Dream 3 - Finding the Dream (38 page)

"Mama bought them. They're my favorites."

"You came."

Michael halted his admiring study of Kayla's red shoes and lifted his gaze to Ali's face. She looked, he thought, so much like her mother just then, with that stunned wonder on her face and the emotion swimming in her eyes.

"I told you I would."

"I thought you'd forgotten. I thought you were too busy."

"Forget an invitation from a beautiful ballerina to watch her dance?" He shook his head as he straightened. "Boy, that wouldn't say much about my memory." Head cocked, he held out the bouquet of pink baby roses. "We do have a date, right? You didn't go call some other guy to take my place?"

"No. Are these for me?" Mouth open in a litle O of confused delight, she stared at the roses. "For me?"

"Who else?"

"For me." She breathed it, taking the flowers in her hands. "Thank you. Mama, Michael brought me flowers."

"I see." And her eyes stung a bit. "They're lovely."

"We'll use the Waterford." Annie stood a few steps back in the hall, her hands folded, her eyes on Michael's face. "When a girl receives her first flowers from a man, they should be treated as something very special."

"I want to put them in the vase myself."

"And so you should. It will only take a moment, Miss Laura."

"Yes, all right. Thank you, Annie."

"I'll help." Kayla raced down the hall. "Let me smell them, AH."

"Her first flowers," Laura murmured.

"Man, why do females always get wet-eyed over a bunch of posies?''

Which reminded him that he'd never given Laura flowers. Never real ones, just something plucked carelessly out of the ground. He'd never thought of it. Had never, he realized, given her anything but good, hot sex.

"Flowers are symbolic." And she remembered the pretty little wildflowers he'd given her. So sweet, so simple. So right.

"Everything is to women."

"You could be right." She turned back, beaming at him. "It was so thoughtful of you to bring them. And to come. I didn't realize she'd asked you. Had no idea she was counting on it."

"She asked me a couple of weeks ago." He dipped his hands in his pockets. Laura hadn't asked him, he remembered. Hadn't mentioned it. "I've managed to avoid ballet for thirty-four years. This ought to be an experience."

"I think you'll find it painless." She started toward him now, and he took his hand out of his pocket to take hers before she could touch him.

"So how are you?" he asked.

"Fine." Was he just tired, she wondered, or was this distance she felt? "Did things go well in L.A.?"

"Yeah, it went. They'll start shooting in about three weeks. We'll get a couple months' work out of it. Maybe more."

"You'll stay in L.A. during the filming," she said slowly as a weight sank in her stomach.

He shrugged. It wasn't the time to get into all of this, and he was spared when Ali marched back down the hall, bearing her vase of baby roses like a trophy.

"Don't they look beautiful, Mama? Annie's going to put them in my room."

"They're perfect. We really need to go. Performers have to be there thirty minutes before curtain."

"I'll take those now, sweetheart." Annie slipped the vase from Ali's hand. "And I'll be there to see you dance." She inclined her head toward Michael in what, from anyone else, he would have taken as a friendly smile. "We all will."

It wasn't impossible to put everything out of his mind for a couple of hours. The kid was so cute. All of them were. But it was hard to sit beside Laura, in the middle of all those people—the families, the partners, the couples—and not be miserable.

But he'd had time, and he'd had the distance to allow himself to take a good hard look at what was going on. And what was happening to him. He'd fallen for her, all the way.

It would never work.

He'd seen himself in the dingy little bar in south L.A., drinking beer and swapping stories with wranglers. Going back to his hotel room after a long day, sweaty, dirty, smelling of horse. And he'd seen himself growing up in a house that had breathed neglect and violence and tension.

He'd seen himself for what he was. A man who had chased all the wrong things most of his life and had found plenty of them. A cliff rat, son of a waitress and a wastrel, who would in time and with effort be able to make a decent living.

And he'd seen Laura, the Templeton heiress, sitting in her plush country club drinking tea, dressed in her tidy suit, running a fancy boutique, strolling through a grand hotel that she owned.

