by Janet Dailey
“What have you got there? I thought you looked at all your pictures before we packed them.”
Sloan jerked her head around when she heard his voice, her blue eyes wide with dismay at the sight of him. “Trey. What are you doing here?” She scrambled to her feet. “It can’t be that late, can it?”
Now that he was, at last, the subject of her undivided attention, he smiled. “That isn’t how a wife is supposed to greet her husband,” he teased. “The right way is to throw your arms around his neck and tell him how glad you are to see him.”
She grinned back at him. “You just keep dreaming, sweetheart.” She slipped sideways between two boxes that separated them to stand before him. “Maybe someday it will come true.”
Even as his hands reached out to settle onto the soft points of her hips, she was sliding her hands behind his neck and linking her fingers together. She rose on tiptoes, meeting his kiss halfway. The heat and the need were instant, on both sides. The impulse was there to take it to the next level, but the fresh, clean scent of her skin reminded Trey of the sweat and grime on his own, and he pulled back.
“Aloha, my paniolo,” Sloan murmured, a warm hunger in her adoring look.
Trey dragged in a deep breath to resist the temptation of her upturned lips, still moist from his kiss. “Aloha, yourself. Unfortunately, your cowboy is a little rank from sweating all day in the hay field.”
“Is that where you picked up all these yellow flecks?” She brushed some off his shirtfront.
“It’s hay chaff. And I’ve gotten it all over you, too.”
“It’s okay. It brushes right off.” She stepped back to demonstrate.
But Trey didn’t want to be distracted by the movement of her hand across her breasts. Instead he shifted his attention to the jumble of boxes.
“I see all your stuff arrived. I thought it would take longer to ship things from Hawaii,” he remarked idly.
“It would have if I hadn’t sent it by air.” A sudden sparkle of excitement came into her eyes. “Guess what else came today?”
“What?” To his knowledge, nothing else was expected.
“Our wedding pictures. I was just looking at them when you came. She took his hand, eager to show them to him.
“So that’s what you were so engrossed in when I arrived,” he said, secretly pleased by this bit of news, and attempted to follow when she slipped between the two boxes.
But the space wasn’t quite wide enough for him to pass through. He paused to shove the pair farther apart, then joined Sloan on the other side of them. She was once again crouched on the floor, busily spreading out the photos for his review.
“There isn’t a bad one in the bunch,” Sloan declared. “I swear Wyley has an absolutely uncanny knack for capturing the essence of someone. Just look at this one of your grandfather. Old, and a little worse for the wear, he might be, but you can tell he still has the heart and soul of a lion.”
But the picture that spoke to Trey was one of the two of them, facing each other. All he could see was the look on his face, full of raw hunger and a kind of reverential love. It bothered him that he had bared his feelings like that, especially ones as private and intimate as these, considering that he had been taught his whole life to conceal them.
“That’s a favorite of mine, too,” Sloan remarked when she identified which photograph held his interest. “It just shines with love, doesn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement,” he murmured.
“Does that bother you?” There was a twining of curiosity and surprise in the questioning look she gave him.
“Why should it?” he countered, this time guarding his true feelings behind a teasing smile. “Isn’t that the way newlyweds are supposed to look at each other? A little sappy and love-struck?”
She slapped his shoulder in playful reproval. “‘Sappy and love-struck,’ that sounds like something Tank or Johnny would say,” she declared and instantly dismissed it from her mind as she placed another photograph in front of him. “I love this one of you with Quint and Laura. It’s like a reunion shot of the three musketeers.”
“We were nearly inseparable growing up,” Trey acknowledged.
“You know, Laura is nothing at all like you, is she? And I don’t mean just in looks. Or your mother, either, for that matter, although she does favor her.”
“Laura has always danced to her own music. Mom used to think it was Tara’s influence, but it’s just the way she is.” His attention shifted to a grouping of photographs taken at the reception. A grin split his face when he saw one that showed Tank with a floral lei around his neck. “These are good.”
“Everyone really seemed to enjoy our updated version of a luau, didn’t they?” Sloan sat back on her heels and marveled over the fact. “To be honest, I was worried that they might take it wrong and think I was saying something against the life here.”
“Are you kidding?” Trey looked at her in surprise. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how anxious she was to be accepted by his extended ranch family. “Everybody got a real kick out of it. Since we got back, I swear, somebody asks me every day when we’re going to have another one. One of the guys even referred to it as a Hawaiian pig roast.”
“Really?” A laugh of delight bubbled from her.
“Really.” He nodded in emphasis, then tapped a forefinger on the photographs. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. These pictures show how much fun everyone’s having.”
“They do, don’t they?” She moved a few around, then paused. “Do you know what I just noticed? Laredo isn’t in any of these shots—except this one, and it just shows the back of his head.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Laredo’s always been camera-shy.” He placed his hands on his thighs and levered himself out of his crouching position. “I’ll look at the rest of the pictures later, after I’ve had a shower. Care to join me?”
“I might, considering I need to change before dinner anyway.” Her upward glance was both suggestive and challenging. “Although something tells me you have more than just a shower in mind.”
