Sweet Dream Lover

by Karen Sandler

  “That’s tails,” she said, snatching the coin away and making to shove it in her pocket.

  “Wait a minute.” He grabbed her wrist. “Let me see the other side.”

  They tussled for a few intriguing moments before she gave up the goods. Huffing, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin in a lofty tilt.

  He flipped the coin over. “It’s the same on both sides. You cheated.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “We’re flipping again,” he told her as he reached in his own pocket. “With a real quarter.”

  But before he could fish out a coin, she turned to him, a pleading look in her chocolate brown eyes. “I don’t want to sleep downstairs, Mark.”

  Oh, Lord, when she gave him that whipped puppy look, he had no choice but to be noble. And he hated being noble, especially when it meant he had to do something he really didn’t want to do.

  He got up from the bed. “You stay here. I’ll go get your suitcase.”

  Her smile of gratitude filled his heart with so much warmth he couldn’t help himself. One knee on the bed, he leaned over her and brushed a kiss across her forehead. It felt so damn perfect, so right, he wanted desperately to keep on kissing her, on her cheek, her nose, her mouth, her throat. He prayed she’d lay out the welcome mat, give him permission to keep going, even the slightest touch, the softest whisper would be enough. But she didn’t move a muscle, didn’t make a sound except for the sigh of her breathing.

  He slid from the bed again, regret heavy in the pit of his stomach. As he headed for the door, he tossed, “Be right back,” over his shoulder without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her face, see the closed-off look in her eyes he was certain would be there. That would just be too damn much for his poor belabored heart.

  * * * * *

  Mark’s kiss lingered on her forehead as powerfully as did the witch’s kiss Dorothy received in Oz. She wondered if she looked in the mirror, she’d see a silver mark there like the one on Dorothy’s head. With her palm to her forehead, she was surprised she didn’t feel the heat of it burn her skin.

  When she heard the front door slam, she eased from the bed, then wrestled over whether to undress and climb into bed or to wait for her suitcase and her sleep T. It would be more comfy to sleep in the soft, baggy T-shirt, and she could use the extra warmth in the chilly room, but if she waited, she’d have to see Mark again. She didn’t have an ounce of energy left to resist him. She might well end up in that bed with him, which would be a mistake of monumental proportions.

  She switched off the overhead and in the glow of the nightlight plugged in by the dresser, she quickly stripped down to her panties again. Shoving the last of the CLR detritus from the bed, she climbed between the now-frigid sheets and tugged the covers up to her chin. The slam of the front door signaling Mark’s return, Kat turned on her side and squeezed her eyes shut. She lay stiff and tense under the thin antique quilt, Mark’s footsteps across the living room, then up the stairs loud as thunder to her sensitized ears.

  Opening her eyes enough to catch a glimpse, she saw him hesitate in the doorway. An image burst in her mind with the brilliance of fireworks over Lake Union. Mark crossing the room, pulling back the covers, slipping into bed with her, pressing his body against hers. His touch, his scent, his ragged breathing as his excitement grew. They were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. He was as addictive as chocolate and like any addict, Kat ached for just one taste.

  He stood there with the suitcase, silhouetted by the light from the stairs, his broad shoulders a come-and-get-me invitation. The temptation to sit up, crook a finger, beckon him to join her was as irresistible as a double dark chocolate truffle. Just for tonight, she could relive the only good part of their marriage. The hot juicy sex.

  She scrunched her eyes shut again. Bad Kat! Bad! She gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Lack of sleep was making her loony. She needed to knock it off and purge all those steamy, delectable thoughts from her head. Just like double dark chocolate truffles, there would be no eating just one piece with Mark. It was the entire two-pound box or none at all.

  Before her mental analogies descended even further into chocolate madness, Mark finally stepped inside the room. She expected him to set the suitcase by the bed, then turn and leave. But once he set aside her bag, he hesitated again, this time over the bed. Visions of Mark-flavored sugarplums danced in her head as she squinted another sidelong look at him. He leaned over the bed, closer, closer...

