Page 2 of A Man for Amanda

  She looked just fine, Sloan thought as he waited out the tirade. Every furious inch of her. She was tall for a woman and lean with it—but not too lean. She curved out nicely in all the right places. She looked as though she could ride hard all day and still have the energy to kick up her heels at night. Stubborn chin, he decided, and approved. When she jutted it out, her warm brown hair swayed with the movement. Big blue eyes. Even while they spit fire they reminded him of cornflowers. When it wasn't scowling or swearing, he imagined her full, shapely mouth would be soft.

  Soft and tasty.

  "You run down yet?" he asked when she stopped to take a breath.

  "No, and if you don't leave right now, I'm going to let my dog loose on you."

  Taking his cue, Fred leaped out of her arms. With neck fur bristling, he bared his teeth in a growl.

  "Looks pretty fierce," Sloan commented, then hunkered down to hold out the back of his hand. Fred sniffed it, then his tail began to wag joyously as Sloan scratched his ears. "Yep, pretty fierce animal you got here."

  "That's it." Amanda set her hands on her hips. "I'm getting the gun."

  Before she could turn inside to look for the ficti­tious weapon, Coco came downstairs.

  "Who is it, Amanda?"

  "Dead meat"

  "I beg your pardon?" She stepped up to the door. The moment she spotted Sloan her ingrained vanity took over. In the blink of an eye she whipped her apron off. "Hello." Her smile was warm and femi­nine as she extended a hand. "I'm Cordelia McPike."

  "A pleasure, ma'am." Sloan brought her fingertips to his mouth. "As I was just telling your sister here—"

  "Oh, my." Coco let out a trill of delighted laugh­ter. "Amanda's not my sister. She's my niece. The third daughter of my late brother—my much older brother."

  "My mistake."

  "Aunt Coco, this jerk knocked me down outside of the boutique, then followed me home. He just wants to wheedle his way into the house because of the necklace."

  "Now, Mandy, you mustn't be so harsh."

  "That's partially true, Mrs. McPike." Sloan gave Amanda a slow nod. "Your niece and I did have a run-in. Guess I didn't get out of her way in time. And I am trying to get into the house."

  "I see." Torn between hope and doubt, Coco sighed. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think it would be possible to let you in. You see we have so much to do with the wedding—"

  Sloan's eyes whipped back to Amanda. "You get­ting married?"

  "My sister," she said tightly. "Not that it's any of your business. Now if you'll excuse us?"

  "I wouldn't want to intrude, so I'll just be on my way. If you'll tell Trent that O'Riley was by, I'd ap­preciate it."

  "O'Riley?" Coco repeated, then fluttered her hands. "Goodness, are you Mr. O'Riley? Please come in. Oh, I do apologize."

  "Aunt Coco—"

  "This is Mr. O'Riley, Amanda."

  "I realize that. Why the devil have you let him in the house?"

  "The Mr. O'Riley," Coco continued. "The one Trenton called about this morning. Don't you remem­ber—of course you don't remember, because I didn't tell you." She patted her hands to her cheeks. "I'm afraid I'm just so flustered after keeping you standing outside that way."

  "Don't you worry about it," he said to Coco. "It's an honest mistake."

  "Aunt Coco." Amanda stood with her hand on the doorknob, ready to pitch the intruder out bodily if necessary. "Who is this O'Riley and why did Trent tell you to expect him?"

  "Mr. O'Riley's the architect," Coco said, beam­ing.

  Eyes narrowing, Amanda studied him from the tip of his boots to his wavy, disordered hair. "This is an architect?"

  "Our architect. Mr. O'Riley will be in charge of the renovations for the retreat, and our living quarters. We'll all be working with Mr. O'Riley—"

  "Sloan," he said.

  "Sloan." Coco fluttered her lashes. "For quite some time."

  "Terrific." Amanda let the door slam.

  Sloan hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets and gave her a slow smile. "My thoughts exactly."

  Chapter Two

  “Where are your manners?" Coco said. "Here we are keeping you standing in the hall. Please, come in and sit down. What can I offer you? Coffee, tea?"

  "Beer in a long-necked bottle," Amanda muttered.

  Sloan merely smiled at her. "There you go."

  "Beer?" Coco ushered him into the parlor, wishing she'd had a moment to freshen the flowers in the vase and plump the pillows. "I have some very nice beer in the kitchen that I use for my spiced shrimp. Amanda, you'll entertain Sloan, won't you?"

