A Man for Amanda

  A Man For Amanda, by Nora Roberts

  The Calhouns # 2

  Summary:

  Amanda Calhoun already has way too much on her plate. She's balancing her work as assistant manager at the Bay Watch hotel with the search for the Calhoun emeralds and with planning her sister C.C.'s wedding. She really has no place in her life for easygoing Harvard-educated cowboy Sloan O' Riley, who's in charge of the renovations necessary to turn her home, The Towers, into a luxury hotel. But love waits for no master plan.

  Prologue

  Bar Harbor June 8, 1913

  In the afternoon, I walked to the cliffs. The day, our first day back in The Towers, was bright and warm. The rumble of the sea was as I had left it ten long months ago. There was a fishing boat chugging over the blue-green water, and a neat sloop gliding cheer­fully along. So much was the same, and yet, one vital change dimmed the day for me.

  He was not there.

  It was wrong of me to wish to find him waiting where I had left him so many months ago. To find him painting as he always did, slicing the brush against canvas like a dueler in the heat of battle. It was wrong of me to wish to see him turn, look at me with those intense gray eyes—to see him smile, to hear him say my name.

  Yet I did wish it.

  My heart was dancing in my breast as I rushed from the house to race across the lawn, past the gar­dens and down the slope.

  The cliffs were there, so high and proud, jutting up to the pure summer sky. The sea, almost calm today, mirrored the color so that it seemed I stood cupped in a lovely blue ball. The rocks tumbled down before me, down and down to where the waves slapped and hissed. Behind me, the towers of my summer home, my husband's home, speared up, arrogant and beau­tiful.

  How strange that I should love the house when I have known such unhappiness inside it.

  I reminded myself that I am Bianca Calhoun, wife of Fergus Calhoun, mother to Colleen and Ethan and Sean. I am a respected woman, a dutiful wife, a de­voted mother. My marriage is not a warm one, but that does not alter the vows I toot There is no place in my life for romantic fancies and sinful dreams.

  Still, I stood and I waited. But he did not come. Christian, the lover I have taken only with my heart, did not come. He may not even be on the island any longer. Perhaps he has packed up his canvases and brushes, moved from his cottage and gone on to paint some other sea, some other sky.

  It would be best. I know it would be best. Since I met him last summer, I have hardly gone an hour without thinking of him. Yet I have a husband I re­spect, three children I love more than my life. It is to them I must be faithful, not to the memory of some­thing that never was. And never could be.

  The sun is setting as I sit and write by the window of my tower. In a short time I must go down and help Nanny put my babies to bed. Little Sean has grown so, and is already beginning to toddle. Soon he will be as quick as Ethan, Colleen, quite the young lady at four, wants a new pink dress.

  It is of them I must think, my children, my precious loves, and not of Christian.

  It will be a quiet night, one of very few we will have during our summer on Mount Desert Island. Fergus has already talked of giving a dinner dance next week. I must...

  He is there. Down below on the cliffs. He is hardly more than a shadow with the distance and the dim­ming light. Yet I know it is he. Just as I knew, as I stood and pressed my hand to the glass, that he was looking up, looking for me. However impossible it is, I would swear I could hear him call my name. So softly.

  Bianca.

  Chapter One

  He was a solid wall of denim and muscle. Ramming into him knocked the wind out of her lungs and the packages out of her hands. In her rush to get from one place to the next, she didn't even bother to glance at him but dove to save the flying boxes.

  If he'd been looking where he'd been going, she wouldn't have run into him. Amanda managed to bite her tongue before she snapped out the thought, and scowled instead at the run-down heels of his boots. In a hurry, as usual, she knelt on the sidewalk outside the boutique where she'd been shopping, to gather up her scattered packages.

  "Let me give you a hand, honey."

  The slow southwestern drawl grated on her nerves. She had a million things to do, and scrambling on the sidewalk with a tourist wasn't on her schedule. "I've got it," she muttered, leaning over so that her chin-length hair drifted down to curtain her face. Every­thing was grating on her nerves today, she thought as she hurried to restack bags and boxes. This little ir­ritation was the last in a long line.

  "It's an awful lot for one person to carry."

