Deeper Than Dreams (2 page)

***

If the devil was in the details, I began to wonder how in hell I was going to be able to pull off a night out. Not only was it another school night, I didn't have a sitter for Abbey and had only brought one change of clothes.

“She's in kindergarten, luv. What's one more day? The absence won't go on her college transcript,” Adrian teased as I voiced my concern.

“Yes, but—hey, don't try to ply me with bacon!” I protested, as he popped the last piece into my open mouth. “At the risk of sounding like Cinderella”—I tugged at the sash on the black terry robe I had appropriated from Adrian's closet—“I have nothing to wear to the ball.”

A chime echoed through the spacious apartment.

“Batphone!” Abbey announced. Adrian's intercom system was accessible from any room in the house, but in the kitchen it was still connected to its original hardware: an old school, corded telephone, which happened to be red.

Adrian had it to his ear in seconds flat. “G'morning to you, Hector. Yes, you can send them both up.”

“Company so early?” I asked. With Abbey in her footie pajamas and me in a borrowed bathrobe, we were the epitome of lazy houseguests. Our host, in a pair of beat-up board shorts and a hoodie zipped halfway up his naked, tatted chest, could at least pass for lounge-casual.

“No worries, Kat. They're family.” Adrian smiled as Abbey's vinyl-bottomed feet hit the floor. Summoned by a sharp rap on the door, she shuffled out to answer it.

“Unkie Luke! Unkie Kimon!” Her squeal found its way back to my ears in the kitchen.

“Adrian Graves, what do you have up your sleeve?”

My lover turned his palms up innocently and his eyebrows followed, but his smirk was anything but.

Out in the foyer, Abbey was dancing on the shoe-tips of my brother-in-law. Unlike us, Luke looked dressed for the elements in jeans and a windbreaker, his ever-present backpack swinging casually from one shoulder. It no doubt contained one of his professional cameras, and other essentials for whatever adventure he had next on his list. His fiancé was dressed similarly, burly and beautiful, like he had just stepped out of an outdoor outfitters catalog. No surprise, as Kimon and Luke had met on a modeling shoot. Tucked under his muscular arm was a stack of papers, which he now bequeathed to Adrian.

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Luke joked. “Thought we'd save you a trip to the newsstand today.”

“Ah, my press awaits! Thanks, mate.” Adrian eyed the pile with wary anticipation, as if it were a Trojan horse that had been pressed through a paper mill. Capable of surprise attacks.

“So . . . what brings you guys here?” I asked of the men I considered family. Adrian's impressive doorman building was hardly a “dropped-by-since-I-was-in-the-neighborhood” kind of place. Sure enough, the signature Lewis blush began to creep across Luke's cheeks. It was the same one that betrayed my late husband anytime he tried to keep even the most innocent secret from me. And on his brother, it extended up to the tip of his nose. It brought back a memory of watching the Lewis brothers lose spectacularly in a game of poker at a college party once.

“We're your fairy godfathers, Tree.” My childhood nickname sounded foreign as it echoed through the hallway of Adrian's palatial apartment. But like the man who spoke it, not exactly unwelcome. “Here to take Abbey out for the day . . . and evening. Got your bag packed, kid?” Luke held Abbey at arm's length and twirled her, while she still perched on his shoes like a mini-shadow.

“Fairy godfathers, you say?” I raised a brow and shot Adrian a look.

“Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, girlfriend,” Kimon said in his Greek god baritone, and struck a pose with an imaginary wand in the air. “You know it.”

I laughed. “Come on, Abb. Let's go upstairs and get you dressed and packed.”

As she and I wound our way up, Abbey chattering a mile a minute, I heard Luke ask Adrian in an impressed murmur, “You have an
upstairs
?”

“Go brush your teeth, kiddo. I'll get all your stuff together.” For Abbey, I had at least packed some additional changes of clothes, as accidents with a five-year-old were bound to happen. As I lay a fresh outfit out on the bed, something on her pillow caught my eye. It was a seashell, featherlight in my palm and just about the size of a nickel. I had never seen one so perfect before. And its color didn't look like anything found in nature, yet to the touch, it felt real. It began with a deep purple at its base, spreading to a bursting blue, and extended to the tips in a sea green, its outermost ridges highlighted in yellow.

