Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith
The one thing she would not do was ask her parents for a loan. Her father would remind her that she’d gotten herself in this fix by foolishly spending five years as the girlfriend and sole support of Sloan Richards, needy musical genius.
Now, without anyone’s help, she was going to recover her dignity. She reached into a box on the passenger seat, lifted a bottle of thick red barbecue sauce, and gazed grimly at the homemade blue-and-white label. Betty’s Barbecue Sauce. Simple name. Incredible taste. The key to financial success.
Men. Who needed them? In particular, Max Templeton. Who needed him? She put the bottle back distractedly and sighed. Some questions were best left unanswered.
• • •
Every October the chamber of commerce held Its charity auction and dinner dance. Looking around the big, rustic room of the local winery, Betty felt more at home than she ever had at any of Atlanta’s charity galas.
It had been a week since the emotional night with Max at her house, and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t look for him tonight. But she knew he’d been invited, and she glanced repeatedly toward the double doors at the far side of the room, where people were entering.
Despite every rebuking thought she directed at herself, her heart beat fast with anticipation. She made herself study the scenery.
This winery, set in a lush mountain valley, was hardly like its classical equivalents in France. The main building was a two-story country inn with lots of gray stone and hand-hewn timbers. This room was filled with primitive antiques, and the walls were hung with quilts. The pegboard floor was dotted with round braided rugs, and the giant fireplace hearth was decorated with pumpkins and bundles of cornstalks.
A trio of bearded men stood in one corner playing old folk tunes on a dulcimer, fiddle, and guitar. The banquet tables were set with handmade stoneware goblets and pewter utensils; a candlelit jack-o’-lantern grinned in the center of each table.
Betty swirled her glass of muscadine wine and glanced around the banquet table at her fellow diners. The men wore nice suits and the women pretty gowns, but Betty knew they’d have been the object of polite ridicule in her old circles, where no man was well dressed unless he owned at least one custom-made tuxedo and no woman would have been caught dead wearing a gown that had come from a department store rack.
“Quaint crew, aren’t they?” her date whispered in her ear.
Betty twisted to look at Jay Steinberg, a friend she’d known since they were both chubby, braces-wearing nerds at an exclusive private high school. Jay was tall, lean, and handsome in an offbeat sort of way, with thick black hair and, despite his orthodontic history, an intriguing gap between his front teeth. He wore his Armani suit with perfect style. His tie was silk; his wristwatch, Cartier. He had already been made a full partner in an Atlanta architecture firm.
“They’re all very nice,” she said, frowning a little as she tried to remember whether Jay had always had a condescending air about him.
“Oh, I’m not putting them down. It’s fascinating to see how the rural middle class lives.”
She bent close to his ear and whispered, “Oh, yes! If you look closely, you’ll see them do odd, puzzling things—like eat dinner, laugh, talk, and enjoy themselves.”
Jay chortled and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Betty, you’re being a crab. I drove all the way up here from Atlanta just to be your escort. The least you can do is indulge my sense of humor.”
Betty sat back, took a swallow of wine, and wished that the appetizer would arrive so that Jay would have something to do with his mouth besides talk. Her gaze darted to the double doors at the end of the room.
Max was looking straight at her.
He was also looking at Jay. He didn’t look happy, though he should have, since a statuesque redhead in a tight black dress was holding his hand.
He idly stroked the lapel of his jacket aside and lifted a gold watch from a pocket on his vest. Whether custom-made or not, his black pinstripe suit fit his powerful body to perfection. Apparently, black string ties were his trademark, because he wore one again now.
Betty knew she should look away, should just nod and feign a casual greeting, but all she could do was stare at him.
He seemed to be having the same problem with her. The redhead, whom Betty dimly recalled having seen behind the counter of a bakery in town, was tugging on his hand and pointing to a banquet table where people were waving to them. Finally he blinked, returned the watch to his vest pocket, gave Betty a courteous smile with a hard edge to it, and accompanied his date to their table.
