Excerpt of Sexy Suits Collection by Carol Rose

Always--

Who'd have thought old man Prescott's granddaughter would be so attractive? Cole couldn't suppress the curl of his mouth as he opened the oversize menu.

She sat across the table, her peach dinner dress clinging to her delectable curves. The just-above-the-knee-length was perfectly respectable; nevertheless, Cole had caught a groin-tightening flash of white thigh as he handed her into the limo earlier this evening. There was no way she could know how good she looked or she wouldn't have let him come anywhere near her.

Elinor Prescott watched him like a mouse watches a cat. Somehow she'd decided his interest was predatory, and she wasn't making any sudden moves. Cole hoped he could reassure her. It would make their eventual coming together much more satisfying.

That they would come together was a foregone conclusion. A ripple of heat had seared Cole's gut the moment he'd laid eyes on Ms. Prescott. And although she'd shut¬tered her expression quickly, Cole had seen an answering flare of desire in her face.

Cole focused on the Le Monde's menu. He had brought her here deliberately, but she had done no more than glance at the elegant decor of the most exclusive restau¬rant in the parish, leaving Cole to wonder if she dined here frequently. Le Monde was a rare haven of gleaming cutlery and heavy linen table covers, perfectly suited for the heiress of Oakleigh.

He frowned briefly. It seemed odd that he'd never heard of Elinor's existence until today. Never, in all the years his father had labored futilely to maintain the huge house, had old man Prescott mentioned the existence of a grand¬daughter. Or any grandchildren, for that matter. Cole knew he couldn't question her too closely about this curious circumstance. Elinor Prescott didn't know of his connection to Oakleigh, and he preferred to keep it that way.

He'd gone through a broker to make his offer on the house just a month before, and taken great pains that his identity not leak out.

It was a challenge of sorts, to buy the plantation house out from under Daniel Prescott. Sure, Cole could have waited a few more years. Prescott was already old when Cole had been a grubby little kid roaming Oakleigh's over¬grown grounds. He couldn't live much longer.

But the memories rankled. How many times had Cole watched as Daniel Prescott belittled his father, deriding John Whittier's decision not to seek work on the off-shore drilling rigs?

Elinor glanced up over her menu and met his eyes. Cole smiled reassuringly. Regardless of what had happened be¬tween her grandfather and him, Cole wanted this woman. That she was the granddaughter of a man he despised added only the slightest spice to it. She wasn't what he would have expected from the Prescotts. Worshipping the trappings of wealth clearly wasn't her style. Her scornful glance at his limo had made that plain.

Cole knew he was facing a tough sale, tougher perhaps than anyone in Bayville. The woman wasn't wooed by the money he could bring to the town. And whenever he ap¬proached her, she prickled like a hedgehog. But the fact didn't faze him. She reacted to him, and that was a start.

A waiter materialized at Cole's side and took their orders. "So tell me about your work," Cole invited, when the man had gone.

"I work out of my home, do accounting for a number of small businesses," Elinor responded, her face serene as her fingers fiddled with her napkin. "Routine stuff, usually."

"It's the routine stuff that sinks most small businesses," Cole observed. "I bet your clients don't even realize how important you are to them."

She flushed ever so faintly, struggling, he knew, with the urge to demur that trembled on her tongue. He'd have to step lightly in his campaign to win her over. Modest women took a certain amount of finesse.

If he came right out and said that he found her power¬fully, gloriously seductive, she'd be so aghast, she'd turn tail and run.

"I'm not so sure about that," Elinor said finally, after a large swallow of water from her glass. "But I've man¬aged to keep most of them from death-by-audit."

Cole laughed then. "Good grief, woman, you can do that? I've needed someone like you for years. The IRS seems to gobble up my tax attorneys and spit them out."

"You are in a slightly different bracket from my clientele," she observed, her voice cool. "I'm sure I wouldn't be of any help to you."

"Don't sell yourself short," Cole suggested softly. "Haven't you heard that good help is hard to find?"

"I have heard something of the sort," she agreed dryly, "but I don't have much personal experience with that particular problem since I haven't tried hiring servants recently."

"I'm not too interested in servants," Cole said with a touch of compassion, knowing it must be difficult for her to accept the financial ruin of the great Prescotts of Oakleigh. "But I am determined to get the very best personnel for the Whittier plant in Bayville. And I think you're excellent executive material."

Dangling the carrot, Elinor thought. "No, I don't think so, thank you. I'm happy with my own business." She despised the ways of politics and big business, the subtle exchange of favors.

At that moment, their waiter appeared with their meal. When he was gone, they began eating in silence. Elinor wished the evening were over. Despite his moneyed confidence, Cole Whittier packed enough charm to knock the socks off a nun. Cole's eyes rested on her speculatively as he ate. Obviously, he hadn't expected her to turn him down that flatly.

