See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  He rang the doorbell and waited.

  Oh, yes, indeed. Nikki opened the door herself, wearing jeans that fit her tall, lean body like a glove and a loose-fitting, pale blue short-sleeved sweater that threatened to fall off her shoulder. No makeup, or at least it had been so artfully applied he couldn't discern it. Her shoulder length blonde hair had been cut in layers which she wore in soft waves away from her face. As always her thick-lashed blue eyes were hypnotic, or would've been if he allowed himself the luxury of gazing into them for too long.

  “Hey, you're right on time,” she said, giving him a smile that hit his mid-section like a linebacker's shoulder.

  “I've been looking forward to seeing you again,” he said, then hastily added, “e-mail can be so impersonal.” Nikki stood aside, and he followed her into the foyer, carrying her manuscript in his briefcase. “We can really get to work now,” he said, waggling the briefcase.

  “Is it that bad?” she asked over her shoulder, while leading him to the sunroom.

  “Not at all. You've a very original voice, but there are some areas that could be expanded.” He set the briefcase on the glass-topped coffee-table. “I'd like to go into some of those tonight, rather than focus on some minor grammar and punctuation changes. Those are no-brainers, and you can take care of them easily,” Geoff said, opening the leather briefcase with quick snaps and removing the manuscript.

  “I see."

  Geoff settled back on the sofa and began riffling the pages. “Okay, there's one particular section I feel needs expansion—actually, two."

  Nikki nodded and returned a slightly diffident smile. “Uh, not to change the subject, but dinner will be here around eight,” she said. “Italian, okay?"

  “And if it weren't?” he asked, teasing her, then watched her reaction in amazement. Her face paled, then flushed. Her hands actually trembled.

  “I—I'm sorry. I should've asked you what you preferred."

  “I was kidding. Italian's great. You should know that all New Yorkers love Italian food.” He felt like a heel for pushing her buttons. Obviously his fledgling author was feeling a tad insecure. Good God, didn't she realize most men would eat worms just to be in the same room with her?

  She gave a sheepish grin. “Nothing like over-reacting, is there?” She looked down at her feet then admitted, “This book has me so nervous. I just want to get it in the bookstores. The shelter needs so much. What if the book doesn't make any money?"

  “That's always a chance with a new writer, but we we're not in the habit of publishing books we don't think anyone will buy. Let's just get it ready to publish, okay?"

  Nikki sat down on the sofa across from Geoff. “All right, I'm ready. Hit me. What needs expansion?"

  “First of all, you've done an excellent job in your first chapter."

  “Why do I think I hear a ‘but’ coming up?"

  “Because I want more depth and more emotion in the next chapter."

  “The one before I left home?” Nikki shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

  “Yes, you've compressed fifteen years into a tiny paragraph. I'm exaggerating, of course, but you know what I mean?"

  Geoff watched Nikki bite her lip and take a deep breath. What was the cause for her uneasiness? “For instance, you've told me very little about your relationship with your mother and nothing about your father."

  She frowned. “Some things are best left unsaid.” She picked up a pillow and actually punched it. As far as Geoff could tell, she was unaware of her actions.

  “My father left when I was two. I don't remember anything about him.” She combed her fingers back through her hair in another seemingly unconscious gesture.

  “But your mother must have memories of him. She must have told you things about him?"

  “Nothing fit to print in a book,” she muttered, then jumped up from her seat and paced back and forth. “My mother and I don't get along very well. That's one of the reasons I left home."

  “Now we're getting somewhere.” He nodded, tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa. He'd never seen Nikki so agitated. Matter of fact, he'd never seen her as anything other than cool and laid back. Maybe he'd better leave the subject of her benefactor for a later session. Better to err on the side of discretion. She was upset enough, as it was.

  “I don't want to rehash all that stuff. I'd rather forget it."

  “But if retelling it would keep another young girl from running away from home, wouldn't it be worth it?"

  “I don't see how."

  “Maybe you don't now, but it could by encouraging more communication with parents or someone else—a teacher, perhaps."

