SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW

by Donna Sterling

  But not Sunny. She had called him stupid. Stupid! She hadn't even bothered trying to be witty about it. If he hadn't been so angry with her, he might have laughed.

  But he was angry with her. Damned angry. "Don't bid against me for Windsong Place

  ," he advised her. "I'm willing to pay much more than you'll be able to afford."

  Without a backward glance, he strode to the door and let it slam behind him. He heard her quick, light footsteps trailing him through the empty, carpeted corridor.

  Before he reached the lobby, she called, "Don't flaunt your wealth in front of me. You should be thanking me for it."

  He halted in his tracks, then slowly swung around to face her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  After glaring at him, she shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind." She turned to go back into her apartment.

  He retraced his steps down the corridor and grabbed her arm to keep her from going in. "Are you insinuating that my money came from my father after you left?"

  "It's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything about it." She jerked her arm away from his grasp. "But for your information, I wasn't planning to buy Windsong Place

  . I was stupid enough to hope you would."

  Again, she had surprised him. She hoped he'd buy the mansion? "Why the hell would you want me to buy Windsong Place

  ?"

  With a glance around to be sure no one else was present, she whispered loudly, angrily, "So I could apply for the position of general manager."

  "General manager?" he repeated.

  "Of the inn," she specified, as if he wouldn't be capable of making the connection. "You know, live there and run it? I'm sure you don't plan to personally manage it."

  "You want to work for me?" His mind reeled in confusion.

  "You can forget that now. If you got down on your knees and begged me, I wouldn't work for you. As far as I'm concerned, Ryan Alexander," she said, her voice trembling as it always had when they fought, "you can go suck a lemon!"

  And she shut the door in his face.

  * * *

  2

  « ^ »

  With an angry, downward thrust of her knife, Sunny sliced the block of moist, red earthenware clay into two neat halves on her kitchen table. The blade embedded itself into the cutting board with a satisfying thwunk.

  "And I thought we were friends," she muttered. Raising the knife, she chopped the clay again into two. How naive she had been. She thought Ryan had been grateful to her for divorcing him. Liberating him. Giving him back his happiness.

  But no—he had been resentful. Because he believed her to be a gold digger. Thwunk! Another chunk of clay split neatly apart beneath her merciless blade. Setting her knife aside, she chose a wedge of clay to work with. Squeezing it through her two fists—much like one might strangle an insensitive, arrogant ex-husband—she found herself reliving that morning's encounter.

  The nerve of the man! After ten years he appeared out of nowhere and flung accusations at her as if she were some unscrupulous schemer.

  Oh, the very thought infuriated her!

  With a vengeance, she banged the hapless clay onto the worktable and dug into its red moistness with the heels of her hands. She might have been a fool for him once, but she wouldn't be again. She'd forget about managing Windsong Place

  , even though it would have been an answer to all of her problems. She'd find another way to advance her career; another way to live in the mountain community near her ailing grandmother. The trick would be combining those two feats. But she'd find a way, she swore it.

  And Ryan could take a flying leap off the nearest cliff.

  She paused for a moment. From what she'd read about him, he might very well do just that, she reflected with apprehension. Him and his bungee-jumping!

  With renewed vigor, she pulled the clay toward her and kneaded it like bread dough, bearing down with all her fury until it lay smooth, bubble-free and undeniably defeated.

  As she picked up a rolling pin to finish it off, the door swung open and her petite, vivacious assistant breezed in, her pretty brown eyes wide beneath pink, wing-shaped glasses. "You'll never guess who's here. Never, in a million years. Could have knocked me over with a feather, hon."

  Fran's voice, quick-paced, gossipy and resonant as a foghorn, held an excitement that could only mean one thing.

  "He must be good-looking," guessed Sunny.

  "A major hunk." Fran stooped to peer at her reflection in the chrome toaster, combing her dark, pixie-cut hair with long pink fingernails. "Here, in this very hotel," she added for dramatic effect. The only thing Fran liked better than handsome men was high drama.

