Technicians positioned Jonathon in an armchair, where he proudly displayed the picture of his flower. Professor Collins stood expostulating about the rarity of Cullowhee lilies, and the possibility that the boy's find was genuine.
"Alexander, old buddy!"
A deep, melodious voice with a country twang spun Ryan around to face the front door. Golden-haired Grady Barrett swaggered toward them wearing a black Stetson, black shirt, buckskin vest and jeans. Charisma and energy glowed from his amber eyes. Although Grady had acquired an undeniable suavity along with his fame, his grin remained the same as when they were kids—hell-bent on mischief.
According to the tabloids, Ryan's old pal still lived for fun, though his taste in "fun" now seemed to revolve around sexual conquest. Ryan couldn't imagine him as a father.
They shook hands and Grady patted Ryan on the back. "You saved my son's life, buddy. I owe you."
"You owe that boy more."
Grady let the rebuke pass. "So is it true? Can you really be married?" Astonishment glittered in his eyes. "I heard something about a Mrs. Alexander."
Conscious of the crowd gaping more at them now than at the television interview of Jonathon, Ryan regarded Grady in dismay. "We'll talk later."
"So where's your bride?" Grady's amber gaze then fell on Sunny. "Sunny! Is that you? Good lord, it's been … what, nine or ten years? You mean, you two got back together?"
Against all logic, Ryan felt a thrill of possessive pride. His reaction bothered him. Why should he want Grady to think Sunny was his again?
But he did. And not only because of the Tanners' proximity—which was reason enough. Both Lavinia and Wilbur stood a few yards away, watching Jonathon's interview. Fortunately, they hadn't heard Grady's exclamation.
"Lower your voice, Grady," Ryan muttered. "I'd prefer to keep my private life private."
"Yeah, but—"
"It's good to see you again, Grady," cut in Sunny, shaking his hand. Although actually, it wasn't. She had never been particularly fond of him. When they were kids, he hadn't wanted her tagging along, and when she had married Ryan, he hadn't been very approving. Beneath his good-ole-country-boy veneer, Grady had always been somewhat of a snob. Both he and Ryan were sons of an elite, moneyed society. They had attended expensive boarding schools and associated with well-pedigreed friends. She did not belong to that world. With Grady, she had always felt like an outsider.
But now he treated her to his famous heartthrob smile. "You're looking as pretty as ever. Glad to see things worked out." Clapping Ryan on the back, he said, "This here fella needs a good woman to settle him down. When did you two make up? I never thought I'd see the day—"
"We'll talk about old times later," insisted Ryan. "Right now, your son is about to make his television debut."
Surprised, Grady glanced over the heads of bystanders to where Jonathon was responding to the anchorwoman's questions. Grady turned to Ryan, his manner subdued, his voice lowered. "They're going to interview me next. I need your help here, old buddy."
Ryan raised his brows in silent question.
In an embarrassed undertone, Grady explained, "My ex-wife is trying to get custody of Jonathon. She wants control of his trust fund. Her lawyers would love to get hold of some so-called evidence of neglect on my part."
"What does this have to do with me?" asked Ryan.
"Make it clear that he disobeyed his nanny, who was there with him the entire time."
Sunny bit the inside of her cheek to stop from protesting. To portray Jonathon in that light, even though it might be technically accurate, seemed like a betrayal. She wondered why Grady wanted custody of the son he rarely bothered to see.
From Ryan's blank expression, Sunny guessed he shared her view. "Sorry, buddy. I've said all I'm going to say."
Grady stared at him, looking surprised and hurt.
From across the crowded room, Jonathon cried, "There's my pa!" His tone implied even greater awe than he had expressed over the Cullowhee lily. The sheer adoration in his eyes caught at Sunny's heart. His cheeks were flushed with anticipation as Grady advanced through the crowd.
Jonathon's thin shoulders straightened. The wide armchair emphasized his smallness; his black, high-topped sneakers dangled far above the Oriental carpet. He held the picture of his treasured flower in both hands, waiting in taut readiness for his chance to shine.
