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Epilogue
© 1996
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Ryan Alexander stared at the envelope his secretary had placed on his desk. Although the return address did not include a name, he knew who had sent it. An almost-forgotten tension tightened his muscles. The handwriting was Sunny's.
His first impulse was to throw the letter away unopened. To leave the past where it belonged—safely buried. But curiosity overcame his reluctance. He slit open the envelope.
A simple sketch on the front of the folded stationery caught his attention. Pencil strokes portrayed a little girl in pigtails, her right eye closed in a wink. A wink without a smile.
Which, at one time, had meant "something's up." Something new and unfailingly interesting.
They'd been kids then, left to run wild every summer at Windsong Place
. Sunny had been the housekeeper's granddaughter; he, the man of the house—in his father's absence, of course. Those had been the innocent years.
Ryan gripped the paper tighter. The innocence had ended the summer he returned from his junior year in college to find his childhood pal gone, and in her place, a dream. A dewy-skinned, bright-eyed dream that made his blood simmer and his rational thought evaporate like steam.
By autumn, they had married. In winter, she had left him.
Dropping the unread letter onto his desk, Ryan pushed his leather chair back and paced across his Manhattan penthouse office, his hands in the pockets of his Italian suit.
Their involvement had been a mistake. A hormonal thing. Unchecked teenage passion. They married to give their unborn baby a secure family life—something neither of them had had. But their plans ended with a miscarriage. In her grief, Sunny had left him.
Ryan clearly understood why. The reason for their marriage had no longer existed. He hadn't tried to stop her. Hadn't seen any justification for her to stay.
His fists clenched within his pockets.
Thoughts of her always brought back disturbing memories. His father had disinherited him because of their marriage. And though Ryan didn't believe so, the mere possibility that his loss of fortune had influenced her decision to leave taunted him.
His father had taken great pains to convince him of it, but Ryan refused to believe he had misjudged her that drastically.
Regardless of her motive for leaving, Sunny and he had parted friends. She sent him Christmas cards every year. He kept her name on his corporate card-mailing list tended by his secretary. Yes, indeed, Ryan assured himself, Sunny and he were friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Ten years and dozens of romantic liaisons had nearly erased the memory of her face.
Returning to his desk, he unfolded the note.
Ryan,
Need to talk to you about Windsong Place
. I'd like to move back there. Let's work out a deal. Call me.
Sunny
Ryan frowned. She wanted to move back to Windsong Place
?
Was she the one bidding against him to buy it? Perhaps the rival bidder wasn't his father, as Ryan had assumed when he heard that "another Alexander" had also put in a bid for the North Carolina mountaintop mansion.
Windsong Place
. It had been his late mother's ancestral home, where Ryan was born and raised. By all rights, he should have inherited it. But his father had sold the house in a fit of rage when he learned Ryan had married Sunny.
How could Sunny possibly afford to buy it even as a franchise?
Suddenly, suspicion flashed through him like cold air on a sore tooth, and the ugliest explanation reared its head. Had she accepted the payoff his father offered her to leave him? No. Ryan couldn't, wouldn't, believe it. Sunny hadn't married him for money, or left him because he'd lost it.
But a cynical inner voice persisted: if she was the rival bidder, where else would she have come up with that much cash? According to her last Christmas card, she now managed a small Atlanta hotel. Not much chance of a million-dollar gain there.
Unless she'd hit some lottery. With Sunny's luck, Ryan seriously doubted it.
Which left very few other possibilities.
Cursing, Ryan crumpled the note. He had to know. He'd do more than call her. He'd break a rule he had kept faithfully for ten long years. He'd pay Sunny a visit.
By the next morning—a bright and breezy Thursday in May—Ryan had thoroughly prepared himself to face the discovery that Sunny had indeed taken his father's bribe to leave him.
In a sullen mood, he flew from New York to Atlanta, then guided the sleek, powerful sports car he'd rented down tree-canopied boulevards toward the hotel she managed. If she was the "other Alexander" bidding against him for control of Windsong Place
, he'd quickly disillusion her about her chances of buying it.
Then he'd rent a Harley-Davidson—buy one, if he had to—and head out toward the north Georgia mountains. Ride a few high ridges. Maybe climb a few rocks. His muscles ached for strenuous exercise; his mind craved a thrill. Something gut level. Something dangerous. Anything drastic enough to hold the emptiness at bay.
It haunted him, the emptiness, creeping in from all sides when least expected. His career had once helped to fend it off, but lately the corporate winnings seemed too easy, the satisfaction, too brief. Much like his romantic liaisons, if they could be called that.
His car glided to a halt in front of the quaint, tree-shaded hotel near Emory University. Ryan's tension grew. He hadn't seen Sunny since their divorce. He wondered how much she had changed. Not that he cared one way or another. He was no longer a green kid, and she was no longer a teenage beauty.
As he shut the car door, a slender, fair-haired girl wheeled past him on a gold ten-speed bicycle into the hotel parking lot. No, not a girl. A woman.
Ryan leaned back against the car and watched her dismount from the bike. She walked it to the side of the building and parked it behind a white latticework wall. When she reemerged, he caught a clear view of her. Sunny.
