by Alyssa Kress
It was time to return to reality. Reality was the temporary nature of emotions. Reality was that passion and all its by-products didn't last. Reality was the huge mistake it would be to rely on mere feelings.
But reality was awfully hard to come by when Kelly turned at her bedroom door, when her tremulous smile made his insides clench.
"I want to tell you," she whispered huskily. "I had a really nice day."
I liked you. You were good for me. As good as I was for you. Drawing in a deep breath, Dean tried to still her fantasy voice in his head. "Yes," he said gruffly. "It was a nice day." And just one day, he struggled to remind himself. He had to get away from fantasy, back to reality.
Kelly's smile crooked. "And now it's over."
Yes, it was over. All over. That had been the deal Dean had promised himself on the swan boat. But as his groin stirred traitorously, a voice whispered slyly in his head. It's not quite over yet.
Kelly's lashes lowered. "Things are different now, aren't they?"
Whoa. Even as desire stirred, Dean knew he couldn't have her believing anything was different. Hell, he might start believing it, himself. Yes, he'd let down his guard, he'd allowed himself to enjoy her company, but that didn't mean anything essential had changed. Whatever they'd felt for each other today wasn't real. It wasn't lasting. Such things never were.
Before he got a chance to say anything of the sort, however, Kelly reached out to put a finger in the middle of Dean's chin. He stood immobilized. The smell of the salt of her skin reached his nose, the leather from the car seat, and even a hint of the garlic they'd had with their dinner. The whole magical day seemed encapsulated in Kelly's finger.
Reality began to slip.
Kelly smiled softly. "I don't know what it took for you to let go, to loosen up today, for you to trust me, but I know it was a lot. And so...thank you." Her eyes came up to meet his.
Reality continued its downward slide. Swiftly. The look in her eyes... She'd had a good time, as good a time as he'd had. He'd done that — for her. He'd been able to do that. The ancient part of Dean, the part that had elected to take the day off, surged upward again.
He didn't want this to go.
Not yet.
As Kelly gently lowered her finger and made to step back, he cast frantically for something, anything, to prolong the moment, the time — the connection.
"I like you."
Kelly froze. It took Dean a second to realize he was the one who'd uttered the words. He'd just told Kelly he liked her. Out loud.
Terror warred with the most bizarre access of joy. It was true, of course. He did like her. A lot. But — Oh, there were so many but's. Nevertheless, his joy continued to grow, along with his terror. What would she think of this?
"Oh, Dean," she murmured, while her face went all soft and warm.
That was it. The end. He affected her. He did. The ancient warrior inside Dean, the rebel who refused to face reality, charged in with the strength of an armed battalion. Any thought of being responsible flitted into nothingness.
What was responsibility compared to this, this new and incredible sensation?
Dean set down the bags. The air seemed to hum around them. Through the hum, he reached for her. She leaned toward him. Their noses briefly fumbled for space before their lips touched.
Magic. Power. Immensity. Dean closed his eyes and let it all wash over him. Deep, deep down, in the darkest heart of him, he knew he was continuing the pretense. This was neither smart nor honest.
But, God, he did like her! And she'd liked that. She'd liked it!
Kelly's arms went around him. Dean pulled her close. Reality? he thought, his chest nearly bursting. The hell with reality.
Deeper. He kept letting her in even deeper, Kelly thought, as Dean's arms closed around her. He'd told her he liked her. That was — it was —
Not enough.
Some voice inside her, not yet seduced, spoke up. There were rules governing this kind of situation, rules she'd thoroughly flouted last Monday. She wasn't supposed to be going to bed with him, not giving so much — or at least not giving so much until he gave something back: a proposal of marriage, or in their case, the words that ought to go with one. Words of love, words of commitment. She'd promised herself she would go back to the rules that would protect her.
The resistance of the door behind Kelly gave way. She suspected she'd been the one to grope for the knob. But it was Dean who walked her backwards into the room. Kelly didn't protest, however, when he turned to lean her against the inside of her bedroom door, when his mouth descended desperately to devour hers. She twined her arms behind his neck.
