying to scoop her out of her story on Sterling! Well, she would not allow him to steal the information she had uncovered so far. She might, however, send him on a wild-goose chase if he continued to prove meddlesome.

Hiram Henderson met her at the door and escorted Charlotte into his private office at the rear of the bank. “My, don’t you look lovely today,” he said.

“Thank you, Hiram,” Charlotte said. She hated playing the part of the sugary Southern belle. It seemed like such a waste of time and energy. But in this part of Mississippi, it was also the best way to get what she wanted. And right now the stakes were huge.

Hiram adjusted his clip-on bow tie as he sat behind his desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Charlotte smiled at him as she tugged off first one lacy glove, and then the other. Slowly, she dropped both into her lap and offered him her most winning smile. “I’d like to ask for an extension on our loan.”

“Charlotte, that balloon payment is due in ten days,” Hiram reminded her. He steepled his long, bony fingertips in front of him and regarded her over the rim of his bifocals.

This was going to be harder than she had thought; Hiram didn’t look as if he were going to budge. Telling herself to be as fiercely determined on the inside and soft on the outside as her mother had always been, Charlotte crossed her legs demurely at the knee. She tossed her head flirtatiously and offered him another smile. “I can trust you to be discreet, can’t I, Hiram?”

“Absolutely, Charlotte.”

“My sisters and I are a little short on cash at the moment.”

Hiram disengaged his fingertips and dropped his forearms to his desk. He leaned forward, his expression regretful. “As much as we here at First Unity Bank would like to help you, Charlotte, we can’t give you an extension on the balloon payment.”

She kept the smile plastered on her face with a great deal of effort. She was not going to give up until she got her way. “Why not?” she asked, summoning up the sweetness that came so naturally to her sister Isabella. “You gave us a loan the last time we were in financial trouble.”

“And at that time, we financed the maximum amount available to you and your sisters,” Hiram explained sternly. “Since then, you’ve paid down nothing of the principal. That’s why the balloon payment is due now.”

“What about a second mortgage?” Charlotte asked.

“Against what? You’ve already borrowed against ninety-nine percent of what the property is worth. If I might be so bold,” Hiram said as he picked up a pen and doodled aimlessly on the notepad in front of him, “there is a solution here. There’s an auto plant going in here in the next few months. It’s expected to be operational within a year.”

Charlotte toyed with the strand of fake pearls around her neck. “What does that have to do with us?”

“Six thousand people will be moving to the area, looking for homes. Homes that we don’t currently have.”

“I’m not a home builder, Hiram.”

“I know that. But Heritage Homes is, and they want to purchase Camellia Lane, Charlotte, and turn it into a subdivision of affordable tract homes. Frankly, I think the three of you would be fools to refuse the offer,” he continued. “With the money you and your sisters earned from the sale of Camellia Lane, you could pay off the mortgage on the property and be out of debt completely.”

“Forget it. There’s no way we’re selling Camellia Lane,” Charlotte said firmly. It was their home. It was all they had left of her parents.

“Perhaps you need time to consider,” Hiram suggested kindly.

“I don’t think so.” Charlotte got up and started for the door.

“There’s something you should know, Charlotte,” Hiram said, his voice hardening. “If you don’t pay the fifty-thousand-dollar balloon payment, the bank will have no choice but to foreclose on the property.”

“I bet that would just break your heart, wouldn’t it?” Charlotte said, whirling to face him.

Hiram removed his bifocals and set them ever so slowly on his desk. “I know you’re upset, Charlotte dear. But First Unity didn’t get you and your sisters into this mess. The bank and I are only trying to help.”

Trying to force them into a corner so the bank could make a profit was more like it, Charlotte thought. “Tell me, Hiram, who is representing Heritage Homes?”

He didn’t answer. But then, Charlotte thought bitterly, he didn’t have to.

* * *

BRETT WAITED UNTIL all three Langston sisters were gone, then let himself into the house and headed straight for the library.

He frowned when he saw the top of the desk. Last night it had been covered with Charlotte’s papers and notes. Now it was clean as a whistle. He had been hoping to get some idea how far along she was in her investigation of Sterling.

Brett tried the desk drawers. Locked. Cursing, he picked up the phone and punched in his credit-card number. Seconds later, Franklin came on the line.

“Brett? What have you got?”

Not as much as I’d like so far, he thought. “Charlotte Langston called your secretary last night.”

