Sunny Chandler's Return

He kissed her again. As before, the world as she knew it crumbled. She was transported into a sphere where everything smelled and tasted and felt like Ty. It was his universe. He dominated it, was lord over it.

He moved his hand down a fraction. His fingers impressed tunnels into the fullness of her breast, but he still ignored the crest, which was yearning, aching, for his touch.

Her fingers curled into the hard flesh of his chest. Her mouth responded to the expert probing of his tongue. Involuntarily she moved her hips, bringing his hardness fully against her. The contact shocked them both.

His eyes were dark and intense when he raised his head and looked down into her face. Her lips were rosy and wet. She stared back at him with lambent eyes.

“But as you’ve already pointed out,” he said quietly, “it’s getting late.”

Sunny couldn’t believe it!

He calmly released her and left the kitchen. Moments later she heard the front door close and then the motor of a car starting up. By the time she had recovered herself, he was gone.

Sunny Chandler shattered the cup he had drunk from against her kitchen wall and called upon every demon in hell to possess the body and soul of Ty Beaumont.

Four

Sunny crossed her legs, demurely tugging her straight skirt over her knees when she noticed that her impatient movement had attracted the attention of the man behind the desk.

“The financial statement is as complete as I could make it, Mr. Smithie. I’ve included several credit references, my income tax records for the past three years, my projections for future income.”

“You’ve been thorough, Miss Chandler.”

That gave Sunny no indication of what the bank officer thought of the columns of figures he had perused no less than a dozen times since she’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Peering through his bifocals, he scanned the pages again.

Then he set aside the meticulously prepared financial statement, folded his hands on his desk, and looked at Sunny as though he was about to impart the sad news that there was no Santa Claus. His expression was that superior, that remorseful, that sympathetic. She braced herself for having her high hopes dashed against the rocks of sexual prejudice.

“The figures you submitted are impressive, Miss Chandler.”

“But realistic, I believe.” She smiled, trying not to let her trepidation show. Banks didn’t lend money to people who looked like they needed it.

“Much as I admire your enthusiasm for your work, I’m afraid you’re being a trifle optimistic.”

“On the contrary, I’ve been conservative in my projections.”

“Still,” Mr. Smithie said, clearing his throat importantly, “they’re only projections.”

“Projections based on experience.” At the risk of being argumentative, Sunny wouldn’t take no for an answer without putting up a good fight. “I know what women, and men for that matter, are prepared to spend on these things. My clients will be society people with staggering incomes.”

“But you have no clients at present,” he pointed out reasonably.

“That’s why I need the business loan, Mr. Smithie. To promote my new business. I do have clients, people who will work only with me where I am currently employed. They won’t hear of entrusting themselves to anyone else. Once they know I’m in business for myself, they’ll naturally come to me.”

He looked skeptical, but didn’t offer a rebuttal. Instead he glanced down at his wristwatch, a reminder that she was taking up a great deal of his valuable time. “As for collateral—”

“The lake property.”

“But that actually belongs to your father.”

“And you have in the file a letter authorizing me to use it. Do you think I forged his signature on the letter, Mr. Smithie?”

“Of course not, Sunny,” he said with a falsely jovial smile. He had lapsed into using her first name. Neither of them noticed because at any other time prior to today, he’d always called her Sunny.

“Then I fail to see the problem. The value of the lake cabin and surrounding acreage more than covers the amount I’m asking to borrow. As you know, my father is a respected businessman. He wouldn’t risk his property if he didn’t believe in what I want to do.”

“But going into business for oneself,” he said with a mournful shake of his head, “that’s an ambitious undertaking for anybody. But especially for a woman.”

Sunny sat back in her chair and eyed him assessingly. “You mean that if I were a man, the bank would have no qualms about lending me the money?”