SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW

by Donna Sterling

  Sunny fumbled with her key and slowly pushed open the glossy wooden door. Ryan stood behind her, surveying the room.

  Gentle, golden lamplight illuminated the cozy suite that time had done little to change. The same oak-manteled fireplace stretched along one wall, opposite the set of French doors that led to a veranda. The hardwood floor was adorned with the same Oriental rug in front of the gray stone hearth. And the same blue-patterned wallpaper with pink Victorian cabbage-rose trim decorated the room.

  "It's the same," Sunny whispered. "Like it was yesterday."

  Ryan glanced at her, and the thought rushed through him: she was more of his yesterday than any of it. She was his yesterday.

  "And soon it will all be yours again," she said.

  Except she wouldn't be his. The thought sprang upon him unbidden, and he struggled to banish it. Nostalgia. It was only nostalgia.

  He watched her move around in her new, efficient manner, slender and lovely in her white eyelet blouse and gypsy skirt. She opened the two large, wood-framed windows and the set of French doors, allowing a crosscurrent of fresh mountain breezes to stir the lace draperies.

  A spring-scented gust playfully riffled tendrils of her hair across her cheeks. He watched her breathe deeply of the cool mountain fragrance he remembered so well.

  But it wasn't the mountain breeze that filled his senses. It was the sight of her here, in this room, with her honey-smooth skin and emerald eyes and golden hair illuminated by lamplight. He remembered the texture of that hair—warm, fragrant silk in his fingers—and he wanted to touch it again.

  Shaken by the strength of the impulse, he looked away from her, then moved away from her, putting a good distance between them. Nostalgia, he told himself. Damn nostalgia.

  For something to do, he wandered beneath the small archway into the tiny dressing room with a closet on one side and an antique mirrored vanity table on the other. On the far end was the crystal-handled door of the adjoining bathroom.

  Peering inside, he saw that the bathroom remained basically unchanged. Sprigs of flowers decorated the wallpaper; gray-and-white tiles formed a pattern on the floor.

  An oval walnut-framed mirror topped a pedestal sink. It was immaculate.

  His attention was caught by the claw-footed tub in one corner—a Victorian original—and the glassed-in shower stall across from it. He had shared both with his bride. Memories flooded back, as clear as Carolina mountain air. Shampoo fragrance. Steamy kisses. Green eyes, dark with passion. Soap-lathered skin. Sunny, wet and naked against him…

  Heat washed through him, and an inner voice warned, Get her out of here. Out of this house. Out of your life.

  He gritted his teeth. He couldn't. He needed her to reclaim Windsong Place

  , and it would take more than memories to stop him. He turned to find her watching him from the archway in awkward silence.

  "You can have the bed," he muttered hoarsely. "All I need is a pillow and blanket on the floor." He saw the hesitation in her green eyes before she veiled them beneath dark gold lashes. And vividly he recalled another time she had hesitated with similar self-consciousness within this very bedroom.

  The night he had finally made love to her, after torturous weeks of superhuman restraint, stopping just at the brink. They hadn't even considered marriage yet; he'd had only one thing on his mind. He'd brought her here deliberately, to the most appealing room in the house, covertly, in the dead of night, with candles, flowers and wine. And with every intention of seducing her, taking her virginity.

  He had succeeded.

  The unwanted warmth again rose within him. His gaze, restless and needful, lowered to her mouth, and he wondered what would happen now if he kissed her…

  "I suppose I don't have much choice but to let you have your way," she capitulated softly.

  In the space of a missed heartbeat, his chest expanded, his breath caught and his arousal hardened. But he soon realized she was referring to his use of the floor as a bed. Not a sampling of her mouth. Her body.

  He brushed past her, unable to bear her nearness another moment. She moved away as he grabbed their suitcases from beside the doorway where the bellman had earlier deposited them and slung them onto the luggage rack of the dressing room.

  "Are you sure you don't mind … sleeping on the floor?" she called from the far end of the suite.

  He turned briskly around to stare at her. Hope drummed in his ears. Was she offering a place beside her in bed?

  "I mean, I wouldn't mind camping out down there," she added hurriedly.