“Abbey, where did you find this?” I asked, when she came trotting back in. She was, after all, staying in the room reserved for Natalie, and there were still many remnants of Adrian's daughter's rare visits left in the room. Like the Spice Girls poster, which I was surprised Adrian even let through the front door.

“Riff gave it to me.”

Ah. I stroked the shell's smooth underbelly with my thumb. I now had no doubt it was definitely real. As everything I knew about Riff Rotten was painfully genuine.

“You mean Adrian's friend, Rick? When?”

Abbey shook her jammies off where they clung stubbornly to her foot. “He told
me
to call him Riff.” She sniffed importantly. “And he gave it to me last night, before the big concert. It's a moonrise shell,” she added, “and he said they only grow in Hawaii.”

I gave a soft chuckle, imagining shell farms under cool Kauai water and crops of these beauties. I never thought about shells growing before. But I guessed they grew from the bottom up, increasing with size as they added material to their margins. I contemplated that as I helped Abbey dress.

“Can I bring it with me today?” my daughter pleaded. “For luck?”

“It looks like a pretty rare shell, Abb. I think you'd better keep it here, so you don't lose it. You can pack your new Max though. For luck.”

Abbey gave a squeeze to the new plush replica of Maxwell MacGillikitty, her favorite cartoon cat, before popping it on top of her clothes in her little backpack and zipping it up.

“All set?”

Abbey slung her backpack on and quoted the feline private eye. “I'm prepared to do what ordinary cats won't do!”

“All right then,” I laughed. “Be a good girl for the unkies, okay?”

“Will Chelsea be sad without us?”

Back downstairs, the tiniest occupant of Adrian's household was flopped, boneless and purring, in a spotlight of sun
shining through the living room window. “The kitty will be fine. I'll make sure she is fed and cuddled in her bed in the library before we leave tonight, too.”

The men were conferring in the foyer, and doling out handshakes. Had it really been four months ago that Adrian was willing to walk away from everything we had built at the mere assumption of a guy like Luke in my life?

He had of course assumed wrong, but only because I had built up walls and the memory of Pete until they loomed larger than the Cloisters tower, gray and severe. Adrian had had nothing to go on, except for the shrine of pictures haunting my house, and Luke was such a replica of his older brother that sometimes it was even hard for me to look him in the eye. Adrian had taken one look and convinced himself I was taking the safe way out, choosing caution over chaos by finding a more familiar specimen.

But as Pete had reminded me, in my most vivid dream of him, “there are all different kinds of love.” As was evident from the glance Luke and Kimon shared as they stood by the front door, small smiles playing on their handsome mouths. And from the hug Abbey now hurled Adrian's way, as she prepared to say good-bye to him.

“You're not going away again, right?” she asked, her lip curling in worry.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Adrian said, his clear blue eyes and grip on her bony shoulders just as emphatic as his tone. “Not anytime soon.”

“Except to the ball with Mommy!” Abbey sing-songed, attempting a wink that caused adult laughter to erupt through the hall. I mouthed my thanks to my brother-in-law and future brother-in-law, as Abbey launched into a guessing game of where the trio was headed for the day. “I hope it's the Cloisters again, where the unicorn lives! And can we go to Cowgirl for lunch, pleeeeease?”

“I hope that wasn't too forward of me.” Adrian closed the door and turned to me. “Finding care for Abbey tonight.”

“Are you kidding? You placed her in the best possible hands.”

“And what are you doing?”

There was amusement and desire lacing the lilt in his voice as I loosened the tie on his robe I wore, revealing my camisole and boy shorts. Their conservative, dark plaid pattern was unexpected in lingerie, and paired with black lace trim, made me feel like the epitome of sexy librarian.

“Now I'm”—I snaked my arms around his slim hips and pulled myself into his personal space—“placing
myself
in the best possible hands.”

He laughed softly and slid his fingertips, warm and calloused from guitar strings, along my collarbone. Closing my eyes, I relished his touch as it lingered down my neck. His thumb found my throat's soft hollow, and a sigh escaped me. The thick terry of the robe slipped down one shoulder, and his lips fell on the skin exposed there.