  Nikki gave a heavy sigh. “I don't think I can bear to think about all that crap, again."

  “Okay, let's try something else. Try taking a nice warm bath, with soft music and one of those aroma candle things you gals like so much and let your mind drift back."

  She giggled. “So, now you're my guru?"

  “I'm whatever it takes."

  “I see."

  A smile played about Nikki's lips ... her soft luscious lips. She stopped pacing and placed her hands on her hips. “Okay, Swami McHugh, then what?"

  “Take your journal with you, and when the muse strikes—write."

  “Write? In the Jacuzzi?"

  “Yeah, in the Jacuzzi. Forget punctuation, grammar—all that stuff. Just write what you feel."

  “You'll be sorry. It's not a pretty picture."

  “I'm not looking for a pretty picture. I'm looking for truth."

  “Oh, Mr. High-and-Mighty,” Nikki said, giving a nervous giggle.

  “If the readers want a pretty picture, they can just check out the cover. But if they want a real story, then you're going to have to give them something more than your best come hither stare.

  “I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere. Thank you."

  The door bell rang, saving Geoff from making a worse fool of himself.

  “Excuse me, I'll be right back,” Nikki said, taking off to the front door. Geoff admired her lissome body as she strode past him. If he'd ever needed all his will power to maintain a professional distance, it was now. Her beauty damn near took his breath away.

  While she answered the door, he considered the risk and complications of becoming involved with her. It would be totally unprofessional, but to be completely honest, he felt a very powerful attraction to his newest author.

  He'd never run across the problem before in his career, and he hoped he wouldn't, again. True, he'd had some difficult authors in the last three years. He'd babysat an alcoholic Pulitzer Prize winner, wrenching the necessary revisions from him with the dire threats of a Mafia hit man. Once, he'd even house sat with a wealthy socialite's Jack Russell terrier. The now-famous, and filthy rich, romance novelist still sent him a Christmas card every holiday season.

  Yes, he'd handled those situations quite handily, but Nikki, in spite of her unpretentious attitude, was complex and secretive, to boot. For the first time he wondered, if he were up to the task.

  Nikki returned, carrying a large cardboard box in her arms. “I hope you don't mind dining informally."

  “Not at all.” Geoff sprang up to relieve her of her burden, but before he could, she caught her foot on the edge of a thick oriental rug. The box flew in Geoff's direction. He caught it by reflex, not skill.

  She sprawled, hitting the floor with both knees. “Ugh!"

  Casting their dinner aside, he knelt down beside her. “Are you all right?"

  “Just embarrassed,” she admitted, rolling with great care from her stomach to her bottom. “I don't guess I'll die from it.” She rubbed both knees, wincing in pain. “I guess it's a good thing the rug is so thick."

  He stood up, extending his hand to her. “Here, let me help."

  “I'm fine, really.” She attempted standing on her own, but grimaced with the effort. “Big mistake. I'm not fine."

  Somewhat reluctantly, she accepted his hand and then his arm a
round her waist. Together they limped toward the nearest sofa. “Here put your feet up,” he said. “I'll get some ice for your knees."

  “Bossy, aren't you?"

  “Bad habit, I know.” He grinned, then looked around. “The ice?"

  “Well, the ice would be in the freezer ... which would be in the kitchen ... which you walked past to reach this room."

  Her tone implied she thought him dense. “Smart-ass, aren't you?"

  “Bad habit, I know,” Nikki mimicked.

  Geoff shook his head and grinned, then headed toward the kitchen where he rummaged around, making a lot more noise than necessary, hoping for a clue or a suggestion where he might find a soft-sided container for the ice.

  “Plastic bags in the first drawer on the right side of the stove,” Nikki yelled from the sunroom.

  “Okay, found them. One very professional ice pack coming up, or should I make that two?"

  “Two. Two knees, remember?"

  “Oh, yeah. How silly of me.” Two gorgeous knees, how could he forget?

