Calder Storm (15 page)

An eyebrow rose in a high arch. “I can just imagine how she made that sound,” Cat remarked dryly, then eyed Sloan curiously. “Does that worry you?”

“It doesn't worry me. It's just not something I particularly like.”

“You like people, don't you?”

“Of course—”

“That's all that's necessary,” Cat said with a shrug. “The rest is easy.”

“Tara certainly didn't make it sound that way,” Sloan recalled.

“She wouldn't.” Cat closed up the dishwasher and checked to make sure the door was tightly latched. “But, remember, things are casual here on the Triple C. I can count on my hands the number of times we've hosted anything that resembles one of Tara's black-tie affairs.”

Sloan wasn't convinced that it was as easy as Cat made it sound. She'd had time to consider the myriad of details involved. “But there's the menus—like the lobster salad today—”

Cat immediately broke in. “Remind me to show you my secret. My mother was an amazing woman. Totally organized. She created all these menus—there must be three hundred or more of them—complete with recipes. All you have to do is pick and choose, change a dish here or there, depending on the season or the guest.”

“The guest? What do you mean?”

“She kept a card file of just about every visitor. On them, she'd note whether they were married or single, the names and ages of their children, if any, their drink preferences, food allergies, or anything else that might be of use to her. When I was a teenager, I always wondered how she remembered the name of some man's child or that he only drank Johnny Walker Red when she hadn't seen him in a year or more. Then I discovered her secret. Now I have a file of my own. It's only a matter of jotting down a few pertinent details, and it lets you make a lasting impression on them. It's also why Calder hospitality is so renowned.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Cat assured her. “And it isn't like you'll be plunged into the role overnight. You have plenty of time to ease your way into it. Before you know it, it'll be second nature to you.”

Listening to Cat, for the first time since Tara had left, Sloan felt at ease in her mind. She even found herself looking forward to next week when the designer returned to present his recommendations—even if it meant Tara would be with him.

T
ense and eager, Sloan sat on the edge of the chair, watching while Trey studied the sketches of the room designs and the sample board with its fabric swatches, paint chips, and pictures of assorted furniture pieces. She waited for some change in his expression, something that might reveal his reaction. Then her patience wore out.

“So, what do you think?” She struggled to contain her own enthusiasm for it. “It's everything we talked about, isn't it?”

“Exactly.” He sounded a little stunned.

“I know. I couldn't believe he got it right on the first try, either, especially with Tara talking in his ear all the time.” Sloan let her smile grow. “But there it is. The earth tones we wanted with enough punch of color to keep it from being boring. Good, substantial furniture, nothing too ornate, yet a little eclectic. The overall look is warm, comfortable, and uncluttered, just like the rest of the house.”

“There's a lot of work here,” Trey warned. “More than just some fresh paint on the walls, different curtains at the windows, and a new sofa.”

“True, it is more extensive than we had planned,” she admit
ted. “But, according to Cat, this carpet is at least twenty years old, maybe more. And we've already checked—there are hardwood floors both in here and the bedroom. I'd much rather refinish them than replace the carpet. It's obvious, though, it will be easier if we move out while all the work's being done.”

“We've barely moved in,” he reminded her as he laid the sample board and sketches atop the coffee table.

Aware that he still needed a bit of convincing, Sloan shifted onto the sofa, linking an arm through his. “I admit it will be inconvenient for a while, but it'll be worth it once the work's all done. And don't forget, Tara's paying for it.”

“As long as we don't pay for it.”

She jerked her head around. “Tara wouldn't back out at the last minute and stick us with the bills, would she?”

“No. She'd much rather brag about how much she paid to have it done. And I wasn't referring to money, anyway.”

“Then what?”

A small smile showed. “Johnny informed me today that I was asking for trouble if we went through with this. He claims that more couples break up over the trials and tribulations of home remodeling than almost anything else. According to him, if we can survive this, our marriage can survive anything.”

“I'm not worried,” Sloan replied with serene confidence. “After all, we've already survived the ordeal of packing and moving me here. And it isn't like we actually have to live in the mess. We'll be a couple doors down the hall.”

“Is that right?” Amusement deepened the corners of his mouth as he freed his arm from hers and draped it around her shoulders, drawing her with him when he settled against the sofa's back cushions.

