Handful of Dreams

by Heather Graham

  And all around her, it seemed, the fire burned and the wind raged. His kisses moved over her stomach; his hand moved to her thigh, stroking gentle, light caresses that made her turn to him again, to force him to stop … to continue.

  He moved away from her. She opened her eyes to see him shrugging from the jacket, and she remembered vaguely how she had wondered earlier what he wore beneath it. Nothing.

  She started to shake again at the sight of him. Given a moment longer, she might well have realized just what she was doing, thought of the consequences. He was built magnificently, tall and lean and solid.

  She did not have a moment. She saw the hunger in his eyes, the fascination, the desire. She had never known anyone like him. He drew her to him, slid his hands to her shoulders, and shed the terry fabric from her.

  Firelight … firelight played all over her. It touched her eyes, her hair; it glimmered and shone over the rise of her breasts; it created shadows of intrigue and silk over the endless length of her limbs.

  He took her face between his hands. “You are … beautiful,” he murmured, and when he pulled her to him, his voice was ragged. “Susan, touch me….”

  And she did. Moaning softly, she stroked him with her fingers, making love to his body with hers. It was natural, easy, all that she could do. It was the call of his sensuality to her own, rising like a rosebud touched by an awakening sun. Knowing him … the tautness of his muscles, the smoothness of his flesh. So masculine, so perfect. The only flaw on him was a long scar that ran along the left side of his back. An old sear, turned white with time. Vaguely she wondered if he had been injured in the service. And the wondering made her long to know him more, to know all about him, his touch, his life, his mind, his soul….

  His hand found hers, closed it around his hardness, and then she sank down, down into the softness of the comforter, thrilled with the heavy weight of his body bearing down over hers. She gasped at his entry, biting into his shoulder, her body raked by shivers at the ecstasy that raced through her. He moved so slowly. Drawing her, taking her, seducing her all over again. She felt as if she died a thousand tiny deaths of wonder.

  And when she thought that she had received all the wonder that she could, the tempo changed. Like a lulling rain that pattered only to become more powerful as the deluge began, he changed. An utter brilliance flared between them. She was saying things that made no sense, crying, whispering, fitting to him more and more tightly, adoring his body within hers, embracing it, meeting his hunger with a sinuous and soaring grace. Reaching for the rainbow that lurked past the storm, for the gold there, glittering like a heaven full of stars.

  They burst over her with shattering and wondrous force, and she wondered if she did black out a moment, so violent and sweet was the sensation. One that lingered, then exhausted, then left her drifting slowly, slowly down from the heavens to the feathers of the comforter that cradled her body.

  The feathers were a reality, as was the man lying beside her, his muscled flesh covered with a sheen of sweat, his breathing still ragged. He had an arm cast over his forehead; the other still rested above her head, catching her hair.

  The man … the consequences.

  He looked grave, thoughtful. He sensed her eyes upon him and turned to her, a gentle smile curving his lips. He looked wonderful, tousled dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes so strangely tender.

  He stroked her cheek. She returned his smile with a little shiver and closed her eyes. Everything was going to be all right.

  In moments she fell asleep. There were no dreams to trouble her, and outside, the rain at last ceased.

  Sometime near dawn she awoke from a sense of movement. He was carrying her up the stairs. Idly she ran a finger over the hair on his chest. He smiled down at her. “You’re awake.”

  “Not really,” she murmured drowsily.

  She wasn’t even sure of where they went. He laid her on a bed, and it felt cool and clean and luxurious.

  And then his body was against hers, more luxurious still, creating the wonder and ecstasy again, teaching her that the feelings had not been a dream, that they could come again and again….

  “I have to tell you …” she murmured once, relenting completely, determined to tell him all the little truths except for that fact that Peter had known he was dying. It was possible to forgive him; the situation probably had appeared bad, and she had done everything to taunt him…. She had been so bitter since that day she had first heard his voice.

  Before that, she had been a little bit in love with an image. The man in the photographs, the son Peter had always talked about with such pride and joy. Oh, not really in love, just whimsically so. Nor was she in love now. She was … a captive of the moment, of the man. The emptiness that had echoed so hollowly within her was gone now, that desperate need to feel cherished fulfilled. But nothing so natural and compelling had to be right. She owed herself no excuses. For all that she had suffered and lost, she deserved this reckless abandon with a man who was young and strong and touched her with such magic.

  But she had to clear herself with him so that he could apologize, know his fault…

  “I have to—”

  “Love me, touch me…” And from there his whispers became more erotic, and she knew that anything she had to say could wait for the morning.

  It was so wonderful to be held all through the night. To fall asleep in his arms.

  The thought was with him again when he awoke, the sun glaring through the windows, the storm a thing of the past.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  But daylight quickly changed the magic to a groan, a shudder, and incredulous self-reproach.

  Wincing, pressing his temples between his palms, David berated himself in silence. Ass! He had scorned and despised Peter’s sordid payoff, and in a matter of hours she had seduced him too. All she had to do was sit there, look at him, laugh, and say a few words, and he fell like a green kid with his first case of puppy love!

