Calder Storm (13 page)

“Where is everyone?” Tara demanded.

“Cat just went into the kitchen. She should be out directly. The rest have gone to work.” Kelly bundled the tablecloth into her arms, then paused to catch up a loose corner.

As if on cue, Cat returned to the dining room. “Hi, Tara. I heard the helicopter and assumed it was you. I was surprised,
though. I heard you had a houseful of company at Wolf Meadow. I thought you'd be entertaining them.”

“They flew out yesterday,” Tara replied. “I intended to leave later today myself, but then I heard the most amazing rumor that Trey is engaged. Is it true?”

“It is,” Cat confirmed and laughed at startled look on Tara's face. “Don't look so surprised.”

“I can't help it. I talked to Laura on Saturday, and she never said a word about it.”

“That's because she didn't know yet. I don't think Trey called her with the news until Sunday morning. There's coffee in the kitchen. Would you like a cup?”

As an answer, Tara moved in that direction. “This engagement is a bit sudden, isn't it? I wasn't aware that Trey was even seeing anyone on a regular basis.”

“I suppose you could call it sudden, but you only have to see them together to know they are madly in love.” Cat led the way to the kitchen while Kelly trailed behind both.

“Who is she? A local girl?”

“She isn't from around here. Her name's Sloan Davis—”

Tara instantly seized on the name. “Don't tell me she's part of the Davis family from Phoenix.”

Cat laughed softly. “I don't think so. In fact you probably won't find her in any of your social registrars. She's a professional photographer from Hawaii.”

“A photographer,” Tara repeated with just a trace of disdain.

Cat was quick to challenge it. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Of course not.” With an elegant shrug of her shoulders, Tara dismissed the suggestion. “It's simply that I had hoped Trey would marry someone who could further the interests of the Triple C. But as long as Trey is happy with her, that's all that really matters.”

“I'm glad you see that.” The firmness in Cat's voice was almost a warning. “Because he's definitely happy. I swear, Trey has been walking on air ever since Sloan said ‘yes.'”

“Have they set a wedding date yet?”

“No, but it will be soon.” Cat crossed to the kitchen cabinets and removed two cups from the shelf.

“That doesn't surprise me.” Tara pulled out a chair, inspecting its seat before sitting down. “I've never known a Calder yet who believed in long engagements. Certainly if Ty had had his way, we would have eloped.” She sighed rather dramatically. “Now I have to start thinking about what I can get them for a wedding present. Any ideas?”

“Truthfully, I haven't given it any thought.” Cat placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of Tara and carried her own to another chair, taking a seat.

“Wait a minute.” Tara lifted a hand in sudden thought, an innate liquid grace in the gesture. “By any chance will they be occupying the master suite?”

“Probably. Why?”

“Because, knowing Jessy, nothing in those rooms has been changed for years. What could be a better present for them than to bring in a designer to redo the entire suite? At my expense, of course,” she added. “And I know just who to get.”

“That's very generous of you,” Cat offered cautiously. “But that might be something Sloan would rather handle herself.”

“Don't be silly. No woman in her right mind would refuse the chance to have a professional in charge. And naturally I'll see that Trey and his fiancée have total approval over everything.”

“Still…” Cat began.

There was a bell-like quality to Tara's soft laugh. “Don't bother to say it. You simply aren't going to talk me out of it, not when I know it is absolutely the ideal gift.”

“And I'm sure they will appreciate it,” Cat said dryly, deciding there were worse things Tara might choose to meddle in, like the wedding plans, as she had done with Laura.

A
long, hard day spent in the hay field showed on Trey as he climbed the oak staircase to The Homestead's second floor. His work shirt was streaked with drying sweat, and his skin was gritty with a day's accumulation of chaff and dust. Each time his boot hit a stair tread, more bits of hay were dislodged from his clothes, leaving a trail behind him.

As he neared the top, his gaze lifted and his steps quickened in anticipation. It mattered little that his marriage to Sloan was less than a month old, time hadn't lessened his desire for her. It ran as strong and hot as ever. The only difference was the new comfort he felt, knowing that Sloan would be here waiting for him at the end of the day. Her presence had given “home” a fresh meaning for him, one that was full of all the deep, good things.

Trey was smiling long before he reached the door to the master suite. Pushing it open, he walked in, then stopped short when he saw the jumble of boxes stacked about the sitting room, some ripped open, their contents partially disgorged, while others remained taped shut.

Out of habit, Trey swept off his hat and looked for a place to put it. In the end he set it on top of an unopened box. After his ini
tial scan of the room failed to locate Sloan, he started to pick his way through the cardboard maze, finally spotting her half-hidden behind some boxes. She sat cross-legged on the floor with her back to him, studying something with rapt interest. His eyes took in the blue tank top and white shorts she wore before shifting to all the tanned flesh the summery attire exposed.

