Dream 2 - Holding the Dream

by Nora Roberts

  "It took some doing to bring myself down after the business at Bittle. Then I knew I had to face Aunt Susie. I took a breather at the cliffs, and—"

  She jumped up from her chair. "Jesus, I forgot! I can't believe I actually forgot! God, what did I do with it?" Foolishly, she patted her hips, then remembered she was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. "My pocket. I'll be right back. Stay here."

  She streaked inside like a bullet, leaving Byron shaking his head after her. The woman was a mass of contradictions, he decided as he rose to clear the table. It was no use reminding himself that he preferred the quiet, soothing, and sophisticated type. The Laura type, he supposed. Well-mannered, well-read, well-bred.

  Yet he'd never felt this bright, hot need with Laura. Or with anyone, for that matter.

  Instead, it was Kate, this bumpy and often inconvenient detour, who continually fascinated him.

  Just how would his complicated and turbulent Kate react if he told her he was beginning to believe he was falling in love with her?

  "Hah!" Triumphant, she bolted back into the kitchen, prepared to bask in his astonishment. She smiled smugly as he stared at her, eyes dark and intense. "I found it."

  She was flushed and rumpled. Her short hair stood in spikes, those long, slim legs pale gold beneath the hem of his shirt. She had no figure to speak of, was more bone than curve. The little mascara she'd bothered with was smudged under her eyes. Her nose was crooked. Had he noticed that before? The nose was just slightly off center, and her mouth was certainly too wide for that narrow face.

  "You're not beautiful," he said in a quiet statement that made her brow knit "Why do you look beautiful when you're not?"

  "How much of that wine did you drink, De Witt?"

  "Your face is wrong." As if to prove it to himself, he came around the counter for a closer look. "It's like whoever put it together used a couple of spare parts from someone else's."

  "This is all very fascinating," she said impatiently. "But—"

  "At first glance your body looks like it belongs to a teenage boy, all arms and legs."

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Universe. Have you finished your unsolicited critique of my looks?"

  "Almost." His lips curved a little as he skimmed a hand along her jaw. "I love the way you look. I can't figure out why, but I love the way you look, the way you move." He slipped his arms around her, drew her in. "The way you smell."

  "This is a novel way to seduce me."

  "The way you taste," he continued and skimmed his lips up her throat.

  "And it's surprisingly effective," she managed between shivers. "But I really wanted you to look at this."

  He plucked her up, set her down on the counter, then slid his hand around to cup her bare bottom. "I'm going to make love with you here." He closed his teeth over the nipple that strained against the thin cotton. "Is that all right with you?"

  "Yes. Good." Her head fell back. "Wherever."

  Satisfied with that, he rubbed his lips over hers. "What do you want me to see?"

  "Nothing. Just this."

  He caught the coin that slipped through her fingers and puzzled over it. "Spanish? A doubloon, I suppose. Isn't this Margo's?"

  "No. Mine. I found it." She drew in a long, shuddering breath, let it out. "God, how do you do that? It's like turning off a switch in my head. I found it," she repeated, struggling to separate her sense from her senses. "Today, on the cliffs. It was just lying there. Seraphina's dowry. You've heard the legend."

  "Sure." Intrigued, he turned the coin over in his hand. "The star-crossed lovers. The young Spanish girl left behind in Monterey when the boy she loves goes off to fight the Americans. She hears he's been killed, and in despair she jumps off the cliffs."

  He lifted his gaze from the gold to her eyes. "The cliffs, it's said, across from Templeton House."

  "She had a dowry," Kate added.

  "Right. A chest filled with her bride gift, bestowed by a loving, indulgent father. One variation says she hid it to protect it from the invaders until her lover returned. Another says she took it into the sea with her."

  "Well." Kate picked the coin out of his palm. "I go with the first."

  "Haven't you and Laura and Margo been combing those cliffs for months?"

  "So? Margo found a coin last year, now I've found one."

  "At this rate, you'll be rich beyond your wildest dreams about the middle of the next millennium. You believe in legends?"

