"Of course not. She probably laced your guacamole with sodium Pentothal."
At last, his chiding had succeeded in angering her. Sunny rose stiffly from the sofa, her fists clenched at her sides. "I've had about all I'm going to take from you." Furiously, she marched to the coat closet.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Home, that's where." She flung the closet door open and snatched her raincoat from its hanger. "I was crazy to think I could ever work for you. I seriously pity the two thousand other fools who—"
"Sit back down there," Ryan commanded, rising to his feet and pointing at the sofa as if he were a monarch issuing a royal edict. "We're not finished."
"Yes, we are." With her long gray coat draped over her forearm, she walked briskly to the door.
"So you haven't really changed, after all."
With the door partially opened, her hand on the knob, Sunny halted. And turned back to glower into his dark, sullen face. "What do you mean by that?"
"Again, you're leaving when the going gets rough."
Guilt, anger, sorrow, dismay—all knifed through her at once. "What are you referring to?" she whispered. "Our divorce?" The unfairness of his implied accusation shoved its way to the forefront of her chaotic emotions. She had left him during the roughest of times, yes. But by leaving, she had made things better for him. Or so she had thought. His father had promised her he'd reconcile with Ryan and reinstate his inheritance if—and only if—she left him, and kept their bargain a secret. Which she had. "Are you saying I left you because life got tough?"
"I didn't think so at the time." As Ryan ambled toward her, his eyes grew turbulent, like a stormy gray sea. "Now I'm not so sure."
She drew in a quick, pained breath. She couldn't tolerate his doubt. "You know why I left," she said, her voice strident with passion. "You agreed that I should. Because you—we—our baby…" Her throat closed, cutting off her words. If he had wanted her to stay, she would have.
"Yes." His whisper was fierce. "I told you to go. There was no reason for you to stay." His hands swept up and bracketed her jawline, his fingertips buried in her hair. "But now there is."
She stared up into the troubled, silvery eyes that had haunted her dreams, dominated her memories, intruded into her every relationship. Why had she contacted him again? Get out of here, Sunny, cried her survival instinct. Run.
His ruggedly handsome face loomed dangerously near as he whispered, "I want my home back, Sunny. I want Windsong Place
." He leaned his muscled shoulder against the door she had opened, and forced it to a definite close. "And you're going to help me get it."
Half-afraid of the answer she might receive, Sunny pressed her back to the doorjamb for support as she summoned her courage. "How?"
His eyes dallied with hers; his fingers lingered on the curve of her jawline. "You're going to be my wife." And then, like the sun disappearing behind a storm cloud, his intensity suddenly cooled. He dropped his hands from her face. "Or so we'll let them think … until the contract is signed."
* * *
4
« ^ »
The next day, after Sunny had returned to Atlanta, Ryan called her with a message from Lavinia. The invitation to spend next weekend at Windsong Place
had been extended—the Tanners requested their company for the week.
And Ryan had accepted. For both of them.
"A whole week!" exclaimed Sunny, dismayed at the thought of spending all that time in Ryan's company—as his wife. "But I thought you were just going to work out details of the sale."
"Lavinia's come up with some harebrained scheme," Ryan muttered. "She wants you to call her." After a pause, he asked, "You will be able to stay the week, right?" When Sunny hesitated, he added, "You do want the management position?"
"I'll see if I can arrange for personal leave."
"Good. Call Lavinia." Without another word, he hung up.
Sunny scowled at the receiver. If she hadn't wanted the job so badly, she'd have told him to shove it. A few moments later, in the privacy of her apartment, she telephoned Lavinia.
"Sunny, dear, I'm thrilled that you'll be spending next week with us. I have a fabulous idea. Since you'll soon be in charge of organizing the activities at Windsong Place
, why not give you a little taste of what lies in store for you?"
"A little taste?"
"Why don't you plan activities for the week? We won't actually involve our guests this time. That would be difficult to arrange on such short notice. This will simply be a trial run. Wilbur and I will act as your guests and sample your activities. Doesn't that sound like fun?"
