Page 3 of A Man for Amanda

  "I'll settle for what I've got." He curled a hand around her arm. "Let's keep going."

  She took him through the wing, doing her best to keep her distance. But he had a tendency to close in, blocking her in a doorway, maneuvering her into a corner, shifting unexpectedly to put them face-to-face. He had a slow and economical way of moving, wast­ing no gestures that would tip her off as to which way he was going to turn.

  They were in the west tower the third time Amanda bumped into him. Every nerve was on edge when she stepped back. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Be there." Annoyed, she shoved aside a card­board box. "In my way."

  "It seems to me you're in too much of a hurry to get someplace else to watch where you are."

  "More homespun philosophy," she muttered, and paced to the curved window that overlooked the gar­dens. He bothered her, she was forced to admit, on some deep, elemental level. Maybe it was his size— those broad shoulders and wide-palmed hands. His sheer height. She was accustomed to being on a more even level with most men.

  Maybe it was that drawl of his, slow and lazy and every bit as cocky as his grin. Or the way his eyes lingered on her face, persistent, with a half-amused gleam. Whatever it was, Amanda thought with a little shake, she would have to learn how to handle it.

  "This is the last stop," she told him. "Trent's idea is to convert this tower into a dining room, more in­timate than the one he wants on the lower level. It should fit five tables for two comfortably, with views of the garden or the bay."

  She turned as she spoke, and an early evening sun­beam shot through the window to halo her hair and pool lustrously around her. Her hands gestured with her words, a graceful flow of movement underlined by nerves. She lifted one hand to her hair to push it back. The light streamed through the honey-brown tresses, tipping them with gold. In the single shaft of light, dust motes danced around her like minute flakes of silver.

  His mind wiped clean as new glass, Sloan stood and stared.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No." He took a step closer. "You sure are easy on the eyes, Amanda."

  She took a step back. There wasn't amusement in his eyes now, or the quick flaring anger she had seen briefly earlier. What was there was a great deal more dangerous. "If you, ah, have any questions about the tower, or the rest of the wing—"

  ' "That was a compliment. Maybe not as smooth as you're used to, but a compliment just the same."

  "Thank you." Her eyes darted around the room for a means of dignified escape as she retreated an­other step. "I think we could—" She ended on a gasp as his arm snaked around her waist to draw her tight against him. "What the hell do you think you're do­ing?"

  "Keeping you from taking the same jump as your great-grandma." He nodded toward the window at her back. "If you'd kept dancing backward, you might have gone right through the glass. Those panes don't look very strong."

  "I wasn't dancing anywhere." But her heart was pounding as if she had just finished a fast rumba. "Let go."

  "You're a real nice armful." He leaned closer to take a sniff of her hair. "Even with all those thorns." Enjoying himself, he kept his arm where it was. "You could've said thanks, Calhoun. I probably just saved your life."

  Her pulse might have been jumping, but she re­fused to let herself be intimidated by some slow-talking cowboy with an attitude. "If you don't let me go, now, someone's going to have to save yours."

  He laughed, delighted with her, and was tempted to scoop her up there and then. The next thing he knew, he was landing on his butt five feet away. With a smug smile, Amanda inclined her head.

  ' "That concludes our tour for this evening. Now, if you'll excuse me." When she started by him, his hand snaked out and snagged her ankle. Amanda barely had time to shriek before she landed on the floor beside him. "Why, you—oaf," she decided, and tossed the hair out of her eyes.

  "What's good for the goose is good for the gan­der." He tipped a fingertip under her chin. "More homespun philosophy. You've got quick moves, Cal­houn, but you've got to remember to keep your eye on the target."

  "If I were a man—"

  "This wouldn't be half as much fun." Chuckling, he gave her a quick, hard kiss, then tilted his head bade to stare at her while she gaped. "Well, now," he said softly while lightning bolts went off inside his ehest. "I think we'd better try that again."

  She would have shoved him away. She knew she would have. Despite the heat trembling along her spine. Regardless of the thick syrupy longing that seemed to have replaced the blood churning in her veins. She would have shoved him away, had even lifted a hand to do so—certainly not to bring him closer—when footsteps clattered on the iron steps that led to the tower.

  Sloan glanced up to see a tall, curvy woman in the doorway. She wore jeans that were ripped through at the knee with a plain white T-shirt tucked in the waist. Her hair was short and straight, offset by a fringe of sassy bangs. Below them her eyes registered surprise, then amusement.