“It’s that getup you’re wearing.” His eyes once again traveled over all that bare, suntanned flesh. “It reminds me of Hawaii, the two of us all alone on the beach, your skin glistening with oil, the waves lapping around our feet, and the salty taste of you.” He caught hold of her hand and pulled her upright to stand beside him, the memory and her nearness heating his blood. But desire seemed to be an ever-present thing whenever he was with her, and sometimes even when he wasn’t. “We went skinny-dipping afterwards. Remember?”
“Very well.” She swayed against him, fingers slipping inside the waistband of his jeans. “Your skin was gritty that afternoon, too. Only this time you’re wearing a lot more clothes.”
“I can fix that!”
“Not here. Let’s keep all this hay stuff in the bathroom, where it’ll be easier to clean up.”
“Now you sound like a practical little wife,” he mocked and looked pointedly at the cardboard boxes that littered the sitting room. “Although I don’t why you’re worried. The room’s already a mess.”
“And you aren’t going to get it any messier.” Sloan gave a tug on his waistband, pulling him in the direction of the adjoining bedroom and the private bath beyond it. “Come on.”
“Lead the way,” he said, adding a playful taunt. “If you can find one.”
“It isn’t that bad, and you know it,” she countered in mild protest.
Trey traveled about three steps and halted to stare at a free-form sculpture in bronze that stood about three feet tall. “What in the world is that thing? I don’t remember seeing it at the beach house.”
“For a good reason. It didn’t come from there,” Sloan replied easily as she paused to study the abstract piece with a kind of resignation rather than pleasure. “It’s a wedding present from Uncle Max. It was delivered along with the rest of my things. It’s probably horribly expensive.”
�
�What’s it supposed to be?” Trey frowned at the piece.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she admitted. “I’m hoping the designer will find some out-of-the-way place to display it. Tara called to let me know she’ll be bringing him over in the morning.”
Trey didn’t exactly welcome that bit of news. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. I mean, we can thank her kindly for the offer and suggest she buy us something else instead. She couldn’t come up with anything worse than that.” He indicated the sculpture with a wave of his hand.
“We’ve been through this before,” Sloan reminded him.
“I know we have.” And he regretted that he’d ever agreed to accept Tara’s offer. “But there isn’t much that needs to be done in here—new tile in the bathroom, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, maybe some different drapes.”
“I think you’ve overlooked the sofa that’s on its last leg, and the new big chair you wanted,” Sloan countered. “I’ve worked with a decorator before. And, believe me, it’s easier when you have a professional who’s experienced at coordinating fabrics, paint colors, and tiles.”
Trey had no argument for that. “Just make sure Tara stays out of it. Given a chance, she’d turn this place into a pink-and-gold satin nightmare.”
Sloan laughed. “I can promise you that won’t happen.”
“I know it won’t,” Trey conceded. “But I don’t think you realize what you’re getting yourself into.” He moved past her into the bedroom, shedding his shirt as he went.
Tara arrived at The Homestead promptly at nine-thirty the following morning, accompanied by the designer, Garson St. Clair. Somewhere in his late thirties, he had the trimly muscled build of a man who frequented a health club. Yet a mane of dark, curly hair worn shoulder length gave him the look of an artist.
When Tara introduced him to Sloan, the decorater reluctantly broke off his assessment of the surroundings and greeted Sloan with an air that managed to be both deferential and aloof. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Ms. Calder.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. But I think it will save a great deal of confusion if you call me Sloan.”
Tara all but purred the words. “It will eliminate any question whether Garson is addressing you or me.”
“Or Jessy,” Sloan inserted.
“And her, too, of course,” Tara agreed coolly and turned immediately to the designer. “I know how anxious you are to see the suite of rooms, Gar. Let me show you where they are.”
She instantly took the lead, ushering him from the entry hall through the living room to the oak staircase, leaving Sloan with no choice except to follow. She climbed the steps after them, her features set in a look of firm resolve.
At the top of the steps, Tara walked straight to the master suite, pushed the door open, and swept into the sitting room with an air of ownership. St. Clair sauntered in after her, his head on a swivel as he took in the height of the ceilings and the room’s dimensions.
Sloan was right on his heels. “You’ll have to overlook the boxes,” she stated, although only a few remained in the room. The rest she had managed to unpack the night before with Trey’s help.
“You did warn me that your belongings had arrived from Hawaii.” Tara cast a dismissive glance at the heavy cardboard boxes. “Is this all you shipped?”
Inwardly bristling a little, Sloan managed a cool smile. “No. But there isn’t anything in these particular boxes that I need right away.”
“Then you need to have one of the hands carry them up to the attic for you,” Tara stated with a a disdainful look at the room’s furnishings, “along with everything else in here. It’s just as I told you, Gar—the room needs to be totally redone.”
“Not necessarily totally,” Sloan corrected quickly.
“Even if there is a piece or two you can use, why should you?” Tara reasoned. “After all, this is my gift. So don’t you listen to her, Gar,” she admonished, a coy smile curving her red lips. “Money is absolutely no object, not where my late husband’s son is concerned.”