What Lavinia was actually proposing, Sunny realized, was an audition. To see if she could entertain the inn's guests to Lavinia's satisfaction.
She responded with appropriate enthusiasm. What else could she do? The success of the sale might now depend on her. Squaring her chin, she resolved to do her best. She did, after all, have extensive experience in hotel management. It didn't, however, include the organization of social activities beyond a display of brochures in the lobby. But she would do her best.
The first thing she did was call Ryan. She'd need expense money to bring this thing together.
"Spend whatever you need," he instructed. "Let's do this thing right." That was all she needed to hear. Along with his credit card number, of course.
During the week preceding her trip to Windsong Place, Sunny shifted around schedules of her assistant managers, contacted the chamber of commerce closest to Windsong Place for brochures on community attractions, worked out a plan of social activities, designed her agenda into a colorful brochure, shipped materials she would need to carry out the activities, listened to local musicians who could play a few evenings at Windsong Place and quickly refurbished her wardrobe with a whirlwind, last-minute shopping trip.
Incredibly, she was ready by Friday, although somewhat frazzled, dressed in her new white eyelet peasant blouse and a tiered, multiprint skirt.
Before leaving for the airport, Sunny gave last-minute instructions to Fran, along with the number of Ryan's cellular phone, in case she needed to reach her in an emergency.
"Not that it's any of my business, hon," complained Fran in a discreet whisper from behind the front desk, "but last weekend you were at each other's throats. Now you're going away with him for a week?"
Sunny felt her color rise. "It's not what you think, Fran. There's nothing between Ryan and me except business that has to be cleared up. Just hold down the fort while I'm gone, okay?"
"Sure. I'm bucking for a promotion, remember? But—"
"And if my grandmother calls, just tell her I'm away on business. Don't say I'm with Ryan. Don't even mention his name." As Fran opened her mouth to ask more questions, Sunny added, "And don't ditch Leo and the kids for any handsome customers. The last thing you need in your life is an ex."
With those words of wisdom, Sunny turned her back on her friend's lively curiosity and hurried off to catch her flight.
As they had planned, Ryan met her punctually in a sleek black sports car at the Asheville airport—the closest one to the small mountain community near Windsong Place
.
If she had expected warmth or gratitude from him for her compliance in this crazy mock-marriage scheme of his, she would have been sadly disappointed. He greeted her with a civil but cool "good afternoon," then spent the first leg of their journey talking business on his cellular phone.
Although she understood barely half of the technical jargon he used, Sunny deduced he was directing his technicians in developing some new computer software. When she thought of how he had revolutionized the computer world with his innovative software, she experienced another rush of pride in him. Knowing that he had accomplished this without money or assistance from his father—whose corporation had formerly set the international pace for computer technology—her pride turned into awe.
All those hours Ryan had spent at his comp
uter during their childhood had obviously paid off. Every evening, when other kids would have been watching television, Ryan had been mulling over his father's old computer manuals and experimenting at his computer screen. From the time he was nine years old, he had entered his own work in science and media contests, winning prize after prize for his creative programming.
She remembered carefully clipping every article from newspapers that had mentioned his awards, collecting them in a scrapbook, and marveling over each ribbon and certificate that had been presented to him.
He'd pushed himself so desperately hard. And though he had never admitted it, Sunny knew he'd done it to please his father. To make him proud. To gain a smidgeon of his attention. Many times she had watched Ryan approach Edgar Rockwell Alexander, world-renowned computer tycoon, on one of his rare visits to Windsong Place
. Sunny could clearly visualize the hopeful expectancy on Ryan's then-boyish face—and with an intensity far too serious for his years—as he brought forth the astounding fruits of his labor: a program, an award, a write-up in the paper…
An almost-forgotten ache filled Sunny as she remembered. The hope in Ryan's youthful eyes never had survived these encounters. He'd been turned away without so much as a pat on the head. Edgar Alexander had barely taken the time to glance at the intricate programs his motherless son had designed.