“Yeah, I know. Marcie told me this morning. She also said she hung up on Charlotte. I suppose it’s too much to hope Miss Langston won’t try again?”

“Way too much,” Brett concurred grimly.

“Have you learned anything else?” Franklin asked.

“Just that Charlotte Langston and her sisters are in desperate need of money.” Briefly, Brett explained what Charlotte had told him. “She’s meeting with the bank this morning to see about a loan,” Brett finished.

“You think that’s why she’s so hell-bent on unmasking Sterling?” Franklin asked.

“That’s part of it,” Brett said.

“And the rest?”

“She sees it as a challenge.” And Charlotte Langston was not a woman to turn away from a challenge, Brett had discovered.

“Any chance she’s onto you?” Franklin asked.

That, Brett thought, remembering the three-way conversation he had eavesdropped on the evening before, was a difficult question. “She doesn’t trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t see me as a farmer, despite the fact I passed her quiz on cotton with flying colors.” Brett hoped the dirt samples he had taken and sent out to the lab this morning would help bolster his image as agriculturalist extraordinaire.

Franklin harrumphed his displeasure. “You want me to put someone else on the job?” he asked gruffly.

“Nope,” Brett said quickly. This wasn’t a job he would trust to anyone else. Charlotte Langston needed special handling. “I’m staying.”

Brett heard a car pull up in front of the house. None of the sisters was due back for hours! “Gotta go,” Brett whispered into the phone, as he heard a car door slam. He dove for cover behind the long leather sofa, stretching out along the cushions just as a key turned in the lock. Because the sofa faced the fireplace, with its back to double doors leading into the library, he wouldn’t be seen by whoever had arrived unless she actually came into the library.

Someone slammed into the house. Brett inhaled the faint scent of lilacs. Charlotte, he thought. Her high heels clicking on the parquet floor, she bypassed the library and headed straight for the kitchen.

Brett breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to get up from the sofa when another car pulled up out front. Cursing his ill fortune, he stayed where he was and continued to feign sleep in case anyone spotted him. In the meantime, he thought, he was in a pretty good position to listen to all that went on, at least at the front of the house.

* * *

“I GOT HERE AS SOON as I could,” Jared Fontaine said, his straight blond hair gleaming in the sunshine as he took the steps leading up to the house.

“You must’ve left your office the moment I telephoned,” Charlotte said, ushering Jared into the parlor. With its Georgian paneling, milled moldings and soaring white ceiling complete with two crystal chandeliers, the room was the most elegant in the entire mansion. Moving soundlessly across the oriental rugs, Charlotte opened the blue velvet drapes that covered the double French doors, letting sunlight spill into the long, rectangular room. She glanced around quickly, checking to see if everything was in order. “I barely had time to put water on for tea.”

“I didn’t come for tea, Charlotte. I came to see you.” Jared took both her hands in his and held them away from her body. “Honey, you look as if you haven’t changed a bit.”

That was true, she thought uncomfortably, but at the moment it was correct for all the wrong reasons. Normally, she wore slacks and blazers and clipped her long hair back at the nape of her neck. But that wouldn’t work in the conservative Poplar Springs business community, so she had rummaged through the back of her closet for something appropriate to court a hopelessly old-fashioned banker in, and come up with a demure pink business suit. She’d added a strand of costume pearls and clip- on earrings, and combed the heavy waves of her shoulder-length hair in the loose, girlish style of her youth.

Unfortunately, the Southern-belle ensemble that was charming Jared Fontaine now hadn’t made a dent in Hiram’s stony resolve, Charlotte thought. But that was where Jared came in. An attorney and old family friend, he could advise her on what to do.

Jared dropped his grip on her, thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stepped back. In a white double-breasted suit, he looked dapper and successful.

They exchanged smiles. “Please make yourself at home in the parlor, Jared, while I run back to the kitchen and get our tea,” Charlotte said.

When she returned, Jared was seated in one of the two wing chairs in the alcove in front of the French windows. It was the coziest, most intimate spot in the room.

Trying not to attach any special significance to that, Charlotte set the silver tea service down on the table between them as Jared’s sherry-colored eyes lasered into hers.

“So what has you so upset?” he asked gently.

“First Unity Bank is trying to force us to sell Camellia Lane because we can’t pay the balloon note on the first mortgage.”

Jared’s expression remained impassive. “How much do you owe?” he asked.

“Fifty thousand,” Charlotte replied, as she poured steaming tea into two bone-china cups.

