Sunny Chandler's Return by Sandra Brown Page A

doesn’t sound like something Fran would say.”
    “You’re right. I drew that conclusion myself.”
    “So, you and Fran discussed my love life.”
    “I wouldn’t call it
love
life.”
    “Oh?”
    “I don’t consider sleeping around love.”
    “What do you consider love? Jilting a poor schmuck at the altar?”
    Sunny reacted as though he had struck her. For a moment she didn’t move, but only stared at him. When she did move, it was with a swish of cotton skirt and a swirl of golden hair that almost slapped him in the face as it came around.
    “Wait! Sunny!” She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow down. In fact, she speeded up. He blocked her path by stepping around her and bracing himself against the doorjamb. “That was unforgivably rude.”
    “Damn right it was. Now get out of my way.”
    “I’m sorry. Truly. And you’re absolutely right, sometimes I am a bastard. It comes from practice.”
    “You admit that you are?”
    “No, I admit that I
was
. Brusque. Rude. Insensitive. I’ve changed in the few years I’ve been here, but sometimes I have a relapse.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to say that to you. It just came out.”
    “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Beaumont. Not even courtesy. I’m not one of your lovesick ladies.”
    His mouth twitched with the need to smile. “Fran did some fancy talking, I see.”
    “Apparently so do you. It gets you into a lot of bedrooms.”
    The teasing glint faded from his eyes. “I’m not a monk, and I require more than the clinical detachment of a prostitute, so, yes, I’ve cultivated sleeping arrangements with a few women in town. But I’m always honest. I’ve never taken advantage of a woman by making promises I know I won’t keep.”
    Sunny lowered her head. So Fran had said. He let a woman know beforehand exactly what she was getting into. Staring straight into that muscled wall of chest with its blanket of fuzzy gold hair, Sunny could understand why some of his women went so willingly to the emotional slaughterhouse.
    He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. “I haven’t broken tradition yet. You knew from the beginning, moments after I met you, what I wanted.”
    “To win your bet.”
    “To get you in bed.”
    “One and the same.”
    “Hardly,” he rasped. “Much as I like sipping Wild Turkey, sweetheart, I’d rather be tasting you.”
    Her insides took an elevator ride. “I said no,” she said tremulously. “Didn’t that change your mind?”
    He took half a step closer. “Touch me and see.”
    At his bold invitation, she sucked in her breath sharply and turned her back on him. “Do you eat salt on your popcorn?”
    He followed her into the kitchen. “Sure,” he answered, lazily drawing the word out.
    The man’s moods were chameleonlike. Sunny wished she could recover from their sexual bantering as rapidly and with as much skill as he.
    He took a metal saltshaker—the ugly, industrial kind with a handle—down from the pantry and shook it over the bowl of popcorn. Then he dribbled the melted butter over it.
    Sunny watched the golden, liquid butter trickle through the fluffy white kernels. She decided that the only thing that smelled better than freshly popped popcorn and melted butter was Ty Beaumont. His cologne was potent enough to attract her, but elusive enough to tantalize instead of overwhelm.
    He wiped the last drop of melted butter from the rim of the pan before setting it aside. Lifting his coated finger to her lips, he painted them with the butter until they were slippery and shiny.
    Apparently all his neighbors had gone inside. No longer were sounds of activity coming from beyond the doors of his house. The sun had slipped far enough below the horizon to bathe the kitchen with its vermilion afterglow. The atmosphere was warm and still and silent. He emanated heat. His fingertip was smooth and firm as it unhurriedly smoothed the butter over her lips.
    Sunny’s heart was pounding so