Hope Ramsay
Published: 2012-01-02 by Grand Central Publishing -- Forever Romance

What It's About

Dear Reader, Gracious me, my beautiful daughter Rocky sure could use my help. I always knew she wasn’t much interested in the local boys—but who’d have thought she’d come home with English royalty? Trouble is, Hugh wants to buy some of our folks’ land. We don’t want to sell, but Rocky’s job depends on her closing the deal. And though Hugh’s obviously smitten, I’m not sure he’s right for my Rocky. Oh, he’s classy and handsome–and you should’ve seen the way he judged pies and fixed stock-cars at our Watermelon Festival!–but what do we know about him, really?  I know I sound like a nervous mother hen, but after forty happy years with my Elbert, all I want is to see my little girl find the same. Well, time for me to quit chattering and get back to Miss Bray’s wet set. Always nice talking to you, and remember: the Cut ’n’ Curl’s got hot rollers, free coffee, and the best gossip in town. See you real soon, Ruby Rhodes

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The Excerpt

Mirrors never lie. Caroline Rhodes caught the fleeting spark of surprise in her own eyes as she studied her reflection in her Camry’s rearview.  Despite her professional wardrobe and flawless makeup, the mirror still reflected an image of the small-town watermelon queen she had once been.  She touched up her lipstick and gave herself one last implacable stare.  As usual, the humidity had gotten to her hair.  She sleeked it back into its ponytail, but a few stray curls refused to be tamed.  It was hopeless. She snatched her black Coach briefcase from the passenger seat and covered the distance over the blazing blacktop to the front doors of the Columbia Hilton in less than a minute.  Icy air greeted her as she passed through the glass doors and headed toward the steakhouse restaurant in the lobby.  The heels of her pumps clicked over the marble floor like hammer blows.  With each heel strike, the tension coiled inside her. She was here to meet Hugh deBracy, the umpteenth baron of somewhere in England, who was probably a great big snob who looked down his nose at people like her, who came from small rural towns in the middle of nowhere in the American South. DeBracy had come to these shores to buy up a little bit of that rural land so he could put up a factory and make looms.  Caroline’s boss, Senator Rupert Warren, wanted to make that happen.  There was the small matter of two-hundred new jobs at stake. But there was a teeny-tiny problem.  The land Lord deBracy wanted wasn’t for sale. Caroline’s job was to make this problem disappear — a feat that would take a miracle. She stepped into the dark, cold environment of the steak house and scanned the sparse luncheon crowd.  She had never seen a photo of Hugh deBracy, but she found him without any trouble. He was in his mid-thirties and wore a Savile Row suit and a slightly loosened regimental tie.  Except for his curly Byronic hair, the man looked like the dictionary definition of an uptight peer of the realm.  He sat at a booth halfway down a long row, and he looked up from the menu he’d been perusing as if he could sense her studying him. The man’s gaze widened as if in recognition.  He stood, dropping the menu and nervously tightening his tie. Then he ogled her. His glance dropped to her ankles and then rose in a slow circuit that moved up her bare, suntanned legs and the professional silhouette of her business suit.  The gaze stopped ever so slightly when it reached the hint of lace at the V of her jacket where, predictably, it stuck. As an ex-beauty queen, Caroline was used to this.  And it bothered her.  No one ever took a beauty queen seriously, even when she talked about world peace.  And, working for a U.S. Senator, Caroline aimed to actually do something about world peace one day.  But first she had to find a place for this ogling Englishman to build his factory. She had to hand it to his Lordship.  He managed all that ogling without losing one smidgen of his cool.  His stare remained calm, aloof, and deadly as sin. She squared her shoulders and walked forward.  His gaze rose to meet hers.  The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes — the color of scotch whiskey — softened. “Miss Rhodes?” he asked. The sound of her name spoken in his deep voice with those clipped British vowels did something totally inappropriate to her insides.  Boy, she really needed to find a meaningful love life, one of these days — after the election.  In the meantime, she’d continue to find escape in those romance books featuring suave English heroes that she read on the sly. No doubt this secret addiction to historical romances was the reason her girl parts got hot and bothered by Lord deBracy’s accent.  