Free Sunny Chandler's Return by Sandra Brown Page A

like calling the shots, yeah.”
    “Lord, spare me from male domination.”
    The soda jerk slid two icy glasses in front of them and went back to his hot rod magazine. After taking a few sips of his drink through the straw, Ty asked, “Do I detect a trace of bitterness in your prayer?”
    “More than a trace.”
    He swiveled around on his stool to face her. “What got you so turned off of men?”
    “Generally or specifically?” she asked sweetly.
    “Let’s start with generalities.”
    “Generally men want to keep women ‘in their place.’ ”
    “Hmm, I might take issue with that, at least until we determine exactly what that place is. Let’s get specific.”
    “Specifically,” she said, drawing out the word, “my application for a business loan at the bank will be considered using a different set of standards than it would be if I wore trousers instead of panty hose.”
    He looked down at her slim legs, but, sensitive to her mood, refrained from making any comment. “They turned you down, huh?”
    “Not yet, but as good as.”
    “What do you want the loan for?”
    Sunny looked at him, wondering what possible interest it was to him. None. Maybe that’s why she was tempted to tell him about her plans. It might be refreshing to get the opinion of someone who would look at the matter from a purely objective standpoint, someone who didn’t harbor any preconceived notions about her or her work.
    “I want to go into business for myself,” she told him curtly.
    “What kind of business?” He finished his drink and set it aside, devoting all his attention to her.
    “I design and make Mardi Gras costumes.”
    He stared at her for a moment. Then, to her astonishment and supreme irritation, he started laughing. Sunny snatched up her purse and sunglasses and slid off the stool. He caught her arm.
    “Wait. Don’t go off in a huff. I’m laughing at George, not you.”
    “George?”
    “He told me you were a seamstress. I couldn’t quite picture you bent over a sewing machine in a sweatshop.”
    She resumed her seat. “Well, I’ve spent many hours bent over a sewing machine, but I mainly do the designs, then work side by side with the seamstresses who make the actual garments. They sew; I construct.”
    “It sounds to me as though you’re already in business for yourself.”
    “No, I work for a mom-and-pop company that’s been in the business for years. It’s a highly specialized field. I want to branch out on my own.”
    “Why?” He set his elbow on the pink Formica lunch counter and propped his chin in his hand, giving every impression that he was genuinely interested.
    “My creativity is stymied. The couple I work for are tired. Their ideas are tired. Their lack of energy shows up in their work. The innovative designs we’ve produced in the last couple of years were mine. But I’m only getting paid a salary.”
    “That would tend to reduce your incentive.”
    “It only reduces my incentive to remain with them. I have too many ideas that are begging to be made into realities. When I leave, I’ll get many of their disappointed regular clients, and more clients through word of mouth. I’m confident that it wouldn’t take long at all for me to become well established.”
    “But in the meantime you need operating capital.”
    “Exactly. For the million and one necessary expenditures associated with starting any business. Mainly, I’d have to make some sample costumes. Hopefully I could sell them later, but in the meantime, they would prove my talent to customers who don’t know my capabilities.”
    Ty smiled at her lack of humility, but Sunny was too caught up in her subject to notice.
    “The ball costumes are elaborate,” she continued. “The materials alone for one gown cost thousands of dollars. I can’t make them for nothing.”
    “Let me see if I understand,” he said. “You submit an idea, or several, to a client. She chooses the design she wants and you make the costume for