Dream 3 - Finding the Dream

by Nora Roberts

  He'd been in bar fights, spent the night in a cell where the artwork on the walls ran to anatomically exaggerated etchings of female organs. He had killed men and loved women.

  And he had, he realized, led a sheltered life.

  He had never faced the perils and predicaments of getting two girls out of the house on a school day.

  "What do you mean you can't wear those shoes?"

  "They don't go with my outfit."

  His eyes narrowed as he studied Ali's floral skirt and pink sweater. Hadn't she been wearing some green thing a minute ago? "That's what you said the last time. And it looks fine to me. They're just shoes."

  In the way of every female since Eve strapped on a fig leaf, Ali rolled her eyes. "They're the wrong shoes. I have to change them."

  "Well, hurry up. Jesus," he muttered as she dashed back upstairs, leaving Kayla tugging on his hand.

  "I forgot how to spell 'bedlam.'"

  "A-l-l-i-s-o-n."

  She giggled at that. "No, really. Is it l-a-m or l-e-m?"

  "A." He was pretty sure. Spelling homework wasn't exactly his strong point. And if they didn't get moving, he was going to be late meeting his contractor. The backup with building permits had already put him behind. Now Allison and her shoes… "Allison, I'm walking out the door with or without you in ten seconds."

  "Sometimes Mama says that, too," Kayla informed him. "But she never does."

  "I will. Come on." He tugged Kayla to the door.

  "You can't go without her." Eyes wide, Kayla trotted beside him to his car. "Mama's going to be mad if you do."

  "We're going. In the car, come on."

  "How will Ali get to school?"

  "She can walk," Michael said grimly. "In whatever shoes she's picked out this time."

  He'd solved the crisis of Kayla's broken barrette, hadn't he? And her hair looked okay to him tied back with the rubber band he'd pulled out of his own hair. He hadn't panicked when Ali claimed to have misplaced her book bag but had found it himself, under the kitchen table, where she'd dumped it during her breakfast.

  He'd remained the calm mediator when the two girls had fallen into a minor catfight over whose turn it was to feed the pets. And he had not faltered when Bongo had expressed his sorrow that his young mistresses were leaving him by peeing in the foyer.

  No, he had stood strong through all of that, Michael thought as he gunned the engine. But he knew when he was being dicked around, and he wasn't taking it.

  Impatience turned to smugness when he saw Ali flying out of the house. Indignation flashed in her eyes as she pulled open the car door. "You were going without me."

  "That's right, Blondie. Get in."

  Not wanting him to see, under the circumstances, that the nickname delighted her, she angled her chin. "There's only two seats. Where am I supposed to sit?"

  "Beside your sister."

  "But—"

  "In. Now."

  At the snapped order, she moved fast, squeezing beside Kayla. Pouting dramatically when Michael reached over to tug the seat belt around both of them, she announced, "I don't think this is legal."

  It was her best lady-of-the-manor voice, Michael realized. Her mother's voice. "Call a cop," he muttered and started down the drive.

  For the next fifteen minutes, he was treated to a run of complaints. "She's pushing me."

  "She's taking all the room."

  "She's sitting on my skirt."

  The muscle behind his eye began to twitch. How did anyone—anyone—tolerate this every morning of their life?

  "I need to go over my words," Kayla wailed. "I'm having a test. Michael, Ali's pushing her elbow in me again."

  "Ali, get a grip." He blew away the hair that, thanks to his gift to Kayla, danced in his eyes.

  "There's not enough room," Ali informed him loftily. "She's taking up the whole seat."

  "I am not."

  "You are too."

  "I am—"

  At the snarl issuing from the man beside them, both girls lapsed into momentary silence.

  Satisfied, Michael took a calming breath. "What are the spelling words?"

  "I can't remember. I have them written down in my notebook." The wail inched back into her voice. "If I don't get a hundred, I don't get to play on the computer at free time."

  "So get the notebook out."

  This, as he should have known, caused more complaints.

