Drifting awake, she shifted. On a contented sigh, she reached out. Reluctantly she opened her eyes. Bright sunlight flooded the room, and she was alone in bed. Pushing her tumbled hair back, she sat up.
He'd gotten his way, she thought with a half smile. She had stayed the night, and he hadn't gotten enough of her—or she of him—until sunup.
It had been, she admitted freely, the most magnificent night of her life.
And where the hell was Sloan?
On cue, he walked in, pushing a room service cart. "Morning."
"Good morning." She smiled, though she felt awkward with him dressed and her still naked and in bed.
"I ordered us some breakfast." Sensing her dilemma, he plucked up a white terry-cloth robe from a chair. "Compliments of the Bay Watch," he said as he handed it to her, then leaned over a bit farther to give her a leisurely kiss. "Why don't we eat on the terrace?"
"That'd be nice. Give me a minute."
When she joined him outside, there were plates set on the pale azure cloth, and a single rose in a clear vase. It touched her deeply that he would take as much care with the morning as he had with the night.
"You think of everything."
"Just of you." He grinned as he sat across from her. "We can look at this like a first date, since I never could convince you to have a meal with me before."
"No." Her gaze lowered as she poured coffee for both of them. "I guess you couldn't." Picking up her napkin, she began to pleat it with her fingers. They were having breakfast, she thought, after a long night of feasting. And they'd never even ridden in the same car, shared a pizza, talked on the phone.
It was idiotic, she told herself. It was scary.
"Sloan, I realize this might sound stupid at this stage, but I...I don't make a habit of spending the night with men in hotel rooms. I'm not usually intimate with someone I've known such a short time."
"You don't have to tell me that." He closed a hand over hers until she looked at him. "It's been a fast trip for both of us. Maybe it's because what happened between us is special. I'm in love with you, Amanda. No, don't pull away." He tightened his grip. "Normally I'm a patient man, but I have to work hard on it with you. I'm going to do my best to give you time."
“If I said I was in love with you—'' she let out a cleansing breath "—what would happen next?"
In his eyes, something flickered and sent her already unsteady pulse jumping. "Sometimes you can't work out the answers first. You've got to be willing to gamble."
"I've never been much of a gambler." She bit her lip, determined to get over that last skip of fear. "I wouldn't have come here last night if I hadn't been in love with you."
He lifted her hand to press his lips to the palm. Over it, he smiled at her. "I know."
The laugh was as much from relief as amusement. "You knew, but you just had to hear me say it."
"That's right." His eyes were suddenly very sober. "I had to hear you say it. Women aren't the only ones who need words, Amanda."
No, she thought, they weren't "I love you, but I'm still a little scared of it. I'd like to take it slow, one step at a time."
"Fair enough. We can start by having our first date before the eggs get cold."
At ease, she buttered a piece of toast and split it with him. "You know, as long as I've worked here, I've never sat on one of those terraces and looked out at the bay."
"Never snuck into an empty room and played guest?" He laughed. "No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't even think about it. So, how does it,feel, seeing it from the other side of the desk?"
"Well, the bed's comfortable, the hotel robes are roomy and the view's wonderful." There was laughter in her eyes, contented, easy laughter. "However, at The Towers Retreat, we'll offer all that and more. Private spas, romantic fireplaces, complimentary champagne with each reservation—I have to run that by Trent—cordon bleu meals prepared by Coco, world-renowned chef, all in a turn-of-the-century setting, complete with ghosts and a legendary hidden treasure." She rested her chin on her hand. "Unless we manage to get our hands on the emeralds before we open."
"Do you really believe they still exist?"
"Yes. Oh, not with any of the mystic business Aunt Coco or Lilah subscribe to. It's simple logic. They did exist. If anyone in the family had sold them, it would have come out. Therefore, they still exist. A quarter of a million in jewels doesn't just disappear."
His brow lifted. "They're that valuable?"
"Oh, probably more so by now—that's not even counting the aesthetic or intrigue value."
It changed the complexion of things for him entirely. "So what we've got is five women and two kids, who've been living alone in a house loaded with antiques, plus a fortune in jewels. And no security system."
