by Jeanne Rose
And ran into her office.
What a circus. Joining the fray, Felice followed, her expression now worried.
“What’s going on? Are you all right?” Felice went on excitedly, “Lucas Naha is here to deliver some paintings and he says he wants to talk to you. Incredible. What did you do to him out on the reservation?”
The question was what he’d almost done to her. But that had only been a dream, her conscious mind lectured reasonably. And she’d have to forget about it if she was going to face him with any sense of dignity.
“I didn’t do anything to Naha,” Mara gasped, trying not to panic, “except talk to him for a while. Maybe he’s come to his senses on his own.”
“Wow.” Felice stared at her with open admiration.
“Give me a minute.” Mara straightened her shoulders, smoothed her long flowing printed skirt, tried to slow her pounding heart. She gestured to the door. “Tell him to sit down and wait. I’ll let you know when you can show him in.”
Felice left, closing the door behind her and Mara sank down into her chair.
Wait. Hadn’t she demanded he “wait” in her dream? Mara mused. Was she again experiencing dèjá vu? Reality and fantasy seemed to be madly criss-crossing paths.
She closed her eyes, took some slow deep yoga breaths she’d learned in a stress seminar at the hospital she used to work for. But they only calmed her a little. When she rose, her knees were sponge. And when she opened the office again, motioning to Felice, she still wasn’t ready for Luke Naha.
Would she ever be?
She made sure that the desk lay between them as he entered and sat down. The room filled with his presence – strong, highly intoxicating. She wasn’t sure if the latter was what made him so scary. Her face hot, she knew she was blushing again and hated herself for it.
She glanced at him quickly, then stared at the ink blotter on her desk top while fingering the edge. He was wearing a white shirt open at the throat with blue jeans and a fancy silver-buckled belt. His hands, strong, long-fingered, callused but artistic, lay quietly on the arms of the chair.
She recalled exactly what those hands had felt like as they’d touched and stroked and explored her . . .
She cleared her throat. “You’ve brought in some paintings, I hear.”
“Only four. Take a look at them if you want.”
“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” she told him, still playing with the blotter. “I’m so happy you decided to let us have them. And I assume there are even more in the process of being completed.”
“I guess you can assume that all right.”
She forced herself to glance at him, noting his narrowed eyes. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“You need to come out to the pueblo,” he said quietly but firmly.
Now, caught by his intense gaze and urgent tone, she did stare at him. “Excuse me?”
He leaned forward. “I said you need to come out to the pueblo.”
She couldn’t believe it. “Why, so you can serve me some more tea, then kick me off your property a third time? You’re crazy.”
“It’s important.”
“That’s what Isabel said yesterday.” And she was having no more of this.
His jaw hardened and he made a low frustrated sound.
But he leaned even closer. “Look at me, Mara. Really look at me.”
His voice was mesmerizing. His eyes were dark, hauntingly fathomless pools. She could almost lose herself in them. She had lost herself in them before – she was sure of it – but when?
He repeated his demand. “You will come to the pueblo.”
She seemed to see him through a haze, hear him though an echo chamber. “The pueblo.”
“We’ll leave right now. Grandmother needs to see you.”
She automatically reached for the drawer in which she’d placed her purse. “I will come to the pueblo and we’re leaving right now?”
He nodded and rose, looming over her.
A physical threat that made her move back in her chair.
And that broke the spell.
Coming out of the haze, she frowned up at him. “What’s going on here? Are you trying to hypnotize me? I’m not going anywhere.”
Which was all she got out before he took hold of her chin, raising her face to him. “Look at me.”
She felt the pull – part of her wanted to obey – but her anger allowed her to brush him away. “Stop it. Keep your hands off me!”
He scowled, but straightened, giving her a little space. “That’s not what you wanted last night, Miss Prissy Pants. You not only wanted my hands on you, you were begging me to take you.”
For the second time that day, Mara’s jaw dropped. She rolled her chair backward until it smacked into the wall, startling her. “W-what are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Our mutual dream.”
Her heart pounded wildly. Oh, God. He knew. He must.
She felt as if she’d been stripped naked. Again. And realized the enormity of his implication. “W-we couldn’t have had the same dream. That’s impossible.”
“In white men’s philosophy, maybe. Not in the Kisi’s.” Eyes sliding over her with familiarity, he asked, “Where did you get that little tattoo on your shoulder anyway? A blue snake? You don’t seem to be the type.”
He’d seen her naked all right. “I-I got it when I was in college.” On a whim. But tattoos were hardly the issue. She stood up. “How dare you. You can’t just march in here and make demands. And you can’t–”
“Enter your dreams?” His smile was cool. “Think again, white lady. You walked into my dream, my territory. What were you doing on Red Mesa?”
She had no answer for that, had no explanation as to how anyone could enter anyone else’s dreams. The entire concept was foreign, mind-boggling. As well as utterly fascinating. It hit a nerve deep, deep down.
But all she could say was, “I don’t understand.”
“That’s why you need to talk to Grandmother. She’ll tell you all about dreamwalking.” He reached for her, dragging her out and around the desk. “Let’s get going.”
