The Dream (Crosslyn Rise Trilogy)

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I’m glad of that for your sake.”

  “So am I,” she said with a light laugh, then sobered. “Of course, now the rush begins to get things graded and recorded. Graduation isn’t far off. The paperwork has to be completed well before then.”

  “Do you go to graduation?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Must be … uplifting.”

  Her laugh was more of a chuckle this time, and a facetious one at that. Carter took pleasure in the sound. It said that she didn’t take herself or her position too seriously, which was something he needed to know, given all the years he’d assumed she was stuck-up. She didn’t seem that way, now. More, she didn’t seem conscious of any social difference between them. He was convinced that the more he was with her, architect to client, the less she’d think back on the past, and that was what he wanted.

  He wanted even more, though. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget the time he’d kissed her. It had been an impulsive moment, but it had stuck in his mind, popping up to taunt him when he least expected it.

  Jessica was, he decided during one of those times, the rosebud that hadn’t quite bloomed. Having been married, she’d certainly been touched, but Carter would put money on the fact that her husband hadn’t lit any fires in her. Her mouth was virginal. So was her body, the way she held it, not frightened so much as unsure, almost naive.

  Carter had never been a despoiler of virgins. Even in his wildest days, he’d preferred women who knew the score. Tears over blood-stained sheets or unwanted pregnancies or imagined promises weren’t his style. So he’d gone with an increasingly savvy woman—exactly the kind who now left him cold.

  Kissing Jessica, albeit briefly, hadn’t left him cold. He’d felt warm all over, then later, when he’d had time to remember the details of that kiss, tight all over. It amazed him still, it really did. That Jessica Crosslyn, snotty little prude that she’d been, should turn him on was mind-boggling.

  But she did turn him on. Even now, with his attention on driving and the gearshift and a console between them, he was deeply aware of her—of the demure way she crossed her legs and the way that caused her slacks to outline shapely thighs, of the neat way her hands lay in her lap, fingers slender and feminine, of the loose way her sweater fell, leaving an alarmingly seductive hint of her breasts beneath. Even her hair, knotted with such polish, seemed a parody of restraint. So many things about her spoke of a promise beneath the facade. And she seemed totally unaware of it.

  Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe the sexy things he was seeing were simply things that had changed in her, and it was his lecherous mind that was defining them as sexy. He saw women often, but it had been a while since he’d slept with one. Maybe he was just horny.

  If that was true, of course, he could have remedied the situation through tried and true outlets. But he wasn’t interested in those outlets. He wasn’t running for any outlet at all. There was a sweetness to the arousal Jessica caused; there was something different and special about the tightness in his groin. He wasn’t exactly sure where it would take him, but he wasn’t willing it away just yet.

  “You got a vote of confidence from a friend of mine,” Jessica told him as they safely sped north. “She said she’d seen a project you did in Portsmouth.”

  “Harborside? I was thinking we’d hit that last, on the way home.”

  “She was impressed with it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay, but it’s not my favorite.”

  “What is?”

  “Cadillac Cove. I hate the name, but the complex is special.”

  “Who decides on the name?”

  “The developer. I just do the designs.”

  Jessica had been wondering about that. “Just the designs? Is your job done when the blueprints are complete?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It depends on the client. Some pay for the blueprints and do everything else on their own. Others pay me to serve as an advisor, in which case I’m involved during the actual building. I like it that way—” he speared her with a cautioning look “—and it has nothing to do with money. Moneywise, my time’s better spent working at a drafting table. But there’s satisfaction in being at the site. There’s satisfaction seeing a concept take form. And there’s peace of mind knowing that I’m available if something goes wrong.”

  “Do things go wrong often? I’ve heard some nightmarish stories. Are they true?”