He whistled, his eyes focused on the movements of her hands. “That’s not exactly penny change.”

“No, it isn’t,” Charlotte agreed, sitting back in her chair. “Which is why we need your help. I’ve already talked to Hiram, to no avail. But I thought perhaps if you intervened—”

Jared held up a hand. “I’ll be honest with you, Charlotte. The likelihood of you and your sisters getting an extension from the bank is slim. You owe the money. The bank has every right to collect.”

Charlotte’s expression fell. Jared and his family were very well connected; she had been counting on him to help her. “Couldn’t we even get a couple more weeks?” Enough time for her to find Sterling?

“It’s doubtful. Life here is changing. With the new auto plant coming in next year, Poplar Springs will no longer be the sleepy little burg we both grew up in. The price of land in this part of Mississippi is already shooting up.”

“All the more reason why my sisters and I should hold on to Camellia Lane,” Charlotte said stubbornly.

He shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. Now is your chance to get out of debt and in on the ground floor of something really big.”

With effort, Charlotte kept her voice Southern-lady-pleasant. “You’re not listening to me. I don’t want to sell, and neither do my sisters.”

Jared settled his broad shoulders more comfortably against the back of the chair and balanced the saucer on the flat of one hand. “It doesn’t work that way, Charlotte. If you don’t sell your land, then someone else here will sell theirs. A year from now, if other subdivisions do pop up in the meantime, then there’ll be no demand for your land.”

“So much the better,” Charlotte said with a shrug.

Jared studied her. “You really want to fight Hiram, don’t you?”

“And the Heritage Homes developers. Camellia Lane is one of the few antebellum mansions left in this part of Mississippi. It should be preserved. The question is, will you help me?”

Jared studied her as if a great deal were at stake for him, too. “If I do…does that mean you’ll stay on?”

“In Mississippi?”

“Yes.” Jared kept his eyes on hers.

Charlotte shrugged, feeling uneasy at the suddenly intimate nature of his gaze. “The magazine I work for is located in New York.”

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “You couldn’t give it up?”

Charlotte drew a deep, enervating breath. “For what?”

“A life here at Camellia Lane.”

Again, his gaze was a little too intense for comfort. Surely he couldn’t be saying… Charlotte backed off. She raised a hand in a cautionary manner. “I can’t think about that today, Jared.” And she meant it.

He set his cup and saucer aside and leaned toward her. “Then when?”

Charlotte drew another breath. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” she said.

* * *

CHARLOTTE SHUT THE DOOR after Jared and leaned against it wearily. She had tried to make it clear from the outset that she had called him because he was an old family friend—not a potential love interest. Unfortunately, he was thinking of her amorously.

She was going to have to think up some way to let him down gently. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

In the meantime, she had to think of a way to make the balloon payment if she couldn’t locate Stephen Sterling in time. With that purpose in mind, Charlotte marched across the front hall to the library. She was halfway across the room when she caught a flash of movement on the sofa and let out a startled scream.

“Lady, what is it with you?” Brett drawled as he lazily sat up. “Must you always scream people awake?”

Charlotte resisted the urge to slug him for scaring her half to death. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I thought you wanted me to do more caretaking.”

Charlotte braced her fists on her hips and stood her ground. “What does that have to do with you sleeping on the library sofa?” And why did he have to look so sexy, with his dark hair all rumpled, his blue eyes so vibrant and filled with mischief?

“I came in to see what needed to be done, couldn’t decide and lay down to think about it.” Brett propped his clasped hands beneath his head and made no move to sit up. “Next thing I knew I fell asleep.”

Thank goodness he hadn’t overheard her conversation with Jared, Charlotte thought. It was embarrassing to be on the receiving end of a subtle pass from Jared. “Well, I want you to stop it immediately,” Charlotte said hotly.

“Stop what? Sleeping? Or eavesdropping?” he prodded as he stretched and got lazily to his feet.

Charlotte swore beneath her breath as he towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun, dwarfing her. She gasped as he took a step nearer. “You didn’t—”

Brett flashed her a crocodile grin. Bracing a palm on the sofa back beside her, he leaned close, the tantalizing scent of Old Spice and soap engulfing her. “I did.”

She knew he expected her to back away. Instead, she clamped her arms in front of her and fumed. “You had no right listening in on what was a very private conversation.”