  Disgruntled by his dashed hopes, Ryan muttered, "I said I'd take the floor and I will. End of subject."

  That damned renegade dimple flashed again in her cheek. "Here," she said softly. "Maybe this will help." She tossed a small patchwork quilt across an armchair.

  He recognized the quilt. It was the one he had bought her at a mountain fair, ten long years ago. His first gift to her. They had used it that entire summer to lie together in the warm summer grass … in private places, where her grandmother, or other workers, would never think of looking.

  Intently he searched her eyes.

  "It's … warm," she whispered defensively. "And … and … I know how cold this house can get at night. Even in May."

  He supposed he could take her explanation at face value. She certainly needed no other reason to keep the quilt for ten years, or to bring it with her now.

  But woven into its fabric, along with the patchwork colors, were memories much warmer than the quilt could ever be. And Ryan swore he could read those memories in her eyes, in the quiver of her lip, in the heat of her beguiling blush.

  A fierce gladness swept through him. After all was said and done, it was his quilt she snuggled under, his house she'd be living in, his ghost she'd be sleeping with.

  His gaze thoroughly possessed her, if only for a moment.

  Drawing in a breath, Ryan forced himself to look away. You can't have her. You don't even want her. She's Trouble with a capital T.

  But later, as he lay on the hardwood floor softened only by a thin throw rug and Sunny's patchwork quilt, he couldn't help wondering what it was—if anything—she felt for him.

  A sleekly muscled arm crossed between Sunny's breasts and drew her tightly against the warm, hard male body behind her.

  "Mmmmm," she purred. And snuggled closer.

  A masculine groan near her ear spread a pleasurable tingle throughout her. She pressed her languorous body intimately against his and delighted in the immediate hardening of his muscles, his tightened embrace.

  He nestled her breast in the palm of his hand.

  A wonderfully wicked heat flowed through her. As she moved her hips in sensuous rotation, she became aware that her cotton nightgown had ridden up to her thighs, and her bare legs were entwined with powerful, muscle-corded ones.

  Not for a second, even in that hazy half dream, did Sunny wonder who the man was, or how he had gotten there. Only one man ever held her in her dreams. Only one man ever made her want in this primal, earthy way…

  The buzz of the telephone jolted Sunny to full wakefulness. Her eyes flew open. What was she doing? She was in bed with Ryan! Frantically she disengaged herself from his embrace. Nearly falling out of bed, she switched on the bedside lamp and turned around to glare at him.

  He was fast asleep.

  Trembling, she answered the buzzing phone. Wake-up call. She glanced at the bedside clock. Almost six. Hanging up the receiver, she whirled around and shoved Ryan's sinewy, bronzed shoulder. In quiet fury, she demanded, "Get up!"

  His eyes slowly opened and he squinted at her. "What the hell—?" His smooth, muscular chest was bare, his slim lower body tangled in the bedcovers.

  "What do you think you're doing in this bed?"

  Ryan propped himself up on one elbow and dragged his palm down his dark, beard-shadowed face. "Somethin' wrong?"

  "You said you'd sleep on the floor!"

  He frowned at her. "That floor is he
ll. And the damned armchair isn't any better." Lying back against the pillows, he closed his eyes and hoarsely pleaded, "Come back to bed, Sunny."

  Disconcerted by his sleep-husky invitation that sounded so dangerously alluring, Sunny stood by the bedside, nonplussed, watching him doze off. "Not on your life," she vowed.

  After a second or two, his eyes reopened. All vestiges of sleep were gone. His glance slowly descended the length of her—with an awareness that tingled everywhere his eyes touched. And although her sherbert-green nightgown was not precisely sheer, she could feel her nipples straining against the thin cotton. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared.

  "Are you saying that I … did … something to you?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper as his eyes again met hers.

  She lifted her chin, hoping he couldn't see her pulse pounding in her throat. "As a matter of fact, you did."

  He stared at her in disbelief. She blushed warmly.

  He cursed, threw the covers off and paced across the hardwood floor away from her. She realized he wore maroon silk pajama bottoms. He had not been, as she'd imagined, naked beneath those covers. Pacing back toward her, he demanded, "What'd I do?"

