A Man for Amanda

by Nora Roberts

  This isn't me."

  With deceptive laziness, he skimmed his gaze down, then up again. "Then who the hell is it?"

  "I don't know." Frantic, she snatched up her sweats and began to pull them on. "I don't know who I am anymore, and it's your fault. Nothing's made sense since you ran into me on the sidewalk."

  "You ran into me."

  "That's beside the point." Shaken to the core, she yanked the sweatshirt over her head. "I'm daydream­ing when I'm supposed to be working. I'm making love with you when I should be keeping appointments. I'm having naked picnics when I should be filing papers. It's got to stop."

  "Maybe I should've just hit you over the head with the bottle of champagne instead of letting you drink it." Baffled, he scratched his head. "Why don't you sit down, Calhoun, and we'll talk this thing out?"

  "No, I will not sit down. You'll start on me again, and I won't be able to think. You're not going to make plans for the rest of my life without consulting me, without even having the courtesy to ask. I'm tak­ing back control of my life."

  He rose then, naked and furious. "You're mad be­cause I want you to marry me."

  The breath hissed out between her clenched teeth. "You're just stupid." She grabbed the closest thing handy and ended up hurling her glasses at him. "Too stupid for words." With this she strode to the door, fought with and cursed the lock until she managed to open it. "You can take your incredibly romantic pro­posal and stuff it."

  The hot and hazy afternoon was perfect for plea­sure. Christian surprised me with a little basket of wine and cold ham. Together we sat in the wild grass beyond the rock and watched the boats glide by be­low. The light was so golden, like something poured out of a gilded pitcher. But it is always so when I'm with him. In this lovely fantasy of afternoons, there is nothing but sunlight and warm, fragrant air.

  We talked of everything and nothing as he sketched me. He has already done two paintings of me since the summer began. Without risking modesty I can say he made me look beautiful. What woman is not when she is in love? And it was his eyes that studied me, his hands that drew my face, my hair. His feelings that guided his brush.

  If I had not believed before how deep and true his love is for me, I would have seen it in the portraits he painted.

  Will someone buy my portrait from him? It saddens me to think of it. Yet it makes me proud. That would be one way I could at last declare my feelings. Hang­ing on some pretty wall, the portrait of a woman whose eyes are filled with love for the man who painted her.

  I say we talked of everything and nothing. We do not mention how quickly the days fly into weeks. There are so little of those weeks left before I must leave the island, and Christian. I think something in me will die this time.

  Fergus and I attended a dinner dance tonight. He was very jolly, though there was much talk of war. He said that clever men know that there will always be war, and money to be made from it. I was stunned to hear him speak so, but he only brushed aside my concern.

  “It's for you to think of how to spend the money, and for me to make it," he told me.

  It upset me because it was not for money I married him, nor is it for money I stay with him. Both were for duty. Yet I have lived under his roof, eaten his food, taken his gifts without a thought.

  It scrapes at my conscience to know that I appre­ciated the little picnic Christian brought to me so much more than I have ever appreciated all the sump­tuous dinners Fergus's money has paid for.

  Because it always pleases him, I wore the emeralds, and I have not yet put them away. They lie in the shadowed light, glinting at me, reminding me of both my grief and my joy.

  If it were not for the children... but I can't think of it. There are the children. Whatever sins I commit, I will never desert them. They have needs that neither Christian nor I have a right to ignore. I know, in the loneliness ahead of me, they will be solace. Being blessed with them, it is not right to grieve for the child Christian and I must never conceive.

  Yet, I do.

  Tonight when I turn off the lamp I'll try to sleep quickly. For then it will be morning, and morning will become the golden afternoon, when I can see Chris­tian again.

  Chapter Ten

  The only thing that prevented Amanda from slam­ming the door was the fact that Suzanna would have already put the children to bed. But she did kick it.

  Limping and muttering and occasionally sending a furious look over her shoulder, she started down the hallway. At that point, she wasn't certain if she was more angry with Sloan for taking her assent for granted, or with herself for wanting to give it to him. Marriage hadn't been in her plans, but damn it, she was good at taking the unexpected and making it work. But if he thought she would give him the sat­isfaction of just hopping on board because he said so, then he didn't know Amanda Kelly Calhoun.