Again, fear feathered her insides, but whether she was afraid of him or of what she might learn she couldn’t say. “Take your hands off me.”
A familiar expression of anger crossed his features. “I’m getting tired of hearing that. You like my hands,” he said, pulling her to him, pressing her against the lean length of his body. “Admit it.”
And God help her, she did. Mara tried to ignore the sensations coursing through her, tried to pretend she didn’t want him with every fiber of her being.
Only the door bursting open snapped her out of what would surely have ended in more than an illusionary kiss.
Felice stood there, staring. “Mara?”
What must the other woman think, seeing her embracing Luke Naha? Mara managed to push away from him. Her own mind raced fast and furiously.
She was surprised at the direction it was taking. “I’ll be going out to the Kisi pueblo this afternoon to check on some more of Luke’s paintings, Felice,” she said, trying not to think of the decision as giving into his will. “And I’ll need you to take care of the gallery while I’m gone.”
“Of course.”
“Something has come up.”
Staring at Luke, Felice raised her brows. “So I see. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything and lock up tight at six.”
Mara turned to Luke. “Shall we be going?”
For even though she feared and disliked him, Mara rationalized to herself that she still longed to know about dreams, desperately wanted to find out everything possible about this dreamwalking business.
She wanted it with almost as much passion as she desired the man himself.
MARA FITZGERALD made no objection to taking his Jeep, Luke was glad to note. But she started having a hissy fit as soon as they climbed into the vehicle.
“If you ever grab me like that a
gain, threaten me, or push me around, so help me, I’ll . . . I’ll shoot you!”
He glanced toward her curiously as he turned the ignition key, noting the glittering eyes, the flushed skin that made her look even more beautiful than when calm. “You got a gun?”
“Not yet, but I’ll buy one and put a bullet right through your skull!”
Though he could tell she was just about angry enough to do it, he had to smother a grin. The woman had courage, as well as strength. He had attempted to use a Kisi voice command on her in the office and she’d resisted. But then, maybe he hadn’t quite gotten the hypnotic technique right, since he’d learned it from a stormbringer priest as a kid and had rarely tried to use it through the years. Still, she was someone to be reckoned with, even if she didn’t seem to have any idea of how she was able to dreamwalk.
Mara stared daggers at him as he circled Santa Fe’s central plaza. “No more threats, no manhandling. I want your agreement before I go out to the pueblo.”
He nearly told her it was too late now that she was in his truck. But she was so furious and so adamant that he decided to be amenable.
“Okay, I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Which wouldn’t be easy. There was enough electricity between them to light up the whole state. He added sarcastically, “And maybe I’ll try to watch my mouth.”
She took a deep huffy breath and settled down some. After a few blocks, she said, “I guess I can live with that. If you mean it, that is. I wasn’t joking about shooting you.”
“I know.”
She glanced out the window and gestured. “I live right
around the next corner. I’ll need to stop by my apartment before we head out. I want to change into something more comfortable and take along a wrap. It’s colder up north.”
True, especially after dark. Though Luke hoped Mara wouldn’t be staying into the evening. She might be enticingly attractive, unusual and fascinating, but unless she wanted to warm his bed for a few hours, he intended to see her off the pueblo as soon as possible.
He turned down the street she indicated, slowed as he approached a new condo complex of red adobe that was fronted by shallow, Spanish-style, wrought-iron balconies.
“Here?”
“Right.” She had her hand on the door handle as he braked to a stop. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’m not waiting out here. I’ll go with you.”
Her blue-gray eyes looked startled, then fearful. “I don’t want you in my place.”
For some reason that hurt. And her fear again made Luke angry. He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer . . . well, at least he’d never tried to kill anyone intentionally.
He carefully controlled his temper. “You were treated with hospitality in my house. You can’t do the same for me?”
“Hospitality, ha. It was your mother and your grandmother who offered me tea, not you. And you still ended up telling me to hit the road.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He wanted to go inside, wanted to see her place, examine her belongings. “I won’t touch you. You’ve already got my word on that.”
She sighed. “All right, then, I guess.”
They entered the building silently and took the stairs up to the second floor. He kept several feet of nonthreatening space between them as they headed down a hallway. Mara stopped at a doorway and unlocked it, glancing at Luke only a little apprehensively as he followed her in.
“I’m going to get dressed,” she reiterated, gesturing toward the couch in the living room. “You can make yourself comfortable out here.”
But as soon as she disappeared down a short hall, closing a door behind her, Luke started moving about, curious to see if Mara Fitzgerald’s belongings would shed any light on her unusual ability to dreamwalk.
Her living quarters were neat and well-lighted, with big sliding glass doors to the balcony dominating one wall of a combination living and dining room. A kiva-style fireplace was built into another wall and an efficiency kitchen bordered the dining area. The hallway probably led to a bath and a couple of bedrooms with closed doors. The modern
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furniture was pale and tasteful and new-looking.
Uninterested in low-slung couches or bleached wood dining room sets, Luke examined Mara’s more personal belongings, fingering a Pueblo pot sitting on the shelf of a bookcase and then skimming the titles of her books.
