Handful of Dreams (21 page)

She didn’t try to tell him she thought it was ridiculous to install an alarm system when an incident like a break-in at the beach house would be like a sighting of Halley’s comet—one that could only possibly occur every seventy-six years. After all, he did own half the house.

“Fine,” she murmured, settling into the passenger’s seat, wishing once again that she had the nerve to ask him if she could drive. She didn’t know why she didn’t, and that annoyed her too—so much so that she at last broke the uncomfortable silence between them, asking, “Why do you hate women, Mr. Lane?”

He gazed her way, obviously startled, then he frowned, shaking his head and returning his focus to the road. “I don’t hate women, Miss Anderson. I’m rather fond of them in general, as a matter of fact. I’m rather decent for this day and age, I think. I send candy and flowers—”

Susan interrupted him with a laugh. “I’m willing to bet your secretary sends the flowers! And those, Mr. Lane, are nothing but appearance. I believe that you are not at all fond of women and that you automatically think the worst of us!”

His gaze flashed back to her quickly—too quickly to search for meaning in his sharp frosty eyes. “Hardly, Miss Anderson. I don’t tend to ‘think the worst.’”

“Like hell you don’t,” Susan muttered.

She didn’t know if he heard her or not; he didn’t reply. Moments later they were pulling the Porsche into a private airfield. The mechanic on duty apparently had the responsibility of returning the car; he took the keys, spoke casually about the weather being great, then assured David that his plane had been thoroughly maintenanced and that his flight plan was logged.

It was a small, sharp-looking Cessna that could seat six at most. Susan did love planes and the wonder of flying. She must have looked disappointed when David suggested that she sit in back, because, despite his formal coolness that morning, he relented and said that perhaps she would prefer sitting up front.

The flight took them two hours; two nice, peaceful hours. The weather was beautiful, and her enthusiasm was such that David Lane couldn’t help but be the perfect host, pointing out landmarks, explaining the power of the wind on such a small craft. He stayed out over the water for most of the flight, yet she could see Manhattan to the west when he pointed it out to her. She saw Statue of Liberty and the great rise of the indomitable buildings against the horizon.

He landed in another private field in New Jersey. There was no rental car here but rather a chauffeur-driven limo awaiting them, one that was equipped with the works—phone, bar, stereo, even a small television.

Susan wished they’d taken the train or a bus, anything but the chauffeur-driven limousine. She found herself wondering about David Lane’s use of the car. Was this where he entertained the women of whom he was fond? She felt terribly penned in with him; terribly aware of him. And painfully aware that the camaraderie they had shared in the plane was gone, erased, as if it had never been. He was polite, offering her a drink, asking if she was comfortable. That was all. They went from New Jersey to New York almost touching, yet they might as well have been miles away.

In the city, David tapped on the window to the front. “The St. Regis first, please, Julian. That’s right, isn’t it, Miss Anderson?”

She didn’t bother to ask how he knew where her hotel reservations were—John had obviously mentioned the hotel, just as he had mentioned her other plans. And, of course, it was true—her whereabouts could hardly be considered a state secret.

“Yes, thank you,” Susan said coolly, suddenly very exhausted. What difference did any of it make? If she held on to one iota of her pride, she would rightly despise him for his cold, ruthless judgment and his heated, deceptive passion.

But maybe that was the point. She just couldn’t forget, and she still couldn’t believe that anyone could be so tender and so temptuous and then … leave her a check.

Why not? He could wear any variety of masks. He was being civil; she was being civil. It was the most that could be hoped for, the most that she wanted. No! She didn’t want anything. She wanted to forget that he existed, to get on with her own life.

“By the way, Miss Anderson,” he said suddenly, glancing her way. “I’m curious. What was your major in college?”

“Psychology,” Susan replied curtly.

He laughed. “That figures!”

“Why?”

“It explains your determination to find some elusive trauma in my past life.”

“Was there one?”

“Everyone’s life is filled with trauma, Miss Anderson. Isn’t it?”

She smiled sweetly. “Some more than others.”

“Did you ever use your training, Miss Anderson?”