  "You're stepping all over my shoes. You're getting them dirty. Kayla, I'm going to—

  "I don't want to hear about those shoes, Blondie." The twitch was back, double time. "Not a word about the shoes."

  "Here are my words." Triumphant, Kayla waved the notebook, conking him on the head in her enthusiasm.

  "Well, study them or something."

  "No, Ali reads them, and I spell them. And I have to use each one in a sentence."

  "I don't want to read them."

  Michael sent Ali a narrow look. "Want to walk?"

  "Oh, all right." With little grace, she snatched the notebook. "They're just baby words."

  "They are not. You're just mad because Tod likes Marcie better than you."

  "He does not. And I don't care anyway. And you didn't learn your words because you were too busy drawing dumb pictures."

  "They are not dumb. You're dumb because—"

  "Cut it out. Right now. If I have to stop this car…" Appalled, he trailed off. Had he just said what he thought he'd said? Dear Christ. He was forced to take several calming breaths. "Allison, just read the words."

  "I'm going to." She sniffed, peered down her nose at Kayla's carefully written list. "Committed."

  "C-o-m-m-i-t-t-e-d." She parroted the letters, then bit her lip. She fumbled for the sentence, looked hopefully at Michael.

  "Michael Fury, innocently volunteering to drive two young girls to school, has now been committed to an institution for the permanently insane."

  It made Ali laugh. "He's just being silly."

  "Don't bet on it, kid." But he racked his brain to come up with an alternative. "The witness pointed accusingly at the man who had committed the crime. How's that?"

  "Okay."

  They ran through the rest, with Michael nearly cross-eyed by the time he pulled through the gates of the academy. His ancient Porsche merged with shining Mercedes, sedate Lincolns, and snappy four-wheel-drives.

  "Scram," he said, unhooking the seat belt. "I'm late."

  "You're supposed to say 'Have a good day,' " Kayla reminded him.

  "Yeah? Well, have one, then. Later."

  "Michael." She rolled her eyes. "Now kiss us goodbye." She pursed her lips, planted one on him.

  Amused, he peered over at Ali. "Ali doesn't want to kiss me. She's still mad at me."

  "I am not." She sniffed, then graciously leaned over Kayla and touched her lips to his cheek. "Thank you for driving us to school."

  "It was my… education," he told her, then watched them scurry up the granite steps with hordes of other children.

  "Jesus, Laura." He rested his aching head on the steering wheel. "How do you get through that every day without drinking heavy?"

  She could have told him it was all a matter of planning, discipline, and priorities. And prayers for patience. At the end of this particular day, because the first three had crumbled in her hands, she was doing a lot of praying.

  Could she have anticipated that two women from rival romance magazines would start a fistfight in the lobby? She didn't think so. Could she have guessed that after their efforts to dispel the hair-pulling, teeth-snapping, name-calling furor, two of her bell people would require stitches? She doubted it.

  She could have, after the event, predicted the arrival of the press, the cameras, the questions, and the necessity for her to answer questions. But she didn't have to like it.

  Things hadn't gone that much more smoothly when she'd arrived, late, at Pretenses to find Kate in an uproar because Margo had delved into her sacrosanct spreadsheets.

  Then th
ere had been the customer who instead of watching the three children she'd herded into the shop with her, loitered in the wardrobe room while they ran rampant.

  The result was a broken vase, finger-smudged counters, and frazzled nerves. The woman left in a huff after being asked to watch her children and pay for the damages.

  Life was no more simple when she returned home, ready to whimper, and found herself faced with an upcoming science project, the request to volunteer to chaperone a field trip to the aquarium, and that parental terror, long division.

  It didn't perk up her mood to discover that Bongo had expressed his adoration for her by burrowing into her closet and chewing three shoes—each from a different pair.

  And her parents were arriving the next day.

  All right. Laura scrubbed her hands over her face after she'd changed into slacks. She would handle it. Homework was done, Bongo chastised, and it was unlikely that Templeton would be sued because a couple of women went ballistic in the lobby.

