The last item on the agenda set Sunny's stomach to churning. There was anxiety and also an odd, fatalistic sense of excitement.
The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed four as Sunny made her way down the stairway into the Oak Hall. Lavinia had invited the inn's guests, telling Sunny that the idea of high tea was "simply too marvelous to keep to ourselves."
Because the spring weather beckoned the younger guests outdoors, only a few of the older ones were gathered in front of the massive fireplace in the Oak Hall on that Saturday afternoon.
Lavinia was clothed in an expensive knit pantsuit, her dark hair was dressed in an elegant coiffure, and pearls glinted at her ears and throat. She fairly radiated culture as she sat in a wing chair before the fireplace, and Sunny felt like curtseying in her presence.
She introduced Sunny to the guests as "Mrs. Alexander."
"Please, call me Sunny." The introduction had unreasonably flustered her.
Lavinia whispered, "I forgot you use your maiden name. To be honest, I feel more comfortable introducing you as Mrs. Alexander. It's easier than explaining. Most of our guests are from the old school, you know."
Sunny decided she would set Lavinia straight on her use of her maiden name as soon as the purchase agreement was signed.
As the guests settled into armchairs, Sunny offered them their choice of tea, the individually wrapped tea bags handsomely showcased in a hand-carved walnut box. Mrs. Lee set freshly baked tea cakes, tarts and cookies on the tables between the wing chairs, then poured from a silver teapot into delicate cups of fine blue-patterned china.
Most guests seemed to be regulars, and Lavinia knew which interests had drawn them. With smooth expertise, she drew Sunny into the conversation with introductions such as, "Sunny, this is Sally Bowens. She's here for the Concerto-Aria Recital at Rosen Concert Hall. She's a musician. Didn't you perform there a few times, Sally?"
The thin elderly woman, who held her cup of Earl Grey tea with her pinky gracefully outstretched, went on to fondly reminisce of her performances in the nearby concert hall.
And, Lavinia continued, "Professor Collins stays with us every May. What is that flower you're researching, Professor?"
In his frumpy tan cardigan and baggy trousers, the professor rumbled with enthusiasm, "The Cullowhee lily." He removed the pipe from his mouth and bit into an apple tart. With his mouth full, he explained, "The Cherokees used its leaves for salad."
A short, wiry woman in jeans and a T-shirt declared, "I'm taking the grandkids fishing for hornybacks. Or trout, if our luck runs out."
As the guests conversed, munched and sipped, Sunny's eyes strayed frequently to the grandfather clock. Ryan hadn't returned. How could she want him here, yet dread his arrival?
The clock chimed five. "Tea has been a tremendous success," Lavinia pronounced as the guests dispersed. "I'll keep it as a daily function." The praise was gratifying.
A flock of other guests wandered in, most dressed elegantly for dinner. The side tables were set with cheese, crackers and wine.
Sunny was struggling to resist the impulse to go look for Ryan, when there was a lull in the conversation and all eyes turned to the tall, broad-shouldered newcomer in a taupe gabardine blazer who descended the staircase—serene and profoundly commanding, his gray eyes cool as he surveyed the small crowd.
Sunny's breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat. He is master here. He's come home.
Lavinia introduced Ryan to the guests. Advancing at a leisurely pace, he responded with appropriate greetings. And then his gaze settled on Sunny. He halted in whatever he'd been saying. His gaze took in her dress, her hair. And as his stare lingered, a warmth rose within her. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
He's playing a part, she reminded herself. Nothing more. But it felt like more. And the night hadn't even begun yet.
At dinner, Ryan was subjected for the first time since his divorce to hearing Sunny introduced as Mrs. Alexander.
Each time he heard it, a small current of possessiveness pulsed through him. Mrs. Alexander. His wife. His.
He couldn't keep his eyes off her. Her violet-blue dress left her shapely shoulders bare and golden in the glow of candlelight. Her shiny, upswept hair allowed a few coy tendrils to curl against her throat, where pearls glistened, generating memories of when she'd worn only pearls. And he had made love to her, in front of the fireplace. On their honeymoon.
