Handful of Dreams (12 page)

Susan smiled, lowering her head. “You’ll be thirty-five on November second. Your middle name is Daniel, you were an incorrigible child, you graduated from Columbia, you spent three years in the Air Force. You’ve been president and major stockholder of Lane Publications for the past seven years, and you despise artichokes and anchovies. You were an absolutely adorable child on a bearskin rug once, though what happened to that cute little kid, I’ll never know.”

He watched her, neither smiling nor scowling, while she went on with her recital. Then he shrugged. “I’m rather at a disadvantage, aren’t I? My, my, Miss Anderson, you are a veritable encyclopedia on my life.”

Only the brandy could have brought out her next taunting words. “Not really. I told you, I listened to your father, to anything that he had to say. But, of course, your father didn’t know everything. He seemed to have thought that there was some trauma in your life that he missed out on. Something, somewhere, that turned you against natural feeling. Love, in his opinion—consideration in mine. Was there a trauma, Mr. Lane? Haven’t you ever been in love?”

He seemed very relaxed. She didn’t see his fingers clench around the stem of his snifter.

“Trauma?” He arched a brow pleasantly. “Sorry, I don’t recall any great trauma. And, yes, I’ve been in love. At least a dozen times. Hasn’t everyone?”

She lowered her head, feeling a little guilty. It wasn’t the response she had wanted—it was a light, polite response that left her feeling as if she had been disciplined for getting too personal.

She looked up, sensing his movements. He had stood up and was now standing over her. He lowered slowly, down on a knee, and tilted her chin with his knuckle, drawing her eyes to his. “Hasn’t everyone, Miss Anderson?” he whispered in a husky refrain.

“I wouldn’t know,” she murmured in return.

She should have jerked from him then and reminded him that she didn’t want him touching her, that he had already labeled her as everything bad beneath the sun.

She didn’t. Later she would never understand why. She didn’t even know exactly why she didn’t at the moment.

But that was exactly it, really. The moment. The moment was everything; the fire burning in the grate, creating mysterious shadows and beautiful glows; the storm raging outside; the intimate comfort that their sheltered haven provided.

It was the man touching her, searching out her eyes, his own so strange, as if he were mystified himself.

And he was, of course. He had just been sitting there, watching her. Watching the firelight play against her hair, the way her eyes glimmered like emeralds in the night. He was mesmerized by the beautiful, delicate contours of her face, the length of her fingers curling around her glass. The storm outside had come in; it played havoc, sending vengeful winds through him, and he knew he had to touch her….

And none of the words said meant anything. He forgot who she was, why they were together. He remembered only the sweet innocence in her face each time she saw that he was truly concerned and she assured him that she was really all right

And now … now he plucked the brandy glass from her fingers and absently placed it on the table. He looked into her eyes and became as hopelessly entangled there as she had become in the sea.

She was for sale, he tried to remind himself, and not even that to him—or so she claimed.

Not even that mattered.

“You are,” he told her, “the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Heaven help me or the devil take me.”

And that was it. He kissed her.

From the moment that his lips touched hers Susan knew that it was going to be no light play. His mouth was everything that she had imagined: gentle, coercive, firm … so undeniable. The stroke of his tongue was a liquid fire that engulfed her, probed her, demanded, and so subtly took everything that she was barely aware she had been seduced to surrender before the battle had begun. Her breathing grew ragged and her heart stopped, then raced ahead recklessly as it sent blood pounding through her veins.

And still, still she had a chance to run. His lips parted from hers; his eyes, cobalt now, questioned her. She might have been hypnotized. She couldn’t even shake her head. She couldn’t begin to voice the no that raged, ignored, in the depths of her soul.

He stroked her cheek softly and then again; it was all over for her. She was swept down into the comforter, and his arms were around her, his knee wedged between hers, the slit in the robe falling away easily.

He was kissing her again. Hungrily his fingers twined through her hair, his lips moving restlessly now and then to touch her forehead, her cheeks, the corners of her mouth. His hand was on her throat, stroking it….

