Sunny smiled brightly. "That's where I come in. I'll manage the place for you."
Reclaiming his seat at her table, he propped his chin up on his fist and watched her beneath hooded eyes. "I seem to remember something about you refusing to work for me even if I … now, how did you put it? … if I pleaded on bended knees?"
"Hey, you sucked a lemon, didn't you?" She waved her slender hand in airy dismissal. "I'll accept that in lieu of your abject begging. If you'll verify in writing that the half lemon you gave me was, in fact, personally sucked by you."
"Request denied." And without a conscious thought, he tugged on the shiny golden tendril that curled in front of her delicate ear. The silky texture slid through his fingers and flooded him with memories. Memories of times that he had woven his fingers through her thick, lustrous hair and kissed her until they'd both been damned near delirious.
"Okay, then," she said, obviously unaware of the bothersome thoughts searing through him. "Let's skip the lemon verification documentation." She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "Let's talk salary. And benefits. And bonuses,"
Ryan breathed in deeply. Exhaled slowly. Turned his thoughts to business. In a voice a little too husky, he asked, "Why do you want the job, Sunny?"
Beneath his keen observance, Sunny felt as if a warm, powerful spotlight had been fixed on her, and the entire universe awaited her response. It had always been this way when he bent his entire, concentrated attention upon her. She lifted her chin against sudden nervousness, very similar to stage fright. "I'm at a crossroads in my career. I need more compensation. Financially, I mean. And I have been offered a promotion. But the job would entail traveling across the southeastern states on a regular basis. And, well, you know my grandmother's recovering from heart surgery. I'm not sure how much longer she'll be able to get around on her own. I want to live near her, but she'd rather die than move away from Heaven's Hollow. You know how stubborn she can be."
Ryan's expression turned to one of contemplation.
Encouraged, Sunny reminded him, "She was born and raised in that village. She worked at Windsong Place
—for your family—since she was sixteen. She raised your mother there, and you, too. It nearly broke her heart when your father sold the place."
Ryan remembered. Olive, Sunny's grandmother, had been as distraught as Sunny and he, even though she had already retired to a little cottage of her own in nearby Heaven's Hollow.
She had been the closest he'd ever had to a mother.
"I have to find a job near Olive," Sunny concluded, "and you need an innkeeper. What could be more perfect?"
Ryan pondered the idea. He realized he couldn't turn his back on Olive. She had taken care of him for all those years. It was time for him to take care of her. Who was better suited for that job than Sunny?
On the other hand, Sunny would again be in his life, if only on an occasional basis. But she was trouble—always had been, always would be. "Does Olive know that you're, er, applying for this job?"
"No. I didn't want to get her hopes up in case it didn't work out."
"Good. Don't mention it to her."
"Are you … turning me down?"
He answered her with a question. "You realize that if I hired you, Sunny, you would be my employee?"
"Yes, of course."
"My computer technology business will keep me mostly in New York, sometimes London, Japan and Korea. But I do intend to spend some time there, at Windsong Place
. I'll have a private suite permanently reserved for me."
A little frisson of tension coursed through Sunny. He was, in effect, asking if his presence would cause her a problem. Or if she intended to cause him any problems. She wanted to deny the possibility of either, but doubts assailed her.
Even now, his presence shattered her usual composure. He was like a magnet, drawing her attention away from everything else but him. If the building caught fire around them this very moment, she was afraid she might not even notice.
Determined to hide her doubts, she hedged, "Of course you'll stay there occasionally. It's your home."
Reluctance darkened his eyes. "And you're my ex-wife."
She bristled at the term. "We were friends our entire lives, Ryan. And we were married only three short months." But those months changed my very soul. The thought sapped the indignation out of her, replaced it with the same wariness she saw in his face. "We are … friends … aren't we?" she whispered.
His warm, intense stare touched her then. Her hair. Her face. Her mouth. "Yes," he whispered. "Friends."
A tidal wave of warmth swept through her. And an old, familiar longing.