For the first time in almost two months, we were truly and finally alone. His travels had taken him to L.A. to reunite with Rick, then back home but surrounded by a myriad of media and music people in preparation for the show. I had shared him with twenty thousand adoring eyes last night, but now I was ready to be his audience of one. Solo show. Standing room
only.

I threaded my leg between his, inching my thigh closer to his growing interest.

“Easy, Tiger.” His new go-to phrase echoed back to our first unforgettable kiss, as hazardous as it had been heady. He had, in fact, taken my words and debuted them to music last night. And now he fell back on them as I attempted to nibble away his resolve. “Not so fast.”

“Mmm, but I want to hear you sing that to me. Now. Naked. In bed.” With each command, I tugged gently at his lips with mine. “God, I'm demanding, aren't I?”

“No, not demanding.” His reply fell softly against my mouth. “Deserving.”

He wove his fingers through my curls, latching on tight to my kiss. One shift in his stance and he had me hitched higher, riding on his muscular thigh and grinding shamelessly against him.

“Remember how I said today was all about you?” he breathed, reaching for the sash of the robe. He used it as leverage to pull me tighter against him. But in one deft move, he cinched it closed. “Sorry, luv . . .” The intercom bleated for attention on the wall behind him, and I heard the obnoxious follow-up ring of the Batphone in the kitchen. “. . . But I lied.”

***

“Not more company.” I groaned and reluctantly slid my bare feet to the floor. The hardwood was a cold insult after the heat and magnetism that had molded our bodies together. “Ignore it. Send them away.” But too late, Adrian had already taken the call.

“Yes, I've been expecting them. Thank you, Hector.”

“Yeah, Hector.” I pouted. “Thanks for nothing.”

Adrian just laughed, and hung up the receiver. “You'll like this surprise, promise.”

“Talk is cheap,” I said, hands on hips. I didn't need any more deliveries: no more roses or surprise kittens or mystery tickets or fairy godparents of any persuasion. I didn't need anything else. Just him.

“Then no more talk for a while.” His voice, along with the scruff of his goatee as he dipped to nuzzle where the robe met in a V, was rough. “Not when I'm paying these two by the hour.”

Adrian gave me no time to process his touch or his words before flinging open the front door. “
Hej
, Stefan! Sofie!”

Startling blue eyes met my gaze, under a swoop of white-blond hair. I don't think I had ever seen such a quintessentially beautiful human before . . . until his female counterpart stepped up and kissed Adrian on both cheeks. “
Tjenare
, Adrian.”

Like the Eskimos and their numerous words for “snow,” the Swedish couple Adrian introduced never repeated the same word twice, but they both seemed very happy to meet me.

“Morsning!”
Sofie clasped my hands warmly.

“
Halloj
, Katrina.” Stefan pierced me with his eyes and spoke barely above a whisper. “
Roligt att ses
.”

“If it's all right with you, luv, I'll take Stefan.” Adrian beckoned blithely. “It's been a while.”

“Um, shouldn't we have . . . discussed . . .” I waved my hands between Adrian and the blondness between us. “Are we planning on an open relationship here, because I'm not sure—”

“Kat!” There was surprise and delight in his laugh. “They're professional. Licensed. Massage therapists. Masseur”—he nodded as Stefan moved past us with his portable massage table—“and masseuse.” Sofie lugged her table in as well, and the couple began to assemble their tools over by the expanse of windows in the living room. “And yes, they're brother and sister as well.”

I sputtered an embarrassed laugh. “You could've just said that before the doorbell rang.”

“Yes, but where's the fun in that?” Adrian winked. He gave a slow stretch, and rubbed his lower back. “I'm not the young buck I once was. Playing a gig like that last night reminded me . . . 'twas murder on my back. Shoulders. Neck.”

I wrapped my arms around him and moved my hands along each spot, in consolation. “You were amazing up there last night.”

“I put on a brave front,” Adrian gave a modest smile. “And I want to be amazing for you tonight, when you're on my arm. So . . .” He flicked off the lights and tilted his head toward where our makeshift day spa was waiting. “
Tjohej nu drar vi igång.
Let's get started, shall we?”