Handful of Dreams (7 page)

“But I’m afraid I’d feel a little tainted,” he continued pleasantly.

“What?”

She stared into his eyes, the blood draining from her face. His pleasant, searching smile brought home the import of his words, and the raging desire to tear into him again was almost more than she could bear.

She pushed away from the counter, lifting her chin as she strode past him in the shadows.

“Miss Anderson?”

She ignored him and walked back to the parlor. He followed her but didn’t touch her. He blocked the stairway, leaning idly against the banister.

“I think it only decent to warn you: I’m afraid you can’t call the police. We lost the phone wires while I was talking to Jerry.”

He was staring at her very curiously. She wondered what he could see. Here—away from the glow of the fire—it was very dark. She could see little herself, except for the casual stance of his form and the glint in his eyes.

“Would you excuse me, please, Mr. Lane?” she said politely.

“Why?”

“I’d like to go up to my room.”

“I’m sorry. You can’t.”

“Why on earth not?” she exploded.

“Because he said not to let you sleep for several hours.”

“Oh, good God!” He still didn’t move, and Susan was sure that he wouldn’t. Even in the shadows she could see—or perhaps sense—something else about him that was heart-wrenchingly like his father. He had a certain twist to his jaw, a determined jut that meant neither hell nor high water would move him.

She turned around again and strode back to the kitchen. He followed her.

Back by the refrigerator she spun to face him. “Have a heart, Mr. Lane. Some semblance of one, at least! I will not pass out again. I will not drop dead and disturb your conscience. Please—let me be someplace where you aren’t!”

“I wish I could,” he whispered softly.

Returning his gaze, she found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Mesmerized for the passage of countless seconds. The way he looked at her … there was a real sense of sorrow, almost wistfulness, in his eyes. And more. A certain scrutiny that made her feel hot inside. Nervous and uneasy … and breathless, her heart pounding too hard within her chest.

He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Darkness greeted him, and he emitted a soft groan, turned to get a candle, then returned with it to study the contents. “In regard to your earlier comment,” he muttered, “I’m starving at the moment. What have you got in here?”

“If you’re starving,” she said tartly, “you should be grateful that I was around or else there wouldn’t have been a thing to eat.”

“Ah, but if you weren’t here, I could have merely taken the brandy bottle up to bed.”

“You’re quite welcome to do so.”

“What’s this stuff in the tinfoil?”

“Chicken.”

“Cooked?”

“Yes.”

“Dynamite.” He picked up the bowl and held it out for her to retrieve. She hesitated. “Take the damn thing!”

With a sigh Susan took it and set it on the table. With everything else it seemed absurd to make a stand against a bowl of chicken.

“Anything else in here that’s good cold?” he asked.

“Potato salad,” she replied. “Lettuce. Tomatoes.”

“A feast,” he muttered.

Susan remained by the table. She watched him as he found the items she had mentioned, set the candle on the counter, and began to wash the lettuce. She didn’t move as he deftly prepared a salad.

When he was done, he turned to her with a certain annoyance. “You could have set the table.”

“I’m not hungry,” she replied.

“That’s a bad sign,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Maybe you should lie down with the ice on your head for a while—”

He broke off as she moved, flushing despite herself, afraid that he might come over and run his fingers through her scalp once more.

Her fingers were shaking again as she pulled out the silverware drawer, and she hoped he couldn’t see them. It had occurred to her then that, although she might have “tainted” his righteous fingers, he had undressed her. He wasn’t just a stranger; he was the arrogant bastard who had jumped to conclusions, wronged her—and despised her. He’d not only seen her completely naked—he’d also made her that way.

And to her horror she was afraid of his touch in more ways than one. In some dark and fascinating way, even as he stalked and baited her, he beguiled her. Dear Lord! How she wanted to get away from him….

As serenely as possible she set the table. David placed the candle between them.

“What’s there to drink?”

“There’s a bottle of white wine—”

“I wouldn’t dream of drinking without you.”

“I’d love a glass of wine.”

“I don’t think you should.”

