by J. R. Ward
Then the touch came back. This time on the side of his jaw.
He breathed deeply, trying to rouse himself to consciousness, but when he caught the scent of herbs, he stopped the fight. He took in another lungful of air just to be sure.
When the smell of rosemary came again, he wanted to weep. His dreams, so horrible, so cruel, had finally brought Cassandra to him.
He shifted his head, trying to get closer to her touch.
“It’s you, Miracle,” he whispered. “It’s truly you….”
The touch disappeared. He made a sound of protest in his throat. He couldn’t have her in the real world, couldn’t bear the shame of betraying his best friend. But in this dream she could be his. At least for a small while. At least in a small way.
“Please,” he begged softly, raggedly. “Please, just once more. Touch me.”
When he felt the sensation return, this time there was more of it, as if she’d laid her palm against his face. He nuzzled her soft hand, rubbing his skin against hers. Then he kissed the pad of her thumb.
He heard an indrawn breath. Not his own.
Alex didn’t think twice about what he did next. In this twilight fantasy, he could be free with the woman he loved. He could know her touch and she could know his and it would be all right. Because dreams weren’t real.
He took her hand and drew it down the side of his throat, until it was under the collar of his shirt. He moved her palm back and forth, stroking himself with her flesh, relishing the knowledge that it was her.
In a wicked rush, he wanted to feel her touch all over him. And he wanted to touch her. With his hands. His mouth. His whole body.
He shifted his head back, pushing his neck up into her caress. His shirt was blocking her access so he popped the buttons free, wondering dimly why in his dream he wasn’t naked.
There was a gasp as he took her hand and moved it down his chest. Had he made the sound? Maybe.
Except as he was taking her touch over his stomach, the swift inhale came again and he thought, no, that wasn’t him. It was her. And the sound told him she liked what his shirt had revealed, that she liked touching him.
But then why did her hand resist when he got to the waistband of his pajama bottoms? Abruptly he became aware of a weight at his hips. A book, he thought. There was a book on top of his hot erection.
Man, he was going to have to work on his fantasies. Clothes. Books. For God’s sake, he should make it easier on them.
He let go of her hand and pushed the hardcover off his body. Arching his back and carrying the movement into his hips, he wanted her to see what her touch did to him. How ready he was for her. And he was hoping that she’d stroke him there. Where he ached for her so badly.
There was a hiss. Followed by something close to a groan.
Alex arched for her again, confused when she still hesitated. He could hear the sex in her voice, the feminine need. And her palm remained on his stomach, her touch like sunlight. She just wasn’t moving.
So he placed his hand over hers and guided her lower. Then lower still.
The moment she made contact with his hard length, the groan was his, the hoarse words pumping through the thick air. He’d meant the intimacy to be just a beginning for them, but his body had different ideas. A mighty release came up on him, fast and hot as lightning, hovering just on the edge of his control. He breathed in harshly, smelled rosemary and moved his hips against her palm.
In an answer to his prayers, her fingers gripped him through the flannel and that was all it took. Ecstasy spilled out of him in surges that racked his body. Carried away, soaring high, shattered and made whole in the same instant, he uttered three words in a voice that cracked from the burden of his long-kept secret.
“I love you….”
The relief of finally speaking the truth ushered in the peace that came as he drifted back into his body.
And it was okay. Here, in his dream, it was all right to let his feelings out. There was no terrible dishonor, no sense of disloyalty. Just a simple truth that had burned him to his soul from the moment he had first seen her.
Darkness reached up and embraced him, pulling him under.
For the first time since the storm the nightmares didn’t come.
Chapter Four
Cass headed to her room on legs that felt really unreliable. Shutting her door, she sagged back against the panels.
She wasn’t sure what shocked her most. What had just happened. Or what Alex had said.
She put her face in her hands. With shocking clarity, she could still hear him crying out. Could picture his body going rigid and then trembling from shock waves until he fell still.
She’d never actually watched a man…well, do that. At least not in that way. Not with that kind of sensual abandon.
She certainly hadn’t meant for things to go that far. From the moment he’d slipped her hand under his shirt, she’d told herself to pull back. But the more she felt of him, the more she heard him speak, the more she watched his body move on that bed, the less able she’d been to turn away. His response to her had been unbelievable, as if he’d waited for years just for her touch. As if he were desperate for the smallest crumbs of her attention.
Except he hadn’t been dreaming of her, Cass told herself. He didn’t ache for her. He didn’t even like her.
Though, at the time, she’d almost believed he’d known whose hands were touching him. She’d been convinced that she was the one he needed so badly when it had been happening.
Or maybe she’d just wanted to be that woman to him.
Now, there was a thought she wasn’t going to dwell on.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to find some equilibrium. Instead, all she saw was Alex’s muscular chest and ribbed stomach…and his bold, demanding erection as it strained against soft flannel. He’d been hot and hard and thick under her hand, and his response to her touch had been explosive. Beyond erotic. She’d gripped him and then he’d moved his hips in a sinuous thrust. His breath had broken. And she’d felt the flesh under her hand jerk and…
“Oh, do yourself a favor and stop going there,” she muttered.
