Dream Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “Don’t I know it. I know they’re in the middle of negotiating the construction of the new hotel on Bimini, but they called today just to wish me happy birthday.”

  “And Dad told the story of how he drove Mom through the worst winter storm in the history of central California when she went into labor with you.”

  “Of course.” She lifted her head and grinned. “He loves telling that story. Rain, floods, mud slides, lightning. All but an appearance of the Angel of Doom and the seven plagues of Egypt.”

  “ ‘But I got her there,’ ” Josh quoted his father. “ ‘With forty-five minutes to spare.’ ” He stroked his son’s hair. “Not everybody’s as lucky. Do you remember Michael Fury?”

  Images of a dark, dangerous man with hot eyes. Who could forget Michael Fury? “Yes, you used to hang around with him and look for girls and trouble. He went into the merchant marines or something.”

  “He went into a lot of things. There were some problems at home—an unpleasant divorce. Well, two actually. His mother got married for the third time when he was about twenty-five. This one seems to have stuck. Anyway, he came back to the area a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t know.”

  “You and Michael never ran in the same circles,” Josh said dryly. “The thing is, he took over the old place, where he grew up. His mother and stepfather relocated in Boca, and he bought the property from them. He’s raising horses now.”

  “Horses. Hmm.” Not terribly interested, she began to walk the baby again. Josh would get to his point eventually, she knew. Sometimes he was such a lawyer, caging the meaning with words.

  “Those storms we had a couple weeks ago?”

  “Oh, bad ones,” she remembered. “Almost as bad as the fateful night of Laura Templeton’s birth.”

  “Yeah, more mud slides. One of them destroyed Michael’s place.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She stopped walking and tuned in. “I’m really sorry. Was he hurt?”

  “No. He managed to get himself and his stock out. But the house is a loss. It’s going to take some time to rebuild, if that’s what he wants to do. Meanwhile, he’ll need temporary lodgings for himself and his horses. Something he could rent, you know, for the short term. And I was thinking, the stables and the groom’s apartment above them aren’t being used.”

  Alarm came first. “Josh.”

  “Just hear me out. I know Mom and Dad were always a little, well, wary of him.”

  “To say the least.”

  “He’s an old friend,” Josh returned. “And a good one. He’s also handy. No one’s done any maintenance or repairs on that building in years, not since—” He broke off, cleared his throat.

  “Not since I sold off the horses,” Laura finished. “Because Peter didn’t care for them, or the amount of time I put in with them.”

  “The point is, the building should be looked after. Right now it’s just sitting there empty. You could use the rent, since you refuse to dip into Templeton capital to run this place.”

  “I’m not going over that ground again.”

  “Fine.” He recognized that set to her mouth and didn’t bother. “The rent from a building you’re not using would help you out. Right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He held up a hand. He would cut through the logic and practicalities first. “You could use someone around here, in the short term, to do some heavy work, to put the stables back in shape. That’s something you simply can’t do yourself.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  Now, Josh thought, for the clincher. “And I have an old friend whose home has been washed out from under him. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  “Low blow,” she muttered.

  “They’re always the most effective.” Knowing he’d scored, he gave her hair a quick, affectionate tug. “Look, it should work out for everyone, but give it a couple of weeks. If it’s not working, I’ll find an alternative.”

  “All right. But if he starts having drunken poker parties or orgies—”

  “We’ll try to keep them discreet,” Josh finished and grinned. “Thanks.” He kissed her and took the baby. “He’s a good man, Laura. One you can count on in tight squeezes.”

  Laura wrinkled her nose at his back as he carried J. T. out of the room. “I don’t intend to count on Michael Fury, particularly in a tight squeeze.”

  Chapter Three

  The last place Michael Fury had expected to take up residence, however temporarily, was on the great Templeton estate. Oh, he’d visited there often enough in the past, under the subtly watchful eyes of Thomas and Susan Templeton and the not so subtly watchful eye of Ann Sullivan.