  “Sometimes.” He curved his long fingers more comfortably around the wheel. “Y’see, there’s a basic problem with architectural degrees. They fail to require internships in construction. Most architects and would-be architects see themselves as a step above. They’re the brains behind the construction job, so they think, but they’re wrong. They may be the inspiration, and the brains behind the overall plan, but the workmen themselves, the guys with the hammers and nails, are the ones with the know-how. The average architect doesn’t have any idea how to build a house. So, sometimes the average architect draws things into a blueprint that can’t possibly be built. Forget things that don’t look good. I’m talking about sheer physical impossibilities.”

  A bell was ringing in Jessica’s mind. “Didn’t Gordon say you had hands-on building experience?”

  “I spent my summers during college working on construction.”

  “You knew all along you wanted to be an architect?”

  “No.” He smirked. “I knew I needed money to live on, and construction jobs paid well.” The smirk faded. “But that was how I first became interested in architecture. Blueprints intrigued me. The overall designs intrigued me. The guys who stood there in their spiffy suits, wearing hardhats, intrigued me.” He chuckled. “So did the luxury cars they drove. And they all drive them. Porsches, Mercedes sportsters, BMWs—this Supra is modest compared to my colleagues’ cars.”

  “So why don’t you have a Porsche?”

  “I was asking myself that same question the other day when my partner showed me his new one.”

  “What’s the answer?”

  “Money. They’re damned expensive.”

  “You’re doing as well as your partner.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t trust myself not to scratch it up. Or it could be stolen. I don’t have a secured garage space. I park in a narrow alley behind my building.” He pursed his lips and thought for a minute before finally saying in a quieter voice, “I think I’m afraid that if I buy a Porsche, I’ll believe that I’ve made it, and that’s not true. I still have a ways to go.”

  Jessica was reminded of Nina, who defined happiness as a healthy bank account. Instinctively she knew that wasn’t the case with Carter. He wasn’t talking about making it economically, but professionally.

  Maybe even personally. But that was a guess. She didn’t know anything of his hopes and dreams.

  On that thought, she lapsed into silence. Though she was curious, she didn’t have the courage to suddenly start asking him about hopes and dreams, so she gave herself up to the smooth motion of the car and the blur of the passing landscape. The silence was comfortable, and surprising in that Jessica had always associated silence with solitude. Usually when she was with a man in a nonacademic setting, she felt impelled to talk, and since she wasn’t the best conversationalist in the world, she wound up feeling awkward and inadequate.

  She didn’t feel that way now. The miles that passed beneath the wheels of the car seemed purpose enough. Moreover, if Carter wanted to talk, she knew he would. He wasn’t the shy type—which was really funny, the more she thought of it. She’d always gravitated toward the shy type, because with the shy type she felt less shy herself. But in some ways it was easier being with Carter, because at any given time she knew where she stood.

  At that moment in time, she knew that he was as comfortable with the silence as she was. His large hands were relaxed on the wheel, his legs sprawled as much as the car would allow. His jaw—square, she noted, like his chin—was set easily, as were his shoulders. He made no effort to
speak, other than to point out something about a sign or a building they passed that had a story behind it, but when the tale was told, he was content to grow quiet again.

  They drove straight for nearly four hours—with Carter’s occasional apology for the lengthy drive, and a single rest stop—to arrive shortly before noon at Bar Harbor.

  The drive was worth it. “I’m impressed,” Jessica said sincerely when Carter had finished showing her around Cadillac Cove. Contrary to Crosslyn Rise, the housing was all oceanfront condominiums, grouped in comfortable clusters that simultaneously managed to hug the shore and echo the grace of nearby Cadillac Mountain. “Is it fully sold?”

  He nodded. “Not all of the units are occupied year-round. This far north, they wouldn’t necessarily be. A lot of them are owned on a timesharing plan, and I think one or two are up for resale, but it’s been a profitable venture for the developer.”

  “And for you.”

  “I was paid for my services as an architect, and I’ve cashed in on the praise that the complex has received, but I didn’t have a financial stake in the project the way I might with Crosslyn Rise.”

  “Has Gordon talked with you more about that?”

  “No. How about you?”