She seemed completely oblivious to his presence. Trey was briefly curious about the item that held her attention to the exclusion of all else. Then he caught a glimpse of a photo's glossy surface and realized, with a flash of annoyance, that he should have guessed the cause.

“What have you got there? I thought you looked at all your pictures before we packed them.”

Sloan jerked her head around when she heard his voice, her blue eyes wide with dismay at the sight of him. “Trey. What are you doing here?” She scrambled to her feet. “It can't be that late, can it?”

Now that he was, at last, the subject of her undivided attention, he smiled. “That isn't how a wife is supposed to greet her husband,” he teased. “The right way is to throw your arms around his neck and tell him how glad you are to see him.”

She grinned back at him. “You just keep dreaming, sweetheart.” She slipped sideways between two boxes that separated them to stand before him. “Maybe someday it will come true.”

Even as his hands reached out to settle onto the soft points of her hips, she was sliding her hands behind his neck and linking her fingers together. She rose on tiptoes, meeting his kiss halfway. The heat and the need were instant, on both sides. The impulse was there to take it to the next level, but the fresh, clean scent of her skin reminded Trey of the sweat and grime on his own, and he pulled back.

“
Aloha,
my
paniolo,
” Sloan murmured, a warm hunger in her adoring look.

Trey dragged in a deep breath to resist the temptation of her upturned lips, still moist from his kiss. “
Aloha,
yourself. Unfor
tunately, your cowboy is a little rank from sweating all day in the hay field.”

“Is that where you picked up all these yellow flecks?” She brushed some off his shirtfront.

“It's hay chaff. And I've gotten it all over you, too.”

“It's okay. It brushes right off.” She stepped back to demonstrate.

But Trey didn't want to be distracted by the movement of her hand across her breasts. Instead he shifted his attention to the jumble of boxes.

“I see all your stuff arrived. I thought it would take longer to ship things from Hawaii,” he remarked idly.

“It would have if I hadn't sent it by air.” A sudden sparkle of excitement came into her eyes. “Guess what else came today?”

“What?” To his knowledge, nothing else was expected.

“Our wedding pictures. I was just looking at them when you came. She took his hand, eager to show them to him.

“So that's what you were so engrossed in when I arrived,” he said, secretly pleased by this bit of news, and attempted to follow when she slipped between the two boxes.

But the space wasn't quite wide enough for him to pass through. He paused to shove the pair farther apart, then joined Sloan on the other side of them. She was once again crouched on the floor, busily spreading out the photos for his review.

“There isn't a bad one in the bunch,” Sloan declared. “I swear Wyley has an absolutely uncanny knack for capturing the essence of someone. Just look at this one of your grandfather. Old, and a little worse for the wear, he might be, but you can tell he still has the heart and soul of a lion.”

But the picture that spoke to Trey was one of the two of them, facing each other. All he could see was the look on his face, full of raw hunger and a kind of reverential love. It bothered him that he had bared his feelings like that, especially ones as private and intimate as these, considering that he had been taught his whole life to conceal them.

“That's a favorite of mine, too,” Sloan remarked when she
identified which photograph held his interest. “It just shines with love, doesn't it?”

“That's an understatement,” he murmured.

“Does that bother you?” There was a twining of curiosity and surprise in the questioning look she gave him.

“Why should it?” he countered, this time guarding his true feelings behind a teasing smile. “Isn't that the way newlyweds are supposed to look at each other? A little sappy and love-struck?”

She slapped his shoulder in playful reproval. “‘Sappy and love-struck,' that sounds like something Tank or Johnny would say,” she declared and instantly dismissed it from her mind as she placed another photograph in front of him. “I love this one of you with Quint and Laura. It's like a reunion shot of the three musketeers.”

“We were nearly inseparable growing up,” Trey acknowledged.

“You know, Laura is nothing at all like you, is she? And I don't mean just in looks. Or your mother, either, for that matter, although she does favor her.”

“Laura has always danced to her own music. Mom used to think it was Tara's influence, but it's just the way she is.” His attention shifted to a grouping of photographs taken at the reception. A grin split his face when he saw one that showed Tank with a floral lei around his neck. “These are good.”

“Everyone really seemed to enjoy our updated version of a luau, didn't they?” Sloan sat back on her heels and marveled over the fact. “To be honest, I was worried that they might take it wrong and think I was saying something against the life here.”

“Are you kidding?” Trey looked at her in surprise. Until that moment he hadn't realized how anxious she was to be accepted by his extended ranch family. “Everybody got a real kick out of it. Since we got back, I swear, somebody asks me every day when we're going to have another one. One of the guys even referred to it as a Hawaiian pig roast.”

“Really?” A laugh of delight bubbled from her.

“Really.” He nodded in emphasis, then tapped a forefinger on
the photographs. “But you don't have to take my word for it. These pictures show how much fun everyone's having.”

