"Well," she said primly, "you look like you had a delightful time last night."
And she looked as neat and crisp as a freshly starched shirt. It was, he was sure, reason enough for homicide. "If you came up here to ruin my day, you're too late." He started to swing the door shut, but she held it open and stepped inside.
"I have something to say to you."
"You've said it." Instantly he regretted turning sharply away. As his head throbbed nastily, he vowed to hold on to what was left of his dignity. He would not crawl away, but walk.
Because he looked so pitiful, she decided to help him out "I guess you feel pretty lousy."
"Lousy?" He narrowed his eyes to keep them from dropping out of his head. "No, I feel dandy. Just dandy. I live for hangovers."
"What you need is a cold shower, a couple of aspirin and a decent breakfast."
After making an inarticulate sound in his throat, he groped his way toward the bedroom. "Calhoun, you're on dangerous ground."
"I won't be in your way long." Determined to accomplish her mission, she followed him. "I just want to talk to you about—" She broke off when he slammed the bathroom door in her face. "Well." Blowing out a huffy breath, she set her hands on her hips.
Inside, Sloan stripped off his jeans then stepped into the shower. With one hand braced on the tile, he turned the water on full coid. His single vicious curse bounced along the walls then slammed right back into his head. Still, he was a little steadier when he stepped out again, fought with the cap on the aspirin bottle and downed three.
His hangover hadn't gone away, he thought, but at least he was now fully awake to enjoy it. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked back into the parlor.
He'd thought she would have gotten the message, but there she was, hunched over his drawing board with glasses perched on her nose. She'd tidied up, too, he noted, emptying ashtrays, piling cups on the room service tray, picking up discarded clothes. In fact, she had her hands full of his clothes while she studied his drawings.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She glanced up and, determined to be cheerful, smiled. "Oh, you're back." The sight of him in nothing but a damp towel had her careful to keep her eyes strictly on his face. "I was just taking a look at your work."
"I don't mean that, I mean what are you doing picking up after me? It's not part of your job to play Sally Domestic."
"I didn't see how you could work in a sty," she shot back, "so I straightened up a little while I was waiting for you."
"I like working in a sty. If I didn't, I would've picked the damn stuff up myself."
"Fine." Incensed, she hurled his clothes into the air so that they scattered over the room. "Better?"
Slowly he pulled off the T-shirt that had landed on his head. "Calhoun, do you know what's more dangerous than a man with a hangover?"
"No."
"Nothing." He took one measured step toward her when there was another knock at the door.
"That's your breakfast." Amanda's voice was clipped as she strode toward the door. "I had them put a rush on it."
Defeated, Sloan sank onto the couch and put his head in his hands so that he could catch it easily when it fell off. "I don't want any damn breakfast"
"Well, you'll eat it and stop feeling sorry for yourself." She signed the check, then took the tray herself to place it on the table in front of him. "Whole wheat toast, black coffee and a Virgin Mary, heavy on the hot sauce. It'll take the edge off."
"An electric planer couldn't take the edge off." But he reached for the coffee.
Satisfied that she had made a good start, Amanda took off her glasses and slipped them into her pocket. He really did look pathetic, she thought. His wet hair was dripping down his face. She had a strong urge to kneel down beside him and stroke those damp curls back. But he'd probably have snapped her hand off at the wrist, and she had an equally strong urge to survive.
"Trent mentioned that you did quite a bit of drinking last night."
After trying the spiced-up tomato juice, he eyed her narrowly. “So you came by to see the morning-after in person."
"Not exactly." Her fingers toyed with her name tag, then the top button on her jacket. "I thought since it was my fault you got into this condition, I should—"
"Hold it. If I get drunk, it's because my hand reaches for the bottle." "Yes, but—"
"I don't want your sympathy, Calhoun, or your guilt any more than I want your maid service."
"Fine." Pride and temper went to war. Pride won. "I merely came by this morning to apologize."
He bit off another piece of toast. It did soothing things to the rocky sea of his belly. "What for?"
"For what I said, and the way I acted yesterday." Unable to stand still, she walked over to the window and pulled the shades open, ignoring Sloan's quick hiss of pain. "Although I still think I was perfectly justified. After all, I only knew that you'd said something to hurt Suzanna badly." But there was regret in her eyes when she turned back. "When she told me about your sister—about Bax—I realized how you must have been feeling. Damn it, Sloan, you could have told me yourself."
"Maybe. Maybe you could have trusted me."
She took her glasses out again, playing with the earpieces to keep her hands busy. "It wasn't really a matter of trust, but of automatic reflex. You don't know what Suzanna went through, how deeply she was hurt. Or if you do, because of your own sister, then you should understand why I couldn't bear to see her look like that again." She shoved the glasses away. When she looked at him, her eyes were damp. "And it was worse, because I have feelings for you."
If there was one thing he had no defense against, it was tears. Wanting to ward them off as much as he wanted to make peace, he rose to take her hands. "I made my share of mistakes yesterday." Smiling, he rubbed her knuckles over his cheek. It felt good— damn good. "I guess it's as hard for you to apologize as it is for me."
"If you mean it's like swallowing a lump of coal, then you're right."
"Why don't we call it even, all around?" But when he lowered his head to kiss her, she stepped back.
"I really need to think straight for a while."
He caught her hand again. "I really need to make love with you."
Her heart took a quick leap into her throat. For someone who moved so slowly, how did he get from one point to the next so fast? "I'm, ah, on duty. I'm already over my break, and Stenerson—"
"Why don't I give him a call?" Still smiling, he began to kiss her fingers. The hangover was down to a dull ache, not nearly as noticeable as another, more pleasant one in the pit of his stomach. "Tell him I need the assistant manager for a couple hours."
"I think—"
"There you go again," he murmured, brushing his lips lightly over hers.
"No, really, I have to..." Her mind clouded as he trailed those lips down her throat. "I really have to get back to my desk. And I—" She took a big, shuddering gasp of air. "I need to be sure." Scrambling for survival, she pulled away. "I have to know what I'm doing."
Sloan pressed a hand to the familiar bum that spread inside his gut. He had a feeling he was just going to have to live with it for a while longer. "Tell you what, Calhoun. You think about it, and think hard, until after the wedding. Like we said before." Before she could relax, he had her chin cupped firmly in his hand. "And after the wedding, if you don't come to me, you'd better run fast."
The line appeared between her brows. "That sounds like an ultimatum."
"No, that's a fact. If I were you, I'd get out that door now, while I still had the chance."
All dignity, she marched to it before turning back with a smile that should have tipped him off. "Enjoy your breakfast," she told him, then slammed the door with a vengeance. She could almost see him holding his battered head.