Page 6 of A Man for Amanda

  necklace weeks before, she had promised herself she wouldn't become discouraged, no matter how long it took or how little she found.

  Thus far, they had come across the original receipt for the emeralds, and a date book where Bianca had mentioned them. It was enough, Amanda had decided, to prove the necklace had indeed existed, and to keep hope alive that it would be found again.

  She often wondered about it, about what it had meant to Bianca Calhoun and why she had secreted it away. If indeed she had. Another old rumor was that Fergus had tossed the necklace into the sea. After all the stories Amanda had heard about Fergus Cal­houn' s abiding love of a dollar, it was hard to believe that he had willfully thrown away a quarter of a mil­lion in jewels.

  Besides, she didn't want to believe it, Amanda ad­mitted as she pinned on her name tag. Though she wouldn't have cared for anyone to know it, she had a strong streak of the romantic, and that part of her held tight to the notion that Bianca had hidden away the emeralds, like a gift or promise, waiting for the time they would be needed again.

  It embarrassed her a little to know she felt that way. Amanda preferred the outward, and the logical, rou­tine of sorting through papers and organizing them in the practical pursuit of a valuable heirloom.

  Bianca herself remained as much a mystery to Amanda as the necklace. Her ingrained pragmatism made it impossible to understand a woman who had risked everything for, and ultimately had died for, love. Feelings that intense and that desperate seemed unlikely to her, unless they were in the pages of a book.

  What would it be like to love that strongly? she wondered. To feel as though your life were so com­pletely bound to another's that it was impossible to survive without him. Inconvenient, she decided. Un­comfortable and unwise. She could only be grateful that she hadn't inherited that dangerous kind of pas­sion. Feeling smug about her own unbattered heart, she settled down to work.

  "Amanda?"

  She was halfway through the August reservations and held up a hand. "Minute," she murmured, and totaled her calculations to that point. "What is it, Karen? Wow." She pushed her glasses back up her nose and studied the luxurious spray of roses in the desk clerk's arms. "What did you do, win a beauty pageant?"

  "They're not mine." Karen buried her face in them. "Don't I wish. They just came in, for you."

  "Me?"

  "You're still Amanda Calhoun," Karen pointed out as she offered the florist's card. "Though if you want to trade places until these three dozen long-stemmed beauties fade, I'm game."

  "Three dozen?"

  "I counted." Grinning, Karen laid them on the desk. "Three dozen and one," she added, nodded to­ward the single rose that stood beside them.

  Sloan, Amanda thought, and felt her heart give a quick, catchy sigh. How was she supposed to get a handle on a man who did sweet, unexpected things every time she thought she'd made up her mind about him? How could he have known about her secret weakness for red roses? She hadn't even thanked him for the first one.

  "Aren't you going to read the card?" Karen de­manded. "If I have to go back to the desk without knowing who sent them, I'll be distracted and my work will suffer. The evil Albert Stenerson'U fire me, and it'll be your fault."

  "I already know who they're from," she began, unaware of the softness in her eyes. "It was really so sweet of him to—oh." Baffled, she studied the name on the card. Not Sloan, she realized, with a cutting edge of disappointment that surprised her. They weren't from Sloan.

  "Well? Do you want me to beg?"

  Still puzzled, Amanda handed the card over.

  "With my appreciation. William Livingston. Whew." Karen tossed back her long, dark hair. "What did you have to do to deserve this kind of gratitude?"

  "I got him a fax machine."

  "You got him a fax machine," Karen repeated, handing the card back to Amanda. "Last Sunday I cooked a pot roast with all the trimmings and all I got was a bottle of cheap wine."

  Amanda continued to frown and tapped the card on the edge of her desk. "I guess I'd better thank him."

  "I guess you'd better." Karen picked up one of the roses and sniffed. "Unless you'd rather delegate. I'd be glad to go up and express your appreciation to Mr. Eyes-To-Die-For Livingston."

  "Thanks, but I'll handle it." She picked up the phone, then sent Karen an arched look. "Scram."

  "Spoilsport." Laughing, she went out, discreetly shutting the door at her back as Amanda dialed the extension for the Island Suite.

  "Livingston."

  "Mr. Livingston, this is Amanda Calhoun."