  "I can manage, thanks." She reached for a box just as her persistent helper did the same. The brief tug-of-war had the top slipping off and the contents spill­ing onto the sidewalk.

  "Now, that's mighty pretty." There was amused, masculine approval in the voice as he scooped up a scrap of thin red silk that pretended to be a nightie.

  Amanda snatched it from him and stuffed it into one of the bags. "Do you mind?"

  "No, ma'am. I sure don't."

  Amanda pushed back her tumbled hair and took her first good look at him. So far, all she'd seen were a pair of cowboy boots and the line of faded denim from knee to ankle. There was a great deal more of him. Even crouched down beside her he looked big. Shoulders, hands. Mouth, she thought nastily. Right now he was using it to grin at her. It might, under different circumstances, have been an engaging enough grin. But at the moment it was stuck in the middle of a face she'd decided to dislike on sight.

  Not that it wasn't a good one, with its slashing warrior's cheekbones, velvet green eyes and deep tan. The curl of his reddish-blond hair over the collar of his denim shirt might have been charming. If he hadn't been in her way.

  "I'm in a hurry," she told him.

  "I noticed." He flipped a long finger through her hair to tuck it behind her ear. "Looked like you were on the way to a fire when you plowed into me."

  "If you'd moved," she began, then shook her head. Arguing would take time she simply didn't have. "Never mind." Grabbing at packages, she rose. "Excuse me."

  "Hold on."

  He unfolded himself as she tapped her foot and waited. Disconcerted, she frowned up at him. At five feet ten inches, she was accustomed to meeting most men almost eye to eye. With this one she had several extra inches to go. "What?"

  "I can give you a ride to that fire if you need it."

  Her brow arched in her frostiest look. "That won't be necessary."

  Using a fingertip, he pushed a box back in place before it could slide out of her grip. "You look like you could use a little help."

  "I'm perfectly capable of getting where I'm going, thank you."

  He didn't doubt it for a minute. "Then maybe you can help me." He liked the way her hair kept falling into her eyes, and the impatient way she kept blowing it away again. "I just got into town this morning." His gaze lazily skimmed her face. "I thought maybe you could make some suggestions about...what I should do with myself."

  At the moment, she had a pocketful of them. "Try the chamber of commerce." She started by him, then whirled when his hand came down on her arm. "Look, buster, I don't know how they do things back in Tucson—"

  "Oklahoma City," he corrected.

  "Wherever, but around here, cops take a dim view of men who hassle women on the streets."

  "That so?"

  "You bet it's so."

  "Well then, I'll have to watch my step since I plan to be around awhile."

  "I'll hang out a bulletin. Now, excuse me."

  "Just one more thing." He held up a pair of brief black panties embroidered with red roses. "I think you forgot this."

  She grabbed the bikinis, then stalked off as she
balled them into her pocket.

  "Nice meeting you," he called after her, and laughed when she doubled her already hurried pace.

  Twenty minutes later, Amanda gathered up her packages from the back seat of her car. Balancing some under her chin, she kicked the door closed with her foot. She'd nearly forgotten about the encounter already. There was too much on her mind. Behind her, the house rose up into the sky, its gray stones staid, its towers and peaks fanciful and its porches sagging. Next to her family, there was nothing Amanda loved more than The Towers.

  She raced up the steps, avoided a rotting board then, struggled to free a hand enough to open the towering front door. "Aunt Coco!" The moment she stepped into the hall, an oversize black puppy raced down the stairs. On the third from the bottom, he tripped, rolled and went sprawling onto the gleaming chestnut floor. "Almost made it that time, Fred."

  Pleased with himself, Fred danced around Amanda's legs as she continued to call for her aunt.

  "Coming. Pm coming." Tall and stately, Cordelia Calhoun McPike hurried in from the rear of the house. She wore peach linen slacks under a splattered white apron. "I was in the kitchen. We're going to try my new recipe for cannelloni tonight."

  "Is C.C. home?"

  "Oh, no, dear." Coco patted the hair she'd tinted the day before to Moonlit Blonde. In an old habit, she peeked into the hall mirror to make certain the shade suited her—for the moment. "She's down at her ga­rage. Something about rocker arms, I think—though what rocking chairs have to do with cars and engines, I can't say."