She frowned a little. "It's not exactly loaded with antiques since we've had to sell off a lot over the years. And there's never been a problem. It's not as though any of us are helpless."
"I know. Calhoun women can take care of themselves. I'm beginning to think that besides being tough, they're stupid."
"Now, wait a minute—"
"No, you wait." To emphasize the point, he poked his fork at her. "First thing in the morning, we're going to see about an alarm system."
She'd already decided the same thing herself after yesterday's incident. But that didn't mean he could tell her to. "You're not going to start taking over my life."
"So, to be stubborn, you'll ignore the obvious, because I brought it up, and take a chance that someone might break in and hurt one of the kids."
"Don't put words in my mouth," she tossed back. "I've been checking into alarms for the past two weeks."
"Why didn't you just say so?"
"Because you were too busy handing out orders." She might have said more, but the horn on one of the tourist boats distracted her. "What time is it?"
"About one."
"One?" Her eyes went huge. "In the afternoon? That's not possible, we just got up."
"It's real possible when you don't get to sleep until morning."
"I've got a million things to do." She was already pushing back from the table. "All that mess from the wedding has to be cleaned up. Trent's father was coming for brunch two hours ago, and William's coming by at three."
"Hold it." That brought him out of his chair. "You're not still going to see him?"
"Mr. St. James? He'll be gone by now. I can't believe I was so rude."
"William," he corrected, snagging her arm. "The attractive, intelligent man you had dinner with the other night."
"William? Well, of course I'm going to see him."
"No." He tugged her closer. "You're not."
The dangerous light in his eyes set off one in her own. "I just told you you weren't going to take over my life."
"I don't give a damn what you told me. There's no way in hell I'm going to let you waltz out of my bed and on to a date with another man."
With a little huff, she pulled her arm free. "You don't let me do anything. Get that straight. Next, it isn't a date. William Livingston is an antique dealer and I promised him I would show him through The Towers. He gets a busman's holiday, and I get a free assessment. Now move." She shoved past and headed for the shower. Muttering all the way, she slipped off the robe. She'd just finished adjusting the water temperature, stepping in and shutting the curtain when it was yanked open again.
"Damn it, Sloan!" She slicked the wet hair out of her eyes and glared.
"He's an antique dealer?"
"That's what I said."
"And he wants to look at furniture?"
"Exactly."
He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "I'm going with you."
"Fine." With a careless shrug, she picked up the soap and began to lather her shoulders. "Be a possessive bubblehead."
"Okay."
Telling herself she wasn't amused, she glanced over to see him pulling off his shirt. “What are you doing?"
Grinning, he tossed it
aside. "I'll give you three guesses. A sharp lady like you should get it in one."
She bit back a chuckle as he unsnapped his jeans. "I don't have time for water games right now."
"Oh, I think we can sneak it in just under the wire."
"Maybe." She squeezed the wet soap between her hands and shot it at him, nodding approval when he caught it, chest high. "If you wash my back first."
Before stepping from his car, Livingston checked his microrecorder and the tiny camera in his pocket. He was very fond of technology and felt that the sophisticated equipment lent an air of elegance to the job. Since the moment he'd read about the Calhoun emeralds, he'd been obsessed by them, more than any other jewels he'd stolen in his long career. He was considered by Interpol, and indeed by himself, to be one of the most clever and elusive thieves on two continents.
The emeralds presented a challenge he couldn't resist. They weren't tucked in a vault or displayed in a museum. They weren't adoring some rich matron's neck. They were lying in wait somewhere in the odd old house, daring someone to find them. He intended to be that someone.
Though he wasn't opposed to employing violence in his work, he used it sparingly. He was sorry he'd had to use it on Amanda the day before, but he was much sorrier that she'd interrupted his search.
His own fault, he chided himself as he walked to the front door of The Towers. He'd been impatient and had decided that the wedding would be the perfect diversion, giving him the time and the privacy he required to case the interior of the house. Today, however, he would wander those rooms as a guest.
He might have been a thief from the South Side of Chicago, but when he put on a two-thousand-dollar suit, a trace of a British accent and polished manners, even the most discriminating invited him into their parlors.
