Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

  Chapter 21

  Angelo risked the front hall light to help him navigate inside the unfamiliar apartment. Bike, helmet, and shoes he left against the wall and crept through the entryway.

  The kitchen was immaculate, so immaculate that he wondered if she used it much. A quick peek in the refrigerator revealed the answer of, “not much.” Leftover containers roughly equaled number of food products.

  The combined dining and living room was almost Spartan except for one wall which was a solid, tight-packed bookshelf. Half law books and half thrillers. He looked closer, most of them legal thrillers. Clearly she was interested in nothing other than law. So what the hell was she doing with him? A woman like her should be with—

  Angelo cut himself off. Don’t go there. She should be with him, that’s who.

  The room was female, but in an odd way it wasn’t feminine. Or maybe he had that backwards. It was feminine in the perfect taste that had been applied to the selection of furnishings and art. It wasn’t female in its lack of what he would typically expect: brightly colored pillows, knick-knacks, or a knit throw over the couch.

  Of course his own décor was primarily a wall of cookbooks. So he wasn’t one to talk.

  The perfect control of her entire world revealed yet another facet of Jo Thompson. Her car was incredible, her apartment exquisite, her personal conditioning exceptional. As a matter of fact, the only thing that didn’t fit her was that disaster she called a desk in that terrifyingly powerful office. It had looked as if a bomb had gone off there and he’d bet it was far worse by now. He hadn’t seen it in three days but he’d wager it had begun breeding on its own.

  He turned off the hall light and slipped into the master bedroom. She’d left a soft blue nightlight on for him. Without it, the heavy curtains would have left the room pitch black. Again, the perfect feminine. Dusky carpet, white walls, white-stained oak furniture, and floor-to-ceiling white curtains. He wondered what lay beyond those. He’d gotten turned around in the building and certainly hadn’t bothered to consider the view his first time here. A quick peek revealed a sweeping panorama of Seattle, Puget Sound, and moonlight on the Olympic Mountains. He could get to like this. He let the curtain slip shut.

  The room smelled like Jo. Not some strong floral or citrus scent, as far as he knew she didn’t wear perfume. But it smelled of her nonetheless. A scent, a flavor that he hadn’t been able to erase from his mind since their first ice-creamed kiss. She reminded him of sky and sunlight and, with all apologies to his history teacher, the deep richness he’d always imagined surrounding the Greek Fates, the three women who measured and cut the time of a man’s life. Or better yet, Gaia, wasn’t she the mother of the Three Fates, or something like that? She really did remind him of a mother goddess. The incredible beauty, the perfect posture as if she were dancer rather than lawyer, the groundedness in who she was. Didn’t the woman have any doubts about anything?

  In the soft light, he could just make out her hair spread across the white pillow and the deeply embroidered white bed quilt. She lay on her side and the scattered hair hid her face leaving only a dark sheen upon the pillow.

  That’s when he remembered her in her office, the dark hair spilling over her face, right after she’d screamed in frustration.

  No. He had to keep reminding himself. This wasn’t Counselor Jo Thompson, not in this room. Here was his lover. Damn that sounded good. It sent a shiver and a heat washing the length of his body.

  Strictly human, he reminded himself. No pedestals allowed, no matter how he wished to place her upon one. He undressed and slipped in beside her appreciating the softness of the flannel sheets and the warmth and scent of Jo Thompson that pervaded the bed.

  As gently as he could, he brushed the hair back from her face.

  She sighed as he did so.

  “Angelo.” It was barely a whisper.

  “Right here, Jo.”

  She slid up against him, draping an arm over his ribs and curling to bury her face against his chest. Then, with another sigh, she fell back asleep.

  And what was he supposed to do with that? His body thrummed with need. Her face on his chest placed her hair where he could nuzzle it and inhale even more deeply of sky, sun, and Mother Earth. Her hair, long and thick, was also soft and smelled freshly of a light shampoo.