  When we get married, she fumed. Not if, not will you or would you. And the problem, the big problem was that under the instant panic and anger had been a thrill. She paused outside of her bedroom door as her own soft sigh caught up with her. Oh, Lord, she did want to marry him. Despite all the good, solid, sensible reasons against it, marrying him was exactly what she wanted. Living with him would mean living with the constant threat of upheaval. She smiled to herself. And what more satisfying life could there be for a woman so skilled at putting things back in place?

  With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated, de­bating whether she would go back, give in to the urge to throw herself laughing into his arms and say...yes!

  No. Resolute, Amanda pushed open the door. She wasn't about to make it that easy for him. If he wanted her, really wanted her, then he was going to have to work a little harder. When he got it right—if he got it right—she corrected as she shut the door behind her, she would smile, slide her arms around him and say—

  An arm whipped around her throat and cut off her breath. Instinctively she struggled, throwing both hands up to the barrier to yank and scratch as she fought to drag in the air to scream. Until the hard, cold barrel of a gun pressed against her temple.

  "Don't." The voice was only a harsh whisper at her ear. "Be very still, and very quiet, and I won't have to hurt you."

  Obediently she let her arms fall limply to her sides, but her mind was speeding. The children were just down the hall. Their safety came first. And Sloan... Sloan could come along at any moment, furiously de­manding a showdown.

  "That's better." The pressure on her windpipe eased slightly. "If you scream, people are going to get hurt—starting with you. I don't think you want that." She shook her head. "Good. Now—" He swore and tightened his grip again as Sloan bellowed in the corridor.

  "Calhoun. I'm not finished with you."

  "Be absolutely quiet," the man warned as he dragged her back. "Or I'll kill him."

  Amanda shut her eyes and prayed.

  Sloan shoved open the door of her room, but it was pitch-dark and silent inside. While he stood in the doorway, swearing, Amanda was pressed back into the corner, knowing the gun was now aimed in Sloan's direction. Her stomach seemed to be packed with ice as she stood, not even daring to breathe, will­ing him to turn and go. And when he did, when she heard his boots clanging on the stairs, she wondered if she would ever see him again.

  "Now that we have a little privacy, we can talk." But the arm stayed around her throat and the gun at her temple. "About the emeralds."

  "I don't know where they are."

  "Yes. Initially I had trouble believing that, but now I'm sure you don't. So we'll play this a different way. We'll have to move quickly. First the storeroom. I'll take the papers you've yet to sort through. Then, to add a little flare to the trip, we'll fetch Coco's pearls, and a few of the smaller, more portable items."

  "You'll never get out of the house."

  "You just leave that up to me." There was a faint lilt of pleasure in the voice now, as if he would enjoy the challenge. "Now we're going to move quietly, and very quickly to the storeroom. If you try anything hero
ic, I'll regret shooting you."

  She didn't dare, not with the children so close. But the storeroom, she thought, as she started out with him directly behind her. That was a different matter.

  Sloan had left the lights on. The remnants of their picnic were spread over the floor. The air smelled, ever so lightly, of strawberries and champagne.

  "Very sweet," Livingston murmured, then shut the door behind them. "It would have been more con­venient for me if you had had the séance instead of a tryst" He loosened his hold so that she could step away, but kept his gun level.

  Amanda stared at the man she knew as William Livingston. He was all in black with a soft leather pouch worn crosswise over his chest. On his hands were thin surgical gloves. The gun he carried was small, but she didn't doubt it was lethal, not when she looked into his eyes.

  "No recriminations, Amanda?" His brow lifted when she said nothing. "I'd hoped you and I could enjoy each other while I was conducting business, but...let's not waste time." From his pouch he pulled out a denim duffel bag. "Just the papers from those boxes there. I'm sure you're too efficient to have filed away anything useful."

  She bent to pick up the bag he'd tossed at her. "You've lost your accent."

  "It's lost its purpose. Be quick, Amanda." His eyes narrowed as he gestured with the gun. "Very quick."

  She began to stuff papers into the bag. He was stealing her history, she thought furiously. Her family. "These won't do you any good."

  "I doubt you believe that, or you wouldn't be wast­ing your time with them." His posture seemed almost relaxed now as he stood between Amanda and the door. "You're much too practical. In my profession, it pays to do your homework. I know your family quite well." To hurry her along, he waved the gun. "Which is why I chose to concentrate on you, the most efficient and straightforward of the Calhoun women."

  If his ego was the only thing she could strike at, she'd take her best shot. "I hope you weren't ex­pecting me to fall for you." She flicked a coolly dis­missive glance over him. "You're not my type—then or now."