  And picked up the CLR envelope he’d left at the foot. Before she could so much as entertain a second thought about scooting over so he could hop into bed beside her, he’d left the room and tromped down the stairs. He left her there with unfulfilled fantasies rampaging through her overactive imagination. Geez, couldn’t he have at least made an effort to ravish her?

  Bad Kat, bad! she scolded herself again. Nothing but G-rated dreams for you tonight.

  To emphasize her determination, she punched her pillow into submission, then settled down again and forced her eyes shut. Fat lot of good it did her, because she was wide-awake, her sex drive lapping her better sense in the Mark Denham 100. If her libido didn’t make a pit stop soon, she’d be trotting down the stairs and cuddling in bed with her ex.

  With a huff of exasperation, she sat up and reached for the bedside lamp. About to snap it on, she reconsidered, rising to quietly shut the door first. No need to alert Mark that she was still awake.

  Crawling back under the covers, she sat with her chin in her hand, wondering what to do next. She hadn’t brought a book to read, figuring she’d be too busy with the management seminar for that luxury. She hadn’t even brought any other work with her. She supposed she could pull her Palm from her purse and reorganize her address book, but that was just too pitiful.

  She spied the rumpled CLR papers littering the floor. Maybe she’d just take a little peek at them. She was so desperate for distraction she’d take even the limited entertainment value of the interpersonal woo-woo BS that CLR had churned out.

  Plucking a pale pink sheet from the messy pile, she read the prompt at the top. “List ten qualities you could change in yourself that could improve your relationship with your partner.” Hah! She’d have to change everything about herself to make Mark happy. Everything except the sex.

  She started to crumple the sheet, intent on tossing it aside when something stopped her. Qualities you could change. What could she change? If there was the slightest prayer fences could be mended, torched bridges could be rebuilt, were there things about her she could alter, to somehow make their marriage work?

  Not that she wanted Mark back. She was happy as a vanilla cream–filled chocolate clam on her own. But just for yuks, maybe she’d work out a list. No way she could come up with ten. But maybe one or two. It sure beat lying here, wide-awake and restless.

  Fishing the CLR-imprinted ballpoint from the scatter of papers, Kat clicked it open and started to write.

  * * * * *

  Mark made another vain attempt to conform his six-foot, one-inch frame to a sofa built for midgets before kicking the blanket aside in a fit of irritation induced by severe sexual deprivation. Here he lay, his feet jammed against the unyielding arm of the sofa, his body pretzeled and aching, when right upstairs lay the antidote for his troubles.

  But he could no more climb those stairs than he could lie on that bed in the downstairs bedroom. Squeezed tight between his present and his past, he was a long, long way from falling asleep.

  Too agitated to lie prone, he sat up and switched on the floor lamp beside the sofa. As he blinked his bleary eyes against the bright light, his gaze fell on the CLR envelope he’d dumped on the side table. Creating Loving Relationships. Yeah, right. As if love could be manipulated. As if he and Kat could follow the instructions in those folders and love each other again.

  Just the notion twisted something in his gut. It had all seemed so perfect four years ago. The Denhams and the Roths, best friends and friendly riv
als for years, joined through their two children. The match had everything going for it, had no reason to fail, except he and Kat didn’t seem to love each other enough. If they had, it would have been smooth sailing instead of the violent storm that erupted from day one of their marriage.

  Picking up the envelope, he emptied it into his lap and put on his reading glasses. He hadn’t read any further than the cover letter with its pop psychology buzzword mumbo jumbo. Since he couldn’t sleep anyway, maybe he’d give himself a laugh by scanning the contents.

  He plucked the top sheet from the first folder. “List ten qualities* that first attracted you to your partner.” Her mouth, her breasts, the dark curls between her—

  He took another look at the prompt and saw the asterisk. Scrutinizing the fine print in the footnote, he read, “Nonsexual qualities.” Trick question.

  Outside of what she could do to him between the sheets, he couldn’t think of a thing. Well, other than her quirky sense of humor. And the way she never fussed over herself, but still managed to look gorgeous. Did that qualify as sexual? He didn’t think so.