“It is.” Turning sideways, she spread a hand across his shirt front, conscious of the solid muscle beneath it. “So what do you say? I'm game if you are.”

There was a subtle change in the darkness of his gaze, a heat building in it. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

It gave her a sense of power to know that she had aroused that
glint of desire in his eyes. At the same time, his look of need ignited her own senses, quickening her pulse and stealing some of her breath. She suddenly felt sexy and eager to turn him on.

“That's encouraging.” Pressing closer, she let her hand slide down onto the flat of his stomach, slipping her fingers inside his jeans and feeling the involuntary contraction of his muscles. Chin tilting upward, her lips parting, she invited his hungry kiss, anticipating the hot, delicious things it would do to her.

Sloan knew as well as Trey did that this wouldn't end with one kiss. It never did with them. They were both too greedy, and the primitive fires blazed too hot for that.

The instant his mouth claimed hers, Trey took the initiative away from her and drove her backward onto the seat cushions, his tongue mating with hers while his hand cupped the thrusting point of her breast. The rangy length of his body was pressed onto hers, making his hardness felt. It only made her body more aware of her own tingling ache.

From there it was a natural progression of events as the barrier of their clothes was dispensed with. They stroked, caressed, demanded, and coupled with a wondrous urgency, a sexual brilliance radiating between them. This closeness, this insistence, this raw need—it had always been this way between them. Neither could imagine that it would ever change.

 

A sun-drenched sky stretched its canopy over the Triple C headquarters while the heat of the day held the land in its grip. It looked to be one of those lazy summer afternoons with little stirring, a time of quiet contemplation.

But peace and quiet had become rare commodities at The Homestead now that work on the master suite had gone into full swing. There always seemed to be a steady stream of tradesmen and laborers tromping through the house, either on their way in or out. When one wasn't hammering, another was drilling, sawing, sanding, or ripping out something.

As usual, Chase took refuge outside on the front veranda, away from all the noise, dust, and chaos going on inside. He sat in his rocker, half-glowering at the collection of vans and trucks parked in front of the house, spoiling his view. When the front door opened, he threw an impatient glance at the fresh blast of noise, then tempered it as Cat emerged, balancing a pitcher of tea and two glasses on a tray.

“How about some iced tea? It's freshly made.” She had a cheerful smile fixed on her face, but he detected a bit of tightness in it that suggested her nerves were as frayed by the constant racket as his own.

“Sounds good, as long as it isn't gritty from all the dust and who-knows-what in the air,” he grumbled in ill humor.

“Now, Dad, it isn't that bad.” She set the tray on the side table and poured them each a glass.

“Then how come my soup crunched at lunch today?”

“I told you that was probably a pepper chunk. For whatever reason, my pepper mill isn't grinding it as fine as it usually does,” Cat replied with tested patience.

He grunted his skepticism and took a sampling sip of the cold tea. “It seems to be all right,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Of course it is.” She took a seat in the other rocking chair and picked up the cardboard fan lying on the side table. Idly, she waved it in front of her face. “It's really gotten hot today.”

“Hot and dry.” A rancher at heart, Chase never could overlook the lack of rain.

“It usually is in July.”

The front door opened again, and a laborer muscled an oversized trash can through the opening. Without a glance in their direction, he lugged it across the deck and down the front steps, then dragged it to a Dumpster.

“What the hell are they hauling out now?” Chase frowned, his gaze narrowing as he tried to determine its contents.

“Probably wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper? Where in God's name did they get that?”

Cat barely managed to suppress a sigh. “Don't you remember? Sloan told us—I think, it was either yesterday or the day before—that when they took out the wall sconces in the bedroom, they discovered that under the paint there were at least three layers of wallpaper. So they're stripping all of it off.”

“Good Lord, how long is that going to take?” His big hands gripped the armrest in rigid anger. “At this rate, it'll be time for roundup before they finally get done.”

“Keep your voice down,” Cat said in a sharp hiss, her glance shooting past him to the front door.

“Why should I shush when they're banging away without a thought of all the noise they're making?” He caught a movement in his side vision and turned his head to see Sloan standing motionless a few feet away.

Regret clouded Sloan's expression, and the sight of it pulled at Cat. “Don't pay any attention to him, Sloan. He's just being his usual grumpy self.”

