JENNIFER LABRECQUE - Barely Mistaken

Beth nodded her approval and went back to the subject of Luke. “Luke’s a rebel, all right. I think he was born with a streak of wild in him. The thing about those bad-ass boys, when they finally settle down, they make good husbands. Guess it’s ’cause they’ve sown all those wild oats.” Beth shook her head, her eyes dancing with devilment. “And I’d say Luke’s almost sown himself out. If I hadn’t already invested five years of marriage in Chuck and almost had him trained…”

Olivia laughed, eager to latch on to a topic other than Luke Rutledge. “Yuh-huh. You are such big talk. Chuck is a saint.” Well, perhaps Beth’s husband wasn’t a saint, but he was a very nice man, which was close to one and the same these days. “Not to mention the father of your child.”

Beth, nine weeks pregnant, grinned all over herself while she rubbed her tummy. “Well, there is that little matter.”

Olivia pulled out the satin-and-lace merry widow she’d mail-ordered on a whim. She unfolded the undergarment and held it up in front of Beth.

“Ooooeeee. Adam is a lucky man.” She plucked the sexy lingerie from Olivia and turned it one way and then another. “Hot. Definitely very hot. You go, baby.”

“You don’t think it’s too…” Olivia pursed her lips and pretended to evaluate the underwear “…let’s see, how did you describe my wardrobe earlier…oh, yes, prudish?” Actually, she still couldn’t quite see herself in such a sexy getup.

“This,” Beth dangled the satin and lace from one finger, “is a start. A step in the right direction.”

“A start? A step? How about a big flying leap?” Compared to her usual white cotton briefs and the occasional splurge for matching bra and panties, buying this qualified as a veritable walk on the wild side. She felt a little excited and a whole lot naughty just owning such a garment.

“We’ll talk flying leaps when you go crotchless.” Beth wagged her brows.

“Crotchless?” she squeaked. Olivia imagined herself stretched out on her bed next to Adam, the sheets folded back neatly. In her mind’s eye, Adam’s expression registered disgust rather than excitement when he noted her crotchless state. “I don’t think so. This is plenty wild for me.” Olivia toed the line between seductive and trashy, careful not to cross it.

“You’ve got the right idea in mind. But it seems a shame to waste this on Adam.”

Olivia opened her mouth to protest that Adam wouldn’t be viewing her underwear.

Beth, who always had to have the last word, laughed and cut her off. “Just kidding. I know you’re going to tell me he won’t see your underwear.”

Her sense of humor surfaced. Olivia smiled a secretive smile, sure to make Beth nuts. Also, just to counteract her predictability.

Worked like a charm. Beth popped off the bed like a spring-loaded action figure. “Are you holding out on me?”

Olivia laughed. “No. It’s just a feeling I have.”

“It could be gas.”

“Maybe it’s love.” She made a joke of it, in light of Beth’s earlier comments. But, just maybe she was on to something. Her feelings had developed into something more than friendship, and Adam had definitely sent similar signals. What kind of husband would he make?

“It’s more likely gas. You better go take your shower if you want me to help with the hair and makeup. What time is Adam coming by for you?”

“I’m meeting him at the country club around eight-thirty. I need to check on Pops before I go, and there’s no need to drag Adam out there with me.”

“Mr. High and Mighty too good to go out to the farm with you?” Beth asked, sniffing.

“No. He’s been before. And he was very nice.” Perhaps he’d laughed a bit too heartily, his air faintly patronizing, but her father was a far cry from his. Two beers shy of polishing off a twelve-pack, Pops had been feeling no pain as he’d subjected Adam to the farm tour in his rundown pickup. Actually, Adam had requested the tour. Pops maintained, drunk or sober, that it didn’t matter how much money was sitting in the bank or buried in the backyard, if a man owned land, he was wealthy beyond compare. Even if the screen door was held together with duct tape. She hadn’t invited Adam out again.

“He has a meeting late this afternoon. Something to do with policies regarding special deposits. He may be running a little late to the party.”

Beth shoved her toward the bathroom. “So will you, if we don’t get you ready. And don’t forget to shave your legs!”

LUKE RUTLEDGE PULLED INTO the garage next to the stables and killed the engine. He slid out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door. His parents’ his-’n’-her matching Cadillacs, his brother’s late-model BMW and Luke’s old pickup sporting the Rutledge & Klegman Construction logo along with more than a few dings and dents. Which one of these did not belong? He grinned at the joke only he found funny.

A pirate costume hanging in the back of Adam’s car caught his eye. His brother as a pirate? He didn’t think so. Adam was definitely the starched chinos and tasseled loafers type.

Luke crossed the manicured lawn of River Oaks to the back of the Greek Revival mansion. The return of the prodigal son to his ancestral home. He knew exactly how his father regarded him. The black sheep once again darkening the door.

He’d displayed a knack for finding trouble early on. At what age had he finally figured out that not everyone fell prey to the wildness that seized him at times? He couldn’t put an exact memory to the time he realized he was different from the rest of his family. But lines had become clearly drawn about the time he’d discovered they primarily cared about money and position and they figured out he didn’t give a damn what people thought.

Rutledges didn’t ride big, black motorcycles, sport tattoos, wear an earring, or make a living at something as menial as manual labor. It didn’t make a rat’s ass difference he’d earned a civil engineering degree, owned his own construction firm, and had more money sitting in the Colther Community Bank than he’d ever need. He’d tainted his success when he’d gone into business with Dave Klegman, a transplanted New Yorker.

Nope. Luke didn’t look like a Southern gentleman. He didn’t conduct himself like a Southern gentleman. He didn’t judge people by their last name or the amount of money they did or didn’t have. Luke didn’t measure up to Rutledge standards.

He paused at the mudroom that led to the kitchen and checked the thick soles of his scuffed work boots. Ruth would have a piece of him if he tracked mud in on her floors.

The familiar noise from the kitchen brought a smile to his face. Thunk-rolllll, thunk-rollll, thunkrollll. Ruth rolling out piecrust. An assortment of smells wafted out on the early evening air, evoking earlier years as clearly as a photo album. Chicken and dumplings, blackberry cobbler, crisp pickles, pungent turnip greens—some of his better boyhood memories. Ruth had cooked and run the house at River Oaks since before he’d been born.

Luke stepped into the kitchen. Ruth paused in midroll, a smile joining the other creases in her worn face. “Bless my soul, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We haven’t seen you in almost two months.”

“Been over in Mississippi on a big job for the last six weeks. We wrapped it up early.”

“Well, it’s good to have you home.” She shook her rolling pin in his direction. “Did you check your boots?”

“Clean as a whistle. And you’re still as pretty as a picture.” Luke wrapped an arm as far around her ample frame as possible and kissed her weathered cheek. Although her salt-and-pepper hair had lost its pepper and was a snowy white, Ruth’s blue eyes remained sharp. He glanced at the mountain of food on the sideboard. “Getting ready for Grandma Pearl’s big birthday bash tomorrow?”