Dream a Little Dream

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  For a moment he froze, then he spat out a nasty curse and lurched to his feet. An instant later, light flooded the hallway from the eight-foot chandelier that hung above the foyer. Dazed, she looked up at him as he loomed over her and saw that she hadn't been mistaken. He was definitely naked. Even through those dizzying whirligigs that were scrambling her brain waves, she found her eyes drawn to the most naked part of him, and just when all her resources should have been focused on survival, she got distracted.

  He was beautiful. Larger than Dwayne. Thicker. In her grogginess—it had to be grogginess—she wanted to touch.

  Dwayne had never let her satisfy her sexual curiosity. Lusty pleasures were reserved for him, not for her. She was heaven's gatekeeper, designed for piety, not passion, and she'd never been permitted to caress him or do any of those things she fantasized about. She was suppose to lie quietly, praying for his salvation, while he rutted inside her.

  Bonner knelt next to her, bending his near leg and spoiling the view. "How many?"

  "One," she managed.

  "Try to focus, Rachel. How many fingers am I holding up?"

  Fingers? He was talking about fingers? She groaned. "Go away."

  He left her side only to return a moment later with her flashlight. Once again, he knelt down, then flicked on the light, peeled open her lids, and shone the beam in her eyes. She tried to turn away.

  "Hold still."

  "Leave me alone."

  He turned off the light. "Your pupils contracted. You don't seem to have a head injury."

  "What do you know? You're a vet." A naked vet. She groaned again as she tried to sit upright.

  He pushed her back. "Give yourself a minute. I want you fully recovered before I call the police and have you arrested."

  "Bite me."

  He gazed down at her, then sighed. "You need a serious attitude adjustment."

  "Stuff it, Bonner. You're not going to have me arrested, and both of us know it, so just give it up."

  "What makes you think I won't?"

  "Because you don't care enough to call the police."

  "You think I don't care that you've broken into this house in the middle of the night?"

  "A little maybe, but not much. You don't care much about anything. Why is that, by the way?"

  She wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. The world began to steady around her. "Look, would you mind putting some clothes on?"

  He glanced down at himself as if he'd forgotten he was naked. Slowly he rose to his feet. "This bothers you?"

  She gulped. "Not at all." Her gaze locked on that most amazing of all his body parts. Was it her imagination, or was it getting larger? She began to feel fuzzy again. Maybe she had a head injury after all. Except the fuzziness didn't seem to be in her head. It was in her legs. Her stomach. Her breasts.

  "Rachel?"

  "Um?"

  "You're staring."

  Her head shot up, and she could feel herself blushing. That made her mad. But she got even madder when she saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and realized that something had finally struck Mr. Sourpuss's funny bone. Unfortunately, it was her.

  She struggled into a sitting position. "Just get your clothes on, will you? You look revolting naked."

  He splayed his hands on his hips. "You're the interloper! I was sound asleep when you broke into my bedroom. Now tell me what you're doing here."

  She wobbled to her feet. "I've got to go."

  "Sure you do."

  "Really, Bonner. It's late, and I've had a swell time seeing you naked and all, but—"

  "Move it." He steered her into his bedroom, and another crystal chandelier sprang to life as he hit the switch.

  "Don't do that."

  "Shut up." He pushed her down on the bed, which rested on a large dais befitting the king of the religious airwaves, then snatched up a pair of jeans from a straight-backed chair that had once been in her bedroom. She watched every motion as he thrust in first one leg and then the other. She didn't fail to note that he hadn't bothered with underwear. Dwayne had worn paisley silk boxers tailor-made in London. She barely repressed a sigh of regret as Bonner drew up the zipper. He might be a bastard, but he had one killer body.

  The sizzle of sensual awareness she felt in his presence aggravated her. Her body had been dead to the world for so long. Why had it finally come alive now? And why with him?

