Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ she raised both hands, palms up. “I need this account, Mr. Crowe. The Snowbird Cherokee need this festival. Sure, it’s about revenue, but it’s also about restoring a lost heritage. A symbolic reunification of the tribes separated by an inhumane event.”

      Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand your people, but I’d like to. I want to do the best job I can and represent your people and my clients the best way I’m able.”

      She turned those eyes of blue sky on him. “You could help me to understand. I’m willing to learn if you’ll show me.” She angled her knees toward him.

      “And,” she whispered. “It’s Miss Birchfield, not Ms.”

      His mouth went dry. Walker broke eye contact and scanned the empty foyer. Where were his uncle and Marvela Birchfield with the coffee?

      Linden placed her hand on top of his on the settee. “Would you help me?”

      The scent of roses wafted around him. Reminding him of his grandmother?

      Not.

      Was it hot in here? He tugged at the collar of his shirt. Or was it just him?

      Linden moistened her lips. “Would you help me to understand what it means to be Cherokee?”

      Good thing he’d sworn off women. Especially uppity, wound too-tight, non-Indian women.

      She reclined against the silk upholstery and crossed her ankles. “You’re not afraid for some reason, are you?”

      His eyes jerked to her face. She cocked her head and smiled.

      Perfect, white teeth. He’d have expected no less with her Birchfield blood.

      “I’m not afraid of anything.” Or you, he added to himself.

      A strange, sad look clouded her eyes. Her lips quivered. “How fortunate for you.”

      She stirred and donned the aloof, brittle smile she wore like a cloak. She extended a hand. “Do we have a deal? Will you help me?”

      He gripped her hand, and they shook on it. But he did so against his better judgment. And with a sudden lurch of his stomach, he wondered what he—Mr. Noncommitment—had gotten himself into.

      ***

      Linden’s fingers tingled as his hand clasped hers. This was about the job, she reminded herself. And second chances. Her professional future depended on this festival being an outstanding success and enhancing her portfolio.

      The pleasing aroma emanating from the man teased her senses. A clean scent she couldn’t identify. Something that reminded her of . . . Christmas?

      “Well,” Marvela swept in. Two steps behind, Ross carried a mahogany tray with coffee cups and a silver pot. “It looks like the children are playing nicely together after all, Ross.”

      Her hand still gripped Walker’s. Or was it the other way around?

      She blushed.

      He dropped her hand. And his eyes to the toe of his dark leather boot. “What took you so long?” he growled.

      “Well-mannered, too, this generation.” Ross set the tray down. “I apologize on behalf of my nephew. Holed up in his mountain aerie, he doesn’t get out much.”

      She stole a look at Walker’s face. A pulse ticked in his jaw. A handsome jaw.

      Not that she was in the market for a face, handsome or otherwise.

      Maybe not handsome exactly, she amended her mental perusal. But interesting, with his raven black hair skimmed out of his broad face into a band at the back of his head. Unlike the usual corporate guys of her acquaintance. Unlike The Jerk and his cloned horde of frat brothers, who took clean cut—if not respectable—to a new level.

      Then again, being so different from The Jerk and his ilk could only be a point in Crowe’s favor.

      Ross handed a cup to Marvela. “Just catchin’ up. The time got away from us.”

      Marvela giggled.

      Giggled?

      She raised her eyebrows at her grandmother, which Marvela—being Marvela—ignored.

      Marvela gripped the coffee pot. “Do you still take your coffee black, Ross?” The “r” elongated in the air, Miss Ophelia-style.

      Linden’s gaze sharpened on her grandmother. She probed the look exchanged between Gram and Walker Crowe’s uncle as Marvela passed the old gent his cup.

      Marvela thrust the china plate stacked with her famous Cinnamon Delights at Linden. “Pass the cookies around, Linden. And what about you, Walker, darlin’?”

      Linden nudged Walker with the plate. Guests first, but her mouth watered, anticipating the cinnamon chips melting against her tongue.

      It was the cookie she craved, wasn’t it?

      “Uh . . .” Walker tore his eyes from her face—again—and took the plate from her hand.

      What was with him? Did she have snakes coiling around her head? After the heavy lifting in the attic today, she didn’t look her best, but really?

      And he wasn’t exactly a big talker. Although after the smooth-talking, full of you-know-what kind of eloquence from The Jerk, silence could be golden.

      “Cr-Cream,” Mr. Big Communicator stuttered.

      His eyes, the blackest she’d ever seen in real life, fell to the plate in his hand. He shoved a whole cinnamon-studded cookie into his mouth. A wide, full-lipped mouth.

      “Sugar, hon?”

      Linden shot Marvela a suspicious glance. What was this Hostess-with-the-Mostest routine? The B & B didn’t open for another six weeks. Why the Martha Stewart practice session?

      “No shuggg . . .” Walker said around a mouthful of cookie. His big hand wrapped around the delicate porcelain plate.

      Long, strong brown fingers. She made a conscious effort to peel her eyes off Walker Crowe. And failed.

      Because despite the red flannel shirt and cell phone affixed to the pocket of his blue jeans—all of which he filled out so well—there was something wild and untamed about him. Exciting and scary, all at the same instant. And it was so not fair a man possessed those cheekbones.

      What was wrong with her today?

      Marvela reached for the cream pitcher. “Linden likes a little coffee with her cream. I keep pouring till she tells me to stop.”

      Linden shook herself from her contemplation of the Cherokee enigma beside her. “Till it’s the color of beech trees in winter.”

      He choked.

      Linden grabbed his plate as he hunched. She pounded him on the back with her other hand. And, after his snarky remarks moments earlier, СКАЧАТЬ