Sweet Home Carolina Read Online Free Page A

located Jo’s prized Fiestaware cups, in orange, and
poured tea from her delicate, hand-painted Staffordshire pot into one. Let the
rich man see how the other half lived.
    “Lemon?” she asked sweetly.
    He studied the obnoxious color and design of the chunky
Depression-era American cup that she pushed toward him. “Please.”
    Someone had taught him manners, too. Amy rewarded him with a
saucer of lemon wedges. “Our mill isn’t an antique.” She saw no reason to delay
the confrontation.
    “According to my research, the first mill was built here in
1855 by Ezekial Jekel, who married a local southern belle and applied his
Yankee ingenuity to harnessing the river.” The facts reeled off his tongue
without hesitation. He sipped the tea with a nod of approval. “Delicious, thank
you.”
    She admired his research, but his knowledge made her stomach
hurt. His interest wasn’t that of a tourist.
    At Jo’s signal for two espressos, Amy returned to work.
Tourist revenue had paid for the espresso machine. Most of the locals preferred
their caffeine fix with the cheap bottomless-cup special. Sliding the slender
mugs onto a doily-decorated tray, she handed the order across the counter to
her sister.
    Oddly, the gentleman didn’t turn to admire Jo’s generous
assets encased in her best red hostess gown with the plunging neckline. His
smoldering gaze remained fixed on Amy, and she hid a shiver of reaction. She
definitely didn’t need bored, irresponsible playboys in her dysfunctional life,
especially ones who wanted something she was much too wise to give.
    “Impressive research,” she acknowledged once Jo departed.
“But the current buildings were designed in 1955 and the machinery updated in
1999. The plant was in operation until last year. The fabrics you see in here
were all created on those looms by our local employees.”
    Sipping his tea, the newcomer half turned to study the rich
purple-and-rust tapestried upholstery and wine-colored table damask. “Foolishly
expansive for so small an operation, but well done. Your mill has a reputation
for sound design and expensive products.”
    From this angle, Amy could see the beard stubble on his
angular jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. If there hadn’t
been some danger that he was her worst enemy, she would have urged him to go
home and get some rest.
    “Foolishly expansive?” she asked, smothering her instinctive
need to nurture.
    “Materials such as those are labor intensive and best left
to third world countries.” He turned back and held out his cup for more tea.
“It is a pity American labor is so high, but a world economy is necessary if we
are to sell our products in sufficient quantity to make a profit.”
    She poured the tea very carefully. After all, passive
aggression did not include scalding customers with boiling liquids. “I hope
Chinese peasants are prepared to buy your products since our unemployed workers
are barely able to put food on their tables.”
    “Do I detect a certain hostility to my venture?” He lifted
dark eyebrows questioningly.
    Behind thick lashes, he had eyes so deep they almost looked
black, but Amy caught a hint of blue when he tilted his head to study her. She
didn’t know for certain what his venture was, but she had enough clues to worry.
    “No hostility at all,” she said smoothly, “if you intend to
hire the employees the mill laid off when it closed.”
    “The mill went bankrupt because it couldn’t afford those
employees,” he pointed out. “You cannot sell fabric higher than the market
rate, and that doesn’t cover your labor cost.”
    In the same way his drawl became more clipped as he spoke,
his carved features sharpened, his dark gaze smoldered, and Amy would have to
quit calling him Saint Stevie if he got any hotter. She was starting to suspect
a hungry wolf lurked beneath the designer sheep’s wool.
    “The rich will pay whatever it takes to get what they want,”
she replied, then snapped