A Kiss to Dream On

by Neesa Hart

“Sure, but by this afternoon, I was past anxiety, turning the corner on resentment, and headed straight for desperation.” He shoved his plate away from him. “Here it is in a nutshell. I like you.” He gave her a narrow look. “I could like you a lot. I’m attracted to you. I haven’t made a secret of that. Hell, I light up every time I touch you. And unless my instincts have gone completely haywire, you aren’t exactly oblivious to me either.”

  “I’m not.”

  “See? That’s part of it. You shoot straight. I haven’t met many people lately who are quite that direct.”

  “It’s that economy of words thing again.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a law about having good aim—when you have it, you have to exercise restraint. Because when you pull the trigger, you’re bound to hit something.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  “So be direct with me. Tell me why you said that column hurt you.” He reached for her hand. “Please, Cam. Help me understand.” He searched her gaze. “You can’t even begin to imagine how much I want to understand you.”

  Her fingers fluttered in his. “It was you,” she said quietly. “There was so much of you in there. I could tell from the way you talked about trying to listen to the silence, and your descriptions of the kids and how hard they work. During the recital, I knew you were struggling.” She clasped his hand in both of hers.

  “Leo’s memory is hurting you. I can see it. Every now and then, when you think no one’s looking, there’s this kind of naked pain in your eyes. It’s eating you alive. Consequently, it’s hurting me.”

  He blinked. The impact of her statement momentarily winded him. Whatever he’d been prepared to hear, it hadn’t been this. Nothing could have readied him for the effect of her empathy. He had too much guilt, too much anger about what had happened to let himself accept it. His hands, he realized, were shaking. He drew a deep breath. “You think I’m cracking up, don’t you?”

  “No.” She squeezed his hand. “I think you’re in pain. I think you’re up to your eyeballs in grief, and you’re not exactly sure how to find your way out. And I think I’d like to help you deal with that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you to be my therapist, Cam.”

  “What if I just tried to be your friend?”

  “I’m not sure friendship is what I have in mind.”

  “It’s a good jumping-off point.”

  “As long as we aren’t jumping off a bridge.”

  “That’s your department. You’re the one who’s depressed.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. With a soft laugh, Cammy released his hand. “Sorry. It’s shrink humor. It isn’t even good shrink humor.”

  “I am not depressed.”

  “I thought we agreed that I’d be the psychiatrist in this relationship.”

  His eyes drifted momentarily shut. “Lord. I thought I’d never get you to say that word.”

  “Psychiatrist?”

  “Relationship.”

  “Oh. It’s a very complicated word. All kinds of ramifications attached to it.”

  “Believe me, I know. I’ve been turning it over in my head for a week.”

  She paused. “Me too.”

  He traced a finger over the curve of her cheek. “Are you serious?”

  “I’d never lie to you. Lying to the media is a prescription for doom.”

  “Damn it—”

  “And,” she continued, “I wouldn’t lie just because I don’t, and because you’re you and I’m me. I could never lie to you, of all people. It wouldn’t be right.”

  He wondered if these little victories would feel quite as good if he didn’t have to fight so hard for them. “I know.” He was having one hell of a time not pulling her back into his arms. He was still reeling from her earlier comments about Leo. The temptation to simply lose himself in her, put the bitter memories behind him for even a few minutes, nearly overwhelmed him. He concentrated on steadying his heartbeat. “It’s part of your charm.”

  “Why do you think you have me so worried?’’ she asked him. “I could fall for you.”

  Something exploded in his heart. “That’s quite possibly the best news I have had in years.”

  She frowned, but continued. “I could fall very hard, I think. I swore to myself I wouldn’t get involved.”

  “Involved with me, or involved period?”

  “Both. I’m not good at involvements.”

  Except that she practically threw herself into the lives of her kids. He decided not to mention that. “That’s an interesting theory.”

  She ignored him. “Not only are you a dreaded reporter, of all things, but I’m concerned about your mental health on top of that. I mean, I’d have to be more than a little nuts myself to even think about getting seriously involved with you.”

  “Are you?” He wondered if she noticed the odd note in his voice. He sensed there was far more to this than she was telling, but he knew better than to press her. He’d gained enough ground for one night.

  “Nuts,” she asked, “or thinking about it?”

  “Either.”

  “Both.” She tilted her head to look at him. “See? I’m not even being evasive. It’s a nice change, isn’t it?”

  He studied her, his gaze intent and seeking. “You’re demolishing my equilibrium, you know.”

  “Fair’s fair. Mine’s been spinning out of control since the day I met you. I’ve been so preoccupied, I haven’t even had time to worry about what you were going to put in your column. That’s a big step for me. I generally regard media coverage on par with major surgery.”

  His fingers found her nape. He gave her neck a gentle squeeze. “Was it as bad as you thought?”

  “Fishing for compliments?’’

  “Trying to survive.”

  Her smile tugged his heart. “Let’s just say I never even feared it would be a hatchet job.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be.”

  He stared at her for a minute. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

  “Decided to risk it all?”

  “I’m a gambling kind of man.”