“Now that man has style,” Jay commented, craning his head. “And she’s Incredible.”
Betty fiddled with her napkin and rearranged her forks. When unnerved, she distracted herself with details. Once, after an argument with Sloan, she’d cleaned all the windows on the converted school bus she used on her catering jobs. Now she began polishing her knife.
Jay knew her too well. “Oh, Betty, I’m so rude,” he apologized. “Forgive me.”
“For ogling the redhead?” She patted his arm. “Go ahead. I was the one who introduced you to your first serious girlfriend, remember?”
“You’re a doll. Do you know the redhead?”
“No.” She thunked her knife down. She wasn’t going near Max and his date, not even for Jay’s benefit.
Jay looked forlorn. “Her friend looks like Clint Eastwood in a bad mood. I suppose I better corral my lecherous thoughts.”
“I’d put them in a deep freeze if I were you. I know Clint, and he’s the type who’ll twist your nose off if you make a pass at his lady.”
“Ouch. You sound proud of him.”
“Something like that.”
When the shrimp cocktails arrived, she tried to keep her gaze on her plate. Invisible magnets seemed to pull her eyes toward Max. Finally she couldn’t bear the intrigue and looked up. Max was taking a sip from his goblet, his head tilted toward the conversation of Grace Larson and her husband Ernie, the mayor.
Betty felt a poignant stab of disappointment, then chided herself for thinking that Max would be watching her. She muttered to herself and finally pivoted toward Jay. “Kiss me, you fool,” she ordered.
He stopped a shrimp halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Give me a semi-serious kiss on the lips.”
“Are we trying to make someone jealous?”
“No, we’re just trying to make me come back to reality.”
“Betty Belle, this isn’t a pep rally,” he teased gently, “and you’re not the plump ninth grader who wanted to show everyone that you were sexy enough to get a date, even it was with another plump ninth grader.”
“But you’re going to oblige me now, as you did then. Because you’re my pal.”
“Okay. Open your mouth.”
“We’re not trying for that much reality, Jay.”
“I’m going to feed you my shrimp, darling.”
“Oh. Good move.”
Smiling, he slid his shrimp between her lips, then took her face between his hands and kissed her before she finished chewing. He sat back and looked satisfied. “Now will you introduce me to the redhead?”
“No. But thanks for the shrimp.”
She sighed wearily and glanced toward Max. He wasn’t at his table anymore. He was headed toward hers. He gracefully threaded through the tables in between, apparently guided by an athlete’s sixth sense, because he never took a misstep despite the fact that his eyes remained on her the whole way.
She couldn’t tell if their expression was angry, amused, or merely intense. She only knew that her body was rigid with dread and excitement.
He reached the table and clamped his hand on the back of her chair with a force that sent a small shiver through the chair and her. “How are you this evening, Betty?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Terrific.”
She stared up at him a second, inhaling the light scent of his cologne, wondering if the air was crackling
“Pleased, I’m sure,” Jay said, and rose to shake hands.
“Quite pleased,” Max countered, sounding suspiciously prim.
They shook. Max looked down at her. “I have some business to discuss with you. Would you mind walking outside with me for just a moment?”
Trouble, her good sense warned. Go, everything else urged. “Of course. Please excuse us for a moment, Jay.”
“Certainly. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Templeton.”
Max smiled at him. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Steinberg. I’ll bring Betty back in a moment.”
He took her arm as she stood, and propelled her out a side door so quickly that the flowing silk skirt of her russet-and-black gown threatened to become trapped between her legs.
They entered a deserted hallway and stopped under the softly filtered light of a stained-glass wall fixture. He faced her, and the intensity in his eyes was a secret no longer.
“A moment,” she whispered with a note of warning. She felt as if she was swaying toward him, the magnets pulling at her whole body. “What did you want to discuss?”