His glance moved over the soft swell of her breasts before roving impertinently back to her face. Again, the wicked grin. “It was either that or interrupt the tête-à-tête,” he admitted roguishly. “Given the rather…um, shall we say delicate nature of your conversation, I figured you’d prefer me to stay put and stay quiet.” He leaned close. His dark blue eyes glittered with laughter as he reached up to finger a lock of her hair. Sifting the silky strands through his fingers, he pinned her to the spot with a knowing look. “Or was I wrong?” he speculated brashly.

Charlotte was so aware of him she could barely draw a breath. Gathering her wits, she pointed to the front door. “You, sir, are always wrong! Now get out of my house!”

“Why, I’m hurt, Miss Charlotte.” He plastered both hands against the solid wall of his chest and grinned disarmingly. “You didn’t even give me a chance to help you and your beautiful sisters out of your predicament.”

Charlotte was not amused by his clowning around. She regarded him patiently and uttered a long-suffering sigh. “There’s nothing you can do for us.”

“I could offer you a piece of advice.”

“Which is…?” She offered up a sweet smile, totally ignoring the way he looked in those soft, faded, snug-fitting jeans.

“I think you’d best be advised to find yourself another lawyer—someone who is truly on your side,” Brett counseled solemnly.

Charlotte drew a bolstering breath. “Jared is on my side.”

“Is he now?” Brett said in a put-on Southern drawl. “Funny, I didn’t hear him offer up any options except for you to sell out. Unless of course, you count that veiled proposal to start up something with him. Which leads us to the next question. Just how far would you go, Miss Charlotte, to save your beloved Camellia Lane?”

It was a good question, and one Charlotte really didn’t want to think about. She also knew Brett wasn’t about to leave without an answer. “I’ll do whatever I have to do,” she vowed flatly. She would even get down on her hands and knees and beg, if it came to that. Anything to save Camellia Lane.

“That’s what I thought,” Brett said, his disapproval evident.

Charlotte didn’t need Brett or anyone else acting as her conscience. She had enough to deal with as it was.

She put a hand on his sweatshirt-covered chest, intending to shove him out the door if necessary. Big mistake. Beneath the soft cotton, she could feel the swell of solid male muscle. Lots of it. And it was all braced for… Well, she didn’t want to think about that, Charlotte decided as frissons of desire swept through her in undulating waves.

“Find something you like?” he teased softly. Grinning, he stepped closer, until their legs were touching in one long electric line.

His head was dipping toward hers, and she could feel the closeness of his chest and, lower still, the heat from… No! She was not going to let him do this to her, even if he was the sexiest man she had come across in a very long time.

Deciding the sooner she got rid of him, the better, she gave a push. “Out.”

To her surprise, he merely shrugged and began to move in the direction she’d pointed. He sauntered toward the door. No sooner had he gotten to the front hall, however, than he came back to the portal where she was standing.

This time, when she flattened a palm against his chest he didn’t budge. Instead, he covered her hand with his own and tightened his grasp.

“You’re not going to do it, are you?” he persisted, searching her face. “Fire Jared and hire another attorney?”

Charlotte extricated her hand from his. She shook off his touch, trying without success to get rid of the tingles. “I have no reason to consult another attorney,” she insisted stubbornly.

“If you say so,” Brett muttered darkly.

Charlotte stepped past him, opened the front door as wide as it would go and practically shoved him out the portal. “You’re wrong about Jared. He’s noble.” Unfortunately, he also had a misdirected crush on her.

“I see.” The corners of Brett’s dark mustache quirked up wickedly as he smiled. His blue eyes grew dark and intense. He anchored an arm about her waist and hauled her close. “Too noble to do this, I presume?”

Charlotte had no time to react. One minute she was standing in front of Brett. The next thing she knew she was swept up in his arms, bent backward from the waist. She gasped in astonishment as he slowly…slowly…lowered his mouth to hers. “Brett, don’t!” she gasped, feeling both mesmerized and aroused. And then his lips touched hers and the world fell away as he kissed her like she had never been kissed before.

She felt the tickle of his mustache and the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth. The hardness of his chest, the muscular brace of his legs and the iron command in his arms. Desire raced through her in a heartbeat, warming her outside and in. Her tummy was weightless, her knees made of jelly. And still he kissed her, taking everything she had to give.

Feeling as if every romantic fantasy she’d ever had was about to come true, Charlotte started to surrender to the conquering nature of his embrace, then brought herself up short. What was she thinking? Dear heaven, she didn’t have time for this!

