Page 4 of A Man for Amanda

  She let out a hiss of breath. Obviously the man's head was as thick as his accent. "Nine o'clock, so if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go get dressed."

  Sloan squinted up at the sun. "Looks to me like you've got about an hour before you punch in. The way you move, it won't take you half that to get your­self together."

  Amanda shut her eyes briefly on a prayer for pa­tience. "Sloan, are you trying to irritate me?"

  "Don't figure I have to. It seems to come natural." Casually he wound the ends of the towel around his fists and had her jerking closer. He grinned as her chin shot up. "See?"

  She resented bitterly the way her pulse was danc­ing, and the tight, clutching sensation deep in her stomach. "What's the matter with you, O'Riley?" she demanded. "I've made it absolutely plain that I'm not interested."

  "I'll tell you how it is, Calhoun." He flipped his wrists again, shortening the towel farther. The humor she was used to seeing in his eyes changed into some­thing else in the space of a heartbeat. And that some­thing else was dark and dangerous. And exciting. "You're one long, cool drink of water," he mur­mured. "Every time I'm around you I get this pow­erful thirst." With a last jerk, he had her tumbling against him, her hands trapped tight between their bodies. "That little sip I had yesterday wasn't nearly enough." Bending down, he nipped at her bottom lip.

  He felt her tremor, but as he kept his eyes on hers, he could see it wasn't from fear. A trace of panic maybe, but not fear. Still he waited to see if she would give him a flat-out no. That was something he would have to respect, however much the need churned through him.

  But she said nothing, only stared at him with those wide wary eyes. Softly he brushed his lips over hers and watched the thick lashes flutter down. "I want more," he murmured. And took.

  Her hands curled into fists between them, but she didn't use them to push him away. The struggle was all inside her, a wild and violent combat that jolted her system even as he bombarded her senses. Caught in the crossfire, her mind simply shut down.

  His mouth wasn't lazy now. Nor were his hands slow. Hard and hot, his lips took from hers while his fingers pressed against her damp back. The scrape of his teeth had her gasping, then moaning when his tongue slid seductively over hers.

  Her fingers uncurled to clutch at his shirt, then to claw their way up to his shoulder, into his hair. The desperation was new, terrifying, wonderful. It drove her to strain against him while her mouth burned with an urgency that matched his.

  The change rocked him. He was used to having his senses clouded by a woman, to having his body throb and his blood burn. But not like this. In the instant she went from dazed surrender to fevered urgency, he knew a need so sharp, so jagged that it seemed to slice through his soul.

  Then all he knew was her. All he could feel was the cool slick silk of her skin. All he could taste was the honeyed heat of her mouth. All he could want was more.

  She was certain her heart would pound its way out of her breast. It seemed the heat from his body turned the water on her skin to steam, and the vapors floated through her brain. Nor did they clear when he eased her gently away.

  "Amanda." He drew in a deep gulp of air but wasn't sure he'd ever get his breath back again. One look at her as she stood heavy eyed, her swollen lips parted, had the edgy desire cutting through him again. "Come up to my room."

  "Your room?" She touched unsteady fingers to her lips, then her temple. "Your room?"

  Lord, that throaty voice and those dazed eyes were going to have him on his knees. One thing he'd yet to do was beg for a woman. With her, he was afraid begging was inevitable.

  "Come with me." Possessively he ran his hands over her shoulders. Somewhere along the line the towel had slid to the concrete. "We need to finish this in private."

  "Finish this?"

  On a groan, he brought his lips back to hers again in a last, long, greedy kiss. "Woman, I think you're going to be late for work."

  He had her arm and had pulled her toward the gate before she shook her head clear. His room? she thought fussily. Finish this? Oh, Lord, what had she done? What was she about to do? "No." She jerked away and took a deep, cleansing breath that did noth­ing to stop the tremors. "I'm not going anywhere."

  He tried to steady himself and failed. "It's a little late to play games." His hand snaked out to cup the back of her neck. "I want you. And there's no way in hell you're going to convince me you don't want me right back. Not after that."

  "I don't play games," she said evenly, and won­dered if he could hear her over the riot of her heart­beat. She was cold, so terribly cold. "I don't intend to start now." She was the sensible one, she reminded herself. She wasn't the kind of woman who raced into a hotel room to make love with a man she barely knew. "I want you to leave me alone."

  "Not a chance." He struggled to keep his fingers light as temper and need warred inside him. "I always finish what I start."