Her arms had slipped around his neck. There was no excuse for it, would never be. She wanted him. He had awakened yearnings she thought she had left behind to voyage out into a sea of pain, always the strong one, the one to be there, serene…

She was anything but serene. She was alive, and he was masculinely beautiful, seducing everything within her. The wanting wasn’t shy, though she trembled. It was fierce, showing her that she was alive, on fire, a part of the tempest outside, a part of the blaze burning in the grate. Oh, God, yes, there was something about his touch, about the lightest graze of his fingers. It wasn’t so much tenderness, it was cherishing; it touched her as if he loved to do so, as if he truly needed her.

It had been years since she had been touched, needed, loved, but never, never like this. Never had the feeling, the ache of desire, started from a distance, from a look in the eyes, from the softest touch against her flesh.

There would be consequences. Even knowing what she wanted with a desperate desire, she recognized somewhere that there would be consequences. This was David Lane. David Lane …

His body shifted against hers. She felt the hardness of his thighs and his desire, but his movement was both ardent and slow, as if he would never rush her. Each slight ripple of muscle, each movement, each breath, made love to her.

She would bear the consequences, she thought in silent anguish. Whatever they were, she would bear the consequences.

Her fingers raked through his hair as his kiss consumed and enflamed her. His lips brushed against her ear with a whisper, lowered down her throat again. His hand moved into the vee neck of the robe, parting it, freeing her breast, caressing the weight, stroking it, the heart of his palm moving slowly over her nipple until she moaned, twisting to bury her head against his neck. The robe continued to part, the belt giving away easily. His touch moved with bold possession over her hip, to her waist, to the shadows of her belly.

She cried out softly when his mouth possessed her nipple, his tongue laving it, his teeth taunting it. Instinct decreed that she arch to him, and of its own accord, her body began to writhe. Her nails moved over the brocade fabric that stretched tightly over his shoulders; she felt his warmth beneath her fingers, the wave and ripple of muscle, the wonder of his strength.

And all around her, it seemed, the fire burned and the wind raged. His kisses moved over her stomach; his hand moved to her thigh, stroking gentle, light caresses that made her turn to him again, to force him to stop … to continue.

He moved away from her. She opened her eyes to see him shrugging from the jacket, and she remembered vaguely how she had wondered earlier what he wore beneath it. Nothing.

She started to shake again at the sight of him. Given a moment longer, she might well have realized just what she was doing, thought of the consequences. He was built magnificently, tall and lean and solid.

She did not have a moment. She saw the hunger in his eyes, the fascination, the desire. She had never known anyone like him. He drew her to him, slid his hands to her shoulders, and shed the terry fabric from her.

Firelight … firelight played all over her. It touched her eyes, her hair; it glimmered and shone over the rise of her breasts; it created shadows of intrigue and silk over the endless length of her limbs.

He took her face between his hands. “You are … beautiful,” he murmured, and when he pulled her to him, his voice was ragged. “Susan, touch me….”

And she did. Moaning softly, she stroked him with her fingers, making love to his body with hers. It was natural, easy, all that she could do. It was the call of his sensuality to her own, rising like a rosebud touched by an awakening sun. Knowing him … the tautness of his muscles, the smoothness of his flesh. So masculine, so perfect. The only flaw on him was a long scar that ran along the left side of his back. An old sear, turned white with time. Vaguely she wondered if he had been injured in the service. And the wondering made her long to know him more, to know all about him, his touch, his life, his mind, his soul….

His hand found hers, closed it around his hardness, and then she sank down, down into the softness of the comforter, thrilled with the heavy weight of his body bearing down over hers. She gasped at his entry, biting into his shoulder, her body raked by shivers at the ecstasy that raced through her. He moved so slowly. Drawing her, taking her, seducing her all over again. She felt as if she died a thousand tiny deaths of wonder.