  "Ah, the efficient Miss Calhoun." There was a laugh in his voice, a pleasant and flattering one. "What can I do for you?"

  "I wanted to thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. It was very thoughtful of you."

  "Just a small way of showing you that I appreciate your help, and the quick work."

  "That's my job. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance during your stay."

  "As a matter of fact, there is something you could help me with."

  "Of course." Automatically she picked up a pen and prepared to write.

  "I'd like you to have dinner with me."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'd like to take you to dinner. Eating alone is unappetizing."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Livingston, it's against hotel pol­icy for the staff to socialize with the guests. It's kind of you to ask."

  "Kindness has nothing to do with it. Can I ask if you'd consider it if hotel policy could be...bent?"

  There was no chance of that, Amanda thought. Not with Stenerson. "I'd be happy to consider it," she said tactfully. "Unfortunately, as long as you're a guest at the Bay Watch—-"

  "Yes, yes. I'll get back to you shortly."

  Amanda blinked at the dead receiver, shrugged, then replaced it to get back to work. Ten minutes later, Stenerson was opening her door.

  "Miss Calhoun, Mr. Livingston would like to have dinner with you." His mouth primed up even more than usual. "You're free to go. Naturally, I'll expect you to conduct yourself in a manner that will reflect properly on the hotel."

  "But—"

  "Don't make a habit of it."

  "I—" But he was already shutting the door.

  Amanda was still staring at it when her phone rang.

  "Miss Calhoun." "Shall we say eight o'clock?" On a long breath, she sat back in her chair. She was on the point of refusing when she caught herself stroking the single rosebud Sloan had given her.

  Amanda snatched back her hand and balled it in her lap.

  "I'm sorry, I'm on until ten tonight." "Tomorrow then. Where shall I pick you up?" "Tomorrow's fine," she said on impulse. "Let me give you directions."

  Chapter Five

  Sloan knew the minute Trent returned to The Tow­ers. Even in the library at the end of a long corridor he could hear the high happy yaps of the dog, the shouts of children and the mix of laughter. Setting aside his notebook, he strolled out to see his old friend.

  Trent had gotten no further than the foyer. Jenny was hanging on his legs as Fred circled and danced. Alex was jumping up and down in a bid for attention while Coco, Suzanna and Lilah all fired questions at once. C.C. only stood beaming, held snug against Trent's side. At a shout from above, Sloan looked up to see Amanda bolting down the stairs. Her laughter glowed in her face as he'd never seen it before. Squeezing through her sisters, she took her turn at a hug.

  "If you hadn't come back today, I was sending out a team of mercenaries," she told Trent. "Four days before the wedding and you're down in Boston."

  "I knew you could handle the details."

  "She has miles of lists," Coco put in. "It's fright­ening."

  "There, you see?" Trent gave Amanda a quick kiss.

  "What did you bring me? What did you bring me?" Jenny demanded.

  "Talk about mercenary." Laughing, Suzanna scooped her daughter up. When she spotted Sloan in the hallway, her easy smile faded. She tried to tell herself that it was her imaginatio
n that his eyes changed whenever he looked at her. It had to be. What possible reason would he have for disliking her on sight?

  Sloan studied her another moment, a tall, slender woman with pale blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, a face blessed with classical beauty and sad blue eyes. Dismissing her, he looked back at Trent His smile came naturally again.

  "I hate to interrupt when you're surrounded by beautiful women, but time's wasting."

  "Sloan." His arm still around C.C., Trent stepped forward to grip Sloan's hand. In all of his varied groups of acquaintances, associates and colleagues, this was the only man he considered a genuine friend. "On the job already?"

  "Getting started."

  "You look like you've just gotten back from a long vacation in the tropics instead of six weeks in Bu­dapest. It's good to see you."

  "Same here." Sloan sent a quick wink at C.C. "It's really good to see that you're finally developing some taste."

  "I like him," C.C. said.

  "Women tend to," Trent said. "How's your fam­ily?"

  Sloan's gaze flicked to Suzanna again. "They're fine."

  "You two must have a lot to catch up on." Feeling awkward, Suzanna took her son's hand. "We're go­ing to take a walk before dinner."

  Amanda waited until Coco had urged everyone along toward the parlor before she put a hand on Sloan's arm. "Wait."

  He grinned at her. "I've been waiting, Calhoun."