Perhaps there were rules, but the situation seemed strikingly familiar. Five weeks ago with Dean in her car in Las Vegas, she'd felt the same thrill of discovery, the same pulse of need and giving. That night, Dean's touch and his words had sparked Kelly's infatuation into love. Marry me, he'd said. I love you, he'd said.
Okay, so he hadn't said that tonight. Kelly admitted this as Dean's hand roved over the bodice of her sundress and she moaned her appreciation. No, Dean had not pronounced his undying love and devotion, but he had admitted he liked her. For the Boston Dean, that was equivalent to an avalanche.
"Kelly," Dean murmured.
"Dean," Kelly whispered back. She reveled in the shudder that went through him when she rocked her hips against the ridge in his trousers. Did it truly matter if she closed the barn door now, when the horses had been let out not once, but several times?
Dean's fingers found her taut nipple through the cotton of her dress. The jerk of arousal pulled Kelly out of her haze. Wait a minute. She'd sort of decided it did matter. Surrendering now, without words of love, would leave her vulnerable and unprotected.
"Stay," Dean then breathed. "Kelly. Stay with me."
Oh, boy. Kelly lifted her lashes. Dean's eyes were closed, his face drawn in lines of stark, heedless need.
He didn't merely want her. He needed her. Kelly's love for him swelled.
"I'm here," she choked out. She brushed her hand against his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean."
With a low sound, he opened his mouth over hers in a deeply carnal kiss. Kelly kissed him back, while reaching behind herself to draw down her zipper.
Some rules, she told herself, were meant to be broken.
###
It was the kind of a party that was usually Troy's favorite: good booze, loud music, and a wide variety of women. The range of females at this particular shindig went all the way from somebody's wacky grandmother, wearing décolletage and pearls, to a gaggle of terrified-looking Harvard undergrads.
But all Troy could do was wander the many rooms of the mansion of a friend of a friend and feel...bored.
He forced himself to come to a stop in the main room of the house, the one with the DJ and the dancing. He stood next to the five foot high speaker and lifted his martini to his nose for a sniff. His body hummed with the vibrations of the music, but he felt an overall dissatisfaction. Hell. It didn't make sense.
Troy was always satisfied. He made himself satisfied, whatever the situation. He'd learned to do so at the age of fifteen, when they'd come to tell him that both his parents had died in the same small plane crash. That's when he'd figured out that life was not going to turn out the way he'd like it to, so he'd better learn to be happy with whatever was.
Sniffing his martini again, Troy brooded that he'd yet to learn how to be happy about his last interview — his last kiss — with Felicia. That kiss had been...amazing. But while his body craved more kisses from the woman, his brain knew better. They couldn't have a relationship. Why, they didn't even define the word the same way!
And yet...and yet... Troy's lashes lowered. And yet, there was something very unfinished about the whole business.
Across the room by the bartender, one of the Harvard undergrads lifted her Margarita and smiled at Troy, apparently not as terrified as he'd assumed. Indeed, the girl was
on the bold side, considering Troy looked what he was: a dozen years her senior. He smiled back, but turned and walked in the opposite direction, as if he'd just remembered a previous assignation.
As he strode through the next room, the one with the tables heaped with appetizers, he tried desperately to remember. Would he have walked away from a smiling undergrad two weeks ago, before this whole thing with Felicia had started? Had he owned that many scruples? He gnashed his teeth and hoped to God he would have behaved with such restraint.
Otherwise, he had to worry that kissing Felicia might have ruined him for anyone else.
After stalking right through the appetizer room and out onto the lawn, Troy stopped, shuddered, and finally took a swallow of the drink he'd only been sniffing for the past hour. Felicia ruining him. It was a scary thought.
Or was it? Was it actually scary, or was it something else? Maybe it was something he wasn't ready to define — but that he'd forever rue if he didn't explore.
He took another swallow of his drink and looked out over the darkened landscape. He was always satisfied. He never wanted anything he couldn't have. And he probably couldn't have Felicia.
