by Debra Dixon
“God, he’s so …” murmured Annette.
The quaking excitement inside Jennifer had nothing to do with embarrassment, though heaven knew she was embarrassed by what she saw, by what she felt. The icy ball that her stomach had become was melting all down the inside of her, through her nerves, into pumping pathways that led downward, inward.
He drew a woman from the eager audience. She came easily to him, and basking her in the flood of his radiant gaze, he lifted her hand gently to the top button of his shirt. Holding her smaller hand cupped inside his against his chest, he guided her hand slowly lower, and the buttons fell open as he moved himself, and her, to the music that had grown softer. Soft too was the brush of a finger under her chin, tipping up her face for a lingering kiss.
He let one arm shrug out of the shirt, then more slowly the other, the liquid sway of his hips still catching the beat. Jennifer could almost feel the softness of his bare flesh, the heat and steel that came beneath. Her throat could almost taste the light tang of sweat the traced the intoxicating hollows stretched along his muscles. His vitality projected like rocket fire through the room, burning the imagination, flaming the watching bodies. At the edge of the stage he held out his hand to a woman seated below. When she stood beside the stage, hungry to touch him, he took her wrists in his hands and stirred her palms slowly over his lean hips and the compact satin flesh of his lower stomach. One of his hands slipped into her short curls, dropping her head lightly back to receive his kiss.
Smoky disco and husky harmonics poured over the stage and into the audience as another woman came forward. He carried her hands to his jeans and through the motions of dragging open the snap, dragging down the dense brass ribbon of the zipper, and peeling the pliant cotton fabric lower as though she were unwrapping hard candy.
Now, except for the slight fabric that left him exposed almost completely in back, he was nude. The purity of clean body lines in the ivory spot carried the wattage of chain lightning. The rim of the low stage filled four deep with women waiting breathlessly to tuck a folded dollar into the tiny garment he wore and to kiss the wide, smiling mouth.
Jennifer felt a twist of longing so strong that it made her stomach hurt as she stared hypnotized at his long hands bringing up a trembling chin on a curved forefinger, capturing a face carefully between his palms, his lips parted, parting further over mouths beneath his. Smooth hands reached up to him during the kisses, caressing his shoulders, holding his waist, running daringly over the solid willowiness of his buttocks.
Over the music and boom of room noise, the comments of women returning from the stage were clear.
“Oh God … his lips are so soft.…”
“He kisses—I mean he really kisses.”
“I could die for a man like that.” A laugh. “I’m going to make my husband do this at home.”
Diane flopped back in her seat beside Jennifer, throwing one hand over her heart.
“You’ve been up there twice,” Annette said, her eyes sparkling, mirthful.
“I know! I told him I had to come back.”
Lydia leaned toward her. “What’d he say?”
“He just laughed. Jennifer, heavens, don’t miss it! How often does anyone get a chance to make magic with a man like that?” Diane gave Jennifer a gay little nudge, and Susan, coming back with flushed cheeks and overbright eyes from the stage, tried laughingly to haul Jennifer to her feet. Sticking like a burr to her small wooden chair, thrown further into unfamiliar mental disarray, Jennifer tried feebly, “I’d better not. I … think I have a cold coming on and I wouldn’t want to—”
The end of her sentence was swallowed up by the laughter of her companions. Lydia was saying, “Fie on you, woman! You haven’t either!” when Jennifer, whose eyes had been straying helplessly to the stage for no very good reason, saw that for the second time that evening, the blond man was looking right at her. He must have seen the attempt of her friends to pull her from the chair, and her strong negative reaction, because he released the beautiful young woman he was holding. His head tilted in a pantomime of tenderness and curiosity. And then he beckoned to her, his smile roguish, sensual.