“Just this—if you want to be kissed in public, come to me.” He put his arms around her waist and pulled her upward so that she stood on her toes, teetering against him and grasping his shoulders for support.
“Max. Max …” she said desperately, shaking her head.
“I love your voice. Say my name again.”
“Maximilian, don’t—”
“Damned good.” He kissed her, backing her against a soft quilt hanging on the wall. Betty struggled with her emotions for the length of time his hot, deliciously insistent mouth took to turn her into a conspirator. About two seconds.
She forgave herself for surrendering. He had a way of curling the tip of his tongue along the edge of her upper lip that no woman could resist. She quivered from the inside out, and a sweet, heavy feeling settled in her belly.
He brought a raw power to her that she’d never felt before; he didn’t treat her roughly in the least, but she wanted to struggle within his arms and provoke the same struggle from him. She slid her hands down his torso and he shifted to let her grip the sides of his waist.
There was great gentleness in him, in the careful, responsive movements of his mouth and tongue, in the knowing way his hands slid up and down her back, lingering at the top each time to rub her shoulders above the gown’s scooped neck. He had trapped her, but he wasn’t forcing her.
Dazed, Betty rubbed circles with her palms at the sides of his waist and vaguely realized that she was pulling his hips closer. He was a big, solid man; his thighs felt like pillars of stone as they pressed closer, molding his lower body to hers in the most tantalizing way.
She drew her head back and looked at him groggily. He moved against her with a slow, grinding rhythm that made her bite her lower lip to keep from moaning.
“We’ll go back inside and sit down with our respective dates as if nothing unusual has happened,” he commanded mildly, his voice very low and coaxing. He continued to caress her with slight flexing movements of his body. “We’ll share a dance or two after the auction. We’ll very politely leave with our dates at the end of the evening.”
He paused, one honey-brown eyebrow arching wickedly. “Then we’ll tell each of them some very polite reason why they have to go home, and we’ll rendezvous at your place.”
He stroked his hands up her back and brought them to rest at the base of her head, his thumbs caressing the tender skin beneath her topaz earrings as he pulled her closer. “And then we’ll finish what we’ve started here. We’ll finish it repeatedly, all night. In every way that pleases you. Until all you have the energy to do is put your head on my shoulder and fall asleep.”
The breath shuddered out of her in a long sigh. The images he had just painted made her legs weak, and she wondered how she’d stand without his strength and passion.
The thought had unsettling implications. She had to stand alone, especially where Max was concerned. She’d known when she’d returned his kiss that it would only be a temporary indulgence, a sample of a glorious meal—but only a sample—for a starving woman.
“Your … date,” she said slowly, her lips heavy from sensation. “She would have been in your bed tonight; she will be in your bed tonight if you’re not with me.”
“No.” His gaze held hers with almost fierce defense. “There hasn’t been anyone else since I met you. There wouldn’t have been anyone tonight.”
“Max, don’t—”
“You sounded disappointed at the idea that I might take someone else to bed, but you don’t want to hear that I’m not taking anyone to bed because of you. Can’t you believe that I’m capable of being faithful, that I’m not promiscuous? I’m not interested in sleeping around. I want you, only you.”
“For now, you mean. For tonight, and if we were happy after that, then for as long as we enjoyed each other’s company, on your terms.”
“Can’t we just start with tonight, babe? Do you really want to stand here in the hall and plan the rest of our lives?”
She forced her hands up to his shoulders and made them rest there lightly. “No, I don’t want to plan the rest of our lives,” she said with strained control, “but I don’t want to lie to myself.” She searched his eyes, and let him see all the sorrow and vulnerability in hers. “I already know that I could … love you. And I already know what I’d be hoping for if I did. And I know that it wouldn’t be what you’d want. And I have a feeling that I’d eventually be hurt in a way that would make the other time seem pleasant.”
“With the musician,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
“But you won’t—”
“No. I won’t.”