Temper raging, she tore her mouth from his and pushed at his chest. He laughed softly, his hand still tangled in her hair; then, as gallantly as any Southern gentleman, he slowly righted her and, just as deliberately, released her.

Charlotte was so disoriented and filled with overwhelming pleasure she could barely stand up, let alone think of anything appropriate to say. Brett knew it. Acting strictly on impulse, she slapped his face.

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

Chapter Three

“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.

* * *

DECIDING THERE WAS no better time to investigate Brett than when he was still busy in the kitchen, Charlotte slipped out of the house. Taking care to go the long way and stay out of sight of the kitchen windows, she headed for the cottage. After making sure no one was there, she used her key and let herself in.

Her heart racing, she began to look around. As before, his papers and books were scattered everywhere. She flipped through them quickly. All were on farming. Scowling in disappointment, she sat down at his desk and switched on his laptop computer. Aware of the need to hurry, she called up the directory and took a look at the files. Again, everything pertained to agriculture. Sure she must be missing something, Charlotte utilized the Search function on the computer and began scrolling through the documents. To her frustration, all were exactly as they were labeled.

Finding nothing incriminating or remotely connected to Stephen Sterling, she looked for an alternate directory on the computer. But there was only the one.

Lips pursed, she stared at the screen. Her heart was still racing and she had that prickly, about-to-get-caught-at-any-minute sensation on the back of her neck. Yet she had to find the truth, so she couldn’t leave just yet. Was it possible that Brett was exactly as he seemed? she wondered frantically. A lazy, flirtatious scholar and nothing more? Was it possible she had misjudged him?

Without warning, the door opened behind her. Knowing her best defense was a good offense, Charlotte remained where she was and played it cool.

Ever so slowly, she swiveled around in her chair. Brett stood in the doorway, legs braced apart, arms folded in front of him. His expression was very grim indeed.

“Oh, there you are, Brett. I’ve been looking for you,” Charlotte said.

“Really?” he retorted glibly, his blue eyes glittering with an emotion Charlotte wasn’t sure she wanted to define. “I was under the impression you knew damn well I was in the kitchen preparing dinner.”

“Obviously I thought you’d stepped out for a moment,” she replied, using haughtiness as her main defense, “or I wouldn’t have come down here.”

He nodded, not buying her explanation for one second. His glance flicked over her face, returned to her eyes. “That doesn’t explain what you were doing on my computer,” he said very, very softly.

Charlotte searched for something to tell him as she switched off his computer, closed the lid and stood. “I noticed it was a newer model than my laptop. I wanted to try it out and see if it was any faster.” She flashed him an apologetic smile, then followed that with a demure look as she pushed in the chair. She couldn’t help but notice his thighs were girded as if for battle beneath the soft, snug fabric of his jeans. So were the brawny muscles of his shoulders and chest. She returned her eyes to his face and swallowed to ease the ache of tension in her throat. She moved slightly to the left of him. “I know I should have asked permission first—”

“Damn right about that.” Brett’s expression remained grim as he moved to the left, too, barring any hope of easy exit.

“Sorry. Next time I’ll ask first,” Charlotte promised.

He glowered down at her. He seemed in no mood to let her pass—yet. “Sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” he prodded, his mouth taking on a rapacious tilt. He looked as if he were prepared to kiss the information out of her, if all else failed. Drawing a shaky breath, she decided to change the subject back to the business at hand.

Charlotte went back to the table and picked up the notepad and pen she had brought into the cottage with her. “Actually, I did want to tell you what needs to be done on the grounds before the party.”

“Isabella and Paige said you went off by yourself to make a list. Funny—” Brett glanced down at her notepad “—there doesn’t seem to be anything written on that list of yours, Miss Charlotte.”

She shrugged, refusing to let the warmth of his breath in her hair or his knowing expression throw her. “Yes, well, I got sidetracked,” she explained.

“Sidetracked spying on me?” he elaborated sarcastically.

“Sidetracked stopping in to see if you were here,” Charlotte corrected, her cheeks flooding with warmth. “I wanted to arrange a time for us to get together tomorrow morning.” It was all she could do to keep her eyes on his.

Brett continued to regard her steadily. He was close enough for her to see how closely he had shaved. “What’s wrong with tonight?” he asked huskily.

“Nothing.” Charlotte adapted her most innocent look. “I just thought you might be busy.”