Shocked at how much the thought still hurt, Sunny shook away the pain. The world itself had acknowledged Ryan's brilliance. He no longer needed the approval of his father.
"Do you still design your own software?" she asked curiously, "now that you're head of a corporation?"
Ryan's gaze flickered to her in surprise. "Not usually. I have programmers to do that now. I supervise them."
She raised her brows. "But you always loved designing programs. Don't you miss it?"
He shrugged. "I haven't given it much thought." After a moment, he remarked, "At least I've turned my passion into a living. Why haven't you done the same with your art?"
"I tried. But it isn't easy to pay rent and put food on the table—" and pay hospital bills "—when you're an unknown with no capital to see you through the rough times. You've heard the term 'starving artist,' haven't you?"
"A cop-out, if ever I heard one."
She bristled. "Think whatever you'd like. At least I am making a living, doing something that I enjoy." On a softer note, she added, "Maybe someday I'll have the chance to devote more time to my art. Maybe sell a few of my pieces."
She fell silent, immersed in a dream she had almost forgotten. A gallery, a showplace. Perhaps a small following of customers to ooh and aah over her work.
Ryan clicked off his recorder as he finished dictating notes, and silence reigned within the sports car.
Sunny studied his strong, handsome profile. He looked much more casual this morning than he had at his dinner, party. His dark hair was tousled, with an errant lock falling across his forehead. The sleeves of his midnight-blue sweater were pushed up to his elbows. He wore jeans. Tight, faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips and long, powerful legs.
What am I doing, noticing his hips and legs? Sunny berated herself. Think of him as your employer. "Employer" somehow seemed safer than friend. She had tried "friend," and where had it gotten her? Devastated by one power-packed kiss. A kiss that probably hadn't meant a thing to him.
But she wouldn't think about the kiss. She'd never be able to spend the week with him if she thought about the kiss … and how it had burned away every ounce of her good sense. She could have gone on kissing him forever…
"Before I forget, look in the glove compartment," he instructed. His soft, deep drawl put an end to her reverie, and she realized she had been staring at him.
Curious, Sunny did as she was told and pulled out a small box. A ring box. "What's this?"
"Your costume." His voice sounded grim. "Try it on."
Nestled in the black velvet box was a wide, diamond-encrusted wedding band. An elegant, expensive ring—much showier than the simple band of gold he had slipped onto her finger ten years ago. Even though she realized he was giving her this ring now for purely strategic purposes, she hesitated to lift it from the box.
A part of her had died the day she'd given him back his wedding band. The idea of wearing one now disconcerted her.
But of course, she understood the necessity. Slowly, she extracted the ring from its velvet bed. Her eyes lighted on his left hand. A plain gold band glinted on his ring finger. Without having to inspect its inner rim, she knew the words From Sunny, and their wedding date, would not be engraved there. This band was much wider than the one she had given him.
"I leased them from a jeweler," he said.
Sunny shifted her gaze to the road ahead of them. Why should she feel let down that he hadn't kept their wedding bands, ten years after their divorce? She had given hers back to him, hadn't she? She couldn't blame him for disposing of it, along with his. They meant nothing to either of them now.
Striving for indifference, Sunny shoved the new, ornate band onto her ring finger.
The cellular phone rang. Ryan answered with his usual brief greeting. "Yes?" Surprise entered into his voice. "Sunny Shannon? Yes, she is."
Sunny quickly took the phone from him, certain that an emergency had arisen at the hotel. "This is Sunny."
Ryan watched as the anxiety on her face changed into one of mild annoyance—although a distinct twinkle of affection lightened her expressive green eyes. "Hello, Grandma."
He thought he'd recognized Olive's cantankerous voice.
