Carolyn Davidson - Tempting A Texan

“I won’t hear of it.” His tones were clipped, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion and she subsided, unwilling to argue in front of Amanda. As though he understood her position and agreed, he nodded at the open door of his study. “After supper, perhaps you’ll join me in here and we’ll discuss this at greater length.”

Carlinda nodded, and stepped up her pace to the dining room, where a long table was set with three places and, at one end, a tureen of soup sent up a steam of fragrance. She was seated with a courtly gesture, and she opened the linen napkin beside her plate, aware of Amanda’s copycat gesture as the child followed her example.

Nicholas served the soup, waving Katie’s offer of help aside as the woman brought a plate of fresh bread from the kitchen. It was delicious, a clear broth with traces of rice and bits of chicken adding flavor, providing a light beginning to the meal. It was followed by a roast, again served by Nicholas, who stood before his chair and offered thin slices of the meat to his guests. Small potatoes, cooked with the skins intact, were accompanied by whole green beans, redolent with the scent of bacon and onions.

It was a filling repast, and when Katie brought forth a tart for each of them, Carlinda was tempted to refuse. And then she caught sight of the dark, thick juice of purple berries that spread before the force of Nicholas’s fork as he cut into the dainty bit of pastry.

“I shouldn’t,” she sighed, even as she watched the tiny wisps of steam rise from the delicacy.

“It’s a specialty of Katie’s,” Nicholas said, coaxing her with a smile. “She’ll be insulted if you refuse a bite.”

“I fear I’ll eat the whole thing,” Carlinda said, tasting carefully of the hot offering. “Don’t burn your mouth,” she warned Amanda.

“I’ve got cream to put over it, if you like,” Katie said from the kitchen doorway, then approached with a small pitcher of golden liquid as Amanda nodded her agreement. “It tastes good this way,” she told the child, pouring a generous amount.

“I’ll take some, too,” Nicholas said, offering his dish.

“And you, miss?” Katie asked.

“If it tastes better that way, I suppose I should join the group,” Carlinda agreed.

The meal was long, Nicholas asking Amanda about the trip, skirting the topic of her parents and offering small glimpses of his life in this small Texas town. He delivered an occasional aside to Carlinda, but his attention was focused on the child who sat at his right hand.

The resemblance between the two of them was obvious to anyone who cared to look, Carlinda decided. Even Katie glanced back and forth between the man and the young girl who absorbed his interest, and before the end of the meal, she had shot a look of understanding at the other woman.

Nicholas pushed away from the table finally. “I believe I’ve eaten more than my share, Katie,” he said, watching as she cleared the plate from before him.

“You don’t usually eat enough,” she snipped. “About time you sat down and did my cooking justice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said obligingly, looking suitably chagrined. And then he rose and spoke kindly to Amanda. “Would you like to sit on the porch for a while?” he asked. “Or perhaps look at the stereopticon in the parlor?”

“Stere—” Amanda halted halfway through the word, obviously puzzled at its meaning.

“A stereopticon is something you hold up to your eyes and then look at pictures with,” he said. “I have a whole box of prints you can see.” He took her by the hand and led her from the room, sending an apologetic look in Carlinda’s direction.

“In the parlor?” Amanda asked brightly, double-stepping to keep up with his long strides. “What kind of pictures do you have?”

“Some of Rome or Venice or even London,” he said. “And lots of New York City and other places here in America.”

“I’ve already been to New York,” the child told him flatly. “I’d rather see somewhere else.”

“How about Niagara Falls?” he asked. “Or maybe ships on the ocean?”

“Let’s steer clear of P-a-r-i-s,” Carlinda said quickly, spelling the city’s name in a rush of letters, lest Amanda get the drift of the word she attempted to avoid speaking.

“Is there some reason for that?” he asked in a muted tone as he stepped to a bookcase where the instrument lay. Amanda settled herself on a sofa, smoothing her dress over her legs with a practiced hand, anticipation alive in her blue eyes. He glanced back at her, and Carlinda detected a softening in his eyes, those eyes so like the child’s.

“The accident took place in Paris,” she murmured. “I try not to mention it. She was quite traumatized for days after we heard the news.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew her mother. You were with Amanda, even back then?”

Carlinda hesitated, then nodded briefly. “Shall we light a lamp, so she can see these better?” she asked, changing the subject deftly.

Yet, even as he acceded to her suggestion, she was aware that the issue would be raised again. And she prepared herself for a battery of questions.

Nicholas’s study was a reflection of the man, the fittings surrounding him luxurious, yet masculine. An enormous desk, its surface glowing with the sheen of polished mahogany, took her gaze as Carlinda walked over the threshold. Sitting behind it, leaning back in his chair, Nicholas resembled a king surveying his domain, judging his subject as she entered the throne room. She suppressed a smile at the thought, concentrating instead on the man himself. His hands were tanned, his fingers long, and laced together in a casual display of patience as he glanced up at her.

“Is the child asleep?” His voice appealed to her, she found as he spoke his query. It matched the man. Deep and cultured, yet with a strength beneath its resonant tone, it gave warning that he was not a man to be underestimated.

“Amanda?” She spoke the name as a query, her reprimand subtle, and Nicholas frowned. “Such a pretty name, don’t you think?” Carlinda asked, and then sighed, relenting. “Yes, she was tired.” And so am I. Perhaps this was not a good time to face the man and make her position clear. His next words told her he was aware of her hesitation as a slow smile lit his brilliant blue eyes.

“I’ll try to remember from now on to use her name when I speak of her.” He waved in the direction of a seating arrangement across from his desk. “I don’t plan on interrogating you, Miss Donnelly. Sit down for a moment. I only want to talk.”

A brown armchair lured her and she settled in its depths, seduced by the high back and soft leather surrounding her. Her feet touched the floor, her knees weak as she eyed his ebony hair and tanned features. It wasn’t fair that one man should be so endowed with masculine beauty, she thought, masking her admiration with a polite smile.

“I fear I won’t be good company, sir. Although my nap was refreshing, I find I need the comfort of a long night’s sleep. Perhaps your discussion will wait until another time.” She watched as his gaze swept her from top to bottom, a very short distance, given her position in the chair. That his eyes hesitated as they touched upon her full bosom and then traveled to where her feet were clad in soft leather was not a surprise. The man did not pretend a lack of interest in face and form, but made his intentions apparent.

“You don’t look like a nursemaid, Miss Donnelly,” he said bluntly, a small smile playing about his lips, as if he would draw a quick retort from her. “I’ve seen women who looked much as you do while at the opera house in New York City. You’re dressed in a conservative manner, as a cultured young lady would be, yet you give the impression of being knowledgeable about life in society.”