The Sweetest Thing

by Barbara Freethy

  His expression grew angry. Faith turned as the woman came up behind her. She spoke, but Faith couldn't understand her words. Then the woman grabbed the pot from Faith's hands and shoved her toward the man. His hands encircled her waist as tightly as a snake. She struggled against the constricting bonds as the coil wove around her.

  She panicked as his face faded away and his arms became the slithering body of a snake, a boa constrictor winding its way around her waist, her bare breasts, her neck, until she could no longer breathe.

  Faith gasped and sat up in bed, breathing in and out until she could refill her lungs. She could still feel the cool slick skin of the serpent wrapping itself around her body. God! What was happening to her?

  Who were these people she was dreaming about? And why were they haunting her? What did they want from her? Faith suddenly remembered Julian's words. You won't be allowed to walk away.

  Faith scrambled out of bed. She ran to the bathroom and poured water on her face. She rubbed her skin dry with the rough edges of a terry cloth towel until her face stung from her efforts. Then she returned to the bedroom.

  The normalcy of her surroundings, the hand-sewn quilt she'd picked up at the county fair, the colorful rug hanging on the wall, her shoes on the floor, the mystery novel opened on the night table, reminded her that she was living in the twentieth century, not some distant past. She was a pastry chef, not a potter, and she'd never lived anywhere near the desert.

  Her clock read 8:00 a.m. and she decided it was time to get up. Besides that, she didn't think she could take another dream like the last one.

  She'd hoped to sleep in this morning. The bakery was closed on Sundays, her one day of rest. Faith pulled up the covers on her bed. She usually slept so peacefully, in a small cocoon on one side of her double bed. But this morning it looked like she'd had a party the night before, and her head ached with the memories of her restless dreams.

  Faith pressed her hands to her temples, debating her options. She could go into the bakery and get a head start on tomorrow's baking. With Easter only a week away, she had dozens of orders to fill for pastries and cakes, some of which needed to be delivered midweek.

  Work would be good for her -- if she weren't so tired, if she weren't so filled with a desperate need to find out more about that damn pot.

  Julian had been right. It was too late for her to forget about it. She had to know more. She had to know what the markings on the pot meant -- if Julian knew of its history, if he had any idea why she was suddenly convinced she knew the original owner of that pot.

  That sounded ridiculous even to herself. But the nagging thought wouldn't go away, not even after a hot shower and a quick cup of coffee. Finally, giving in to the urge, Faith pulled on a pair of jeans and a knit T-shirt and drew a brush through her hair. It was too early to go visiting; the Carrigans were probably still asleep. She smiled grimly at that thought. Then again, they'd robbed her of a peaceful night's sleep. She owed them.

  * * *

  Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Alex lay back on the floor, letting his abdominal muscles breathe before he put them through another hundred sit-ups. He'd been working out since seven, thirty minutes on the Elliptical and another thirty minutes on weights. He almost felt ready to face the day.

  He knew that most people looked at him and saw strength in his well-defined muscles. But inside he was still the thin, weak, sickly kid with the awkward feet. No matter how much he changed the outside, he couldn't seem to change the inside. That was probably what he kept striving for -- some inner sense that he was as successful as he appeared to be to others.

  And he was successful, he reminded himself. Losing Elijah was a momentary setback. He still had hopes Elijah would sign with them. He just had to think of a new strategy, one that wouldn't set them back another twelve thousand dollars. He winced at the memory. He'd been so close -- until Jessie.

  She was something else, a piece of work, just like his grandfather. He was convinced now that her sudden illness had just been a play for attention. After all, she'd been fine the rest of the day, her usual smart-ass self.

  Alex rolled his neck, trying to ease the sudden tension in his muscles. On one hand, he hoped the private investigator would come up with Jessie's father as quickly as possible. On the other hand, he couldn't quite face letting her go so soon. But she had to go. There was no other option. He wished he'd been able to give Pete Sloan more to go on other than a name and where he thought the guy had gone to school.

