Falling Awake

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Uh-huh. Mind if we discuss the details of the contract over dinner?”

  She went blank. “Dinner?”

  “In a restaurant. You know, where you order the food off a menu and people serve it to you?”

  “Oh, dinner.” Not a date, she told herself. He’s asking you out for a business dinner. Huge, massive difference. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

  “I see.”

  She glanced around to make certain that none of her fellow instructor trainees was within earshot and then lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but, frankly, four hours of positive energy and creative, strategic thinking has a numbing effect on the brain. At least it does on mine.”

  “All the more reason to take the evening off and relax.”

  “I think you’re right. I’ll take you up on your offer of dinner. Thanks.”

  “It’s a deal. When do you get out of here?” he asked.

  “I’ve got one more class and then I’m done for the day.”

  He grinned at her pained expression. “Good luck in getting through another hour of positive thinking.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “A Kyler Method instructor finds a positive way to deal with every bump in the road. Problems are opportunities in disguise.”

  “Is that a fact? Could have fooled me. It’s been my experience that problems are usually just problems.”

  She gave him a sunny smile. “Shows how much you know.”

  “Isabel.” Tamsyn spoke from midway down the hall. “There you are. Farrell and I have been looking for you.”

  Isabel turned.

  Farrell was in his late thirties. He had an athletic frame and he was handsome in a rugged, clean-cut, western sort of way. But Isabel did not think that most people, male or female, noticed his looks, one way or another. It was Farrell’s dynamic personality that pulled you into his force field. He had charisma, loads of it. He never forgot names and faces and he could make conversation with anyone, regardless of age or background.

  Isabel had once mentioned to Leila that Farrell would have done very well in politics. Her sister had laughed. Farrell is too ethical for the political arena, she had said with loving pride. He couldn’t handle the sausage-making parts, the backroom deals and the compromises.

  Tamsyn looked as vital and attractive offstage as she did when she stood in the carefully directed lights at the front of the auditorium. She practically vibrated with enthusiasm. Her Kyler jacket was carefully tailored to discreetly exhibit the curves and cleavage created by the expensive breast implants she had invested in following her divorce two years ago.

  Tamsyn turned the full force of her high-energy smile on Ellis. Isabel sensed her intense curiosity.

  “Hello,” Tamsyn said warmly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Farrell, Tamsyn, this is Ellis Cutler,” Isabel murmured. “Ellis, this is Tamsyn Strickland, an instructor here at Kyler, Inc., and my brother-in-law, Farrell Kyler, the founder of the Kyler Method.”

  Everyone shook hands and said the polite words.

  “Are you attending this week’s seminar series, Ellis?” Farrell asked.

  His eyes tightened a bit at the corners as he studied Ellis. Only someone who knew him well would have detected the faint signs of wariness, Isabel thought. Farrell was not sure what to make of Ellis. He was being cautious.

  “No, I’m here to see Isabel,” Ellis said.

  “Really?” Tamsyn’s curiosity level had clearly gone up another notch. “Are you a friend of hers?”

  “New client,” Isabel said quickly. “I’m starting up a private consulting business.”

  Farrell winced. “The psychic dream thing?”

  “Not exactly,” Isabel said evenly.

  But, as usual, the correction went unnoticed.

  Tamsyn rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I’m amazed. I would never have guessed that you would be the type of man who would go in for the woo-woo thing, Ellis.”

  “I am not a psychic,” Isabel said forcefully. No one paid any attention.

  “Some people are fascinated with orchids and others have a thing for golf,” Ellis said. “Personally, I’ve always been interested in dreams.”

  “So, dreams are a hobby for you?” Tamsyn asked.

  Ellis smiled slightly. Light glinted ominously off the lenses of his dark glasses. “You could say that.”

  Farrell studied him. “I assume Isabel has told you that she’s going to be teaching a course in dreams for us here at Kyler?”

  “She mentioned it, yes,” Ellis said.

  “I have to admit, I was somewhat reluctant at first. I’m concerned that a course on dreams might send the wrong message. We’re not about the New Age thing here at Kyler. But Tamsyn and my wife have convinced me that it will be a popular class.”

  “We certainly won’t be taking a psychic or mystical approach to the course,” Tamsyn assured everyone. “We’ve made that clear to Isabel. Farrell and I want the class taught according to the same guidelines that apply to all the other Kyler Method seminars. The idea is to teach students to use dreams to inspire the creative process. Right, Isabel?”

  “Right,” Isabel murmured.

  “Isabel will teach the class using proven creativity-enhancing techniques such as free association and journaling,” Tamsyn continued.

  “Good to know there won’t be any of the woo-woo stuff,” Ellis said politely.

  Tamsyn glanced at her watch. “Farrell, we’ve got that appointment with Dan and Gary in five minutes. We’d better be on our way.”

  “Yes.” Farrell put out his hand again. “See you around, Cutler.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ellis gripped his hand and shook briefly. “As long as Isabel is here in Roxanna Beach, you will definitely be seeing me around.”

  Farrell’s jaw tightened in what might have been disapproval but he merely nodded once and turned to walk away.

