For the first time in her life, Sunny set aside her natural tendency toward moderation. Just another business expense, huh? With blatant disregard for price, she indulged in what her grandmother would have called "pure choosiness."
She ended up buying a gown of ivory mirror taffeta, elegant in its simplicity and perfect for a garden ceremony. She also purchased ivory lingerie, pearl-beaded shoes, pearl-drop jewelry and other accessories she deemed necessary for "PR."
She was hoping that the cost of her shopping spree would make Ryan squirm, but later, when he took her to an extravagant restaurant for dinner, and then to his expensive Manhattan apartment, Sunny realized that the sum she had spent wouldn't cause him to blink an eye. He lived a life of consummate luxury.
Her role was dramatically clear. He was wining and dining her as he would any other woman with whom he was carrying on an affair. The international tycoon with his newest playmate. A business associate, of course. How chic.
She had only herself to blame. She had set the tone by insisting she was mature enough to handle a casual affair. And so she would be, she vowed. With iron determination, and a secret penchant for extravagance that she hadn't known she possessed, she played the game. And actually enjoyed it.
But then, the partying was over, and they were alone. Cinderella's clock struck midnight. All pretense dropped away. The urgency between them returned, and they made slow, needful love.
His chance visit to the New York office got Ryan embroiled in personnel problems that required his attention the next morning, a drizzly gray Wednesday. Reluctantly, he sent Sunny back to Asheville ahead of him on a commercial flight; he didn't make his own escape until the next evening.
As he approached Windsong Place
Thursday evening, he drank in the splendor of the many-gabled mansion and the lush surrounding gardens.
And remembered that it would never be exclusively his.
He had offered Sunny a percentage on impulse. Not his usual method of conducting business, but now that it was done, he felt he'd made the right decision.
Sunny belonged at Windsong Place
. His feelings for the house were so strongly intertwined with memories of her that he couldn't entirely separate the two. She would live here, at his home. Her home.
He knew she wouldn't willingly leave it. Ever.
He parked his sports car in the circular front drive, wondering where he'd find her. He hadn't seen her since yesterday morning, when they'd made love in the shower. He leaned his head back against the leather headrest and allowed thoughts of her to wash over him in warm waves. She was a fever in his blood. A sweet, addictive fever. A fever that made the hours spent without her seem too long, and entirely pointless.
She'd be his again tonight.
His blood sang in sultry anticipation as he ascended the Grand Staircase, hoping to find her in their room. Instead, he found a note reminding him of dinner at Grady's. Grady, it seemed, had sent a car for Sunny. Ryan cursed in mild irritation. He wanted her here, with him, now.
He showered and changed from his business suit into a black shirt, fawn-colored jacket and jeans. Before leaving the house, he made a detour up the back hallway to the attic. He wanted to check on supplies he'd ordered, which should have been delivered to the attic while he was away.
The narrow stairway had been barely used in the past twenty-four years, since his mother's death. She had used the wooden-floored attic as her music room. At the top of the dim stairway, Ryan pushed open the solid oak door and peered inside. The place had been dusted and cleaned. Crates and boxes had been piled to one side, along with the few pieces of furniture he had ordered. So far, so good.
Satisfied, Ryan left and drove to Grady's three-story chalet that overlooked a scenic bend in the French Broad River.
Dinner, of course, was long over. A fire crackled in the grate. The lights were dimmed to a mellow glow. Grady, with his golden hair glinting in the firelight and his famous smile flashing, strummed his guitar and crooned a love song.
To Sunny.
She was seated across from him on the sofa, wearing a knit sweater dress of soft coral, holding a frosty margarita, looking starry-eyed as she watched Grady.
Since when had they become so damned chummy?
Noticing Ryan's presence, Grady stopped in the middle of the song and ribbed him about his lack of punctuality. Then thanked him for it, which was worse. Ryan pleasantly told him to go to hell.