  Him—of all damned people!

  He grated his teeth together, remembering one set of her softly purred words: “Peter loved me in furs….”

  With a little oath he rose, intending to dress and finding that he was gazing at her again.

  This morning, sound asleep, she could still touch him! So sleek and long, curved so sweetly, lying so innocently on his bed, a gentle smile just touching her lips.

  A smile. She had earned her amusement He had crashed like a felled oak.

  David felt horrible, churning. He had taken something of his father’s, invaded something personal and private with Peter dead and buried.

  “Oh, God!” he muttered aloud.

  He tossed the sheets over her nakedness. It didn’t really help. He couldn’t toss them over her face, and it was the fine quality of her features that haunted him as much as anything else.

  He felt betrayed—as he hadn’t allowed himself to be in over a decade—tricked, seduced. The bigger they come, the harder they fall! he thought, taunting himself bitterly, and along with all that was still the amazement that she had made him forget everything but his desperation to touch her.

  He dressed quickly and quietly, clenching his jaw tightly. He could imagine her laughing victoriously. You mocked your father, David Lane, and look at you….

  He gave himself a shake. What the hell had it been?

  He didn’t know, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  Dressed, he stared down at her bitterly. Then he reached into his top drawer for a piece of paper, scribbled out a note, and then a check.

  Staring at her one last time, he promised himself that she would never know that she had been the victor.

  Susan awoke slowly, confused at first, certain then that he must have gone downstairs. The sun was shining brightly through the windows. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  She stretched deliriously. It was David’s room, she realized, filled with the memories of his youth, things a man would have thrown
away, things his father would not: trophies, banners, baseball bat, bowling ball, an assortment of unused after-shaves on the dresser.

  And a note attached to the mirror.

  Susan frowned and walked quickly to it. She snatched at it so hard that the envelope ripped, then she stared, numbed, as a check fell to the dresser. She saw her name on it, and an amount twenty dollars higher than the weekly salary she’d drawn from the separate company holdings.

  “All debts paid—account closed.”

  She sank back to the bed, so stunned that her heart and mind froze. “Oh, God!” she whispered with horror.

  The consequences … How she despised herself! She had known, she had known….

  But she had fallen just a little bit in love with the night, with the man, with longing to be held.

  Susan stared into the mirror. She saw a very pale woman there, eyes wide and torn with misery.

  “David Lane, if I ever get the chance, I will rip you into a thousand shreds!” she swore.

  She had learned not to cry years ago; stupid tears trickled down her cheeks, anyway. What had possessed her? She had been so determined to force his own opinions right down his throat….

  Oh, she had certainly done that! But she had missed the main point; no matter what the magic, the call of the fire and the storm, she shouldn’t have fallen into the man’s arms after taunting him so.

  She spun around and ran to the shower in her own room, turned on the cold water, and sudsed herself a dozen times. Each second that passed, she stiffened and straightened mentally. She had made a mistake. A horrible mistake. Well, it had happened, and it couldn’t be undone. She would have to consider it a lesson in life. Bitter but part of it all. She was going to get her composure back—and her serenity. She would return the check with a letter and get on with her life.

  Once dressed, she hurried downstairs. The fire was out. She lit it, then ripped up both the brocade smoking jacket and her own terry robe, throwing the pieces on the fire one by one.

  She made coffee and drank a cup.

  Then she sat down to write the letter with which she would return David Lane’s check,, wondering bleakly how long it would take to quit despising herself for the fool she had been.

  Consequences…

  She had been old enough to know that they had to be paid. She even had been aware, vaguely aware, through all the need and sensation that consequences were fated to arise.

  She couldn’t begin to suspect just how horrible they would be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAVID WALKED INTO HIS office Monday morning feeling as if he had been through a meat grinder. Sleep had eluded him on the Sunday night he had returned to his apartment.

  Erica had given him a disgustingly pleasant greeting when he walked through; he had barely sat down behind a stack of checks, contracts, cover art, and publicity releases before she followed him in, a cup of black coffee in her hands, a bright smile on her face.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, accepting the coffee and taking a moment to be grateful for his personable and ever efficient secretary. He offered her a dry smile. “What’s up this morning?”

  “Stacy says she has to see you—it’s urgent. Gordon wants to go over the Gideon series covers. Rebecca thinks she has a good promotional idea for the fall sales meeting, but she has to have your okay before five o’clock. And”—Erica paused with a grimace—“Ms. Jameson called. You forgot to cancel your Saturday night theater date.”

  “Oh,” David murmured with a wince.

  “It’s all right. You just sent her some lovely flowers and an apology.”

  David chuckled. “Good. Thanks, Erica. It’s a cliché, but what would I do without you?”

  “Get a slap in the face that you’d probably deserve!” Erica said, lightly chastising him. She appeared a little distracted, though. He sipped his coffee and studied her. She was a very pretty woman, dark-eyed and blond, slim, and prone to dress in a very businesslike manner. She’d worked for his father one year before David had taken over, and though she had been crazy about Peter, she had been just as pleased to work for David. Their relationship outside of the office was a sound friendship; nothing more and nothing less.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  The anxious look left her features for a minute as she laughed. “I just hope you’ll see Stacy right away. She’s been after you to look at that manuscript for ages now, and you’re still procrastinating!”

