He didn't discuss his premonitions with anyone. They were too strange. He couldn't explain why he had them. It wasn't like he was psychic. Circumstances and people triggered the symptoms. Some could be attributed to natural instincts, like times he'd awakened in the middle of the night to find Sean sick.
The night he'd called to wake his ex-wife from a sound sleep she'd been ready to skin him until she'd smelled gas and realized she might not have awakened ever again if he hadn't called. Thank God his premonitions didn't happen often. He'd hate being like psychics on television. Now they were weird.
Sean's English teacher was always full of piss-n-vinegar. She'd stood up for students needs at PTSA meetings. She'd stood her ground when coaches had suggested she give passing grades to athletes with key positions on school teams They'd lost football and basketball games while key players were ineligible because of grades in her class. Sean respected her for that.
Sam's decision to follow the teacher tonight had been spur of the moment. Maybe the age of her car was the reason his premonitions acted up, but he couldn't take a chance. The gut ache had faded. The hairs on his neck stopped bristling.
After the burgers and his second beer, he fell asleep in his worn recliner in front of the television, where he waited for Sean, the most important person in his life, his joy.
* * * *
Brit's soaking bath would be delayed. She couldn't believe she'd ordered flowers for herself. Well, why not? She deserved them. Tommy, darling man that he was, had always given her flowers on his birthday to celebrate the anniversary of their first date. Flowers and a meal delivered to her door should go a long way toward dispelling her gloomy mood. She could eat the TV dinner tomorrow night. Putting on a soft, blue, fleece sweat suit allowed her to answer the doorbell, decently covered. Grinning, she opened the door.
"Ohmigosh!" She'd never seen anything like the arrangement of expensive looking flowers obscuring the deliveryman. "You've got the wrong address," she blurted. Glancing past the uniformed man, she spotted the florist truck.
"No, ma'am, I don't. These are for you. Says so on the order." He shifted his heavy load to thrust a paper toward her.
Stepping back, she motioned for him to put the heavy looking arrangement of flowers on her table. Foxglove and belladonna blooms hung on long stalks. Pink-throated Stargazer lilies and white Casablanca lilies dominated a vase suitable for a hotel table centerpiece. Calla Lilies stood out on their graceful long stems. Delicate blossomed freesia and flowers she didn't recognize provided color to the mostly white arrangement.
"These aren't my flowers. I ordered a dozen roses, not a garden." She was punching in the number of the florist as she saw the deliveryman heading toward her door. "Wait, you have to take these back. Someone will be disappointed when you take my dinky bouquet of roses to the person expecting these."
The man shrugged, waiting for her to set the record straight. "But I ordered ...." Brit paced back and forth in front of the tall, antique telephone table.
Arguing to no avail, she shrugged at the deliveryman. "Well, I am not paying for this fortune's worth of flowers." Using her read-my-lips tone she slowly enunciated into the phone, then hung up.
Brit reached for the five-dollar bill she'd put aside for the tip. It was an appropriate tip for the flowers she'd ordered but ….
"Ma'am," he called over his shoulder, "it's covered."
Her dining room was redolent with fragrances from Stargazers, Casablanca lilies, or the blooms she couldn't identify. She was glad she'd had the deliveryman put the arrangement on the dining room table. Again, she moved to answer the doorbell. The food delivery?
"What the … ?"
Two tuxedoed men stood on her porch. The one in the lead clicked the heels of shiny tux shoes in salute. Too weird.
"Your dinner, madam."
"All this for one meal delivered?" She stepped aside to allow the small, formal army access. She reached for her phone. "Wait, what are you doing?" she asked the crew setting her dining table with a white lace tablecloth, candelabra, and expensive looking dinnerware.
While she argued with someone at the restaurant she'd called earlier, waiters transformed her dining room into a romantic, candlelit dinner table setting. Tantalizing aromas teased her senses and had her stomach growling.
"I didn't order all this," she repeated. "I don't understand." She shook her head. "Well, be prepared to send out another meal like this when the person who ordered this one doesn't get it."