After a prime-rib supper in the dining room, they moved into the formal ballroom, where the three-man band Sunny had hired began their first set.
Lavinia had set up tables around the dance floor, which were now fully occupied. Wilbur had gone to talk to the guests, leaving Ryan and Sunny alone at the small, candle-lit table.
The band played soft, classic love songs.
"They're not bad," Ryan said, nodding toward the band, in an effort to start conversation with Sunny. He couldn't very well sit here all evening, staring at her. Not if he was going to take her to their room afterward and keep his hands off her.
"They're pretty good." She clutched a liqueur glass tightly and watched couples circle the dance floor.
So much for conversation. He tried again. "Thanks for your quick thinking when Wilbur brought up the tabloid article."
Sunny shrugged—a provocative movement of her shoulders that drew Ryan's attention to them again. He knew how soft and tender the curve of her neck would feel beneath his hands, beneath his mouth.
"I did what I had to do." She evaded his eyes. "You couldn't very well have denied being there on that yacht. Photographs don't lie."
Ryan's eyebrows rose. Could that be disapproval he heard in her voice? "Ah, yes. Me and Princess Catherine. Caught red-handed in a torrid love affair."
It wasn't true. He barely knew the woman. But he'd be damned if he'd admit that now. Not when he was almost sure Sunny's bottom lip had tightened at his remark and she was rising to his bait. "How did you know the details in that article?" he asked.
Her luminous green eyes met his, and the disapproval was clear. "Your grinning mug graced every grocery and convenience store for the entire month of February. And again in March. We're lucky the Tanners haven't found that article. Yet."
Her curt tone afforded Ryan a rush of illogical pleasure. He nodded gravely. "You must mean the one about me and the coffee heiress from Brazil." He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Funny, but I don't recall either one of those articles being on the front page of the tabloids. In fact, I thought they were both part of collages that featured people a lot more socially prominent than I."
Her cheeks colored delicately. "Maybe so. I can't remember that much about the articles. In fact, I probably wouldn't have noticed them at all if Fran, my assistant manager, hadn't brought them to my attention."
"Seems you spend a lot of time reading about me," he reflected aloud. "First business magazines, then tabloids…"
"Let's not forget rest-room walls."
He laughed. "God. Who do they have me with?"
Her eyes darkened with genuine disapproval that somehow pierced through his euphoria. "I'm glad you find your … your sexual notoriety … so amusing."
Before he could think better of it, he caught hold of her wrist. "Don't believe everything you read, Sunny. I didn't do anything more than talk to those women. And even if I had, it wouldn't have meant a thing."
Her pulse raced beneath his fingers. His own heartbeats shook him. He didn't have time to analyze what he had just admitted, or why it was true. Lavinia was seating herself beside him, with Wilbur on his other side.
Ryan released Sunny's wrist. Looked away from her stare.
"Why are you two sitting?" Lavinia set her drink down on the table. "Go ahead, Ryan. Dance with your wife."
Your wife. Again, hunger sliced through him. She had been his wife once. She had promised him forever.
The song was a slow one. Dancing would necessitate touching her. Holding her. And he wanted badly to do tha
t.
"No, we're worn-out…" Sunny began to say, but Ryan stood and held his hand out to her.
"Let's go," he said. She owed him a dance. At least a dance.
She hesitated, but Lavinia was there, nagging her like a clucking hen until Sunny had no gracious choice. She ignored Ryan's hand—putting off the inevitable touching for as long as possible—but moved out onto the dance floor.
She cast him a hesitant glance over one bare shoulder. A few more blond tendrils had escaped from her French twist, trailing in wisps down the nape of her neck. Her violet-blue dress silhouetted intriguing curves beneath.
He couldn't wait any longer. With a hand at her elbow, he turned her and pulled her firmly against him. Looking somewhat flustered, she tried to give him her hand in a formal dance position, but he ignored it. Instead, he pulled her close and she was forced to loop her arms around his neck.
They moved stiffly at first, his face against her fragrant hair. She refused to relax. Refused to surrender to the familiar contours of their embrace.