  “I liked it,” she admitted. “I liked it a lot.” She slid off her stool and carried his plate to the kitchen sink.

  He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You know, I’ve had an easier time getting an on-record quote from the CIA than I did getting that out of you.”

  She chuckled. “Was it worth it?”

  “You bet.” He didn’t want to resist the urge to touch her any longer. Easing up behind her, he settled his hands on her shoulders to gently rub her flesh through the thin shirt. “That’s why I want to ask you a favor.”

  Tension corded her neck muscles. “What could you possibly want from me?”

  He rubbed at her nape with his thumbs. “You have no idea.”

  “I think I’m beginning to get one.”

  Tracing a finger on the curve of her jaw, he found her speculative gaze in the reflection of the window above the sink. Wary as hell. He’d give money to find out just who put that look in her eyes. Durstan Glynn had done his share of the damage, but someone else had finished the job. He squelched an irritated oath at the idea that he was competing with some faceless jerk who’d danced a demolition routine on her confidence. “I’m not talking about that. We’ll get to that later.”

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you out of it.”

  “Probably not.”

  Her shoulders relaxed beneath his hands. “I didn’t think so.”

  Using the opportunity to pull her closer, he turned her to face him, glided his hands over her shoulder blades and down to the center of her back. When her body was fully aligned with his, he tipped his head to tease the corner of her mouth.

  She raised a hand to his head. “Jackson—”

  Soft. Her skin was so unspeakably soft. He guided her closer, aligning her against him, so he could nuzzle her neck. “That favor, Cam—’’

&nb
sp; A sharp gasp escaped her when he found the juncture of her collarbone and her shoulder. He raised his head, inexplicably pleased that he’d found one of her “spots.” With a slight smile, he pressed his thumb to it, then waited for her to meet his gaze.

  “What favor?” she whispered.

  “I’d like to interview Amy for the next installment in the series.”

  She stiffened. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Honey, I just want you to trust me. I swear I’m not going to drag her through the mud. That’s one of the reasons I want you to be there. I’d like you to observe the interview. You can set whatever boundaries you want.”

  “She might be uncomfortable.”

  “She might. I think she’ll feel less uncomfortable if you’re there to interpret.”

  He sensed her indecision and pressed a kiss to her ear. “It’s going to be okay,” he urged. “I promise.”

  She released a reluctant sigh. “I’m powerless to resist you, you know?”

  At her miserable tone, he laughed. “I’m banking on that.”

  six

  On Sunday morning, Cammy looked closely at Amy. She looked all right. Actually, she looked better than all right. She looked like she’d just been anointed queen of the universe. She was grinning at Jackson, and he was grinning back. The two had some kind of fast and firm bond Cammy couldn’t begin to fathom. She remembered the look on Amy’s face when Jackson had given her the flowers. She’d had the same look when Cammy had dropped by the children’s home where Amy lived to tell her Jackson would like to interview her. On her way back from visiting her mother, Cammy had decided to swing by and visit with Amy. The prospect of seeing Jackson again had thrilled the child. Cammy knew the feeling.

  She’d called him the evening of her visit with Amy to set the appointment for Sunday, and spent the rest of the hours in between trying to come to terms with why he affected her so deeply. Thus far, she had no answers, and a lot more questions than when she began. Resolutely, she pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated on the interchange between Amy and Jackson. She reminded herself that she planned to use the opportunity to observe how Amy responded to him—a virtual stranger—not obsess over why she’d been unable to stop thinking about him since his visit to her apartment.

  Amy was signing slowly, waiting to be sure Jackson understood her. Amazingly, he seemed to grasp the gist of the report on the dance recital. He even signed back a time or two. Cammy conceded several thousand points in his favor for making such an obvious effort to master sign language.

  He glanced at her with a frown. “She lost me.”

  Cammy pulled herself away from her observation and back to the task at hand. “What did you tell him?” she signed to Amy.

  “He’s slow,” Amy signed back. “Can’t keep up. I asked him how he liked the ballet part of the recital.”

  Cammy looked at Jackson. “What did you think of the ballet segment at the dance recital?”

  “Is that what that is?” He copied the sign by wiggling his fingers. “Who knew?’’ Turning his attention back to Amy, he told her, “I thought it was boring.”

  She giggled and responded, “Me too.”

  Cammy looked at her in amazement. To her knowledge, she’d never heard the child giggle. Amy was bright and engaging, easy to love, but not lighthearted. Her too serious circumstances in life had drained away her childhood wonder. Until now.

  Jackson concentrated briefly on what Amy was telling him, then pulled out his notebook. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he told Amy. “For a story in the newspaper. I thought it might be easier if Cammy interpreted.” He flashed his engaging grin. “Since I’m slow.”

  Amy pursed her lips. “Are you going to take my picture?”

  Pulling a photo from a folder, he showed it to her. “I have a picture. My friend Krista took it the day I met you.”

  Amy studied it, then looked at Jackson. “Will I be in the paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to wear my green overalls in the paper.”

  He glanced at Cammy, who quickly interpreted the statement. With a shake of his head, Jackson said, “There speaks the eternal woman.” He looked at Amy again. “If Krista comes back on Tuesday, will you wear them?”