  Sunny was afraid she could guess who the "hunk" might be. She had been somewhat surprised when Ryan had let her have the last word this morning. "Go ahead. Spill it, Fran."

  "Your ex," she announced with relish. "In the flesh. And that's some flesh, hon. Hope you don't mind me saying it, but he's six foot three if he's an inch, and when he looked at me with those sexy gray eyes, I thought about ditching Leo and the kids—"

  "Where is he?" Sunny interrupted. Her assistant's cheerful gushing had begun to annoy her, although it was nothing out of the ordinary. Sunny suspected any attractive male would be shocked to know the thoughts behind Fran's friendly facade and the appraisals she gave the minute he'd moved out of earshot.

  "He's in the lobby." She lifted her lightly penciled brows twice. "Waiting for you."

  Sunny's grip on the handles of the rolling pin tightened. "Tell him I'm not in."

  Fran stared at her in blatant surprise. "Too late. I already said you are." Her eyes positively sparkled with curiosity. "What gives? I thought you two were friends. I'd be thrilled to death to see him if he was my friend."

  "I'm ecstatic. Now, please—"

  "I sense a story here."

  "Just tell him I'm otherwise engaged." Giving in to the curiosity buzzing in her chest, Sunny added, "If he wants to see me, he'll have to make an appointment."

  After an incredulous silence, Fran shrugged. "Okay. But you're wasting the perfect opportunity for a high-voltage hug. And if you ask me, it's about time you had a few of those."

  "I didn't ask you, Fran."

  "Right." With a last glance at her reflection in the toaster, a fluff of her wispy bangs and a tug at the flowered tunic that topped a pink skirt, Fran headed for the lobby.

  "Oh, and Fran." Sunny paused, hesitating. "Let me know what he says."

  "Every syllable," she vowed.

  After what Sunny considered an inordinate length of time, Fran reappeared, her smile expectant and her dark eyes shining. "He made an appointment to see you. Two-thirty."

  Sunny glanced at the clock. It was 2:29. She shook her head vehemently. "No. Impossible. I—"

  "And he told me to give you this." Fran held up a foil-wrapped bundle. Sunny stared at the package in surprise. What could it possibly be?

  "Hey, I don't think it's a rattlesnake or any other deadly creature, hon." Fran shoved the package at her. "Here, open it."

  Sunny set it on the clean half of her kitchen table, washed and dried her hands, then loosened the foil.

  There, in all its fragrant glory, sat half of a lemon. A used half of lemon. Obviously squeezed. Or maybe sucked.

  Sunny hid her mouth behind her hand. She wouldn't smile, damn it. She glanced at Fran, who stood gawking at the lemon.

  "He gave you a lemon," she observed. "A dried-out lemon." She assessed it silently for a moment. "Nice," she allowed with a nod, always one to give a handsome guy credit. "Not the usual ho-hum type of gift."

  Sunny felt her smile growing and bit her bottom lip to stop it. Don't be a pushover, she told herself. Sure, he gives you a sucked lemon today, but, uh, what about tomorrow?

  She swallowed a hysterical giggle. Be tough, she told herself. He insulted you. Maligned your character. And yet, a tiny spring of hope bubbled in her heart. Maybe he did still like her a little.

  Di
sgusted with herself, she muttered, "You sucker." Grabbing the lemon, she crushed it violently in her fist, allowing a spurt of juice to trickle down her wrist. "You candy-coated, pansy-brained cream puff." Then she hurled the lemon into the trash.

  Looking more than a little stunned, Fran lifted her hands and shrugged. "Okay, okay. So maybe roses would have been better."

  Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Sunny washed the lemon juice from her hands at the stainless steel sink. She couldn't remember a time when she had given in to such a multitude of violent impulses.

  A masculine voice at the door spun both women around. "Your two-thirty appointment's here," Ryan announced as he strolled into her apartment, cool and self-assured as always.

  Sunny stiffened, her heart accelerated, and she resolutely turned her back to him as she dried her hands on her bibbed, blue-checked apron. "Fran, would you tell my two-thirty appointment that I'll have to cancel for today? I'm otherwise engaged."