Brett said nothing in response and continued to look at her warily. He knew she was suspicious of him, and that she hadn’t found what she was looking for. Like her, he had been smart enough to lock his secret documents away. “Well, I’m not busy,” he said, mimicking her light, easy tone, “so what did you want, boss lady?”

“I have landscapers coming in tomorrow to plant flowers and trim the shrubs, but I want you to resurrect our lawn mower and mow the grass on the estate.”

“Are you going to help me?”

“No.”

“There are two hundred acres on the estate. That’s a big job.”

Yes, it was, but Charlotte had no intention of working side by side with him. Just thinking about the possibility conjured up visions of Brett, muscles rippling, working bare-chested in the sun. No. She did not want to see that.

“Just find a way to do it,” she advised, exasperated both with him and the unprecedentedly sexual nature of her thoughts. “After that, I don’t care what you do!”

Brett knew she didn’t care. That was what made his own response to her so curious. It shouldn’t have mattered to him how far Charlotte would go to save her beloved Camellia Lane, as long as he kept her distracted enough that she didn’t discover Sterling’s true identity. It also shouldn’t have mattered to him that she was ridiculously naive when it came to Jared Fontaine. After all, it wasn’t as if he were involved with her. He was merely spying on her.

So what if Charlotte labeled Brett a cad and looked at Jared as her rescuer? He shouldn’t have been provoked into kissing her, but he had been. The desire he’d felt as he held her in his arms and experienced the sweetness of her surrender was overwhelming. He wanted Miss Charlotte. And he was going to get her any way he could.

“What if I tell you I won’t do this new work assignment without your help?” Brett asked in an insolent way he knew would annoy her.

Hands on her hips, Charlotte regarded him without flinching. “Then I’ll ask you to pack your bags and vacate the premises immediately,” she said coolly.

He couldn’t stop her from unmasking Sterling from afar, Brett thought. He sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, and he was in this up to his neck. “All right, all right. Starting tomorrow, I’ll get the mower up and running and cut the darn grass, but when I’m done,” he warned silkily, “I’ll expect to be amply compensated.”

“With what?” Charlotte asked with an impertinent toss of her dark hair. “Another kiss?”

So, Brett thought with satisfaction, she hadn’t forgotten their embrace, either. “Maybe,” he said.

“Dream on,” she retorted haughtily. “You caught me by surprise once. Not ever again.”

Brett grinned. He’d felt her response to his embrace. She had to be yearning for another kiss every bit as much as he was. “Should we bet on that?”

* * *

“I DON’T SEE WHY I have to wear the chemise, the corset and the petticoat for the fitting,” Charlotte grumbled the following afternoon. She held on to the bedpost with both hands, as Paige laced her up so tight her breasts spilled from the top of the lacy white linen chemise.

“It’s the only efficient way to measure you.” Paige frowned and gave the strings on the corset another tug. “Can you still breathe?”

“No!”

“Good, then that’s probably tight enough,” Paige decided. She stepped back to admire her handiwork as Charlotte let go of the bedpost. “You know, I think we whittled a good two inches off your waist with that corset.”

“It feels like it, too,” Charlotte grumbled. “Now loosen those strings, Paige.”

Paige propped both her manicured hands on her hips. She was dressed in street clothes, since she had already had her fitting. “Do you want to look like an authentic antebellum Southern belle or not?” Paige demanded.

“I’d rather be comfortable,” Charlotte admitted matter-of-factly. When Paige refused to help her, she reached around and tried to get at the double-knotted laces herself.

Paige slapped her hand away. “Stop that, Charlotte, and quit your complaining! I went to a great deal of trouble to find and borrow these corsets for us.”

“Maybe it would help if the person you borrowed the corsets from had been a size or two larger.” And her chemise cut a little more modestly, Charlotte thought.

Paige went to the mirror and primped, needlessly adjusting her perfectly coiffed hair. “You look fine.”

Charlotte stepped up to the mirror, next to Paige. Layers of lacy petticoat fell from her waist to just above her ankles. Her corset was wrapped snugly around her midriff, to just below her breasts. The chemise was above that. She looked ridiculous, like Scarlett O’Hara getting ready for the barbecue and ball at Twelve Oaks.

“You look wonderful,” Paige said, smiling encouragement at Charlotte.

“Primed to seduce someone, you mean,” Charlotte corrected. And with that thought, the only person who came to mind was Brett Forrest.