  He was well aware that the Templeton housekeeper had considered him a mongrel let loose among her purebreds. And he assumed that she’d been worried about his intentions toward her daughter.

  She could have rested easy there. As lip smackingly gorgeous as Margo was, and always had been, she and Michael had never been more than casual friends.

  Maybe he’d kissed her a couple of times. How was a red-blooded man supposed to resist that mouth? But that had been the beginning and end of it. She’d been for Josh. Even that long ago and despite the shortsightedness of youth, he’d realized that.

  Michael Fury didn’t poach on a pal.

  Despite their different backgrounds, they had been friends. Real friends. Michael didn’t consider many people real friends. He would, and had, gone to the wall for Josh, and he knew he could depend on the same.

  Still, he would never have asked for the favor and would likely have refused it but for his horses. He didn’t want them boarded any longer than necessary in a public facility. He’d gotten sentimental over them, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. In the last few years they’d been one of the few constants in his life.

  He’d tried a number of things. He’d drifted. He liked to drift. Joining the merchant marine had been an escape, he’d reveled in it. He’d seen a lot of the world, and he liked some of it.

  It had been cars for a time. He still had an affection for them, liked to drive full out. He’d had some success on the race circuit in Europe, but it hadn’t satisfied him in the long term.

  In between the sea and the cars, there had been a brief stint as a mercenary, during which he’d learned too much about killing and warring for profit. And maybe he’d been afraid he was too good at it, afraid it would satisfy him too well. It had fattened his wallet but scarred his heart.

  He’d been married once also, only briefly, and could claim no success from that experience either.

  It was during his stuntman stage that he fell for horses. He’d learned that craft, gained a reputation, broken several bones. He jumped out of buildings, rioted in staged bar fights, was shot off roofs, set on fire. And he tumbled off of countless horses.

  Michael Fury knew how to take a fall. But he wasn’t able to roll when he fell in love with horses.

  So he bought them, and bred them, and trained them. He had put down a sick horse and labored through the birth of a foal.

  Though he knew the odds were long, he thought he’d found what he’d been looking for.

  It seemed like fate when his stepfather called, telling Michael that he and Michael’s mother were going to sell the property in the hills. Though he had no sentiment for it, Michael heard himself offering to buy it.

  It was good horse country.

  So, he’d come back, and nature had delivered a hard backhanded slap in welcome. He didn’t give a good damn about the house. But his horses—he would have died saving them, and he’d come dangerously close as those acres of mud tumbled down.

  There he was, filthy, exhausted, alone, looking at what had been his next start. The oozing rubble of it.

  There had been a time when he would have simply cut his losses and moved on. But this time he was sticking.

  Now Josh had offered him a hand, and weighing his pride against his horses, Michael had accepted.

  As he swu
ng up the drive toward Templeton House, he hoped he wasn’t gambling on the wrong roll of the dice. He’d always admired the place. You couldn’t help it. So he stopped in the middle of the drive, got out, and took a long look.

  He stood in the mild winter air, a rangy man with an athlete’s disciplined body, a brawler’s ready stance. He was dressed in black, his most usual attire, because it saved him from thinking when he reached for clothes. The snug black jeans and sweater under a scarred leather bomber jacket gave him the look of a desperado.

  He would have said it wasn’t far from the truth.

  His black hair danced in the breeze. It was longer than practical, sleek and thick by nature. When he was working, he often pulled it back in a stubby ponytail. He hated the barber and would have suffered torments of hell going to what they called a stylist.

  He’d forgotten to shave—he’d meant to, but he got involved with the horses. The stubble only added to the dangerous appeal of a rawboned face. His mouth was surprisingly soft. Many women could testify to its skill and generosity. But whatever softness was there was often overlooked when the observer was pinned by hard eyes the color of ball lightning.

  Over them, his brows were arched, the left one marred by a faint white scar.