  "You can consider this finished. It had no business starting."

  "Why?"

  She turned away to snatch up her wrap. The thin terry cloth wasn't nearly enough to warm her again. "I know your type, O'Riley."

  He reached deep for calm and rocked back on his heels. "Do you?"

  Clumsy with temper, she fought to push her arms through the sleeves. "You swagger from town to town and fill a few free hours with an available woman having a quick roll between the sheets." She pulled the tie on the wrap tight. "We.ll, I'm not avail­able."

  "You figure you got me pegged, huh?" He didn't touch her, but the look in his eyes was enough to have her bracing. He didn't bother to explain that it was different with her. He hadn't yet explained it to him­self. "You can take this as a warning, Calhoun. This isn't finished between us. I'm going to have you."

  "Have me? Have me." Propelled by pride and fury, she took one long stride toward him. "Why you conceited self-absorbed sonofabitch—"

  "You can save the flattery for later," he interrupted. "There will be a later, Amanda, when it's just you and me. And I promise you, it won't be quick." Because the idea appealed to him, he smiled. "No sir, when I make love with you, I'm going to take my time." He ran a finger down the collar of her wrap. "And I'm going to drive you crazy." She slapped his hand away. "You already are." "Thanks." He gave her a friendly nod. "I think I'll go see about that breakfast You have a good day."

  She would, she thought as he walked off whistling. She'd have a fine day if he was out of it.

  It was bad enough that she had to work late, Amanda thought, without having to listen to one of Mr. Stenerson's droning lectures on efficiency. As manager of the BayWatch, Stenerson ruled his staff with fussy hands and whines. His preferred method of supervision was to delegate. In that way he could dole out blame when things went wrong, and gather in credit when things went right.

  Amanda stood in his airy pastel office, staring at the top of his balding head as he ran through his weekly list of complaints.

  "Housekeeping has been running behind by twenty minutes. In my spot check of the third floor, I dis­covered this cellophane wrapper under the bed of 302." He waved the tiny clear paper like a flag. "I expect you to have a better handle on things, Miss Calhoun."

  "Yes, sir." You officious little wienie. "I'll speak to the housekeeping staff personally."

  "See that you do." He lifted his ever-present clip­board. "Room service speed is off by eight percent.

  At this rate of deterioriation, it will lower to twelve percent by the height of the season."

  Unlike Stenerson, Amanda had done time in the kitchen during the breakfast and dinner rush. "Per­haps if we hired another waiter or two," she began.

  "The solution is not in adding more staff, but in culling more efficiency from those we have." He tapped a finger on the clipboard. "I expect to see room service up to maximum by the end of next week."

  "Yes, sir." You supercilious windbag.

  "I'll expect you to roll up your sleeves and pitch in whenever necessary, Miss Calhoun." He folded h
is soft white hands and leaned back. Before he'd opened his mouth again, Amanda knew what was coming. She could have recited the speech by rote.

  "Twenty-five years ago, I was delivering trays to guests in this very hotel. It was through sheer deter­mination and a positive outlook that I worked my way up to the position I hold today. If you expect to suc­ceed, perhaps even take over in this office after my retirement, you must eat, sleep and drink the Bay-Watch. The efficiency of the staff directly reflects . your efficiency, Miss Calhoun."

  "Yes, sir." She wanted to tell him that in another year she would have her own staff, her own office and he could kiss his whipping boy goodbye. But she didn't tell him. Until that time, she needed the job and the weekly paycheck. "I'll have a meeting with the kitchen staff right away."

  "Good, good. Now, I'll want you on call this eve­ning, as I'll be incommunicado."

  As always, she thought but murmured her agree­ment.

  "Oh, and check the August reservations. I want a report on the ratio of Escape Weekends to Seven-Day Indulgences. Oh, and speak with the pool boy about missing towels. We're five short already this month."

  "Yes, sir." Anything else? she wondered. Shine your shoes, wash your car?

  "That'll be all."

  Amanda opened the door and struggled to keep her unflappable professional mask in place. All she really wanted to do was knock her head against the wall for a few indulgent minutes. Before she could retreat to some private, quiet place to do so, she was called to the front desk.

  Sloan took a seat in the lobby just to watch her. He was surprised to see that she was still working. He'd put in a full day at The Towers, and the scarred briefcase beside the chair was bulging with notes, measurements and sketches. He was ready for a tall beer and a rare steak.