Elinor paused between bites, toying with her fork. "About the reason for this dinner tonight? You were right. I do have some serious concerns about the factory."

Cole sat back in his chair. "Of course you do. It's an¬other indication of your intelligence. Although you're wrong in assuming that's the only reason for my wanting to see you tonight."

"It's my reason for being here," Elinor stated firmly. "Are you aware that the Lanier property contains some of the most beautiful land along the river?"

"Yes," Cole answered. "I grew up here, remember? But the factory would bring a greater prosperity to this area."

She glanced down. "I suppose that would be your response. As if there's always some other place for people to enjoy the land."

Cole leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting with sudden suspicion. "You have a special place you love? On the Lanier site?"

She dropped her napkin into her lap, not meeting his gaze. "Yes, I do. It's a wonderful, quiet place I discovered when I moved here two years ago. I'd hate to see it turned into a toxic dump."

"So would I, Elinor," he retorted, an edge of anger seeping into his tone. "None of my plants create the kind of problems you're talking about. And if they did, I wouldn't be likely to do that to my own hometown."

"I'd hope not," she muttered.

They finished the elegant meal, Elinor declining any dessert. Cole obviously wasn't in the mood to linger over coffee. He signaled the waiter, who swiftly and discreetly attended to the business of the check.

Elinor shivered as Cole's hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her down the steps to the car. The limousine sat at the curb as they walked out of the restaurant.

She wasn't sure who'd won this evening's skirmish, but she felt a shade tattered by the battle. Cole Whittier's money didn't interest her, but his sensuality and the hot interest that flared in his eyes scared the heck out of her. It took everything she had not to succumb to the answering warmth that welled up inside her.

She slid into the limo, with the same sense of distaste she'd felt toward it from the first moment. In a way, she was glad he'd used the car tonight. Its opulence and decadent excess helped remind her of just why Cole Whittier wasn't a man she could trust.

He climbed in next to her, leaning forward to speak quietly to the driver before pressing the button that shut the window between seats.

Elinor sat back against the cool leather seat, nervously aware of Cole's presence beside her. He sat negligently turned, the stark white of his custom dress shirt bright in the dimness of the car's interior. She could smell his warm muskiness, a heady drift of something elemental.

He was at least six inches away, not encroaching on her space. Yet, she felt his presence like a warm bath of sensation, liquid and potent.

"I noticed earlier that you've done wonders with the cottage," he complimented. "That place was a ruin twenty years ago."

"It was pretty wrecked when I moved in two years ago," Elinor said, resisting the urge to shift away from the magnetic spell of his closeness.

"Do you know," Cole murmured, "rumor has it that the plantation owner long ago built the cottage for his lady love? She was supposedly a captivating slave woman he kept tucked away for his own carnal pleasures."

The embers simmering low in Elinor's body flared to life at the softness of his voice. She pushed the sensation aside. It was easy to imagine him as a slave owner, powerful and supremely confident. Any woman he kept tucked away would probably have been exhausted by his passion.

"The story goes," he continued, "that she bore him ten children. And when he freed them all, he kept the woman, still tied to him by passion, forever."

"I don't imagine it was forever," Elinor demurred dryly as the car pulled up in her driveway. "After ten children, he probably tired of her and sent her out to the fields to work. That's what many of the plantation owners did."

Cole chuckled as the driver opened Elinor's door. “You’re such a romantic, Ms. Prescott."

All the way up the pathway to the cottage steps, Elinor rehearsed. Handshake, polite smile, chaste passivity if he tried to kiss her. But with his powerful body close beside hers as they walked up the dark path, she had her doubts. She had a hard time sitting next to him passively. How would she be able to resist responding if he actually held her in his arms?

Their steps echoed on the wooden steps as Elinor retrieved her key from her tiny evening purse. She briskly inserted the key and opened the door, turning around to him with her hand outstretched.

"Goodnight, Mr. Whittier." Her smile felt pasted on. "Thank you for the lovely meal."

His hand enveloped hers, warm and steady. Elinor's thoughts zipped back to their first handshake and how surprised she felt at his strength. Weren't wealthy men supposed to be soft from sitting behind desks?

Again, he held her hand, his face unreadable in the dark. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Elinor," he drawled. "I've enjoyed your company immensely."

"Oh, how nice," she uttered disjointedly, feeling stupidly disappointed as he released her hand. "Well..." She fum¬bled with the door behind her. "Goodnight again."

"Elinor!" he called to her softly, drawing her glance back over her shoulder.

"Yes?" she hesitated, half-turned on the threshold, her heart throbbing in breathless anticipation. He loomed, powerful and heady in the darkness, so close she could barely think.

He leaned to her, his warm breath brushing her cheek. "You really ought to get a light on this porch. For your own safety."