She had to remember that this guy had just ogled her, would probably never take her seriously, and had the ability to royally screw up her life and her career. She told her girl parts to behave then reached for a cool nonchalance that she didn’t for one instant really feel.  “Lord deBracy?” “Um, that would be Lord Woolham.  The title applies to the peerage not the surname.  I am delighted to meet you.”  He nodded his head but didn’t extend his hand in greeting, which kind of belied his words. The Voice of Doubt that lived way back in her head took that moment to point out in cruel and cutting words that she had once again failed to be perfect.  She had screwed up. She should have researched English titles before she set one foot in this restaurant or even opened her mouth.  She made a mental note to remedy this shortcoming just as soon as she could. Then she gritted her teeth, gave him a professional smile that was not too big and not too small, and took her seat in the booth facing him.  She kept her mouth shut, lest she insert her foot a second time. Although at some point she was certain to do that again.  It was almost guaranteed, given what Lord Woolham had come to South Carolina for. “I want to thank you for meeting me here,” he said, as he took his seat.  He turned and nodded at the waiter in true aristocratic fashion. “It’s not a problem.  Senator Warren wants me to help you in any way I can,” she said.  Her words were fraudulent.  Being here with him was a problem.  She had everything at stake: her career and her family.  His Lordship had nothing at risk, except a potential factory. The waiter came along, and they ordered: roast beef for him and a small house salad for her.  When the waiter left, his Lordship opened the business conversation. “So,” he said, leaning forward slightly.  “According to the Senator, you’re the woman who can help me solve my real estate problem.” She looked him straight in the eye.  And his eyes were so warm and brown they didn’t seem to match his stiff formality.  She wasn’t going to let him see how badly she felt outclassed here.  So she forced herself not to look away.  “I’m good at what I do.  But I fear that Senator Warren has given you assurances that might be unjustified.  There are serious complications.” One of deBracy’s eyebrows arched.  “I see.  Would you care to elaborate?” No.  She wouldn’t. If given her druthers, she would get up and run like a racoon with a dog on her tail.  But she was stuck.  The Senator really, really wanted this factory built. “I’m afraid this is a very difficult case,” she said, trying to quell the butterflies in her midsection.  The waiter came back with deBracy’s house salad before she could say anything more. His Lordship put his napkin in his lap and began cutting the lettuce with a single-minded purpose that verged on obsession.  “How so?” he asked.  “According to my partner, who was assembling the land for the factory until his untimely death, the parcel of land in question is not being used productively.” Not being used productively.  Wow.  How totally smug of him.  No doubt the man thought that the only productive use of land was in supporting the lifestyles of the rich and aristocratic.  “How much do you know about the parcel in question?” she asked. “Not very much, except that the fellow who owns it won’t sell.  It’s a very small piece of land, too, which makes it even more irritating.  I have offered quite a bit more than I can afford, actually.” Like he couldn’t up the ante on the land.  “Do you need this particular piece of land for the factory project?  Couldn’t you –” “Without it, I won’t have access to the rail line or the main highway.  I’ve tried petitioning the state for road improvements, but I gather the public coffers are empty.  So the only viable way to get good road and rail access is through this parcel.  I need to acquire it or there will be no factory.” The waiter returned and placed a huge portion of roast beef in front of his Lordship and an itty-bitty salad in front of Caroline. “Is that all you’re going to eat?” deBracy asked, frowning down at her tiny plate. She ignored his question.  Caroline needed to remain thin to be taken seriously.  She wasn’t going to let herself gain even one extra pound if she could manage it.  But she was not about to discuss her eating habits with a member of the English aristocracy. She picked up her fork and speared a piece of romaine.  “Lord Woolham,” she said with a guileless smile, “I’m just so sorry, but there is nothing I can do to help you.” He looked up as he cut his beef.  A little half smile played at the corner of his lips.  Was he satisfied that she’d gotten his title right?  The cad. “The Senator told me that you could fix anything.” She felt heat crawling up her face.  