Sunny Chandler's Return

by Sandra Brown

  Not only was her heart pounding, but her breath was coming in shallow pants that pushed her breast up into his curving palm. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t claim more than that upper curve. Her nipple tightened in preparation for a caress that never came. It was maddening.

  “Leave me alone.” Sunny’s voice was feeble and lacked conviction. But how could she possibly muster imperiousness when he was taking love bites up and down her throat?

  “Want to know a secret?” His lips moved beneath her hair to her ear. “When I saw you standing in the doorway wearing nothing but that nightie, my heart started pounding, too. Feel it.”

  With his free hand, he lifted hers. He tucked it inside his shirt, directly over his heart. The steady, solid beat filled her hand. The warm skin was as comfortable as a fireplace on a frosty morning. The forest of hair prompted curious explorations from her fingers.

  His teeth closed gently on her earlobe. He worried the two diamond studs with the tip of his tongue. “After I left this afternoon, did you think about me?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.” He nudged her thighs apart and cushioned himself in that warm, soft cove. “You thought about me. About us. Together. You thought about that kiss.”

  “No, no, I didn’t.”

  His laughter was husky and deep. “Oh, yes, you did. That’s all I thought about. I was almost derelict in my duties thinking about that kiss.” His mouth moved back to hers. He rubbed her lips with his. “My tongue inside your mouth. Moving in and out. Just like making love.”

  “Stop it.” The protest was little more than a ragged breath.

  “No way, Sunny. Not until you’re beneath me. Naked. Wanting.”

  He kissed her again. As before, the world as she knew it crumbled. She was transported into a sphere where everything smelled and tasted and felt like Ty. It was his universe. He dominated it, was lord over it.

  He moved his hand down a fraction. His fingers impressed tunnels into the fullness of her breast, but he still ignored the crest, which was yearning, aching, for his touch.

  Her fingers curled into the hard flesh of his chest. Her mouth responded to the expert probing of his tongue. Involuntarily she moved her hips, bringing his hardness fully against her. The contact shocked them both.

  His eyes were dark and intense when he raised his head and looked down into her face. Her lips were rosy and wet. She stared back at him with lambent eyes.

  “But as you’ve already pointed out,” he said quietly, “it’s getting late.”

  Sunny couldn’t believe it!

  He calmly released her and left the kitchen. Moments later she heard the front door close and then the motor of a car starting up. By the time she had recovered herself, he was gone.

  Sunny Chandler shattered the cup he had drunk from against her kitchen wall and called upon every demon in hell to possess the body and soul of Ty Beaumont.

  Four

  Sunny crossed her legs, demurely tugging her straight skirt over her knees when she noticed that her impatient movement had attracted the attention of the man behind the desk.

  “The financial statement is as complete as I could make it, Mr. Smithie. I’ve included several credit references, my income tax records for the past three years, my projections for future income.”

  “You’ve been thorough, Miss Chandler.”

  That gave Sunny no indication of what the bank officer thought of the columns of figures he had perused no less than a dozen times since she’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Peering through his bifocals, he scanned the pages again.

  Then he set aside the meticulously prepared financial statement, folded his hands on his desk, and looked at Sunny as though he was about to impart the sad news that there was no Santa Claus. His expression was that superior, that remorseful, that sympathetic. She braced herself for having her high hopes dashed against the rocks of sexual prejudice.

  “The figures you submitted are impressive, Miss Chandler.”

  “But realistic, I believe.” She smiled, trying not to let her trepidation show. Banks didn’t lend money to people who looked like they needed it.

  “Much as I admire your enthusiasm for your work, I’m afraid you’re being a trifle optimistic.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve been conservative in my projections.”

  “Still,” Mr. Smithie said, clearing his throat importantly, “they’re only projections.”

  “Projections based on experience.” At the risk of being argumentative, Sunny wouldn’t take no for an answer without putting up a good fight. “I know what women, and men for that matter, are prepared to spend on these things. My clients will be society people with staggering incomes.”

  “But you have no clients at present,” he pointed out reasonably.

  “That’s why I need the business loan, Mr. Smithie. To promote my new business. I do have clients, people who will work only with me where I am currently employed. They won’t hear of entrusting themselves to anyone else. Once they know I’m in business for myself, they’ll naturally come to me.”

  He looked skeptical, but didn’t offer a rebuttal. Instead he glanced down at his wristwatch, a reminder that she was taking up a great deal of his valuable time. “As for collateral—”

  “The lake property.”

  “But that actually belongs to your father.”

  “And you have in the file a letter authorizing me to use it. Do you think I forged his signature on the letter, Mr. Smithie?”

  “Of course not, Sunny,” he said with a falsely jovial smile. He had lapsed into using her first name. Neither of them noticed because at any other time prior to today, he’d always called her Sunny.

  “Then I fail to see the problem. The value of the lake cabin and surrounding acreage more than covers the amount I’m asking to borrow. As you know, my father is a respected businessman. He wouldn’t risk his property if he didn’t believe in what I want to do.”