The phone barely rested back in its cradle when a waiter escorted her to her seat at the elegantly appointed table. The gleam from delicate white china, glittering crystal, and polished silver reflected candlelight in the darkened room. The two tuxedos stood along one wall of her dining room as she ate, moving to serve her every need.
Could she be dreaming all this? Where was the handsome man who would come in to tell he'd admired her from afar for an eternity? Maybe a shadowy hulk would materialize and tell her he was an ugly beast who would transform into a prince if she could love him. Brit wove a romantic movie fantasy around the pampering. Soon she'd wake with memory of this dream.
She enjoyed the succulent lobster, a special favorite, and the salad made with more tender leaves and other ingredients than she'd ever seen in one bowl. Asparagus tips and baby carrots tempted her taste buds. Potatoes swam in delicate white sauce.
The sinful dessert was made with chocolate, nuts, whipped cream, ice cream, and cake and had to have at least a zillion calories. She'd need a priest for confession, though she was thoroughly Baptist. Within seconds of her last taste of sin on a plate, the room was cleared of the evidence of an expensive error. She was almost glad for the mistakes in delivery and that the waiters refused her puny tip, which would have paid for what she ordered.
Finally, the tuxedoed men had cleared the carnage. They had departed but the aromas remained, mixing floral fragrances with that of freshly perked gourmet coffee. Now about that bath ... What was left besides a soak in her tub and a hot guy?
Candlelight cast a glow around a freshly run, now steaming tub of water. Aromatherapy tonight included chamomile and lavender. Stepping into the hot water, Brit felt chill bumps appear on the exposed flesh, so she quickly immersed her body. "Ah!" she sighed, "heaven."
Reaching over the side of the high tub, she retrieved her wine glass from the faded blue linoleum. Sipping the fruity flavor, Brit stared into, decadent, lightly scented, soothing bubbles surrounding her.
As she lounged in a hot, foamy bath, staring into the steamy haze, bittersweet thoughts of Tommy relaxed, comforted, and saddened her. Mostly, they comforted her. Each day the pain diminished, but only a little.
Tommy had been her best friend. He'd always been there for her. It was so hard to lose her best friend and her sweet, gentle lover. Memories of two happy young people flickered past. He had taught her to love, but he had not taught her to live without him. There were wonderful things they'd done together, so many things they'd discovered together, so many things they had left to do together, but there'd be no more together for them.
Her parents were supportive when she could only hide within her memories. There had been no quick or easy cure for the bewilderment and loss that held Brit in its icy clutches. No magic spell.
The driver of the truck probably hadn't seen him step between parked cars onto a busy street. He had sped away after robbing her of the chance to grow old with her love. Witnesses at the scene said it had been Tommy's fault.
She hadn't wanted to remember that they'd had one of the few arguments of their six-year-old marriage the morning of the accident. He'd been startled when she'd suggested he might be the reason they hadn't conceived. If only she'd saved her request that they go for tests for an evening, when they could've talked things out. Had she sent him out too distracted to pay attention to what he was doing? Could she have been at least partly to blame? Her doctors had said they should both be tested.
"So sorry, my love," Brit whisper
ed. Her hand relaxed.
Water splashed her face, her glass now floated in her bath water. She hadn't realized she'd let it slip from her fingers.
She rose from the tub, shivering as she toweled dry. Pulling on Tommy's old bathrobe, she took comfort in the extra length. His scent had long been washed away, but she could pretend. Clutching the worn terry robe closed she opened the bathroom door and headed for her bedroom and sleep.
As she tied the belt to her robe and pulled the covers over herself, Brit thought about the green eyes of the man who had followed her home tonight. Why had Mr. Samuels needed to follow her? Why on earth had he called her to make sure she made it inside all right? Was it really because he was worried about her car? Had he acted on a whim or had he really felt she needed to be looked after?
He attended every ball game, every event, and every parent-teacher meeting. He wore age and fatherhood well. She remembered things she hadn't thought she'd noticed, besides his knowing green eyes, like his midnight black hair, or his air of confidence.