  "Sure. Why not?" Though she wasn't feeling par­ticularly gracious, Amanda gestured to a chair, then took one across from him in front of the fireplace. "I suppose I should apologize."

  Sloan reached down to pet Fred, who had followed them in. "What for?"

  "I wouldn't have been so rude if I'd realized why you were here."

  "Is that so?" As Fred settled down on the rug between them, Sloan eased back in his chair to study his unwilling hostess.

  After a humming ten seconds, she struggled not to fidget. "It was a natural enough mistake."

  "If you say so. What exactly are these emeralds you figured I was here to dig up?"

  "The Calhoun emeralds." When he only lifted a brow, she shook her head. "My great-grandmother's emerald necklace. It's been in all the papers."

  "I haven't had much time to read the papers. I've been in Budapest." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, slim cigar. "Mind?"

  "Go ahead." Automatically she rose to fetch an ashtray from across the room. Sloan considered it a pleasure to watch that out-of-my-way walk of hers, "I'm surprised Trent didn't mention it."

  Sloan struck a match and took his sweet time light­ing the cigar. He took an appreciative drag, then blew out a lazy stream of smoke. All the while, he was taking stock of the room, with its sagging sofa, the glistening Baccarat, the elegant old wainscoting and the peeling paint.

  "I got a cable from Trent telling me about the house and his plans, and asking me to take it on."

  "You agreed to take a job like this without even seeing the property first?"

  "Seemed like the thing to do at the time." She sure had pretty eyes, Sloan thought. Suspicious, but pretty. He wondered how they'd look if he ever managed to get a smile out of her. "Besides, Trent wouldn't have asked if he didn't think I'd get a kick out of it."

  Her foot began to tap as it did when she had sat in one place too long. "You know Trent well then?"

  "We go back a few years. We were at Harvard together."

  "Harvard?" Her foot stopped tapping as she gaped at him. "You went to Harvard?"

  Another man might have been insulted. Sloan was amused. "Why, shucks, ma'am," he murmured, ex­aggerating his drawl, then watching her cheeks flush.

  "I didn't mean to...it's just that you don't really seem—"

  "The Ivy League type?" he suggested before he took another pull on the cigar. "Guess appearances can be deceiving. Take the house here for instance."

  "The house?"

  "You take your first look at it from the outside and it's hard to figure if it's supposed to be a fortress, a castle or an architect's nightmare. But you take the time to look again, and you see it's not supposed to be anything but what it is. A timeless piece of work, on the arrogant side, strong, maybe stubborn enough to hold its own, but with just enough fancy to add some charm." He grinned at her. "Some people be­lieve that a house reflects the personality of the people who live in it."

  He rose when Coco came back in wheeling a tray. "Oh, sit down, please. It's such a treat to have a man in the house. Isn't it, Mandy?"

  "I'm all aflutter."

  "I hope the beer's all right." She lifted a brimming pilsner glass from the tray.

  "I'm sure it's fine."

  "Do try some of these canapes. Mandy, I've brought us some wine." Delighted with the chance to socialize, she smiled at Sloan over the rim of her glass. "Has Amanda

been telling you about the house?"

  "We were just getting to it." Sloan took a long swallow of beer. "Trent wrote that it's been in the family since the early part of the century."

  "Oh, yes. With Suzanna's children—Suzanna's my eldest niece—we've had five generations of Calhouns at The Towers. Fergus—'' she gestured to the portrait of a dour-faced man over the mantel "—my grand­father, built The Towers in 1904, as a summer home. He and his wife, Bianca, had three children before she threw herself out of the tower window." As al­ways, the idea of dying for love had her sighing. "I don't believe Grandpapa was ever quite right after that. He went insane later in life, but we kept him in a very nice institution."

  "Aunt Coco, I'm sure Mr. O'Riley isn't interested in the family history."

  "Not interested," Sloan agreed as he tapped out his cigar. "Fascinated. Don't stop now, Mrs. Mc-Pike."

  "Oh, call me Coco. Everyone does." She fluffed her hair. "The house passed along to my father, Ethan. He was their second child, but the first son. Grandpapa was very adamant about the Calhoun line. His—Ethan's—elder sister, Colleen, was miffed about the arrangement She rarely speaks to any of us to this day."

