by JoAnn Ross
It took no imagination at all to envision some man—a rich, suave guy with manicured fingernails and smooth palms that had never known the handle of a hammer, a man from her own social set—snapping Amanda up right after her debut.
Did girls still have formal debuts? Dane wondered, remembering a few he’d worked as a waiter during collegeformal affairs in gilded hotel ballrooms where lovely rich girls donned long elbow-length gloves, their grandmothers’ pearls and fancy white dresses that cost nearly as much as a semester’s tuition, and waltzed with their fathers. He’d have to ask Mindy. The daughter of a local fisherman, she’d certainly met her share of society girls at various beauty pageants. On more than one occasion she’d complained to Dane that those rich girls only entered as a lark. Their futures, unlike hers, didn’t depend on their winning the scholarship money. The fact that Amanda still had the same name as she had that long-ago summer meant nothing, Dane considered, returning his thoughts to Amanda Stockenberg’s marital status. Married women often kept their maiden names for professional reasons.
His jaw clenched at the idea of Amanda married to some Yuppie who drove a BMW, preferred estate-bottled wine to beer, bought his clothes from Brooks Brothers, golfed eighteen holes on Saturday and sailed in yachting regattas on Sundays.
As he’d shopped for the damn wallpaper, Dane had hoped that he’d exaggerated the condition of the tower room when he’d measured the walls after Amanda’s telephone call. Unfortunately, as he entered it now, he realized that it was even worse.
He wasn’t fixing it up for sentimental reasons, Dane assured himself firmly. He was only going to the extra trouble because he didn’t want Amanda to think him unsuccessful.
He pulled the peeling paper from the walls, revealing wallboard stained from the formerly leaky roof. Water stains also blotched the ceiling, like brown inkblots in a Rorschach test. The pine-plank floor was badly in need of refinishing, but a coat of paste wax and some judiciously placed rugs would cover the worst of the damage.
A sensible man would simply turn around and walk out, close the door behind him and tell the lady, when she arrived, that the clerk had made a mistake; the tower room wasn’t available.
For not the first time since he’d gotten the idea to buy Smugglers’ Inn, Dane reminded himself that a sensible man would have stayed in his executive suite at the New Orleans home office of the Whitfield Palace hotel chain and continued to collect his six-figure salary and requisite perks.
I’ll bet the husband plays polo. The thought had him snapping the plumb line with more force than necessary, sending blue chalk flying. Dane had not forgotten Amanda’s father’s boastful remarks about the polo ponies he kept stabled at his weekend house in Santa Barbara.
What the hell was he doing? Dane asked himself as he rolled the paper out onto a board placed atop a pair of sawhorses and cut the first piece. Why torture himself with old memories?
He slapped the paste onto the back of the flowered paper and tried not to remember a time when this room had smelted like the gardenia cologne Amanda had worn that summer.
When something was over and done with, you forgot it and moved on.
Wasn’t that exactly what she had done?
After promising him “forever,” Amanda Stockenberg had walked out of his life without so much as a backward glance.
And ten years later, as he climbed the ladder and positioned the strip of paper against the too-heavy blue chalk line, Dane was still trying to convince himself that it was only his pride—not his heart—that had been wounded.
Although many things in Amanda’s life had changed over the past ten years, Smugglers’ Inn was not one of them. Perched on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the building’s lit windows glowed a warm welcome.
“Well, we’re here, folks,” the driver of the American Charter bus announced with a vast amount of cheer, considering the less-than-ideal circumstances of the trip. A halfhearted round of applause rippled down the rows.
“It’s about time,” Greg Parsons complained. He speared Amanda a sharp look. “You realize that we’ve already lost the entire first day of the challenge.”
Having been forced to put up with her supervisor’s sarcasm for the past hour, Amanda was in no mood to turn the other cheek.
“That landslide wasn’t my fault, Greg.” They’d been stuck on the bus in the pouring rain for five long, frustrating hours while highway crews cleared away the rock and mud from the road.