She hesitated only briefly. “Yes. But you seem to be confused, Mr. Lane. I’m not a psychiatrist, just a student of behavioral sciences. Although I must say, you do make a fine specimen for such a study.”

He arched a brow. “So do you, Miss Anderson, so do you.” He twisted around. “We’re here, the St. Regis.”

Yes, they were. They had arrived. Julian opened the door, and David helped her from the car. A porter was there for her luggage.

“Well, thank you for getting me here,” Susan murmured. He didn’t reply but walked her through the small elegant lobby to the registration desk.

There he left her at last. “Have a pleasant stay in New York, Miss Anderson,” he said, inclining his head slightly, then walking away.

And somehow, watching him leave, straight, broad-shouldered, completely casual, Susan did hate him all over again.

He was gone, out of her life at last! she thought. But it wasn’t as comfortable a thought as it should have been. It left her shivering.

She should see the attorneys and turn the beach house over to him. Then he really would be out of her life.

But stubbornly she refused to do so. She checked into her room and took a long hot shower. Confused with the turmoil of her feelings, she tiredly curled up on her bed and stared up at the moldings on the ceiling.

Susan didn’t understand any of it at all, but she was still determined that hell could freeze over before she gave David Lane anything.

O
N SUNDAY AFTERNOON DAVID
picked up Vickie Jameson and they went to an early dinner. He commented on her clothing, asked her about work, and managed to look mildly interested while she chatted about the ups and downs of a model’s life.

There was a musician playing on the street corner, and they stopped to listen. But when he had walked her to the door of her apartment and she asked him in, he knew he wasn’t fooling himself, and he wondered if he was fooling her. He didn’t want to go in.

“I’ve got an early morning—Monday, you know,” he told her. “And I just flew back this morning. I’m beat.”

She laughed softly, the warm, friendly woman she was naturally. “I can make it all better.”

He took both her hands, kissed them, and stepped back, shaking his head. “Not tonight, Vick.”

“How about a Tuesday dinner here?”

“I—oh, no. I’ve got a business appointment Tuesday that might run late. I’ll see you on the weekend, okay?”

“Seems as if I don’t have a choice,” Vickie murmured, her eyes on him curiously. “Something has a hold on you, David. Something has a tight hold.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m just tired. See you soon, hmm?” He kissed her forehead and hurried away.

That night, lying awake in his spacious apartment, he thought about Vickie’s words. He knew that it wasn’t something that had a hold on him, but someone. He closed his eyes against the night, wincing as tension tightened his muscles with a cruelty that wouldn’t let up. What was it? What was it about her that had wound around him, snared him and kept him from everything else?

Was it her eyes, was it her face? Was it the night they had spent together? Was it her voice? Just what was it that was so deadly fascinating to him…?

And had been to his father too. “Ah, Dad!” he whispered to the room. She’d admitted to being little better than a well-kept prostitute, and still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Seeing her in his mind’s eye, again and again, naked, beside him, touching him, creating magic…

He opened his eyes and twisted, staring out the skylight. It was a full moon, and full moons were known to have their effect. Maybe that was it. And he had just left her this morning after two days and one full night in her company, seeing her imprisoned by that wretched Harry Bloggs, after a night in which they had talked, dined, enjoyed themselves.

Until he had been so curtly reminded that he was “dating” his deceased father’s mistress.

“Leave it be; leave her be. Nothing can change that fact,” he told the moon.

At length he fell asleep, and his dreams were of a far distant past. He was in the dreams, but he wasn’t the man he was now. He saw the boy he had been at twenty, grown tall but thin, responsible, but still with that edge of youth. The edge that allowed a man to be trusting, to care intensely. To fall in love.

She was a beautiful woman. Her hair wasn’t chestnut and fire red, it was black. She was petite, large-breasted, slim-hipped. He could still remember watching her, thinking that he would gladly die in her arms…. And he had almost done so. He still had the scar on his back to remember her by. He saw her in his dream, coming to him, smiling.

And just before the blade touched his flesh, she changed. She was a redhead with shimmering green eyes, eyes filled with innocence and liquid beauty. Then he felt the searing pain of the knife.

