Sweet Talking Man

Who doesn’t want a little sweet talk?

Leif Lively is the hottest thing to happen to Magnolia Bend. But single mother Abigail Orgeron figures he’s another heartbreaker and does her best to ignore the steamy glances he tosses her way. When he speaks, though, her resistance crumbles! His sweet words, humor and laid-back ways captivate buttoned-up Abigail.

For once, losing control feels so good, and this no-strings arrangement is getting serious. What will she do when Leif solves the family mystery that brought him to town and decides to leave? Because she’s learning that the biggest love means taking the biggest risk…

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “But I’m glad you came.”

If only.

Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

And standing there with the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other…and make her beg for more.

Dear Reader,

Poor Abigail. The managing sister of the Beauchamp clan needs to chill. So I gave her the best thing an uptight, lonely woman needs—a laid-back, sexy Norse god. Leif’s not your typical hero. He’s vegan, plays the ukulele and wears natural-fiber clothing. He’s a hippie…but a really fine one. And exactly what the buttoned-up PTA president needs to balance out her life.

Leif has come to Magnolia Bend with one purpose in mind—find his real father and clear his mother’s name. He doesn’t plan on breaking through the prickly Abigail’s defenses or on falling in love with the passionate creature beneath the sweater sets. But when did fate ever care about plans?

Toss in a rebellious twelve-year-old, an ex-husband looking for redemption and the droll Hilda Brunet, and you have a story worth taking the day off for. So grab a glass of sweet tea and a couple of hours to fall in love with Sweet Talking Man.

I love hearing from readers, so give me a shout at liztalleybooks.com or friend me on Facebook (liztalleybooks).

Happy reading!

Liz Talley

Sweet Talking Man

Liz Talley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A 2009 Golden Heart® Award finalist in Regency romance, LIZ TALLEY has since found a home writing sassy Southern stories. Her book Vegas Two-Step debuted in June 2010 and was quickly followed by four more books in her Oak Stand, Texas series. In her current books, she’s visiting her home state of Louisiana. Liz lives in north Louisiana with her hero, two beautiful boys and a passel of animals. She enjoys laundry, paying bills and creating masterful dinners for her family. She also lies in her biography to make herself look like the perfect housewife. What she really likes is new shoes, lemon-drop martinis and fishing off the pier at her camp. You can visit her at liztalleybooks.com to learn more about the lies she tells herself and about her upcoming books.

To the girls who remember my first training bra, my first kiss and my first Wild Thing (’cause I didn’t like beer): Dianna, Angela, Karen, Tina, Michelle and Heather. I still think I look good in velour and twist-a-beads.

The oldest friends are the best friends!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

August 1978

SIMEON HARVEY TURNED away from the open window noting the ceiling fan did little to relieve the discomfort of the sultry Louisiana night. He supposed he’d have to buy a damned air conditioner. Days ago, he’d discovered the humidity had damaged some of the priceless artworks hanging in the gallery. And that could not be.

He glanced at his grandnephew, Bartholomew Theriot Harvey, who sat in a chair in desperate need of reupholstering, fanning himself and sipping a gin and tonic.

“I don’t know why you don’t install air-conditioning in this old dump. It’s hotter than shit in here,” Bart said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He looked so much like his mother, Brenda, it was difficult to be angry at him...until he opened his mouth. “So why have I been summoned? Usually I call you. Regardless, you pulled the strings and the puppet dances.”

Simeon stared hard at the boy. No, he wasn’t a boy any longer, but rather a spoiled little popinjay of a man who’d turned thirty years old yet still acted like a frat boy, drinking too much, spending too much, ignoring his old uncle until he needed more funds. Simeon itched to smack the boy, but he wouldn’t. Simeon wasn’t a man of violence.

“Pull the strings? That’s the way you see it, eh?” Simeon asked, creeping painfully toward his recliner. His apartment of rooms occupied the upper floor of Laurel Woods, the historic plantation his family had owned for over a hundred years. Simeon seldom left his rooms, and his pride kept him from moving his bed into the downstairs parlor. He wasn’t that damn old, but the rheumatoid arthritis had worsened over the years and he knew his ability to get up and down the staircase was nearly at an end. Yes, for a man who enjoyed the splendor of the natural world, accepting his limitations was a bitter pill to swallow. He missed the wind brushing his skin...not that there was a breeze tonight.

Simeon tucked his sateen robe around his legs, then adjusted his round spectacles. “And that is exactly why I asked you to come to Laurel Woods this evening. Those pesky strings.”

Bart, whose gaze had traveled over Simeon’s collection of beautiful things, jerked his head indicating the life-size sculpture Calliope had unveiled last week. “That thing is starting to give me a boner.”