“If we’d only left thirty minutes earlier—”
“We could have ended up beneath all that mud.”
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Amanda did not point out that the original delay had been caused by Kelli Kyle. The auburn-haired public-relations manager had arrived at the company parking lot twenty-five minutes after the time the bus had been scheduled to depart.
Watercooler rumors had Kelli doing a lot more for Greg than plotting PR strategy; but Amanda’s working relationship with Greg was bad enough without her attacking his girlfriend.
She reached into her purse, took out a half-empty roll of antacids and popped two of the tablets into her mouth. Her stomach had been churning for the past twenty miles and a headache was threatening.
Which wasn’t unusual when she was forced to spend the entire day with Greg Parsons. Amanda couldn’t think of a single person—with the possible exception of Kelli Kyle— who liked the man.
The first thing he’d done upon his arrival in Portland was to prohibit staffers from decorating their office walls and cubicles with the crazy posters and wacky decorations that were a commonplace part of the creative environment at other agencies. When a memo had been sent out two months ago, forbidding employees even to drink coffee at their desks, Amanda had feared an out-and-out rebellion.
The hand grenade he kept on his desk and daily memos from The Art of War also had not endeared him to his fellow workers.
“Let’s just hope we have better luck with this inn you’ve booked us into,” he muttered, scooping up his crocodile attaché case and marching down the aisle. “Because so far, the corporate challenge is turning out to be an unmitigated
disaster.”
Unwilling to agree, Amanda didn’t answer. The welcoming warmth of the fire crackling in the large stone fireplace soothed the jangled nerves of the challenge-week participants, as did the glasses of hot coffee, cider and wine served on a myrtle-wood tray by a handsome young man who vaguely reminded Amanda of Dane Cutter.
The young girl working behind the front desk was as pretty as the waiter was handsome. She was also, Amanda noticed, amazingly efficient. Within minutes, and without the Miss America smile fading for a moment, Mindy Tay lor had registered the cranky chilled guests into their rooms, handed out the keys and assigned bellmen to carry the lug gage upstairs.
Finally it was Amanda’s turn. “Good evening, Ms. Stockenberg,” Mindy greeted Amanda with the same unfailing cheer she had the others. “Welcome to Smugglers’ Inn.”
“It’s a relief to be here.”
The smile warmed. “I heard about your troubles getting here from Portland.” She tapped briskly on the computer as she talked. “I’m sure the rest of your week will go more smoothly.”
“I hope so.” It sure couldn’t get any worse.
“You’re in the tower room as requested.” Mindy handed her the antique brass key. “If you don’t mind waiting just a moment, Kevin will be back and will take your suitcases up for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” a male voice coming from behind Amanda said. “I’ll take care of Ms. Stockenberg’s luggage.”
No, Amanda thought. It couldn’t be!
She slowly turned around, taking time to school her expression to one of polite surprise. “Hello, Dane.”
Although a decade had passed, he looked just the same. But better, she decided on second thought. Dark and rugged, and so very dangerous. The kind of boy—no, he was a man now, she reminded herself—that fathers
of daughters stayed awake nights worrying about.
His shaggy dark hair was still in need of a haircut, and his eyes, nearly as dark as his hair, were far from calm, but the emotions swirling in their midnight depths were too complex for Amanda to decipher. A five-o’clock shadow did nothing to detract from his good looks; the dark stubble only added to his appeal.
His jeans, white T-shirt and black leather jacket were distractingly sexy. They also made her worry that standards might have slipped at the inn since the last time she’d visited.
“Hello, princess.” His full, sensual mouth curved in a smile that let her know the intimacy implied by the long-ago nickname was intentional. “Welcome to Smugglers’ Inn.” His gaze swept over her. “You’re looking more lovely than ever.”