  “Goodbye, Ellis.” Tamsyn gave him another high-voltage smile. “You might want to think about signing up for Isabel’s dream class.”

  “I’ll consider it,” he said.

  Isabel watched the pair walk away along the carpeted hall. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to them for this job but I sure hope I get my dream consulting business up and running real quick. I’m not sure I’m cut out for a long-term career as a Kyler Method instructor.”

  “What was your first clue?”

  “I don’t think I look good in this blazer.”

  11

  isabel changed her clothes three times before settling on a classic little black dinner dress. According to her fashionable mother, one could never go wrong with a little black dress. Jennifer Wright had made mistakes when it came to the men in her life, but never when it came to the clothes. Unfortunately, Isabel thought, unlike Leila, she had not gotten her parent’s fashion genes.

  She studied her image with a critical eye. With its deep cowl neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves, the dress appeared to achieve a nice balance between casual and elegant. The asymmetrical skirt added a touch of fashion flair.

  “What do you think, Sphinx?”

  Sphinx, ensconced in the center of the bed, opened his eyes at the sound of his name. He showed no interest in the dress.

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as unqualified approval.”

  She reached for a pair of gold earrings, threaded them through the tiny holes in her earlobes and then took another look at herself in the mirror. The skirt of the dress was cut quite high on one side. Was that fashion flair or just tacky? What note was she trying to strike here, anyway? Ellis was a client, not a date. Maybe a sober business suit would have been a better choice.

  But this was Dream Man. All he had ever seen her wearing to date was that dumb Kyler blazer. She just could not bring herself to drag out a dull business suit.

  She glanced at the clock. He was due in five minutes. There was no time to try a fourth outfit. This dress was going to have to work.

  She h
eard a low, muted rumble. At first she thought it was Sphinx, cranking up his heavy purr. Then she realized it was a car engine.

  “This is it, Sphinx. My big night with Dream Man.”

  Sphinx twitched his ears.

  Out in the street, the low rumble of the big engine stopped.

  Adrenaline perked through Isabel’s veins. She stepped into the strappy high heels and checked the sleek knot at the nape of her neck. Another pang of uncertainty fluttered in her stomach. Was the overall effect too severe?

  The knock on the front door told her that time had run out. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked out of the bedroom. Sphinx rose, stretched, yawned and followed. She heard a heavy thud behind her when he landed on the floor.

  “We may want to talk about cutting back on your chow, Sphinx. There is a fine line between statuesque and plump.”

  The six large packing cartons she had found waiting for her on her doorstep when she got home that afternoon littered the route to the front door. She had managed to drag them inside but they were too heavy for her to lift or stack. It occurred to her that the clutter would not make a good impression on a prospective client. If there was one thing she had learned from watching Leila and Farrell over the past few years, it was that in business, image was everything.

  Damn. Maybe she should have offered to meet Ellis at the restaurant.

  Another knock sounded on the door. This one was a bit more forceful. There was no turning back now.

  She smiled her best entrepreneurial smile and opened the door. The brisk, snapping breeze hit her carefully arranged hair with the force of a small hurricane.

  “Good grief.” She reached up with both hands to anchor the loosened tendrils that whipped wildly around her face. So much for the businesswoman image. “I didn’t realize it was blowing so hard out here.”

  “Storm coming in off the ocean,” Ellis said. He watched her from the other side of the ever-present dark glasses.

  “Yes, I got that impression.” She stepped back into the hall. “Come on in while I do something with this hair.”

  She checked her image in the hall mirror and made a face. The style was ruined. Reaching up, she removed the clip that had anchored the chignon. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

  “It looks good that way,” Ellis said quietly, watching her in the mirror.

  She hesitated and then, on a whim, shrugged. “Okay, I’ll leave it down.”

  She turned, taking in the sight of him standing in her private space. He looked good, she thought. Actually, he looked great. He wore a pair of close-fitting black trousers, a silver gray shirt with an open collar and an elegantly cut, slightly slouchy jacket woven in shades of gray and black.

  Sphinx approached slowly, tail held high. He surveyed Ellis with the air of one predator sizing up another.

  Ellis crouched and politely held out his fingers. “Didn’t know you had a cat.”

  “He was Dr. Belvedere’s cat. Randolph didn’t want him and neither did anyone else at the center.”

  “So you took him?”

  “It was either me or the pound.” She picked up her purse. “What could I do?”

  He gave her an oddly thoughtful look. “You could have let him go to the pound.”

  “Not an option.” She smiled wryly. “Sphinx and I were colleagues at the center for a year. I couldn’t let them take him away.”

  Sphinx sniffed Ellis’s fingers. Apparently satisfied with the show of respect, he turned and padded off toward the kitchen and his food dish.

  Ellis rose and surveyed the cartons and boxes. “Looks like you haven’t had time to unpack.”