“I predict that you will. You will change your mind. Because we need to be together, and everything else is going to take care of itself.”
She raised her chin and eyed him bitterly. “Oh? How will everything take care of itself? Will you and Hugh Hefner trade brain cells? Even he got married.”
Max stepped back from her but lifted his hands to her ruffled hair and stroked it into place. He smiled thinly. “Thank you for taking a moment to discuss business with me, Betty. I won’t keep you from your dinner any longer. I might suggest that before you return to Mr. Steinberg, you venture to the ladies’ lounge and check your lipstick.”
“I don’t have to. You’re wearing it.”
“Indeed. You’re an animal.” He reached inside his jacket and retrieved a handkerchief. Wiping his mouth slowly, he nodded to her. “I look forward to discussing business with you again, soon.”
When she returned to her chair, Jay asked slyly, “Are you in trouble with the law?”
“Nothing I can’t settle out of court.” Betty tracked Max’s course through the crowded room as he returned to his table. “I think it’ll be safe for you to chase the redhead of your dreams tonight. I’ll make sure that Max introduces you to her.”
“Oh? And what brought about this change of heart?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
He whinnied softly and pawed the table with one fist.
After dinner the auction began, with the stout, pink-faced Ernie Larson as auctioneer. Before each bid the contributing merchant was asked to come up and describe what she or he had donated.
There was a varied offering of finely made crafts, paintings, books, furniture, clothes, jewelry, and food. Eventually Ernie introduced the redhead as co-owner of the Taste of Honey Bakery. Her name was Ann. She came to the microphone in the front of the room and smiled broadly, then in a voice as sweet as pecan pie said that her donation was a fifty-do
“What am I bid?” Ernie boomed.
Betty saw Max start to raise his hand. She supposed that a gentleman ought to bid on his date’s donation, but it made her less happy. Despite his gallant words in the hall, he was the kind of man who could have a different woman on his arm every week if he wanted. And he probably wanted. She wasn’t going to forget that.
Jay leapt to his feet. “Two hundred dollars!”
Everyone swiveled to stare at him. Betty saw Max lower his hand, give Jay a thoughtful look, then smile. He caught her eye and lifted a brow in droll challenge. That takes care of my date’s attention.
It certainly did, because now Ann looked at Jay in utter delight, her hands clasped over her heart. After a shocked Ernie determined that no one wanted to bid more than two hundred dollars for a fifty-dollar gift certificate, he whacked his gavel on the auction podium. “Sold!”
Ann ogled Jay all the way back to her table. He blew her a kiss and, smiling grandly, sat down. “Slick. I’m slick.”
“I was going to ask you to bid on me, you rake.”
“Oops. I just spent most of my mad money, but I’ll make a valiant effort. Why?”
“Because I suspect that Max Templeton—”
“And next,” Ernie called, “is the newest member of our chamber of commerce, the owner of a restaurant that’ll be opening soon on Spencer Street. Betty Quint, come on up.”
Betty pushed her chair back and sighed. Across the room Max rose a little, turned his chair to face the microphone squarely, then sat down on the edge with all the confident anticipation of an art dealer about to spend millions on a Picasso.
“It’s hopeless,” she muttered. “I’m about to be sold to a man who wants a barbecue-catering love slave.”
At the microphone she put on a happy smile and avoided looking at him. He sat only about a dozen feet away. “Good evening,” she said to the audience pleasantly. “My restaurant will be opening in about two weeks. Because I’m better at cooking than at making up names, it will simply be called ‘Betty’s Restaurant.’ ”
She paused, clasping her hands in front of her. Her palms were sweaty. “My specialty is barbecue. I’ve been a barbecue caterer for six years, and now I’m going to expand into the restaurant business. Tonight I’m donating a catered barbecue dinner for twenty people. All the winning bidder has to do is tell me where and when, and I’ll provide everything. Thank you.”