And when she thought that she had received all the wonder that she could, the tempo changed. Like a lulling rain that pattered only to become more powerful as the deluge began, he changed. An utter brilliance flared between them. She was saying things that made no sense, crying, whispering, fitting to him more and more tightly, adoring his body within hers, embracing it, meeting his hunger with a sinuous and soaring grace. Reaching for the rainbow that lurked past the storm, for the gold there, glittering like a heaven full of stars.

They burst over her with shattering and wondrous force, and she wondered if she did black out a moment, so violent and sweet was the sensation. One that lingered, then exhausted, then left her drifting slowly, slowly down from the heavens to the feathers of the comforter that cradled her body.

The feathers were a reality, as was the man lying beside her, his muscled flesh covered with a sheen of sweat, his breathing still ragged. He had an arm cast over his forehead; the other still rested above her head, catching her hair.

The man … the consequences.

He looked grave, thoughtful. He sensed her eyes upon him and turned to her, a gentle smile curving his lips. He looked wonderful, tousled dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes so strangely tender.

He stroked her cheek. She returned his smile with a little shiver and closed her eyes. Everything was going to be all right.

In moments she fell asleep. There were no dreams to trouble her, and outside, the rain at last ceased.

Sometime near dawn she awoke from a sense of movement. He was carrying her up the stairs. Idly she ran a finger over the hair on his chest. He smiled down at her. “You’re awake.”

“Not really,” she murmured drowsily.

She wasn’t even sure of where they went. He laid her on a bed, and it felt cool and clean and luxurious.

And then his body was against hers, more luxurious still, creating the wonder and ecstasy again, teaching her that the feelings had not been a dream, that they could come again and again….

“I have to tell you …” she murmured once, relenting completely, determined to tell him all the little truths except for that fact that Peter had known he was dying. It was possible to forgive him; the situation probably had appeared bad, and she had done everything to taunt him…. She had been so bitter since that day she had first heard his voice.

Before that, she had been a little bit in love with an image. The man in the photographs, the son Peter had always talked about with such pride and joy. Oh, not really in love, just whimsically so. Nor was she in love now. She was … a captive of the moment, of the man. The emptiness that had echoed so hollowly within her was gone now, that desperate need to feel cherished fulfilled. But nothing so natural and compelling had to be right. She owed herself no excuses. For all that she had suffered and lost, she deserved this reckless abandon with a man who was young and strong and touched her with such magic.

But she had to clear herself with him so that he could apologize, know his fault…

“I have to—”

“Love me, touch me…” And from there his whispers became more erotic, and she knew that anything she had to say could wait for the morning.

It was so wonderful to be held all through the night. To fall asleep in his arms.

The thought was with him again when he awoke, the sun glaring through the windows, the storm a thing of the past.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

But daylight quickly changed the magic to a groan, a shudder, and incredulous self-reproach.

Wincing, pressing his temples between his palms, David berated himself in silence. Ass! He had scorned and despised Peter’s sordid payoff, and in a matter of hours she had seduced him too. All she had to do was sit there, look at him, laugh, and say a few words, and he fell like a green kid with his first case of puppy love!

Him—of all damned people!

He grated his teeth together, remembering one set of her softly purred words: “Peter loved me in furs….”

With a little oath he rose, intending to dress and finding that he was gazing at her again.

This morning, sound asleep, she could still touch him! So sleek and long, curved so sweetly, lying so innocently on his bed, a gentle smile just touching her lips.

A smile. She had earned her amusement He had crashed like a felled oak.

David felt horrible, churning. He had taken something of his father’s, invaded something personal and private with Peter dead and buried.

“Oh, God!” he muttered aloud.

He tossed the sheets over her nakedness. It didn’t really help. He couldn’t toss them over her face, and it was the fine quality of her features that haunted him as much as anything else.

He felt betrayed—as he hadn’t allowed himself to be in over a decade—tricked, seduced. The bigger they come, the harder they fall! he thought, taunting himself bitterly, and along with all that was still the amazement that she had made him forget everything but his desperation to touch her.