  “Those aren’t mine.” She hesitated, frowning a little. “Well, I suppose they are now, given that they were addressed to me. They were delivered this afternoon.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “According to the letter that accompanied them, about thirty years’ worth of Dr. Martin Belvedere’s personal dream research. Evidently he religiously sent copies of his work on extreme dreams to his lawyer to hold for publication after his death. Kind of ironic, actually, because the first thing his son, Randolph, did after he took over the center was destroy all of his father’s research. Guess he didn’t know that Dr. B. had a backup plan.”

  “Sounds like the old man knew his son pretty well.”

  “Yes. A sad situation. They were estranged for years. Randolph still has a lot of unresolved father issues.”

  “Why did you get all of Belvedere’s papers?”

  She exhaled deeply. “According to the lawyer’s letter, Dr. B. trusted me to see to it that his theories were not lost or destroyed. Belvedere yearned for validation and vindication, even if he had to get it after his death.”

  “And he stuck you with the job of making sure he was not forgotten in the field of dream research.”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you going to do with those cartons?”

  Glumly she surveyed the large boxes. “Rent another storage locker, I suppose.”

  “That’s going to cost you over time.”

  “I sort of figured that out for myself.”

  “But you’re going to take care of them, just like you’re taking care of the cat, aren’t you?”

  “I owe Dr. B. a great deal. If it hadn’t been for him I’d probably still be answering phones at the Psychic Dreamer Hotline.”

  He smiled. “Something tells me that sooner or later you would have escaped the hotline. Ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He opened the door and looked at her as she went past him out into the blustery evening. She could feel the electricity crackling in the air in advance of the storm.

  “Want me to put the top down?” he asked.

  Surprised, she glanced at the sleek vehicle sitting in front of the house. Delight and anticipation welled up inside her.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “That would be lovely.”

  He smiled again, as if he had already guessed her answer and was pleased with it.

  the drive along the bluffs into town was the most exhilarating experience Isabel could remember in a long, long time, maybe the most exhilarating thing she had ever done in her entire life, she reflected.

  Ellis handled the sleek, sexy sports car exactly as she had suspected he would: with absolute control and intuitive competence. His reflexes were perfectly in sync with the powerful engine and precision steering.

  The heavy clouds were closing in fast, blotting out the last of the sunlight. It would be a while before the rain struck but the steel-colored waters churned and boiled in anticipation.

  She felt a little high, she realized. It was as if she were channeling some of the atmospheric energy.

  Ellis glanced at her. “You like storms?”

  “I love storms.”

  He smiled his mysterious smile.

  The wind howled around the Maserati. Isabel could feel her hair lashing around her face. She laughed.

  “Talk about a really great flying dream,” she said.

  “You ever actually have one of those?”

  “I have them all the time.” She turned her head to look at him through her wild hair. “What about you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His hands flexed slightly on the wheel. He did not take his attention off the road. “And you’re right. This sure feels like one hell of a flying dream.”

  half an hour later, inside the restaurant, he took off his dark glasses, slipped them into the pocket in the lining of his jacket and looked at Isabel across the table.

  He knew all about dangerous thrill rides, he thought. He took psychic risks in his dreams, physical risks working for Lawson and huge financial risks as a venture capitalist. But he also knew how to protect himself from the really hazardous stuff in life. He had learned that lesson at the age of twelve. When it came to intimate relationships of any kind, he had always been very careful to play it safe. If you never loved, you never had to mourn a loss.

&nbs
p; Tonight he was on the verge of tossing a lifetime of caution out the window. There was no doubt in his mind that sitting across from Isabel was far and away the most reckless thing he had ever done.

  If he had any sense, he would turn around and walk away right now, he told himself. But he knew he wasn’t going to do that. He was already on the roller coaster and it was too late to get off. He could feel the anticipation and the promise of the rush.

  She was all Tango Dancer tonight, he thought. Her dark hair gleamed in the low, intimate lights. The sexy curves of her shoulders, outlined by the snug-fitting material of her black dress, were even more seductive in person than they had been in the photo on his refrigerator. He had to work hard not to just sit there and stare at her. He wanted to absorb every detail, from her fascinating eyes to the warmth of her voice and the subtle scent of her body.

  The rain had struck just as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He barely got the top up on the Maserati in time to protect the leather upholstery. Then he and Isabel made a mad dash for the shelter of the entrance.

  For some reason they both found the situation hilarious. They were still laughing, as if they shared some secret, cosmic joke, when they reached the hostess’s podium.

  The sense of intimacy was spellbinding. He wished he could take Isabel down onto the beach and make love to her in the sand with the wind and the waves crashing around them. Something in her eyes told him that she would have gone with him.

  It was as if one of his own extreme dreams had become real. Except that in his Level Five dreams he never had to make dinner-table conversation.

  “Did anyone at the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research ever figure out just what you and the old man were doing?” he asked after the waiter had delivered an appetizer of chilled shellfish.

  “No.” Isabel’s copper nails sparkled as she squeezed a wedge of lemon over the cold mussels, clams and oysters. “The rest of the staff just wrote off the Department of Dream Analysis as another example of Dr. Belvedere’s eccentric nature. Everyone knew he had some really strange theories, of course, but they pretended not to notice because he brought in the funding that paid their salaries.”