  Before Fran could utter a word, Ryan replied, "Tell her that I'll wait right here until she disengages herself."

  "Tell him he may wait in the lobby, or in the parking lot, or in hell until it freezes over."

  "Tell her hell froze over a couple of hours ago. I think it's beginning to thaw." In a softer, gentler tone, he added, "And tell her I'm sorry. I was wrong."

  Sunny picked up the rolling pin again, intent on blocking out every word he said. Despite her valiant effort, her throat tightened with an alarming threat of tears. Of all the dirty tricks. The direct approach.

  "Tell him … tell him…" She heard a chair being pulled out from the table, and imagined him settling down to watch her. "Tell him to clear out of my apartment. It's off-limits to the public."

  Fran's voice sounded from the doorway. "I think I'll leave you two alone to, uh, battle over old times."

  The door swung closed, and silence descended between them. Sunny ignored Ryan with pointed intensity. She busied herself with covering the unused portions of clay in polyethylene sheeting.

  With his elbow propped on the table and his chin cupped in his hand, Ryan watched her carry the covered clay across the kitchen. Her honey blond hair was caught up in a knot at the top of her head, with a few ringlets dancing beside her flushed cheek and trailing down the nape of her neck. Her yellow T-shirt and faded jeans were now protected by a bibbed, blue-checked apron that tied in the back, its wide bow emphasizing the narrowness of her waist. And the sleek, feminine curve of her hips.

  He forced his attention away from dangerous territory. "Sunny," he said softly, "I truly am sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions." Why, he wondered, did his emotions always override his common sense where she was concerned? "I was wrong."

  She rinsed the clay-matted sponge at the sink, squeezed it out, then returned to her workplace at the kitchen table, where she began rolling a thin sheet of clay into a long, narrow curl. She gave no sign of having heard him.

  "I know you didn't take money from my father. I never thought you had until I read your note yesterday."

  Her expression didn't actually change, but he noted a hint of a frown in her expressive eyes. She continued rolling her clay—God only knew what for.

  "Was your desk clerk right?" he asked, hoping to provoke some verbal response. "Would roses have been better?"

  Her full, shapely lips curled up into a scornful smirk at one end. But she said nothing.

  "Daisies?" His voice roughened; he forgot to soften it. "Dandelions and Queen Anne's lace?"

  At that, very slowly, Sunny raised her gaze to his. Her eyes had never looked greener. A memory flared between them: the wildflower bouquet he'd gathered for her after their first spat. His way of apologizing for his anger when she had refused to make love to him. Long before they had married.

  Disgruntled—he hadn't meant to stir up memories—Ryan sat back in the kitchen chair, crossed his arms and muttered, "Flowers didn't work back then, either."

  When he again glanced up at her, the dimple was playing in her left cheek. That damned, intriguing dimple. He remembered kissing her there. Softly, oh, so softly, on his way to her mouth.

  Quietly, she inquired, "How could my little note make you think that I'd accepted a payoff from your father?"

  "My acquisitions director heard a rumor that the other bidder's last name was also Alexander. At first, I thought it might be my father, trying to buy back the mansion. Maybe for his new wife. Or maybe just to foil my plans." Ryan carefully kept the bitterness from his voice. "But then I read your note. It said you wanted to move back there. That you wanted to make a deal. I assumed you were asking me to drop my bid."

  "You thought I was the other Alexander?" she asked, incredulous. "But…" She hesitated, then continued awkwardly, "I know I've never mentioned this to you—after all, we haven't talked for years, and I knew it wasn't important, although from your Christmas cards I realized you were, uh, under a false impression, but—" She paused again. "My last name's not Alexander."

  Her revelation hit him like a swift jab to the stomach. "You took back your maiden name?"

  "Yes." Her cheeks were flushed with some emotion he couldn't quite identify.

  Tamping down on his own emotional reaction, he shrugged. It meant nothing to him, which name she used. Nothing. "So I'll change it on my mailing list."

  She nodded.

