Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning

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      “It’s a lot of money, but I still say no,” Carrie said, displaying considerable stubbornness.

      “Here,” Luke said, pulling a business card out of his shirt pocket. “I’m usually not active on the production side of the business, but you can call this number if you change your mind.”

      Carrie glanced curiously at the address.

      “That’s Whip Larson’s headquarters in the old office building at the seed farm,” he said. “He’s the producer of Dangerous, and I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”

      “I don’t believe I’ll be phoning him, Mr. Mason.”

      Luke shrugged. “If you’re Carrie, then I’m Luke. And I guess it’s up to you whether you take us up on the offer.” He smiled, which made his dimple flash, and drained the rest of his Coke.

      Luke Mason didn’t say he ought to be going now, like any of the people she knew would have done. He didn’t thank her for teaching him the joys of peanuts in Coke, and most important, he didn’t say to have a nice day. He merely favored her with an appreciative up-and-down glance, walked over to the Ferrari and slid gracefully behind the steering wheel. He switched the engine on and revved it a few times to show off, after which he did his best to accelerate from zero to sixty in nine seconds, which in his car was doable.

      As the Ferrari disappeared in a cloud of dust, Carrie shrugged and smiled ruefully to herself. Yankees, she thought. They really don’t understand how to be polite. But Luke Mason, for all his shortcomings, sure had a great car.

      And an unexpectedly captivating personality. Not that this meant anything to Carrie Smith. Not that it ever could.

      Chapter Two

      After leaving Smitty’s, Luke Mason drove straight to the house he was renting, a sprawling white-columned mansion that was too big for him by far. Whip Larson was sauntering moodily around the side yard, hands in the pockets of his slacks and a bored expression on his face as he contemplated the zinnias in the flower bed, which were shriveling from the heat.

      Luke got out of the Ferrari. “Whip,” he said. “What’s going on?”

      “Nothing much. As usual in this town. Want to head out to Dolly’s Truck Stop?”

      Dolly’s was a dive on one of the back roads to Florence, the nearest city. The boisterous patrons there generally offered a dose of comic relief, but it wasn’t something he’d enjoy right now. “Not in the mood,” Luke said. He was still caught up in the pleasure of meeting Carrie Smith, a woman more beautiful than he’d ever expected to find here.

      “I’m buying the beer, and I’ll throw in a pizza,” Whip said. He was short and stout, and he dyed his hair orange. The producer of Dangerous, he was also Luke’s best friend. Fortunately they’d never let their business relationship interfere with their personal one.

      “I’d rather stay here,” Luke said. “Relax and chill out for a while.”

      Whip shrugged affably. “That’ll work. I was tired of sitting around watching TV, and I figured you might be, too.”

      “I went out for a ride,” Luke said. “Kind of bored, you know?”

      Whip nodded morosely. Luke unlocked the door and led the way through the cavernous and murky interior of the house, which was furnished in fragile antiques and dusty velvet draperies. Needless to say, the decor wasn’t much to Luke’s taste. Back in California, he lived in Malibu, where he enjoyed a wide-angle view of the ocean. He felt closed in here, confined.

      They stopped at the bar off the living room, cadged a couple of beers from the refrigerator and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the wrought-iron benches that occupied the walled brick terrace. Fish in the koi pond swam to the edge, eyeing them curiously and no doubt anticipating a handout. Luke had been feeding them bread crusts every evening.

      “So, Whip, are we still going to start filming after Labor Day and finish before Christmas?” Luke asked.

      “I hope so, as long as your costar behaves herself.”

      “Tiffany will be okay,” Luke said, though he was far from sure of that. He’d worked with Tiffany Zill before and knew her to be emotionally frail, though she was a decent actress when she had a good director. At the moment, he wasn’t interested in discussing his female lead. He’d rather think about Carrie Smith’s wide blue eyes, the slim line of her throat, the high curve of her breasts shifting beneath that thin summery cotton bodice.

      “We’ve still got a few problems to iron out on this job,” Whip said, propping his feet up on a nearby chair. “I worry about it.”

      “Fill me in,” Luke said. With a good bit of his own money tied up in the movie, he was interested in all aspects of production.

      “I’m still bummed out that we can’t build sets in the old roller-bearing factory,” Whip said. “I’m planning to ride over first thing in the morning to check on an old garage in Mullins. It has the requisite battered gas pumps and tires with no tread stacked out back.” He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket and passed it to Luke. “Check this out.”

      Luke studied the picture, which showed a garage a lot like Smitty’s, though he was willing to bet it wouldn’t have a proprietor as comely as Carrie. “Where the hell is Mullins?” he asked, passing the picture back.

      “Halfway to the coast,” Whip said. “About an hour away from Yewville.”

      “There’s a local garage that might do,” Luke said carefully. “I met the owner today.”

      “You mean that place downtown? Smitty’s?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “It’s still a working garage. This place in Mullins is old. Abandoned. We could get it for practically nothing.”

      “Since when did money matter?”

      “Since Fleur Padgett decided to hire a whole bunch of locals for the racetrack scenes. She says it will make the movie more authentic.” Fleur was the casting director for Dangerous and known for her excesses.

      “Yancey Goforth used to hang out at Smitty’s. I met the owner today, and she—”

      “She?” Whip said, narrowing his eyes. “Smitty is a she?”

      “Her name is Carolina Rose Smith.” Speaking her name called to mind those shapely legs, the soothing cadence of her softly accented voice. She was a charmer, that Carrie Smith.

      “I’ve already committed to vetting the Mullins place,” Whip said.

      Luke shifted uncomfortably and decided on another tack. “I could really get into those garage scenes if we film in a place Yancey Goforth probably visited many times. You know what I mean, dig down deeper into his character.” Luke wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but it was a decent argument, and besides, he suddenly realized, he wanted to see Carrie again. He thought about the deft movement of her long narrow hands as she’d poured peanuts into her Coke and the lilt in her voice when she’d asked him what he thought of her hometown. She’d pronounced Coca-Cola Co-Cola. A lot СКАЧАТЬ