  He quickly enclosed the crushed ice into two plastic bags and returned to the sunroom, brandishing them with pride. “Don't you think you should go to the emergency room, or something?"

  “No, but I do think I ought to—uh, put on something less restrictive."

  “Oh.” Good God, did she expect him to undress her?

  “The laundry room is off the kitchen to the right.” She motioned in the right direction. “There should be some athletic shorts on the counter."

  “Okay.” He was at a loss for words. The situation had deteriorated from an editor/author meeting to an I'm-injured-help-me-get-my-clothes-off deal. Just what he'd hoped to avoid. He wandered in the direction she'd pointed and found the laundry room without difficulty. “Athletic shorts, athletic shorts,” he muttered and pawed through a stack of lacy unmentionables, but no athletic shorts. A brief, teasing vision of Nikki wearing only her lacy bits passed through his head. Damn, was she testing him?

  Half his laundry usually stayed in the dryer. Maybe hers did too. Oh shit. Spandex!

  ~ * ~

  While Geoff rummaged in the laundry room, Nikki unbuttoned the top of her jeans and waited, drumming her fingers on the sofa arm. Men. They could never find anything. And heaven forbid one of them should ask for directions. She gave each knee a cautious poke. Something wasn't right, but there hadn't been that deep stunned feeling that went along with a broken bone. As a child, she'd fallen down some stairs and broken her wrist. Her knees hurt, but nothing like that.

  “Will these do?” Geoff asked, holding aloft a pair of lavender bicycle shorts.

  “I guess. Now turn your back,” she ordered. “I'm not doing this for your entertainment."

  “Never thought you were,” he protested, squaring his shoulders in indignation.

  “Good. Just so we're clear on that point."

  “Here.” Geoff tossed her the shorts, then turned his back to her.

  Nikki struggled, inching her jeans down past her hips and past her tender knees. “Ye-ouch.” They were discolored and swollen, already. Ice was definitely in order. With a minimum of difficulty, she shoved her jeans down to her ankles. She stretched and pulled them free, grunting as she did.

  “Are you okay? I could help, y'know."

  “Don't you dare turn around. I'm fine.” Nikki grabbed the shorts and eased them over her ankles, up past her calves and easy, easy over the knees. Then a quick yank and a wiggle, she pulled them over her hips. “You can turn around now."

  “Good God. Your knees look terrible. You have to go to the emergency room."

  Nikki shook her head. “No, the ice will be enough—and maybe some ibuprofen."

  “But you can't walk. You—"

  “I'll call Alexa and have her come home. I'll be fine."

  “Then I'll salvage what's left of dinner and bring it to you."

  “Only if you have some too."

  “All right. But I'm staying with you until Alexa comes home. I won't leave you alone."

  What's going on here? she wondered. I'm not attracted to him that way, but he's so damn nice ... and cute. He's open, nothing like Max.

  Actually, that was in Geoff's favor, considering Max was whooping it up on the continent with a redhead while he was supposed to be closing on the last of his mother's Parisian properties.

  Nikki grinned. “Bring it on. I'm starved."

  Thirty-seven

  Outside Ste-Martine, Provençe

  Uninvited and armed with two suitcases, Emilie stood in the courtyard

  “Madame, this is an unexpected visit,” Max said. What he thought was another matter. What the hell was she doing in Provençe—much less on his family farm?

  The woman set her suitcases down and smiled up at him, a true coquette's seductive smile, but it warmed him not.

  “I thought you might have reconsidered your rash behavior of the other night and would want to see me."

  “I'm afraid you've caught me at an inconvenient time. I'm on my way out ... to visit some old friends.

  “I could go with you."

  “I'm afraid not."

  “You could at least invite me in for a moment. I'm quite thirsty after my long drive from Paris."

  “It will have to be a brief drink.” As I said I'm expected at friends."

  Sauntering into the living room, she settled on the nearest sofa. “I would like a glass of wine from your own vineyards, Maxim.