She wore faded jeans and a yellow T-shirt, the same kind of clothes she'd always worn. Her hair was shorter than it had been; chin-length, with curls that glistened and bounced. Her fair skin radiated its usual healthy glow. The curves of her slim figure seemed more rounded than he remembered.
She was attractive. He had to give her that. The kind of woman who would catch any man's eye. Except his. She wouldn't catch his, ever again.
As she approached the front door of the hotel, she noticed him standing there beside his car and did a quick double take. Like a deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights, she stood frozen, staring at him.
She was appealing, yes. But the sight of her had not stopped his heart, or interfered with his breathing. Her presence had not affected him in any way. He exhaled his pent-up breath in relief. He was safe. In the clear. On solid ground.
But then she smiled.
Don't just stand here like a numbskull, Sunny told herself. Say something. Something intelligent and warm and welcoming. But her mind was filled with the sight of him, looking even more devastatingly handsome than he had in her dreams.
His ebony hair gleamed in the same wind-blown waves around his suntanned face—an arresting, vital face, although time had etched a subtle austerity into its lean ruggedness. His jaw was still strong and square, the vertical cleft in his chin well-defined. And the pure male power emanating from him still raised goose bumps on her arms and made her legs go weak.
Okay, try for something coherent. She managed a breathless "Ryan!"
Good, she thought. Now do something. Pretend you have some sens
e. He wasn't helping. He hadn't uttered a word. His gray eyes regarded her steadily, giving no clue to his thoughts.
Oh, God, she thought, I must look a wreck. Old clothes, no makeup. She wished she could sink down through the gravel. But she couldn't. Might as well face the music and dance. She jolted herself into action, smiling with delight, letting her joy at seeing him bubble to the surface.
He watched her approach with a look of wariness.
As she reached him, fully intending to hug him, he smiled a cool, businesslike smile and extended his hand. "Sunny," he murmured. His voice, deep and naturally hoarse, retained a subtle southern drawl, almost imperceptible now from years of travel, but enough to lend a soft sensuality.
A spiral of warmth curled through her. She had forgotten the effect of his voice.
She hesitated, thrown off stride. Perhaps he was right. A handshake might be better. She accepted his outstretched hand with professional aplomb.
But when his warm, strong hand clasped hers, a tender emotion engulfed her. How she had missed him! He had been an ache in a secret part of her heart for far too long. She smiled at him through a teary mist.
"Ry," she whispered.
Their handclasp tightened. Her smile wavered beneath his stare. And a sensual energy pulsed through her—dark, primitive, intensely erotic. It warmed her from the inside out, until she was sure the heat radiated from her skin like sunbeams. Shaken, she broke away from his touch.
So, her memory hadn't exaggerated. And her hope had been in vain. She was no stronger now against his potent sexuality than she had been ten years ago.
But she was wiser now, she reminded herself. Much wiser.
Struggling for a breath, Sunny offered a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't hugged him. How would she ever have composed herself afterward? She blurted the first inane greeting that sprang to her lips. "Long time no see."
He nodded, cool and self-assured, as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his fashionable dove-gray trousers. He seemed taller than she remembered and his shoulders looked broader beneath an expensive charcoal blazer and blue silk shirt. She remembered marveling at the hardness of those shoulders, those biceps, running her fingertips over every muscle…
Quickly she drew her gaze away from his shoulders. Friends, Sunny! she warned herself silently. Only friends.
She channeled her nervousness into scolding. "Darn you, Ryan, why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would've liked to impress you with my youthful face," she said with a laugh, "but I didn't have time to put it on this morning."
His smoky, veiled gaze did not lighten. "Am I supposed to say you're beautiful as you are?"
Taken aback, she stood in embarrassed silence. Had he meant that to be funny? She hoped so. "I never knew you to tell pretty lies before." She tried another tentative grin. "But hey, it's not too late to start."
"Okay. It's good to see you again, Sunny."
Was he implying it wasn't? "At least your timing's good. Today's my day off. We'll have time to talk."
"We won't need much time."
Sunny wondered what on earth he could possibly be miffed about. She hadn't seen him in ten years! Determined to break through his bewildering coolness, she invited him into her private efficiency apartment for coffee.
For a moment, she thought he'd refuse. But after a short hesitation, he followed her into the hotel lobby, past the front desk, down the blue-carpeted corridor to her door.
Damn her, Ryan cursed silently. Damn her for her easy friendliness. Here he was, shell-shocked from the feel of her palm against his. And she had been about to hug him. Hug him, for God's sake. Like a relative at a family reunion.
Now she was smiling at him in the same happy way she had when they were kids. Except she carried herself with a new confidence, a quiet authority. As if she could easily handle any problem life might throw at her, while he was having trouble just looking at her.
As she unlocked her door, he wrested his gaze away. He'd been a damned fool over her once, going against his father's ultimatum: "Marry her, and I'll cut you off without a penny. You won't be my son."
Ryan had married her, anyway. Told his father to keep his damned money. And Sunny had left him.
