Cole knew he was facing a tough sale, tougher perhaps than anyone in Bayville. The woman wasn't wooed by the money he could bring to the town. And whenever he approached her, she prickled like a hedgehog. But the fact didn't faze him. She reacted to him, and that was a start.
A waiter materialized at Cole's side and took their orders.
"So tell me about your work," Cole invited, when the man had gone.
"I work out of my home, do accounting for a number of small businesses," Elinor responded, her face serene as her fingers fiddled with her napkin. "Routine stuff, usually."
"It's the routine stuff that sinks most small businesses," Cole observed. "I bet your clients don't even realize how important you are to them."
She flushed ever so faintly, struggling, he knew, with the urge to demur that trembled on her tongue. He'd have to step lightly in his campaign to win her over. Modest women took a certain amount of finesse.
If he came right out and said that he found her powerfully, gloriously seductive, she'd be so aghast, she'd turn tail and run.
"I'm not so sure about that," Elinor said finally, after a large swallow of water from her glass. "But I've managed to keep most of them from death-by-audit."
Cole laughed then. "Good grief, woman, you can do that? I've needed someone like you for years. The IRS seems to gobble up my tax attorneys and spit them out."
"You are in a slightly different bracket from my clientele," she observed, her voice cool. "I'm sure I wouldn't be of any help to you."
"Don't sell yourself short," Cole suggested softly. "Haven't you heard that good help is hard to find?"
"I have heard something of the sort," she agreed dryly, "but I don't have much personal experience with that particular problem since I haven't tried hiring servants recently."
"I'm not too interested in servants," Cole said with a touch of compassion, knowing it must be difficult for her to accept the financial ruin of the great Prescotts of Oakleigh. "But I am determined to get the very best personnel for the Whittier plant in Bayville. And I think you're excellent executive material."
Dangling the carrot, Elinor thought. "No, I don't think so, thank you. I'm happy with my own business." She despised the ways of politics and big business, the subtle exchange of favors.
At that moment, their waiter appeared with their meal. When he was gone, they began eating in silence. Elinor wished the evening were over. Despite his moneyed confidence, Cole Whittier packed enough charm to knock the socks off a nun.
Cole's eyes rested on her speculatively as he ate. Obviously, he hadn't expected her to turn him down that flatly.
Elinor paused between bites, toying with her fork. "About the reason for this dinner tonight? You were right. I do have some serious concerns about the factory."
Cole sat back in his chair. "Of course you do. It's another indication of your intelligence. Although you're wrong in assuming that's the only reason for my wanting to see you tonight."
"It's my reason for being here," Elinor stated firmly. "Are you aware that the Lanier property contains some of the most beautiful land along the river?"
"Yes," Cole answered. "I grew up here, remember? But the factory would bring a greater prosperity to this area."
She glanced down. "I suppose that would be your response. As if there's always some other place for people to enjoy the land."
Cole leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting with sudden suspicion. "You have a special place you love? On the Lanier site?"
She dropped her napkin into her lap, not meeting his gaze. "Yes, I do. It's a wonderful, quiet place I discovered when I moved here two years ago. I'd hate to see it turned into a toxic dump."
"So would I, Elinor," he retorted, an edge of anger seeping into his tone. "None of my plants create the kind of problems you're talking about. And if they did, I wouldn't be likely to do that to my own hometown."
"I'd hope not," she muttered.
They finished the elegant meal, Elinor declining any dessert. Cole obviously wasn't in the mood to linger over coffee. He signaled the waiter, who swiftly and discreetly attended to the business of the check.
Elinor shivered as Cole's hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her down the steps to the car. The limousine sat at the curb as they walked out of the restaurant.
She wasn't sure who'd won this evening's skirmish, but she felt a shade tattered by the battle. Cole Whittier's money didn't interest her, but his sensuality and the hot interest that flared in his eyes scared the heck out of her. It took everything she had not to succumb to the answering warmth that welled up inside her.
She slid into the limo, with the same sense of distaste she'd felt toward it from the first moment. In a way, she was glad he'd used the car tonight. Its opulence and decadent excess helped remind her of just why Cole Whittier wasn't a man she could trust.
He climbed in next to her, leaning forward to speak quietly to the driver before pressing the button that shut the window between seats.
Elinor sat back against the cool leather seat, nervously aware of Cole's presence beside her. He sat negligently turned, the stark white of his custom dress shirt bright in the dimness of the car's interior. She could smell his warm muskiness, a heady drift of something elemental.
He was at least six inches away, not encroaching on her space. Yet, she felt his presence like a warm bath of sensation, liquid and potent.
"I noticed earlier that you've done wonders with the cottage," he complimented. "That place was a ruin twenty years ago."
"It was pretty wrecked when I moved in two years ago," Elinor said, resisting the urge to shift away from the magnetic spell of his closeness.
"Do you know," Cole murmured, "rumor has it that the plantation owner long ago built the cottage for his lady love? She was supposedly a captivating slave woman he kept tucked away for his own carnal pleasures."
The embers simmering low in Elinor's body flared to life at the softness of his voice. She pushed the sensation aside. It was easy to imagine him as a slave owner, powerful and supremely confident. Any woman he kept tucked away would probably have been exhausted by his passion.
"The story goes," he continued, "that she bore him ten children. And when he freed them all, he kept the woman, still tied to him by passion, forever."