He didn't doubt that he'd given her something. Or that under different circumstances, they could give each other more. But it would be only a matter of time before the haze of lust cleared from her eyes and she saw what she was doing. Having an affair with a horse trainer.

They were both better off that he'd seen it first. Knowing her, he doubted she would be able to break it off clean. She was too soft, too kind, to walk without guilt. Worse, she might continue the relationship long after she'd realized her mistake because of that sterling sense of obligation.

He was no good for her. He knew it. The people who knew both of them understood it. Eventually she would know it. And it would kill him.

Maybe if he hadn't run into that old buddy of his in L.A., the old merchant marine stevedore he'd shipped with, drunk with, raised hell with. One of the men who had gone to war with him for profit after the sea lost its lure.

But they had run into each other. And the stories were rehashed, the memories swam back. And for one harsh, illuminating moment, he had looked into the surly, bitter, used-up face of the man across from him. And had seen himself.

Michael Fury was a man he never wanted to touch Laura, a man he never wanted her to know. If such a man tried to touch her, to know her, she would cringe in shock.

Before either of them had to cope with that, he would do her a favor and slip out of her life.

As AH twirled on stage, Laura laid a hand over his and squeezed. And broke his heart.

"Don't they look wonderful?" Margo murmured.

Beside her, Josh tapped his foot absently to the music and continued to watch his niece. "They're all great, but Ali's the best."

"Naturally." She chuckled a little, leaned closer to his ear. "But I was talking about Laura and Michael."

"Hmm?" Distracted, he shifted and glanced at the couple one row in front of them. "Laura and Michael what?"

"They're wonderful together."

"Yeah, I guess…" He trailed off, stunned as the meaning seeped in. "What do you mean'together'?"

"Ssh." She shushed him, fighting back another laugh. "Together, together. What, are you blind?"

His throat went dry and tight. "They're not seeing each other. They're not dating."

"Dating." She had to clamp a hand over her mouth. "For God's sake, Josh, they've been sleeping together for weeks. How could you not know?"

"Sleeping—" Shock, rage, disbelief all slammed together against the words. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Because Laura told me," she hissed into his ear. "And because, if she hadn't, I have eyes in my head. Ssh," she ordered when he opened his mouth. "You're annoying people. And here's Ali's solo."

He shut his mouth, but not his mind. He had a great deal to think about. And as far as he was concerned, his old pal Michael Fury had a great deal to answer for.

There'd been nothing he could do about it that night but go home and grill his wife. Then argue with her over the situation. Josh put her attitude down to female hormones. Women found Michael romantic—which had always been his good luck and was the crux of the current problem.

Josh found him in the paddock, working a yearling on the lounge line. "I need to talk to you, Fury."

Michael recognized the tone. Something was stuck in Josh's craw. He wasn't in the mood for it, not when he was still thinking about the baffled hurt on Laura's face the night before when he'd given her a quick pat on the head and told her he was beat.

In other words, I'm going to bed, sugar, and you're not invited.

Still, he released the yearling and walked to the fence where Josh waited. "So talk."

"Are you sleeping with my sister?"

Ah, well, the time had come. "We don't sleep much," Michael said easily and braced when Josh's hand whipped out and gripped his shirt. "Watch it, Harvard."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Who the hell do you think you are? I asked her to rent this place to you. Do you a favor, and you just jump right in."

"I didn't jump alone." Damned if he'd take the rap for that. "She's a big girl, Josh. I didn't lure her into the stables promising her candy. I didn't force her."

The idea of it curdled his blood, then shamed him. "You wouldn't have to," he shot back. "You forget who you're talking to. I know you, Mick. 1 know your style. Christ, we cruised together often enough."

"Yeah, we did." Eyes level, Michael pried Josh's fingers off his shirt. "But that was all right, the two of us going out sniffing out babes."

"This is my sister."

"I know who she is."

"If you knew, if you had any idea what she's been through the past few years, how easily bruised she is, you'd stay the hell away from her. The women you played with always knew the rules, went in for the game. That's not Laura."