  The lavender pen that had been packed in the packet lay right beside him on the sofa. He picked it up, clicked it open and started to write.

  Chapter 7

  The scent of fresh-brewed French roast drifted into Mark’s nose and dragged him back to consciousness. He peeled one eye open and zeroed his gaze on Kat leaning against the kitchen counter, in a sloppy gray sweat suit. What was it about Kat and baggy clothes that made him want to strip her naked?

  With a groan, Mark pushed himself up, every muscle aching from a restless night’s sleep. Kat glanced up from her perusal of a cereal box, then raised the box to cover her face. If she wanted to hide from him, she should have concealed her feet as well since her dainty toes tempted him sorely. He had a fond memory of a chocolate pedicure followed by a wild night of lovemaking.

  As if she’d read his mind, she curled her toes and tucked one foot behind the other. Mark shook off the pesky fantasies and shoved aside the blanket tangled around his legs. His BVDs did a lousy job of masking his interest in Kat, so he did the gentlemanly thing and turned his back on her as he pulled a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from his suitcase and drew them on. When he turned her way again, he caught her gaze avidly fixed on his butt, cereal box forgotten.

  She blushed and executed a quick juggling act with the box before she got it under control again. She bustled around the kitchen then, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard, spoon from a drawer and milk from the refrigerator. She dumped way too much sugary cereal into the bowl, splashed on so much milk a trickle overflowed, then sat down and scooped up an oversized mouthful.

  As she chewed, she mumbled, “There’s bagels ’n’ muffins in the freezer.”

  Scrubbing his fingers over his head, he could tell he had a bad case of bed hair. He abandoned his coiffure and padded into the kitchen and over to the fridge. “You’ll be flying high if you eat that much sugar,” he told Kat as mist from the freezer roiled around his face.

  She swallowed and waved her spoon at him. “I can handle it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He poured himself a cup of French roast, then plucked a plastic-wrapped chocolate chip muffin from the freezer. “So what’s the plan for today?”

  You would have thought from her wary look he’d asked what time she planned to hop into bed with him. “I’m not planning anything with you.”

  “Did I ask you to?” He ripped the plastic from the muffin and crushed it in a tight ball. “I’m just curious. If you’re going to be hanging around the cabin, maybe I’ll grab a fishing pole from the shed and toss a line in the creek.” He stomped so hard on the pedal for the trash can, the lid jammed. Slam-dunking the plastic wrap, he crammed the lid back into place.

  She was mulling over her cereal again, picking at it now. “I thought I’d walk into town. Find a phone.”

  “That’s nearly ten miles.” He plopped his muffin in the microwave. Buttons punched, he took a belt of French roast, wincing as it seared his esophagus. “I hope you’ve got sensible shoes.”

  “I left my hiking boots at home.” The coffee she sipped was pale as milk and likely contained half the sugar bowl. “I thought I’d be bonding with management this weekend, not traipsing through the trees.”

  All he could think about was bonding with her. He slammed back another mouthful of coffee and nearly choked when the microwave screeched. “You could just wait for them to bring the cars back. They’re bound to eventually.”

  Clunking her spoon back in the bowl, she pushed to her feet.

  “I can’t. I can’t just sit here with you. I’ll go mad.”

  Bundling the hot muffin in the paper towel, he walked past her. “I’ll get out of your hair, then. You can freak out in private.” He kept going, out the front door and onto the porch. He slapped the muffin he’d lost the appetite for on the railing, then crossed the lawn to the chattering creek. The damp grass chilled his feet, getting squishier when he reached the edge of the water. Grabbing up a flat rock, he made a lame attempt to skip it across the surface, but in his unskilled hands, it sank immediately.

  Why did she still get to him? Here he was, a manly man who ought to be able to laugh off Kat’s sniping. But every time, like a four-year-old, he got his feelings hurt.