  She forced her attention away from him and took a quick survey of the room. The Kennedy chest was nowhere in sight, but the furniture was as dark and heavy as she remembered. Red velvet draperies decked out with black and gold tassels covered the windows. Although she'd never been in a whorehouse, she'd always believed this room would have fit right in.

  The worst feature was the mirror surrounded by the red velvet canopy that hung over the bed. Since Dwayne had never brought other women here, and he'd kept the lights out when he had intercourse with her, she could only imagine what kind of kinky thrills that mirror had given him. Eventually she'd grown to suspect that he needed to see himself the moment he awakened to make certain God hadn't sent him to hell overnight.

  "All right, Rachel. How 'bout you tell me what you're doing here?"

  Some men, she decided, were better seen than heard. "It's late. Another time." He came over next to her, and a shiver passed through her as she gazed up into those implacable features. "I'm really not feeling well. I think I might have a head injury after all."

  He brushed his hand over her face. "Your nose is cold. You're fine."

  Now he had to turn into a comedian. "This is none of your business, you know."

  "You want to run that one by me again?"

  "This has to do with my past, and my past doesn't involve you."

  "Stop stalling. I'm not letting you go till you tell me the truth."

  "I was feeling nostalgic, that's all. I thought the house was empty."

  He gestured with his thumb at the mirror mounted in the canopy over the bed. "Lots of good memories here?"

  "This was Dwayne's room, not mine."

  "Yours must have been next door."

  She nodded and thought of the pretty sanctuary she'd made for herself in the adjoining room: the cherry furniture and braided rugs, the pale-blue walls with chalk-white trim. Only her old bedroom and the nursery didn't bear Dwayne's imprint.

  "How did you get in?"

  "The back door was unlocked."

  "You're a liar. I locked it myself."

  "I jimmied the lock with a hairpin."

  "That hair of yours hasn't seen a pin in months."

  "All right, Bonner. If you're so damned smart, how do you think I got in?"

  "Jimmying locks works great in the movies, but it's not too practical in real life." He studied her, then, moving so swiftly she had no time to react, ran his hands down the sides of her body. It only took him a moment to find the key in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

  He dangled it in front of her. "I think you had a key that you conveniently forgot to turn in when you were evicted."

  "Give that back to me."

  "Sure I will," he said sarcastically. "My brother loves having his house robbed."

  "Do you really think there's anything in this house I'd want to steal?" She jerked her sweatshirt back up on her shoulder, then winced as a shaft of pain shot down her arm.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What do you mean, what's wrong? You threw me into a wall, you moron! My arm hurts!"

  Guilt flickered across his face. "Damn it, I didn't know it was you."

  "That's no excuse." She flinched again as he began moving surprisingly gentle hands along her arm, checking for injury.

  "If I'd known it was you, I'd have thrown you over the balcony. Does this hurt?"

  "Yes, it hurts!"

  "Damn, you're a crybaby."

  She lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin, but he was too close to do much damage.

  Ignoring her, he released her arm. "It's probably just bruised, but you S
hould have it X-rayed to be safe."

  As if she had the money for an X-ray. "If it's still bothering me in a couple of days, I will."

  "At least keep it in a sling."

  "And get fired for not doing my job? No, thank you."

  He took a deep breath, as if he were summoning the last ounce of his patience, and spoke in labored tones. "I won't fire you."

  "Don't do me any favors!"

  "You're impossible! I try to be a nice guy, and all I get is mouth."

  Maybe it was that word mouth, but the image of the way he'd looked before he put on those jeans flashed through her mind. She realized she was staring at him again, and he was staring back. She licked her dry lips.

  His own lips parted as if he were about to say something, but then forgot what it was. He rubbed his thigh with the flat of his hand. She couldn't stand this sudden, inexplicable tension, and she pushed herself up from the bed, breaking the spell.

  "Come on. I'll show you around."

  "I live here. Why would I want you to show me around?"

  "So you can learn something about the history of the house." And so she could get a look at the other rooms in hopes of finding the chest.