  Amy nodded vigorously.

  “If I promise to use a picture of you wearing green overalls in the newspaper, may I ask questions?”

  She nodded again.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” he quipped. He flipped open the notebook. “Okay, it’s a deal. Let’s go.”

  They settled into a comfortable rhythm. Jackson asked casual questions, Cammy interpreted, and Amy answered. For twenty minutes, Amy talked about school, her favorite subjects, dancing, the kids she liked and didn’t like, in an open, carefree way. They didn’t hit their first bump in the road until Jackson asked her how she had come to live at the children’s home.

  Her expression altered, turned guarded. She looked at Cammy for guidance. Cammy hastened to assure her. “You don’t have to tell him if you don’t want to.”

  Amy turned to Jackson. She searched his face for long moments, then replied, “My mother left me there.”

  Cammy saw the storm clouds beginning to gather in Jackson’s gaze. “How long ago?” he asked.

  Amy hesitated, then shrugged. Cammy waited. The child clearly didn’t want to answer the question. The air grew still. Even the building air conditioner seemed to realize the gravity of the moment. It shuddered to a halt with the groaning of a mechanical monster. The steady tick of the clock on her desk punctuated the confines of the suddenly too-small room.

  Jackson leaned closer to Amy, set his hand on her small knee, then tried a different approach. “Do you want her to come back?”

  Amy shook her head and simply said, “She left me.”

  Jackson met Cammy’s gaze. “I’m not going to print that,” he said in a quiet voice. “I wouldn’t exploit something like that.”

  She struggled with her mistrust. “Your call.”

  “I promised you I wouldn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “And you don’t believe me.”

  Amy laid a small hand on Cammy’s arm. Cammy realized she’d momentarily forgotten the child’s presence. She smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, Amy. Jackson and I were talking about the story.”

  “I like him,” Amy told her.

  Cammy met Jackson’s gaze again as she signed, “I like him too.”

  Amy refocused her attention on Jackson. In quick, abbreviated signs, she explained the few memories she had of her life before the children’s home. Shelters, bus stations, and a succession of strange men and confusing circumstances figured prominently.

  Cammy interpreted without inflection or comment. The expression on Jackson’s face, she noted, turned increasingly grim. She felt the anger, the frustration brewing in him. They closely mirrored the feelings she had whenever she allowed herself to get too close to the stories of Wishing Star’s children. Kids like Trevor Blackfort were the exception, not the rule. Too many children faced the same circumstances as Amy.

  Amy’s agitation was growing. Her signs became increasingly broader, more expressive. Jackson prompted her occasionally, with a question or an understanding nod. When Amy paused, suddenly, he gave Cammy an inquisitive look. “What?”

  She continued to watch Amy. “Do you want to tell him?”

  The child seemed to weigh the question. She looked from Jackson, to Cammy, and back again. Slowly, she shook her head, then pointed to Cammy. Cammy frowned. “You want me to tell him?”

  Amy shrugged. Jackson shut the notebook with a soft slap and slid it back into his shirt pocket. “Tell her it’s okay,” he instructed. “Nobody needs to tell me anything she doesn’t want me to know.”

  Cammy signed the message. Amy’s expression softened as she looked at him. She slid from the sofa to wrap her thin arms around his neck. Cammy’s in-sides began to tighten as she watched
the unexpected gesture of trust. Jackson enfolded the child, his long arms engulfing her slender frame. When he set her away from him, she grinned and told him, “Thank you.”

  He signed his response, and Amy ran from the room.

  Seconds ticked by while they simply sat in the lingering quiet. He exhaled a slow breath. “Damn it.”

  Cammy understood. He was angry at the world, at the circumstances that made a bright, exuberant child reticent and afraid. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she told him. “You were wonderful with her.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Listen to them?”

  He nodded. “Doesn’t it make you angry?”

  “Unbelievably. Amy’s story is one of the worst. I’ve only touched the surface of what her life was like when she lived with her mother. There are things—” she paused. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t.” His expression remained dark. “At the end. What she didn’t tell me. It would have rattled my nerves, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  He nodded. “I thought so. I talk to enough kids to know that the world isn’t very nice to a lot of them.”

  “You are,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her closely. “What?”

  “You’re nice to them, and you respect them. You obviously realize that children have things to say that are worth listening to.”

  He thought about it for a minute. “You’re right. I guess I got tired of listening to adults. They lie a lot.”

  She heard the bitterness in his tone. “Especially to reporters?”

  “In this town, a lot of people lie about a lot of things. I didn’t come here expecting that. I was naive, a little idealistic maybe.”

  She wished she’d known him then. “You got burned.”

  “I took the word of a few unreliable sources when I shouldn’t have. I believed some things I hadn’t properly checked out, and some people got hurt in the process. I got stung. It was a learning experience, not the end of the world.”

  Cammy sensed there was more to the story, but decided to let it drop—for now. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It made me a better journalist. I learned to trust my intuition more and people less. The harder you look for a story, the better it is.”