Нора Робертс - Megan’s Mate

“You're the prettiest cowboy on the island,” he whispered in her ear. Jenny shot a smug look at her brother when her feet touched the floor again. “You let me know when you're ready for a sail,” he said to Kevin. “Nice meeting you, Ms. O'Riley.”

“Nate's a sailor,” Jenny said importantly when Nathaniel strolled out. “He's been everywhere and done everything.”

Megan didn't doubt it for a minute.

So much had changed at The Towers, though the family rooms on the first two floors and the east wing were much the same. Trent St. James, with Megan's brother, Sloan, as architect, had concentrated most of the time and effort on the ten suites in the west wing, the new guest dining area and the west tower. All of that area comprised the hotel.

From the quick tour Megan was given, she could see that none of the time and effort that had gone into the construction and renovations had been wasted.

Sloan had designed with an appreciation for the original fortresslike structure, retaining the high-ceilinged rooms and circular stairs, ensuring that the many fireplaces were working, preserving the mullioned windows and French doors that led out onto terraces, balconies, parapets.

The lobby was sumptuous, filled with antiques and designed with a multitude of cozy corners that invited guests to lounge on a rainy or wintry day. The spectacular views of bay or cliffs or sea or Suzanna's fabulous gardens were there to be enjoyed, or tempted guests to stroll out onto terraces and balconies.

When Amanda, as hotel manager, took over the tour, Megan was told that each suite was unique. The storage rooms of The Towers had been full of old furniture, mementos and art. What hadn't been sold prior to Trent's having invested the St. James money in the transformation now graced the guest rooms.

Some suites were two levels, with an art deco staircase connecting the rooms, some had wainscoting or silk wallpaper. There was an Aubusson rug here, an old tapestry there. And all the rooms were infused with the legend of the Calhoun emeralds and the woman who had owned them.

The emeralds themselves, discovered after a difficult and dangerous search—some said with the help of the spirits of Bianca Calhoun and Christian Bradford, the artist who had loved her—resided now in a glass case in the lobby. Above the case was a portrait of Bianca, painted by Christian more than eighty years before.

“They're gorgeous,” Megan whispered. “Stunning.” The tiers of grass green emeralds and white diamonds almost pulsed with life.

“Sometimes I'll just stop and look at them,” Amanda admitted, “and remember all we went through to find them. How Bianca tried to use them to escape with her children to Christian. It should make me sad, I suppose, but having them here, under her portrait, seems right.”

“Yes, it does.” Megan could feel the pull of them, even through the glass. “But isn't it risky, having them out here this way?”

“Holt arranged for security. Having an ex-cop in the family means nothing's left to chance. The glass is bulletproof.” Amanda tapped her finger against it. “And wired to some high-tech sensor.” Amanda checked her watch and judged that she had fifteen minutes before she had to resume her managerial duties. “I hope your rooms are all right. We've barely scratched the surface on the family renovations.”

“They're fine.” And the truth was, it relaxed Megan a bit to see cracked plaster and gnawed woodwork. It made it all less intimidating. “Kevin's in paradise. He's outside with Alex and Jenny, playing with the new puppy.”

“Our Fred and Holt's Sadie are quite the proud parents.” With a laugh, Amanda tossed back her swing of sable hair. “Eight pups.”

“As Alex said, everyone's having babies. And your Delia is beautiful.”

“She is, isn't she?” Maternal pride glowed in Amanda's eyes. “I can't believe how much she's grown already. You should have been around here six months ago. All four of us out to here.” She laughed again as she held out her arms. “Waddling everywhere. The men strutting. Do you know they took bets to see if Lilah or I would deliver first? She beat me by two days.” And since she'd bet twenty on herself, it still irritated her a little. “It's the first time I've known her to be in a hurry about anything.”

“Her Bianca's beautiful, too. She was awake and howling for attention when I was in the nursery. Your nanny has her hands full.”

“Mrs. Billows can handle anything.”

“Actually, I wasn't thinking about the babies. It was Max.” She grinned remembering how Bianca's daddy had come running in, abandoning his new novel on the typewriter to scoop his daughter out of her crib.

“He's such a softie.”

“Who's a softie?” Sloan strode into the room to swing his sister off her feet.

“Not you, O'Riley,” Amanda murmured, watching the way his face softened like butter as he pressed his cheek to Megan's.

“You're here.” He twirled her again. “I'm so glad you're here, Meg.” “Me too.” She felt her eyes tear and squeezed him tight. “Daddy.”