  But here she was, soothing guests, instructing desk clerks, signing papers. And looking just as cool and fresh as spring water. He watched her pull off an ear­ring, jiggling it in her palm as she took a phone call.

  It was one of life's small pleasures to watch her, he decided. All that drive and energy, the effortless control. Almost effortless, he thought with a grin. There was a line between her brows—frustration, he thought. Annoyance. Or just plain stubbornness. He had a powerful urge to go up to her and smooth it away. Instead, he gestured to a bellman.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is there a florist around here?"

  "Yes, sir, just down the street."

  Still watching Amanda, Sloan dug out his wallet and pulled out a twenty. "Would you run down there and get me a red rose? A long-stemmed one that's still closed. And keep the change."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  While he waited, Sloan ordered a beer from the lobby bar and lighted a cigar. Stretching out his booted feet, he settled back to enjoy.

  Amanda clipped on her earring then pressed a hand to her stomach. At least when she went down to give the kitchen staff a pep talk she could grab something to eat. A glance at her watch told her that she wouldn't have time to take her evening shift going through the paperwork, looking for a clue to the neck­lace. If there was any bright side to the enforced over­time, it was that Sloan wouldn't be at The Towers when she returned.

  "Excuse me."

  Amanda glanced up to see a trim, attractive man in a bone-colored suit. His dark hair was brushed back from a high forehead. Pale blue eyes smiled pleas­antly as they looked into hers. The faint British accent added charm to his voice.

  "Yes, sir. May I help you?"

  "I'd like to speak with the manager."

  Amanda felt her heart sink a little. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stenerson is unavailable. If there's a problem, I'll be glad to handle it for you."

  "No problem, Miss—" his eyes flicked down to her name tag "—Calhoun. I'll be checking in for a few weeks. I believe I have the Island Suite."

  "Of course. Mr. Livingston. We're expecting you." Quick and competent, she tapped the infor­mation into the computer herself. "Have you stayed with us before?"

  "No." He smiled again. "Regrettably."

  "I'm sure you'll find the suite very comfortable." She passed him a registration form as she spoke. "If there's anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, don't hesitate to ask."

  "I'm already certain it will be pleasant." He gave her another lingering look as he filled out the form. "Unfortunately, it must also be productive. I wanted to inquire about the possibility of renting a fax ma­chine during my stay."

  "We offer fax service for our guests' conve­nience," she said.

  "I'll require my own." The diamond on his pinky winked as he slid the form across the counter. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to clear up all my business, as I had hoped. It simply wouldn't be practical for me to run down here every time I need to send or receive a document. Naturally, I'll be willing to pay whatever necessary for the convenience. If renting isn't feasi­ble, perhaps I can purchase one."

  "I'll see what I can arrange."

  "I'd appreciate that." He offered her his credit card for an imprint. "Also, I'll be using the parlor in the suite as an office. I'd prefer if housekeeping left my papers and disarray undisturbed."

  "Of course."

  "Might I ask if you're familiar with the island?"

  Smiling, she handed him his card and his keys. "I'm a native."

  "Wonderful." His eyes on hers, he held her hand lightly. "Then I'll know to come to you if I have any questions. You've been very helpful, Miss Calhoun." He glanced at her name tag again. "Amanda. Thank you."

  "You're quite welcome." Her pulse gave a quick jitter as she slid her hand from his to signal a bellman. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Livingston."

  "I already am."

  As he walked away, the young desk clerk beside Amanda gave a low feminine sigh. "Who was that?"

  "William Livingston." Amanda caught herself staring after him and pulled herself back to file the imprint.

  "Gorgeous. If he had looked at me the way he looked at you, I'd have melted on the spot."

  "Melting's not part of the job description, Karen."

  "No." Dreamy eyed, Karen put her hand on a ring­ing phone. "But it sure is part of being a woman. From desk, Karen speaking. May I help you?"

  William Livingston, Amanda thought, tapping his registration form against her palm. New York, New York. If he could afford a couple of weeks in the Island Suite, that meant he had money as well as charm, good looks and impeccable taste in clothes. If she'd been looking for a man, he would have fit the bill nicely.

  Opening up the phone book, Amanda reminded herself she was looking for a fax machine, not a man.

  "Hey, Calhoun."