  He glanced away from her, toward the small, sunny, ruffle-curtained window above the sink. She hadn't wanted his name.

  "It felt … fraudulent," she explained haltingly. "I had no right to the Alexander name." From his peripheral view, he saw that she, too, had focused on some distant point. After a moment, she revived their conversation. "So, I suppose the other bidder is your father?"

  "Possibly. He was a fool to sell Windsong Place

  and he's shrewd enough to know it." In a heated undertone, he uttered, "There's no place like it on earth."

  At the latent passion in Ryan's usually guarded voice, Sunny overcame her reluctance to look too deeply into his eyes. What she saw there reassured her; lightened her heart. So he did still care about something.

  As if he realized he had given too much of himself away, Ryan continued with bland nonchalance, "I have someone checking on the other bidder's identity. By the time I get back to my office, I'll know for sure who I'm up against."

  Sunny sat down in the chair across from him. "Obviously you never reconciled with your father?"

  "Did you really think I had sold out to him?"

  Dismay filled her. All this time, she had comforted herself with the notion that she hadn't caused him irreparable harm; that Ryan and his father had made up their differences; that his fortune hadn't been lost and his life hadn't been ruined by their needless marriage.

  Her mind flashed back to those emotionally tumultuous days after his father had disowned him. They'd been cast out of Windsong Place

  —their "Garden of Eden"—and left to scrape together what little money they could to rent an apartment in Asheville. She had been ill with her pregnancy, and Ryan had had to withdraw from his expensive, private university to work full-time at a low-paying job and attend a community college at night. He became obsessed with making his fortune, with proving his worth to a father who refused even to see him. Ryan's happiness had seemed to wither away before her eyes.

  But he hadn't complained about any of it. He had sworn to stand by her and their unborn baby, come what may. At twenty years old, he'd been her knight in shining armor. But Sunny had known that inside his armor, he'd been spiritually dying.

  "My father visited me after you left, Sunny. He bragged that he had been right about you. Insinuated that you had taken his bribe." Ryan leaned forward, his eyes holding hers with magnetic intensity. "Then he offered to send me back to school. And to reinstate my inheritance." Pushing his chair back from the table, Ryan rose and paced, unable to remain immobile. "Windsong Place

  had already been sold."

  "All these years," Sunny murmured, "I thought…
"

  "What? That I'd sold out? Traded my freedom, my pride, for his money? You should have known me better. I don't need anybody that much. I told him to keep his money. I'd make my own."

  "And you did, didn't you. You made your own fortune."

  The pure, simple admiration in her eyes caught Ryan off guard. It filled him with a heady rush of exhilaration. As if he had climbed the highest mountain.

  "I'm sorry I doubted you," she whispered.

  Ryan fought a sudden urge to touch her. "I did what I had to," he replied, oddly embarrassed. "And now I'll do whatever it takes to get my family home back." Disparagingly, he muttered, "Even if they have turned it into a bed-and-breakfast inn."

  "Could be worse," Sunny pointed out with an irrepressible sparkle in her eyes that he had almost—almost—forgotten about. "I mean, what if they had turned it into a fertilizer factory? Or a nuclear energy plant? Or a toxic waste dump?"

  A reluctant half smile tugged at his mouth. "I suppose that might detract a little more from its ambience." After a moment, he explained somberly, "They're selling it as a franchise. Even though I'd own the franchise, Windsong Place

  would have to remain in operation as it is now, 'A Tanner Bed-'n'-Breakfast Inn,' and the corporate owners would make a percentage of the profit. For the first fifteen years, that is. Then I'd have the option to purchase the property outright, at a preset price."

  "So for the next fifteen years, you'd have to open the mansion to the public as an inn, and run it by someone else's rules?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You don't think I can do that?"

  "You never were very big on rules."

  He didn't bother denying that. "I'd hire a manager to follow their rules. That shouldn't be a problem. I would've had to hire a caretaker to keep the place up, even if it were my private residence. Business keeps me on the road." He shrugged. "So I suppose it won't make much difference that guests will be paying to stay there. As long as I can keep a decent manager."