He woke up shaking, drenched with perspiration. In a moment he knew that he was in his apartment, that Hong Kong was more than ten years behind him. David stretched out, tensing, relaxing, letting the air move over his burning flesh.

It seemed strange that the dream would come back to him after all these years, stranger still that Yvonne LaRue changed into Susan Anderson. A psychologist would have a heyday with it!

Susan Anderson was a psychologist.

He groaned, rolled over, and hugged his pillow around his head. Nothing brought sleep. Eventually the moon faded as the first streaks of dawn rose. Thank God. He could get up and go to work.

In the office he was careful to be charming. By ten, however, he couldn’t help asking Erica if Lena Sands in publicity was set for her meeting with Miss Anderson.

“Oh, yes. They’re having a late lunch at the hotel.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk. “We should have sent her flowers,” he murmured.

“I’ll take care of it,” Erica told him.

“No.” David stood up. “No, I’ll take care of it myself. The florist we use is just downstairs, isn’t he?”

“No, across the street.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He did it himself; a combination of a dozen red and a dozen white roses. He hesitated over the card, smiled a little grimly, then wrote: “Lane Publications welcomes you to New York. David Lane.”

When he returned from a four o’clock meeting with the art department, Erica told him that Miss Anderson had called to thank him.

“Am I supposed to return her call?” he asked.

“No, I don’t suppose so. She just said thank you.”

David nodded and locked himself in his office.

He stayed in the office, working until almost ten. It was the one way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t wander over to the St. Regis on one pretext or another. Before he left, he found himself staring out the window to the street, musing. He’d gone back to Maine in a fury to get her out of the house; his fury had done an about-face. It was true; he wanted nothing more than to leave her alone. And he could do it. It was all a matter of will, nothing more. She was haunting his days and nights, but that was a matter of time. All he had to do was let enough time pass by….

Tuesday morning he had a racquetball session with B. J. Jones, a friend and competitor from Taryton Press. He played with rugged strength, taking out all his confusion and frustration on the ball. B. J. bought him a coffee after the game and told him he’d won because he wasn’t married. “Sally spent all night harping at me to buy a house in Connecticut,” B. J. said with a moan. “I don’t think I slept two hours. Oh, to be free!”

David smiled and drained his coffee. “Sure. I get to sleep whenever I want,” he murmured dryly.

The meeting that he’d been afraid would last into the night on Tuesday didn’t last an hour. He had convinced himself to stop by Vickie’s when Erica poked her nose in the door.

“I’m about to leave. Anything else you need?”

“No thanks, Erica.” Then he frowned, wondering why she looked so nervous. “Come on in.” He grinned at her. “What’s the problem? I thought you had a date with John tonight.”

Erica perched in the chair in front of his desk. “I did—I mean, I do. I’m not so sure I want to go.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. “I shouldn’t say this. I mean, she is one of our authors.”

“What are you talking about?” David asked, suddenly tense, his fingers winding around his pencil.

Erica flushed. “John. Susan Anderson is his client, you know. She’s still in town … and John asked if I minded her coming along. Apparently they didn’t have much time together on Monday, and … well, actually, he wanted to change our date. I told him that I was just thrilled to have Miss Anderson along. Which, of course, I’m not, really, because I hear that she’s only about twenty-six and absolutely gorgeous.”

“She is twenty-six, Erica,” David said, trying to smile. “You’ve seen her.”

“I have?”

“Yes, she was here last February. Remember? The hat, the sable coat?”

“Oh!” Erica looked even more miserable. “Oh, no! Our Miss Anderson is that Miss Anderson?”

Before he really knew what he was doing, David was on his feet. “Come on.”

“Come on?”

“Yes, come on. I’ll tag along for dinner and keep my arm around your gorgeous redhead all night, okay?”

“Oh, David, will you really? I just hate to ruin your evening.”

The gratitude in her eyes made him feel horribly guilty. He grimaced. Susan Anderson had already ruined the majority of his evenings because he was incapable of forgetting just one.

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” he murmured. But then again, he wasn’t really.