Simeon looked at the beautiful rendering of two lovers in a passionate embrace. The lithe female arched back, one arm lifted, as her lover suckled her breast. Folds of fabric fell from the bared stomach of the seductress. Diana, the huntress, captured in sensual pleasure.

“It’s a work of art, meant to engage the senses.”

“Well, if it does a better job, we’ll both be embarrassed.” Bart gave a dirty laugh. “Seriously, if people visit and see that, they’re gonna think you’re a perv.”

Simeon took a few seconds to allow the disappointment inside him to settle. He still couldn’t believe guileless Brenda had given birth to someone as low as Bart. The boy made him feel as if he needed to wash his hands. “Bartholomew, I’m sorry to say I’ve done you a great disservice all these years.”

Bart’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. “A disservice?”

“Yes, a grave disservice,” Simeon said, stroking the white goatee that brushed his knotted cravat, reaching for calmness, asking the gods to give him the right words.

Bart uncrossed his legs, adjusting his position in the chair. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve provided for you because I loved both my sister and niece. Celeste and Brenda made mistakes in their lives, lives shortened by heartbreak, but each was free of selfish motive.”

“Do you think I don’t appreciate all you’ve done for me, uncle? Because I do,” Bart said quite prettily, using a cajoling voice and a soft smile.

Trickery.

Bart had blown through half the money he’d inherited on his twenty-first birthday and came to Simeon several times a year to beg for more. His handsome great-nephew always brought presents, like the fine velvet pajamas or Victorian erotic art he knew his uncle treasured. He also exploited his uncle’s loneliness by reminiscing about old times, times where laughter echoed through the halls of Laurel Woods. Though the boy was incredibly selfish and dissolute, he was hypodermically sharp.

“I care about you, Bart, and that’s the reason I’m changing my will.”

“Oh.” Bart straightened, his eyebrows lifting. “Ah, what...” He paused as if unsure what position he should take. Buttoning his mouth, he elected to wait.

“You’ll continue to receive the money remaining in the trust, but I’ve decided the estate will be given to the Laurel Woods Art Foundation on my death. I want the good work we’re doing for artists and the community in general to continue after I’m gone.”

Bart’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re joking.”

“Not a joke. I firmly believe you’ll never change, never grow up, as long as I continue to feed you money. You have two legs—it’s time you learned to stand upon them.”

At that moment his nephew did. Rising abruptly, Bart moved toward him, hand outstretched. As usual. “Uncle Simmy, please. I’m not a bad person. Didn’t I bring you chocolates from the place on Magazine Street you like?”

Simeon looked at the box he’d already opened and sampled from. “A nice gift, Bartholomew.”

“Yes, a nice gift,” Bart said, dropping his hand. “And I think the art foundation is deserving of your generosity. But to give the whole estate to a bunch of fruitcakes who make crap—” he picked up a piece of driftwood carved to look like a sleeping heron “—is insane.”

“I beg your pardon? Insane? What is insane about wanting to leave the world a better place?” Simeon cupped his hands over the recliner’s arms, shifting his weight so he sat taller.

“Leave the world a better place with this stuff? You’re mad.”

Simeon chose to ignore that remark. Keep to the course. “I have an appointment with Remy Broussard tomorrow to make the changes. My mind is made up, but I thought it best to tell you in person. You deserved to know what to expect upon my death.”

Bart turned. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I’m your own blood, the child of the niece who cared for you when no one else would. I’m a Harvey. You can’t do this. You just can’t.”

“Of course I can. The estate belongs to me. The money you inherited from your mother was gambled away at the track. You think I don’t realize why your hand is stretched out so often? You think I don’t know about the people you owe money to? Dangerous people who would sooner slit your throat than piss on you.”

His nephew jabbed a finger toward him. “I’ll get an attorney and fight this. Harvey money belongs to a Harvey—not a nest of freaks.”

“Do what you wish, but you’ll lose. I know people whisper that I’m odd, and I suppose I am, but being different makes you more anticipatory. Think I’d leave any avenue open for you and some half-assed attorney? No, Bartholomew. I may wear silk underwear and eat macaroons, but my balls are steel.” Power surged through Simeon. He hadn’t felt this way in years. So alive. He had been a millionaire all his life, a burden, he’d often thought, but sometimes it felt good to exert the force his millions gave him.

“Don’t do this,” Bart said, his color fading, a look of panic emerging. “We’re family. I’m—”

“Going to be better off depending on yourself rather than the money my father made. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”

A thump below drew their attention.

“Simeon?” a woman called out. “Are you presentable? I wanted to show you the new sketch for the library piece.”

“I’m up here, Calliope,” he called, turning to shoot Bart a warning. He didn’t like to discuss personal affairs in front of his artists, especially the lovely Calliope. Of course, they weren’t “his” artists, but they stayed at Laurel Woods because he fed and housed them, as well as commissioned their art for the town and surrounding businesses. The house and grounds his mother had loved so had been turned into a place of solitude, a place birthing beauty. It was a legacy that would continue with the huge allocation of resources upon his death. Until then, he’d continue to provide for the foundation.