  "It's not Mount Vernon."

  "Come on, Bonner. I'm dying to see the house, and you don't have anything else to do."

  She waited for him to tell her he could go back to sleep, but he didn't, and she remembered the remark he'd made earlier when he looked at the clock. "House tours in the middle of the night are good cures for insomnia."

  "How do you know I have insomnia?"

  So, she'd guessed right. "I'm psychic."

  She moved toward Dwayne's walk-in closet, and before Bonner could protest, threw open the door. Her eyes slid across the neatly arranged shelves and half-empty rods. A few men's suits hung there. Were they Gabe's or his brother's? She saw some dark slacks and denim work shirts that definitely belonged to Gabe. Jeans were stacked on one shelf, T-shirts on another. No chest.

  Bonner came up behind her, and before he could protest her invasion of his closet, she said, "Dwayne filled this place with designer suits, hundred-dollar silk ties, and more pairs of handmade shoes than anybody could wear in a lifetime. He always dressed up, even when he was lounging around the house. Not that he lounged much. He was a workaholic."

  "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Rachel, but I don't give a damn about Dwayne."

  Neither did she. "The tour only gets better."

  She moved toward the hallway, then led him through the guest bedrooms, mentioning the names of famous politicians who'd stayed in each one. Some of what she told him was even true. He followed her, saying nothing, merely regarding her with a calculating look. He obviously knew she was up to something, but he didn't know what.

  There were only two rooms left—her bedroom and the nursery—and she still hadn't spotted the chest. She approached the door to the nursery, but his hand shot out and covered hers before she could turn the knob.

  "The tour's over."

  "But this was Edward's nursery. I want to see it." She wanted to see her old bedroom, too.

  "I'll drive you home."

  "Later."

  "Now."

  "All right."

  He seemed surprised that she gave in so easily.. He hesitated, then nodded. "Let me put on some clothes."

  "Take your time."

  He turned away and disappeared into the bedroom. She spun around and began to push open the nursery door.

  "I told you the tour was over," he said from behind her.

  "You're being a total jerk! I have a lot of happy memories of this room, and I want to see it again."

  "I'm so touched I'm getting tears in my eyes," he drawled. "Come on. You can help me get dressed." He shut the door before she could see inside and began steering her toward his bedroom.

  "Don't bother. I'll walk home."

  "Now who's being a jerk?"

  It pained her to admit he was right, but it was frustrating to get so close and not be able to see the rest of the house. He closed the bedroom door after they were inside and headed into the walk-in closet.

  She spotted the key lying on the bedside table where he'd left it, quickly slipped it into her pocket, then leaned against the bedpost. "Can I at least take a peek in my old room?"

  He reappeared buttoning a denim shirt. "No. My sister-in-law uses it for her office when she stays here, and I don't think she'd appreciate you mucking around there."

  "Who said anything about mucking around? I just want a peek."

  "You can't have it." He picked up a pair of sweat socks from the floor and pushed his feet into them. As he put on his shoes, she glanced toward the far side of the room where the bathroom lay that linked this room with her old one.

  "How often do your brother and sister-in-law show up here?"

  He stood. "Not too often. Neither of them like the house very much."

  "Why'd they buy it?"

  "Privacy. They lived here for three months right after they were married, but they haven't spent much time here since. Cal was finishing out his contract with the Chicago Stars."

  "What are they doing now?"

  "He's started med school at UNC, and she's teaching there. One of these days, they'll renovate." He stood. "So why didn't you and G. Dwayne sleep in the same room?"

  "He snored."

  "Cut the bullshit, Rachel. Do you think you could do that? Do you think you could cut through the bullshit long enough for us to have an honest conversation, or have you been lying so long you've forgotten how to tell the truth?"

  "I happen to be a very honest person!"

  "Bull."

  "We didn't sleep in the same room because he didn't want to be tempted."

  "Tempted to do what?"

  "What do you think?"