  He had others on his body, from car wrecks, fights, his stunt work. He’d learned to live with them, just as he lived with the scars inside.

  As he studied the glinting stone, the spearing towers, and glinting glass of Templeton House, he smiled. Christ, what a place, he thought. A castle for modern royalty.

  Here comes Michael Fury, he thought. And what the hell are you going to do about it?

  He chuckled to himself as he drove up the winding lane, cutting through rolling lawns accented by stately old trees, shrubs waiting to burst into bloom. He didn’t imagine that the reigning princess was too happy about his impending stay. Josh must have done some fast talking to persuade his proper society sister to open even the stables for the likes of Michael Fury.

  They’d both get used to it, he imagined. It wasn’t for long, and he was sure they could manage to stay out of each other’s way. Just as they had in the past.

  For Laura, carving out this hour in the middle of the day was problematic but necessary. She had sent the maid Jenny to do what she could about cleaning the groom’s apartment above the stables. God knew it was a mess of dust and debris and spiderwebs. Mice, Laura thought, shuddering as she hauled up a bucket of soapy water.

  She couldn’t expect the girl to perform miracles. And there just hadn’t been enough time. It hadn’t been possible to ask Ann’s help. At the mere mention of Michael Fury’s name, the housekeeper had sniffed and gone stone-faced.

  So, Laura had decided the final work fell to her. She wasn’t about to welcome anyone into her home, or a part thereof, and not have it spic and span.

  An extended lunch hour away from her duties at Pretenses, a quick change of clothes, and now, she thought, a great deal of elbow grease. The state of the bathroom in the apartment had shocked young Jenny speechless.

  Small wonder. With her hair pulled back, her sleeves rolled up, Laura climbed into the tub and began to attack the worst of the grime. When her guest—tenant—whatever the hell he was—arrived the following day, at least he wouldn’t find scum on the tiles.

  As far as the stables themselves went, she’d decided after one look that they fell into Michael Fury’s territory.

  While she worked, she rattled through her head for the rest of her day’s schedule. She could get back to Pretenses by three. Close out by six-thirty. A quick dash to pick up the girls from piano lessons.

  Damn it, she’d forgotten to look into finding a good drawing instructor for Kayla.

  Dinner at seven-thirty. A check to make certain both girls were prepared for whatever tests and assignments were coming up.

  Was it spelling for Kayla tomorrow or math for Ali? Was it both? Good God, she hated going back to school. Fractions were killing her.

  Puffing a bit as her muscles sang, she swiped soap and grit over her cheek.

  She really did have to go over that report on the cosmeticians’ convention next month. She could do that in bed, once the girls were down. And Ali needed new ballet shoes. They would see to that tomorrow.

  “Well, that’s quite a sight.” Michael stepped into the narrow doorway and was treated to the appealing view of a pretty female butt straining against faded denim. A butt that he assumed belonged to some nubile Templeton maid. “If this is among the amenities, I should be paying a hell of a lot more rent.”

  Yelping, Laura sprang up, rapped her head on the shower nozzle, and slopped filthy water over her feet. It was a toss-up as to who was more surprised.

  Michael hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d carried an image of Laura in his head. Perfect. Perfectly lovely, gold and rose and white, like a glossy picture of a princess in a book of fairy tales.

  But the woman facing him now, eyes huge and darkly gray, had wet dirt smeared on her cheeks, her hair was a mess, and her tea-serving hands held a scrub brush.

  He recovered first. A man who’d lived on the edge had to have quick reflexes. And he grinned widely as he leaned on the doorjamb. “Laura Templeton. That is you in there, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t—we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  Ah, yes, he thought. The voice hadn’t changed. Cool, cultured, quietly sexy. “I always like to get the lay of the land. The front door was wide open.”

  “I was airing the apartment.”

  “Well, then. It’s nice to see you again, Laura. I don’t know when I’ve had someone quite so attractive scrub out my john.”