  She shook her head. “I think he’s starting to put feelers out, but he doesn’t want to line up investors until we give him something concrete to work with.”

  Carter liked the “we” sound. “Does he work with a list of regular investors?”

  “I don’t really know.” Something on his face made her say, “Why?”

  “Because I know of a fellow who may be interested. His name’s Gideon Lowe. I worked with him two years ago on a project in the Berkshires, and we’ve kept in touch. He’s an honest guy, one of the best builders around, and whether or not he serves as the contractor for Crosslyn Rise, he may want to invest in it. He’s been looking for something sound. Crosslyn Rise is sound.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know. Hey, I wouldn’t be investing my own money in it if it weren’t.” Without skipping a beat, he said, “I’m starved. Want to get something to eat?”

  It was a minute before she made the transition from business to pleasure, and it was just as lucky she didn’t have time to think about it. The less she thought, the less nervous she was. “Uh … sure.”

  He took her hand. “Come on. There’s a place not far from here that has the best chowder on the coast.”

  Chowder sounded fine to Jessica, who couldn’t deny the slight chill of the ocean air. Her jacket helped, as did his hand. It encircled hers in a grip that was firm and wonderfully warm.

  The chowder was as good as he’d boasted it would be, though Jessica knew that some of its appeal, at least, came from the pier-front setting and the company. Along with the chowder, they polished off spinach salads and a small loaf of homemade wheat bread. Then they headed back to the car and made for the next stop on Carter’s list.

  Five stops—three for business, two for pleasure—and four hours later, they reached Harborside. As he’d done at each of the other projects they’d seen, Carter showed her around, giving her a brief history of the setting and how it had come to be developed, plus mention of his feelings about the experience. And as he’d done at each of the other projects, he stopped at the end to await her judgment.

  “It’s interesting,” she said this time. “The concept—converting a mill into condominiums—limits things a little, but you’ve stretched those limits with the atrium. I love the atrium.”

  Carter felt as though he were coming to know her through her facial expressions alone, and her facial expression now, serious and somewhat analytical, told him that while she might admire the atrium, she certainly didn’t love it. “It’s okay, Jessica,” he teased. He felt confident enough, based on her earlier reactions, to say, “You can be blunt.”

  She kept her eyes on the building, which was across the street from where they were standing. “I am being blunt. Given what you had to start with, this is really quite remarkable.”

  “Remarkable as in wildly exciting and dramatic?”

  “Uh, not dramatic. Impressive.”

  “But you wouldn’t want to live here.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Would you?”

  Looking up, she caught the mischievous sparkle in his eye. It sparkled right through her in a way that something mischievous shouldn’t have sparkled, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t want him to know how wonderfully warm he was making her feel by standing so close. “I think,” she conceded a bit wryly, “that I’d rather live at Cadillac Cove.”

  “Or Riverside,” he added, starting to grin in his own pleasure at the delightfully feminine flush on her cheeks. “Or the Sands.”

  “Or Walker Place,” she tacked on, finishing the list of the places they’d visited. “Okay, this is my least favorite. But it’s still good.”

  “Does that mean I have the job?”

  Her brows flexed in an indulgent frown that came and went. “Of course, you have the job. Why do you ask?”

  “Wasn’t that the point of this trip—to see if you like my work?”

  In truth, Jessica had forgotten that point, which surprised her, and in the midst of that surprise, she realized two things. First, she had already come to think of Carter as the architect of record. And second, she was enjoying herself and had been doing so from the time she’d first sat back in his car and decided to trust his driving. Somewhere, there, she’d forgotten to remember what a hell-raiser he’d been once. She was thinking of him in terms of the present, and liking him. Did she like his work? “I like your work just fine.”

  His handsome mouth twitched in gentle amusement. “You could say it with a little enthusiasm.”

  Bewitched by that mouth and its small, subtle movements, she did as he asked. “I like your work just fine!”

  “Really?”

  “Really!”

