Karen Kirst - His Mountain Miss

“Forget them,” he ordered as the clouds opened up, releasing a torrent.

Tugging on her hand, they made a dash for the back porch, surging up the slippery steps to stand, breathless and soaked to the skin, beneath the sheltering roof. The rain pounded the earth in an unrelenting assault. Lucian dropped her hand. His unfathomable gaze met hers. His hair was plastered to his head, his face slick with rainwater. Megan shivered. Her white eyelet blouse clung to her body, as did her robin-egg-blue skirts. Before she could guess at his intentions, he’d shrugged out of his coat and stepped close, settling it across her shoulders and pulling it closed. His heat and exotic cologne enveloped her.

“Th-thank you.”

“Are you warm enough?”

She nodded, suddenly tongue-tied.

Several wet strands clung to her face, and before she could brush them aside, his fingers were there. Warm and featherlight. His fingertips skimming her cheek set off sparks, shimmers of light through her body. Her breath hitched.

What was happening to her?

She didn’t like this arrogant man, his polished manners and jaded view of life.

Thank goodness he moved away so she could breathe again. Resting one hip against the railing, he stared solemnly out at the rain. Without the formal coat, he looked more approachable. The white shirt molded to his athletic build, his biceps straining the thin material where he’d crossed his arms.

Stop staring, she chided herself. His outward appearance may be attractive, but it hid the darkness he held inside. The turmoil she’d glimpsed on his face the few times his control had slipped. Who was he, really? All she’d ever known was that he hadn’t cared enough about a lonely old man to make the journey to see him before he died. That was hard to forgive.

* * *

Lucian’s instincts were normally right. People in his circle tended to be shallow and self-centered, motivated by greed and the lust for power and increased social standing. He trusted no one. Not even his so-called closest friends, for he knew that if not for his wealth and the Beaumont name, they’d be gone in a second. He’d spent a lot of years wishing things were different. Eventually, he’d come to terms with the state of affairs.

Until Dominique. The seemingly innocent, sweet-natured girl had resurrected his hope, his longing for something real and pure. He’d thought she was different from the conniving, scheming vipers trying to win his favor. He was wrong. In fact, she’d turned out to be worse. Much worse. And he’d fallen for her act—hook, line and sinker.

Shoving the humiliation aside, he focused on the blonde beauty beside him. Megan fairly radiated goodness, the depths of her sea-blue eyes clear and honest. Listening to her impassioned speech a moment ago, he could almost believe she truly cared about helping the children of this town. Was it real? Or a clever act designed to lower his guard?

“How did all this come about?” He circled a finger in the air. “With Charles, I mean.”

“It started with a simple invitation to borrow books,” she said as her features softened into a smile of remembrance. “He was a bit reclusive, your grandfather, coming to town only for church services and an occasional visit to the mercantile to catch up on local news. It was there that he overheard me complaining that I’d read everything I could get my hands on more than once, and that I longed for new reading material. He remarked that he had a houseful of books. I was welcome to borrow as many as I liked.

“My first few visits, he left me to my own devices. Then one day, he seemed particularly down. I joined him in the parlor—uninvited, mind you—and we wound up talking for hours. He wanted to be a writer. Did you know that?” Huddled inside his overlarge coat, her pale hair clinging to her skin, she looked small and vulnerable. Sadness tugged at her mouth.

“No, I didn’t.” He forced himself to look away from her, to watch the continuing storm that mirrored the one inside him.

It sounded as if she and Charles had shared a special bond. Of course he hadn’t been privy to his grandfather’s dreams, his likes and dislikes, or anything else remotely personal. He had never even met the man! The spurt of jealousy took him by surprise.

Why should he care? Charles had written his mother and him off years ago. They had ceased to exist in his grandfather’s mind. This will stipulation only served to prove Charles’s dislike, one final thrust of the dagger. It hadn’t been enough to ignore Lucian during his lifetime. He’d had to go and complicate matters with this house, just to underscore his loathing.

“He tried his hand at poetry,” she continued, “and he even penned a couple of short stories. I think it kept the loneliness at bay, if temporarily.”

He chose to ignore the censure in her voice, the unspoken questions.

“Lucian, your grandfather was a good man. He—”

“Stop. I do not wish to discuss him anymore today.”

“But—”

“Megan, don’t.” He shot her a warning glance.

“Fine.” She jutted her chin. “Then how about we address the poetry recital coming up?”

“Poetry recital?”

“You know, when people stand up and recite poetry by rote?”

“I know what it is,” he told her drily. “How many people are we talking about?”

“We average between twenty-five and thirty.”

He sighed. Thirty strangers parading through his house. He didn’t like it. Resented this present circumstance that was beyond his control. As empty as his life in New Orleans had become, it was his home. Comfortable and familiar. Predictable. He knew what to expect from those around him, and they him.

Frustration surged. If not for this young lady, he would’ve already put the house up for sale and been well on his way out of this backwoods town.

“By all means, proceed with your plans as you’ve always done.”

Surprise flickered.

“But let me make myself clear—I plan to do everything possible to find a way around that stipulation.”

She jerked her head back. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t care about the children or the people of this community.” Yanking off his coat, she thrust it at him, and he fumbled to catch it before it fell to the floor. “You care only about yourself—” she poked him in the chest “—what you want and what you need. Well, let me assure you, Mr. Beaumont, I will do everything I can to fight you on this.”

Then, to his shock, she pivoted and dashed out into the rain. Though it had slacked off, the rain was still steady. Did she plan to run the entire way home?

“Megan!” He rushed to the top step. “Wait!”

He wasn’t sure if she heard him or not. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow down, just kept going. Across the grass and down the lane, until she disappeared around the bend.

Shoving his hands through his hair, he blew out an aggravated breath. The woman was a danger to his sanity. And control? Hah! She had him so mixed up, he couldn’t tell up from down.

He was beginning to wish he’d never heard of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

Chapter Four

Lucian couldn’t in good conscience allow Megan to leave without some sort of protection from the elements. Ignoring the fact he was dripping water all over the floors, he went inside in search of his umbrella. Seizing one propped against the wall, he tossed his coat on the hall table and hurried back out into the rain. There, at the end of the lane, was a flash of white and blue.

As he sprinted across the sprawling lawn, bits of mud splashed up on to his boots. His pristine, clean-as-a-whistle boots. And since, in his haste, he hadn’t bothered opening the umbrella, his vest and shirt were now soaked. He ground his teeth together. If the woman had an ounce of sense...