  "Hi." She looked at Amanda, grinning as she noted her sister's flushed face and tousled hair. The one place you didn't expect to see business-first Amanda Calhoun was on the floor with a strange and very attractive man. "What's going on?"

  "We were going for the best two out of three," Sloan told her. He rose, then hauled Amanda up by the arm. With what sounded like a snarl, Amanda jerked out of his hold, then busied herself brushing the dust from her slacks.

  "This is my sister, C.C."

  "And you must be Sloan." C.C. walked in, offer­ing her hand. "Trent's told me about you." Green eyes dancing, she flicked a glance at her sister, then back again. "I guess he didn't exaggerate."

  Sloan held the offered hand a moment. C. C. Calhoun was exactly the opposite of the kind of woman he'd expected his old friend to be involved with. And because Trent was his friend, Sloan couldn't have been more delighted. "I can see why Trent's got him­self roped and corralled."

  "That's one of Sloan's whimsical compliments," Amanda pointed out.

  With a laugh, C.C. threw an arm around Amanda's shoulders. "I think I figured that out. I'm glad to meet you, Sloan. Really glad. When I went up to Boston with Trent a couple of weeks ago, everyone I met was so..."

  "Stuffy?" He grinned.

  "Well." A little embarrassed, she moved her shoulders. "I guess it's hard for some of them to ac­cept that Trent's going to marry a mechanic who knows more about engines than opera."

  "Looks to me like Trent's getting one hell of a deal."

  "We'll see." She knew with the least encourage­ment she would get mushy and embarrass herself. “Aunt Coco said you were staying for dinner. I was hoping you'd take one of the guest rooms here while you're on the island."

  Sloan couldn't see it, but he'd have bet the pot that Amanda bit her tongue. The idea of ruffling her feath­ers made it tempting to change his plans. "Thanks, but I'm all taken care of. Besides..." Now he grinned at Amanda. "I'm going to be underfoot enough as it is."

  "However you're most comfortable," C.C. told him. "Just so that you know you're welcome here at The Towers."

  "I'll go down and see if Aunt Coco needs any help." Amanda sent Sloan a cool nod. "C.C. will show you down when you're ready."

  He winked at her. "Thanks for the tour, honey."

  He could almost hear her grinding her teeth as she walked away.

  "That's some sister you've got there."

  "Yes, she is." C.C.'s smile was warm, and warn­ing. "Trent tells me you're quite the ladies' man."

  "He's still mad because I stole a woman out from under his nose when we were both still young and foolish." Sloan took C.C.'s hand as they walked through the doorway. "You sure you're stuck on him?"

  She had to laugh. "Now I see why he told me to lock up my sisters."

  "If they're anything like that one, I expect they can take care of themselves."

  "Oh, they can. The Calhoun women are as tough as they come." She paused at the top of the iron circular stair
s. "I'd better warn you. Aunt Coco claims she saw you in the tea leaves this morning."

  "In thc.aah."

  She gave a half apologetic, half amused shrug. "It's kind of a hobby of hers. Anyway, she might start to try to manipulate, especially if she decides the fates have linked you with one of my sisters. She means well, but..."

  "O'Rileys are pretty good at handling themselves, too."

  It only took one long look at him to have her be­lieving it. C.C. tapped his shoulder. "Okay then. You're on your own."

  Sloan started down behind her. "C.C, are there any men Amanda's involved with who I'm going to have to hoist out of the way?"

  C.C. stopped, studying him through the opposite side of the open stairs. "No," she said after a mo­ment. "Amanda's done all the hoisting herself."

  "That's fine." He was smiling to himself as he descended the winding stairs. When they reached the second floor, he heard an echo of high-pitched screams and the frantic yapping of the dog.

  "My sister Suzanna's kids," C.C. explained before he could ask. "Alex and Jenny are your typical quiet, retiring children."

  "I can hear that."

  A sturdy pale-haired missile zoomed up the steps. In reflex, Sloan caught it and found himself staring into a curious little face with a pouty mouth and big blue eyes.

  "You're big," Jenny said.

  "Nan. You're just short."

  At five, she was just beginning to learn the wiles of womanhood and sent him a beaming smile. "Can I have a piggyback ride?"

  "Got a quarter?" Giggling, she shook her head. "Okay," he said, "the first one's free then." When she squirmed around to his back, he started down again. At the base of the steps, Amanda had a dark-haired little boy in a headlock.

  "Suzanna?" C.C. asked.