“Oh, shall I come up?” she called.

“Make her go away. We’re not finished yet,” Bart said.

“No, we are finished,” Simeon said, rising. He didn’t want Calliope to see inside his rooms. Hattie hadn’t come to clean in a few days because her grandson was ill. A pair of pajamas on the floor and rumpled bedclothes weren’t an acceptable tableau for receiving a lady. “I’ll come down.”

Even if it meant another flare-up of pain.

“Is that the one the town says is after your money?” Bart asked, his voice low, still panicked.

“Pish posh, that girl isn’t after my money. But Calliope is the person I’ve chosen to run the foundation. She’s bright, talented and—”

“A whore. I’ve heard about her. Seducing all the men in town. Barefoot, no bra—she’s a dirty heathen. And that’s who you want to give the money to? Some fruitcake hippie who has slept with half the men in town?”

“Well, if it isn’t the pot,” Simeon said, picking up the ebony cane and moving at a turtle’s pace toward the open door. “Seems rather a double standard from a man who’s paid for two abortions.”

As Simeon entered the upper hall, he caught sight of the loveliest artist he’d ever had the pleasure of hosting. She’d already turned and was heading down the stairs toward the marble-tiled foyer, her elegant hands gripping a sketch pad. She wore a broom skirt and her unbound blond hair just touched the curve of her buttocks. She padded barefoot, soundless on the curving staircase, a lithe sprite, full of energy and light. He’d never felt an attraction for a woman before, his tendencies leaning toward nubile young men, but he fancied he had a crush on the ethereal sculptor.

Something about her pulled at him.

Just as he reached the stairs, he felt Bart behind him.

“Please,” Bart begged. “Please don’t do this, uncle. We’re family.”

Simeon shook his head, turning back to tell Bart to stop groveling. Simeon felt his weight shift oddly, the foot that dangled over the first step downward found only air. He grasped for the banister, the cane falling from his hand and clattering to the tile below. And then he fell, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the sconce flicker, striking his head hard. Needles of pain flew at him from all directions as his body crashed down the marble staircase.

He heard the terrified scream and didn’t know if it came from him or someone else. And just before he surrendered to the darkness coming for him, he saw the angel. Her eyes were wide, the color of the hydrangea still blooming at his door. Her silken hair, golden like the sunrise. She reached out for him, radiating comfort.

And then he was no more.

CHAPTER TWO

December, present day

ABIGAIL ORGERON GLANCED back at her twelve-year-old daughter as they approached the small white house located directly behind the antebellum home where they lived. Birdie resembled a prisoner sentenced to hang, trudging as if the happy cottage was the scaffold.

Birdie looked at the house with the stained glass and bamboo wind chimes, soulful eyes roving the charcoal shutters, regret shadowing her face. Not even the string of large-bulb Christmas lights could erase the dread from her face.

Well, Birdie shouldn’t have stooped to spying on the lone occupant of the house if she didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions.

“Please, Mom,” her daughter said, her glance sliding to meet Abigail’s.

“Sorry, but you must,” Abigail said, her lips automatically dipping when she noticed the makeup Birdie had applied. Over the past year, her daughter had grown rebellious, doing things she knew her mother did not approve of. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Birdie looked away. “Yeah.”

Since muttering whatever or giving the silent treatment was Birdie’s typical reply, Abigail counted herself lucky to get an actual response. Her daughter had tucked away the manners Abigail had instilled in her from the time she began babbling. “It’s yes, ma’am, and I don’t want to see that crap on your face again. You’re too young.”

“I’m not too young. I’m in the seventh grade. All the girls wear makeup.”

“Except you.”

Birdie made a great show of sighing and rolling her eyes. They were pretty green eyes, lined in black. She’d also managed to find some awful bubblegum-pink lip gloss. She looked like a little girl playing dress up, but maybe in Abigail’s mind she always would look like her little girl.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this. It was no big deal and you’re making a federal case out of something stupid.” Birdie stopped on the walk and crossed her thin arms. Pink stained the girl’s cheeks, and Abigail was certain it hadn’t come from the cosmetic drawer. She also suspected this was a bigger deal than Birdie wanted to make it. Birdie had told her she’d spied on Leif Lively only twice last month, but Abigail doubted her claim. The kid had gotten awfully interested in drawing birds from the perch in the big tree out back.

“Spying on people is a crime. It’s called being a Peeping Tom...at worst, stalking.”

“I wasn’t stalking. Just, uh, looking a little. I didn’t intend to spy,” Birdie said, not moving another inch up the walk.

“All you have to do is apologize. Don’t worry. No beatings or stringing up by the toenails will commence.”