  She wasn't even tempted to rise to the bait. "I want to know why you look at Suzanna that way."

  The humor faded from his eyes. "What way is that?"

  "like you detest her."

  It annoyed him that those particular and very pri­vate feelings showed so clearly. "You've got more imagination than I gave you credit for."

  "It's not my imagination." Baffled, she shook her head. "What could you possibly have against Su­zanna? She's the kindest, most good-hearted person I know."

  It was difficult not to sneer, but he kept his face bland. "I didn't say I had anything against her. You did."

  "You didn't have to say it. Obviously I can't make you talk about it, but—"

  "Maybe that's because I'd rather talk about us." Casually he set both hands on the banister behind her, caging her between.

  "There is no us."

  "Sure there is. There's you and there's me. That makes us. That's real basic grammar."

  "If you're trying to change the subject—" "You're getting that line between your eyebrows again." He lifted a thumb to rub at it. "That Calhoun line. How come you never smile at me the way you smiled at Trent?"

  "Because I like Trent"

  "It's funny, most people figure I'm an amiable sort of guy."

  "Not from where I'm standing." "Why don't you stand a little closer?" She had to laugh. If there had been a contest for persistence, Sloan O'Riley would have won hands down. "This is close enough, thanks." More than close enough, she added silently when she had to fight back an urge to run her fingers through that untidy mane of reddish-blond hair. "Amiable isn't the word I would use. Now, cocky, annoying, tenacious, those might suit."

  "I kind of like tenacious." He leaned closer to breathe in her scent. "A man doesn't get very far if he caves in every time he runs into a wall. You climb over, tunnel under, or just knock the whole damn thing down."

  She put a hand to his chest before he could close that last inch of distance. "Or he keeps beating his head against it until he has a concussion."

  "That's a calculated risk, and worth it if there's a woman behind the wall looking at him the way you look at me."

  "I don't look at you any particular way." "When you forget that you want to be professional, you look at me with those big blue eyes of yours all soft, and a little scared. A lot curious. Makes me want to scoop you up right there and carry you off to some­place real quiet so I can satisfy that curiosity."

  She could imagine it all too clearly, feel it all too sharply. There was only one solution. Escape. "Well, this has been fun, but I've got to go change."

  "Are you going back to work?"

  "No." Agile, she swooped under his arm and swung up the steps. "I've got a date."

  "A date?" he repeated, but she was already racing across the second floor.

  He told himself he wasn't waiting for her, though he'd been pacing the foyer for a good twenty minutes. He wasn't going to hang around like an idiot and watch her go strolling off with some other man-rafter she'd tied him into knots by just standing there and looking at him. There was plenty for him to do, in­cluding enjoying the dinner Coco had invited him to, talking over old times and new. plans with Trent, even sitting down at his drawing board. He wasn't about to spend the evening mooning over the fact that some obstinate woman preferred someone else's company to his.

  After all, Sloan reminded himself as he paced the foyer, she was free to come and go as she pleased. The same as he was. Neither one of them was branded. Just because he had a hankering for her didn't mean he was going to get riled up when she spent a couple of hours with another man.

  The hell it didn't.

  Turning, he took the steps two at a time.

  "Calhoun?" He strode down the corridor, banging on doors. "Damn it, Calhoun, I want to talk to you."

  He was at the far end of the hall and starting back when Amanda opened her door.

  "What's going on?" she demanded.

  He stared a moment as she stood in the stream of light that spilled out of the room behind her. She'd done something fancy to her hair, he noted, so that it looked sexily rumpled. Played with her face, too, in that damnably sultry way some women have a talent for. Her dress was a pale icy blue, full at the skirt, nipped at the waist with two skinny straps slinking over her shoulders. Chunky stones in a deeper blue glittered at her ears and throat.

  She didn't look efficient, he thought furiously. She didn't look competent. She looked as delectable as a pretty white cake on a fancy tray. And he was damned if any other man was going to take even one small nibble.

  Her foot was already tapping when he started to­ward her.

  Amiable? she thought, and had to resist the urge to bolt back into her room and lock the door. No one would call him amiable now. He looked as though he'd just finished chewing a mountain of glass and was raring for the second course.

  "What kind of date?" he snapped at her, and found himself further incensed by the fact that her skin smelled like glory.