  "You were his wife."

  "His virgin bride."

  "You've got a kid, Rachel."

  "It's a miracle, considering…"

  "I thought G. Dwayne was supposed to be a hound. Are you telling me he didn't like sex?"

  "He loved sex. With hookers. His wife was supposed to stay pure."

  "That's nuts."

  "Yeah, well, so was Dwayne."

  He chuckled just when she could have used a little sympathy.

  "Come on, Bonner. I can't believe you're so mean you won't let me see Edward's nursery."

  "Life's a bitch." He jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go."

  It was useless to argue, especially since she had the key back and could return when she was certain the house was empty. She followed him into the garage, which held a long, dark-blue Mercedes and Gabe's dusty old black pickup.

  She nodded toward the Mercedes. "Your brother's?"

  "Mine."

  "Jeez, you really are rich, aren't you?"

  He grunted and climbed into the pickup. Moments later, they were heading down the drive through the praying-hands gates.

  It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, the highway was deserted, and she was exhausted. She leaned her head against the seat and gave into a few precious moments of self-pity. She was no farther along now than she'd been when she'd first seen the magazine photo. She still had no idea if the chest was in the house, but at least she had her key back. How long would it be before Gabe realized she'd taken it?

  "Damn!"

  She lunged forward as he slammed on the brakes.

  Blocking the narrow road that wound up Heartache Mountain to Annie's cottage, a glowing, geometric shape loomed nearly six feet tall. The sight was so unexpected and so obscene that her mind wouldn't immediately accept what it was. But the numbness didn't last forever, and her mind was finally forced to identify what it saw.

  The smoldering remains of a wooden cross.

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  An icy prickle slid down Rachel's spine. She whispered, "They've burned a cross to scare me away."

  Gabe threw open the door of the truck and leaped out. In the glare o
f the headlights, Rachel watched him kick the cross down in a shower of sparks. Weak-kneed, she got out. Her hands felt clammy as she watched him take a shovel from the back of the truck and break apart the smoldering remains.

  "I like it better when they welcome you to the neighborhood with a chocolate cake," she said faintly.

  "This isn't anything to joke about." He began scooping up the charred pieces and moving them to the side of the road.

  She bit down on her bottom lip. "I've got to joke, Bonner. The alternative doesn't bear thinking about."

  His hands stilled on the shovel, and his expression was deeply troubled. When he spoke, his voice was soft and dark as the night that lay just outside the headlights. "How do you do it, Rachel? How do you keep going?"

  She gripped her arms over her chest. Maybe it was the night and the shock of the cross burning, but the question didn't seem strange to her. "I don't think. And I don't rely on anybody but myself."

  "God…" He shook his head and sighed.

  "God's dead, Bonner." She gave a bitter laugh. "Haven't you figured that out yet?"

  "Do you really believe that?"

  Something snapped inside her. "I did everything right! I lived by the Word! I went to church twice a week, got down on my knees and prayed every morning and every evening. I cared for the sick, gave to the poor! I didn't screw over my neighbors, and all I got for my efforts was nothing."

  "Maybe you have God mixed up with Santa Claus."

  "Don't you preach to me! Don't you dare goddamn preach to me!"

  She stood before him in the blue-white glare of the headlights with her fists knotted at her sides, and he thought he'd never seen anyone look so fierce and primitive. For a tall woman, she was almost delicate, with fragile bones and green eyes that seemed to devour her face. Her mouth was small and her lips as ripe as bruised fruit. Her tangled hair, lit from behind, formed a fiery pagan's halo around her face.

  She should have appeared ridiculous. The ragged paint-smeared dress hung on her thin frame, and her big, cumbersome shoes looked obscene against such small, trim ankles. But she held herself with a ferocious dignity, and he was drawn to her by something so elemental—maybe the pain that lived in his bones—that he couldn't fight it any longer. He wanted her as he hadn't wanted anything except death since he'd lost his family.