He knocked and waited. The barking of the dog answered first, and Livingston's eyes hardened. He detested dogs, and the little bugger inside had nearly nipped him before he'd managed to give it a dose of phenobarbital.
When Coco answered the door, Livingston's eyes were clear and his charming smile already in place.
"Mr. Livingston, how nice to see you again." Coco started to offer a hand, then found it more judicious to grasp Fred's collar before the dog could leap at the man's calf. "Fred, stop that now. Mind your manners." Holding the snarling dog at bay, Coco offered a weak smile. "He really is a very gentle animal. He never acts like this, but he had an incident yesterday and isn't himself." After gathering Fred into her arms, she called for Lilah. "Let's go into the parlor, shall we?"
"I hope I'm not intruding on your Sunday, Mrs. McPike. I couldn't resist persuading Amanda to show me through your fascinating house."
"We're delighted to have you." Though she was becoming more disconcerted by the moment as Fred continued to snarl and snap. "Amanda's not here yet, though I can't think what's keeping her. She's always so prompt."
Lilah gave a half laugh as she came down the steps. "I can think exactly what's keeping her." There was no humor in her eyes as she studied their guest. "Hello again, Mr. Livingston."
"Miss Calhoun." He didn't care for the way she looked at him, as though she could see straight through the slick outer trappings to the ruthlessness inside.
"Fred's a bit high-strung today." With a quick pleading look, Coco passed the growling pup to Lilah. "Why don't you take him in the kitchen?" Her hands fluttered before she patted her hair. "Perhaps some herbal tea would soothe him."
"I'll take care of him." Lilah started down the hall, murmuring to the puppy, "I don't like him, either, Fred. Why do you suppose that is?"
"Well then." Relieved, Coco smiled again. "How about some sherry? You can enjoy it while I show you a particularly nice japanned cabinet. It's Charles II, I believe."
"I'd be delighted." He was also delighted to note that she was wearing an excellent set of pearls with matching earrings.
When Amanda arrived twenty minutes later, with Sloan stubbornly at her side, she found her aunt telling Livingston the family history while they admired an eighteenth-century credenza.
"William, I'm so sorry I'm late."
"Don't be." Livingston took one look at Sloan and. concluded his entryway to The Towers wouldn't be Amanda after all. "Your aunt has been the most charming and informative of hostesses."
"Aunt Coco knows more about the furnishings than any of us," she told him. "This is Sloan O'Riley. Sloan is the architect who's designing the renovations."
"Mr. O'Riley." The handshake was brief. Sloan had already taken a dislike to the three-piece-suited, sherry-sipping antique dealer. "The work here must present quite a challenge."
"Oh, I'm getting by."
"I was just telling William how slow and tedious the job of sifting through all those old papers is. Not at all the exciting treasure the press makes it out to be." Coco beamed. "But I've decided to hold another séance. Tomorrow night, the first night of the new moon."
Amanda struggled not to groan. "Aunt Coco, I'm sure William isn't interested."
"On the contrary." He turned all his charm on Coco while a plan formed in his mind. "I'd love to attend myself, if I didn't have pressing business."
"The next time then. Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs—''
Before she could finish, Alex burst through the terrace doors, followed by a speeding Jenny and a laughing Suzanna. All three had dirt streaked on their hands and jeans. Eyes narrowed, Alex skidded to a halt in front of Livingston.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"Alex, don't be a brat." Suzanna snagged his hand before he could spread any of his dirt over the buff-colored tailored pants. "I'm sorry," she began. "We've been in the garden. I made the mistake of mentioning ice cream."
"Don't apologize." Livingston forced his lips to curve. If he disliked anything more than dogs, it was small, grubby children. "They're...lovely."
Suzanna squeezed her son's hand before he could resort to violence at the term. "No, they're not," she said cheerfully. "But we're stuck with them. We'll just get out of your way." As she dragged them off to the kitchen, Alex shot a last look over his shoulder.
"He has mean eyes," he told his mother.
"Don't be silly." She tousled his hair. "He was just annoyed because you almost ran into him."
But Alex looked solemnly at Jenny, who nodded. "Like the snake on Rikki-Tikki-Tavi."