"The man who answered?" said Sunny uneasily. "He's, uh, a business associate of mine." Ryan recognized the tone of Sunny's voice, too; she was evading a point. "You thought it sounded like who?" She laughed a little too boisterously. "Ryan! What in heaven's name would Ryan be doing with me?"
Her eyes met his in a silent apology. At least, he hoped it was an apology. She certainly owed him one. Her tone had left no doubt that she considered his presence in her life nothing less than absurd. And why did she feel the need to lie about him to her grandmother?
"I'm on a business trip, Grandma," she explained, "with a very well-respected business associate of mine." Her mouth tightened as she listened. "Now, don't start that again. I can take care of myself." Sunny rolled her eyes. "For Pete's sake, Grandma, I'm twenty-eight years old, not eighteen. Calm down. Have you taken your heart medication today?"
At Sunny's expression of concern and annoyance, Ryan guessed, "She's having one of her spasms."
Sunny nodded. Ryan felt confident that Olive would survive this latest "spasm" just as she had survived the others over the past twenty years, but Sunny seemed genuinely worried.
The urge to put his arm around her—to comfort her, to take her mind off useless worry—nearly overpowered him. It would be so easy, so natural, to pull her against him, whisper some assurance in her ear, inhale the lily fragrance of her hair that shimmered like the finest gold…
He conquered the impulse. He was no fool.
As she made brief replies into the receiver, Ryan stared straight ahead at the road. He could clearly imagine the conversation. Olive's distrust of strange men in the vicinity of her granddaughter bordered on obsession. Her daughter—Sunny's mother—had been "lured away at the tender age of sixteen by some fast-talking city slicker con man," as Olive always told it, and "started on the road to ruin." As far as Olive was concerned, strange men were sent from the devil to corrupt her "innocent young'uns."
Ironic, thought Ryan, that Sunny had "gotten into trouble" with him—a boy she had grown up with. Thank God they'd been married before Olive learned of Sunny's pregnancy, or their wedding might have been conducted at the point of Olive's shotgun.
After another silent moment, Sunny raised her hand in defeat. "Okay, Grandma, okay. Yes, I promise. Now, go take your medication. Goodbye." She hung up the phone, took a moment to regain her composure, then expelled her breath as if she had just climbed a mountain.
> "Why did you lie to her about me?"
"I didn't actually lie," Sunny hedged, looking guilty. "You are a business associate of mine. And I didn't say you weren't here—I simply asked her what you'd be doing with me."
"Something of a technicality, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, Ryan, I couldn't tell her you were with me. She really would have had a spasm then. The big one."
Ryan frowned. "Since when does Olive distrust me?"
Sunny bit her bottom lip, hesitating. "Since our divorce."
Ryan stared at her. "You divorced me. How could she blame me for that?"
"You know how she always blames everything on men."
"That's ridiculous."
"Of course it is. We both know it, so there's no use talking about it anymore."
Ryan wanted to probe deeper into the subject, bothered more by Olive's bad opinion of him than he would ever admit. From the closed, stubborn expression on Sunny's face, though, he knew she'd say no more. He supposed he'd have to confront Olive face-to-face, once his business at Windsong Place
had been settled.
"Besides," said Sunny, "I don't want her to know about this deal we're working on. I haven't told her we'd be anywhere near Heaven's Hollow or Windsong Place
. If the deal doesn't go through, she'd be terribly disappointed. I'd rather wait and surprise her with my new position when it's a sure thing."
Ryan nodded. He'd have it no other way. They drove in silence for a few miles until another question occurred to him. "What did Olive make you promise?"
A becoming blush stole into Sunny's cheeks. "She always worries when I go on the road with male business associates."
"I gathered that." He actually couldn't blame Olive for that particular worry—he himself didn't like the thought of Sunny traveling around with men, either. And she wasn't even his concern. "So what did you promise her?"
"To lock my hotel door at night."
He was about to say "Good advice." But then he remembered that Olive had been talking about this business trip. And of course, that advice wouldn't apply. They'd be sharing a room.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 5