  He considered waking her, but didn’t have the heart to do so. She must be as exhausted as he felt. Eugene still insisted he was departing at the end of the month. Barely two weeks notice. Even in a foodie-town like Seattle, there was no way to find a good patissier so quickly. He would put out notices for several positions, hoping to find his way through the current madness as well as begin staffing the new restaurant.

  No! He had to stop his whirling mind. He wouldn’t bring work into this place. He didn’t care what Jo said or didn’t, he’d declare this a sanctuary, even if it was one without pedestals. He simply wouldn’t tell her that he’d done so. In this place at least, it would only be about the two of them, the overwhelmed Italian and the woman who filled his senses as if she were indeed born of heaven.

  Then he thought of something that calmed his nerves.

  Even mostly asleep, she’d called him by his name as if he filled her thoughts as much as she did his.

  # # #

  Jo woke slowly to the smell of coffee and bacon. Coffee! Her body woke faster simply for knowing caffeine would be consumed shortly. She opened one eye and saw the empty pillow beside hers. It was dented. But she’d gone to bed alone and woken alone.

  To the smell of coffee her body reminded her. So, she’d apparently been alone at either end, but not in the middle? Had he held her in the night? She thought so, felt as if she had been held, but couldn’t be sure.

  Unravished. Held or not, her body was distinctly unravished. The man tells her she is beautiful like a goddess and then doesn’t touch her. It was enough to make a girl downright irritable.

  Coffee. Right, she was always irritable before coffee.

  She slid from beneath the covers wearing the extra-large gray t-shirt with the arched maroon “Vassar” fading over her chest.

  Angelo stood at the stove cooking, his back mostly toward her. He wore only his jeans riding low enough on his hips to reveal that his underwear probably was still somewhere in her bedroom. His bare back rippled slightly as he tended the bacon. God he was beautiful. She was about to slip up behind him when she noticed the cloth-covered cookie sheet on the counter. It had been set with napkins, silverware, and a large stoneware mug that steamed thickly of caffeine and French roast. An impromptu breakfast tray.

  Breakfast in bed! She’d never had that except when she’d made it for herself. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to spoil being spoiled for a morning, and scooted back to the bedroom slipping between the covers. Be awake? Feign sleep? Jump him the moment he got through the door and damn the consequences? No, that was too high a risk to the precious caffeine.

  Jo went for the second option, burying her face in the pillow that smelled of Angelo, how she’d missed that when she woke up was beyond her, and listened to the song of her pulse gaining tempo rapidly.

  She ignored the first whispered, “Jo?”

  At the second, closer call of her name, she made a show of waking slowly. Then she had an idea, but she’d have to be fast if she wanted to hide the smile.

  “Jacob?” She dragged aside a fistful of hair and looked at Angelo confusedly through a curtain of what remained.

  He stood balancing the improvised tray and revealed that breathtaking chest of his on full display.

  “I was expecting Jacob,” she shot for a pout and thought she did pretty well.

  “And why were you expecting Jacob?” Rather than looking put-out, Angelo’s smile was radiant. Oh well, so the tease hadn’t really worked. Or had it?

  “Because Jacob would have ravaged me in the night rather than leav
ing me to sleep.”

  “Well, I could ravage you right now, but your omelette would be cold. And your coffee.”

  “Coffee!”

  Angelo made a pout in return as he rested the tray at the foot of the bed. “Well, I now know where I rank. Below coffee. And Jacob.”

  “Well, Jacob is pretty special.” Jo sat the rest of the way up in bed. “Now shed those jeans and get back in here under the covers.”

  He dropped his jeans. His desire, previously revealed merely as a bulge in his trousers, was now very evident.

  “Ooo, come to Jo.” She reached out.

  Angelo took a step back. “You’ll spill the coffee.”

  “No,” Jo slid off the edge of the bed careful not to jostle the tray and slid her hand around him. “No, I’ll take you right here on the carpet.”