  School. It suddenly occurred to him that Jessie should probably be in school. She was twelve years old. What was that? Seventh grade? Eighth? He didn't even know the name of the closest school, much less its location. Maybe they were out for Easter break. Did they get the week before Easter off or the week after? Maybe his secretary would know. Theresa knew everything.

  He mentally added that to his list of things to do, right after looking into the availability of a condo for his grandfather. Julian needed to get used to the idea of relocating into a smaller place of his own. Then they could sell his grandfather's house in Seattle, which he'd bought at the time of his last marriage ten years earlier. He still couldn't figure out how Julian had ended up alone after five trips to the altar. Surely that should have netted him at least one ex-wife willing to care for him in his old age. But apparently not. The concept of family certainly wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

  "Daddy?"

  The childish voice reminded him that his family had become a lot more complicated in the past two days. Alex took a deep breath and let it out, then glanced at the doorway where Jess stood in a pair of old cotton boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Her brown hair was a tangled mess, her eyes still sleepy, her cheeks flushed. She looked far more angelic than he remembered, more innocent, more needy.

  He wouldn't let that thought take root. He was only a temporary baby-sitter, nothing more. In a few days her real father would come and collect her, and that would be that.

  "Daddy?" Jessie drew her hand over her eyes as she yawned.

  He didn't like what the word did to his gut, twisting and turning it with utter simplicity. Daddy. He could still remember rushing Melanie to the hospital all those years ago when he'd believed he really was Jessie's father. He could still smell the antiseptic in the delivery room. He could still see Jessie's tiny red face, hear her squeal of protest at being pushed into the cold cruel world. Most of all he remembered the feeling of utter wonder and completeness that he had a child, someone to love, someone to love him.

  "Alex," she said this time. "Doorbell. She's in the living room."

  "Who's in the living room?" Alex sat up and grabbed a towel off the bench.

  "You know -- her."

  Jessie stumbled out of the room before he could get a more definitive explanation of exactly who "her" was. But he had an uneasy feeling he knew exactly who was waiting in the living room, and she was definitely not on his list of things to do.

  Alex walked through the kitchen and dining room and paused in the archway that led into the living room. Faith stood by the window, framed by the early morning sunlight streaming through it. She reminded him of an angel, her reddish blond hair billowing in a cloud around her shoulders, her womanly figure molded softly by the light blue knit T-shirt that clung to her breasts and the faded, well-washed blue jeans that curved with her hips.

  He didn't think he'd ever seen a woman who struck him as so utterly feminine, even in a pair of jeans. There was no way she should be single. She should be someone's wife, someone's mother. Then she wouldn't be haunting his thoughts. She'd be out of reach. And he suddenly wanted her out of reach.

  He wondered why she wasn't married. He knew that home and family were important words to her, especially since she'd grown up alone. Even now, she stared at the photos on his mantel -- photos he had never wanted to display, but his housekeeper, Gloria, had found them in the bottom drawer in his desk, framed them, and set them out.

  A h
ome should have pictures of family, Gloria had told him. He hadn't wanted to tell her that those family pictures were nothing more than a camera trick. His father had been an expert photographer, almost making Alex believe that the photos were truly a reflection of life, that the look of love in his mother's eyes was real. Alex hardened his heart against that painful memory.

  Faith reached out and picked up a photo -- the one of his mother holding him the day after he was born. Why had he let Gloria put the pictures out? They didn't mean anything. They only gave the wrong impression -- that he cared, and he didn't care. Not one little bit.

  But Faith seemed to care. She looked at the photograph with an expression of such wistful longing, Alex had the sudden irrepressible desire to race across the room, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until the lost look disappeared from her eyes.

  His urge vanished as Faith started and caught him staring. She hastily set the photo down on the mantel. "Hello."

  "Good morning."

  "Is that you?" She waved her hand toward the photo.