Mixed between hardback and paperback novels were texts on art therapy, a creative way to work with mental patients using art. Luke had heard about that. On the lowest shelf, he found more than a dozen books on understanding dreams, including worn-looking tomes by Carl Jung and more modern manuals that touched on creative visualization.
So Mara had been interested in dreaming for some time. Stepping away from the bookcase, Luke flipped through the magazines lying on the glass coffee table and found a slim oversized paperback on Southwestern Indian myths.
Still, Mara couldn’t have learned to dreamwalk from any combination of the materials she possessed. Luke headed for the walk-in efficiency kitchen, running his hand along the counters and stopping to gaze at a small framed drawing above the kitchen table. A portrait of a woman done with pastels, the face had an otherworldly look and the background seemed to explode with color. The M.F. in the corner of the drawing told Luke that Mara herself had executed the drawing. He wasn’t surprised. People in art-related occupations usually participated in the process themselves.
Thirsty, he took a glass from the cupboard, then decided to check out the refrigerator. Empty, except for a couple of cans of soda and some fruits and vegetables. Opting for soda over water, Luke was taking a swig and inspecting the collection of coffee mugs hanging above the sink when Mara reappeared.
“What are you doing?” she asked from the doorway of the kitchen, her tone distinctly unfriendly.
Luke glanced at her, noting the form-fitting jeans she now wore with a bright blue blouse. The color flattered her complexion and her golden brown hair and made her eyes seem more intense. “I was thirsty.”
“So you just helped yourself?”
“Politeness isn’t one of my virtues.”
“Meaning you have some?”
He liked it when she really got her back up. “I’m a good artist. You’ve admitted that yourself. That could be counted as a virtue, I guess.”
“I guess.” She set the sweater she carried over the back of a kitchen chair. “I’ve got to . . . comb my hair before we leave.”
Which probably meant she was planning on visiting the bathroom.
“Fine,” he said agreeably and acted like he was starting back for the living room.
She skittered off before he could pass by her too closely and he heard the bathroom door slam. Now he’d have a chance to look in her bedroom, he thought, silently gliding down the dark hallway. The infamous striped bed sheets were the first items that caught his eye.
Interesting. Sometimes a dreamwalker envisioned objects from his everyday world and took them along.
Inhaling the faint drift of perfume and body lotions, recalling his erotic vision again, Luke stared at the bed, finally noticing the shimmer of cream-colored satin near one of the pillows. Mara’s nightgown, the one he’d nearly gotten off her. He moved closer to pick up the slippery garment, once again appreciating the lace trim at the bodice.
But it had been the curvaceous body beneath the nightgown that had really aroused him. The body of a stranger . . . and yet so familiar . . . Growing hard while fingering the satin, Luke couldn’t help bringing it close to his face so that he could inhale Mara’s enticing odor.
“Put that down.”
She’d sneaked up on him again. Luke had been distracted, especially in the bedroom, or his keen sense of hearing would have picked up her footsteps.
Mara’s face had turned a brilliant red. “I said put it down.”
Luke casually dropped the nightgown on the bed. “Okay, but you aren’t going to wipe
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out what happened this morning, no matter how bad you want to.” Not knowing exactly why he was angry, he stepped toward her aggressively. “And a dreamwalker would never do anything in a vision that he wouldn’t do in real life. You like me. You kissed me like crazy. You rubbed yourself against me like a cat in heat.”
She backed up. “Stop it.”
He stood still, realizing he was acting threatening again. “Got something against Indians?”
She took a deep shuddering breath, seemed to draw herself together. “Your race has nothing to do with it, Luke. I’ve seen many attractive Native Americans. I simply dislike you personally.”
“It’s not like I want to get involved.”
“Oh, you’re only interested in a roll in the hay? Well, forget it. You’re macho and crude, not to mention that you seem to possess one of the nastiest temperaments in the Western hemisphere.” She glared. “Now get out of my bedroom.”
Right. They should be going anyway. She walked down the hallway, her back very straight.
Luke followed, unable to keep from needling her. “You must think macho and crude is hot stuff at some level.”
She whipped around. “Will you please quit bringing up the stupid dream? I felt desire, all right? Lust, whatever you want to call it. I don’t know where it came from but I can’t be completely responsible for my unconscious feelings.” She added, “And I’m certainly not going to act on them. I’m far more interested in how we could possibly have the same dream in the first place.”
Gazing at her, Luke suddenly became aware of the painting hanging on the wall beside her. He could hardly believe his eyes. Forgetting about what they were discussing entirely, surprise nearly replacing the sexual tension hanging in the air, he growled, “Lightning Over Red Mesa. Where did you get this?”
“I bought it – at the San Francisco Goldstein Gallery. I worked there part-time all the way through college.”
Luke reached out to flip on the wall switch nearby. Track lighting glowed overhead. Once again, the painting came alive, just as it had when he’d worked on it. “I did this years and years ago, back when I still lived in Arizona.” And right after his wife and son had died. “I saw it in a dream and it called me home. I knew New Mexico was the only place left for me.”