He looked like the kind of man a woman could lean on. For the first time in years, she'd noticed a man. How dare he intrude on her bedtime blues? Tommy was the love of her life.
* * * *
Half asleep, Brit reached for the ringing phone. She was disoriented from a dream that left her breathless. She'd seen Tommy's body fly over the hood of the truck that hit him. She'd heard herself scream. Then she'd seen a masked man staring at her, his look menacing. When he'd started toward her, she'd turned and run 'til she couldn't catch her breath.
The pleasant fragrance of the garden sized arrangement in her dining room now permeated her bedroom, cloying, oppressive. She glanced bleary-eyed at the luminous clock. Two o'clock? Who'd call at this hour but family with an emergency? She snatched up the handset.
She cleared her throat and gathered her wits about her. "Hello."
"Havin' a real nice night, sugar?" The voice, raspy, deep, and very southern made her skin crawl.
"Who are you calling?" She tried to sound reasonable. "Wrong number? Please check your numbers before you call again. You keep getting me instead of whoever..."
"Did you enjoy the little romantic surprises, darlin'?" His voice was a cross between a caress and an insult.
"Surprises? What surprises?" At that moment, she realized. Her chest constricted. She bolted upright in bed so quickly her head swam.
"Aren't the flowers gorgeous? Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady. Intoxicatin' fragrances, huh?"
"Who are you? Am I supposed to I know you?"
"Not as well as I know you, lovely lady."
"Why – How did you change my order? Who are you?"
"You deserve beautiful things," he purred.
"But you shouldn't send me gifts. I mean it." She didn't recognize his voice or the lazy southern drawl. "The flowers were extravagant. The food was way past too much." She hit her pillow.
He seemed to ignore her. "You need a new robe, silky, sheer, and black, Sugar. That's some sexy body under all that terry cloth, smooth, sweet, warm from sleep. Are your beautiful, white breasts aching to be touched?"
Brit gasped, yanked bed covers to her chin. Someone had been in her house, had invaded her space. Her expensive dinner, the one he'd had sent, threatened to come back up. "Look, whoever you are --"
"Is the sweet place between your thighs wet, Darlin'? Bet you're wanting it as much as I do." A long pause was followed by, "Oh-h-h, Sugar, love the old claw foot tub. I can wash your …."
She'd hoped to learn who the pervert was by using her head and staying calm. Don't let him get to you. She swallowed hard before she could speak without choking. "I'm too tired for this," she started to hang up. She'd hit star-whatever, then call the police. Maybe she'd use a neighbor's phone, so he couldn't listen.
"Bet your heart's just pumpin' away, 'ma bella'. See you soon. Think about me, Darlin'. See you in my sweet dreams."
CHAPTER TWO
My God! The pervert watched her sleep? The idea made her shiver. He knew too much about her. The police, she had to call the police.
Brit slammed the phone, ready to snatch it back and leave it off the hook, when it rang again. "Damn!" It might as well have been a snake. She wasn't answering it this time.
The answering machine picked up. "Pick up your phone. I know you're there, Ms. Roberts." Mr. Samuels was calling at this hour? "Aw, come on, Teach. Your line was busy, I know you're awake."
Brit wanted to answer the phone, she really did. She wanted to carry on a sane conversation with a real person, someone she knew. But she couldn't bring herself to touch the cursed thing.
* * * *
Sam was ready to climb through the phone line. Something was terribly wrong. He'd known it just before he woke in a cold sweat, his gut in pain. The memory of her frightened amethyst eyes haunted him. Why had he dreamed about her? Why had she seemed so upset? He'd speed dialed Ms. Roberts' number before he realized he'd picked up the phone beside the recliner where he'd fallen asleep. All Sean's teachers' numbers were programmed into the phone.
"I'm comin' over." Sam was out of the chair as quickly as his sleep stiff body would allow.
"No! No, don't come over here."