“They do, don't they?” She moved a few around, then paused. “Do you know what I just noticed? Laredo isn't in any of these shots—except this one, and it just shows the back of his head.”

“That doesn't surprise me. Laredo's always been camera-shy.” He placed his hands on his thighs and levered himself out of his crouching position. “I'll look at the rest of the pictures later, after I've had a shower. Care to join me?”

“I might, considering I need to change before dinner anyway.” Her upward glance was both suggestive and challenging. “Although something tells me you have more than just a shower in mind.”

“It's that getup you're wearing.” His eyes once again traveled over all that bare, suntanned flesh. “It reminds me of Hawaii, the two of us all alone on the beach, your skin glistening with oil, the waves lapping around our feet, and the salty taste of you.” He caught hold of her hand and pulled her upright to stand beside him, the memory and her nearness heating his blood. But desire seemed to be an ever-present thing whenever he was with her, and sometimes even when he wasn't. “We went skinny-dipping afterwards. Remember?”

“Very well.” She swayed against him, fingers slipping inside the waistband of his jeans. “Your skin was gritty that afternoon, too. Only this time you're wearing a lot more clothes.”

“I can fix that!”

“Not here. Let's keep all this hay stuff in the bathroom, where it'll be easier to clean up.”

“Now you sound like a practical little wife,” he mocked and looked pointedly at the cardboard boxes that littered the sitting room. “Although I don't why you're worried. The room's already a mess.”

“And you aren't going to get it any messier.” Sloan gave a tug on his waistband, pulling him in the direction of the adjoining bedroom and the private bath beyond it. “Come on.”

“Lead the way,” he said, adding a playful taunt. “If you can find one.”

“It isn't that bad, and you know it,” she countered in mild protest.

Trey traveled about three steps and halted to stare at a free-form sculpture in bronze that stood about three feet tall. “What in the world is that thing? I don't remember seeing it at the beach house.”

“For a good reason. It didn't come from there,” Sloan replied easily as she paused to study the abstract piece with a kind of resignation rather than pleasure. “It's a wedding present from Uncle Max. It was delivered along with the rest of my things. It's probably horribly expensive.”

“What's it supposed to be?” Trey frowned at the piece.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she admitted. “I'm hoping the designer will find some out-of-the-way place to display it. Tara called to let me know she'll be bringing him over in the morning.”

Trey didn't exactly welcome that bit of news. “It isn't too late to change your mind. I mean, we can thank her kindly for the offer and suggest she buy us something else instead. She couldn't come up with anything worse than that.” He indicated the sculpture with a wave of his hand.

“We've been through this before,” Sloan reminded him.

“I know we have.” And he regretted that he'd ever agreed to accept Tara's offer. “But there isn't much that needs to be done in here—new tile in the bathroom, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, maybe some different drapes.”

“I think you've overlooked the sofa that's on its last leg, and the new big chair you wanted,” Sloan countered. “I've worked with a decorator before. And, believe me, it's easier when you have a professional who's experienced at coordinating fabrics, paint colors, and tiles.”

Trey had no argument for that. “Just make sure Tara stays out of it. Given a chance, she'd turn this place into a pink-and-gold satin nightmare.”

Sloan laughed. “I can promise you that won't happen.”

“I know it won't,” Trey conceded. “But I don't think you realize what you're getting yourself into.” He moved past her into the bedroom, shedding his shirt as he went.

 

Tara arrived at The Homestead promptly at nine-thirty the following morning, accompanied by the designer, Garson St. Clair. Somewhere in his late thirties, he had the trimly muscled build of a man who frequented a health club. Yet a mane of dark, curly hair worn shoulder length gave him the look of an artist.

When Tara introduced him to Sloan, the decorater reluctantly broke off his assessment of the surroundings and greeted Sloan with an air that managed to be both deferential and aloof. “I'm looking forward to working with you, Ms. Calder.”

“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. But I think it will save a great deal of confusion if you call me Sloan.”

Tara all but purred the words. “It will eliminate any question whether Garson is addressing you or me.”

“Or Jessy,” Sloan inserted.

“And her, too, of course,” Tara agreed coolly and turned immediately to the designer. “I know how anxious you are to see the suite of rooms, Gar. Let me show you where they are.”

She instantly took the lead, ushering him from the entry hall through the living room to the oak staircase, leaving Sloan with no choice except to follow. She climbed the steps after them, her features set in a look of firm resolve.

At the top of the steps, Tara walked straight to the master suite, pushed the door open, and swept into the sitting room with an air of ownership. St. Clair sauntered in after her, his head on a swivel as he took in the height of the ceilings and the room's dimensions.

Sloan was right on his heels. “You'll have to overlook the boxes,” she stated, although only a few remained in the room. The rest she had managed to unpack the night before with Trey's help.