  Amanda inclined her head slowly. The hands she had fisted on her hips slid carefully to her sides. When you were facing a raging bull you didn't wave a red flag but tried to ease yourself over the fence. "The usual kind."

  "Is that the way you dress for the usual kind?"

  Irked, she glanced down and smoothed her skirts. "What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

  For an answer, he took her arm and swung her around. He'd been right, he thought as his stomach clutched up. Those two little straps were all that were covering her back. Right down to the waist. "Where's the rest of it?"

  "Rest of what?"

  "The dress."

  She turned back, still cautious, and examined his face. "Sloan, I think you've gone around the bend."

  She didn't know how right she was, he thought. "I've got as much sense as any man can hang on to after ten minutes with you. Cancel."

  "Cancel?" she repeated.

  "The date, damn it." He nudged her none too gently toward her bedroom. "Go in and call him up and tell him you can't make it. Ever."

  "You really are crazy." She forgot about bulls and red flags and cut loose. "I go where I please and with whom I please. If you think I'm going to break a date with an attractive, charming and intelligent man be­cause some overbearing baboon tells me to, then think again."

  "It's the date," he warned, "or that pretty stiff neck of yours."

  Her eyes narrowed down to two slits of righteous blue fire. "Don't you threaten me, you pinhead. I have a dinner date with your antithesis. A gentle­man." She elbowed him aside. "No
w get out of my way."

  "I'll get out of your way," he promised. "After I give you something to think about."

  He had her back against the wall with his mouth covering hers before she could blink. She could taste the anger. That, she would have fought against to the last breath. But she could also taste the need, and that, she surrendered to. It was such a perfect echo of her own.

  He didn't care if it was unreasonable. He didn't care if it was wrong or stupid or any of the other terms that could so easily apply to his actions. He wanted to curse her for making him behave like some reckless teenager. But he could only taste her, drown­ing in the flavor that he was coming to understand he would always crave. He could only pull her closer against him so that he could feel the instant heat that pumped from her body into his.

  He could sense each change as it flowed through her.

  First the anger that kept her rigid and aloof. Then the surrender, reluctant then melting so that her bones seemed to dissolve. And the passion overlapping so quickly it stole his breath. It was that he understood he couldn't live without.

  Her arms went around him as if they belonged there. Strained against his, her body throbbed until it was one sweet ache. This was an ache that once felt could never be forgotten, would always be craved. Eager, she nipped at his mouth, knowing in another moment delirium could overtake her. Wanting it, wanting that liberating mindless whirl of desire only he could ignite inside her.

  Only he.

  In one long possessive stroke his hands ran from her shoulders to her wrists, holding there a moment while her pulse scrambled under his palms. When he lifted his head, she leaned back limply against the wall, watching him while she struggled to catch her breath. While she fought to break through the torrent of sensations and understand the feelings beneath them.

  The thought of another man touching her, of look­ing into her face and seeing it flushed with passion as it was now, of seeing her eyes clouded with it, terrified him. Because he preferred good clean anger to fear, he gripped her shoulders again, all but lifting her off her feet.

  "Think about that," he told her in a low dangerous voice. "You think about that good and hard"

  What had he done to her to make her need so ter­ribly? He had to know, just by looking at her, that he had only to pull her inside her room to take every­thing he claimed to want. He had only to touch her again to have her desperate to give. He wouldn't even have to ask. It shamed her to realize it, destroyed her to understand that anyone would have such complete power over her pride and her will.

  "You made your point," she said unsteadily, in­furiated that tears were stinging the back of her eyes and throat "Do you want to hear me say that you can make me want you? Fine. You can."

  The sparkle of tears in her eyes did what her fury couldn't. It beat him soundly. There was regret in his voice when he lifted a hand to her face. "Amanda—"

  She stiffened and shut her eyes. If he was gen­tle—she knew if he showed her even a scrap of ten­derness, she would crumble. "You've got your con­quest, Sloan. Now I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go"

  He let his hand slide to his side before he stepped back. "I'm not going to tell you I'm sorry." But the way she looked at him made him feel as though he had just shattered something small and fragile.

  "That's all right. I'm sorry enough for both of us."

  "Amanda." Lilah stood at the top of the stairs, watching them both with her sleepy-eyed curiosity. "Your date's here."