  Humiliated, knowing her cheeks were hot, she nodded. “As Josh probably told you, we haven’t been using the building. I wasn’t able to spare the staff to put things to rights so quickly.”

  It surprised him that she knew which end of a scrub brush was which. “You don’t have to bother for me. I can handle it myself.”

  Now that he took a close look, he could also see for himself that she was just as lovely underneath the grime as ever. Delicate features, soft mouth, the aristocratic hint of cheekbone, and those dreamy storm-colored eyes.

  Had he forgotten how small she was? Five two, maybe three, and slim as a fairy, with hair the color of gold in dim sunlight. Subtle again, with the richness but not the flash.

  She remembered he had often stared, just as he was doing now, saying nothing, just looking, looking until she wanted to squirm.

  “I’m sorry about your home.”

  “Hmm?” He lifted a brow, the scarred one, drawing her eyes to his. “Oh, it was just a house. I can always build another. I appreciate you providing a place for me and my horses.”

  When he offered a hand, she took it automatically. His was hard, rough with calluses, and held on to hers even when she tried to slip away.

  His lips curved again. “You going to stay standing in the tub, sugar?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat, allowed him to help her out. “I’ll show you around,” she began, then her eyes went cool when he remained where he was. “I’ll show you around,” she repeated.

  “Thanks.” He shifted, enjoyed the waft of scent, again subtle, that she carried with her.

  “Josh would have told you this was the groom’s apartment.” Her voice was clear again, the polite hostess. “It’s self-sufficient, I think. Full kitchen.” She gestured toward an alcove off the main room, where Jenny had dutifully cleaned the white stove, the stainless steel sink, the simple white countertops.

  “That’s fine. I don’t do a lot of cooking.”

  “Josh mentioned that you’d lost your furniture, so we brought over a few things.”

  She waited, hands folded at her waist as he wandered about the room. The sofa had been in the attic and could have used re-covering. But it was a good solid Duncan Phyfe. Some Templeton or guest in the past had scarred the Sheridan coffee table with a careless cigarette, but it wa
s functional.

  She’d added lamps, simple brass ones that she felt suited a masculine taste, an easy chair, other occasional tables, even a vase of winter windflowers. She was too much the innkeeper’s daughter not to have put thought and effort into her temporary inn.

  “You’ve gone to some trouble.” Which surprised and humbled him. “I figured on roughing it for a few months.”

  “It’s not exactly Templeton Paris.” She unbent enough to smile. “The bedroom’s through there.” She gestured toward a short corridor. “It’s not terribly large, but I went with instinct on the bed. I know Josh likes room to, ah . . .” She trailed off when Michael grinned. “Room,” she finished. “So we stuffed a queen size in there. We had the iron head- and footboards in storage. I’ve always liked them. There’s not much of a closet, but—”

  “I don’t have much.”

  “Well, then.” At a loss, she wandered toward the front window. “The view,” she said and left it at that.

  “Yeah.” He joined her, intrigued by the way her head fit neatly below his chin. He could see the cliffs, the azure sea beyond, the splits of rock islands, and the fuming water that charged them. “You used to spend a lot of time out there.”

  “I still do.”

  “Still looking for treasure?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was the name of the girl who tossed herself off the cliff?”

  “Seraphina.”

  “Right. Seraphina. A romantic little tale.”

  “A sad one.”

  “Same thing. Josh used to laugh about you and Margo and Kate haunting those cliffs and looking for Seraphina’s lost dowry. But, I figured he secretly wanted to find it himself.”

  “We look every Sunday now. Margo and Kate and I, and my daughters.”

  That brought him up short. He’d forgotten for a moment that this small, delicate woman had given birth to two children. “You’ve got kids of your own. Girls.”

  “Yes.” Chin lifted, she turned back. “Daughters. My daughters.”

  Something here, he mused, and wondered which button he’d pushed. “How old are they?”