Actually, she looked like hell. To begin with, she was too damn thin. Her oval face was pale and drawn. Her beige linen slacks and ivory tunic top, which he suspected probably cost as much as the inn’s new water heater, looked as if she’d slept in them; her hair was wet from her dash from the bus, there were blue shadows beneath her eyes, and sometime during the long trip from Portland, she’d chewed off her lipstick.
Dane knew he was in deep, deep trouble when he still found her the most desirable woman he’d ever seen.
Amanda struggled to keep Dane from realizing that he’d shaken her. All it had taken was his calling her that ridiculous name to cause a painful fluttering in her heart.
How could she have thought that she’d gotten over him? Dane Cutter was not a man women got over. Not in this lifetime. Her hand closed tightly around the key.
“Thank you. It’s a relief to finally be here. Is the dining room closed yet? I know we’re late, but—”
“We kept it open when it was obvious you’d gotten held up. Or, if you’d prefer, there’s room service.”
The idea of a long bath and a sandwich and cup of tea sent up to her room sounded delightful. “That’s good news.” The first in a very long and very trying day.
“We try to make our guests as comfortable as possible.”
He scooped up both her cases, deftly tucked them under his arm and took her briefcase from her hand. It was biscuit-hued cowhide, as smooth as a baby’s bottom, with her initials in gold near the handle. “Nice luggage.”
She’d received the Louis Vuitton luggage from her parents as a graduation present. Her mother had been given a similar set from her parents when she’d married. And her mother before her. It was, in a way, a family tradition. So why did she suddenly feel a need to apologize?
“It’s very functional.”
His only response to her defensive tone was a shrug. “So I’ve heard.” He did not mention that he’d bought a similar set for his mother, as a bon voyage gift for the Alaskan cruise he’d booked her on last summer. “If you’re all checked in, I’ll show you to your room.”
“I remember the way.” It had been enough of a shock to discover Dane still working at the inn. Amanda didn’t believe she could handle being alone in the cozy confines of the tower room with him. Not with the memory of their last night together still painfully vivid in her mind.
“I’ve no doubt you do.” Ignoring the clenching of his stomach, Dane flashed her a maddening grin, letting her know that they were both on the same wavelength. The devil could probably take smiling lessons from Dane Cutter. “But someone needs to carry your luggage up and Jimmy and Kevin are tied up with other guests.”
“There’s no hurry.” Her answering smile was as polite as it was feigned. Although she’d never considered herself a violent person, after the way Dane had treated her, dumping her without a single word of explanation, like he undoubtedly did the rest of his summer girls, her hands practically itched with the need to slap his face. “I’ll just go on up and they can bring my bags to the tower whenever they’re free.”
“I have a feeling that might be a while.” He nodded his head toward the doorway, declaring the subject closed.
Not wanting to create a scene in front of the avidly interested young clerk, Amanda tossed her damp head and marched out of the room.
This was a mistake, she told herself as she stood beside Dane in the antique elevator slowly creaking its way up to the third floor. The next few days were the most important in her life. Her entire career, everything she’d worked so hard to achieve, depended on the corporate challenge week being a success. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted.
Unfortunately, Smugglers’ Inn, she was discovering too late, held far too many distracting memories.
“I’m surprised to find you working here,” she murmured, trying to ignore the familiar scent of soap emanating from his dark skin.
He chuckled—a low, rich tone that crept under her skin and caused her blood to thrum. “So am I.” He put the bags on the floor, leaned against the back wall and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Continually.”
Amanda thought about all the plans Dane had shared with her that summer. About how he was going to get out of this isolated small coastal town, how he planned to make his mark on the world, how he was going to be rich by his thirtieth birthday.
She did some rapid calculations and determined him to be twenty-nine. Obviously, if his unpretentious clothing and the fact that he was still carrying bags for guests at the inn were any indication, if Dane hoped to achieve even one of those goals, he’d have to win the lottery.