  “But your breakf—” His breath cut off as she ran both her hands over him. When she slid them up between his legs and grabbed his buttocks then pulled him forward between her breasts, his knees let go and he half eased and half collapsed to the floor.

  There, still wearing her t-shirt, Jo straddled atop and settled down over him. They set about ravaging each other.

  Chapter 22

  Jo lay on Angelo’s chest and hummed. Her entire body hummed, there was no other word for it. If she were a musician, she’d say she felt like a string vibrating ever so softly and perfectly in tune. What the hell, she’d use the metaphor even if she wasn’t a musician, it certainly fit.

  Angelo stroked the hum forth by running his hands from her shoulders down over her buttocks and back along her thighs to the knees where she knelt over him. Then returning by the same route.

  “Breakfast shouldn’t be that much colder.” His tone was wry. They had certainly sparked their need off each other and it had burst forth fast and hot.

  “That was barely a ravage.”

  “Consider it a deposit on a ravage.”

  Jo clung to his glorious shoulders and nuzzled his chest for a moment longer.

  “Okay, I’ll try to work with that. I should demand a signed and notarized letter of further intent to ravage, but I’ll trust you this one time.” Jo climbed off him and scooted back onto the bed.

  Angelo continued to lie there on the floor looking all handsome and content.

  “Your omelette is congealing, Master Chef Parrano.”

  He smiled but didn’t move. “Too late for that, Counselor Thompson.”

  She took a forkful. Barely warm, but still light and fluffy with the nicest hint of oregano.

  “Still yummy.”

  Then Angelo pushed to his feet. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  She pointed at the nightstand. She kept them in the top drawer in case she thought of a good case argument or line of research and didn’t want to lose the thought in the middle of the night.

  He scrawled on the pad quickly, tore off the page and folded it in half, and handed it to her. Then he bowed formally and joined her cross-legged on the bed.

  She opened the note as he took his coffee.

  I, Angelo Parrano, being of weak mind but sound body, do hereby intend, promise, swear, vow, affirm, and otherwise commit that I shall hereafter happily ravage one Jo Thompson at every opportunity.

  Signed, Angelo Parrano

  Addendum: Ravaging also available by special request.

  “I don’t have a notary handy. I hope that’s okay.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. She’d hugged the note to her chest without realizing it. She held it out and read it again.

  It wasn’t the promise to ravage that had set her heart stuttering. It was that he’d done it in her language. She’d received plenty of mash notes over the years, though most of them had been back in Schoenbar Middle School when she’d been among the first of the girls to develop a chest. But even the couple that she’d received as an adult had never so thoroughly acknowledged who she was. They’d always been about her body, not about her. The fact that he’d used the “sound mind” quote from a standard will, probably without intending to evoke death and estate law, only made it more charming.

  He offered her a forkful of omelette that she dutifully took and chewed, though she barely tasted it. There was another taste on her tongue. One she didn’t know, couldn’t identify. No, not a taste. A taste that made her think of Angelo’s wonderful skin.

  This was as if there was flavor running all through her insides. It was good, but unfamiliar. It was as if it came from the inside rather than the outside, but she still couldn’t define it. But she knew how it made her feel. It made her feel desired. It made her feel alive.

  She climbed from the bed and carefully tucked the precious note under her alarm clock. Then she shifted the tray to the top of the dresser, and, facing Angelo, stripped the t-shirt off over her head, dropped it behind her, and climbed back into bed.

  His eyes were transfixed upon her, the coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. She’d never had such an effect on a man and it made her feel freer than she could have imagined possible.

  She lay back on the pillow atop the covers, “By special request.”

  He set his coffee on the coaster on the nightstand.

  Then he slid over her and whispered in her ear, “By special request.”

  Chapter 23

  “Mama. We need to talk.”

  Angelo and his mother were walking in the sun together, moseying along First Avenue from the apartment up to the restaurant. The Saturday morning traffic was busy with some tourists, some locals, and monstrous city buses jockeying for position like sumo wrestlers amidst a stampede of Chihuahuas. Seattle was always busy during the day. Thankfully, unlike New York, the city did sleep at night. He liked that, felt it added some character that the Big Apple had somehow lost.