  It hit the mark. His vanity was as huge as his am­bition. "It's a pity that the lack of time prevents me from testing that. Perhaps when I come back, we'll pick up where we left off."

  "Even if you get away tonight, you'll never get back in this house again."

  He only smiled. "We'll see. Running into you like this complicates my plans, but it doesn't alter the final goal. The necklace. I want it very badly. Some jewels have power, and I have a feeling about this necklace. A strong feeling."

  The air in the room was suddenly cold, bone-chilling cold. The expression in Livingston's eyes changed. "Drafts," he muttered uneasily. "The place is full of drafts."

  But Amanda felt it, too, and was Calhoun enough to recognize it.

  "It's Bianca," she said, and despite the gun, de­spite the odds, felt completely safe. "If you've done your homework, then you'll know she's still here." The darting nerves in his eyes made her smile. "I don't think she wants you to have the papers, or the necklace."

  "Ghosts?" he laughed, but the sound was strained. Though he could see with his own eyes that nothing had changed, he was no longer sure he was alone in the room with Amanda. "That's unworthy of you."

  "Then why are you frightened?"

  "I'm not frightened, I'm in a hurry. That's enough." He found himself desperate to get out of the room, out of the house. Despite the eerie chill, a line of sweat dribbled down his back. "You carry the bag. Since this has taken longer than expected, we'll have to forgo Coco's pearls, for now." Impatient, he waved the gun at her. "Out the terrace doors."

  Amanda debated heaving the duffel bag at him and running. But then he would have the papers. Instead, she struggled with it, then fumbled at the door. "It's stuck."

  She was braced when he came up behind her to fight with the old latch. The minute the door opened, she stuck a foot behind him, threw her weight against him, then ran.

  Wanting to lead him away from her family, she headed toward the west wing. As she hit the first set of stone stairs, she shouted for Sloan. The heavy bag bumped each step as she dragged it with her. She could hear him behind her, closing in, and zigged around a corner as the first bullet pinged off granite.

  She didn't stop to catch her breath, though her lungs were beginning to burn. The May night was warm, oppressively warm after the cold of the store­room. The air was heavy with the threat of rain.

  The sensation of safety she had felt in the store­room had vanished. There was no protection now, except for her knowledge of the complex layout of the terraces and stairs. But she was straining, fighting her way through the dark and through the sudden cer­tainty that she could not handle this alone.

  Then she saw Sloan, heading toward her from the opposite direction. The relief lasted only an instant before she heard another shot.

  Lights were flashing everywhere inside the house. Sloan shouted at her before he came forward like a charging bull. Unarmed, Amanda realized, blind with fury, and straight into a loaded gun.

  Without hesitation, she whirled away from Sloan and heaved the bag of papers at Livingston. As he snatched it up, she could hear raised voices from in­side, Jenny's crying, the dog's frantic barks. Wanting to protect as much as be protected, Amanda raced toward Sloan. When she reached him, arms out­stretched, he shoved her aside.

  "Get in the house."

  "He's got a gun," she said, desperately clinging to his arm. "Just let him go."

  "I said get inside." He shook her off, then before her astonished eyes, leaped over the wall.

  With her heart in her throat, she raced to it, to see him scrambling up from the terrace below. Even as Lilah burst through a door, Amanda was giving chase.

  "What the hell's going on?" Lilah shouted after her.

  "Call the police." After the single order, Amanda saved her breath for running, following the sound of stampeding feet and Fred's furious barks.

  There was no moonlight to guide her, but she plunged heedlessly into the dark, screaming for Sloan when she heard the explosion of gunfire. She flew down the steps, tearing around the house in a dead run. Over her own ragged gasps, she heard a shouted curse, then the sound of tires Squealing on asphalt.

  In her hurry, she stumbled once, scrambling back up from the driveway with gravel stinging her palms. Then for an instant, a terrifying instant, there was only the sound of the sea and the wind and her own thun­dering pulse.

  Her legs trembled as she dashed down the slope, so blind with fear that she didn't see Sloan until she rammed into him.

  "Oh, God." Her hands were instantly on his face. "I thought he'd killed you."

  He was too infuriated at having lost his quarry to appreciate her concern. "Not for lack of trying. Are you all right?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine. It was—"

  "You're bleeding." Every other thought in his head vanished. "There's blood on your hands."