She was good at getting things done for Senator Warren.  She had made a success of herself, through hard work.  The Senator relied on her.  Depended on her.  And when he won reelection, all that hard work might pay off with an invitation to join his staff in Washington, DC.  But the Senator has asked too much of her this time. “I’m not a miracle worker.  The senator is not fully aware of the complications.” “What complications?”  DeBracy conveyed the meat to his mouth and chewed.  The muscles worked in his cheeks, and he managed to look debonair, even with his mouth full. She leaned forward.  “The man who owns the land is not going to change his mind.  Trust me on this.” “Is that because he’s an eccentric?  I’ve heard the man is a little bit ’round the bend.” Caroline laid her silverware across her plate and dropped her hands to her lap.  She intertwined her fingers and squeezed.  She wanted to be anywhere but there, having this conversation.  She loved her job.  Making the impossible happen was what she did best.  But in this case, really, Senator Warren should have allowed her to recuse herself.  But now, the senator had almost made this mission a quid pro quo for that job in Washington that Caroline coveted. Caroline braced herself for the ridicule of the high and mighty peer sitting across the table.  Then she said, “The man who owns the land speaks with angels.” “Really?  How remarkable.  What do they say?” For the first time, Hugh deBracy had surprised her.  “You did hear me, didn’t you?” she asked. “I’m not deaf.  What do the angels say?” “They are opposed to selling the land.” “Well that’s predictable.  We’ll just have to convince the angels otherwise, won’t we?” “Um, I don’t think we can do that.  You see there are additional complications.” “Aren’t there always?” he said on an impatient sigh. “Yes, but these are really big complications.” “How so?” “There’s an eighteen-hole, miniature golf course on the land.” “Mini golf?”  DeBracy had stopped chewing.  It was hard to tell if he was shocked, amused, or surprised.  The man had not reacted to any of this in a normal fashion.  What kind of game was he playing? She tried to smile as she said, “Yes, miniature golf.  You know, small holes, putting only, lots of fiberglass hazards and obstacles.” His Lordship nodded, one cheek still filled with un-chewed beef. “Only in this case,” Caroline continued rapidly, determined to get the truth out quickly, “there are eighteen holes each depicting either an Old Testament Bible story or a chapter in the life of our Lord Jesus Christ.  The place is a bit notorious, actually.  It was featured last year in the online guide Bizarre America:  The Ultimate Guide to Tasteless Tourist Traps.” His lordship choked on the steak he had neglected to chew.  His face turned red, and for a moment, Caroline thought she might have to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him.  She couldn’t live with herself if Golfing for God were the cause of his untimely demise.  That might solve one problem for her, but it would certainly annoy the Senator. Luckily, first aid was not required.  His Lordship cleared the obstruction and reached for his water glass.  His Adam’s apple danced as he swallowed.  The motion was almost hypnotic. Caroline pulled her gaze away.  “I guess your late partner didn’t tell you about Golfing for God, huh?” she said, once deBracy had finished his water. He laid down his silverware and then wiped his lips with his napkin.  “No, George didn’t provide those details.  I did hear from the real estate chap that the owner of the land in question is a complete nutter.  But I was given to understand that the business on the property is no longer in operation.  Is that not correct?” Nutter.  UK vernacular for crazy as a loon.  Great, just great.  “Golfing for God was hit by a hurricane and a lightning storm last fall.  It’s not currently in operation, but there is a movement to –” “Good, then I should be able to negotiate with the man who owns it.  I’m planning to pop ’round to have a look tomorrow.” It was her moment to choke.  Luckily she didn’t have any food in her mouth.  “You can’t do that.” “Why not?” “I don’t know who you’ve been dealing with in South Carolina, but anyone in Last Chance will tell you that trying to get Elbert Rhodes to sell his property would take a miracle.  Literally.” “Elbert Rhodes?”  That eyebrow of his curled upward again.  The man ought to have a quizzing glass. Fire crawled over Caroline’s face.  She had managed to tell the truth, and now she would have to endure his snotty, snide, superior laughter. “That’s right, Lord Woolham, Elbert Rhodes, the owner of Golfing for God, is my father.”

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