  The twitch at the corner of his mouth became a tentative grin. “Do you think I could do something good for Crosslyn Rise?”

  “I think you could do something great for Crosslyn Rise!”

  “You’re not just saying that for old times’ sake?”

  Gazing up at him, she let out a laugh that was as easy as it was spontaneous. “If it were a matter of old times’ sake, I’d have fired you long ago.”

  Behind the look in her eye, the sound of her laugh and the softness of her voice, Carter could have sworn he detected something akin to affection. Deeply touched by that thought, he took her chin in his hand. His fingers lightly caressed her skin, while his eyes searched hers for further sign of emotion. And he saw it. It was there. Yes, she liked him, and that made him feel even more victorious than when she’d said she liked his work. Unable to help himself, he moved his thumb over her mouth. When her lips parted, he ducked his head and replaced his thumb with his mouth.

  His kiss was whisper light, one touch, then another, and Jessica couldn’t have possibly stopped it. It felt too good, too real and far sweeter even than those heady kisses she’d dreamed about. But her body began to tremble—she didn’t know whether in memory of the dream or in response to his kiss—and she was frightened.

  “No,” she whispered against his mouth. Her hands came up to grasp his jacket. “Please, Carter, no.”

  Lifting his head, Carter saw her fear. His body was telling him to kiss her again and deeper; his mind told him that he could do it and she’d capitulate. But his heart wasn’t ready to push.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.

  “I know.” Though her hands clutched his jacket, her eyes avoided his. “But I … don’t want this.”

  I could make you want it, Carter thought, but he didn’t say it, because it was typical of something the old Carter would say, and the last thing he wanted to do was to remind her of that. “Okay,” he said softly, and took a step back, but only after he’d brushed his thumb over her cheek. Half turning from her, he took a dee
p breath, dug his fists into the pockets of his jacket and pursed his lips toward the mill that he’d redesigned. After a minute, when he’d regained control over his baser instincts, he sent her a sidelong glance.

  “You like my work, and I like that. So a celebration’s in order. What say we head back and have dinner at the Pagoda. Do you like Chinese food?”

  Not trusting her voice, Jessica nodded.

  “Want to try it?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  Not daring to touch her, he chucked his chin in the direction of the car. “Shall we?”

  To nod again would have seemed foolish even to her. So, tucking her hands into her pockets, she turned and headed for the car. By rights, she told herself, she ought to have pleaded the need to work and asked Carter to drive her home. She didn’t for three reasons.

  First, work could wait.

  Second, she was hungry.

  And third, she wasn’t ready to have the day end.

  6

  There was a fourth reason why Jessica agreed to have dinner with Carter. She wanted to show him that she could recover from his kiss, or was it herself that she wanted to show? It didn’t matter, she supposed, because the end result was the same. She couldn’t figure out why Carter had kissed her again, unless he’d seen in her eyes that she’d wanted him to, which she had. Since it wasn’t wise for her to reinforce that impression, she had to carry on as though the kiss didn’t matter.

  It was easier said than done. Not only did the Pagoda have superb Chinese food, but it was elegantly served in a setting where the chairs were high backed and romantic, the drinks were fruity and potent, and the lights were low. None of that was conducive to remembering that she was there on business, that Carter’s kisses most surely stemmed from either professional elation or personal arrogance, and that she didn’t want or need anything from him but spectacular designs for Crosslyn Rise.

  The atmosphere had date written all over it, and nothing Carter did dispelled that notion. He was a relaxed conversationalist, willing to talk about anything, from work to a television documentary they’d both seen, to the upcoming gubernatorial election. He drew her out in ways that she hadn’t expected, got her thinking and talking about things she’d normally have felt beyond her ken. If she had stopped to remember where he’d come from, she’d have been amazed at the breadth and depth of his knowledge. But she didn’t stop, because the man that he was obliterated images of the past. The man that he was held dominance over most everything, including, increasingly, her wariness of him as a man.