“Her Bianca's beautiful, too. She was awake and howling for attention when I was in the nursery. Your nanny has her hands full.”
“Mrs. Billows can handle anything.”
“Actually, I wasn't thinking about the babies. It was Max.” She grinned remembering how Bianca's daddy had come running in, abandoning his new novel on the typewriter to scoop his daughter out of her crib.
“He's such a softie.”
“Who's a softie?” Sloan strode into the room to swing his sister off her feet.
“Not you, O'Riley,” Amanda murmured, watching the way his face softened like butter as he pressed his cheek to Megan's.
“You're here.” He twirled her again. “I'm so glad you're here, Meg.” “Me too.” She felt her eyes tear and squeezed him tight. “Daddy.”
With a laugh, he set her down, slipped his free arm around his wife. “Did you see her yet?”
Megan feigned ignorance. “Who?” “My girl. My Delia.”
“Oh, her.” Megan shrugged, chuckled, then kissed Sloan on his sulking mouth. “Not only did I see her, I held her, I sniffed her, and have already decided to spoil her at every opportunity. She's gorgeous, Sloan. She looks just like Amanda.”
“Yeah, she does.” He kissed his wife. “Except she's got my chin.” “That's a Calhoun chin,” Amanda claimed.
“Nope, it's O'Riley all the way. And speaking of O'Rileys,” he continued, before Amanda could argue, “where's Kevin?”
“Outside. I should probably go get him. We haven't even unpacked yet.” “We'll go with you,” Sloan said.
“You go. I'm covering.” Even as Amanda spoke, the phone on the mahogany front desk rang. “Break's over. See you at dinner, Megan.” She leaned up to kiss Sloan again. “See you sooner, O'Riley.”
“Mnuu...” Sloan gave a satisfied sigh as he watched his wife stride off. “I do love the way that woman eats up the floor.”
“You look at her just the way you did a year ago, at your wedding.” Megan tucked her hand in his as they walked out of the lobby and onto the stone terrace steps. “It's nice.”
“She's...” He searched for a word, then settled on the simplest truth. “Everything. I'd like you to be as happy as I am, Megan.”
“I am happy.” A breeze flitted through her hair. On it carried the sound of children's laughter. “Hearing that makes me happy. So does being here.” They descended another level and turned west. “I have to admit I'm a little nervous. It's such a big step.” She saw her son scramble to the top of the fort in the yard below, arms raised high in victory. “This is good for him.”
“And you?”
“And me.” She leaned against her brother. “I'll miss Mom and Dad, but they've already said that with both of us out here, it gives them twice as much reason to visit twice as often.” She pushed the blowing hair from her face while Kevin played sniper, fighting off Alex and Jenny's assault on the fort. “He needs to know the rest of his family. And I...needed a change. And as to that—” she looked back at Sloan “—I tried to get Amanda to show me the setup.”
“And she told you that you couldn't sharpen your pencils for a week.” “Something like that.”
“We decided at the last family meeting that you'd have a week to settle in before you started hammering the adding machine.”
“I don't need a week. I only need—”
“I know, I know. You'd give Amanda a run for the efficiency crown. But orders are you take a week off.”
She arched a brow. “And just who gives the orders around here?”
“Everybody.” Sloan grinned. “That's what makes it interesting.”
Thoughtful, she looked out to sea. The sky was as clear as blown glass, and the breeze warm with early summer. From her perch at the wall, she could see the small clumps of islands far out in the diamond-bright water.
A different world, she thought, from the plains and prairies of home. A different life, perhaps, for her and her son.
A week. To relax, to explore, to take excursions with Kevin. Tempting, yes. But far from responsible. “I want to pull my weight.”
“You will, believe me.” He glanced out at the clear sound of a boat horn. “That's one of Holt and Nate's,” Sloan told her, pointing to the long terraced boat that was gliding across the water. “The Mariner. Takes tourists out for whale-watching.”
The kids were all atop the fort now, shouting and waving at the boat. When the horn blasted again, they cheered.
“You'll meet Nate at dinner,” Sloan began. “I met him already.”
“Flirting a meal out of Coco?” “It appeared that way.”
Sloan shook his head. “That man can eat, let me tell you. What did you think?”
“Not much,” she muttered. “He seemed a little rough-edged to me.” “You get used to him. He's one of the family now.”
Megan made a noncommittal sound. Maybe he was, but that didn't mean he was part of hers.
Chapter 2
As far as Coco was concerned, Niels Van Horne was a thoroughly unpleasant man. He did not take constructive criticism, or the subtlest of suggestions for improvement, well at all. She tried to be courteous, God knew, as he was a member of the staff of The Towers and an old, dear friend of Nathaniel's.
But the man was a thorn in her side, an abrasive grain of sand in the cozy slipper of her contentment.
In the first place, he was simply too big. The hotel kitchen was gloriously streamlined and organized. She and Sloan had worked in tandem on the design, so that the finished product would suit her specifications and needs. She adored her huge stove, her convection and conventional ovens, the glint of polished stainless steel and glossy white counters, and her whispersilent dishwasher. She loved the smells of cooking, the hum of her exhaust fans, the sparkling cleanliness of her tile floor.
And there was Van Horne—or Dutch, as he was called—a bull in her china shop, with his redwood-size shoulders and cinder-block arms rippling with tattoos. He refused to wear the neat white bib aprons she'd ordered, with their elegant blue lettering, preferring his rolled-up shirts and tatty jeans held up by a hank of rope.
His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a stubby pony tail, and his face, usually scowling, was as big as the rest of him, scored with lines around his light green eyes. His nose, broken several times in the brawls he seemed so proud of, was mashed and crooked. His skin was brown, and leathery as an old saddle.
And his language... Well, Coco didn't consider herself a prude, but she was, after all, a lady.
But the man could cook. It was his only redeeming quality.
As Dutch worked at the stove, she supervised the two line chefs. The specials tonight were her New England fish stew and stuffed trout a la frangaise. Everything appeared to be in order.
“Mr. Van Horne,” she began, in a tone that never failed to put his back up. “You will be in charge while I'm downstairs. I don't foresee any problems, but should any arise, I'll be in the family dining room.”
He cast one of his sneering looks over his shoulder. Woman was all slicked up tonight, like she was going to some opera or something, he thought. All red silk and pearls. He wanted to snort, but knew her damned perfume would interfere with the pleasure he gained from the smell of his curried rice.
“I cooked for three hundred men,” he said in his raspy, sandpaper-edged voice, “I can deal with a couple dozen pasty-faced tourists.”
“Our guests,” she said between her teeth, “may be slightly more discriminating than sailors trapped on some rusty boat.”