Just because he had kissed her once, fed her strawberries drenched in whipped cream and went out of his way to annoy her did not mean Brett was interested in her, or vice versa. Sure, there was plenty of chemistry between them, but that did not change the fact that he wasn’t her type. She liked men who knew exactly what they wanted out of life and had no qualms about going after it. Not men who napped on sofas, played at writing a thesis on farming and skulked around eavesdropping on other people’s private conversations.

As for the way she had responded to his kiss, well, that had been due to the surprise of his embrace, Charlotte told herself firmly. And the fact she hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time. Actually, she had never been kissed quite like that, which was another reason to stay as far away from Brett as possible.

The sound of a car broke the silence of the spring afternoon. Paige rushed to the window. “There’s the seamstress now. I’ll go down and get her.” She pointed a finger at Charlotte. “Don’t you go anywhere. And don’t unlace those stays!”

* * *

BRETT STOPPED in the doorway of Charlotte’s bedroom, stunned by what he saw. She was standing in a chemise, corset and petticoats. Her dark hair tumbled down around her shoulders in wild, tousled curls. Her breasts spilled from the lacy top in very alluring fashion.

Green eyes flashing, she whirled to face him. Blushing, she reached for a stack of midnight-blue damask curtains on the bed and held one in front of her like a shield. “What are you doing in here?”

Pretending a nonchalance he couldn’t begin to feel, Brett smiled and sauntered closer. He didn’t know what it was about this place, but it was damn near magical. And so was Charlotte. “You know, you look like you stepped right out of another time,” he said softly. Having closed the distance between them, he twined a lock of her silky hair around his fingertip.

“It’s the clothes,” she said stubbornly as their eyes met and held.

“No,” Brett disagreed wickedly. “It’s not even the lack of them, Miss Charlotte. It’s you, plain and simple.”

Charlotte shook her head at him. Hand on his chest, she pushed him away. “You’re sinful, Brett Forrest.”

Her petticoat made soft swishing noises as she glided away from him. Brett followed. “Want to find out just how much?” he taunted playfully, only half kidding.

Charlotte whirled toward him in a drift of lilac perfume. “No, thank you,” she said haughtily.

Just as he had suspected. Brett grinned, not the least bit anxious to leave. He glanced at the four tall windows that illuminated the corner bedroom. “Why did you tear all the curtains down in here?” he asked. The only thing she’d left were the translucent white sheers.

Charlotte blushed. “That is none of your business!”

Uh-huh, Brett thought, taking in her increasingly guilty expression. She was definitely up to something. What exactly, he couldn’t quite imagine. Unless she was going to stand in front of those sheer white curtains at night and drive him crazy with the silhouette of her undressing piece by piece….

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Charlotte demanded, beginning to panic as she darted around the end of the four-poster bed.

“No reason,” Brett fibbed, making absolutely no effort to erase the mischievous grin from his face as he lazily traced her path. It had been a long time since he had chased a girl at recess. It pleased him to realize he hadn’t forgotten how, because Charlotte was one delectable Southern belle who absolutely begged to be chased, even if she didn’t know it!

“Well, then, why did you come up here?” Having gotten herself stuck in a corner next to the bureau, Charlotte turned and regarded him impatiently. Tapping one ballet-slippered foot all the while, she continued to glare at him and hold the blue damask curtain to her breasts. “What do you want?”

Oh, sweetheart, if you only knew. “Just one more thing,” Brett said lazily. Ignoring Charlotte’s soft gasp of dismay, he grabbed her around the waist and, with a determined tug, brought her close so only the curtains were between them. Then he yanked the curtains from her grasp and tossed them onto the bed, so that nothing was keeping him from feeling every inch of her against every inch of him. “You know,” he speculated in a way he knew would absolutely incense her, “I bet beneath that sweet porcelain skin of yours beats a heart of fire.”

Charlotte’s emerald green eyes widened with a mixture of temper and passion Brett found unbearably exciting. She splayed her hands across his chest as he slowly lowered his lips to hers. She exerted even more force with her hands; he ignored it. “I mean it, Brett Forrest. Don’t even think it!” she warned, her thick dark eyelashes already beginning to close.

“Then I won’t think it,” he said softly. “I’ll do it.”