  She shook her head and reached for her robe, which lay draped over the armchair.

  "Sunny, would you please tell me what the hell I did?"

  "I'd rather not discuss it."

  He sat down heavily on the bed and plowed his fingers through his unruly hair. "I'm sorry, Sunny. Damn it all to hell, I'm sorry." He looked stricken. "I swear I was asleep. I never intended to … to do anything."

  His eyes met hers, and she saw brutal self-recrimination in his gaze. The sincerity and depth of it surprised her. He was just as determined as she to prevent their involvement. The thought should have comforted her, but it didn't. It made her feel colder than the draft swirling across the hardwood floor.

  "Forget it," she mumbled, slipping into her terry bathrobe as she headed for the privacy of the bathroom. A rather silly thing for her to have said, she realized. He couldn't very well forget something he hadn't consciously experienced.

  Casually dressed in jeans, soft leather boots and a chambray shirt, Ryan walked out through the French doors onto the small veranda, leaned his forearms on the wrought-iron rail and gazed at the sun rising over the smoky Blue Ridge Mountains. Its crimson-and-gold beauty had never failed to captivate him. But even the mountain sunrise didn't offer him the distraction he sorely needed this Saturday morning.

  Mentally, he cursed himself. He hadn't meant to touch her. The last thing they needed now was a misunderstanding. This was a business venture, and no matter how much he had to struggle against his baser instincts, he meant to keep his relationship with Sunny professional.

  He moved slightly and winced at the soreness in his back. Last night on the hardwood floor had been as bad as he'd described it—pure hell. But even worse than the physical discomfort had been the knowledge that only a few feet from him, Sunny lay in that damned bed. The sight of her there had fired his imagination. And his memory. Every passionate interlude they'd ever shared in that bed had come back to taunt him.

  The night had been hell. Pure hell.

  Ryan supposed he should have toughed it out on the floor. But at five o'clock this morning, he'd had as much as he could take. He'd climbed into the bed, careful not to disturb her. And once he had mastered the nearly overwhelming impulse to pull her slender, lush body against his, he had finally slept.

  And then, to be awakened by an angry woman accusing him of sexual misconduct… Ryan shook his head. He couldn't have done much in five minutes. At least, not in his sleep.

  What had he done?

  Just imagining the possibilities returned his body to the same state he'd been in half the night. Why did she affect him so? Hormones. Damned hormones.

  The door to the suite opened and Sunny stepped out onto the veranda with him. He continued to stare off into the distance.

  In a voice as brisk as the morning air, she said, "Compliments of the house."

  He cocked an eye in her direction as she set down steaming coffee and a newspaper on the table. She then strolled to the other end of the veranda to stare at the sunrise.

  She wore neat, tight jeans and a dusty rose sweater that delineated every alluring curve. Ryan stifled a groan. Her eyes were too enticingly green this morning, and her mouth too kissable. Memories reeled of happier mornings spent on this veranda. God, how he had loved kissing her—

  Ryan grunted his thanks as he picked up the aromatic coffee. The sun had crowned the mountains in a blaze of golden glory, birds twittered in the trees, hornets buzzed in the nearby garden and the breeze whispered its own regrets through the forest's shining leaves.

  As if forcing the words, Sunny admitted, "I understand your difficulty in sleeping on the hardwood floor. I'm sure it was terribly uncomfortable. And I accept some of the blame for … what happened." She sounded truly contrite.

  His curiosity piqued, he searched her face. "Why?"

  A delicate flush tinted her cheeks. "For not realizing immediately…" Her flustered words halted, and she averted her face.

  Had she responded to his advances? Ryan clenched his teeth. How could he have slept through it?

  "What I'm trying to say is—" She finally worked up the nerve to look him in the eye. "I believe you were not aware of your actions when you … put your arm around me."

  "Put my arm around you?" he repeated. "That's all I did?" Too late, he realized he sounded disappointed.