Sunny didn't greet Ryan in any way—by word or deed. She merely lifted her eyes, slowly and cautiously, as if half fearing the contact with him. Ryan willed the contact. Insisted on it. But when she complied, electricity arced between them and left no room for small talk, no room for thought.
"Have a seat, old buddy," Grady said.
Ryan realized he'd been staring at Sunny—and she at him—for too long. And that he had missed her far too much in the two days they'd been apart. He took a seat on the sofa beside her, needing her nearness, but he directed his attention to Grady. "Where's Jonathon?"
"Asleep, I hope." Grady set aside his pearl-handled acoustic guitar. "Sunny tucked him in about an hour ago."
"He sleeps with his Pluto Crystal under his pillow," she said, a flush of pleasure rising in her cheeks. Her lips curved into a smile that went to Ryan's head like whiskey.
Unable to resist the impulse to touch her, he swept his hand across her slender back, then rested his arm behind her on the back of the sofa. A deliberately possessive pose. As if he needed to establish his claim on her. Ridiculous, he knew. But his arm remained where it was, all the same.
Grady poured Ryan a Scotch and recounted comic mischief they had shared as kids, which evolved into a hearty exchange of blame and good-natured insults. Sunny laughed and threw in a few jibes of her own.
Ryan realized there was no reason for tension, and he scorned his earlier reaction. He was among friends.
"Hope your purchase of the house goes through," Grady said, refilling Sunny's glass from a frosty silver shaker. "It'll be good to have you two next door again. Like old times."
Ryan swirled the ice around in his glass of Scotch. "I hear you don't spend much time up here, anyway."
"That's about to change." Grady smiled at Sunny. "I've seen the error of my ways. Need to spend more time at home, with my boy. Sunny tells me you're going to be on the road quite a bit yourself," he added, a little too casually.
Ryan's tension returned tenfold. What would happen when their marriage masquerade was over, and Sunny was managing the inn? Grady would be here, the charming next-door neighbor, in need of a mother for Jonnie.
He himself would be hundreds of miles away.
Grady pulled his guitar back into his lap. "Lemme play you another song," he drawled softly.
As Grady strummed, a thought hit Ryan squarely in the gut. Sunny's next goal was to find a husband, one foolish enough to believe in forever or ruthless enough to let her believe so.
He inspected Grady with a new, critical eye. She wanted someone who shared her views. Grady would say whatever she wanted to hear. Successful, she'd said. Grady certainly was that. She'd mentioned good-looking. Grady was a woman-pleaser, all right. A sense of humor? Always. Good with kids? Grady was already working on it.
What if she fell for it? Ryan's heart gave a sickening thud. He clenched his jaw. He was ready to leave, ready to take Sunny home to bed.
"Time to go, Sunny," he said, his voice hoarse and gruff. Her eyes darkened in a familiar way, arousing him as always.
"You go on back home, old buddy," Grady said. "I'll bring Sunny later. She still has to choose a song for after the ceremony."
A wild possessiveness ripped through Ryan. "I think it's time for all of us to call it a night."
Sunny promptly rose and headed for Jonnie's room. "I promised to say goodbye to him if he's still awake. I'd better go check."
As she disappeared down the long corridor, Grady murmured, "That Sunny. She's one heck of a woman. If she wasn
't your wife, Alexander, I'd steal her away from you." He flashed his famous smile.
Anxiety twisted Ryan's gut. In a very short time, Sunny wouldn't be his wife. "You touch her and I'll kill you."
Grady sat back down, crossed his arms behind his head and grinned up at Ryan. "Know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna buy Sunny a wedding gift. Something she'd really like. But what?"
The kind of inspiration that strikes only once, maybe twice, in a lifetime, embraced Ryan at that moment. "I can think of one thing she's always wanted. But—" he paused for maximum effect "—it's expensive."
Grady waved away paltry obstacles. "Money's no object. What should I get her?"
Ryan gravely replied, "A mink coat."