Abruptly Ryan rose and started toward the door, avoiding her eyes. "I'd better be going. And I'm sorry, Sunny. But I—"
He halted midsentence and picked up a framed photograph from the end table in her living room. It was a picture of her grandmother and her, taken many years ago, when they still lived at Windsong Place
. Sunny knew that
Ryan recognized the photo. It had been enlarged from a snapshot. But in the original, Ryan had been on Olive's other side.
Sunny had cut him out of the picture.
Ryan's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. He set the framed photograph gently back into its place on the end table. When he lifted his eyes to hers, they looked stark. Empty.
His voice, however, was brisk. "I'll be having the present owners of Windsong Place
over for dinner tomorrow night. Wilbur and Lavinia Tanner. Final approval of the sale rests with them. But I don't see too much of a problem. Whatever my rival bids, I'll bid higher. Money usually settles these things."
With one final glance at her—a glance that drew the warmth again to her cheeks—he murmured, "I'll have my secretary arrange a flight for you to New York, and a hotel room for tomorrow night. A car will pick you up around five. You can supervise the catering. If you still want the job."
The next afternoon, a normal, hectic Friday in Ryan's office, Sunny's phone call interrupted his staff meeting. "What are we serving the Tanners for dinner tonight?"
He drank in her soft, familiar voice like a soothing cup of honeyed tea. He sorely needed soothing at the moment. He had just learned for a fact the identity of the rival bidder. Edgar Rockwell Alexander. His father. It seemed he wanted Windsong Place
as a wedding present for his new bride.
Ironic.
"Ryan?" prompted Sunny. "Are you there?"
"Yes. And we'll be serving lobster Newburg. Tanner's secretary told mine it's his favorite dish." He conjured up a vision of Sunny's face; imagined her alone in a hotel room. And suddenly she no longer soothed him. In fact, his turmoil worsened. I'll have to see her tonight. Why the hell had he hired her? For Olive's sake.
"Who's catering dinner?" she asked.
"Hampton Bay Restaurant."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Ryan pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it, as if he could send her his frown through the wires. She hadn't even started the job yet and already she was questioning his decisions. That was a problem he hadn't anticipated, though he should have, of course. From the time she was six, she'd refused to take orders. He'd have to remind her who was boss.
"Sunny, do you have any idea how many employees I have?"
"What does that have to do with tonight's dinner?"
"Last time I checked, the count was well over two thousand. What do you think would happen if every one of those employees questioned every decision I made?"
"I hate to clue you in, Ry, but they probably do." She said it in such a light, joking manner that he couldn't take offense, even if he'd tried. He could clearly hear her smile. And envision it. Damn her. She went on merrily. "Anyway, congratulations on your employee count. I'm honored to be among the thousands. Now, let's get back to tonight. Wilbur Tanner doesn't trust restaurant cooking, unless it's from his own restaurant. Something about food poisoning when he was younger."<
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Ryan cradled his forehead in his palm. After tonight, he wouldn't deal personally with Sunny. He'd have one of his middle managers check on her progress. Someone with nerves of steel. "How could you possibly know what Wilbur Tanner likes?"
"His chef told me."
"You talked to his chef?"
"Sure. We have to know what the Tanners like and don't like. How else could we be sure they'd enjoy the dinner? If we can't make one evening pleasurable for them, how could they expect us to make the inn's guests happy? Anyway, the chef swore that Wilbur Tanner would know if food had been commercially prepared the moment he put it in his mouth."
"Sunny, that's ridiculous."
"Maybe so, but I feel very strongly that we should serve a nice, home-cooked meal."
Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. When Sunny "felt very strongly" about anything, chances were she had a plan of action waiting in the wings. He sincerely hoped not. "Now you sound like your grandmother. A nice home-cooked meal is Olive's answer to world peace. But I'm not going to cancel my restaurant order." His tone, though quiet, brooked no opposition. "The Tanners will love Hampton Bay's lobster Newburg. Trust me, Sunny. Everything will be fine."
