for Johnny was the type of man Harlan could only pretend to be—effortlessly confident and in control, someone whom others instinctively looked to as a leader. Harlan had his own brand of power, to be sure, but the truth was, his backers—including her father, she reminded herself with a twinge of unease, remembering this morning’s stilted phone conversation with him—could take that away as quickly as they’d given it to him.
She had sensed the concern in her father’s voice, but already he seemed, albeit reluctantly, to have accepted the fact that she’d had to get away, even if he didn’t agree with it. But then, he still didn’t know the real reason for her departure. Her divorce from Harlan was going to be a bitter pill for the senator to swallow, and she wanted to tell him herself when the time was right.
But enough of that, she decided, determined not to spoil the evening, and bit back a smile at a sudden vision of Gioconda, wagging her finger and admonishing her not to waste her thoughts on a failed marriage, or on a faithless, feckless man like Harlan, when she had such a magnificent specimen within arm’s reach.
And she was right. For Johnny was proving to be an amusing dinner companion, regaling her with hilarious stories of his son Nicky’s escapades. She felt young and carefree as she laughed at Johnny’s hilarious description of Nicky’s unfortunate decision to host a sidewalk sale of Grace Graney’s prized collection of Ming porcelain—at decidedly bargain prices—realizing that she’d laughed more since being here in Gstaad than she had in the past twelve years. And that laughter was something she’d missed.
The meal was delicious, but by the time they’d reached dessert, even Elm, with her lack of experience, could sense that Johnny hadn’t invited her out just to talk about their old school days. Most definitely not. The realization that he was obviously attracted to her was remarkably enticing, she admitted, savoring a shudder of excitement and a tiny spoonful of delectable chocolate mousse. More surprising was the recognition that she, too, was drawn to him.
Not that she could act upon that attraction, of course. She hadn’t come to Gstaad for romance. She was still a married woman, after all, one who’d never thought of betraying her vows even at the worst of times. Yet Johnny was making it plain that he found her company very pleasant—and he struck her as the type of man who didn’t hesitate to go after what he wanted.
The thought was so shockingly alluring that Elm nearly choked on the mousse. Before, whenever she’d sensed that a man was interested in her, she’d distanced herself automatically. But then, she’d been married—really married, not filing for divorce—and living behind a wall of Southern protocol, the subtle protection offered by her husband and her father’s position and the strict rules of the society she lived in. She’d let those walls imprison her, separate her from the hopes and dreams she’d once aspired to.
And suddenly she longed to break free.
This, even more than her own growing fascination with the man across the table, made her realize she must be very, very cautious. She didn’t want to be one of those women who left their husbands, only to enter into a series of scorching relationships that ended with them burned and bewildered several months later. Better to just enjoy this pleasurable evening and allow herself to bask in the feeling of being admired, not criticized, and then give Johnny a firm handshake of thanks and farewell.
As he entertained her with stories and listened to her laugh, Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company more. Elm Hathaway was certainly a welcome surprise, especially during what had been shaping up to be a tedious Christmas, thanks to Nicky’s sulks.
As a discreet waiter topped up their champagne glasses, he studied this beautiful, understated and elegant woman, simply yet chicly dressed in black velvet pants and a high-necked cashmere sweater that defined her excellent figure. Her jewelry was exquisite and unobtrusive. Apart from her obvious beauty there was something very enticing about her, he decided, something in that sexy, soft Southern drawl that charmed.
“Tell me about your home,” he said, interested in learning more about who she was, what she thought, how she felt. There was a rare unspoiled quality about her that struck a chord.
“Home? That’d be Oleander Creek, my family’s plantation.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s a wonderful old place that belonged to my great-great-grandmother. It used to be in the country but now it’s practically on the outskirts of Savannah. Although I also have a town house in the city, Oleander Creek is my real home and I love it dearly,” she sighed, and twirled her glass, eyes soft. “It’s one of those rare places where it’s possible to find real peace.” She glanced at him and he nodded.
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s the same way I feel about Graney.”
“Graney.” She pronounced the word carefully. “That sounds dreadfully grand,” she countered, a smile hovering about her lips.
“Not really.” He shrugged. “It was originally a medieval Irish castle, so I suppose that makes it fairly impressive. But behind those thick stone walls lie a plethora of problems, believe me. Trivial things,” he grinned, “such as outdated plumbing and unreliable electricity. Helps scare off unwanted guests.” He took a sip of champagne and smiled when she let out a gurgle of laughter.
“Sounds just like Oleander. Believe me, I’ve scared off my share of unwanted guests, too.”
“Do you have many of them?” he queried, interested to learn more.
“In politics, they swarm like bees to honey.” She let out a little sigh. “Harlan, my hus—soon to be ex-husband—” she corrected hastily “—hates that the place is so old,” she added, blushing. “Decrepit is the exact term he uses.”
Johnny laid his glass down and pricked up his ears. She’d mentioned earlier that she was getting a divorce, and from her description of her husband, it was no wonder. “Likes things in good order, huh?”
“Oh, yes, only the best,” she said dryly, folding her hands on the table and staring absently at the cloth. “He considers Oleander rather shabby, despite all the restoration work I’ve put into it. He wanted to bring in a New York decorator to smarten the place up and make it presentable for his Washington cronies, but I refused.” She shrugged and their eyes met. “Maybe it was wrong of me—it really is an ideal spot to entertain—but I couldn’t bear the thought of it being picture-perfect and used only for fund-raisers, or as some kind of Gone with the Wind prop for PR purposes. It’s my sanctuary and I love it just the way it is, with the stairs that creak, the layers of old dust up in the attic, the shutters that bang relentlessly in the storms during the rainy season. To me it’s just home.”
“Sounds like the old place has a lot of stories to tell.”
Elm laughed. “Many more than you can imagine. I had some pretty outrageous ancestors. My great-great-grandmother Elma is practically a legend in Savannah—the original Steel Magnolia.”
“Steel magnolia?” Johnny repeated blankly.
“It’s an expression that means a certain combination of Southern grace and inner grit. In Elma’s case, she had both in spades.” He watched her take a quick sip of champagne and settle back in her chair. “As Sherman’s forces were advancing on Savannah, a forward scouting party of maybe a half-dozen soldiers made their way to Oleander Creek and were preparing to force their way into the house when one of them slammed his rifle butt into the front step and cracked the stone. Well, Elma thought this was unpardonably rude and confronted them at the door, saying there was no way they were getting inside unless they cleaned themselves up and remembered their manners. Apparently she gave those Yankees such