Jennifer’s fingers clutched the sides of her chair in a death grip. One corner of his beautiful mouth quirked upward as he gave her a look of humorous reproach. Trying desperately to maintain the little that was left of her dignity, her accustomed air of self-command, she didn’t resort to such drastic measures as putting her head back into her palms until she saw, disbelievingly, that if she wouldn’t come to him, he was going to come to her. She was beyond being about to control the small moan of distress that rose to her lips, or the fluid rise of heat to her cheeks as she covered them with her hands.
The women around her greeted his action with ecstatic relish, yet his seductive murmur touched her ear with the morning-soft mist of his respiration.
“Hello, lady,” he whispered. “Open your eyes.” When she would not, he murmured, “I only want to kiss you.” She felt the shock of his warm hands gently pulling at her wrists and urging her chin up. Then, not persisting in the face of her frozen resistance, he stroked the outer curve of her hot cheek with a soothing finger, “You know what, lady? I think you’re sweet.”
She was not able to watch the rest of his act as he abandoned his final cover to Dylan’s melodic rasp. The unfeigned lyrics of “Lay, Lady, Lay” seeped through the loudspeakers. But she knew that it was another voice and the light experienced touch of one man that would stay with her through the night.
Read on for an excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s Dream Lover
PROLOGUE
A man was running across the hilltop, a bare, beautiful man racing against a red sky. His body was gleaming with sweat, the muscles rippling across his chest and back, the long, hard muscles of his thighs tightening and stretching with every swift stride. His hair was black as night, a wild mane flying behind him. His heart was pounding, as if every evil in the world were chasing at his heels. Fleet-footed, he reached the edge of the cliff … and yet he ran on, magically leaping up into the sky, his body transforming from muscle and flesh to feather and talon. He was an eagle, dark and powerful, soaring against the endless blue. And she … she was left far below, a small figure wandering through a maze of old ruins. In the dimness she bumped against a cold stone wall, stumbled on the crumbled rocks covered in the dust of centuries. But she couldn’t leave. She was searching for something, something she’d lost so long ago. She was weeping, her heart broken. When she fell, she could not get up again. Then an old man appeared, an old Indian in a ceremonial robe with feathers and beads, bits of glass sewn on the buckskin. She saw herself reflected there in a hundred tiny mirrors, each image shattered. He reached for her, and it was as if she could hear the words: “Stand. Take off your jacket. Take off your dress, your shoes. Untie your hair. Stand, and take off your skin, your bones, your sorrow. Take the stone out of your heart. Here …” His palm lay open. “Place it in my hand.” But she was too frightened, her arms and hands weighted down with fear. Her body was paralyzed, her feet had taken root. Yet suddenly she was balanced at the very edge of the cliff; there was only air and sky behind her, and the old man moving toward her, closer and closer, his hands outstretched. This time he chanted aloud words that her heart somehow understood: To fly with the eagle is to reach for the stars. And then his hand touched her—
“No! No, stop! Don’t push me!”
Carol Lawson sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding, her body wet with a cold sheen of sweat. She took a deep gulp of air and pressed her hand to her breasts, struggling to shake off the last strands of the dream that clung to her eerily. It had been so vivid, so real, so contradictory. She knew all too well that heartbreaking sense of loss, that grief she’d lived with so long. The pictures in the dream were terrifying: Herself lost and searching amidst places and things she’d never seen or even imagined before.
She lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin, a storm of emotions
sweeping through her. Somehow the strange dream had opened a door to the old, terrible sadness, reminding her of a part of her life that she usually was able to keep deeply hidden, even from herself. But mixed with the fear and grief was an unexplainable excitement. There’d been magic in that dream, frightening her, but thrilling her too. How had her subconsious ever concocted such a wild and powerful vision? What did it mean?
Hugging herself, Carol searched for a sensible answer and found it in the moving boxes and suitcases piled around her bedroom. Anyone would be upset the night before starting a new job, a new life. That’s all it was; that’s all it meant. But even as she closed her eyes, her thoughts leapt ahead to the desert Southwest and what might be waiting there.
ONE
“Don’t touch that! Don’t touch a damn thing,” growled a deep voice from the dark corner of the lobby.
