Yet that feels like a dangerous path to go down, a dangerous thing to want.
“I don’t have any questions,” I say. “And I’m too tired to be coherent. I thought I’d get an early night and hike a bit before breakfast. I don’t suppose you’re the morning-walk type?”
“I could be.” Something flickers over his face, and he straightens. “I mean that I should accompany you for safety. What time were you thinking?”
“Is six thirty too early?”
“I’m usually up by five. I’ll meet you in the courtyard at six thirty.”
We say our good nights, and he leaves. Once the door’s shut, I stand there, lingering, and regretting for far too long. Then I snap out of it and return to that nightgown. It’s more of a chemise, complete with short dressing gown. Both have tags still affixed to assure me they’re brand new. I smile and shake my head. Now that’s hospitality. Also, serious money, where you can have a drawer of new nightwear for unexpected guests.
Seeing that the chemise is new persuades me to wear it. It’s also gorgeous, with silk that shimmers down around me as soft as a lover’s kiss. Which is what it’s designed for. Oh, it’s comfortable, nothing like the polyester lingerie I’ve bought, shoved into a drawer and brought out only for those ten minutes of show before it’s—thankfully—peeled off. This is what lingerie should be, the kind of chemise you could lounge in all evening, artfully hidden under the short dressing gown until it’s time to retire for the evening with someone who will appreciate it.
One glance in the full-length mirror across the room, and I’m tempted to shoot boudoir selfies. Of course, then I’d need someone to send them to . . .
The chemise does look good, though. It’s the perfect color, a rich maroon that sets off my skin tone. The perfect length, too, skating the tops of my thighs and showing off my legs. In the soft light, my hair—an unholy tangle from a long day—looks artfully mussed as it falls across my shoulders.
Such a waste.
I sigh, treat myself to a slather of decadent citrus-scented body lotion, and climb between sheets so luxuriant I want to sneak a look at the brand and set myself an aspirational goal. Instead, I sink onto a soft mattress and softer pillow, close my eyes and—
A soft tap sounds at the door. Exactly the same tap I’d heard when Connolly came by. I slide from bed and slip the dressing gown over my chemise.
As I cross the room, something seems . . . off. Not quite right. Not wrong, either. It’s an odd sensation, lending a surreal quality to everything around me. Warm night air tickles past, raising delicious goose bumps and bringing the heady smell of roses.
I glance over to see the window is open, and although I don’t remember opening it, the thought brings not even a twinge of concern, nor does that out-of-season scent. The breeze and the smell are delightful, and that is all that matters.
The moon hangs in a low crescent though I could have sworn it’d been fuller when we left the courtyard. Again, no concern, only the fleeting thought that it is the loveliest moon I’ve ever seen.
Carpet cushions each step, the pile as warm and comfortable as a pair of fuzzy socks. Hadn’t it been hardwood before? No, I must have been thinking of another room.
I open the door to see Connolly standing there. Earlier, he’d been in half light, and he is again, and yet this time, it’s different. Moonlight from my bedroom window somehow reaches him here, bathing him in the perfect mix of light and shadow. Shadowing angular cheekbones. Setting off a strong jaw. Making his eyes impossibly green and his hair glimmer red-gold even where it falls into shadow.
He’s dressed in his button-down shirt from earlier, but it’s open at the collar, the tie long gone, shirt sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His feet are bare, and somehow that odd detail sets something fluttering inside me.
“I . . .” he says, and then seems to stick there, searching for words, an excuse that explains returning to my door.
I know what will come next. He’ll withdraw and straighten, maybe clear his throat. When he does exactly that, my insides flutter again, as if being able to predict his reactions means something, implies I know him better than I’d expect after only a day together.
“I thought I heard a noise,” he says. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“I am. Sorry if I woke you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” He steps closer. “Also, I’m lying. I didn’t hear anything. I just wanted to say everything will be all right. After I walked away earlier, I realized I didn’t say that. I know you’re worried about your sister, and you’re afraid I’ll put my brother’s debt above her life. I won’t.”