  Still, she needed some air, which would give her an opportunity to make certain that old Joe had the garden up to speed, that the paths had been swept. And since she'd forgotten to ask Ann to see that the pool was vacuumed and readied for her mother's visit, she would see to that herself.

  Rolling up her sleeves as she went, she passed Ali's room. She stopped a moment and smiled. She heard both of her daughters inside, chattering away over some recent movie heartthrob who wasn't yet old enough to shave. They were giggling.

  Nothing could be really wrong with the world when her daughters were giggling.

  She slipped out the side door, knowing that Ann would lecture her to leave the landscaping and pool to old Joe and his grandson. But Laura knew that young Joe was cramming for his final exams. And it would take her ten—well, twenty—minutes to put things right. Besides, she enjoyed the mindless task of manually vacuuming the pool.

  It gave her a chance to dream in the garden, which, she noted with pleasure, was blooming beautifully. Old Joe's bursitis must have been behaving itself. He'd put in new beds of annuals, filling in among the perennials with splashes of color and sweeps of shape.

  The paths were swept clean, the mulch damp from watering and raked smooth. "Looks like we're in business," she said to the pup, who trotted along with her. She'd had to forgive him for the shoe incident when he looked so ashamed and contritely licked her face. "Now you sit and behave yourself."

  Willing to make amends, Bongo plopped on the skirt of the pool, watching her over his shaggy paws out of eyes dazed with love.

  Of course, Laura thought, if she'd remembered to pick up a new droid, the pool would be cleaned automatically. All she had to do was remember to write it down when she went back in the house. Otherwise, she was going to have to break down and buy one of those electronic pads like Kate kept in her pocket at all times.

  But it wasn't a problem to unwind the hoses from their tidy box in the pool shed, or slip the attachments together. She went about it mechanically, daydreaming. She would settle the kids for the night. It was so good to have Ali smile and mean it at their good-night hug.

  Perhaps Ali was disillusioned about her father, but she felt better about herself. That was what mattered most.

  Then she would go over the household accounts with Annie, Laura mused. Things were looking up there as well. Her dual incomes and the interest on the investments Kate had made for her were holding them above water. By Laura's calculations, in another six months or so, they might actually be able to swim a few laps.

  So, she wouldn't sell any more of her jewelry unless absolutely necessary. She wouldn't have to duck and dodge questions from her parents, or Josh.

  And maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to juggle funds to buy that horse for Ali after all. She'd take a close look at her own books later. Or tomorrow, she mused, thinking of Michael.

  She wanted to go to him again tonight, to forget everything but being. Feeling. He did that for her, made her feel like the center of the universe when he made love to her.

  She'd always dreamed of a man who would think of nothing but her when she was in his arms. Who would lose himself in her as she lost herself in him. Of knowing that he was so focused on her when he touched her that there was room for nothing else in his mind or heart.

  Oh, she did wish she knew his heart.

  That was her problem, she admitted, running the pole smoothly through the water. She wanted that foolishly romantic love she'd dreamed of as a girl.

  Seraphina's love, she thought with a quiet laugh. The kind a woman would die for.

  Well, she couldn't afford to be dewy-eyed enough to hurl herself off a cliff for anyone. She had children to raise, a house to run, and a career—a surprisingly interesting career—to maintain.

  So she would happily settle for whatever she and Michael had between them, and be grateful for it. More than grateful, she thought, tonight, in bed, when he put his hands on her again. Those impatient, rough-palmed hands that took whatever they wanted and made her wild with need.

  The way he murmured her name, softly, deeply, when he slid into her to mate.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  The pole nearly slipped out of her hands at the sharp tone. Her head jerked up, and there was her lover, scowling, standing spread-legged, hands in his pockets, with his hair loose and flowing.

  Fighting against a reckless urge to leap on him and tear in, she tilted her head. "Why, I'm mixing a soufflé. What does it look like?"

  "Why the hell are you doing that yourself?" He was beside her in two angry strides, pulling the pole away. "Don't you have servants to do this?"

  "Actually, no. I let the pool boy go a couple of years ago when I learned that Candy was using him for her personal maintenance as well as her pool. I found it… awkward."