  Fortunately, she didn't seem to notice. She was too busy taking offense at his trivializing of the incident. "No, as a matter of fact," she snapped, "it wasn't all you did. Your hands were in places they had no business being."

  Ryan took a quick gulp of hot coffee to stop from asking for more specifics—just to hear her describe them. Instead, he let his imagination run wild. He simply couldn't help it. "Well let me lay your mind to rest, Ms. Shannon," he said, emphasizing her maiden name with a resentment he couldn't quite suppress. "I have no designs of any kind on your body."

  Again, her cheeks flooded with color. Her eyes sparkled with an emotion he couldn't quite identify.

  Ruthlessly, he continued, "You are my employee. And regardless of our past history, or our present mission, I intend to keep this venture strictly professional. If I did make advances to you in my sleep last night—"

  "You mean you doubt it?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Good." She turned her gaze toward the mountains again. "Then I accept your apology."

  Although he hadn't actually been offering an apology, he nodded, glad that she was willing to put the episode behind them. "I'll drive into Heaven's Hollow today and pick up a fold-up cot. We'll stash it behind the luggage in the closet so the maids won't wonder why we're sleeping separately. All we need is a rumor to reach Lavinia that we're not getting along."

  "Great idea." The relief in her eyes spoke volumes. It shouldn't have bothered him at all.

  He drained his coffee, set the mug down on the outdoor table and made up his mind that he'd be just as relieved as she that they no longer had to share a bed.

  On the veranda of the Tanners' private suite, they were served a breakfast of hot muffins, fresh fruit and smoky, sizzling sausage links. Lavinia, however, was not present.

  "She's busy with the group from last night's wedding." Wilbur's amiable smile was almost hidden beneath his heavy white mustache. "We extend personal attention to every party who stays with us. She'll be back shortly." He chuckled. "She's looking forward to seeing your plans for the week, Sunny."

  Sunny hoped Lavinia would approve of the activities she had planned. From the brochures she had picked up at the registration desk, she realized the inn currently sponsored very little in the way of entertainment: a croquet court, hiking trails and a pianist in the restaurant. A nice start, but not enough.

  Sunny remembered her girlhood dreams of entertaining here as the lady of the house, wi
th the freedom to endow her guests with all the splendor these North Carolina mountains had to give. She would use some of those girlhood dreams now.

  The telephone rang inside Wilbur's suite and he excused himself to answer it. Ryan took the opportunity to ask Sunny, "Do you have everything you need for the week's activities?"

  "Almost."

  "Almost? What's missing?"

  Sunny smiled wryly. "Horses. I would have liked to fill the stables again and ride the trails, like we used to when we were kids. But it would have been ridiculously expensive to have the horses shipped in for a week. We'd have to hire someone to care for them, and for the stables."

  After Wilbur returned, they ate a leisurely breakfast, enjoying the gentle May sunshine. Wilbur finally broke the idyllic silence. "I might as well warn you—" he paused to spear a sausage "—there's a problem we'll need to settle before Lavinia will sign the purchase agreement."

  Ryan lowered his fork from his mouth and stared at Wilbur questioningly. "What problem?"

  To Sunny's amazement, a flush of embarrassment deepened the natural redness of Wilbur's cheeks. He took a moment to swallow his sausage. "How long you two been married?"

  Ryan and Sunny met each other's eyes, waiting for the other to answer. Biting the proverbial bullet, Sunny replied, "Two years."

  "Six months," said Ryan at the exact same moment. A deafening silence followed.

  Sunny broke it with a nervous laugh. "Actually, we've dated for two years, and have been married for six months."

  Wilbur looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Is there a problem with that?" demanded Ryan.

  "Could be."

  Sunny's stomach flip-flopped. Ryan's eyes darkened. Had their charade been uncovered? Had the Tanners learned they weren't married?

  Wilbur set down his fork and pushed his near-empty plate away. "I thought about keeping my mouth shut and letting Lavinia handle this, since she's the one who's so darned worried. But I can't see springing something like this on a couple as nice as you without a warning."

  "A warning?" repeated Sunny, bracing herself.

  "Get to the point, Wilbur." Ryan's abruptness drew Sunny's admonishing gaze.