  "For which we're all eternally grateful," Amanda put in.

  "Well, yes. She can be a bit—overwhelming. That left Uncle Sean, my father's younger brother. He had a spot of trouble with a woman and sailed off to the West Indies before I was born. When my father was killed, the house passed to my brother, Judson. After his marriage he and his wife decided to live here year-round. They adored the place." She glanced around the parlor with its cracked walls and faded curtains. "Judson had wonderful plans for revamping the house, but tragically he and Deliah were killed before he could begin to implement them. Then I came here to care for Amanda and her three sisters. Have an­other canape."

  "Thanks. Can I ask why you decided to convert part of your home into a hotel?"

  "That was Trent's idea. We're all so grateful to him, aren't we, Amanda?"

  Since she accepted the fact that there would be no winding down Aunt Coco, Amanda smiled. "Yes, we are."

  Coco sipped delicately from her glass. "To be frank, we were in some financial distress. Do you be­lieve in fate, Sloan?"

  "I'm Irish and Cherokee." He spread his long fin­gers. "That doesn't give me any other choice."

  "Well then, you'll understand. It was fated that Trent's father would see The Towers while he was sailing in Frenchman Bay, and seeing it, develop a deep desire for it. When the St. James's corporation offered to buy the house and turn it into a resort hotel, we were torn. It was our home after all, the only home my girls have ever known, but the upkeep..."

  "I understand."

  "Things happen for the best," Coco put in. "And it was really very exciting and romantic. We were on the brink, the very brink, of being forced to sell, when Trent fell in love with C.C. Of course he understood how much the house meant to her, and came up with this marvelous plan of converting the west wing into hotel suites. That way we can keep the house, and overcome the financial difficulty of maintaining it."

  "Everyone gets what they want," Sloan agreed.

  "Exactly." Coco leaned forward. "With your her­itage, I imagine you also believe in spirits."

  "Aunt Coco—"

  "Now, Mandy, I know how practical minded you are. It baffles me," she said to Sloan. "All that Celtic blood and not a mystical bone in her body."

  Amanda gestured with her glass. "I leave that for you and Lilah."

  "Lilah's my other niece," Coco told Sloan. "She's very fey. But we were talking about the supernatural. Do you have an opinion?"

  Sloan set his glass aside. "I don't think you could have a house like this without a ghost or two."

  "There." Coco clapped her hands together. "I knew as soon as I saw you we'd be kindred spirits. Bianca's still here, you see. Why at our last séance I felt her so strongly." She ignored Amanda's groan. "C.C. did, too, and she's nearly as practical minded as Amanda. Bianca wants us to find the necklace."

  "The Calhoun emeralds?" Sloan asked.

  "Yes. We've been searching for clues, but the clut­ter of eight decades is daunting. And the publicity has been a bother."

  "That's a mild word for it." Amanda scowled into her glass.

  "It might turn up during the renovation," Sloan suggested.

  "We're hoping." Coco tapped one carefully man­icured finger against her lips. "I think another séance might be in order. I'm sure you're very sensitive."

  Amanda choked on her wine. "Aunt Coco, Mr. O'Riley has come here to work, not to play ghosts and goblins."

  "I like mixing business and pleasure." He toasted Amanda with his glass. "In fact, I make a habit of it."

  A new thought jumped into Coco's mind. "You're not from the island, Sloan."

  "No, Oklahoma."

  "Really? That's quite a distance." She slid her gaze smugly toward Amanda. "As architect for the renovations, you'll be very important to all of us."

  "I'd like to think so," he said, baffled by the arched look Coco sent her niece.

  "Tea leaves," Coco murmured, then rose. "I must go check on dinner. You will join us, won't you?"

  He'd planned on taking a quick look at the house then going back to the hotel to sleep for ten hours. The annoyed look on Amanda's face changed his mind. An evening with her might be a better cure for jet lag. "I'd be mighty pleased to."

  "Wonderful. Mandy, why don't you show Sloan the west wing while I finish things up?"

  "Tea leaves?" Sloan asked when Coco glided from the room.

  "You're better off in the dark." Resigned, she rose and gestured to the doorway. "Shall we get started?"

  "That's a fine idea." He followed her into the hall and up the curving staircase. "Which do you like, Amanda or Mandy?"

  She shrugged. "I answer to either."