“Looks as if you’ve done all right for yourself.” His measuring glance swept over her. “Assistant creative director for one of the top advertising firms in the country. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me, do you have a window office?”
“Actually, I do.” Realizing that he was daring to mock her success, she tossed up her chin. “Overlooking the river.”
“Must be nice. And a corporate credit card, too, I’ll bet.”
“Of course.” She’d been thrilled the first time she’d flashed the green American Express card granted only to upper-level management personnel in an expensive Manhattan restaurant. It had seemed, at the time, an important rite of passage. Having been born into wealth, Amanda wanted—needed—to achieve success on her own.
“High-backed swivel desk chair?”
Two could play this game. “Italian cream leather.”
She refused to admit she’d bought the extravagant piece of office furniture for herself with last year’s Christmas bonus.
Of course, the minute Greg Parsons had caught sight of it, after returning from a holiday vacation to Barbados, he’d rushed out and bought himself a larger, higher model. In jet leather. With mahogany trim.
Dane whistled appreciatively. “Yes, sir, you’ve definitely come a long way. Especially for a lady who once professed a desire to raise five kids in a house surrounded by a white picket fence, and spend summers putting up berries and long dark winters making more babies in front of a crackling fire.”
How dare he throw those youthful fantasies back into her face! Didn’t he realize that it had been him she’d fantasized about making love to, his babies she’d wanted?
After she’d been forced to accept the fact that her dreams of marrying Dane Cutter were only that—stupid, romantic teenage daydreams—she’d gone on to find a new direction for her life. A direction that was, admittedly, heavily influenced by her father’s lofty expectations for his only child.
“People grow up,” she said. “Goals change.”
“True enough,” he agreed easily, thinking how his own life had taken a 180-degree turn lately. “Speaking of changes, you’ve changed your scent.” It surrounded them in the enclosed space, more complex than the cologne that had haunted his dreams last night. More sensual.
“Have I?” she asked with feigned uninterest. “I don’t remember.”
“Your old cologne was sweet. And innocent.” He leaned forward, drinking it in. “This makes a man think of deep, slow kisses.” His breath was warm on her neck. “And hot sex on a steamy summer night.”
His words, his deep voice, the closeness of his body to hers, all conspired to make her knees weak. Amanda considered backing away, then realized there was nowhere to go.
“I didn’t come here to rehash the past, Dane.” Her headache was building to monumental proportions. “This trip to Satan’s Cove is strictly business.”
“Yeah, I seem to recall Reva saying something about corporate game-playing stunts.”
Her remarkable eyes were as blue as a sunlit sea. A careless man could drown in those wide eyes. Having succumbed to Amanda Stockenberg’s siren call once before, Dane had no intention of making that mistake again. Although he knew that to touch her would be dangerous, he couldn’t resist reaching out to rub the pads of his thumbs against her temples.
Amanda froze at his touch. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her voice might have turned as chilly as the rain falling outside, but her flesh was warming in a way he remembered all too well. “Helping you get rid of that headache before you rub a hole in your head.”
He stroked small, concentric circles that did absolutely nothing to soothe. One hand roamed down the side of her face, her neck, before massaging her knotted shoulder muscle.
His hand was rough with calluses upon calluses, hinting at a life of hard, physical work rather than the one spent behind a wide executive desk he’d once yearned for. It crossed Amanda’s mind that in a way, she was living the successful, high-powered life Dane had planned for himself. Which made her wonder if he was living out her old, discarded dreams.
Was he married? Did he have children? The idea of any other woman carrying Dane Cutter’s baby caused a flicker of something deep inside Amanda that felt uncomfortably like envy.
“You sure are tense, princess.” His clever fingers loosened the knot even as they tangled her nerves.
She knew she should insist he stop, but his touch was working wonders on her shoulder. “Knotted muscles and the occasional headache come with the territory. And don’t call me princess.”“
Dane knew the truth of her first statement all too well. It was one of several reasons he’d bailed out of corporate life.