“No, he's right. I'm the one who needs to apologize,” she stated. “I just never dreamt fixing up two rooms could take this long. I'm sorry that I'm putting you through all this.”

“We all live and learn, child,” Chase stated, his irritation giving way to a sternness. “Next time Tara offers you a gift, you'll know to back up and take another look.”

At the mention of Tara, Sloan darted an anxious glance at the collection of vehicles. “She isn't here, is she?”

“No. She said yesterday that she was flying back to Texas this morning,” Cat replied.

“Good.” Sloan's shoulders sagged in visible relief.

“Why? Is something wrong?” Cat wondered.

“No, nothing,” The denial was accompanied by a quick shake of the head in emphasis. “The electrician's running the wires for the new ceiling fixtures in the bathroom, and they almost have all the wallpaper stripped. So I thought I might slip away for a little bit, maybe wander down to the commissary and pick out a video to watch tonight.”

“You go right ahead,” Chase told her, “and see if you can't find a good western.”

“That means something with John Wayne in it,” Cat interjected.

“Who else?” Chase retorted.

Sloan turned to the steps, then paused to glance at Cat. “By some wild chance, if Tara should show up, whatever you do, don't let her set foot in the house until I get back.”

A soft, understanding laugh preceded Cat's answer. “Don't worry. I won't—not after the last time.”

“The last time?” Chase repeated, then remembered. “You mean that day when Sloan went off with Trey, and Tara arbitrarily ordered the workers to gut the bathroom.” He winked at Sloan. “Like I said, girl, we live and learn.”

“And I learned that lesson well,” she agreed, then waved to both of them and crossed to the steps.

Fifty yards from The Homestead, the attendant noise of the renovation receded to a faint murmur. But Sloan's tension wasn't so quick to fade. It remained, like a heavy anchor weighing her down. For the first time in her life, she looked around and failed to appreciate whatever view was before her, the warmth of the sun on her skin, or the mingling of scents in the air.

Her plan was to take an aimless stroll, but she traveled in a nearly straight line to the commissary. Stepping into the air-cooled building, she ran a disinterested glance over the merchandise.

As expected, she spotted a ranch hand on the hardware side and a woman browsing in the section with the boys' jeans. More voices came from the back. She had never been to the commissary when someone wasn't there.

Making small talk was the last thing Sloan felt like doing. So she chose a circuitous route to the video racks that would allow her to avoid the other shoppers. A step away from her destination, she was stopped by the sound of Trey's voice.

“Hey, Sloan. What are you doing in here?” He came striding up, his dark eyes agleam with the pleasure of seeing her.

She struggled to match his easy smile. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I had to bring Hank Tobin to the dispensary. An old cow we're doctoring let fly with a hoof and sliced open his leg. While he was getting it stitched, I decided to check on a part we ordered last week.” Trey swung an arm over the top of the video rack, his stance all loose and easy. “So, what's your story?”

“I came to pick out a movie to watch tonight. Your grandpa wants something with John Wayne in it.” She drifted to the extensive selection of westerns available.

“Figures.” Trey grinned. “How's the work going?”

“At a snail's pace—as usual.” She tried to make a joke of it, but her tone of voice was much too grim.

His gaze sharpened on her. “Is there a problem?”

“Only one,” Sloan replied on a disgruntled note. “That we ever decided to do this in the first place.” She quickly held up a hand to stave off his expected response. “I know. You tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen. Well, now I wish I had.”

He cocked his head to one side, trying to get a better read on her expression. “What brought this on?”

Irritated and half-angry, mostly at herself, Sloan responded with biting mockery. “It couldn't be that we've started the third week of work, and the rooms are still a mess. Not a single thing is finished.” She focused on the display, hot tears burning the back of her eyes, and added tightly, “I can just imagine what your family thinks of me.”

His expression went cool. “Has somebody said something to you about it?”

“No, they wouldn't. But look at what I've done—the way I've disrupted their home and their lives. It isn't likely to endear me to them.”

“It's not that bad.” An amused tolerance was in the chiding look he gave her.

“Like you would know,” she taunted. “You aren't there every
day, all day long, with the dust and the noise, people coming in and out, up and down the stairs.”

“Sounds to me like you've got a case of cabin fever.” Trey smiled in sympathy. “You need to get away for a day and have a change of scenery.”