Birdie shook her head. “Don’t make me. He doesn’t even know.”

“That doesn’t change the fact your actions were wrong. You have to apologize, Birdie.”

“Stop calling me that ridiculous child’s name.”

Abigail sighed. “It’s not a child’s name. It’s cute.”

Birdie burned her with a laser glare. “I don’t do cute, Mom.”

No, she didn’t. Not anymore. Birdie had gone from fluffy tutus and sparkly shoes to skinny jeans and a black hoodie. The one thing that hadn’t changed was her size. Birdie may have been in the seventh grade, but she looked like a fourth grader. Slim, small and defiant, she had gone from funny Birdie to brooding Brigitte.

“Fine, Brigitte. Let’s go apologize to Mr. Lively.”

Birdie gave a short puff of aggravation. “Dad said I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.”

“Oh, did he? Well, since he’s failed to be a parent for the past five years and doesn’t even live in the state, his insight into the situation isn’t va—”

At that moment the door swung open and there he was. Leif Lively himself...or, as Abigail had dubbed him, resident cuckoo bird. Okay, sexy cuckoo bird was a more accurate descriptor. The head of the art department at St. George’s Episcopal School had flaxen hair that fell to his shoulders, bright blue Nordic eyes, a chiseled jaw and a body that made half the women in town salivate. He probably could make the other half salivate, too, but some women had principles and sense.

Like Abigail. She snapped her mouth closed and gave him her committee smile—the one that got things done.

“Ah, my neighbors,” Leif said with a warm smile that touched those pretty eyes. “I don’t see any casseroles in hand so I’m guessing you’re not welcoming me to the neighborhood?”

He said it like a joke. He knew, of course, that Abigail would be the last person to welcome him to Laurel Creek, the new subdivision that had opened behind her historic Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast in the small Louisiana town of Magnolia Bend. Abigail had vehemently protested the development behind her place of business. Laurel Woods, a plantation that had been around since before the Civil War, had always been surrounded by lush woods. The solitary, serene location was a main selling point for Abigail’s business. But a planned patio community had taken away a third of the pines and hardwoods that lent peace to the bed-and-breakfast. Abigail hated the subdivision with every fiber of her being, but she hadn’t been able to stop Bartholomew Harvey from selling the acreage to a developer.

She’d lost that battle, but she wasn’t conceding to the hotness standing in front of her.

Wait. No. Not hotness.

She refused to think of the local artist as a sexual being...even if he made it difficult not to.

Chasing those thoughts felt too, well, dangerous.

And just why were those thoughts even in her mind anyway? She’d encountered Leif many times at St. George’s and, though she appreciated his good looks and easy charm, she didn’t consider him a prospect for anything other than an art teacher. In his eyes she’d seen what he thought of her as she organized wrapping-paper drives and delivered muffins to the teachers’ lounge. Her dedication to being the PTA president amused him. He probably thought she was totally lame. Or at least she’d convinced herself that’s what he thought of her. Either way, this man was on the other end of the spectrum from her.

“You’ve been living here for three or four months so I think the welcome period is over. I’m here on another matter entirely, Mr. Lively,” she said.

“Call me Leif, and I’m just saying a casserole would have been delish,” he teased, padding barefoot down the freshly painted steps, stopping way too near her.

He wore baggy cotton pants that gathered in at his waist. His bare torso belonged in an ad for suntan lotion, all bronze and free of chest hair. He looked like a man too comfortable in his own skin. Abigail swallowed, but refused to step back. “I thought you were a vegan anyway.”

“Word gets around, huh? Well, vegans like casseroles,” he said with another smile, craning his head around her to spy Birdie standing stock-still on the walk. “Hey, Birdie.”

Abigail glanced at her daughter. The child’s face was the color of the camellias blooming by the white picket fence. Good gravy.

“Hi, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said.

“So what can I do for you?” Leif asked.

A naughty thought popped into Abigail’s mind. Really naughty. But she flicked it away and cleared her throat. “Birdie has something to say to you.”

“Oh.” Leif’s gaze swept down Abigail’s body, taking in the clothes she’d donned for the open house held at St. George’s Episcopal School earlier that day. She’d aimed for professional but suspected she looked overly conservative. But who cared? Besides it was winter, for Christ’s sake. Leif needed to put on a shirt. What kind of man answered the door in such dishabille? Not any man she knew, that’s for sure.

Abigail smoothed the wool slacks against her thighs before she could catch herself and turned toward her daughter with an arched eyebrow.

Birdie just stood there, looking scared.

“I hope you’re coming to tell me you want to take the art class I’m offering at the community college next semester,” Leif said, his eyebrows lifted expectantly. “I’m looking forward to having a talented artist in my class at school this semester, but it would be awesome to have you in the enrichment class, too, Birdie.”

“Brigitte,” her daughter said.