Looking back, Ryan would come to realize those last words had been as naive as Custer's charge on Little Bighorn.
* * *
3
« ^ »
At five o'clock Friday afternoon, a limousine delivered Sunny from an elegant New York hotel to the exclusive Manhattan address where Ryan lived.
Alone in the spacious apartment, where the satiny walls, plush carpet and contemporary furniture were all a stark white and accessorized by violet and chrome, Sunny felt like a trespasser.
This was Ryan's private domain; the place he now called home. But as she ventured out of the tiled foyer to inspect the living room, she saw no trace of the man she had once known.
Even his bedroom, which she couldn't resist peeking into, was devoid of his personality. Where were his bookshelves crammed with military novels, sports almanacs and westerns? Where were the photos of his dogs and horses? Or the novelty items he had brought home for her to marvel over whenever he traveled?
Someone else, she decided, had decorated the place. A question throbbed in her chest. Who? On her way past the sofa, she wondered who cuddled up with him there. The cozy table in the breakfast nook made her wonder who shared his morning muffins. And as she gazed at his king-size bed with its multicolored, jewel-toned designer spread, the questions grew too acute to contemplate. She hurried past the bed without subjecting herself to a second glance.
In the bathroom, his masculine toiletries and the lingering scent of his aftershave brought with them a nostalgic pang, a haunting sense of loss. No, she definitely shouldn't be here.
However, she had an important job to do. She would hostess his dinner party and help win the Tanners' approval. She had, after all, been a key factor in his loss of Windsong Place
. It was only fitting that she help him win it back.
Besides, Olive needed her to live nearby, and to earn enough money to help pay medical bills. High-paying jobs weren't exactly plentiful in the rural mountain community of Heaven's Hollow. A job at Windsong Place
seemed the only answer. The sale had to go through.
With determination shielding her from the worst of her imaginings about Ryan and his current life-style, Sunny headed toward the huge, gleaming kitchen to start work.
Two hours flew by and before she realized it the Tanners were due to arrive. With relief, she heard Ryan call from the foyer, "I'm home."
The greeting, a common one heard in almost any household, struck Sunny with another pang of nostalgia. Here she was, setting his dinner table, chilling his wine, preparing for his evening meal. And there he was, calling, "I'm home."
Why should that bother her so?
This was business, she reminded herself. Purely business. And when his guests left, so would she.
She caught only a glimpse of him on his way to the bedroom. After a quick shower and shave, he emerged in a cashmere jacket and black pleated trousers. His suntanned skin glowed with dark beauty against the white silk of his shirt. His raven hair glinted; his aftershave exuded an elegant, woodsy scent.
With a fluttering in her stomach, Sunny swore he grew more handsome by the hour. And more distant, if that were possible.
He had barely acknowledged her presence before the doorman buzzed the intercom, announcing the arrival of their guests. His guests, Sunny corrected herself. She was only the hired help.
"One thing, Sunny." He cast her a quick cool glance as he sauntered past her toward the foyer. "Don't mention my family's connection to Windsong Place
. I'd prefer they don't know until after the negotiations. Any perceived sentimental value will strengthen their sense of bargaining power."
Sunny nodded, trying to ignore her disappointment at his curt, businesslike air. It seemed as if he were deliberately reminding her of their employer-employee relationship.
"Also," he continued, "I'd prefer not to disclose my blood-tie with the other bidder. Unless the Tanners bring it up."
"Fine." Sunny adopted the same brusque, impersonal manner. "Since we're on the subject, there's another aspect of our situation that I must insist we keep to ourselves."
Ryan raised his brows arrogantly. As if surprised that a mere underling would address him with such familiarity.
Sunny's tone emerged a bit colder than it otherwise might have. "I'd rather not mention our past relationship. It might be awkward for everyone if my future business associates think of me as your … ex-wife." Her voice had lost some of its haughtiness on the last word. How she hated the term! It branded her as a problem in his life, and not even a recent one, at that. Yesterday's bad news, already discarded. She didn't want to be considered his "ex" anything.