"You move, I strike," Alex said in a fair imitation of the evil cartoon voice.
"Okay, guys, you're giving me the creeps." She laughed off the quick shiver. "The last one in the kitchen has to wash the bowls." She gave them a head start while she rubbed the chill from her arms.
Chapter Nine
“There, you see." Amanda gave Sloan a quick kiss on the cheek. "That wasn't so bad."
He wasn't quite ready to be placated. "He hung around for five hours. I don't see why Coco had to invite him for dinner."
"Because he's a charming, and single man." She laughed and slipped her arms around his neck. "Remember the tea leaves."
They stood at the seawall, inside an ornate pergola. Sloan decided it was as good a time as any to nibble on her neck. "What tea leaves?"
"The ones that...mmm. The ones that told Aunt Coco that there would be a man coming along who'd be important to us."
He switched to her ear. "I thought that was me."
"Maybe." She gave a surprised yip when he bit her. "Savage."
"Sometimes the Cherokee in me takes over."
She leaned back to study his face. In the bleeding lights of sunset, his skin was almost copper, his eyes so dark a green they were nearly black. Yes, she could see both sides of his heritage, the Celtic and the Cherokee, both warriors, in those knife-edged cheekbones, the sculpted mouth, the wild reddish hair.
"I really don't know anything about you." Yet it hadn't been like making love to a stranger. When he had touched her, she'd known everything. "Just that you're an architect from Oklahoma who went to Harvard."
"You know I
like beer and long-legged women."
"There's that."
Because he could see it was important to her, he sat on the wall, his back to the sea. “Okay, Calhoun, what do you want to know?"
"I don't want to interrogate you." The old nerves resurfaced, making it impossible for her to settle. "It's just that you know everything about me, really. My family, my background, my ambitions."
Because he enjoyed watching her move, he took out a cigar, lighted it, then began to speak. "My great-great-grandfather left Ireland for the New World, and headed west to trap beaver. A genuine mountain man. He married a Cherokee woman, and hung around long enough to get three sons. One day he went off trapping and never came back. The sons started a trading post, did pretty well. One of them sent for a mail-order bride, a nice Irish girl. They had a passel of kids, including my grandfather. He was, and is, a wily old devil who bought up land while it was cheap enough, then hung on until he could sell it at a profit. Keeping up family tradition, he married Irish, a redheaded spitfire who supposedly drove him crazy. He must have loved her a lot, because he named the first oil well after her."
Amanda, who had been charmed thus far, blinked. "Oil well?"
"He called it Maggie," Sloan said with a grin as he blew out smoke. "She got such a kick out of it, he gave names to the rest of them, too."
"The rest of them," Amanda said faintly.
"My father took over the company in the sixties, but the old man hasn't stopped putting his two cents in. He's still ticked that I didn't go into the company, but I wanted to build, and I figured Sun Industries didn't need me."
"Sun Industries?" She nearly choked. It was one of the biggest conglomerates in the country. "You—I had no idea that you had money."
"My family does, anyway. Problem?"
"No. I just wouldn't want you to think that I..." She trailed off helplessly.
"That you were after the family fortune?" He let out a hoot of laughter. "Honey, I know you were after my body."
He had the uncanny ability to make her want to swear and laugh at the same time. "You really are a conceited jerk."
He tossed the cigar aside before making a grab for her. "But you love me."
"Maybe I do." With pretended reluctance, she slipped her arms around him. "A little." On a laugh, she lifted her lips to his. His mouth started off teasing, then heated with demands. His hands were light, then impatient, until she was wrapped tight around him, pouring herself mindlessly into the kiss.
"How do you do that to me?" she murmured as he nipped at her moist, parted lips.
"Do what?"
"Make me want you until it hurts."
On an unsteady moan, he pressed his lips to her throat. "Let's go inside. You can show me my room."
She tilted her head to give his busy mouth more freedom. "What room?"
"The room where we'll pretend I'm going to sleep when I'm sleeping with you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about making love with you until we both need oxygen." Because he knew he was on the point of dragging her down on the hard, cold tiles, he set her away from him. "And I'm talking about the fact that I'm staying here until the alarm system's operational."
"But you don't need—"