He parked his car on the moonlit lot behind Windsong Place
, where their grassy ball field had once been. Together Sunny and he walked across the blacktop. To their left, directly behind the house, was the courtyard and rose garden that surrounded the gazebo, where they would soon be married.
Sunny noticed the direction of his gaze. "Lavinia's planning to decorate outside tomorrow. We'll set chairs over there to form a central aisle. The minister will stand on the gazebo. You and I—" her voice grew quiet and strained "—will walk up the aisle. Together. Lavinia feels that since we're, uh, already married, it would be more symbolic than meeting at the front."
Ryan did not reply. He realized what had been weighing so heavily on his mind tonight wasn't the threat of Grady. He understood that now, as he pictured Saturday's ceremony, and what would happen afterward. The cake would be cut, toasts would be made, photos would be taken. The bride and groom would make their escape. But not together.
No honeymoon would follow. No wedding night. They'd sign the purchase agreement, then carry on with their respective lives. She, at Windsong Place
. He, anywhere but.
The simple problem was he didn't want to leave her.
They reached the redbrick walkway lined with shrubbery and blossoming flowers, and Ryan laced his fingers through hers and led her through the courtyard.
Sunny glanced up at him, surprised that he hadn't guided her directly to their room. His touch, his stare, his hurry to leave, all had communicated his desire as clearly as a passionate kiss. And she, God help her, returned that desire. Every time they made love, though, she lost a little more of her confidence in her ability to walk away.
And she would need that ability, very soon.
They strolled through the dim, rose-scented courtyard accompanied by the distant music of the rushing river and gently chirping crickets. She wanted to forget their inevitable parting. She wanted to forget the way she had missed him so desperately when they'd been apart for less than two days. She wanted to enjoy the magic of being with him. Savor it. Store it somewhere deep in her memory.
With no explanation, Ryan led her around the far side of the mansion, to the service entrance at the back.
"Where are we going?"
He replied with a mysterious smile.
"Uh-oh. Last time you surprised me, we ended up in New York City." They climbed the dimly lit back stairway to the attic and her curiosity heightened. Ryan opened the door and touched a switch on the wall. Bright light flooded the massive attic.
The place had been dusted and polished. The octagonal windows, which lined the walls beneath the sloping ceiling, sparkled. And in the center of the floor had been placed an easel, a drawing table, unopened packs of canvas, a drying rack and a small electric jewelry kiln. Equipment she once would have killed for. Sunny stared.
He had amassed everything necessary for an art studio!
Hands in his jacket pockets, Ryan paced the vast room, his footsteps echoing. "Plenty of sun in both morning and afternoon," he pointed out, glancing toward the windows. "And on that wall, you can display your paintings. You know … show them." He stopped, and without looking at her, asked quietly, "Think inspiration might strike here?"
Gazing around in awed surprise, she murmured, "This is for me?"
"Just an idea." He sounded embarrassed. "So Madam Innkeeper doesn't forget about that starving artist inside her."
A profound tenderness welled up and pushed at the inner walls of her chest. She turned around in a slow circle, imagining the possibilities. "Oh, Ry … it's perfect."
He watched her in silent pleasure. She danced over to him and hugged him. His eyes darkened, his arms closed around her and he pulled her closer. The hug quickly turned into something more, something desperate and swaying.
"Sunny." His husky whisper was like the heady fragrance of roses. "When you took this job, I agreed to leave you here to manage the inn alone." He gazed down at her with heart-stopping hunger. "But I can't stay away."
Sunny caught her breath. Questions rushed to her tongue, but sudden hope made her too vulnerable to ask them. She finally managed to whisper, "Are you … talking about living here?"
"I can. I thought I might set up an office here. Get back in the swing of programming some of my own software."
Her heartbeat had slowed. "How long would you stay?"
"Days, maybe weeks…" The expression on her face, or perhaps her lack of response, prompted him to add, "You won't have to change any of your plans."
Suddenly, she understood. All too well. She broke away from his embrace.
"Sunny?"