I look up into his face. He’s right there now, as if somehow, I’ve moved closer, too, until I’m near enough to see the pulse at the base of his throat. Also, his shirt is unbuttoned. Completely undone when only the top button was open a moment ago. The shirt is open, the tails pushed back over his hips, giving me a glimpse of a muscled chest and firm stomach.
Okay, this makes no sense. Which means I’m dreaming, damn it.
Or am I?
Well, yes, clearly, I’ve fallen asleep, and this is a dream, but it feels real despite the fact that Connolly’s shirt has miraculously unbuttoned itself.
Dream shaping.
Vanessa is a dream shaper.
However, if you did decide to bake for him, I wouldn’t object. The boy is in desperate need of cookies, wherever they come from.
Oh, yes, Vanessa Apsley is the perfect host. Michelin-star dinner, decadent guest room, and now, a little sexy-dream nightcap.
A sexy dream for one?
She said Connolly was in need of “cookies.” Not me.
I look up into those gorgeous eyes, warmer and softer than I’ve ever seen them. Yes, softer, and I know that’s not always a sexy word, but for me, it’s catnip.
Is this my dream version of Connolly? An idealized imagining? Or . . .
“Tell me a secret,” I say.
His eyes dance, and he leans so close his breath tickles my upturned face. “A secret?”
“You want me to trust you. So tell me a secret. Doesn’t need to be anything blackmail-worthy. Just . . . something I couldn’t know if you didn’t tell me.”
“Ah. Let’s see . . .” His lips lower to my ear, and he whispers. “I’m afraid of snakes.”
“Snakes?”
His face moves over mine, one shoulder shrugging. “I had . . . an incident. It was traumatic. So, if we encounter any snakes on this adventure, you’ll need to deal with them.”
I look up at him, and I know some of this is fake. The lighting. The impossible green of his eyes. His shirt coming undone. But this is Connolly, asleep in another room, his dreams being nudged and manipulated by Vanessa.
A dream for two.
“Your turn,” he murmurs. “Tell me a secret.”
“I’m afraid . . .” The cool night breeze tickles my upper thighs, and I look down, blinking. “I’m afraid I don’t know how I lost my robe.”
He chuckles.
“No, seriously,” I say. “I was wearing it, wasn’t I?”
“Temporarily, and then it vanished.”
“You noticed that?”
Another chuckle, this one edged with something that makes my pulse race. “I couldn’t fail to notice. I just wasn’t going to bring it up. That could make you self-conscious, which would be very rude of me.”
“Well, I appreciate the consideration, especially given . . .” I blink at him. “You seem to have lost your shirt.”
His shirt is completely gone now. He looks down, which gives me an excuse to ogle.
“Hmm,” he says. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Well, having no idea where it went, as long as it doesn’t offend you . . .”
“Not a bit. Does my lack of a robe offend you?”
Now he uses this as an excuse to give me a very slow once-over that turns into a twice-over, as if he has to be sure. Even when h
e speaks, his gaze is still fixed on the bottom of my hemline.
“Offended isn’t the word I’d use,” he says. His fingers touch the hemline. “This seems suitable coverage.”
One fingertip grazes my thigh, and he withdraws fast enough for me to know it was accidental, but heat still darts through me. He toys with the hemline. Not lifting it. Not trying to get beneath it. Just sliding his fingers along the silk edge, and it’s the sexiest damn thing imaginable, my whole body responding to a touch that isn’t a touch at all.
There’s an opening here. So many things I can say, just a bit of flirty teasing. Yes, the chemise is suitable coverage. Is he disappointed in that? Would he like it shorter?
Or I could lean into his fingers, give them permission to touch.
It’s a dream.
Just a dream.
It’s safe.
Is it?
Is it really?
Do we see where this leads and then, tomorrow, act as if nothing happened?