Carol stepped back quickly from the display of Indian artifacts she’d paused to admire.
The hotel lobby of the Ocotillo was almost empty at midnight, with the exception of the night clerk doing paperwork behind the front desk. The faint sound of a native flute came from the same shadowy corner as the voice, music so lyrical and mystical, it seemed to transform the quiet lobby into the far reaches of the desert itself.
Carol waited expectantly, peering past the glass cases into the darkness. Finally she shrugged. “Hello? I’m sorry. I was just trying to get a closer look.”
“Don’t. It’s closer looks and careless hands that destroy these ancient things.” As he spoke, a man emerged from the shadows, parting the darkness that surrounded him. He was tall, lean, and ruggedly handsome in worn jeans and cowboy boots, the kind of man you had to look at twice. Riveting. Perhaps a bit dangerous. His eyes were masked by the darkness of the room, but Carol could feel him looking at her; she felt his gaze slide over her and linger like a touch.
Her whole body tightened, and for a second she felt something mysterious take hold of her—a jolt of emotion. But was it excitement, fear, or … recognition? She actually took a half step forward, her heart fluttering, before she caught herself and stopped, confused by her response to this absolute stranger.
He frowned, and narrowed his eyes warily as he looked into the blue depths of her eyes and saw his own pain and hunger mirrored there. His heart clenched in his chest. What had he seen? Who was this woman? But in an instant he became stone again, cold and distant. “I’ll be done in an hour. Come back then.”
Lifting her chin, she said, “I may if I have time. I’m the new assistant manager. I came in to do a little paperwork. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Good.”
She frowned. “Do you work for the hotel?”
“Occasionally.” Coldly he turned his back and placed a long hunting bow on the shelf next to a quiver of arrows.
“That’s beautiful,” Carol said, giving it one more try. “The whole display looks fascinating. Is it owned by the hotel or on loan from—?”
“There’ll be signs up in the morning. Right now I’ve got work to do.” And with one last piercing look at her, he turned and disappeared back into the darkness.
Carol stared after him. If she had known how to use the bow and arrow, she might have. She wasn’t used to such rudeness … but neither was she used to being looked at in quite that way. Her skin actually tingled.
Jet lag, she thought, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. It was a long flight in from Atlanta, and now she had work to do too. With a shake of her head she went off to find her new office.
At dawn the next morning Carol was back in the lobby of the Ocotillo. In daylight, it had lost its strangeness; the arrogant mystery man was gone, and the art display was nothing more than a collection of old things sitting on shelves. She barely gave it a glance. What she noticed was the comforting similarity between this and the lobby of the towering Atlanta property she’d just left. There was the familiar Palm-Resort ambience of a four-star, world-class hotel: The pleasing sound of water tumbling over an indoor fountain; the well-modulated tones of the front desk staff; the soft talk and laughter of guests strolling toward the dining room.
Outside, of course, there was a world of difference. Gone were the city streets, the traffic, the crush of people, and the noise. Guests arriving at the Ocotillo thought they’d traveled to the edge of the world. And in a way they were right. It was the edge of the ordinary world, the gateway to the strange and beautiful desert world of the Southwest.
The hotel sprawled across the valley floor, the main lodge surrounded by luxurious one- and two-story adobe casitas, elegant suites with bedrooms, Jacuzzis, beehive fireplaces in the living rooms, and private patios. Encircling it all were the red cliffs and sandstone mesas that made Arizona famous. It was a spectacular landscape etched against a vivid, sundrenched indigo sky.
But Carol was glad to deal with only the familiar and expected on this bright October morning. She was having trouble getting past her nervousness, a growing sense of unease that had haunted her since the night that eerie dream became yet another reason for sleeplessness. This is just new-job jitters, she assured herself. It’s only the move and all. Calm down, Lawson.