An absent sound of acknowledgment came from his throat as he paused next to the free-form sculpture, lightly touching it with his fingertips. “This is an unusual piece.”
“Yes, it is.” On that, Sloan could agree.
“Do you collect modern art?” His questioning glance made a probing study of her.
“No. It’s a wedding gift.”
“A generous one,” he said and immediately lost interest in it as he wandered over to one of the windows and looked out. “Quite a view.”
“It is,” Tara agreed. “But the room is absolutely flooded with light during the daytime. You’ll need to install heavily lined drapery to block the glare.”
“No,” Sloan spoke up quickly and firmly. “I like the light.”
Tara turned, an eyebrow briefly arching, then lowering. “I forgot. You’re a photographer by profession, aren’t you? It’s all about light for you.”
Mixed in with the words of understanding was a note of condescension. Sloan stiffened, instantly taking exception to it. But before she could fire back a retort, Mr. St. Clair showed his diplomatic side.
“And harsh light is always screened,” he inserted smoothly.
“But never blocked.” Sloan wanted that clear.
Undeterred that her suggestion had been rejected, Tara eyed the windows in a reassessing fashion. “Plants would certainly thrive with all this natural light in the room—and provide you with a hint of the tropics you left, Sloan,” she said, then explained to the designer, “She moved here from Hawaii.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m interested in turning this into a tropical retreat filled with rattan and wicker covered in the colors of the sea,” Sloan challenged to quickly dispel that notion.
“Naturally you wouldn’t,” Tara agreed smoothly. “But you could focus on the Oriental aspect with a lot of dark woods and rich reds and gold. Or choose something with a Hemingwayesque flair to it. I can just see that gorgeous four-poster bed that Ty and I used, draped with gauzy fabric to simulate mosquito netting—”
“No, absolutely not,” Sloan broke in. “Trey would hate that.”
“My dear child,” Tara murmured with great indulgence and a pitying smile. “Of course we have to consider Trey’s likes and dislikes, but ultimately the decor needs to be what you want. After all, you’re the one who’ll be living in it day in and day out, not Trey. Other than spending an hour or two here in the evening, he won’t be here at all, just you and these walls. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
“In my case, it’s different,” Sloan replied, not the least bit concerned. “My work keeps me busy.”
“Then you plan to continue your career, do you?” The possibility seemed to amuse Tara.
“Naturally.”
“Is Trey aware of that?”
“Of course.” But Sloan was forced to admit, if only to herself, that the subject hadn’t been discussed; it was something she had simply taken for granted.
“Interesting,” Tara murmured with a touch of drollness.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sloan found it increasingly difficult to keep her temper in check.
“Nothing really,” Tara replied with feigned innocence. “It’s just that the Calders have always been very old-fashioned in their thinking when it comes to women.”
Sloan smiled with considerable pleasure. “I think you’ve forgotten that Jessy runs the Triple C.”
One shoulder lifted in a dismissive and graceful motion. “She’s little more than a figurehead. Chase still calls the shots around here.”
As much as Sloan wanted to refute that claim, she knew she was far from knowledgeable on the subject. A claim of ignorance could no longer be made when it came to Tara, however; Sloan knew exactly why no one in the family could stand her. The woman was absolutely maddening and insufferable.
Seeking to break off the exchange with Tara, Sloan turned to the designer. “Would you like to see th
e bedroom now?”
“In a minute.” He was crouched next to a baseboard, using his fingers to push back the carpet pile at its edge. “Am I wrong to assume that, like the rest of the house, there is hardwood flooring underneath the carpet?”
“It seems likely, but I don’t personally know that,” Sloan admitted.
Not to be ignored, Tara interposed, “Carpeting is completely out of style. Even if this one wasn’t so old and tacky, I would urge you to get rid of it. Everyone these days wants wood or stone floors.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Her own preference was for hardwood flooring, but Sloan wasn’t about to admit that to Tara, convinced it would only encourage the woman to offer more suggestions.
The designer straightened to his feet and turned a direct look on Sloan. “There was a mention earlier that you are a photographer. Will you be wanting a desk or small office area here in the sitting room?”
“No. I want our living quarters to be a comfortable place where both of us can relax and forget about work. Comfort is the key word,” Sloan added, as much for Tara’s benefit as the designer’s. “Not style or elegance.”
He responded with a distracted nod and motioned to the connecting door. “The bedroom’s through here, right?”
“Yes.” Sloan immediately walked over and opened the door to show him into the room.
Whether out of common courtesy or a recognition of the money source, St. Clair allowed Tara to precede him. With one all-encompassing glance she took in the entire room. “I wonder what ever became of that grand king-sized bed Ty and I slept in,” she murmured to no one in particular. “This room just cries for it.”
Wisely, Sloan made no comment. Silence seemed to be the best tactic to use in dealing with the woman.
More time was spent exploring the master bedroom and its adjacent bath, assessing the available storage currently provided, and discussing lighting issues. After his initial inspection of the premises was complete, the designer stated his need to take precise measurements of each room, the size and location of its windows and doorway, as well as the location of all electrical outlets and light sources. Sloan offered to assist him, but he assured her he was used to managing on his own.