  "What of it?" Ready to pout, she shifted. "Seraphina existed. There's documentation, and—"

  "No." He kissed her gently. "Don't spoil it. It's nice to know you can just believe. It's even nicer to know you want me to believe."

  She studied his face. "Well, do you?"

  He took the coin from her and set it down where it gleamed like a promise beside them. "Of course," he said simply.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Storms blew in, pelting the coast with driving rain, sweeping it with raging winds. Relief that the dangerously dry season might be averted with the unrelenting wet warred with worry over flooding and mudslides.

  Kate tried not to take the nasty weather personally. But there was no doubt that it prevented her from intensifying the treasure hunts. Even as the rains abated, the cliffs were too wet for safety.

  So they would wait.

  There was certainly enough to occupy her. Pretenses' summer season was in full swing. Tourists crammed Cannery Row, jammed the wharf, queued up for a trip through the aquarium. Arcades clattered with the sounds of games and jingling tokens, and families strolled the sidewalks licking ice cream from sugar cones.

  The busy carnival atmosphere out in the streets meant business.

  Some came to feed the gulls and watch the boats. Some came to gaze upon the street that Steinbeck had immortalized. Some came to bask in the eternal spring that Monterey offered, or take the sweeping drive along the coast.

  Many, many were lured by Margo's clever display windows to come in and browse. And those who browsed often bought.

  "I see dollar signs in your eyes again," Laura murmured.

  "We're up ten percent from this period last year." Kate turned from her desk and looked at Laura. "By my calculations, Margo should be able to pay off all of her debts by the end of the next quarter. When the holiday shopping season hits, we're actually going to be in the black."

  Eyes narrowed, Laura came farther into the room. "I thought we were already in the black."

  "Not technically." As she spoke, she continued to crunch figures. "We take a minimum percentage in lieu of salary. We have our pool for resupplying. Then there's operating expenses."

  She worked one-handed as she reached for her cup of tea—and tried to pretend it was coffee. "Initially the bulk of our stock was Margo's property, and she took the lion's share of those profits in order to square with her creditors. We're gradually moving into new stock, which is acquired by—"

  "Kate, just skip all the details. Are we operating at a loss?"

  "We have been, but—"

  "I've been taking money every month."

  "Of course you have. You have to live. We have to live," Kate amended quickly, seeing the guilt cloud Laura's eyes.

  Seeing that it would be necessary to explain and reassure, she set the cup down, resisted the keyboard. "This is how it works, Laura. We take what we need—what we're entitled to, and plow the rest back into the business. Each of us has personal expenses in addition to the shop overhead. Once those are seen to, we reinvest the profit. If there is any."

  "And if there isn't, we're in the red, and that means—"

  "That means reality. There's nothing unusual in operating at a loss in a new business." Kate bit back a sigh and wondered why she hadn't begun the discussion a different way.

  "Forget all the ledgers for a minute. What I'm telling you is good news. We're going to end this calendar year not just eking out a minimal living and paying off old debts. We're going
to make a profit. A real profit. That's rare in a business that's barely into its second year. By my projections, we'll have a net gain in the mid five figures."

  "So we're okay?" Laura said cautiously.

  "Yeah, we're okay." Smiling, Kate ran her fingers over the keys of her computer as if they were adored children. "If the charity auction goes as well as last year, we'll be cooking."

  "That's what I came in to talk to you about." Laura hesitated, frowned at the figures on the screen. "We're really all right?"

  "If you can't trust your accountant, who can you trust?"

  "Right." She had to believe it. "Well, then, you won't have any problem cutting a few checks."

  "You've come to the right place." Humming, Kate took the invoices from Laura, and then choked. "What the hell are these?"

  "Refreshments." Laura offered a bright, hopeful smile. "Entertainment. Oh, and advertising. All auction-related."

