Page 37 of A Man for Amanda
I would be living my dreams.
But it is all just a fancy, like one of the stories I tell the children at bedtime. A happy-ever-after story with handsome princes and beautiful maidens. My life is not a fairy tale. But perhaps, someday someone will open these pages and read my story. I hope they will have a kind and generous heart, condemn me not for my disloyalty to a husband I have never loved, but rejoice for me in my joy in those few short hours with a man I will love even after death.
Chapter Seven
Sloan’s head was filled with tiny little men wielding pickaxes. To quiet them, he tried rolling over. A definite mistake, he realized, as the slight movement sent a signal to the army-navy band waiting in the wings to punch up the percussions. Gingerly he pulled a pillow over his face, hoping to smother the sound or—if that didn’t work—himself.
But the noise kept booming until his abused system told him it was the door, not just the hangover. Giving up, he stumbled out of bed, grateful there was no one around to hear him whimper. With the road gang working away inside his temples, he turned the air between the bedroom and the parlor door a ribald shade of blue.
When he wrenched it open, Amanda took one look, noting the bloodshot eyes, night stubble and curled lip. He was wearing the jeans, unclasped, that he’d fallen asleep in, and nothing else.
“Well,” she said primly, “you look like you had a delightful time last night.”
And she looked as neat and crisp as a freshly starched shirt. It was, he was sure, reason enough for homicide. “If you came up here to ruin my day, you’re too late.” He started to swing the door shut, but she held it open and stepped inside.
“I have something to say to you.”
“You’ve said it.” Instantly he regretted turning sharply away. As his head throbbed nastily, he vowed to hold on to what was left of his dignity. He would not crawl away, but walk.
Because he looked so pitiful, she decided to help him out. “I guess you feel pretty lousy.”
“Lousy?” He narrowed his eyes to keep them from dropping out of his head. “No, I feel dandy. Just dandy. I live for hangovers.”
“What you need is a cold shower, a couple of aspirin and a decent breakfast.”
After making an inarticulate sound in his throat, he groped his way toward the bedroom. “Calhoun, you’re on dangerous ground.”
“I won’t be in your way long.” Determined to accomplish her mission, she followed him. “I just want to talk to you about—” She broke off when he slammed the bathroom door in her face. “Well.” Blowing out a huffy breath, she set her hands on her hips.
Inside, Sloan stripped off his jeans, then stepped into the shower. With one hand braced on the tile, he turned the water on full cold. His single vicious curse bounced along the walls, then slammed right back into his head. Still, he was a little steadier when he stepped out again, fought with the cap on the aspirin bottle and downed three.
His hangover hadn’t gone away, he thought, but at least he was now fully awake to enjoy it. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked back into the parlor.
He’d thought she would have gotten the message, but there she was, hunched over his drawing board with glasses perched on her nose. She’d tidied up, too, he noted, emptying ashtrays, piling cups on the room-service tray, picking up discarded clothes. In fact, she had her hands full of his clothes while she studied his drawings.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She glanced up and, determined to be cheerful, smiled. “Oh, you’re back.” The sight of him in nothing but a damp towel had her careful to keep her eyes strictly on his face. “I was just taking a look at your work.”
“I don’t mean that, I mean what are you doing picking up after me? It’s not part of your job to play Sally Domestic.”
“I didn’t see how you could work in a sty,” she shot back, “so I straightened up a little while I was waiting for you.”
“I like working in a sty. If I didn’t, I would’ve picked the damn stuff up myself.”
“Fine.” Incensed, she hurled his clothes into the air so that they scattered over the room. “Better?”
Slowly he pulled off the T-shirt that had landed on his head. “Calhoun, do you know what’s more dangerous than a man with a hangover?”
“No.”
“Nothing.” He took one measured step toward her when there was another knock at the door.
“That’s your breakfast.” Amanda’s voice was clipped as she strode toward the door. “I had them put a rush on it.”
Defeated, Sloan sank onto the couch and put his head in his hands so that he could catch it easily when it fell off. “I don’t want any damn breakfast.”
“Well, you’ll eat it and stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She signed the check, then took the tray herself to place it on the table in front of him. “Whole wheat toast, black coffee and a Virgin Mary, heavy on the hot sauce. It’ll take the edge off.”