Then he’d spoken those words.
I love you.
Who did he love? she wondered with a strange ache in her chest. What kind of woman had gotten under that hard surface to the man beneath?
Well, whoever she was, she must be extraordinary. She’d have to be. Because someone like him, someone with such high standards, would only love a woman who was flat-out amazing.
And he really loved that lady, with feelings as strong and powerful as the body he lived in. His heartfelt yearning had cracked his voice. All that desire had ripped through him at the mere touch of a hand.
He burned for his woman.
Cass walked into the bathroom and thought of Reese.
She’d respected her husband like no one else. Had valued him as a friend and a business advisor. And she’d owed him a debt she could never have repaid.
But she couldn’t say that she’d ever loved him. At least not the way Alex loved his Miracle woman.
Picking up her toothbrush, she popped the flip top on a tube of Crest and tried to keep the ribbon of chalky blue on the white bristles.
As she brushed, she focused on the past instead of the present. She’d married Reese because he’d asked her and because she’d wanted to, even though he’d been twenty years older than she was and she was to be his third wife. She’d always yearned for a family and a home and a place to feel safe after a childhood of fear and instability. She’d been sure that Reese would always protect her. Would always support her.
Even when he strayed.
She’d suspected he might, eventually. Reese had been a great admirer of beautiful things, and his aggressive nature had driven him to acquire whatever caught his eye. Companies. Art. Jewels. Boats. Houses.
Women.
She’d known what she was getting into when she’d walked down the aisle with him, so
what had happened later hadn’t been a big surprise. He’d been discreet about the affairs and it had taken her a while to learn the truth. And when she’d known for sure? She hadn’t confronted him, she’d just kept on going like nothing was wrong.
The reasons she’d had then for staying quiet were ones she didn’t understand now.
Maybe it had just been because…she hadn’t cared as much as she should have.
She missed Reese. She mourned him. She wished she’d conceived the child they had tried for.
But she had never loved him down to her soul.
She thought of Alex again.
What would it be like to have a man who cared that much? she wondered. Who wanted you and only you. Who could see no other woman in a room, who could not imagine holding another female in his arms.
That must be something, she thought, rinsing her mouth out. That must really be something.
* * *
Alex woke up late in the morning with an uneasy feeling.
That dream. That sensual, shattering dream.
He looked down. His shirt was open and pushed off his chest. The book was buried in the comforter at his side. And he needed a quick shower.
His heart started pounding. Had it been real? Had she come to him?
What the hell had come out of his mouth?
Dread pooled in his gut, but then he looked over and saw the plate. Maybe she hadn’t been in his room after all.
Calm down, he told himself. She wasn’t here except in your mind. You’ve wanted that woman for a long time, and she’s in the bedroom down the hall. Of course your subconscious is going to kick something to the surface.
Levering himself up and off the bed, he went carefully to the bathroom where he showered with a plastic bag tied around his leg and then shaved. He was surprised that it felt good to be up and moving around for once, so he decided to head to the kitchen for some breakfast. Fortunately, it sounded as if the coast was clear. The house was quiet and he figured he’d somehow managed to sleep through all the early-morning departures of the guests.
Which meant Cassandra would be gone, as well.
This was good, he told himself.
He pulled on a different set of split pajama bottoms, a worn T-shirt from a Boston Marathon he’d run in years ago and a black fleece. As he went out into the hall, he looked both ways as if it were a busy street. The last thing he needed was to step into someone’s path. He was about as stable as a two-legged table.
Come to think of it, where was the dog? He loved Ernest, but that golden retriever could knock him on his ass in a heartbeat, and muzzle-to-mouth resuscitation was not a treatment option he was looking to explore.
Alex started for the back stairs but changed his mind. The front ones were slightly deeper and could accommodate his feet better. It took him a good ten minutes to actually make it to the first floor, but he felt stupidly pleased with the effort.
Then he thought about his T-shirt. Running 26.2 miles in two and a half hours used to be something he took pride in. Now getting to the kitchen was a big, fat, hairy deal.
Damn, he was pathetic.
He went into the dining room and braced the swinging door in place so it couldn’t open.
“Libby? You in there?” he called out.
“Alex! Are you okay?” The housekeeper sounded worried.
“Grab hold of your boy, will you? I’m coming in.”
“Done.”
Alex pushed open the door and was greeted by whines of affection and a mad, impotent scampering of dog feet. While Libby held Ernest in place, Alex came over and stroked the dog into a relative calm.
“Would you like some breakfast?” the older woman asked. “I can make you some of the dry toast you like.”
He looked up. Her lovely, worn face was so hopeful, he was tempted to put in a special request.
“Actually, I—” He cleared his throat. He didn’t like being waited on, but he had a feeling this flash of energy he was sporting wasn’t going to last long. “I’d like some pancakes. With butter and syrup. And bacon. I want bacon. Coffee, too.”
God, he was hungry. For the first time in so long, he was dying for some food.
Libby’s eyes flared. “Go sit down at the table. I’ll make it right away.”