Well, that sounded absolute enough. “Pity,” she murmured, “it might have made you bearably palatable.”

“What’s nonalcoholic?”

“The brown pitcher is iced tea.”

“It’s hard to tell what’s brown….”

Not thinking, she brushed past him. He was solid and warm, and she could sense the muscle structure beneath the sleeves of his sweater.

“This is brown,” she said quickly, thrusting the pitcher into his hands, then sweeping to the table. It was a square table with small Early American chairs, little diamonds carved out of their backs, and cheery cushions tied to the seats. Susan sat.

He poured the tea and joined her. The table was too small. Her knee brushed his.

She folded her legs in the other direction.

He started to reach for the chicken, then frowned and reached beneath him, pulling a slim book from the chair. Susan felt her heart catch. She couldn’t help but watch him as his eyes narrowed and he studied the book in the flickering light.

“
Night of a Thousand Storms,
by S. C. de Chance,” he murmured. He studied the cover, then shrugged with little interest, placing it by the candle. His eyes fell on hers.

“Science fiction?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “The new romantic kind?”

“Yes.”

“Full of sex scenes?”

“A few.”

“Yours, I assume,” he said politely. “My father was never big on romance.”

A breath escaped her. She wondered why she had been so nervous; there was nothing to give her away. And if he did know, what of it?

She stared at her plate, pushing potato salad around with her fork. It did matter. She was still consumed with that furious urge to taunt him with his own despicable misconceptions.

“Yes, it’s mine,” she said curtly. Then she smiled at him winningly. “But you are wrong, you know. Your father read everything. He always said that—”

“Good writing was good writing; it didn’t matter the topic, the category, or the style.”

“Precisely.” She pushed more potato salad around. “Do you write, Mr. Lane?”

“Not a word, Miss Anderson. I love the business, but I’m hopeless at the quest myself. You’re not eating.”

“I told you,” she murmured uneasily, “I’m really not hungry.” And before he could press her, she quickly asked, “How long am I supposed to stay awake?”

David was busy pulling apart a piece of cold chicken. “I’m not really sure. The line went dead when we were in the middle of that conversation. I guess midnight would be all right.”

Midnight. How far away was that? She tried unobtrusively to lean over and look at his watch. He noticed her effort and offered up his wrist.

“Eight
P.M
., Miss Anderson.”

Four more hours in his company. They stretched out like an eternity. She’d rather be in a hospital!

“You’d get a few minutes reprieve if you ate,” he told her.

Startled, she noted that there was a teasing gleam around his eyes, as if he did have a sense of humor. A pleasant sense of humor—quite possibly—if she were anyone else in the world.

“Then I’ll have a piece of chicken,” she muttered, and he laughed.

There was silence for a moment, then to her surprise he pushed back his chair a bit, and she gazed up, aware that he was watching her. “I want to apologize—”

“You’re going to apologize to me?” she said incredulously, and couldn’t help but add a sweet, “Will wonders never cease!”

She should have left it alone. His mouth stretched out tightly, taking on a grim, white hue.

“Not for my opinion of the situation—or anything I said to you about it, or yourself. I’m apologizing because I called a truce for the evening and broke it. If we’re going to survive it, though, the truce needs be put back in place.”

“Why the hell don’t you just let me go to bed?”

He shook his head. “I really can’t. Jerry was insistent that I watch you.”

“For what? If I did fall over, there would be nothing to do, anyway!”

“Yes, there would. I’ve got a list of instructions.”

“This really is ridiculous.”

“Maybe, Miss Anderson, but you’re right about one thing: I really don’t want your injury on my conscience. So that’s the way it is.”

Her jaw was solidly locked; her eyes snapped with more fire than the candle’s flame. He laughed.

“Poor, poor Miss Anderson! It really is a hell of a situation, isn’t it? You’re accustomed to calling the shots, ruling the old manor. It’s unthinkable for you to be trapped into taking orders. And there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. No police to call, no way out.”

“I’m sure there will be a way eventually,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll just get past you and lock myself up somewhere!”