She preceded him into a small living room that abounded with plants, sculptures—many of which he recognized as hers—paintings and knickknacks. One overstuffed armchair, an end table and a television comprised the living room furniture.
She led him beyond the living room to the far corner, which was separated by a long, low counter. The kitchen. "Have a seat." She waved to a chair at the diner-style, white-topped table. Ryan didn't sit. He wouldn't be staying that long.
As he leaned one hip against the kitchen counter, he surveyed the room. It looked more like an artist's studio than a kitchen, with easels, canvases, paints, brushes, tools, a small electric kiln, a drying rack and shelves stocked with art supplies. In one inconspicuous corner was a toaster and a microwave—her only means of cooking, he suspected. Ryan wasn't surprised. She never had been too good in the kitchen.
The bedroom was a different story.
Ryan clenched his teeth. Perhaps her long, intoxicating kisses hadn't been fueled by passion. Perhaps they'd been a part of a get-rich-quick scheme. Betrayal knifed through him as if it had happened yesterday, and he forgot his earlier decision that Sunny wasn't after his money.
As he struggled to suppress his anger, Sunny measured coffee into a filter for her coffeemaker. Ryan's eye was drawn beyond her by the half-finished oil painting on an easel. A Victorian mansion spread atop a mountain. Windsong Place
.
"Well, what do you think?" she asked, turning in time to notice the direction of his gaze. "Does it look like home?" Her voice was soft and pleasing as a mountain breeze. He gritted his teeth even harder. "I painted it from the full-page ad in the real estate magazine." She cast him a shy smile. "My grandmother sent it to me—"
"Let's get to the point, Sunny," he interrupted brusquely. "What exactly is your interest in Windsong Place
?"
"My interest?" Sunny set down the pitcher of water she had been pouring into the coffeemaker and gaped at him.
The question, and that cold, hurtful tone, pierced her. Didn't he know that his boyhood home would always hold a special place in her heart? It had been her home, too, for every summer of her childhood. The only constant home she'd known.
The one he had carried her into as his bride.
But she wouldn't think about that. Ever.
From the glacial look in Ryan's ice-gray eyes, she realized he wouldn't want to hear about her sentiments. She recognized his look. Something was eating away at him.
Since she had no idea what, she supposed the safest course was to tackle the subject from a strictly professional angle. In a brisk tone, she began, "I understand that the present owners are selling Windsong Place
as a bed-and-breakfast inn."
"That's right." His voice was quiet; his gaze unaccountably menacing.
"Inns need managers." When he failed to respond to what Sunny considered a full explanation of her interest, she lifted her hands in a gesture. "Look around. What business have I been in for the past ten years? The hotel business. And I graduated from Emory University with a degree in management." When Ryan still hadn't commented, she explained in no uncertain terms, "I want to run the inn. Live there. Manage it."
Ryan's eyes darkened to storm-gray. "That's why you want Windsong Place
—to further your career?"
Bewildered by his wording, Sunny frowned.
He didn't seem to notice. She sensed his anger gaining momentum, rather like a runaway freight train on a downhill track. Absolutely unstoppable.
"You know I'm bidding on Windsong Place
," he said in clipped syllables.
"Well, yes, my grandmother told me you were."
"But you're not going to let that stop you, are you."
Sunny's bewilderment deepened. "W
hy should it?"
He drew nearer to her, a threat in every taut line of his muscled body. Gazing into his eyes, she imagined a freight train bearing down on her with all its deadly fury. "So, where did you get the money?"
Flustered by his nearness, puzzled by his anger and entirely baffled by his question, Sunny blinked. "What money?"
"Come on, now, Sunny. I find it hard to believe that you saved up enough to buy this franchise."
"Buy?" she repeated dumbly. Did he think she planned to buy Windsong Place
? The idea was ludicrous. On her salary, she couldn't qualify for a two-bedroom condo. At least, not while she helped pay her grandmother's medical bills.
"Unless, of course," he continued coldly, advancing another menacing step, "you deposited a healthy sum into an interest-bearing account ten years ago."
Sunny stared at him, openmouthed. When she found her voice, she uttered, "Just what are you implying?"
Ryan insolently crossed his arms and didn't bother to answer. He didn't have to.
In angry disbelief, Sunny cried, "Your father told you about the bribe he offered me to leave you, didn't he."
"He mentioned it."
"Did he say that I accepted it?"
"He didn't have to say it, Sunny," he replied through clenched teeth, standing close enough to shake her. "How the hell else could you afford to buy into Windsong Place
?"
Planting her hands on her hips, Sunny glared right back at him, her nose nearly touching his. "For being 'one of the most vital up-and-coming entrepreneurial forces in the nation,'" she said with scathing mockery, "you sure are stupid."
That set him back a step. The quote had come from a recent article in a business magazine. The insult, straight from the brat who used to stick her tongue out at him.
He realized that no one, but no one, had slighted him—by word, deed or action—in years. Since he'd made his first million, to be exact. He had been accorded only the highest respect. People fell all over themselves trying to win his approval. Yes, Mr. Alexander. Of course, Mr. Alexander. Anything you say, Mr. Alexander. Even the women he dated had been overly willing to please. Or at least, to impress.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 1