Probably. But then, probably wasn't certainly. And this particular probably was going to drive him crazy. What if he could have her? What if he could experience a fulfillment he hadn't enjoyed in fifteen years? What if?
Troy bared his teeth and tossed the rest of his martini over the lawn. Hell. He had a sinking feeling there'd be no peace for him until he exerted himself and did something about that probably.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Completely comfortable in Kelly's bed, Dean yawned luxuriantly. It was Monday, he was already late for work, and since the moment he'd walked into Kelly's bedroom last night he'd crossed every line of morality and self discipline he owned.
But somehow, with Kelly curled up under his nose, Dean couldn't work up the energy to hate himself.
Indeed, as he lay there and sensed Kelly's limbs shift, her muscles tensing in a stretch, he felt nothing but pleasure; pleasure to be next to her, delight that they were in bed together, and a pure, mindless contentment with the whole situation.
"Hey, beautiful." Silly words. They just popped out of his mouth.
But they accomplished what he wanted. When Kelly looked up at him she was smiling. "Hey beautiful, yourself," she whispered, morning hoarse.
Dean knew he was grinning like an idiot. He supposed he was an idiot. "You really are drop dead gorgeous, you know."
"Dean." Her tone was half embarrassed, all pleased.
He smoothed his hand over her shoulder and decided he liked embarrassing her, and pleasing her. Maybe he would do more. "Say. It occurs to me that in all this time I still know next to nothing about you." Nothing, that is, besides what he'd learned from the private detective he'd hired at the beginning.
Kelly raised her eyebrows. "And you want to know more?"
Yes! No. Hell. Personal questions. That meant probing, getting closer. Was that smart? And yet — And yet — he did want to know more about her.
Dean shifted onto his side so that he could look directly at her. "First thing I don't understand — " and what couldn't have made its way into the private detective's report.
" — Gorgeous as you are, why Las Vegas?"
She tilted her head. "Las Vegas isn't such a terrible place."
Dean snorted.
She brushed the hair from her eyes with a smile. "It isn't. Not if you love dancing. Besides, my parents encouraged me to move there."
"Your parents?"
"Sure. They wanted me to be able to make a living doing something I loved." Kelly grinned. "And dancers can make a good living in Las Vegas."
"But — " Dean started to frown. But — the detective's report had described her run-down apartment building, had listed her monthly credit card debt. She didn't appear to make a good living. He shook his head. "Even so, what kind of parents send their child — their female child — to the gambling capital of the world?"
Kelly's eyes sparkled. "My Dad was a minister. My mother helped him in the church."
Dean just looked at her.
She laughed, delighted.
"You're not kidding."
Obviously enjoying herself, Kelly tapped his chin. "Call it 'only child' syndrome. All they wanted was for me to be happy."
All they'd wanted was for her to be happy. Dean shook his head. For most of his life, he'd been an only child, too, but neither of his parents had thought beyond their own happiness. His mother had taken off before he'd turned two. To that day, his father was still too busy womanizing to care about Dean's happiness.
"Do you still see them?" Dean asked.
The grin on her face faded. "My Mom passed away three years ago. My Dad went soon after that."
"Mm," Dean gazed at her, feeling like he was getting a window into a world he'd never known. He had the urge to comfort her, though surely there was nothing he could do about her parents' deaths at this late date. "I suppose that was...hard," he essayed anyway.
Kelly's eyes swept back to him. "Yes. Yes, it was, especially with my mom. She...lingered."
Dean reached out to clasp a hand around Kelly's. Emotions rose up in his chest, emotions he had no business entertaining. For the love of Pete, he'd already gone past his deadline. They were supposed to be back in reality again.
He drew his hand away. "I should get up."
Kelly wrinkled her nose and snuggled closer. "Say that again."
"I should get up."
She laughed. "Just as I thought."
"What?"
Her eyes flicked upward. "You don't really want to."
Well, of course he didn't want to. He was in bed with a delightful and fascinating naked woman, one to whom he felt suddenly, perhaps dangerously, closer. "It wouldn't kill me to take a day off," he heard himself say. Am I crazy? I've already taken one day off.