He laughed, and she sensed that humor in his eyes again. “But you won’t do that, will you? Because, of course, I’d just come after you and haul you back.”

“Oh, but, Mr. Lane!” she proclaimed, her eyes very wide and sweetly naive, “You wouldn’t want to do that! You’d have to touch me and you might get your elegant little fingers tainted and grimy.”

“My fingers are neither elegant nor little, and sometimes I like to play in the mud, Miss Anderson.”

“I’m quite sure, Mr. Lane, that you’ve played in truck-loads of it!”

To her surprise he chuckled softly again, then lifted his tea glass to her, eyes studying her in an appraising fashion. “Perhaps, Miss Anderson, I should have made your acquaintance earlier. I might have been more understanding. You’ve got an angel’s beauty and a devil’s wit. I can see how you managed to garner his heart and soul—and his mind.”

“I did love his mind,” Susan replied pleasantly. “And his soul and his heart and just … every little thing about him.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” David muttered. He pushed back his chair and picked up his plate, methodically scraping chicken bones into the trash, then filling the sink with dish detergent. “Do you play Scrabble?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I do. But I’m not sure I care to play with you.”

“Don’t you think it would be better than baiting one another for the next four hours?”

“I think it would be better if you let me go to bed.”

He hesitated. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“I’ll get the Scrabble board.”

She stood, delved into a side drawer for another candle, lit it from the first, and returned to the parlor.

The board didn’t fit on the coffee table. She set it up before the fire and brought two of the throw pillows down from the couch for seats. She glanced at the setup a little uneasily. It looked very intimate and cozy. Maybe she should have taken it back to the kitchen.

“Want some hot chocolate out there?” he called suddenly.

“Ah—I guess.”

Susan grimaced, looking out at the storm. She was in an intolerable position, and it seemed as if the weather were laughing at her on top of everything else. The rain hadn’t abated at all. With a sigh she sank down to her pillow and began turning all the letters over in the box.

Bringing the hot chocolate out on a small silver tray, David paused involuntarily in the doorway. His fingers tightened around the tray; his muscles seemed to quiver, then contract.

Yes, he could see so clearly how she could seduce and lay claim to a man. Her head was slightly lowered as she sat there, and the fire touched her hair, making glittering gems of the red highlights. It had dried now; it streamed over her shoulders like a satin cloak, contrasting beautifully with the white terry robe. She looked so soft, so feminine, her long elegant fingers with their red nails moving over the letters in the box. Very feminine … the
V
of that robe not at all too low but falling just a shadowed half inch from her flesh as she moved. Maybe the shadows were so alluring to him because he knew what lay beneath. And maybe, if he’d never seen her before, he would be every bit as beguiled.

More so. If he didn’t know her, he would be compelled to go to her, to touch her, to talk to her and whisper gentle words. He would want her, want to seduce her, to feel the brush of her hair against his shoulders, the slim length of her thighs against his own.

He closed his eyes and a new image rose before him: this woman, with her deep russet hair, standing slowly, shedding the robe. Stretching like a cat before the sultry flames, her breasts rising high and taut, the smooth line of her stomach flattening even further, enhancing the narrow curve of her waist, the flare of her hips…. She would smile, that slow, taunting smile, and a man would step forward. His hand would slide along her bare side to her hip and rest there, pulling her against him….

A man. He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, fighting dizziness. The man had been his father, and her sensuous smiles and liquid beauty and talent had been for sale.

He gave himself a little shake. What the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t exactly starved. He was no kid dragged out of a jungle after months of abstinence. Sexual play was easy to come by these days. Maybe too easy. He didn’t remember what it was like to want a woman and not find her equally enthused. Or to be wanted himself and smile and play the game. Only the kid he had once been felt like he did now; so entranced, so shaky, so hot and on fire, as if having her were the most important thing on earth.

Ass! He thought self-accusingly. Just like he had been that one fool time when he had learned how badly it could hurt and destroy to fall in love.

She had been his father’s mistress. She hadn’t tried once to defend her mercenary position. She had bled Peter, and she was still here, gloating over her earnings.