With a laugh, he set her down, slipped his free arm around his wife. “Did you see her yet?”

Megan feigned ignorance. “Who?” “My girl. My Delia.”

“Oh, her.” Megan shrugged, chuckled, then kissed Sloan on his sulking mouth. “Not only did I see her, I held her, I sniffed her, and have already decided to spoil her at every opportunity. She's gorgeous, Sloan. She looks just like Amanda.”

“Yeah, she does.” He kissed his wife. “Except she's got my chin.” “That's a Calhoun chin,” Amanda claimed.

“Nope, it's O'Riley all the way. And speaking of O'Rileys,” he continued, before Amanda could argue, “where's Kevin?”

“Outside. I should probably go get him. We haven't even unpacked yet.” “We'll go with you,” Sloan said.

“You go. I'm covering.” Even as Amanda spoke, the phone on the mahogany front desk rang. “Break's over. See you at dinner, Megan.” She leaned up to kiss Sloan again. “See you sooner, O'Riley.”

“Mnuu...” Sloan gave a satisfied sigh as he watched his wife stride off. “I do love the way that woman eats up the floor.”

“You look at her just the way you did a year ago, at your wedding.” Megan tucked her hand in his as they walked out of the lobby and onto the stone terrace steps. “It's nice.”

“She's...” He searched for a word, then settled on the simplest truth. “Everything. I'd like you to be as happy as I am, Megan.”

“I am happy.” A breeze flitted through her hair. On it carried the sound of children's laughter. “Hearing that makes me happy. So does being here.” They descended another level and turned west. “I have to admit I'm a little nervous. It's such a big step.” She saw her son scramble to the top of the fort in the yard below, arms raised high in victory. “This is good for him.”

“And you?”

“And me.” She leaned against her brother. “I'll miss Mom and Dad, but they've already said that with both of us out here, it gives them twice as much reason to visit twice as often.” She pushed the blowing hair from her face while Kevin played sniper, fighting off Alex and Jenny's assault on the fort. “He needs to know the rest of his family. And I...needed a change. And as to that—” she looked back at Sloan “—I tried to get Amanda to show me the setup.”

“And she told you that you couldn't sharpen your pencils for a week.” “Something like that.”

“We decided at the last family meeting that you'd have a week to settle in before you started hammering the adding machine.”

“I don't need a week. I only need—”

“I know, I know. You'd give Amanda a run for the efficiency crown. But orders are you take a week off.”

She arched a brow. “And just who gives the orders around here?”

“Everybody.” Sloan grinned. “That's what makes it interesting.”

Thoughtful, she looked out to sea. The sky was as clear as blown glass, and the breeze warm with early summer. From her perch at the wall, she could see the small clumps of islands far out in the diamond-bright water.

A different world, she thought, from the plains and prairies of home. A different life, perhaps, for her and her son.

A week. To relax, to explore, to take excursions with Kevin. Tempting, yes. But far from responsible. “I want to pull my weight.”

“You will, believe me.” He glanced out at the clear sound of a boat horn. “That's one of Holt and Nate's,” Sloan told her, pointing to the long terraced boat that was gliding across the water. “The Mariner. Takes tourists out for whale-watching.”

The kids were all atop the fort now, shouting and waving at the boat. When the horn blasted again, they cheered.

“You'll meet Nate at dinner,” Sloan began. “I met him already.”

“Flirting a meal out of Coco?” “It appeared that way.”

Sloan shook his head. “That man can eat, let me tell you. What did you think?”

“Not much,” she muttered. “He seemed a little rough-edged to me.” “You get used to him. He's one of the family now.”

Megan made a noncommittal sound. Maybe he was, but that didn't mean he was part of hers.

As far as Coco was concerned, Niels Van Horne was a thoroughly unpleasant man. He did not take constructive criticism, or the subtlest of suggestions for improvement, well at all. She tried to be courteous, God knew, as he was a member of the staff of The Towers and an old, dear friend of Nathaniel's.

But the man was a thorn in her side, an abrasive grain of sand in the cozy slipper of her contentment.

In the first place, he was simply too big. The hotel kitchen was gloriously streamlined and organized. She and Sloan had worked in tandem on the design, so that the finished product would suit her specifications and needs. She adored her huge stove, her convection and conventional ovens, the glint of polished stainless steel and glossy white counters, and her whispersilent dishwasher. She loved the smells of cooking, the hum of her exhaust fans, the sparkling cleanliness of her tile floor.