What saved her was knowing that on the outside, at least, she looked perfectly calm. In a slim silk suit and a tailored blouse, her pale blond hair falling in an elegant sweep against her cheeks, she looked like the new assistant manager in charge of guest relations. She had worked long and hard for the promotion to that title, and she intended to use it to her best advantage. That was what life was all about, wasn’t it? Careful planning that got you what you wanted … what you had to have. This time she would do it right. Never again would she be forced to make the kind of decision she’d made nine years earlier. She shivered. It would be nine years on October twenty-fifth. The date was seared into her heart, a scar that wouldn’t heal.
Quickly she pushed her private thoughts aside and readied a smile for the general manager’s approach. “Good morning, Mr. LeGrand.”
“Good morning, Ms. Lawson. I wanted to welcome you again and make certain everything is satisfactory in your department. I’m impressed that you came in last night, a commendable idea. And I also like your plan to staff the concierge desk yourself while Louise is on vacation. I think you’ll find our guests are quite discriminating and can be … let us say, quite demanding.”
“That is exactly why I enjoy working for PalmResorts. And this will give me the chance to familiarize myself with procedures and determine what changes I might like to make.”
“Good. Please feel free to call me if you should run into any problems—”
“Thank you, but I’m sure there won’t be any problems.”
And then he left her alone.
“All right. Here I go,” she whispered, lifting the blond, silken shock of hair off of her neck to let the air-conditioning cool her flushed skin. She slid into the chair behind the huge mahogany concierge desk. It faced the entrance to the lobby where wide glass doors framed a vista of cacti and mesas. To her right was the reception area, behind her the glass display cases. Her eyes were drawn that way, to where the shadows had hidden the dark-eyed stranger, and again she felt that unexpected tingle of excitement play across her skin. She pushed it away and got to work.
By the time the phone rang for the first time, she was ready for anything.
“Good morning. Concierge desk, may I help you? Yes, Mrs. Kern, the Jeep tours will be ready to go at nine. Your driver will meet you here at my desk.…
“Good morning.” Another bright smile. “Yes, all the arrangements are made for your trail rides. The wrangler will pick you up out front. Look for a red van.…
“Good morning! Yes, I arranged for an afternoon tour of Sedona.…
“Good morning, Mrs. Watson. Yes, I have a driver coming to get you at exactly one-fifteen, and I reconfirmed your husband’s one o’clock tee-off time. And then I have you both scheduled for the five o’clock sunset Jeep tour.… Yes, that can include a bottle of cham
pagne if you would like. No problem at all. You’re very welcome.”
She was just catching her breath, and catching up on the paperwork and billing, when the phone rang again at ten. Dr. Marcus in suite 22 wanted a Jeep tour at eleven.
“We keep missing the morning tours at nine,” he apologized. “Just can’t seem to roll out of bed that early on vacation. See what you can do and get back to me, okay?”
But checking and rechecking all the company brochures didn’t do a bit of good. Reluctantly she dialed suite 22. “Dr. Marcus, I’m afraid there are no tours scheduled at that time. There is an afternoon trip, with space available, at one-thirty. Can I book you and your wife on that tour?”
“That’s not going to work for us. We have a three o’clock tee-off time. Can you work something out, maybe a private tour? My wife’s really counting on this. Why don’t you check on it and call me back, okay?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
After ten minutes of pleading with four different companies, she was steeling herself for Dr. Marcus’s displeasure. There was only one possibility left. She dialed, and this time she got lucky.
“Great!” She smiled, straightening the pile of paper on her desk, running a polished pink nail along the edges as she talked. “Oh, I don’t care if he’s a regular driver or not, as long as he’s good and available. Have him here by eleven. Tell him to ask for Lawson. Thanks.”
She called the doctor with her good news, then settled back to work. She had almost cleared off her desk when a dark shadow fell across the smooth mahogany top. Before she could look up, she sensed his presence, and then there was this voice, low and husky, lifting goose bumps along her arms.
“Lonesome?”
Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his dark, piercing gaze. He startled her, and stole her breath away. “Pardon me?” she whispered.