  "I fell." She dropped her head onto his shoulder. "It was so dark, and I couldn't see." Fighting tears, she held on to him as Fred whined at their feet. In an abrupt change of mood, she pulled back, pushing at his chest with her sore hands. Her damp eyes sizzled. "Are you crazy, chasing after him that way? I told you he had a gun. He could have shot you."

  "He damn near shot you," Sloan retorted. "And didn't I tell you to stay inside?"

  "I don't take orders from you," she began.

  "You're both alive," Lilah commented. Flashlight in hand, she strolled toward them. "I could hear you arguing from the end of the driveway." The light shot across papers scattered in the road. "What's all this?"

  "Oh, God, he must have dropped some." Amanda was already down on her hands and knees, gathering them up.

  "Must've been when Fred bit his leg." Far from pacified, Sloan bent to snatch up a paper before it blew away.

  "Fred bit him?" Amanda and Lilah said in unison.

  "Good and hard from the sound of it." It was a small but sweet satisfaction. "We might have had him, t
oo, but he had a car stashed down the road."

  "And he might have shot both of you," Amanda retorted.

  "Excuse me." Lilah felt she was doing her part by shining the light so they could see to find papers. "Who is he?"

  "Livingston," Sloan told her, then added a string of curses. "You'll have to get the details from your sister."

  "Inside," Lilah suggested. "The rest of the family is in an uproar."

  "You called the police?"

  "Yes." Right before she'd rushed out of the house, barefoot, to chase her sister down the graveled drive­way. When Fred stopped to perk his ears then give a long, ululant howl, she laughed. "And I'd say they're on the way. Fred already hears the sirens."

  Because her arms were full, Amanda pushed the papers into Lilah's arms, then began to pick up more as they started back. "He didn't get everything," she muttered, then thought of that moment in the store­room when the air had changed. "I knew he wouldn't."

  At the door of the house Suzanna stood, a slim gladiator, armed with a fireplace poker. "Is everyone all right?"

  "Fine." Amanda let out an exhausted breath. "The kids?"

  "In the parlor with Aunt Coco. Oh, honey, your hands."

  "I just scraped them."

  "I'll get some antiseptic."

  "And some brandy," Lilah added, before laying the papers on a table in the hallway.

  Twenty minutes later, the story had been related to the police, and the family was left alone to absorb it. Sloan paced behind the sofa while the Calhoun women huddled together.

  "We had that—that thief to dinner." Coco glared into her brandy. "I baked a chocolate souffle. And all the time he was plotting to steal from us."

  "The police will shoot him," Alex piped up. "Bang! Between the eyes."

  "I think we've had enough excitement for one night." Suzanna kissed the top of his head. Less sure of himself than he wanted to be, Alex slipped a hand into hers and held tight.

  "He got most of the papers." With a sigh, Amanda reached for the pile she'd tossed onto the coffee table. "I hope Fred took a good chunk out of him."

  "Good boy, Fred." Lilah cuddled the dog in her lap. "I don't think they'll do Livingston—or whoever he is—any good. He's not meant to find the emeralds. We are."

  "He won't get the chance," Sloan said grimly. "Not with the security system I'm putting in." He shot a look at Amanda, daring her to argue, but she was staring at one of the papers.

  "It's a letter," she murmured. "A letter from Bianca to Christian."

  "Oh, my dear." Coco leaned forward. "What does it say?"

  Amanda read,

  "My love,

  I'm writing this as the rain continues to fall and keeps me from you. I wonder what you are do­ing, if you paint today in the gloomy light and think of me. When I'm alone like this in my tower, separated from the reality of my duties, I let the memories sweep over me. Of the first time I saw you, standing on the cliffs. Of the last time I touched you. I'm praying for the sun, Christian, so that we can make more memories. I cannot tell you how you have changed me, how much more my eyes see, now that they see with my heart. I can't imagine how empty my life would have been without this time we had together. I know now that love is very rare, very precious. It is something to be cherished and held on to tightly while too often it is smothered, or brushed carelessly away. Remember, even when our time together ends, I will hold your love. It will live in my heart long after that heart stops beating.

  Bianca."

  Coco let out a long, dreamy sigh. "Oh, how much they must have loved each other."

  "Yucky," Alex said sleepily, and rested his head on his mother's breast.

  Amanda smoothed the letter out, hating the fact that it had become crumpled. "I guess she never got the chance to send it to him. All these years it's been mixed up with receipts and account sheets."