  "Christ, we're paying this for mind-numbing chamber music from a bunch of nerds? Why can't we just plug in a CD? I told Margo—"

  "Kate, it's a matter of image. And this trio isn't a bunch of nerds. They're very talented." She patted Kate's shoulder, well aware why Margo had suggested that she be the one to pass along the bills. "It's union scale, just like the waitpeople."

  Grumbling, Kate flipped open the checkbook. "Margo has to do everything in an ornate and showy fashion."

  "That's why we love her. Just think how the cash register's going to sing the week after the auction. All those rich, materialistic customers with large disposable incomes."

  "You're trying to sweet-talk me."

  "Is it working?"

  "Say 'large disposable incomes' again."

  "Large disposable incomes."

  "Okay, I feel better."

  "Really? Good." Laura winced, held her breath. "About the fashion show we've set up for December? You agree that's still a good idea?"

  "It's a great idea. A well-executed special event will more than pay for itself, and it has the potential of generating new clientele."

  "Exactly my thought. Okay, here's my preliminary budget." She kept her eyes squeezed shut as she dropped the figures in Kate's lap. She heard the yelp, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Kate plucking at the back of her shirt. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm trying to pull out the knife you just stuck in my back. Jesus Christ, Laura, we've got the clothes, you've tapped your committees for the models. Why do you need all this money?"

  "Decorations, advertising, refreshments. It's all listed. It's negotiable," she said, backing out. "Consider it a wish list. Gotta get back on the floor."

  Making noises in her throat, Kate scowled at the door. The trouble was, she decided, both of her partners were too used to being rich to fully appreciate that they no longer were. Or that Pretenses wasn't, she corrected.

  Margo had married for love, but she'd married a Templeton, and Templeton meant money.

  Laura was a Templeton, and despite being hosed by her exhusband, she would always have access to millions. She just wouldn't take it.

  It was up to good old practical Kate, she decided, to keep things on an even keel.

  When the door opened again, she didn't bother to turn around. "Don't hassle me, Laura. I swear I'll cut this wish list of yours down until you won't be able to serve anything but Popsicles and club soda''

  "Kate." Laura's voice was quiet enough that Kate whipped around in her chair.

  "What's wrong? What—"

  She broke off at the sight of the man standing beside Laura. Fiftyish, she judged, with a hairline beyond what could legitimately be called receding. He had the beginnings of jowls, and bland brown eyes. His suit was neat and inexpensive. Somewhere along the line, he'd punched extra holes in his brown leather belt to accommodate his paunch.

  But it was his shoes that tipped her off. She couldn't have said why those shiny black shoes with the double-knotted laces shouted cop.

  "Kate, this is Detective Kusack. He wants to talk to you."

  She wasn't certain how she managed to get to her feet when she'd stopped feeling her legs. But she was facing him, surprised somehow that their eyes were on a level. "Am I under arrest?"

  "No, ma'am. I have a few questions regarding an incident at Bittle and Associates."

  He had a voice like gravel bouncing on sandpaper. It reminded her foolishly of Bob Seger's gritty rock and roll. "I think I'd like to call my lawyer."

  "Margo's already calling Josh." Laura moved to her side.

  "That's your option, Ms. Powell." Kusack poked out his bottom lip as he considered her. "Maybe it would be best all round if he met us at the precinct. If you'll come along with me, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. I can see you're busy."

  "It's all right." Kate put a hand on Laura's arm before Laura could step forward. "It's all right. Don't worry. I'll call you."

  "I'm coming with you."

  "No." With icy fingers, Kate picked up her purse. "I'll call you as soon as I can."

  She was taken to an interview room designed to intimidate. Intellectually, she knew that. The plain walls, the scarred center table and uncomfortable chairs, the wide mirror that was obviously two-way glass were all part of a setup to aid the police in getting information from suspects. No matter how

  Kate's practical side ordered her not to be affected, her skin crawled.

  Because she was the suspect.

  She had Josh beside her, looking particularly lawyerly in a tailored gray suit and muted striped tie. Kusack folded his hands on the table. Big hands, Kate noted distractedly, adorned with a single thin gold wedding band. He was a nail-biter, she thought, staring with dull fascination at his ragged, painfully short fingernails.