Wait until I show my pa, he had said.
The television cameras swung to focus on the approaching celebrity. Grady adopted a paternal smile and advanced to his son's side. Jonathon's face beamed in an answering grin. "Hi, Pa! I'm on TV," he whispered loudly as Grady sat beside him.
The crowd around him chuckled.
Be impressed, Sunny silently prayed. Be proud.
In a polished tone he might have used on stage, Grady queried, "Do you know why you're on television, son?"
Jonathon nodded, his red-brown eyes sparkling. "Because I found a Cullowhee lily."
"No, Jonathon," his father contradicted him. "You're on television because a man saved your life."
Jonathon tilted his head in obvious confusion. His father hadn't even glanced at the drawing he held.
Warming up to his role, Grady went on in a stern voice, "Do you know why he had to do that?"
Sunny's heart dropped as the boy's face went pale. He shook his head no. The freckles on his nose stood out in stark relief against his pale skin.
Grady spoke in the righteous manner of television-show fathers delivering a well-deserved rebuke. "Because you ran away from your nanny. You forgot everything I've taught you about safety in the mountains. I think you owe your nanny, and Mr. Alexander, an apology."
Jonathon hung his head. After a terrible pause—one that seemed to last forever—he turned to where Ryan stood in the crowd. In a small, trembling whisper, he said, "I'm sorry."
Someone yelled "Cut." The bright lights and cameras clicked off. Jonathon's interview was over.
The desolation on the child's face propelled Sunny beyond prudence. She cut through the crowd until she faced Grady Barrett. "Perhaps your attitude would change, Grady, if you understood why Jonathon climbed that fence marked Danger."
Grady looked up at her in surprise.
"If you'd listen to his explanation, you might understand how important that lily was to him. His nanny didn't understand, but maybe, just maybe, you would have." A tightness restricted Sunny's throat and made each word painful. "But you weren't there. And now that you are, you refuse to listen."
Seeing Grady's affronted look, she knew she should stop, but couldn't. "He wanted to share with you something special and rare and … and … magic." She added in a strangled whisper, "He said you'd be proud he found it."
The futility of Jonathon's longing seared her. Both she and Ryan had lived through the same kind of thwarted yearning. "The only reason he let Ryan pull him up the cliff without that flower was so that it wouldn't die." Through a glimmering sheen, she saw only a blur. "Another thing you should be proud of."
The ache in Sunny's chest had grown too painful. She whirled around and forced her way through the crowd in a blind rush for the front door.
The cool air outside did little to abate the stinging in her eyes and throat. She flew down the front stairway through the azalea garden and across the circular drive to the silent woods beyond. Shivering in the brisk morning breeze, she wrapped her arms around herself and struggled not to cry.
What did a person have to do to earn love? The question had always baffled her. As a child, she had assumed adults knew. But questions of love mystified her more now than ever.
Steady, purposeful footsteps sounded on the walkway behind her. She didn't turn around. She knew who had followed her; she had developed a kind of sixth sense where Ryan was concerned.
"Sunny?" His gentle, deep-timbred voice somehow increased the trembling of her bottom lip. She swallowed hard.
He encircled her from behind with strong arms and held her tightly against h
is chest until she could feel the forceful beating of his heart through his denim shirt. His chin rested against her ear.
Weren't these the arms she had sought as a child when overcome by an uncaring world? Hadn't she weathered countless storms in his embrace, clinging as if he were her lifeboat?
So why should she be afraid to turn to him now?
But she was. She could no sooner turn and cry in his arms than she could fly to Pluto. Things weren't that simple anymore.
"I've really done it now," she said. "I've alienated one of Windsong Place
's most influential neighbors. I may have alienated Lavinia, too, and probably ruined the resort's publicity."
Ryan turned her around to face him. "You said what needed to be said. I don't know how you do it, Sunny, but sometimes what I'm feeling comes out of your mouth."
Gazing up at him, she wanted to say I love you. She caught herself just in time. Gathering her strength around her like a shield, she reminded herself that it was only chemistry between them. Pure chemistry. He wasn't thinking about love.
