shiny china parrot.
“Interesting.”
“Well, it’s home. Most of the time.” She shoved the paper bag she was carrying into his arms. It contained the fresh supply of cookies and soft drinks they’d picked up along the way. “Put these in the kitchen, will you? I want to check my machine.”
“Right. Where?”
“Through there.” She gestured, then disappeared through another door.
He had another moment’s pause in the kitchen. It wasn’t just the appliances this time. He was growing used to them. It was the teapots.
They were everywhere, covering every available surface, lining a trio of shelves on the walls, sitting cheek by jowl on top of the refrigerator. Every color, every shape, from the tacky to the elegant, was represented.
It had never occurred to him that she was a collector, of anything. She’d always seemed too restless and unrooted to take the time to clutter her life with things. Strangely, he found it endearing to realize that she had pockets of sentimentality.
Curious, he studied one of her teapots, a particularly florid example of late twentieth-century— He couldn’t bring himself to call it art. It was squat, fashioned out of inferior china, with a bird of some kind on the lid and huge, ugly daisies painted all over the bowl. As a collector’s item, he decided, it had a long way to go.
He set it aside and went to explore.
The blue ribbons were prizes, he discovered. For swimming, fencing, riding. It seemed Sunny had spent a lifetime scattering her talents. Her name was signed—scrawled, really—on some of the pictures on the walls. Sketches of cities, paintings of crowded beaches. He imagined many of the photographs were hers, as well.
There was more talent there, showing a clear eye and a sharp wit. If she ever settled on any one thing, she was bound to shoot right to the top. Oddly enough, he preferred her just as she was, scattering those talents, experimenting, digging for new knowledge. He didn’t want her to change.
But she had changed him. It wasn’t easy to accept it, but being with her, caring for her, had altered some of his basic beliefs. He could be content with one person. Compromises didn’t always mean surrender. Love didn’t mean losing part of yourself, it meant gaining that much more.
And she had made him wonder how he was going to face the rest of his life without her.
Turning toward the bedroom, he went to find her.
She was standing in what he first took for a closet. Then when he saw the bed, he realized it was the entire room. Though it was no more than eight by eight, she had crammed something into every nook and cranny. More books, a stuffed bear in a virulent orange, ice skates. A set of skis hung on the wall like sabers.
The dresser was crowded with bottles, at least twenty different brands of scent and lotion. There was also a photograph of her family.
He found it difficult to concentrate on it, as she was standing by the bed, stripped to the waist She had taken off his sweater. He’d been forced to loan it to her for the remainder of the trip, as he’d destroyed her shirt. With one ear cocked toward the unit by her bed that served as radio, alarm clock and message machine, she rooted through her closet for another top.
“Hey, babe.” The voice on the machine was cajoling and very male. The moment he heard it, Jacob despised it. “It’s Pete. You’re not still steamed, are you, doll? Come on, Sunny, forgive and forget, right? Give me a call and we’ll go dancing. I miss that pretty face of yours.”
Sunny gave a quick snort and dragged out a sweatshirt.
“Who’s Pete?”
“Whoa.” She put a hand between her breasts. “You scared me.”
“Who’s Pete?” he repeated.
“Just a guy.” She tugged the sweatshirt on, “I was hoping you’d bring in one of those sodas.” She sat on the bed to pull off her boots.
“Sunny.” This time the voice on the phone was smooth and feminine. “We got a postcard from Libby and Cal. Let us know when you get back in town.”
“My mother,” Sunny explained, wriggling her toes. Grinning, she passed him the sweater. “You can have this back now.”
Not entirely sure what he was feeling, he took off his coat. Beneath it, his chest was bare. As he started to pull the sweater over his head, the machine announced the next message.
“Hey, Sunny, it’s Marco. Where the hell are you, sweet thing? I’ve been calling for a week. Give me a buzz when you get back.” There was a sound, like a big, smacking kiss before the beep.
“Who’s Marco?” Jacob asked, deadly calm.
“Another guy.” Her brows rose when he took her arm and pulled her to her feet.
“How many are there?”
“Messages?”
“Men.”
“Sunny . . . Bob here. I thought you might like to—”
Deliberately Sunny shut off the machine. “I haven’t kept track,” she said evenly. “Do you want to compare past lives, J.T.?”
He didn’t answer, because he found he couldn’t. Releasing her, he walked away.
Jealousy. It filled him. And how he detested it. He didn’t consider himself a reasonable man, but he was certainly an intelligent one. He knew she hadn’t begun to live the moment he had walked into her life. A woman like her, beautiful, bright, fascinating, would attract men. Many men. And if it had been possible he would have murdered each and every one of them for touching what was his.
And not his.
He swore and spun around to see her watching him from the doorway.
“Are we going to fight?”
He ached. Just looking at her, he ached, for what was, and for what could never be. “No.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want them near you,” he blurted out.
“Don’t be a jerk.”
He reached her in three strides. “I mean it.”
She tugged her arms free and glared at him. “So do I. Damn it, do you think any of them could mean anything to me after you?”
“If you don’t—” Her words sunk in and stopped him. Lifting his hands, palms out, he stepped back. She stepped forward.
“If I don’t what? If you think you can give me orders, pal, you’ve got another thing coming. I don’t have to —”
“No, you don’t.” He cut her off, taking her balled fist in his hand. Not his, he reminded himself. He was going to have to start getting used to that. “I’m not handling this well. I’ve never been in love before.”
The fighting light died from her eyes. “Neither have I. Not like this.”
“No, not like this.” He brought her fingertips to his lips. “Just review the rest of your communications later, will you?”
Amused by his phrasing, she grinned. “Sure. Listen, help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. The TV’s in the bedroom, the stereo’s out here. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Where are you going?”
She picked up a pair of discarded sneakers and tugged them on. “I’m going to go see my parents. If you’re up to it later, maybe we can have a real dinner out and go dancing or something.”
“Sunny.” He took her hand as she picked up her coat. “I’d like to go with you.”
Solemn eyed, she studied him. “You don’t have to, Jacob. Really.”
“I know. I’d like to.”
She kissed his cheek. “Go get your coat.”
***
William Stone stalked to the door of his elegant Tudor home in bare feet. His sweatshirt bagged on his long, skinny frame. The knees of his jeans had worn through, but he refused to give them up. In one hand he carried a
