Page 22 of A Man for Amanda
He started to point out that he was an architect, not a contractor, then shrugged. It wouldn’t hurt him to take a look. “Sure. I’ll work up an estimate.”
“I’d appreciate it. Once you do, I’d prefer if you gave it to me. Just me.”
“You’re the boss.”
She lifted a brow. Odd, but she hadn’t thought about it quite that way before. Her lips curved as she digested it. “Then we understand each other. One more thing.”
He linked his hands behind his head. “We can have as many things as you want.”
“Only one,” she said, though her lips quivered. “When I was finalizing some of the wedding plans, I realized you were down as best man. I left your list with Aunt Coco.”
“My list?”
“Yes, of the timetable, the duties you’re responsible for, that sort of thing. There’s also a copy of the necessary information—the name and phone number of the photographer, the contact for the musicians, the bartender we hired... oh, and I jotted down the names of three shops where you can rent a tux.” Once again she took in the sheer size of him. “You really should get in for a fitting right away.”
“I’ve got it covered.” Impressed, he shook his head. “You’re damn efficient, Calhoun.”
“Yes, I am. Well then, I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll be in the third-floor storeroom in the other wing until about one. After that you can reach me at the BayWatch if you have any questions.”
“Oh, I know where to find you, Calhoun. Good hunting.”
He watched her walk away, and thought of her sitting in the storeroom, surrounded by dusty boxes and mounds of yellowing papers. She’d probably already found a way to put things in their tidy place, he thought with a grin. He wondered if she realized what a sweet contrast it was. She would stack and catalogue and file in the most practical way possible, while she searched through pieces of the past for an old dream.
Amanda found no dreams that morning. By the time she arrived at the BayWatch, she had already put in a five-hour day. When she had started the quest for the necklace weeks before, she had promised herself she wouldn’t become discouraged, no matter how long it took or how little she found.
Thus far, they had come across the original receipt for the emeralds, and a date book where Bianca had mentioned them. It was enough, Amanda had decided, to prove the necklace had indeed existed, and to keep hope alive that it would be found again.
She often wondered about it, about what it had meant to Bianca Calhoun and why she had secreted it away. If indeed she had. Another old rumor was that Fergus had tossed the necklace into the sea. After all the stories Amanda had heard about Fergus Calhoun’s abiding love of a dollar, it was hard to believe that he had willfully thrown away a quarter of a million in jewels.
Besides, she didn’t want to believe it, Amanda admitted as she pinned on her name tag. Though she wouldn’t have cared for anyone to know it, she had a strong streak of the romantic, and that part of her held tight to the notion that Bianca had hidden away the emeralds, like a gift or promise, waiting for the time they would be needed again.
It embarrassed her a little to know she felt that way. Amanda preferred the outward, and the logical, routine of sorting through papers and organizing them in the practical pursuit of a valuable heirloom.
Bianca herself remained as much a mystery to Amanda as the necklace. Her ingrained pragmatism made it impossible to understand a woman who had risked everything for, and ultimately had died for, love. Feelings that intense and that desperate seemed unlikely to her, unless they were in the pages of a book.
What would it be like to love that strongly? she wondered. To feel as though your life were so completely bound to another’s that it was impossible to survive without him. Inconvenient, she decided. Uncomfortable and unwise. She could only be grateful that she hadn’t inherited that dangerous kind of passion. Feeling smug about her own unbattered heart, she settled down to work.
“Amanda?”
She was halfway through the August reservations and held up a hand. “Minute,” she murmured, and totaled her calculations to that point. “What is it, Karen? Wow.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose and studied the luxurious spray of roses in the desk clerk’s arms. “What did you do, win a beauty pageant?”
“They’re not mine.” Karen buried her face in them. “Don’t I wish. They just came in, for you.”
“Me?”
“You’re still Amanda Calhoun,” Karen pointed out as she offered the florist’s card. “Though if you want to trade places until these three dozen long-stemmed beauties fade, I’m game.”
“Three dozen?”
“I counted.” Grinning, Karen laid them on the desk. “Three dozen and one,” she added, nodded toward the single rose that stood beside them.
Sloan, Amanda thought, and felt her heart give a quick, catchy sigh. How was she supposed to get a handle on a man who did sweet, unexpected things every time she thought she’d made up her mind about him? How could he have known about her secret weakness for red roses? She hadn’t even thanked him for the first one.
“Aren’t you going to read the card?” Karen demanded. “If I have to go back to the desk without knowing who sent them, I’ll be distracted and my work will suffer. The evil Albert Stenerson’ll fire me, and it’ll be your fault.”
“I already know who they’re from,” she began, unaware of the softness in her eyes. “It was really so sweet of him to—oh.” Baffled, she studied the name on the card. Not Sloan, she realized, with a cutting edge of disappointment that surprised her. They weren’t from Sloan.
“Well? Do you want me to beg?”
