Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Read Free Page B

pulled out the white cotton square. When he was sure she’d seen it, he put it away again and picked up his coffee cup.
    “Consider me impressed,” she said in even tones.
    “No need to be. It’s nothing more than habit.”
    “Encouraged by your late aunt.”
    He gave a short laugh. “Demanded, is more like it.”
    “Why her? Why not your parents?”
    “No parents.”
    A frown appeared between her brows. “Everyone has parents.”
    “Some don’t count. The fact is, Aunt Tillie took me in as a baby and raised me the best way she knew how.”
    “She was your great-aunt, I think Miss Chauvin said?”
    “My grandmother’s younger sister.” This was turning into quite an interrogation. Fine. He’d gotten himself into it, so might as well answer whatever he was asked. For now.
    “She must have been quite old, past the age to rear a child.”
    “Probably, though she didn’t seem to mind. She’d never married, never had kids of her own.”
    “A spinster with strict ideas on how to rear children.”
    “Boys, anyway.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, but pulled the pleated paper away from his muffin before cutting it into quarters with his fork. Picking up a quarter of it on the fork tines, he took it in one bite.
    She was watching him, her eyes narrowed.
    He swallowed the mouthful of rich chocolate muffin. “What?”
    “Nothing,” she answered, looking at the muffin she’d picked up whole, as if she intended to bite into it like an apple. She put it back on her plate and leaned to pick up the strap of her oversized shoulder bag she’d set on the floor. Pulling it onto her lap, she took out a file folder and small laptop. “We are here to talk about the interview, if you’ll remember. The piece will be titled ‘A Day in the Life of a Southern Gentleman’ or something similar. For it, I need to spend time with you, really get to know you.”
    “Time.” His voice was flat, without encouragement.
    “A couple of days, at least, or longer if necessary. I’ve been given a week for the project.”
    “I don’t think—” he began.
    “Nor do I, really, but the more photos, candid and posed, that I can gather, and the more comments, the better the piece will be.”
    “You have the wrong man, ma’am. I thought I’d made that clear.”
    Her smile turned brittle. “Could be, though only time will tell. I can’t expect the magazine’s editor-in-chief to accept that judgment based on a single meeting.”
    “This person calls the shots?”
    “He does, unfortunately.”
    The dry note in her voice told Beau there was something more involved in that bit of information. Whatever it might be was none of his business. His problem at the moment was with Carla Nicholson.
    She wasn’t going to give up, he saw that clearly. It was doubtful Granny Chauvin would, either, now that she’d met Carla and knew firsthand that she’d come to do an article. It seemed the only way he was going to get out of this deal was to show he didn’t fit the image. If he could give the lady writer a strong enough disgust for him, maybe she’d pack up her notebook and little recorder and go away.
    The drawback to that was the need to let her hang around for a short while, at least, asking questions, poking into what didn’t concern her. He wasn’t sure he could put up with it.
    On the other hand, he did appreciate independent women. Aunt Tillie had been the epitome of a southern lady, yet did as she pleased all her life. He was used to women who said exactly what they meant, and didn’t back down from a word of it.
    He’d also enjoyed those few minutes when the magazine lady came unglued because of old Ruff. The glimpse of a more fragile personality had been instructive, even if his brain had been short-circuited by the feel of her curves against him. He’d wanted to stand there, holding her, until the world spun to its end, wanted to soothe and touch her until she trembled from something more promising than fear.
    Could