"And because she's your sister, because she's a Templeton, she's not entitled to play." Bitterness rose like bile. "Certainly not with me."

"I trusted you," Josh said quietly. "I always trusted you. It's one thing for you to hit on Kate, and on Margo, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand back and watch you make it three for three."

His eyes went very cold, very hard. At his side his fist clenched, and in his mind he saw it strike out, fast. It took all of his will and a lifetime of friendship not to follow through.

"Get the fuck away from me. Now."

"You want to take a swing, you take one. We've gone around before."

Not like this, Michael thought as his system revved toward violence. Now they were men, and the stakes were higher. And if he had any family, any that really mattered, this was it, standing here right now, prepared to break his neck.

"Why don't we try this instead—I'll be out by the end of the week. I've already started making the arrangements."

Torn now between friendship and family, Josh narrowed his eyes. "What arrangements? You barely have your foundation up on the new construction."

"I'll probably sell it as is once I've relocated to L.A. Is that far enough away from your sister, Harvard? Or do I have to go to hell?"

"When did this come up?"

"Do I have to check that with you too? Go away, Josh. I'm busy here and you've made your point."

"I'm not sure I have." And as he watched his oldest friend walk away, Josh was no longer sure what the point was.

He knew she would come. There was no way to avoid or prevent it. They hadn't been together in two weeks, and she would expect him to want her. Of course he did, pitifully.

But he wouldn't touch her. It was only worse now. He'd nearly talked himself out of his earlier decision, had told himself he could find a way to make it work between then. The visit from Josh had snapped things back into reality.

He would make it clean, he would make it quick.

She would be hurt, a little. There was no way to avoid or prevent that either. But she would get over it.

Still, though he'd known she would come, he hadn't expected her so soon, hadn't expected himself to be so unprepared when he saw her standing in his doorway with the sun in her hair and her eyes so pure, so gray, so warm.

"I took off from the shop a little early," she began. She knew she was talking quickly, bubbling over with nerves. Something was wrong. She could have been deaf and blind and still have sensed it. "I thought since my parents were taking the girls into Carmel for dinner, I'd see if you'd like me to fix yours."

"Women like you don't cook, sugar. They have cooks."

"You'd be surprised." She came in, not waiting for the invitation, and swung past him into the kitchen. "Mrs. Williamson taught us all, including Josh, at least the basics. I make an exceptional fettuccine Alfredo. I thought I'd see what you had before I brought over ingredients."

Seeing her poking around the kitchen as if she belonged there, as if he could come home after a hard day and find her cheerfully waiting for him, tore him apart. So his voice was cool and careless.

"I'm not much on fancy sauces, sugar."

"Well, we'll try something else." Why wouldn't he say her name? she wondered, fighting panic. He hadn't once said her name since he'd come home. She turned to him and couldn't prevent herself from leading with her heart. "Oh, I missed you, Michael. So much."

She was halfway across the room, reaching for him. He could all but feel the way her soft, delicate arms would wrap around his neck. He stepped back, lifted both hands to ward her off.

"I'm filthy. I haven't had a chance to jump in the shower. You wouldn't want to mess up a nice silk blouse."

Why should it matter? He'd once torn one off her. He hadn't held her in days. Yet he stood there now with—was it boredom in his eyes?

"What is it, Michael?" Her stomach jittered, echoed in her voice. "Are you angry with me?"

Deliberately he tilted his head. "Why do you do that? Why do you always assume that whatever's going on around you is your fault or your responsibility? That's a real problem you've got there," he added as he walked past her to get a beer out of the refrigerator.

He twisted off the top, drank deep. "Do I look mad to you?"

"No." She folded her hands, gathered her composure. "No, you don't. You look vaguely annoyed that I'm in your way. I assumed you'd want me to come, that you'd want to be with me tonight."

"It's a nice thought, but don't you think this has run its course?"

"This?"

"You and me, sugar. We've taken this about as far as it's going to go." He tipped the beer back again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Listen, you're a hell of a woman. I like you. I like your style, in bed and out. But we both know we've got to move on eventually."