I look up at him. His gaze is still fixed on my hemline, as if transfixed by that silken fabric sliding over my thighs, but he’s been staring too long, and I know he isn’t seeing me anymore. He’s thinking, just as I am. Deciding where to go next.
“I’m afraid of heights,” I say.
His head jerks up, but he doesn’t look startled, just smiles and says, “Are you? I’ll need to remember that,” and in his smile, I see relief. I feel relief, too, rippling through me as the moment passes.
It had been so tempting, but even if no harm came of it, I don’t want to go there. Don’t want to put that obstacle in our way. That’s what it feels like it would have been. An obstacle to work around. The elephant in the room that we’d need to pretend we didn’t see.
“Thank you,” he says, those warm eyes still on me.
“For what?”
He leans on the wall, one sculpted arm braced up against it. “For making this easy for me.”
For making it easy for him to walk away from this? For us both to walk away, without awkwardness or embarrassment? Maybe that’s part of it, but after a moment, he says, “I can be difficult to get along with. I know that. Thank you for putting up with my bullshit.”
“Oh, I’m not putting up with it. At all.”
He laughs. A real, head-thrown-back laugh that melts something inside me. When he looks at me, his eyes dance. “I know. And I appreciate that. It’s a welcome change.” He takes a step back. “Good night, Kennedy.”
Another step, and he’s about to walk away when I say, “Aiden?”
He turns back to me.
“Thank you, too,” I say. “For putting up with me panicking over my sisters. And for being . . . more.”
His brows rise.
“More than you seemed,” I say.
His lips curve, and he inclines his head, murmurs another good night, and we part. I withdraw into my bedroom, but stand there, watching him go, that very nice rear view made even better by the “missing” shirt.
He disappears into the darkness, and I sigh and lean against the doorframe.
Even in a sex dream, I still can’t get laid.
I laugh under my breath and shake my head. It’s for the best, and it was still a nice interlude, one that hints at . . . Well, I’m not going to think too hard about the possibilities it raises. We have siblings to save, and that will take all our attention.
Still, as I climb into bed, I may be smiling. I slide between the sheets, and I’m asleep in minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When a sound startles me awake, I’m half hoping it’s another knock at the door . . . and half hoping it isn’t. No, I’m fully hoping it isn’t. I want to leave that particular dream on its pitch-perfect endnote, with Connolly walking away but not seeming as if he was walking away. Deferring that which should be deferred.
I open my eyes, braced for another dream tap on the door. The room is silent, though. It’s changed, too. The window is closed, and the moon’s hidden behind cloud, casting everything into inky darkness.
The air smells different. Feels different. The gauzy unreality of the dream is gone. I catch the citrus scent of the lotion I’d slathered on, along with the faint smell of sweat, whispering that I probably should have had a bath after all.
A floorboard creaks, and I glance toward the hall.
Connolly? Woken from that sensual dream and wishing he hadn’t left? Returning to see whether I feel the same? I can’t picture that, though. More like he’d wake up and come to assure me that he meant nothing by it.
My stomach clenches at the thought.
Don’t, okay, Aiden? Just don’t. You enjoyed that tête-à-tête as much as I did, and we can pretend it didn’t happen and move on. Set it aside. Don’t make this awkward. Don’t make it embarrassing. Please.
Yet after that creak, all goes silent again. Just the house settling and—
Another board creaks . . . right beside me.
I reach for the reading lamp over my bed. Only this isn’t my bed, and there isn’t a lamp there.
My phone. I’ll grab my phone. It’s plugged in right . . .
No, this isn’t my room. I hadn’t wanted to move things around searching for an outlet, so I’d plugged in my phone across the room.
I take a deep breath. Whatever I heard was the house settling. Everything’s quiet now and—
The very distinct sound of a foot on a board, creaking it down and then releasing.
“Hello?” I say.
My voice quavers, and I’m about to try again, firmer, when I stop myself.
Yes, it sounded like a footstep, but that’s what I was expecting. I’ve decided there’s a person in my room, so I’m imagining I hear one.