  With her finger on Office Supplies in the business section, she glanced up. Sloan, his chambray shirt rolled up to the elbows, his hair curling untidily over its collar, leaned on the counter.

  "I'm busy," she said dismissively.

  "Working late?"

  "Good guess."

  "You sure look pretty in that little suit." He reached over the counter to rub a thumb and finger down the crisp red lapel of her jacket "Kinda prim and proper."

  Unlike the little bounce her pulse had given when William Livingstone had taken her hand, it went hay­wire at Sloan's touch. Annoyed, she brushed it away. "Do you have a problem with your room?"

  "Nope. It's pretty as a picture."

  "With the service?"

  "Slick as a wet rock."

  "Then if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

  "Oh, I figured that. I've been watching you tow the mark here for the last half hour."

  . The line appeared between her brows. "You've been watching me?"

  His gaze lingered on her mouth as he remembered just how it tasted. "It made the beer go down easy."

  "It must be nice to have so much free time. Now—"

  "It's not how much, it's what you do with it. Since you were...tied up for breakfast, why don't we have dinner?"

  Well aware that her co-workers had their ears pricked, Amanda leaned clos
er and kept her voice low. "Can't you get it through your head that I'm not interested?"

  "No." He grinned, then sent a wink toward Karen, who was hovering as close as discretion allowed. "You said you didn't like to waste time. So I figured we could have a little supper and pick up where we left off this morning."

  In his arms, she thought, lost for a moment. With her mind fuddled and her blood racing. She was star­ing at his mouth when it curved and snapped her back to reality. "I'm busy, and I have no desire—"

  "You've got plenty of that, Amanda."

  She set her teeth, wishing with all her heart she could call him a liar and mean it. "I don't want to have dinner with you. Clear?"

  "As glass." He flicked a finger down her nose. "I'll be upstairs if you get hungry. Three-twenty, re­member?" He lifted the rose from behind the counter and put it into her hand. "Don't work too hard."

  "Two winners in one night," Karen murmured, and watched Sloan walk away. "Lord, he sure knows how to wear jeans, doesn't he?"

  Indeed he did, Amanda thought, then cursed her­self. "He's crude, annoying and intolerable." But she brushed the rosebud against her cheek.

  "Okay, I'll take bachelor number two. You can concentrate on Mister Beautiful from New York."

  Damn it, why was she so breathless? "I'm going to concentrate on my job," Amanda corrected. "And so are you. Stenerson's on the warpath, and the last thing I need is some cowboy stud interrupting my routine."

  "I wish he'd offer to interrupt mine," Karen mur­mured, then bent over her terminal.

  She wasn't going to think about him, Amanda promised herself. She set the rose aside, then picked it up again. It wasn't the flower's fault, after all. It deserved to be put in water and appreciated for what it was. Softening a bit, she sniffed at it and smiled. And it had been sweet of him to give it to her. No matter how annoying he might be, she should have thanked him.

  Absently she lifted the phone as it rang. "Front desk, Amanda speaking. May I help you?"

  "I just wanted to hear you say that." Sloan chuck­led into the phone. "Good night, Calhoun."

  Biting back an oath, Amanda banged down the re­ceiver. For the life of her she couldn't understand why she was laughing when she took the rose back into her office to find a vase.

  I ran to him. It was as if another woman burst out into the twilight to race over the lawn, down the slope, over the rocks. In that moment there was no right or wrong, no duty but to my own heart. Indeed, it was my heart that guided my legs, my eyes, my voice.

  He had turned back to the sea. The first time I had seen him he had been facing the sea, fighting his own personal war with paint and canvas. Now he only stared out at the water.

  When I called to him, he spun around. In his face I could see the mirror of my own joy. There was laughter, mine and his, as he rushed toward me.

  His arms went around me, so tightly. My dreams had known what it would be like to finally be held by them. His mouth fitted truly to mine, so sweet, so ur­gent.

  Time does not stop. As I sit here and write this, I know that. But then, oh then, it did. There was only the wind and the sound of the sea and the sheer and simple glory of being in his arms. It was as if I had waited my entire life, sleeping, eating, breathing, all for the purpose of that single precious window of time. If I have another hundred years left to me, I will never forget an instant of it.

  He drew away, his hands sliding down my arms to grip mine, then to bring them to his lips. His eyes were so dark, like gray smoke.

  "I'd packed," he said. "I'd made arrangements to sail to England. Staying here without you was hell. Thinking you would come back, and that I'd never be