  With a growl, he grabbed up a bigger rock and hurled it into the water. It made a satisfying splash and probably terrorized any fish he might have hoped to catch for dinner. The hell with the fish, throwing rocks was much more fun.

  Just as he was contemplating the knee-high boulder at the edge of the lawn, mentally calculating how much water it would likely displace, he heard the front door open. Deciding the rock made a better seat than a projectile, he lowered himself to the chunk of granite and made a show of engaging in some deep thinking.

  That required he ignore Kat’s approach; deep thinkers weren’t distracted by sexy, hot-tempered women. Most likely deep thinkers’ deep thoughts weren’t X-rated the way his were, so he had to be content with looking like a deep thinker rather than being one. He did manage to keep his lofty gaze fixed on the burbling creek rather than his willowy ex, only peeking sidelong at her once or twice.

  “Look, Mark,” she said when she stood beside him. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

  “Sure you did.” He was pretty proud at how manly he’d made that sound. The mud between his toes detracted a bit from the image, but that wouldn’t stop him from taking the high ground.

  “I’m not angry at you. It’s the situation. Stranded here. Without my cell phone, without my computer.”

  He gestured at Mt. Ranier towering over them. “So go commune with nature. Hug a tree. Feed a squirrel.”

  “You know I’m no good with that.” She paced away from him, her trademark edgy energy like an aura around her. “I have to be doing something productive. I’m lousy at recreation.”

  He could remind her of her expertise at bedroom recreation, but that would probably earn him Kat’s right cross. “So read a book.”

  Scraping her hair back from her face, she paced back toward him. “I didn’t bring one. I thought I’d be too busy.”

  I could keep you busy. Just as well he kept that one to himself. “Read through the CLR packet. There might be something interesting.”

  Her gaze wide, she froze, standing motionless one moment, two. Then she stalked away again. “It was garbage. I tossed it all.”

  He realized the list he’d scrawled last night was still stuffed under the sofa. He’d better deep-six it before she discovered it.

  A fish rose in a still patch of water, setting off concentric circles as it scarfed a mosquito. “There are a couple old National Geographic back issues in the living room.”

  She just grimaced, looking ready to pull that silky black hair right from her head. And that would be a damn shame.

  Then a thunderbolt of an idea hit him. “I have a deck of cards in my bag. I know you’re a lousy
poker player, but—”

  “Me, lousy?” She took the bait, stepping up to his challenge.

  “I’d have you on your knees, begging for mercy.”Now that was a pretty picture. Him, on his knees, at Kat’s feet. His face pressed between her naked legs. But it wouldn’t be him begging for mercy.

  Thank God sweatpants hid a multitude of sinful thoughts. The rock under his butt wasn’t the only thing hard.

  “Just a few hands of poker, Kat.” He crossed his legs. “Are you game?”

  * * * * *

  “Yes” nearly escaped from her lips before her radar went up. A few hands of poker. A little entertainment to help while away the interminable hours before she could go home. Why not?

  Because it wouldn’t be that simple, not when Mark was involved. But try as she might, she couldn’t see anything in his intriguing blue eyes but a bland friendliness. He smiled. “I’d almost think you trust me, Kat.”

  “Of course I do,” she squeaked out, the lie rushing past her lips. “Sure. Poker. Why not?”

  She didn’t like that savvy look that flitted across her face. Mark had never been a devious kind of guy, but how well did she know him now? And here she was, trapped with him, miles from nowhere, at his mercy.

  Now why did that send a little thrill coursing through her instead of a more sensible fear? Because the feel of him pressed against her last night still burned on her skin in a palpable memory. Because to be completely honest, she’d just as soon straddle his lap on that mini-boulder and see where that took them. If she wasn’t mistaken, they’d christened more than one nearby boulder on their honeymoon.

  He rose and she got an eyeful of what was going on inside his sweatpants. The ridge of his erection brushed against the soft knit, begging her to step a little closer. He knew where she was looking, and she knew he knew, but she just didn’t give a damn.

  She wanted to look her fill. She wanted to experience the excitement again, the power of knowing she turned him on.