"Something's wrong. I know it is." Still half-asleep, Sam held the phone between his chin and his neck as he shoved his feet into the shoes he'd discarded before dozing off.
"Everything's fine," she had told him. Why would she lie? He knew she had, because his premonitions were never wrong.
"So, why didn't you answer your phone?"
"I was half asleep. Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes, but I'm worried about you. I'll be at your house in ten minutes." Sam had his keys and wallet in his hands, "or less. I'll explain but I really need to be sure you're all right, please."
He replaced the phone, then checked Sean's room. Sean lay sprawled across his bed, blond hair mussed, his hand dangling off the edge. Grabbing a sheet of paper, he scrawled, Son, back soon. Don't worry. Gone to check on a friend.
Sam felt foolish. He raced across town, hoping he didn't get stopped for speeding. The streets were deserted. Good fortune had put each light on green or flashing yellow. He didn't think he'd have stopped if there had been a red light. The eerie feelings weren't as strong as when he'd awakened, but they wouldn't go away.
Her house was dark, except for the porch light and a warm glow from a window facing the street. The lady probably thought he was a lunatic. Sam didn't care. She faced him from the other side of the screen before he could touch the doorbell. Ms. Roberts looked fragile, clutching the large white robe at her throat. Her auburn hair was in disarray and she was beautiful.
"Please, let me in for a minute. I need to be sure you're really all right. You sounded so strange over the phone."
"I was trying to go back to sleep when you called. As you can see, I'm fine." She tried to hide a yawn. No way. He knew people and he had a teenaged son. She looked too shaky to be sleepy. He had to get her to talk or he would get no more sleep. She probably wouldn't either.
"If nothing is wrong, I'll go away. But you look like you'll break if anyone touches you. Has this anything to do with the bad guys you mentioned earlier?"
She flinched.
He'd made a hit. "I won't stay long. Please, just let me in for a minute."
* * * *
She let him in.
"I was only kidding about the bad guys earlier to see if you were paying attention." If only she'd known, there really was a bad guy. She shivered. God, she needed to talk to someone.
This man's masculine presence filled her hall. It seemed to narrow when he entered. He was so close Brit wondered if he could hear her heart beating double time. Black hair looked as though he'd run his hands through it a lot. His clothes looked slept in.
The light hanging from the ceiling of the entrance hall cast him in soft shadow. Sharp cheekbones and whisker-dark hollows tempted her to touch him. He was large and should have been intimi
dating, but his eyes showed concern and vulnerability.
His gaze moved slowly from her face to her bare feet, then back to stare into her eyes. Brit felt as though he'd examined her, reassuring himself she was unharmed. Why had he insisted on coming here in the middle of the night?
"Mr. Samuels?"
"Call me Sam, please. It's late at night for formalities, especially with you in that robe." His half laugh sounded nervous as he inclined his head slightly to indicate her robe. "Are you going to keep me in the hall or could we sit down while you tell me why you invaded my sleep tonight. You were frightened in my dream, then on the phone, and I have to know why."
The man seemed so earnest she knew she'd have to give him the reassurance he needed or he'd never leave. "Come into the kitchen. I was about to make hot chocolate."
He'd been dreaming about her? Strange, she'd gone to sleep thinking about him.
She led him toward the kitchen. The heavy floral scent lingered as they'd passed the living/dining room area where she'd had the florist put the flowers. That same smell followed them to her bright, airy kitchen where she'd tossed the damned things and would toss the left- over food. The combination of odors hung heavy, oppressive still.
Brit felt his gaze on her as she stood at the old, large stove. Her hands shook as she lit the gas burner. With deliberate movements, she lowered the flame. She'd hold herself together somehow.
"So, you were dreaming about me, huh?" she asked without turning to look at him.
"Yeah." He cleared his throat, likely embarrassed. She'd love to hear more about the dreams and why he dreamed about her, but she wouldn't ask tonight.
"Some of my students say they have nightmares about me, but few parents mention having them." She stirred the milk on the stove.
"Real milk and cocoa in that chocolate?"
Protective Instincts Page 2