"God, Sunny, don't look at me like that," Ryan whispered. He recognized that look, and it cut through him like a death-cold chill. She was shutting him out. Turning off her warmth. He'd fought that battle—and lost—in the days before she'd left him.
Beneath his pensive scrutiny, Sunny stiffened, her heart tripping over itself. He had read her feelings. He knew she was falling in love with him again. But she wasn't. She wouldn't. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ryan."
His teeth clenched. "I don't want to go through this again with you, Sunny."
No, of course he wouldn't. He never had wanted her love. Answering anger rose in her, and she turned away from him.
He caught her shoulder. "Why did you want to make love to me last night?"
"I thought it'd be fun," she responded, intentionally flip.
"Fun?" he repeated.
Afraid to subject herself to his disturbing scrutiny much longer, she abruptly turned and strode out of the shielding forest, back toward the house.
Ryan angrily followed her across the circular drive. As they neared the house, a ponytailed man with a video camera and the anchorwoman met them at the foot of the garden stairway with a microphone.
Lavinia accompanied them. "They'd like to tape your segment here, in front of the inn. You know, as an introduction to the piece." To Sunny, she whispered, "No more outbursts, hmmm?"
As Sunny struggled to regain her composure, the anchorwoman posed herself beside Ryan and spoke with professional clarity. "We're here at Windsong Place
, a Victorian mansion in the North Carolina mountains, where technology tycoon Ryan Alexander risked his life to rescue the young son of country singer Grady Barrett from Devil's Ridge, a treacherous precipice."
Lavinia leaned forward and commandeered the microphone. "Yes, here we are, with our very own heroes, the new franchise owners of Windsong Place
… Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Alexander."
At that, Sunny and Ryan overcame their differences long enough to exchange an appalled glance. Mr. and Mrs. On national television!
But the worst was yet to come. No sooner had the interview ended than a spry elderly lady pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "Hold your horses just one dad-blasted moment," she said fiercely, her age-spotted fists on her hips. "I want to know what in the tarnation is going on here."
In utter horror, Sunny stared into the irate face of her grandmother.
* * *
9
« ^ »
"Olive," groaned Ryan.
"Don't you try to smooth-talk your way past me, you … you back stabber." The petite, gray-haired woman wore a pink warm-up suit, tiny pearl earrings and white sneakers; she blasted him with her green-eyed glare. "You deadbeat defiler of women!"
"It's nice to see you, too, Olive," he murmured, casting an eye at the listening crowd. "Why don't we step inside and finish this conversation?"
"We ain't going nowhere until I get some answers, boy." And even though Lavinia, Wilbur, the anchorwoman and the crowd gaped openmouthed, Ryan wasn't the least bit surprised by her attack. Olive hadn't spoken a soft word to him in her life. She'd called him "boy" until he was thirteen and told her not to. She'd made him stand in the corner for hours when he misbehaved, and whenever Sunny hurt herself playing, Olive had always placed the blame squarely on his shoulders.
She had also forced him to eat his vegetables, taken him on fishing trips, taught him to hold his own in a mean game of poker and insisted on accompanying him to mother-son functions at his school. And whenever he had needed her, Olive had been there. She had never left him.
Tough, she was. Tough as cinnamon cookies.
Her wide-set green eyes shot sparks at him now, reminding him very much of her granddaughter. "Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, my foot," she spat. "You two are no more married than I am."
"Grandma!" Sunny's cheeks blazed with embarrassment as she firmly took hold of the old woman's arm. "You're making a spectacle of yourself. We will discuss this matter in private."
Olive yanked her arm out of Sunny's grasp. "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, girl. I talked to you Friday, and you weren't married then. You were on a business trip, you said. Bah! You were busy being lured down the road to ruin by this smooth talker. Again!"
Grady strolled up out of the crowd to stand beside Olive. "They forgot to invite me to their wedding too, Miz Olive."
"Mind your own business, Grady," snapped Olive. "If you had, that boy of yours wouldn't have needed rescuing."