But as the sensuous melody worked its magic, her body molded to his in the way it was meant to. Ryan's pleasure was so keen it almost hurt; she was softness, and warmth, and the very essence of womanhood. He closed his eyes.
Together they swayed and turned to the rhythm of the song. The music coaxed them further still into a subtle gyration of hips and shoulders. His body moved with hers. His blood heated. His breathing deepened. He swept his hand up her back, pressing her more tightly against him.
The fragrance of lilies in her hair and the softness of her skin sharpened his hunger. He imagined her without the silk dress, moving this way beneath him. An ache formed in his chest and radiated down through his midsection.
He wanted her so damn badly.
Without forethought, he pressed a kiss onto her tender, fragrant neck, just below her ear. He heard her inhale, and felt a slight tremble go through her. A responding heat flared up in him. It had been too damn long since he'd made her tremble in his arms.
He kissed her again, on the curve of her jaw, his need steadily growing. With a moan, she pulled back to gaze up at him, her eyes a dusky green, the pupils dilated in a way he well remembered. A way that made his arousal harden all the more.
"Ryan—" she breathed, uncertainty in her whisper.
"Shhh." He kissed her lips then. Softly at first, a mere brushing of his across hers. Her arms tightened around his neck. He coaxed her mouth opened, and then delved deeper. And deeper still. He hadn't forgotten her sweetness, not for a moment, in all the years he'd been without her.
The love song ended, replaced by a faster, intrusive beat, which reminded Ryan of where they were. Gruffly he whispered against her ear, "It's time to go upstairs."
Without waiting for a reply—he had all the response he needed in her upturned gaze—he hooked an arm around her slender waist and guided her with single-minded determination.
"But Wilbur and Lavinia," she objected.
Impatiently Ryan steered her toward their table, thanked them for the evening and bid them good-night.
Reeling from his sensual onslaught, Sunny did the same. Ryan then ushered her out of the ballroom and up the stairs. His face—dark, intense, exceedingly handsome—gave no clue to his thoughts, except for one: he wanted her.
And, God help her, she wanted him. Now, without thought. But as he extracted the room key from his pocket, rational thought did intrude upon her. If they made love, would he regret their involvement? Would it ruin the fragile friendship growing again between them? Sunny had to make sure Ryan knew exactly what he was doing, and not acting on impulse, or tomorrow he would turn from her with bitter self-recriminations.
She clutched his arm as they reached their room, feeling his hard muscles beneath the gabardine of his blazer. "Ryan, wait."
He gazed down at her with smoky gray eyes. Then he kissed her again, there in the corridor outside their room, with a slow fierceness that sent her blood rushing hotly through her veins.
She wanted him. Tonight. His hands swept up the curve of her waist and captured her breasts beneath the silken ruffle. His thumbs roused her to hardness as he continued to kiss her.
He stopped only to shove the room key into the lock.
"Ryan," she gasped, "you do realize what you're doing, don't you? This isn't part of our deal."
As she waited for him to assure her it wasn't, and that he wouldn't regret their involvement later, the passionate need in his eyes suddenly cooled. Like a fire doused with ice water.
"Then by all means," he replied, "let's not work overtime." He withdrew his hands and strode down the corridor.
Sunday morning, Ryan woke to a loud knock on the door and an excited maid calling, "Mrs. Alexander! Come quick. The horses are here!"
Sunny, who had obviously been up for a while, came flying out of the dressing room, buttoning her blouse as she hurried toward the door. "Horses? Did you say horses? What horses?"
Before Ryan could mutter an explanation, Sunny had bounded out the door, her blond curls an unruly mop, her golden brows drawn together in perplexity.
Ryan fell back down onto the narrow fold-up cot he had purchased at the army-navy store in Heaven's Hollow yesterday and smuggled to the room under the cover of darkness. He wondered if he had slept at all. He really wasn't sure. When he had returned to the bedroom after his long nocturnal march through the woods—imperative to let his frustration cool—Sunny had been fast asleep in bed, the covers drawn up to her chin.