  Men kept turning to look at them. No. To look at his mother and he didn’t like it a bit. She wore her hair loose, with a bright floral scarf over it. The powder blue sweater swept low across her chest and clung in all of the right places. She wore a dark skirt that wrapped tight about her hips and revealed good legs.

  He wanted to buy her a trenchcoat.

  “Is it about this girl, this Jo? When does she come by? When do I get to sit and share a meal with her?”

  “No, it’s not about Jo.” They’d never made their bike ride. Hell, they’d barely made it through breakfast.

  “What I see, my son, is a very happy man. But he confuses me. It also looks as if you slept last night. That is not a nice thing to do to a new girlfriend. You are not supposed to sleep a wink together.”

  “Mama!” He really couldn’t be having this conversation with her. And she agreed with Jo that he should have just ravaged her though she’d been sleeping so sweetly. What the hell did he know anyway, he was just a guy.

  “What? I don’t get to be glad for my boy? Sex is good for you. You should marry her.”

  “We are so not having this conversation.”

  “Why not? You marry her and we can all live happy together.”

  Angelo caught his shoe on a shifted block in the sidewalk and almost planted his face on Madison Street. The cars were bolting down the steep Seattle hills as if the waterfront shops would float away before they got to visit every one. Or, perhaps more realistically, as if the last available parking spot on the full length of Alaskan Way was about to be filled.

  His mother grabbed his arm to keep him on the sidewalk and burst out laughing. It was such a merry sound. He was being sassed by his mother. What was up with that?

  “It was the restaurant I wanted to talk about.” And he definitely didn’t want to talk about Jo or marriage or married life with his mother in the apartment or…

  She harrumphed at him as they waited for the red light at Spring Street.

  “Okay, so talk.”

  “You shopped with Manuel this morning,
like I asked?”

  “Of course I did. I take care of things so that you can not sleep with this Jo, but instead you—”

  “Mama!”

  She offered an elaborate shrug that only an Italian mother could achieve which told him, “Fine, change the topic if you want but I gave birth to you and cleaned your bottom and you still need someone much smarter than you to take care of you and this topic is not even a little bit done with.”

  Angelo inspected the blue sky between the towering buildings, searching for patience. William was just unlocking McCormick and Schmick’s as they passed by. Angelo waved at him as he put out the “Lunch Specials” sign, a classy chalkboard sign with cheerful yellow chalk. Angelo’s Hearth didn’t do “specials” but he was considering it. The board did catch the eye.

  “Hey, Angelo,” they knew each other by name, but not much more. Then he turned to his mother, “Hello, Mrs. Parrano. When are you going to leave your son and come live with me in sin?”

  She patted his cheek as if he were a little boy rather than a man her own age, “Just as soon as your wife stops choosing your clothes for you. You are dressed far too nicely to have chosen that yourself.” They traded air kisses.

  William did look sharp, even if Angelo couldn’t quite identify why. He looked at his own comfortable clothes and knew his mother had not been talking to William alone.

  Angelo rolled his eyes at her back.

  William just winked at him over her shoulder.

  Once they’d left William behind, Angelo opened his mouth and then closed it sharply. Had she charmed every male in the whole city while he wasn’t watching? If he started down the path of that topic, he’d never find his way to where he wanted to go.

  “Mama,” he tried again. “I’m going to have a problem at the restaurant and I was hoping you could help me.” What on Earth was he doing? Jo. This was Jo’s fault. She’d cooked up the idea this morning when they’d finally pulled on handy clothes and then taken their cold breakfast and reheated coffee out onto her umpteenth floor balcony. The egg and bacon flavors had still been good, but retoasting the toast hadn’t helped the texture of it. He’d told her about Eugene leaving and the complications his mother was causing the restaurant.