Grady paled and shut his mouth. Ryan sympathized. Olive's tongue-lashing had left grooves in his own pride many times. He had a feeling this was going to be another one of those times.
Lavinia, who had been blocking the camera lens in case the cameraman started shooting, found her voice. "You're Sunny's grandmother?" she chimed in welcoming tones, her smile just a little forced. "Welcome to Windsong Place
. Ryan, Sunny, help your grandmother up these stairs. We'll have tea inside."
"I haven't come here for tea," muttered Olive, but Ryan and Sunny had already trapped her between them and she wasn't about to lose her dignity by struggling. Holding her head high, she marched up the garden steps as if it had been her idea.
A man with a camera stepped out from behind a column on the front porch, clicking photos as they passed.
Ryan recognized him as a paparazzo from the tabloid that had exploited him before.
As they escorted Olive to the private parlor located beyond the formal dining room, Lavinia issued orders to Wilbur to keep their other guests—and the media—occupied until they could resolve this "unfortunate misunderstanding."
In the chintz-decorated parlor, Olive reluctantly settled onto the love seat with Sunny. Ryan swung the heavy oak door closed but Lavinia intercepted it and stepped inside to join them. Ryan and Sunny exchanged another speaking glance. Things couldn't get much worse, or could they?
"What's this all about?" demanded Lavinia curtly, her smooth social polish giving way to steely eyes and an acid tone.
"You stay out of it, missy," ordered Olive, pointing an arthritic finger at Lavinia. Lavinia stiffened and pursed her lips. Ryan rubbed his palm over his face.
"That's enough, Grandma," Sunny scolded. "We didn't tell you about our marriage because we wanted to surprise you."
"You sure as hell did that. And not in a good way, either. He broke your heart before, and he'll break it again."
Ryan frowned. "I never did anything to hurt Sunny."
"You must have, because that's the only way she would have left you. It took her years to get over you. If she ever did."
Ryan's eyes flickered to Sunny in surprise, but she avoided his gaze, focusing on Olive. "I've told you a million times, Grandma, none of that is true. Ryan and I parted ways—" she gave a quick look at Lavinia "—for a while … because we were too young at the time to know what we wanted. But we're older now, and you have to trust us en
ough to let us handle our own … affairs." Her cheeks blazed at the last word. Ryan closed his eyes tightly. This couldn't be happening. Windsong Place
was slipping further out of his reach with every word spoken.
"You look me straight in the eye, Sunny," demanded Olive, "and tell me you've already married him. And if you have, I'll keep my mouth shut and butt out of your business."
Pinning her honesty on a mere technicality, Sunny stared her grandmother straight in the eye. "I've already married him, Grandma." Ten years ago, she silently added. "And you don't have to worry. My relationship with Ryan is better now—" her gaze shifted to Ryan "—just as it is than it has ever been before," she said emphatically.
Ryan got the message, loud and clear. No matter how many times they made love, she would never be his again. What they had shared last night had been sex. Just sex. Nothing more.
"I hope you know what you're doing," grumbled Olive. "But I'm afraid you're counting on something that just ain't there. Ryan's heart was torn right out of him long before you met him."
Both Ryan and Sunny narrowed their eyes on her then, waiting for her to say more, but the color had drained from Olive's wrinkled face. Sunny reached for her in concern. "Grandma—?"
"I'm okay," she murmured.
"I'll go see what's keeping the tea," Lavinia said.
"I don't need any tea," Olive retorted weakly. "A strong belt of schnapps would do me better."
The parlor door opened and a young, red-haired woman with friendly eyes entered. "There you are," she said reprovingly to Olive. "When we found your room empty, I figured this is where you'd be." To Sunny, she explained, "That article about you in the newspaper today got her pretty riled up."
Olive scowled, crossed her arms and stuck her bottom lip out. "I can visit my granddaughter if I want to."
"You know you're not supposed to leave the hospital yet. And you sure aren't supposed to be driving," the woman scolded. "Doc Langley won't like it when he finds out you took his car."
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