Calder Storm (Calder Saga 10)

“Everyone really seemed to enjoy our updated version of a luau, didn’t they?” Sloan sat back on her heels and marveled over the fact. “To be honest, I was worried that they might take it wrong and think I was saying something against the life here.”

“Are you kidding?” Trey looked at her in surprise. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how anxious she was to be accepted by his extended ranch family. “Everybody got a real kick out of it. Since we got back, I swear, somebody asks me every day when we’re going to have another one. One of the guys even referred to it as a Hawaiian pig roast.”

“Really?” A laugh of delight bubbled from her.

“Really.” He nodded in emphasis, then tapped a forefinger on the photographs. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. These pictures show how much fun everyone’s having.”

“They do, don’t they?” She moved a few around, then paused. “Do you know what I just noticed? Laredo isn’t in any of these shots—except this one, and it just shows the back of his head.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Laredo’s always been camera-shy.” He placed his hands on his thighs and levered himself out of his crouching position. “I’ll look at the rest of the pictures later, after I’ve had a shower. Care to join me?”

“I might, considering I need to change before dinner anyway.” Her upward glance was both suggestive and challenging. “Although something tells me you have more than just a shower in mind.”

“It’s that getup you’re wearing.” His eyes once again traveled over all that bare, suntanned flesh. “It reminds me of Hawaii, the two of us all alone on the beach, your skin glistening with oil, the waves lapping around our feet, and the salty taste of you.” He caught hold of her hand and pulled her upright to stand beside him, the memory and her nearness heating his blood. But desire seemed to be an ever-present thing whenever he was with her, and sometimes even when he wasn’t. “We went skinny-dipping afterwards. Remember?”

“Very well.” She swayed against him, fingers slipping inside the waistband of his jeans. “Your skin was gritty that afternoon, too. Only this time you’re wearing a lot more clothes.”

“I can fix that!”

“Not here. Let’s keep all this hay stuff in the bathroom, where it’ll be easier to clean up.”

“Now you sound like a practical little wife,” he mocked and looked pointedly at the cardboard boxes that littered the sitting room. “Although I don’t why you’re worried. The room’s already a mess.”

“And you aren’t going to get it any messier.” Sloan gave a tug on his waistband, pulling him in the direction of the adjoining bedroom and the private bath beyond it. “Come on.”

“Lead the way,” he said, adding a playful taunt. “If you can find one.”

“It isn’t that bad, and you know it,” she countered in mild protest.

Trey traveled about three steps and halted to stare at a free-form sculpture in bronze that stood about three feet tall. “What in the world is that thing? I don’t remember seeing it at the beach house.”

“For a good reason. It didn’t come from there,” Sloan replied easily as she paused to study the abstract piece with a kind of resignation rather than pleasure. “It’s a wedding present from Uncle Max. It was delivered along with the rest of my things. It’s probably horribly expensive.”

?

?What’s it supposed to be?” Trey frowned at the piece.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she admitted. “I’m hoping the designer will find some out-of-the-way place to display it. Tara called to let me know she’ll be bringing him over in the morning.”

Trey didn’t exactly welcome that bit of news. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. I mean, we can thank her kindly for the offer and suggest she buy us something else instead. She couldn’t come up with anything worse than that.” He indicated the sculpture with a wave of his hand.

“We’ve been through this before,” Sloan reminded him.

“I know we have.” And he regretted that he’d ever agreed to accept Tara’s offer. “But there isn’t much that needs to be done in here—new tile in the bathroom, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, maybe some different drapes.”

“I think you’ve overlooked the sofa that’s on its last leg, and the new big chair you wanted,” Sloan countered. “I’ve worked with a decorator before. And, believe me, it’s easier when you have a professional who’s experienced at coordinating fabrics, paint colors, and tiles.”

Trey had no argument for that. “Just make sure Tara stays out of it. Given a chance, she’d turn this place into a pink-and-gold satin nightmare.”

Sloan laughed. “I can promise you that won’t happen.”

“I know it won’t,” Trey conceded. “But I don’t think you realize what you’re getting yourself into.” He moved past her into the bedroom, shedding his shirt as he went.

Tara arrived at The Homestead promptly at nine-thirty the following morning, accompanied by the designer, Garson St. Clair. Somewhere in his late thirties, he had the trimly muscled build of a man who frequented a health club. Yet a mane of dark, curly hair worn shoulder length gave him the look of an artist.

When Tara introduced him to Sloan, the decorater reluctantly broke off his assessment of the surroundings and greeted Sloan with an air that managed to be both deferential and aloof. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Ms. Calder.”

“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. But I think it will save a great deal of confusion if you call me Sloan.”