  "In the kitchen. I was drafted to watch these two." She narrowed her eyes at Jenny. "The little pig-nosed one got away from me."

  "Oink, oink." From the tower of Sloan's back, Jenny giggled and snorted.

  "Who's he?" Alex wanted to know.

  "Sloan O'Riley." Sloan offered a hand, man to man, which Alex eyed dubiously before accepting it.

  "You talk funny. Are you from Texas?"

  "Oklahoma."

  After a moment's consideration, Alex nodded. "That's almost as good. Did you ever shoot anybody dead?"

  "Not lately."

  "That's enough, you ghoul." C.C. took charge. "Come on, let's go get cleaned up for dinner." She swung Jenny from Sloan's back.

  "Cute kids," Sloan commented when C.C. hauled them up the stairs.

  "We like them." Amanda offered him a genuine smile. Seeing him with Jenny riding his back had soft­ened her. "They'll be in school most of the day, so they shouldn't bother you while you're working."

  "I don't figure they'd be a bother one way or the other. I've got a nephew of my own back home. He's a pistol."

  "Those two can be shotguns, I'm afraid." But the affection came through. "It's nice for them to be around a man now and again."

  "Your sister's husband?"

  The smile faded. "They're divorced. You might know him. Baxter Dumont?"

  A shutter seemed to come down over Sloan's eyes. "I've heard of him."

  "Well, that's history. Dinner's nearly ready. Why don't I show you where to wash up?"

  "Thanks." Distracted, Sloan followed her. He was thinking that there were some points of history that had an unfortunate habit of overlapping.

  Chapter Three

  Anticipating the shock, Amanda dove into the cold water of the pool. She surfaced with a delicious shiver then began the first of her usual fifty laps.

  There was nothing she liked better than beginning a day with a vigorous workout. It ate away the old tension to make room for the new that would develop before the workday was done.

  Not that she didn't enjoy her job as assistant man­ager of the BayWatch Hotel. Particularly since it gave her the privilege of using the hotel pool before the guests began to crowd in. It was the end of May and the season had begun to swing. Of course it was noth­ing compared to what it would be by midsummer, but most of the rooms in the hotel were occupied, which meant she had her hands full. This hour, which she gave herself whenever weather permitted, was prized.

  As she approached one end of the pool, she curled, tucked and pushed off.

  In another year, she thought as she sent beads of water flying, she would be manager of The Towers Retreat. A St James hotel. The goal that she had worked and struggled for since she'd taken her first part-time job as a desk clerk at sixteen was about to be realized.

  It nagged at her from time to time that she would have the job only because Trent was marrying her sister. Whenever it did, she became only more deter­mined to prove that she deserved it, that she had earned it.

  She would be managing an exclusive hotel for one of the top chains in the country. And not just any hotel, she thought, cutting cleanly through the water, but The Towers. A part of her own heritage, her own history, her own family.

  The ten luxurious suites Trent intended to create out of the crumbling west wing would be her respon­sibility. If he was right, the St. James name and the legend of The Towers would keep those suites filled year-round.

  She would do a good job. An exceptional one. Every guest who traveled home from The Towers would remember the excellent service, the soothing ambience, the silky smooth organization.

  It was going to happen. There would be no more slaving for a demanding and unappreciative supervi­sor, no more frustration at doing the work and hand­ing over the credit. At last the credit, and the failure, would be hers alone.

  It was only a matter of waiting until the remodeling was done.

  And that brought her thoughts ramming headfirst into Sloan O'Riley.

  She certainly hoped Trent knew what he was doing.

  What baffled her most was how such a smooth and polished man such as Trenton St. James IK had ever become friends with a throwback like O'Riley. The man had actually knocked her down. Of course, she'd knocked him down first, but that was entirely beside the point Amanda kicked off again. Her leanly muscled arms sliced through the water, her long legs scissored. She didn't regret, not for a minute, that she'd had the wit and the strength to get the best of him first. He'd been pushy and overfamiliar and too full of himself from the moment she'd met him. And he'd kissed her.

  She turned her head up for air then slid her face into the water again.

  She hadn't given him the least bit of encourage­ment. In fact, just the opposite. But he'd sat there, grinning like a fool, and had kissed her. The memory of it had her gasping for air again.

  Not that she'd liked it, Amanda assured herself. If C.C. hadn't walked in, she would have given the ar­rogant Mr. O'Riley a piece of her mind. Except that she hadn't had one left.