  "Yes."

  "Your mother was beautiful. She probably still is. I didn't mean to make it sound like she's dead, or maybe -- maybe she is." Faith's ramble stopped abruptly as embarrassment filled her eyes. "I'm sorry."

  "She's not dead and she may still be beautiful -- I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her in fifteen years."

  "Fifteen years? Good heavens! Why not? I mean, she is your mother."

  "A title that never suited her and one she never really wanted. She divorced my father when I was eight years old. I didn't realize at first that she intended to divorce me as well." His jaw tightened. "I used to sit on the steps every evening, imagining that she'd come home just as the sun went down and the moon came up, because she'd always told me that was her favorite time of the day. But she never came." He shrugged. "Eventually someone would find me sitting on the step and make me go to bed."

  "Someone?" Faith questioned softly, her heart caught by the image of a forlorn little boy, waiting every night for his mother to come home. Maybe there was more to Alex Carrigan than met the eye. "Not your dad?"

  "My father? Never." Alex drew himself up, as if he were sorry for having revealed such a personal memory. "What do you want from me anyway?"

  "Nothing -- from you. I didn't come here to see you."

  "Then why are you here?"

  Alex walked farther into the room, a towel slung over his shoulders, the muscles in his body exquisitely defined by the tank-top T-shirt and running shorts. He was a gorgeous man, long, lean runner's legs, flat, taut abdomen, broad shoulders, defined biceps, strong hands. He was perfectly made and as male as they came. Faith found herself captivated by the strands of dark hair that curled so sensuously against his chest.

  "See something you like?" he asked.

  She looked into his eyes and saw amusement and something darker, desire perhaps. His gaze turned bold, traveling down her body, lingering on her breasts so long, she felt them start to tingle.

  "Uh, what are you doing?" she asked.

  "Looking at you."

  "You're staring, actually."

  "Actually, you are, too."

  She couldn't deny that, so decided it was safer to change the subject and cross her arms in front of her breasts. "I came to see your grandfather. Is he here?"

  "Don't know."

  "Could you find out?"

  "I could." Alex didn't move a muscle. Instead, he continued to look at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.

  "Well?"

  "Why do you want to see my grandfather?" he asked. "Why would you want to help an old man search out his lost love? You're a busy woman. You have your own business. Your own life. Why do this? Unless..."

  "Unless what?" she asked sharply, not liking his tone.

  "Unless you're looking for an inheritance. I hate to break it to you, but the old man hasn't got much more than that broken pot and a million stories to sell."

  "How dare you! I have no interest in your grandfather's money."

  "Then maybe it's me you're after. San Francisco Magazine called me one of the ten most eligible bachelors in the Bay Area."

  "Bully for you. I didn't see the article, and if I had, I'd probably question their taste."

  "Ooh, that hurts." Alex put a hand to his heart.

  "I hope it does."

  She tried to walk past him, but he caught her by the arm.

  "Wait."

  "Why? So you can insult me again?"

  He let out a breath and shook his head. "You were in my dreams last night. I didn't like it."

  His words startled her. When she looked into his eyes, she no longer saw dislike but wariness, maybe even fear. The emotion humbled him, made him far less arrogant, far more likable.

  "I can't stop thinking about you," he muttered. "What is it about you? You're not my type."

  "And you're not mine. That's why I haven't been thinking about you at all..." Her voice drifted away as she realized that wasn't true. She had seen his image the day before -- in her dream. The warrior. It all came back.

  He'd stood in the shadows, but his build, his stance, the set of his jaw... She clapped a hand to her mouth. "My God, it was you!"

  "Who was me?"

  "In my dream. At least I think it was you. No, it couldn't have been. You were wearing a loincloth and you were carrying a spear."

  "That was some dream. Did I pound on my chest and call you Jane?"