  "Great. Come upstairs, I want to show you what I got."

  "Looks like you bought out the shops. Here, let me help you." Coco managed to grab two bags before Amanda dashed up the stairs.

  "I had the best time."

  "But you hate to shop."

  "For myself. This was different. Still, everything took longer than I thought it would, so I was afraid I wouldn't get back and be able to stash it all before C.C. got home." She rushed into her room to dump everything onto the big four-poster bed. "Then this stupid man got in my way and knocked everything all over the sidewalk." Amanda stripped off her jacket, folded it, then laid it neatly over the back of a chair. "Then he had the nerve to try to pick me up."

  "Really?" Always interested in liaisons, romances and assignations, Coco tilted her head. "Was he at­tractive?"

  "If you go for the Wild Bill Hickok type. Anyway, I made k—no thanks to him."

  As Amanda sorted through the bags, Fred tried twice, unsuccessfully, to leap onto the bed. He ended by sitting on the rug to watch.

  "I found some wonderful decorations for the bridal shower." She began to pull out white-and-silver bells, crepe paper swans, balloons. "I love this frilly para­sol," she went on. "Not CC.'s style maybe, but I thought if we hung it up over...Aunt Coco." With a sigh, Amanda sat on the bed. "Don't start crying again."

  "I can't help it." Already sniffling, Coco took an embroidered hankie from her apron pocket and dabbed carefully at her eyes. "She's the baby, after all. The youngest of my four little girts."

  "There's not one of the Calhoun women who could be called little," Amanda pointed out.

  "You're still my babies, and have been ever since your mother and father died." Coco used the hankie expertly. She didn't want to smear her mascara. "Every time I think of her being married—and in only a matter of days, really—I just fill up. I adore Trenton, you know." Thinking of her future nephew, she blew delicately into the hankie. "He's a wonder­ful man, and I knew they'd be perfect together right from the start, but it's all so fast"

  "You're telling me." Amanda combed a hand through her sleek cap of hair. "I've barely had time to organize. How anyone expects to put on a wedding with barely three weeks notice—or why they'd want to try-.—is beyond me. They'd be better off eloping."

  "Don't say that." Scandalized, Coco stuck her hankie back into her pocket. "Why, I'd be furious if they cheated me out of this wedding. And if you think you can when your time comes, think again."

  "My time isn't going to come for years, if ever." Meticulously Amanda tidied the decorations again. "Men are as far down on my list of priorities as they can get."

  "You and your lists." Coco clucked her tongue. "Let me tell you, Mandy, the one thing you can't plan in this life is falling in love. Your sister certainly didn't plan it, and look at her. Squeezing fittings for a wedding dress in between her carburetors and trans­missions. Your time may come sooner than you think. Why just this morning when I was reading my tea leaves—"

  "Oh, Aunt Coco, not the tea leaves."

  Grandly Coco drew herself up to her considerable height. "I've read some very fascinating things in the tea leaves. After our last séance, I'd think you'd be a bit less cynical."

  "Maybe something happened at the séance, but—"

  "Maybe?"

  "All right, something did happen." Letting out a deep breath, Amanda shrugged. "I know C.C. got an image—"

  "A vision."

  "Whatever—of Great-Grandmama Bianca's emer­ald necklace." And it had been spooky, she admitted to herself, the way C.C. had been able to describe it, though no one had seen the two tiers of emeralds and diamonds in decades. "And no one who's lived in this house could deny that they've felt some:—some presence or something up in Bianca's tower."

  "Aha!"

  "But that doesn't mean I'm going to start gazing into crystal balls."

  "You're just too literal minded, Mandy. I can't think where you get it from. Perhaps from my Aunt Colleen. Fred, we must not chew on the Irish lace," Coco cautioned as Fred began to gnaw on Amanda's bedspread. "In any case, we were speaking of tea leaves. When I took a reading this morning, I saw a man."

  Amanda rose to hide the decorations in her closet. "You saw a man in your teacup."

  "You know very well it doesn't work precisely like that. I saw a man, and I had the strongest feeling that he's very close."

  "Maybe it's the plumber. He's been underfoot for days."

