Once again, the council members' voices raised in enthusiastic murmurs.
Elinor met Cole's smile with dismayed eyes. Plastics factory? The image conjured up environmental nightmares. Only two years ago, an accident in a plastics manufacturing plant in Mississippi had left a terrifying toxic nightmare.
"Now, come to order, folks," the mayor intervened. "I know we're all excited but we've gotta give Cole some time to work out the details." He pushed back his chair. "We'll adjourn today and plan on nailing everything down at the meeting next month."
Elinor remained seated as the others rose and prepared to leave. When she'd heard that Cole Whittier was back in town, it never occurred to her that he'd have this kind of impact on the town. Bayville had a certain sleepy charm, a middle-America feel that was precious to her.
"You have reservations, Elinor." Cole's low voice startled her as he slid into the empty seat beside her.
"Reservations?" she stalled, deliberately not meeting his eyes.
"About the project," he clarified. "About me."
She straightened the papers in front of her again. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Whittier. I don't know enough about either one to make a judgment."
"That can easily be rectified," he suggested, the soft tone of his voice finally seducing her into looking at him.
Heaven only knew, looking at Cole Whittier would never be a hardship. Turned to face her, he was so close that his knees brushed against her chair. A clean, male scent drifted up to Elinor as he leaned closer.
"Well, Cole," Mayor Stephens's voice broke in, "I think that went pretty well, don't you?"
"Not too badly," Cole responded, his eyes still locked on Elinor's face.
"I think we're halfway to a satisfactory understanding," the mayor proclaimed, apparently unaware that he was intruding on his wealthy patron's amorous pursuits.
Elinor wasn't unaware, and she could have kissed Bob Stephens's round face for inadvertently providing a distraction. She needed a lot of things in her life. A new set of tires on the Toyota, a helpful informant in the IRS, even a way to reach her crotchety, deteriorating grandfather. But she didn't need Cole Whittier.
"We're not quite that close to an understanding, Mayor," Cole said pulling back slightly as if knowing his nearness shut down her respiratory functions. "I think some of the council members have concerns."
"Concerns?" blustered the mayor. "Why, I can't imagine who'd have serious concerns about this project."
"I have, Mayor," Elinor admitted eyeing Cole with dislike. She felt maneuvered into declaring herself. There wasn't a trace of smugness in his face, but she knew without a doubt that he was pleased with the turn of the conversation.
"Now, Elly. This factory is goin' to be great for Bayville. You can't mean to stand in the way of progress—"
"I'm sure," Cole interrupted smoothly, "that Ms. Prescott has legitimate and heartfelt questions—"
"Thank you," Elinor said with equal smoothness.
"—And who better than I," Cole smiled "to answer those questions? Are you free for dinner this evening, Ms. Prescott?"
Elinor gaped, caught off guard by the sudden twist in the discussion.
"Why, that'd be great!" the mayor beamed, comprehension finally dawning on his face. "A nice quiet dinner for talking business." He winked at Cole. "I'm sure the two of you can reach a mutually satisfactory agreement."
"But we need to discuss this with the entire council," Elinor protested, floundering for an escape.
"Nonsense, honey," Mayor Stephens chuckled. "Why would Cole want to have dinner with that bunch of prunes?"
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 shuttered 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 restaurant 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 granddaughter. 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 overgrown 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 between 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.