  Max nodded. He poured a double whiskey for himself and a glass of Sablet Blanc for his uninvited guest, while calculating how quickly he could send her on her way. Fifteen minutes, twenty? He handed her the glass, then positioned himself in a comfortable chair across the room. The greater the distance, the better.

  “Merci.” She sipped from her glass of wine, raising an eyebrow. “It is quite good. I adore the wines of the south ... I adore their men too."

  Mèrde. He didn't appreciate being on her menu du nuit. “Why are you here, madame?” he asked. Subtlety and subterfuge were for people who had time to waste. He didn't.

  “I'll have you know I don't give up easily...” She continued her seductive gaze over the rim of the wine glass. “I know when a man is interested in me."

  “You are mistaken this time."

  Emilie shrugged. “You still maintain that you're involved with someone in the States?"

  “Yes."

  Without warning, she jumped up and threw her glass at him. “I hate you, you cold bastard. You have no passion. And you have no heart. You are incapable of love."

  He dodged the wine, then sighed when he heard it shatter on the terra cotta floor. If an expensive piece of crystal was the price of ridding himself of her annoying presence, so be it. “I think you should leave"

  “You've rejected me for the last time. You will be sorry,” the angry woman shrieked, then grabbed her luggage and rushed from the room.

  Max relaxed his clenched fists, then shouted after her, “I never asked you here. This rejection is your own doing."

  Her eyes flashed at his terse appraisal, then screeched, “My own doing? You've led me on, made me promises. I thought you loved me."

  Demented, she must be. Max took two steps toward her. “You are mistaken. I did no such thing. I told you from the beginning I was not interested."

  “Ugh.” Emilie shouldered her way past him and fled to her car.

  Seconds later, the squealing tires of her Porsche told him all he wanted to know.

  Relief coursed through him. The woman's pathetic attempt to initiate an affair with him was eerie, reminding him of a nightmare he'd had. And he had no desire to end up with a bullet in his head, not this time.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning Max paced the length of his bedroom and considered his next step. He hadn't slept since the Balladur woman's visit the evening before. He stared into the rosy dawn. Soon the sun would rise high, kiss the rolling hills before him with its golden light and sweeten the grapes ripening on the
vines.

  Nikki. He simply couldn't get her out of his mind. After all, he'd been enthralled by her since she was sixteen. From the first moment, she'd captured his heart. Her youth had been the major stumbling block. Then, but not now.

  Now, like a fool, he'd allowed a mere nightmare to destroy the fragile bond he and Nikki had forged during the storm.

  She'd damned him for his callous behavior ... and she'd moved on. Nikki, who at this very minute, according to the American tabloids, was engaged in an affair with her editor. They even had a photo of her leaving the Emergency Room in a wheelchair. The sight of her in a wheelchair had been enough to stop his heart until he had read further. Her injuries weren't serious, but there was that damned McDuff fellow—or whatever her editor's name was—at her side. Carrying a pair of crutches. Mon Dieu.

  More than anything, Max longed to call Nikki. But he wouldn't. She wouldn't welcome his call—certainly not now. How could he ever make her understand he'd hurt her only to protect her? Simple answer—he couldn't.

  True, he'd had affairs over the years, but they'd all been brief and of little consequence. The disastrous end to his first marriage had left him cautious.

  Nikki. He was so proud of her. She had overcome tremendous odds and had a successful career—and could still have it if she weren't so damned stubborn. Yet he found himself excited by her choice of a new career. He'd never doubted her intelligence, just her wisdom.

  And he enjoyed her deft way of handling his daughter Alexa. The frequent sight of the two blondes together, plotting and planning their day had touched him as nothing had in years. He couldn't give up loving Nikki. She was a fragile flame that warmed the depths of his heart. A flame he dared not touch, lest the heat consume them both.

  “Damn.” For years he'd avoided the very situation in which he now found himself—in love ... head over heels ... poets ... roses... “Mèrde."

  Was it too late? What about his mission to find out more about the mask? Closing his mother's estate had proven more complicated than he'd expected. He recalled Madame Dombasle's invitation. Perhaps, she could shed some light on the mask ... and the dreams.