  David shrugged, curious at her concern. “I have complete faith in Stacy’s editorial decisions. I gave her my okay to make it a lead title next summer.”

  “Yes, but you haven’t read it.”

  “So?”

  “I brought it into the house!” Erica reminded him. She flushed. “I read it, and I maneuvered things a little unethically to get it here.”

  David leaned back in his chair, grinning as he watched his secretary. “So rumor is true? You’re dating John Ketchem?”

  Erica’s coloring was very, very close to crimson. John Ketchem was a young but very promising literary agent. David liked him; he knew his business, when to go to bat for his clients, and when nothing would be accomplished by endless hours of haggling.

  “I—uh—see him now and then, yes.”

  “See him?” David couldn’t help raising his brows to her and allowing a wicked, knowing grin to creep into his features.

  “Stop that!” Erica pleaded.

  He stood up, chuckling, and walked around his desk to brush her cheek affectionately with his knuckles. “Just don’t go ‘maneuvering’ too far in the pursuit of business, okay?”

  “It wasn’t anything like that!” Erica protested. “But I did get him to send the manuscript here first. And Stacy moved like lightning to get the contract out.” She hesitated, and he realized that she was nervous about the book itself. “David, you won’t understand until you read it!”

  He shook his head. “Understand what? Stacy told me the gist of it: Irish immigrant making it in the New World. She said it was great, and I believe her. I will read it. I read everything. It’s just that lately…”

  His voice trailed away as he shrugged, and Erica instantly looked sad and contrite. “Your dad. I know, David, and I’m sorry. But that’s exactly why I’m so anxious! You’ve got to read it, because it should be rushed. And if you’d just read the damn thing, you’d understand! David—”

  “Good morning!”

  They both started as a pleasant drawl sounded from the door that Erica had left ajar. David looked over his secretary’s shoulder to see Vickie Jameson standing there, serene, confident, and lovely in a new fall outfit, a beige off-the-shoulder sweater and a calf-length tweed skirt that contrasted nicely with her silver-blond hair.

  “Good morning, Ms. Jameson!” Erica reacted quickly. Vickie was always charming to Erica; Vickie was just the type of stylish woman that instantly commanded respect.

  “Vickie,” David murmured, surprised that his lids fell to cover his eyes a little uneasily. He should have felt something—sorry that he had neglected to call her, sorry that he didn’t feel like embracing her … that he didn’t really feel anything at all because all of his emotions were still bitterly entangled with another woman. His father’s mistress.

  He forced himself to look up with a smile. “Vick, I’m sorry about the other night. Want some coffee?” He gave Erica a glance, quickly understood. “I got … tangled up in Maine.”

  “There was that horrible storm!” Erica said innocently. “All the power and phones were out.”

  “Mmm,” Vickie murmured dryly, casting off her kidskin gloves as she moved into the office. “Erica, thanks so much for the flowers. They were absolutely lovely.”

  Erica flushed and looked at David a little helplessly, at which point he laughed. One of the things he liked about Vickie Jameson was her blunt and rational view of life; she wasn’t annoyed, merely resigned. She held no ties on h
im, and because of it they had enjoyed a long relationship. He didn’t owe her excuses because of his absence; he did owe her an excuse for his rudeness.

  “I’ll get some coffee,” Erica murmured. She paused in the doorway, clearing her throat. “Da—Mr. Lane, please don’t forget the manuscript. It’s on your desk.”

  “I won’t forget it, Erica. Give Stacy a buzz and tell her to come up at ten.”

  The door closed. Vickie moved into the room, smiling as she stood on tiptoe to give him a light kiss on the cheek. David smiled back and left her to sit in one of the conference chairs in front of his desk while he walked around to take his chair behind it.

  Her kiss, her touch, her scent … all left him ridiculously unmoved. He couldn’t forget the way a pair of emerald eyes had stared into his; how the grazing of long red nails moving down his back had created a path of fire….

  “You louse!” Vickie laughed, eyeing him with reproach and amusement. “Do you know what I went through to get those tickets? I actually stood in line in the rain to get them!”

  He shook his head. “I should have called you on Friday morning when I decided to go up to Maine. I didn’t mean to stay. I got there late, and then the storm broke. I’m sorry.”

  Erica buzzed. David hit the button on the interoffice phone. “Yes?”

  “I’ve Ms. Jameson’s coffee.”

  “Bring it in,” David said a little impatiently. She should have known she didn’t need to buzz; his office was a place of business, and if a secretary didn’t know it, of all people…

  Erica brought in the coffee. Vickie murmured her thanks and complimented Erica on her hairstyle. David barely heard the exchange.

  His thoughts were just a little bit of a lie. If she were before him … Susan Anderson … in that white robe, with that soft smile and that streaming firelit hair flowing over her shoulders, he would be just as mesmerized, just as enchanted as he had been while the storm raged in Maine.