She couldn't speak. Couldn't find words. She ran for the door, and her steps clattered on the stairway. It was as if Windsong's ghost was chasing her.
Ryan was stunned. What in the hell had her reaction meant? Didn't she want him to come back to Windsong Place
after the purchase had been finalized? Didn't she want him? He knew she did. Sunny wasn't the kind of woman who could make love with such tenderness and passion if she didn't truly want him.
So then why hadn't she been happy at his change in plans?
After walking around the moonlit grounds, weary from the questions clambering inside his head, Ryan wandered past the porte cochere with its gleaming carriage and stopped at the rocker-lined front porch. Staring at the glossy oak door, he gave in to a sudden, overpowering urge to turn around.
He found himself gazing out at the sloping front drive. He was looking for a car—a sleek, gray sedan. He wished fervently for its approach.
The car did not materialize.
Of course not. Ryan shook his head to dispel the odd fancy. What had made him think of such a car pulling up in the drive? And why, as he stood alone on the porch gazing bleakly into the darkness, did sadness overwhelm him? Sadness, and a deep, hollow ache?
He turned abruptly away from the sight of the front drive and entered the dimly lit Oak Hall. Whatever had caused the hollow feeling, he knew only one thing for certain: he had felt it many times before.
Most recently when he had watched Sunny gazing starry-eyed into Grady's smiling face.
There was only one way Ryan knew how to make the ache go away. His footsteps quickened as he climbed the Grand Staircase to the bedroom where Sunny would be waiting. He hoped.
* * *
11
« ^ »
She stood near the open French doors and allowed the bracing night wind to comb through her hair, not caring that it chilled her to the marrow. She couldn't hide from the truth anymore. She loved him. With her whole heart and soul, she loved him. She wanted him to stay with her, not only for sporadic visits, but for the rest of their lives.
But Ryan didn't believe in lifetime guarantees. And he didn't believe in love. As soon as he felt the threat of "emotional dependence," as he called it, his walls would spring up, shutting her out.
History was repeating itself. They had indulged freely, foolishly, in physical passion, building a need for each other that superseded all logic. Tomorrow, they would marry for a practical purpose. Again. And soon, she'd divorce him, with his full approval. Again.
But this time, as manager and co-owner of the inn, she wouldn't be able to protect what was left of her heart by running aw
ay. And Ryan could live here whenever he chose. With whomever he chose. She would be trapped here, managing the inn, pretending she wasn't dying inside.
A key jiggled in the lock. Sunny didn't turn around. The door opened, and after a moment, she heard his hoarse whisper. "Why did you run from me, Sunny?"
Facing the open French doors and the blinding night breeze, she whispered, "Because I was wrong, Ry. I promised that sex between us wouldn't lead to complications." She turned and met his frown. "But it has."
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard and crossed his muscled forearms over his chest. His look commanded her to explain.
"I realize you've given me everything I've asked for—a job, a home, a good salary, an excellent benefit package. A secure f-future." Her vision blurred with unshed tears. "Your body, your time."
"But it's not enough," he stated flatly.
She shook her head. "No. It's not enough."
Anger burned in his smoke-gray eyes. He made no move toward her, but his next words exploded with quiet passion. "Damn it, Sunny, what the hell do you want from me?"
"You," she replied. "I want you."
His gaze didn't soften. "You have me."
"For how long? Until the time comes when you don't want me in your life?"
Never, thought Ryan. He'd never stop wanting her. The truth of that shook him. He wanted her with him—in his home, in his bed—indefinitely. He wanted to possess her entirely.
Warning bells went off in his head. She was getting too necessary. Too important. Too close. With the warning came the sick, cold feeling of dread.
"I want your love," Sunny whispered, pleading with him. "I want you to love me. Because I love you."
For one unguarded moment, his eyes burned into hers as if he were gazing at a prize he could never claim; a paradise he would never enter. But in the next second, those eyes became shuttered and dark.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 16