Her lips were hot and soft, her kiss sensual. He knew she didn’t mean to kiss him back, any more than he could help himself kissing her, and somehow that made the culmination of their desire all the sweeter. Groaning, he deepened the kiss, sweeping her mouth with his tongue, leaving not a millimeter unexplored. He had never felt anything like this in his life. Never wanted any one woman so much, never been possessed so thoroughly and so swiftly. And that was when he knew it had to end, before they both suffered the consequences. With difficulty, Brett lifted his mouth from hers. Charlotte’s mouth was damp and pink. She was gasping for breath as she slowly opened her eyes. To Brett’s further astonishment, she looked dazed and completely besotted. She was still clinging to his neck, looking like she wanted very much for him to start up the kisses again.

It was all Brett could do not to groan again. He wanted more than anything to take her over to her big four-poster bed and lie down with her on it. He couldn’t think of anything sweeter or more exciting. He wanted to feel her against him, without all these damnable layers of petticoats and clothes. He wanted to have her against him, all soft and surrendering.

But it wasn’t going to be today, not with Paige and that seamstress due back in the room at any moment.

“I’d sure like to be the man to bring you to life, sweetheart,” he drawled. To his chagrin, Charlotte looked like she wanted that, too. With all the strength he could muster, Brett released her abruptly and said, “Unfortunately for both of us, I don’t have time for this. I have to mow the lawn.”

“What?” Charlotte sputtered, looking as if she couldn’t believe he had gotten her all fired up and then just let her go!

Brett grinned. It did his heart good to know she was as reluctant to end the steamy embrace as he was. “You should know better than to play with the hired help, Miss Charlotte,” he teased. “But perhaps this will teach you a lesson,” he added with mock seriousness.

Charlotte flew at him with both fists. He caught her wrists before they could connect with his chest. “You are a dead man,” Charlotte said irately, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. “Do you hear me, Brett Forrest?” she shouted. “A dead man!”

Brett laughed, enjoying more than ever the feel of her in his arms. “You sure are pretty when you’re in a temper, Miss Charlotte,” he drawled. And I sure would like to kiss you again.

From behind them came two soft, feminine ahems.

Face flaming, Charlotte stopped struggling abruptly and turned, as did Brett. Paige stood in the doorway beside a middle-aged woman with a sewing basket. It was obvious from the amused looks on their faces they’d seen just about everything. Brett didn’t mind, but Charlotte sure did.

“Are we interrupting anything?” Paige asked.

He took another look at Charlotte in the old-fashioned chemise and petticoats, her tousled hair and pink cheeks. “Nothing that can’t be continued later,” he promised with a sexy grin.

* * *

“SO HOW IS IT GOING so far?” Franklin asked Brett, long minutes later.

Brett held the phone to his ear as he paced the cottage. He knew he rubbed Charlotte the wrong way, and he was working hard on heightening her feelings of both apprehension and distaste. Adding desire to the mix had confused her even more, and that was good. The more he could distract her from thinking about Sterling, the better. “I don’t think the indefatigable Miss Langston is any closer to finding out who the real Stephen Sterling is yet,” he admitted. “But I also know she’s not about to give up. So maybe a preemptive strike is in order.”

Franklin chuckled. Brett could be very creative when it came to taking care of business. “Got anything specific in mind?”

“Aside from spying on her every chance I get?” Brett drawled, tongue-in-cheek.

“Yes.”

Brett frowned and tried not to think how pretty Charlotte had looked in the old-fashioned ladies’ underwear. He had come here to do a job and couldn’t leave until it had been accomplished. In the meantime, he would have a little fun with Miss Charlotte. “Maybe it’s time we set up a wild-goose chase for her,” Brett suggested finally. Something that would really get her going…in the wrong direction, of course.

“Sounds good,” Franklin said. “And in the meantime?”

“I’ll stay one step ahead of and behind her,” Brett promised.

“Won’t Miss Langston get suspicious if you’re always underfoot?” Franklin asked.

“Not if I sweep her off her feet.” Brett grinned, remembering their last kiss. “Besides, she thinks the nature of my interest in her is largely romantic.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Are you romantically interested in Charlotte Langston?” Franklin asked bluntly.

Brett scoffed at the mere suggestion. “Hell, no. Nosy, spoiled Southern belles are not my type, you know that.”

“Mmm. Well, you just watch yourself, Brett. And remember who is investigating whom here. There’s a lot at stake and not just for Stephen Sterling.”

Brett didn’t have to be reminded of that. His future was riding on this, too. He smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Franklin. I’ve got everything well under control. No matter how much it irritates her to have me around, Miss Charlotte Langston won’t make a move without me knowing about it.”

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