Only Cynthia Murdock could use an old-fashioned word like that and make it sound classy and completely perfect. But the woman could also cut people into ribbons with a few well-chosen words, Isabel remembered.
“Let me get the door,” Isabel said now without thinking.
The two women were busy laughing and talking as they entered the long central hallway of the cool, shuttered house. Which is why they didn’t see the man standing at the end of the long kitchen, splashing water from an aluminum bucket sitting on the wash drain all over his face and bare chest, until it was too late to back out of the room.
Dillon heard the commotion, then looked up to find his mother and Isabel standing there in the doorway, looking at him as if he were doing something scandalous.
“I didn’t hear a knock,” he said, his lazy gaze moving from his shocked mother’s face to the stunning woman standing beside her. “And I don’t recall inviting two pretty ladies to dinner.”
Cynthia quickly got over her shock and set the heavy platter on the cracked counter. “I found Isabel walking through the wildflowers. And…there’s plenty enough here for two.”
Dillon didn’t bother to hide his bare chest, or the surprise his mother’s bold suggestion brought to his face. “Mama, are you trying to fix me up with our Isabel?”
Cynthia snorted. “I was trying to cover up for your lack of manners, son. Where is your shirt, anyway?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a suitcase tossed carelessly up on one of the many long counters. “Throw me one, will you, Isabel?”
Gritting her teeth, and pulling her eyes back inside her head, Isabel chose a plain white T-shirt to hurl at him, her small grunt of pleasure indicating that she wished it had been something that could do a little more damage.
Dillon caught the shirt, his eyes still on Isabel. With lazy disregard, he pulled it over his damp hair, then tucked it into the equally damp waistband of his jeans. “Sorry, Mama, but I didn’t know I’d have an audience for my bath. Guess it’s a good thing I kept my breeches on.”
Cynthia threw up her hands. “He’s still a charmer, isn’t he, Isabel?”
“Oh, he is indeed.” Isabel turned to leave. “And I really can’t stay. I just wanted to say hello, Miss Cynthia.”
Dillon leaned across the old, planked table standing in the middle of the kitchen. “What’s your hurry?”
Isabel turned to see him reclining there, bathed in a golden shaft of afternoon sunlight, his gray eyes almost black with a teasing, challenging light.
She wanted to take his picture again. But she wouldn’t, because she wasn’t going to stay in this hot room any longer. She’d just have to figure out some other way of getting him to cooperate with Susan about that tuxedo. If she stayed here right now, she couldn’t be sure she’d be in control of her wayward feelings.
Tossing back a long strand of hair, she said, “Actually, I was taking pictures and I ran into your mother. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Cynthia cleared her throat and shooed Isabel back into the room. “Stay and talk to my son, please. Maybe you can convince him to come over to Eli’s house, where there’s plenty of fresh water and air-conditioning.”
Isabel hesitated, her gaze locking with Dillon’s. “I don’t think it’s my place to argue with your son, Miss Cynthia.”
“And why?” Cynthia questioned with a diamond bejeweled hand on her hip. “You two used to argue all the time. That boy used to send you running, nearly in tears. But only after you’d given him a good piece of your mind.”
Isabel lowered her head to stare at a crack in the pine flooring. “Well, that was then—”
“And this is now,” Dillon finished. “Mama’s right. I’m not minding my manners. Stay and talk to me a while, Isabel. I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.”
“That’s more like it,” Miss Cynthia said, nodding her approval. “You two can keep each other company until we all get through this wedding.”
Dillon lifted up off the table then to come around and kiss his mother. “Thanks, Mama. Now, you’d better get back. I suspect Eli doesn’t know you’ve been feeding me.”
“I’ll take care of Eli, son.”
“Yep, you always have, haven’t you?”
Cynthia stopped at the wide doorway. “I’d be more than happy to take care of you, if you’d stay here long enough to let me.”
Dillon’s smile was bittersweet. “I’m fine, Mama. Really. Now, scoot.”
Cynthia gave an eloquent shrug, then waved to Isabel. “Bye, now. Tell your grandmama hello for me, honey. Oh, and I might have some alterations to bring down to her next week. A couple of dresses that need taking in. I don’t trust anybody else to do the job.”
“I’ll tell her,” Isabel promised, thinking that as always, Miss Cynthia had reminded her of her place. Her grandmother was still the hired help, no matter how fond Miss Cynthia was of Martha Landry. She waited until she heard the click of Miss Cynthia’s heels on the back steps, then looked up at Dillon. “I’m not staying for supper, and I can see myself out.”
He reached out a long tanned arm, catching her by the hand to hold her in her spot. “Was it something I said?”
She glanced back up to find his eyes centered on her with that questioning, brooding intensity. “No, Dillon. Actually, it was something I said. Susan is upset that you didn’t get your fitting this morning. Will you just go back in tomorrow and get it over with?”
He dropped her arm to move to the red ice chest he had propped in one corner of the room. “Want a soda?”
“Okay,” she said without giving it much thought. Just like she’d come bursting in here without much thought, to find him half-clothed. How she wished she’d knocked, but then, he probably would have come to the door bare-chested anyway. When he came back to hand her the icy cold can, she told herself she’d take a couple of sips then leave gracefully.
Then he pulled the white linen cover off the fried chicken. “Mmm, Mama does know how to fry up a chicken. Doesn’t that smell so good?”
Her stomach growled like the traitor it was. Taking a bit of meat that Dillon tore from a crispy breast, she nibbled it, then tried to put the fat and calorie content out of her mind.
Unrolling the silverware his mother had thoughtfully provided, Dillon dipped a spoon into the white mound beside the chicken, then held it out to Isabel. “Want some mashed potatoes?”
“Stop it!” Isabel said, taking out her frustrations on the pop top on her drink. The sound hissed and sizzled almost as loudly as the tension between them. “Just tell me you’ll go back in and get your tux.”
“I might,” he said after shoveling the potatoes into his own mouth. Then he picked up a drumstick and bit into it. Chewing thoughtfully before he dropped it back on the plate, his eyes on her, he said, “Then again, I might just show up like this.” He shrugged and waved the white napkin over his jeans.