  Because she'd been angry, that's all. She wasn't a bit attracted to the rough, outdoorsy type with cal-lused hands and dusty boots. She wasn't fool enough to fall for a pair of dark green eyes that crinkled at the corners when they smiled. Her image of the ideal man included a certain sophistication, smooth man­ners, culture, a quiet aura of success. If and when she became interested in a relationship, those would be her requirements. Slow-talking cowboys need not ap­ply.

  Maybe there had been something sweet about him when he'd talked to the children, but it wasn't enough to overcome the rest of the deficits in his personality.

  She remembered the way he'd flirted and charmed Aunt Coco at dinner. He'd kept C.C. amused with stories of Trent's college days and had been tolerant and easy with Alex's and Jenny's questions about horses and Indians and six-shooters.

  But he'd watched Suzanna a little too closely, a little too carefully for Amanda's liking. A woman chaser, Amanda decided. If Lilah had been at dinner, he probably would have flirted with her, as well. But Lilah could take care of herself where men were con­cerned.

  Suzanna was different. She was beautiful, sensitive and vulnerable. Her ex-husband had hurt her deeply, and
no one, not even the cocky Sloan O'Riley was going to get the chance to hurt Suzanna again. Amanda would make sure of it.

  When she reached the edge of the pool this time, she gripped the coping and dipped her head back into the water to slick her hair out of her eyes. Surfacing, she found herself staring up into a watery image that was entirely too familiar.

  "Morning." Sloan grinned down at her. The sun was at his back, bringing out the reddish tones in his untidy hair. "You got a nice form there, Calhoun."

  She blinked her eyes clear. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Here?" He glanced over his shoulder at the whitewashed hotel. "You could say I'm hanging my hat here." Watching her, he jerked a thumb up and back. "Room 320."

  "You're a guest at the BayWatch?" Amanda propped her elbows on the coping. "It figures."

  Agreeable, Sloan crouched down. She had the clear creamy Calhoun skin, he noted, particularly striking, and vulnerable, now washed clean of any cosmetics. "Nice way to start the day."

  Her full damp mouth turned down in a frown. "It was."

  "Since we're asking, what are you doing here?"

  "I work here."

  Things were becoming more and more interesting, he thought. "No fooling?"

  "No fooling," she said dryly. "I'm assistant man­ager."

  "Well, now." He dipped an experimental finger into the water. "Checking out the water temperature for the guests? That's dedication."

  "The pool doesn't open until ten."

  "Don't worry." He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. "I wasn't planning on taking a dip just yet." What he had been planning was to take a walk, a long solitary one. But that was before he'd spotted her doing laps. "So, I guess if I have any questions about the place, you're the one I talk to."

  "That's right." Amanda moved over to the steps to climb out. The one-piece sapphire-colored suit clung like a second skin as water slid from her. "Is your room satisfactory?"

  "Hmm?" She had legs designed to make a man sweat, he thought, slim and shapely and a yard long.

  "Your room," she repeated as she reached for her towel. "It suits you?"

  "It suits me fine. Just fine." He skimmed his gaze up those damp calves and thighs, over the slim hips on a lazy journey to her face. "The view's worth the price of admission."

  Amanda hooked the towel around her neck. "The view of the bay's free-—like the continental breakfast now being served in The Galley. You'll want to take advantage of it."

  "I've found that a couple of croissants and a cup of coffee don't do much to stanch the appetite." Be­cause he wasn't ready for her to walk away, he reached out to take both ends of the towel in a light grip. "Why don't you join me for a real breakfast?"

  "Sorry." Her heart was beginning to thud uncom­fortably. "Employees are discouraged from socializ­ing with the guests."

  "I reckon we could make an exception in this case, seeing as we're...old friends."

  "We're not even new friends."

  There was that smile again, slow, insistent and all too knowing. And then he said, "That's something we can fix over breakfast."

  "Sorry. Not interested." She started to turn away, but he tightened his grip on the towel and held her in place.

  "Where I come from people are a mite more friendly."

  Since he wasn't giving her a choice, she held her ground. "Where I come from people are a great deal more polite. If you have any problems with the ser­vice during your stay at the Bay Watch, I'll be more than happy to accommodate you. If you have any questions about The Towers, I'll make myself avail­able to answer them. Other than that, we have nothing to discuss."

  He watched her patiently, admiring the way she could coat her husky voice with frost even while her eyes glinted. This was a woman with plenty of control. And, though he was certain she'd snarl at the term, plenty of spunk.

  "What time do you go on the clock here?"