  “But going into business for oneself,” he said with a mournful shake of his head, “that’s an ambitious undertaking for anybody. But especially for a woman.”

  Sunny sat back in her chair and eyed him assessingly. “You mean that if I were a man, the bank would have no qualms about lending me the money?”

  He held up both hands. “No, no, not at all. The bank has no such prejudices.”

  I’ll just bet, Sunny thought.

  “It’s simply that most of the young ladies who grow up here get married and...” Too late Mr. Smithie realized his faux pas. The deepening color in his cheeks did Sunny a world of good. Now she had him on the defensive. “What I mean to say is, it would make better sense if you applied for a loan at a bank in New Orleans.”

  She had. She had applied at several banks and been turned down. The Latham Green National Bank was her last hope, but she didn’t want Mr. Smithie to know that. “I thought you would appreciate my business,” she said with a saucy smile.

  “Oh, we do, we do, it’s just...” He foundered, shuffling papers on his desk while he searched for something to say. She almost felt sorry for him. He wanted to turn her down in a way that would spare her, him, and the bank any awkwardness. He probably wished she hadn’t been his first client on this Monday morning. Helluva way to launch the week.

  Well, fine, she thought. Welcome to the club, Mr. Smithie.

  Her week hadn’t started out so great, either. First, she’d had to return to a town she had thought she’d seen the last of. Then she’d fallen prey to that crocodile-cum -sheriff. At the stroke of midnight last night she’d found out just how dangerous an animal he was.

  Thinking about him only fueled her determination to make this necessary trip to Latham Green pay off. She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper that intimated urgency. “Mr. Smithie, forget for a minute that you’ve known me since I was in diapers. Forget that I’m female and single and a woman on my own. Just listen to me.” She wet her lips. “I need that loan. I want to go into business for myself. Without this loan I c
an’t. My father’s credit was always good at this bank. Mine will be, too. You won’t be taking a risk.”

  He pursed his pale banker’s lips. “You force me to be blunt, Sunny. The bank takes pride in lending money to energetic young people with ambition. But we are careful to make certain that they demonstrate sound judgment and a sense of responsibility. And frankly...to be honest...well...what you did...”

  She flopped back in her chair and stared at him, aghast. “What I did three years ago demonstrates a lack of sound judgment and sense of responsibility. Is that it?”

  By way of answer, he lowered his gaze to the polished surface of his desk.

  Sunny raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed the center of it, where she was developing a splitting headache. She’d anticipated—feared, dreaded—being turned down, but not because of her aborted marriage to Don Jenkins.

  Was that to haunt her for the rest of her life? Didn’t people realize that for her to have done it, she must have had an extremely good reason? Did everyone think it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, some flight of whimsy?

  “Perhaps a smaller amount,” Mr. Smithie said in conciliation for having been so hurtfully blunt.

  Sunny was adamantly shaking her head before he even finished. “I’ll be dealing with people who only go first class. I have to be top drawer, cream of the crop, elite. If I start cutting corners right off the bat, I’ll be dead before I even start.”

  He pulled on his cheek. “Perhaps if we review your situation—”

  “I haven’t got the luxury of time. I have to do it now.”

  “But Mardi Gras is a long way off. Not until next spring.”

  “They start making plans months in advance. I’ve got to start right away or wait another year.” She laid her hands flat on his desk. “I know what you and everybody else in town think of me because of what happened on my wedding day, but I’m damn good at what I do.” She slapped the surface of his desk for emphasis. His eyebrows shot up. At least she had his attention. “I’m going to make a lot of money in the next few years. I’d like to deposit some of it in this bank. Yes or no, Mr. Smithie? I need your answer. Otherwise you’re wasting my time.”

  He was no longer looking at her as though she was the only tryout who hadn’t made the team. Instead, his implacable eyes sparked with a flicker of interest and respect.

  “I’ll reconsider your application and speak with the other loan officers. Come back one week from today and I’ll let you know.”

  “Not good enough. I’m leaving next Sunday morning. I need to know by Friday at the latest.”

  He considered her a moment longer. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m making you no promises.” He stood up, indicating that her claim on his time had expired. When Sunny shook his hand, she was glad to note that his was just as damp as hers. He would probably turn down her application, but at least she had made an impression on him.

  She slid on a pair of sunglasses as she walked through the bank’s austere lobby, telling herself that the glasses weren’t a means of avoiding the curious glances she intercepted.

  Stepping outside was like walking into a sauna. The heat was humid and, today, oppressive. Even with sunglasses on it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the glaring light that only a partly cloudy day in the South in the summer could produce. When her eyes did acclimatize, she groaned at what she saw.

  Ty Beaumont was leaning against the wall of the bank. One knee was bent, his booted foot resting flat against the bricks. A straw cowboy hat was pulled down low over his brows. His thumbs were hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. If it hadn’t been for the leather holster around his hips and the silver badge on the breast pocket of his white shirt, one would have thought he was a loafer instead of a law officer.

  Since her car was parked in the next block, she had no choice but to walk past him or go completely around the city block. It was too hot for that long a hike. Getting past him unseen was out of the question, and since she didn’t want to be put on the defensive, she was the first to speak.