  He wasn't going to smile, or even smirk. Coming across her like this, seeing her laboring over some ridiculous menial chore after putting in a full day burned him.

  "Then hire another one."

  "I'm afraid it doesn't fit into the scheme of things just now. In any case, I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself." Taking a closer look, she brushed at his hair. "You seem a little frazzled, Michael. Rough day?"

  He'd been in a pisser of a mood since his contractor had estimated it would be six months before the rebuilding was completed. There had been a lot of blah-blah about permits, inspections, zoning, but the upshot was that he was going to be Laura's tenant for a great deal longer than he'd anticipated.

  He didn't want to be her tenant, to hand over a rent check every month. It wasn't the money, he thought, fuming. It was the… It was awkward.

  "I've had better." He nudged her aside and began to run the vacuum himself. "But we're not talking about me. You can't raise two kids, hold down two jobs, and deal with this sort of nonsense too. Why don't you just close the damn pool?''

  "Because I enjoy swimming, and there are a lot of women who do a great deal more than I do and manage very well."

  "They're not you." Which said it all in his mind.

  "No, they don't have a beautiful home that no one would ever take from them, and they don't necessarily have a job that they're in no danger of jeopardizing if they need to flex their schedule."

  Insulted, she fought with him over the pole. "I am not the pampered princess you seem to think. I'm a—" she hissed, tugged—"capable, intelligent woman who can run her life very well. I'm sick and tired of people patting me on the head and saying 'poor Laura' behind my back." She yanked, swore. "I am not poor Laura and I can clean my own goddamn pool. Give me back the stupid pole."

  "No." It had calmed him considerably to see her temper flare. It wasn't much of one, as far as he could see, but there was potential in those stormy eyes, flushed cheeks, gritted teeth. "Keep messing with me, sugar, and I'll toss you in. It's a little cool for a dip this evening."

  "Fine. Do it yourself. You're a man, after all, and men are so much more capable of doing mindless chores. But I didn't ask for
your help, nor do I need it. Nor do I need your sterling advice or your unsolicited criticism on how I handle my life."

  "That's telling me," he said equably. "My hands are starting to shake."

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. "You, too, could be taking a dip."

  Interesting, he thought. Did she actually have a physical temper in there? "Is that so? You want to try to take me down?"

  "If I did you'd be treading water in—oh, no! Bongo, no!" Insults paled when she caught sight of the pup busily digging up the newly planted pansies. "Stop that! Stop that right now!" She dashed across the pool skirt, snatched up the pup, and frowned at his dirt- and mulch-smeared nose. "How could you? Didn't I tell you no? It's bad. You're not to dig in the flowers."

  When she set him down to survey the damage, Bongo cheerfully leaped into the mess and began digging again.

  "I said no. Stop it. Why don't you listen to me?"

  "Because he knows you're a pushover. Bongo." At Michael's voice, the pup lifted his head and grinned sheepishly. Michael could almost hear the sentiment: "Well, gee, Mick, just having a little fun here." Michael snapped his finger, pointed, and Bongo padded out, shook himself, and sat politely.

  Torn between disgust and admiration, Laura hissed between her teeth, "How do you get him to do that?"

  "It's a gift."

  "That's just great." Disgust won. She dragged her hands through her hair. "I can't control a five-pound puppy."

  "Just takes practice, and patience."

  "Well, I don't have time to practice now." She was down on her knees in a flash, salvaging bedding plants.

  "And I'm out of patience. Old Joe is going to kill me for this."

  "Laura." Though it seemed obvious to point it out, Michael crouched and pointed it out anyway. "He works for you."

  "A lot you know," she muttered, desperately smoothing upturned mulch with her bare hands. "If I so much as sniff an undesignated rose in his garden, he—'' she broke off, scowling. "Don't just sit there. Help me."

  "I thought you didn't need any help."

  "Shut up, Michael." She brushed a hand over her cheek, smeared it with garden dirt. "Just shut up and save these pansies before Bongo and I both end up in the pound."