Page 8 of A Man for Amanda
“I’d like to think so,” he said, baffled by the arch look Coco sent her niece.
“Tea leaves,” Coco murmured, then rose. “I must go check on dinner. You will join us, won’t you?”
He’d planned on taking a quick look at the house, then going back to the hotel to sleep for ten hours. The annoyed look on Amanda’s face changed his mind. An evening with her might be a better cure for jet lag. “I’d be mighty pleased to.”
“Wonderful. Mandy, why don’t you show Sloan the west wing while I finish things up?”
“Tea leaves?” Sloan asked when Coco glided from the room.
“You’re better off in the dark.” Resigned, she rose and gestured to the doorway. “Shall we get started?”
“That’s a fine idea.” He followed her into the hall and up the curving staircase. “Which do you like, Amanda or Mandy?”
She shrugged. “I answer to either.”
“Different images. Amanda’s cool and composed. Mandy’s... softer.” She smelled cool, he thought. Like a quiet breeze on a hot, dusty day.
At the top of the stairs she stopped to face him. “What kind of image is Sloan?”
He stayed one step below her so that they were eye to eye. Instinct told him they’d both prefer it that way. “You tell me.”
He had the cockiest grin she’d ever seen. Whenever he used it on her she felt a tremor that she was certain was annoyance. “Dodge City?” she said sweetly. “We don’t get many cowboys this far east.” She turned and was halfway down the hall when he took her arm.
“Are you always in such a hurry?”
“I don’t like to waste time.”
He kept his hand on her arm as they continued to walk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My God, the place was fabulous, Sloan thought as they started up a pie-shaped set of steps. Coffered ceilings, carved lintels, thick mahogany paneling. He stopped at an arched window to touch the wavy glass. It had to be original, he thought, like the chestnut floor and the fancy plasterwork.
True, there were cracks in the walls—some of them big enough that he could slide his finger in to the first knuckle. Here and there the ceiling had given way to fist-sized holes, and portions of the molding were rotted.
It would be a challenge to bring it back to its former glory. And it would be a joy.
“We haven’t used this part of the house in years.” Amanda opened a carved oak door and brushed away a spiderweb. “It hasn’t been practical to heat it during the winter.”
Sloan stepped inside. The sloping floor creaked ominously as he walked across it. Somewhere along the line heavy furniture had been dragged in or out, scarring the floor with deep, jagged grooves. Two of the panes on the narrow terrace doors had been broken and replaced with plywood. Mice had had a field day with the baseboard. Above his head was a faded mural of chubby cherubs.
“This was the best guest room,” Amanda explained. “Fergus kept it for people he wanted to impress. Supposedly some of the Rockefellers stayed here. It has its own bath and dressing room.” She pushed open a broken door.
Ignoring her, Sloan walked to the black marble fireplace. The wall above it was papered in silk and stained from old smoke. The chip off the corner of the mantel broke his heart.
“You ought to be shot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You ought to be shot for letting the place go like this.” The look he aimed at her wasn’t lazy and amused, but hot and quick as a bullet. “A mantelpiece like this is irreplaceable.”
Flustered, she stared guiltily at the chipped Italian marble. “Well, I certainly didn’t break it.”
“And look at these walls. Plasterwork of this caliber is an art, the same way a Rembrandt is art. You’d take care of a Rembrandt, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
“At least you had the sense not to paint the molding.” Moving past her, he peered into the adjoining bath. And began to swear. “These are handmade tiles, for God’s sake. Look at these chips. They haven’t been grouted since World War I.”
“I don’t see what that’s—”