As he settled into a chair, Ernest snuggled up close, leaning against his good leg.
“Do you take sugar?” Libby asked.
The question made him realize he hadn’t asked for any coffee since he’d come to the mansion.
Hell, how long had it been since he’d had a normal breakfast? Sitting up at a table. Like a real person.
“I like it black, thanks.”
“It’ll be ready in a second. This pot’s almost finished brewing.”
While he watched the woman bustle around, he wished he could help and felt badly that all the activity was just about him.
“Hey, Libby, maybe I’ll scratch that big order,” he said. “A little cereal would be great. I don’t want you going to—”
“Alex Moorehouse, you shut your mouth. And I don’t want it open again until you’re putting a fork in it.”
He had to smile. There weren’t a lot of people who put him in his place on or off the water. Wouldn’t his crew get a kick out of the fact that one of the short-listers was a white-haired grandmother.
Libby brought the coffee over first, and Alex closed his eyes as he took the first sip. The stuff was steaming hot and strong enough to wake the dead.
In a word, divine.
When he started to sweat, he realized he was sitting in a shaft of sunlight. He peeled off the fleece and went back to work on the mug.
As he sipped and stroked Ernest’s ear, the moment sank into him with the pleasurable flush of an unexpected kind word. The dog’s head was a warm weight on his good leg. Libby’s friendly chatter about Saranac Lake’s characters was like the crackle of a cheery fire. The rhythmic hiss of a wire whisk cutting through batter reminded him of happy mornings from his childhood.
He settled back against the chair and closed his eyes again. His leg was throbbing, but it was a dull pump, not the kind of pain that made his skin ache. He took a deep breath and felt his shoulders loosen on the exhale.
“More coffee?” Libby asked gently.
He opened his lids and smiled. “Please.”
She brought over the coffeepot, refilled his mug to the brim and then hurried back to the griddle to flip over the pancakes. When the bacon slices hit the pan, he shut his eyes once more.
Hunger cut through him and he welcomed it.
Minutes later Libby set a heavy plate in front of him along with a stick of butter and a gravy boat full of syrup. He put a slice of bacon in his mouth while he lathered up the pancakes and doused them in maple heaven. Then he tore through the food.
When he put his fork down, he and Libby were both a little surprised at the clean plate. Ernest looked disappointed.
“You want more?” Libby asked.
Alex rubbed his belly. “Ah, yeah. Thanks.”
* * *
As a cold November wind gusted up from the lake, Cassandra put her hands on her hips and surveyed the ruins of the White Caps Bed and Breakfast. When she stepped toward the house, she heard the five people behind her move along like a small herd. Frankie and Nate, Joy, Gray and Sean had all come for the tour.
Wow, what a house this is, she thought, measuring the structure’s superb, Federal lines. Sitting regally on a bluff that jutted out into the lake, the place was a real charmer, all white clapboards and shiny black shutters. The fire damage in the back was jarring, like a bruise on the face of a beautiful woman.
“Thomas Crane was the architect, right?” she asked as she walked over to the kitchen where the destruction was the most severe.
“It was one of Crane’s last commissions,” Frankie replied.
“Do you have the original plans?”
“Fortunately, yes. The set has always been kept out in my father’s worksho
p so it survived the fire.”
Cassandra lifted a sheet of thick plastic and stepped through what had been the kitchen door. Even though the fire had been a month ago, the pungent stench of smoke and ash hung in the air.
“This part of the house wasn’t added on later, was it?”
“No, it’s in the plans,” Frankie said. “When our father converted the mansion into a B and B in the seventies, all he did was bring up the kitchen to restaurant code. He didn’t make any changes to the structure.”
Cass looked around, assessing the load-bearing walls. They seemed mostly solid, though someone had buttressed one with a couple of two-by-fours to make sure it didn’t sag. She glanced upward. The ceiling was burnt through in places so she could see past the joists to the second floor.
She pointed over to the scorched back staircase. “I’d like to go upstairs, but not using those.”
“The ones in front are safe,” Nate replied.
A half hour later, the group was out on the lawn again.
“So what do you think?” Frankie asked as they piled into Sean’s massive Mercedes-Benz.
Cass gathered her thoughts before answering. “I’d have to see the plans and reflect a little before I could give you even the roughest estimate of time and cost.”
“But you don’t think we need to tear the wing down and rebuild it from scratch, right?”
“God, no! Although you will have to go slowly because you should save as much as you can. Given the historic nature of the house, a contractor who has respect for its pedigree will be the best choice for you.” Her voice drifted. “I tell you, the workmanship on the moldings in those front rooms is remarkable. The hours of labor…Thank heavens that balustrade going up the main stairs wasn’t ruined. You just don’t see that kind of curvilinear detail very often. Amazing what the human hand can do with a tool, isn’t it?”
She closed her eyes, savoring the images she’d stored up.
What a house.
When they pulled up to Gray’s, the group unpacked themselves and went through the back door into the kitchen. From around the corner, Ernest came barreling at them, stopping to greet each of the arrivals like he was the official ambassador of the household.