  "Different images. Amanda's cool and composed. Mandy's...softer." She smelled cool, he thought. Like a quiet breeze on a hot, dusty day.

  At the top of the stairs she stopped to face him. "What kind of image is Sloan?"

  He stayed one step below her so that they were eye to eye. Instinct told him they'd both prefer it that way. "You tell me."

  He had the cockiest grin she'd ever seen. Whenever he used it on her she felt a tremor that she was certain was annoyance. "Dodge City?" she said sweetly. "We don't get many cowboys this far east." She turned and was halfway down the hall when he took her arm.

  "Are you always in such a hurry?"

  "I don't like to waste time."

  He kept his hand on her arm as they continued to walk. "I'll keep that in mind."

  My God, the place was fabulous, Sloan thought as they started up a pie-shaped set of steps. Coffered ceilings, carved lintels, thick mahogany paneling. He stopped at an arched window to touch the wavy glass. It had to be original, he thought, like the chestnut floor and the fancy plaster work.

  True, there were cracks in the walls—some of them big enough that he could slide his finger in to the first knuckle. Here and there the ceiling had given way to fist-sized holes, and portions of the molding were rot­ted.

  It would be a challenge to bring it back to its for­mer glory. And it would be a joy.

  "We haven't used this part of the house in years." Amanda opened a carved oak door and brushed away a spider web. "It hasn't been practical to heat it dur­ing the winter."

  Sloan stepped inside. The sloping floor creaked ominously as he walked across it. Somewhere along the line heavy furniture had been dragged in or out, scarring the floor with deep, jagged grooves. Two of the panes on the narrow terrace doors had been bro­ken and replaced with plywood. Mice had had a field day with the baseboard. Above his head was a faded mural of chubby cherubs.

  "This was the best guest room," Amanda ex­plained. "Fergus kept it for people he wanted to im­press. Supposedly some of the Rockefellers stayed here. It has its own bath and dressing room." She pushed open a broken door.

  Ignoring her, Sloan

walked to the black marble fire­place. The wall above it was papered in silk and stained from old smoke. The chip off the corner of the mantel broke his heart.

  "You ought to be shot."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You ought to be shot for letting the place go like this." The look he aimed at her wasn't lazy and amused, but hot and quick as a bullet "A mantel­piece like this is irreplaceable."

  Flustered, she stared guiltily at the chipped Italian marble. "Well, I certainly didn't break it."

  "And look at these walls. Plasterwork of this cal­iber is an art, the same way a Rembrandt is art. You'd take care of a Rembrandt, wouldn't you?"

  "Of course, but—"

  "At least you had the sense not to paint the mold­ing." Moving past her, he peered into the adjoining bath. And began to swear. "These are handmade tiles, for God's sake. Look at these chips. They haven't been grouted since World War I."

  "I don't see what that's—"

  "No, you don't see." He turned back to her. "You haven't got a clue to what you've got here. This place is a monument to early-twentieth-century craftsman­ship, and you're letting it fall apart around your ears. Those are authentic gaslight fixtures."

  "I know very well what they are," Amanda snapped back. "This may be a monument to you, but to me it's home. We've done everything we could to keep the roof on. If the plaster's cracked it's because we've had to concentrate on keeping the furnace run­ning. And if we didn't worry about regrouting tiles in a room no one uses, it's because we had to repair the plumbing in another one. You've been hired to ren­ovate, not to philosophize."

  "You get both for the same price." When he reached out toward her, she rammed back into the wall.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Take it easy, honey. You've got cobwebs in your hair."

  "I can do it," she said, then stiffened when he combed his fingers through her hair. "And don't call me 'honey.'"

  "You sure fire up quick. I had a mustang filly once that did the same thing."

  She knocked his hand aside. "I'm not a horse."

  "No, ma'am." In an abrupt change of mood, he smiled again. "You sure aren't. Why don't you show me what else you've got?"

  Wary, she eased to the side until she felt safe again. "I don't see the point. You haven't got a notebook."

  "Some things stick in your mind." His gaze low­ered to her mouth, lingered, then returned to her eyes. "I like to get the lay of the land first before I start worrying about...details."

  "Why don't I draw you a map?"

  He grinned then. "You always so prickly?"

  "No." She inclined her head. It was true, she wasn't. She could hardly have made a success in her career as assistant manager in one of the resort's bet­ter hotels if she was. "Obviously you don't bring out the best in me."