  "No." She shook her head, unable to laugh it off as he was trying to do. "We were caught in something, something terrible, and the pot -- the pot was there. Your grandfather's pot. I could see it. And it wasn't broken. It was whole. And there were pictures on it. And..." She looked into his eyes. "I felt like I knew what they were, what they meant. As if I were the one who had put them there."

  Alex didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally he ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "Oh, hell. He got to you, didn't he?"

  "You don't believe me."

  "I believe you have a very good imagination."

  "I thought the same thing, Alex. I told myself it was like putting a seashell to my ear and imagining that I could hear the ocean. But then yesterday afternoon I took a nap, and I dreamt about the pot, and last night the dream came again, only different, like someone was showing me the pieces of a puzzle one at a time." She wished she could make him understand. "I feel like I'm being haunted by ghosts, and you look remarkably like one of them."

  "We're attracted to each other, Faith. If you want to add in a Tarzan-and-Jane fantasy, that's fine."

  "It's not fine, and it's not it. The dreams have to do with the pot, with the symbols painted on the side."

  "Then why am I in your dreams?"

  Alex touched her face, drawing his finger down the side of her cheek in a simple but intimate gesture. She couldn't stop the shiver of anticipation that ran down her spine. He was too close, and he moved closer still.

  "You're not going to kiss me, are you?" She hated the breathless note that carried in her words, but she couldn't quite seem to catch her breath.

  He paused to smile at her. "Yes, I think I am."

  "You can't."

  He raised an eyebrow. "No?"

  "I just came by to see your grandfather. Why can't you get that through your head? Or are you such a -- such a stud that you think every woman wants you? Because I happen to prefer my men a little..." She searched wildly for a reason why she should not kiss him. "A little less -- sweaty."

  His smile broadened. "A little sweat between us could be a good thing."

  "Well, there's something else. I'm almost -- almost engaged." There, she'd done it, pulled out the big gun and fired away. She'd never considered Ben a lifeline before, but today he was right there where she needed him.

  "Is that like being almost pregnant?" Alex reached for her hand. "Where's the ring?"

  She yanked her empty hand away from his sharp gaze. "I, uh, it's being fitted."

&nbs
p; "You're serious? There really is someone in your life?"

  "Yes."

  "That's good," he said slowly.

  "It is? I thought you were interested in me." Now that she'd made him back away, she found herself filled with regret. What would have been the harm in one little kiss? She should have kissed him. She could have used it for comparison if nothing else.

  "I shouldn't be interested. You're the kind of woman who should be married, and I don't intend to ever get married."

  "Why not?"

  "I've seen too many marriages end in divorce."

  "Your grandfather."

  His eyes narrowed. "And my father and mother, who have each been married twice. For a while they were considering naming the divorce court Carrigan Court."

  "Hasn't anyone in your family stayed married?"

  "None, not since my grandfather brought the infamous curse down upon our heads."

  "You don't believe in the curse."

  "I don't believe in much of anything."

  "That's too bad."

  "If you don't believe, you don't get hurt."

  And Alex had built so many walls to protect himself, he was trapped inside a fortress of his own making. No one could get in, but Faith also had the feeling he couldn't get out.

  "You should have longer hair," she said.

  His jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

  "Then you could let it down like Rapunzel, and I could climb up and rescue you." She sent him a whimsical smile.

  "I don't need rescuing."

  "Don't you?"

  "Don't be ridiculous." He laughed, as if she'd made a joke, when they both knew she hadn't.

  "Am I interrupting something?" Julian's voice broke the intimacy between them.

  "No," they replied at the same time, stepping away from each other in perfect unison.

  Julian looked from one to the other, a perceptive gleam in his crafty blue eyes. "I see."

  "You don't see," Faith said immediately. "I came to speak to you, not Alex. I'd like to see the pot again."

  "I thought you weren't interested in pursuing this."

  "I wasn't." Faith glanced at Alex, wishing he'd leave, but he seemed intent on listening to their conversation. "But I keep seeing the pot in my dreams."