  “Expecting a bank holdup?”

  He grinned, splitting his face into a visage far too handsome for his own good. He should pose for one of those macho cigarette ads, Sunny thought. He was certainly the type, having just enough character lines to make his face ruggedly appealing.

  “Never can tell,” he said, lazily pushing himself away from the wall and falling into step beside her. “It would sure liven up an otherwise sluggish Monday morning.”

  “Trust me, the bank is carefully guarding its money.”

  “Oh?”

  “Never mind. That subject is closed.”

  “Okay. Then may I say that you look as fresh as a sprig of mint this morning, Miss Sunny.” He had assumed the role of a Southern gentleman as they strolled past the storefronts.

  Taking up her cue, Sunny replied flirtatiously, “Thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I’ll soon wilt in this stiflin’ heat.”

  “Maybe you should have brought a fan.”

  “I didn’t have one to go with this outfit.”

  She wasn’t the business-suit type but had dressed in keeping with her appointment with Mr. Smithie. The crisp green linen dress, which she had accessorized with white shoes and jewelry, was tailored but cool, fashionable but not funky. Funky wouldn’t have done at all in the Latham Green National Bank. “Maybe it’ll rain soon and cool things off.”

  “Are we already reduced to talking about the weather?”

  “We don’t have to talk about anything. I’ll say goodbye here.” They were at the center of downtown, waiting at the intersection for one of the few traffic lights in town to change.

  “I’m going this way anyway,” he said casually. He took her elbow to assist her as she stepped off the uneven sidewalk onto the rutted pavement of the street, which, when wearing high heels, was treacherous. “Did you recover from our kiss last night?” She kept her eyes trained on the pavement, saying nothing. “Is that subject closed, too?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Cherry Coke?”

  “No, I’ve—”

  “Humor me. This Woolworth’s still makes the best cherry Cokes in the world. That’s one of Latham Green’s few claims to fame.”

  Again he took her elbow and, to avoid causing a scene that would no doubt entertain the passersby, Sunny had no choice but to go along when he pulled her through the door of the variety store.

  Entering it was like stepping back in time. The same fans circulated overhead even though the store had installed central air conditioning years ago. The wooden floors still creaked in the same places and smelled pleasantly of the lemon oil with which they were dustmopped. The shelves were stocked with merchandise one couldn’t buy anywhere else, like Tangee nail polish and Evening in Paris perfume in its trademark opaque, blue glass bottle with the silver lid. Sunny and her friends had spent hours “shopping” this store, spending their babysitting money.

  The soda fountain in the back looked the same, too. Sunny’s mouth salivated in anticipation of the fountain cherry Coke that Ty ordered for her.

  “For here or to go?” the soda jerk inquired.

  “Here.” “To go.” They answered in unison. Ty took off his hat and sunglasses and looked down at her. “If you take it outside the ice will melt. We’ll drink them here.”

  Sunny sat down on the stool he indicated and took off her own glasses. “You enjoy ordering people around, don’t you, Sheriff?”

  “I like calling the shots, yeah.”

  “Lord, spare me from male domination.”

  The soda jerk slid two icy glasses in front of them and went back to his hot rod magazine. After taking a few sips of his drink through the straw, Ty asked, “Do I detect a trace of bitterness in your prayer?”

  “More than a trace.”

  He swiveled around on his stool to face her. “What got you so turned off of
men?”

  “Generally or specifically?” she asked sweetly.

  “Let’s start with generalities.”

  “Generally men want to keep women ‘in their place.’ ”

  “Hmm, I might take issue with that, at least until we determine exactly what that place is. Let’s get specific.”

  “Specifically,” she said, drawing out the word, “my application for a business loan at the bank will be considered using a different set of standards than it would be if I wore trousers instead of panty hose.”

  He looked down at her slim legs, but, sensitive to her mood, refrained from making any comment. “They turned you down, huh?”

  “Not yet, but as good as.”

  “What do you want the loan for?”

  Sunny looked at him, wondering what possible interest it was to him. None. Maybe that’s why she was tempted to tell him about her plans. It might be refreshing to get the opinion of someone who would look at the matter from a purely objective standpoint, someone who didn’t harbor any preconceived notions about her or her work.

  “I want to go into business for myself,” she told him curtly.

  “What kind of business?” He finished his drink and set it aside, devoting all his attention to her.

  “I design and make Mardi Gras costumes.”

  He stared at her for a moment. Then, to her astonishment and supreme irritation, he started laughing. Sunny snatched up her purse and sunglasses and slid off the stool. He caught her arm.

  “Wait. Don’t go off in a huff. I’m laughing at George, not you.”

  “George?”

  “He told me you were a seamstress. I couldn’t quite picture you bent over a sewing machine in a sweatshop.”

  She resumed her seat. “Well, I’ve spent many hours bent over a sewing machine, but I mainly do the designs, then work side by side with the seamstresses who make the actual garments. They sew; I construct.”

  “It sounds to me as though you’re already in business for yourself.”