Who would it be anyway? Connolly? Never. I can tease him about being an asshole, but there are many varieties, and he is a mile from the sort who thinks sneaking into a woman’s bedroom is sexy. He’s even further from the kind who’d slip into my bed whether I wanted it or not.
So who else is in the house? The staff is gone. That leaves only . . .
You didn’t trust Vanessa.
Yes, but I only meant that I didn’t know her well. If I’d mistrusted her, I’d have gotten to a hotel even if it meant walking there.
No one is actually in my room. I’m imagining—
The swish of fabric. Then a shadow shifts. A shadow shaped like a figure, there for one moment and then disappearing into darkness as it moves.
Moves in my direction.
I rocket up and blindly grab toward the nightstand. My hand hits something hard, a sharp edge smacking into my palm.
Too late, I picture the bedside lamp—on a huge solid base of marble. Pain explodes through my hand, but I reach to grab the lamp in both hands and—
A fist slams into my jaw. It’s so fast, and so unexpected, that I fall back onto the pillow, blinking in shock.
I have never been hit. Never intentionally. A softball strike. A stray elbow. A wild flail. That’s it, and the shock throws me more than the actual blow. My brain screams that this is as impossible as the crescent moon outside my window earlier. It’s wrong, and therefore it’s not happening. I’m dreaming. I must be.
A hand grabs me, and I smack it hard and scramble up, clawing toward the foot of the bed and then tumbling out. I hit the floor. The hardwood floor. Not a dream. Oh, God, this isn’t a dream.
Fingers snag the chemise. I push up and run. I’m out the door and tearing down the hall, bare feet skidding on the hardwood. I reach the sitting room and—
Hands grab me again. I flail against them, but before I can get away, I’m whipped around. I see a figure. Then fingers close around my arm. I twist and find myself staring into irises the color of summer grass. A tumbled lock of red-gold hair. A hint of freckles under the eyes. That’s all I can see, the hand gripping my upper arm so tight I can’t move.
I know who it is. That face leaves no doubt.
My brain still rebels. Insists I’m seeing wrong. Having
a nightmare.
Why are you so sure it’s a dream? He isn’t Ani. Isn’t Jonathan. Isn’t someone you’ve known for years. Aiden Connolly is a stranger.
His gaze locks mine. “Did you really believe me when I said I gave a damn about your sister?” He must sneer—I can’t see his mouth, but the disdain comes through his voice, his eyes. “That I’d endanger my brother for some girl I don’t know? Who are you, Kennedy? Who is she? Nobody. Little curse weavers performing in a sideshow.”
The shock snaps then, and I start to fight. I don’t care if this is a dream. Even in a nightmare, I’m not going to cower while Connolly insults me.
I rake my fingernails down his arm hard enough to slough skin. He howls and slams me backward. I trip over an ottoman. Connolly comes at me.
I can barely see him in the darkness, but I can make out enough to fight. The problem is that I don’t know how to fight. Never learned anything more than a bit of karate, useless here. It doesn’t matter. I kick and claw and scream.
Get up. Get out.
One last kick with everything I have, and then I scramble the other way. When he grabs me, I lash back, elbowing him in the nose.
“Bitch!” he roars as blood streams.
Rivulets of blood run down his arm from the furrows my nails left. He grabs my wrist.
“Did you really think I was going to help you? You’re going to help me, and you’re going to help my brother. Because we matter. You don’t.”
“Kennedy? Kennedy!”
The hand on my wrist grips my shoulder instead. Grips it and shakes it, and my head jerks up. Connolly’s there, his face only inches from mine.
“Kennedy,” my name comes on a whoosh of relief. “Breathe, just breathe.”
I scrabble backward, slapping his hands away when he reaches for me.
He raises his hands. “It’s okay. You were having a nightmare. I heard you cry out.”
“Stay away from me.” My voice comes in a hoarse croak.
He flicks on a lamp. Light floods the sitting room. I’m on the sofa, my back pressed into it.
Cursed Luck, Book 1 Page 16