His gaze grew even cooler. "Of course I won't mention our past relationship. I wouldn't want to embarrass you, Sunny."
Her name, uttered in his soft, virile, southern voice, activated the fluttering inside her again. Except it felt higher this time. Somewhere around her heart.
Wilbur Tanner's smile flashed in his florid face beneath a thick white mustache as he talked baseball. He spoke with the bluntness of a midwesterner and gestured with a lit cigar.
Lavinia Tanner, with her dark hair lacquered into an immobile coiffure, her aristocratic nose held high and her slender back erect, sat in bored silence beside her short, white-haired husband on the sofa.
Sunny recognized the warning signs; the woman disapproved of something. She suspected it had to do with her. But what?
Not her appearance, surely. She had chosen a classic herringbone-tweed jacket with a straight, calf-length black skirt and cowl-necked sweater. Why would anyone object to that? But surprisingly enough, Ryan hadn't seemed approving, either.
A mortifying thought hit her. Maybe she didn't measure up to his usual female company. Names of beauties who had been connected with him in society pages and gossip columns came back to taunt her. Wealthy women with a sophistication born of money. While she, when all was said and done, was merely the granddaughter of his domestic help.
And his "ex."
She raised her chin; squared her shoulders. She didn't have to measure up to anybody. She was here in a professional capacity, and she would prove her worth, businesswise, by the results of her efforts.
Determined to draw Lavinia into conversation, Sunny talked about her experience managing hotels, and even forced Lavinia to murmur an answer or two concerning Windsong Place.
Wilbur, meanwhile, trotted off to make a phone call. Ryan took advantage of his absence to inspect his newest employee. How different she looked than she ever had before. The difference surprised him. And annoyed the pure, living hell out of him.
Her tailored suit, a far cry from her blue jeans, conveyed cool professionalism. A chic style for a female executive. Apparel that shouted "Purely business. Keep your hands off."<
br />
Had she worn it with him in mind? Was she trying to send him that message? Ryan's gaze traveled over her austere outfit. If so, she'd taken unnecessary precautions. He hadn't the slightest interest in her personally. And if he had, it would take a whole lot more than clothing to stop him. He remembered what lay beneath those clothes—in intimate detail. And how to make her cool green eyes grow sultry…
His body responded to the mental images, and with a silent curse he turned his attention elsewhere … to her hair. Thick, lush curls, all shiny and soft, and smelling of lilies. Taking a mouthful of wine, Ryan felt his vexation growing. What kind of protection would a business suit give her against some randy bastard if her hair looked like that? The first thing a man wanted to do was thrust his fingers into its softness. Inhale its fragrance. Spread its golden beauty across his bed pillows…
Ryan's hand tightened involuntarily around his wineglass. At a sudden, inaudible snap and a slight pain in his right palm, he realized the delicate crystal stem of the glass had cracked.
Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Keeping his hand closed to conceal the broken stem, Ryan excused himself and headed for the kitchen.
Sunny, meanwhile, had run fresh out of one-sided chatter. Silence had fallen again between Lavinia and her. As she considered refilling the appetizer tray with vegetables, cheese and crackers, Lavinia startled her by initiating conversation.
"So tell me, Sunny, do you have children?"
The question rendered Sunny speechless. Children. Of all the subjects Lavinia could have broached, why did it have to be this one? "No," she finally managed to reply. "No children."
Wistfulness, though mellowed by time, burned a hurtful path through her. She should have had a child. He would have been ten by now. Maybe with Ryan's thickly lashed eyes, or his wavy black hair, or that devilish, crooked grin of his. A thickness formed in Sunny's throat. She cut her gaze away from Lavinia.
And met Ryan's.
He had obviously overheard the question on his way back from the kitchen. And though Wilbur had returned to his seat, too, and had begun talking about the recent winner of the Kentucky Derby, Ryan's attention was directed solely to Sunny.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 3