Meanwhile Kelly lifted a hand to his cheek. Her expression sobered. "Do you mean that? I mean, could you?"
Dean looked deep into her eyes. Did he? Could he? He was supposed to have ended this business last night. Instead he'd delved even further into it. It was crazy. Persisting in this thing was only going to hurt them both. This was the moment to tell her.
Dean threaded his fingers through her hair, hair generously mussed from their lovemaking of the night before. He looked into her eyes, eyes that seemed deeper, more three-dimensional than the day before. His insides clenched. This was the moment to tell her.
If he were about to do anything of the sort.
Dean smiled. Everything within him calmed. He was not going to tell her. Not now, and maybe not tomorrow, either. This simply felt too good. And, wrong or right, he wanted to feel good.
"I'm sure," he said. Still smiling, he kissed her.
###
That day, a Monday, Dean drove Kelly up to Rockport, the old fishing village. They wandered the streets of gift shops, then toured the Revolutionary-era mansions. While enjoying herself, Kelly watched Dean. He was spontaneous. He was relaxed. But he also took care of his responsibilities. At one point in the afternoon he bought Kelly a fat paperback, installed her in a quaint café, and went off for forty-five minutes to make phone calls. When he came back he was smiling. Indeed, he was relaxed enough to sit down and order a fancy coffee, after which he suggested a hike.
Kelly found herself waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dean had spent so much of his life behind emotional walls. It didn't make sense for him to act the way he was today, as if he'd overcome all his fear. And yet, one couldn't deny he was having a good time with her, laughing, connecting. And that morning in bed, he'd really seemed to, well, care.
She felt torn between wanting to accept things the way they seemed to be, and wondering if she ought to push the issue.
She ended up choosing not to push the issue. Everything was too nice, too dreamy and marvelous. She didn't even question matters when Dean pulled off the road on t
heir way back home, when they began kissing — and more — in the back seat of his car. If ever there was a time Kelly should have been protecting herself by making sure of a man's feelings, this was it. Yet she did nothing.
All right, maybe there was something wrong here, something off, but most of it felt so good and right. The last thing Kelly wanted to do was ruin what appeared to be Dean's awakening, and the beginning of true love.
###
"Okay, so that's taken care of." Felicia folded the budget request that Andrea, director of the Boston Family Aid Foundation, had just given her, and put it in her briefcase. Then she smiled at Andrea across the functional desk in the tiny office of the family shelter facility. "I'll see what I can do about getting you those folding chairs and call you later in the week."
"That'd be great." Andrea stood to bid Felicia goodbye. Her mop of frizzy brown hair and ubiquitous blue jeans belied the sharp competence of a first-rate administrator. So when Andrea's smile turned questioning and her eyes went past Felicia's shoulder toward the door, Felicia turned around to see what had caught Andrea's attention.
She found Troy Singleton standing in the doorway.
Felicia hoped she didn't gasp. But, for the love of — there was Troy, with his sharp-fitting clothes, his easy grace, and his thousand-watt smile. Troy, who instantly made her stomach sink to her toes and her heart start racing. What on earth was he doing at the Boston Family Aid shelter?
"Hey, Felicia," Troy said, and his smile managed to widen.
As inconspicuously as possible, Felicia cleared her throat. "Hello, Troy." His appearance made no sense at all. Troy had been the one to suggest they never speak to each other. But Felicia recalled her manners and turned to Andrea. "This is Troy Singleton, Dean Singleton's cousin. Troy, please meet Andrea Shapiro, director of the Boston Family Aid shelter."
"Pleased to meet you." Troy smiled and came through the door to shake hands with Andrea. "I've heard so much about this place from Felicia. Thought I'd come check it out." Then he turned to look at Felicia.
It was a request. No, a demand. She was supposed to help him 'check it out,' by offering a tour.
No way. Felicia wasn't about to give Troy a tour. She didn't want to spend five minutes in his company. Or, more accurately, she wanted to spend a great deal longer than five minutes in his company, while committing unspeakable acts with him. Oh, her response to him was so dangerous.