  For the space of several heartbeats, there was nothing but humming silence, like the hushed anticipation just before the curtain rose on the first act of a major play. A bubble of hysterical laughter nearly fizzed out of her throat at the image.

  Act one, scene one, and she had the starring role.

  "Can I get you something, Ms. Powell?" Kusack watched her muscles jerk in reaction to his voice as her gaze flew from his hands to his face. "Coffee? A Coke?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Detective Kusack, my client is here, at your request, in the spirit of cooperation." His cultured voice chilly and hard, Josh gave Kate's tense hand a comforting squeeze under the table. "No one wants this matter cleared up more. Ms. Powell is willing to make a statement."

  "I appreciate that, Mr. Templeton. Ms. Powell, I'd like it if you'd answer a few questions, so I can get this all straight in my mind." He gave her a kindly, avuncular smile that made her insides quiver. "I'm going to read you your rights. Now that's just procedure, just the way we have to do things."

  He recited the words that anyone who had ever watched an episode of a police drama from Kojak to NYPD Blue knew by rote. She stared at the tape recorder, silently documenting every word, every inflection.

  "You understand these rights, Ms. Powell?"

  She shifted her eyes, stared into his. The curtain was up, she thought. Damned if she was going to blow it. "Yes, I understand."

  "You worked for the accounting firm of Bittle and Associates from…" He flipped pages in a small dog-eared notebook, read off dates.

  "Yes, they hired me straight out of graduate school."

  "Harvard, right? You got to have a lot of smarts to get into Harvard. I see you graduated as a Baker Scholar, too."

  "I worked for it."

  "Bet you did," he said easily. "What kind of stuff did you do at Bittle?"

  "Tax preparation, financial and estate planning. Investment advice. I might work in tandem with a client's broker to build or enhance a portfolio."

  Josh lifted a finger. "I want it on record that during my client's employment at this firm she increased business by bringing in accounts. Her record there was not only unblemished, it was superior."

  "Uh-huh. How do you go about bringing in accounts, Ms. Powel
l?"

  "Contacts, networking. Recommendations from current accounts."

  He took her through the day-to-day business of her work, the questions slowly paced, quietly asked until she began to relax.

  He scratched his head, shaking it. "Me, I can't make a damn bit of sense out of all those forms Uncle Sam wants us to fill out. Used to sit down with them every year, all spread out on the kitchen table. With a bottle of Jack to ease the pain." He grinned winningly. "The wife finally had enough of that. Now I take everything up to H & R Block in April and dump it on them."

  "That makes you very typical, Detective Kusack."

  "They're always changing the rules, aren't they?" He smiled again. "Somebody like you would have to understand rules. And how to get around them."

  When Josh objected to the tone of the question, Kate shook her head. "No, I can respond to that. I understand the rules, Detective Kusack. It's my job to recognize what's black and white, and where the shades of gray are. A good accountant uses the system to circumvent the system when possible."

  "It's kind of a game, isn't it?"

  "Yes, in a way. But the game has rules, too. I wouldn't have lasted a month at a firm with Bittle's structure and reputation if I hadn't played by those rules. An accountant who doctors tax forms, or cheats the IRS endangers herself and her client. I wasn't raised to cheat."

  "You were raised right here in Monterey, weren't you? You were the ward of Thomas and Susan Templeton."

  "My parents were killed when I was eight. I—"

  "Your father had a bit of a financial problem before his death," Kusack commented and watched Kate's face go sheet-white.

  "Charges brought and never resolved concerning my client's father twenty years ago have no bearing here," Josh stated.

  "Just background, counselor. And an interesting coincidence."

  "I wasn't aware of my father's problems until recently," Kate managed. How had he found out so quickly? she wondered. Why had he looked? "As I said, both my parents were killed when I was a child. I grew up in Templeton House in the Big Sur area." She took a quiet breath. "The Templetons didn't consider or treat me as a ward but as a daughter."