  "No, it's not the plumber. This man—he's close, but he's not from the island." She let her eyes un-focus as she did when she practiced looking psychic. "In fact he's from some distance away. He's going to be an important part of our lives. And—I'm quite sure of this—he's going to be vitally important to one of you girls."

  "Lilah can have him," Amanda decided, thinking of her free-spirited older sister. "Where is she any­way?"

  "Oh, she was meeting someone after work. Rod or Tod or Dominick."

  "Damn it." Amanda scooped up her jacket to hang it neatly in the closet. "We were supposed to go through more of the papers. She knew I was counting on her. We have to find some lead as to where the emeralds are hidden."

  "We'll find them, dear." Distracted, Coco poked through the other packages. "When the time is right. Bianca wants us to. I believe she'll show us the next step very soon."

  "We need more than blind faith and mystic vi­sions. Bianca could have hidden them anywhere." Scowling, she plopped down onto the bed again.

  She didn't care about the money—though the Calhoun emeralds were reputed to be worth a fortune. It was the publicity that had resulted when Trent, her sister's fiancé, had contracted to buy The Towers, and the old legend had become public knowledge. Amanda's idea of an ordered existence had been thrown into chaos since the first story had hit.

  It certainly made good print, Amanda mused as her aunt oohed and aahed over the lingerie she had bought for her sister's shower.

  Early in the second decade of the century, when the resort of Bar Harbor was in its elegant heyday, Fergus Calhoun had built The Towers as an opulent summer home. There on the cliffs overlooking Frenchman Bay, he and his wife, Bianca, and their three children had vacationed, giving elaborate parties for other members of the well-heeled society.

  And there, Bianca had met a young artist. They had fallen in love. It was said that Bianca had been torn between duty and her heart. Her marriage, which had been firmly supported by her parents, had been a
cold one. With her heart leading her, she had planned to leave her husband and had packed away a treasure box that had contained the emeralds Fergus had given her on the birth of their second child and first son. The whereabouts of the necklace was a mystery as, according to legend, she had thrown herself from the tower window, overwhelmed with guilt and despair.

  Now, eighty years later, interest in the necklace had been revived. Even as the remaining Calhouns searched through decades of papers and ledgers for a clue, reporters and hopeful fortune hunters had be­come a daily nuisance.

  Amanda took it personally. The legend, and the people in it, belonged to her family. The sooner the necklace was located, the better. Once a mystery was solved, interest faded quickly.

  "When is Trent coming back?" she asked her aunt.

  "Soon." Sighing, Coco stroked the silky red che­mise. "As soon as he ties things up in Boston, he'll be On his way. He can't stand being away from C.C. There will barely be enough time to begin the reno­vations on the west wing before they'll be off on their honeymoon." Tears filled her eyes again. "Their hon­eymoon."

  "Don't start, Aunt Coco. Think of what a fabulous job you'll do catering the reception. It's going to be great practice for you. This time next year you'll be starting your new career as chef for The Towers Re­treat, the most intimate of the St. James hotels."

  "Imagine it." Coco patted her hand at her breast.

  At the knock on the front door, Fred was up and howling.

  "You stay here and imagine it, Aunt Coco. I'll go answer the door."

  In a race with Fred, she clattered down the steps. When the dog's four legs tangled, sending him som­ersaulting, she laughed and gathered him up. She was snuggling the dog against her cheek when she opened the door.

  "You!"

  The tone of her voice had Fred quaking. Not so the man who stood at the threshold, grinning at her. "Small world," he said in the same slow drawl he'd used when they'd knelt on the sidewalk. "I'm liking it better all the time."

  "You followed me."

  "No, ma'am. Though it would've been a damn good idea. The name's O'Riley. Sloan O'Riley."

  "I don't care what your name is, you can turn around and start walking." She started to slam the door in his face, but he slapped a hand against it and held it wide.

  "I don't think that's such a good idea. I've come a long way to get a look at the house."

  Her dark blue eyes narrowed. "Oh, have you? Well, let me tell you something, this is a home, a private home. I don't care what you've read in the papers and how badly you want a shot at looking under loose stones for the emeralds. This isn't Trea­sure Island, and I've had my fill of people like you who think they can just come knocking at the door, or sneaking into the garden at night with a pick and shovel."