It had taken him hours to grapple with his anger, then harness it and convert it to a useful emotion. Like gratitude. Yes, gratitude. He was grateful to Sunny. Grateful.
She had saved them both a great deal of embarrassment. This hormonal thing between them had simply overpowered his good judgment. He shouldn't have kissed her. She'd been right to stop him, he told himself as he showered and shaved and replayed every nuance of the evening in his mind. As he zipped up his jeans, he heard the bedroom door open. Sunny called out, "Ryan?"
He shrugged into a denim shirt as Sunny rounded the corner and stopped short at the sight of him. Her cheeks were flushed, her green eyes sparkled with excitement and her full lips were parted as if she wanted to say something.
He turned to reach for his leather belt, and she whispered, "Thanks, Ry. For the horses. I never expected…" She broke off and turned away from him.
To Sunny's delight, the horses had arrived just in time for the picnic she had planned for the day. Malcolm had prepared an exquisite lunch to Sunny's specifications: a carafe of sparkling cider, a loaf of home-baked bread, a wheel of Brie, fresh fruit and chicken salad, all nestled in a wicker basket.
Even the weather cooperated—she couldn't have asked for a fairer, brighter day. The only snag in her plans was Lavinia.
"Sunny, I'm worn-out from yesterday. Have Malcolm divide the lunch into two baskets. You and Ryan can go off on your own. Wilbur and I will take ours to the garden gazebo."
"But Lavinia, we have horses now! We can ride the trails, and stop to picnic beside a brook."
"Horses! My word! I haven't ridden a horse in thirty years. No, no, dear, you and Ryan enjoy the day. It's a wonderful plan—the guests would adore it, I'm sure—but Wilbur and I will feast in the backyard gazebo."
No amount of persuasion would change Lavinia's mind, but Sunny wasn't about to let Ryan's extravagant gesture of having horses shipped in for the week go to waste. By ten that morning, Ryan and she headed out down a shady trail into the mountain forest of Windsong Place
, the wicker picnic basket firmly secured to her horse, and a blanket secured to Ryan's.
She had known he wouldn't refuse, no matter how dark his mood was. Ryan loved horses, and he loved riding through the woods. So did she.
In companionable silence, they enjoyed traversing the trails, crossing mountain streams and galloping across open meadows. When the sun had risen high in the blazing blue sky, they reined in their horses beside a cool, gurgling broo
k, and shared the picnic lunch.
It should have been an idyllic meal. Perhaps even romantic. But Ryan had taken his plate to a large, flat boulder beside the stream, leaving Sunny to eat alone on the blanket. Not a word was exchanged between them.
Sunny wondered what had caused his black mood. If anyone had a right to be angry, it was she. He had kissed her into a swelter of need last night, then left her high and dry at the bedroom door. She clenched her jaw as she remembered his flippant words: let's not work overtime. She wouldn't lose her head with him again, she swore it. He wanted a professional relationship, and that's just what he'd get.
Ryan, meanwhile, wondered why in the hell Sunny was clenching her jaw. Was she nursing a grudge because he'd kissed her last night? From the boulder where he sat, he picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the natural, sunlit pool. They had once called this their swimming hole. They had laughed and played here as children. Years later, they'd skinny-dipped. And made love.
Ryan tightened his fist, and another small stone he'd been about to throw crumpled to pieces in his closed palm. Gratitude—that's what he should feel toward her. For reminding him of the purpose behind their kisses last night. He tossed the crumpled rock into the water.
"Want more sparkling cider?" she called from the blanket.
"No." Against his better judgment, Ryan snuck another glance at her. She was wearing tight white jeans and a blouse of nearly translucent floral print with sleeves that billowed down to her elbows. She looked clean, fresh and young, and the noonday sunshine was turning her hair from platinum to gold, so it looked like a dazzling halo.
He averted his face. It was easier to feel grateful when he wasn't looking at her. "I think we should head back."
As he stood up, a family trooped down the path—a cheery red-haired couple with half a dozen chattering, giggling children. The adults sat on a granite boulder, while the kids ran, leaped and cavorted in all directions—toward the stream, the woods and the horses.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 9
