Dream Man

by Judy Griffith Gill

  “No …” she said on a soft breath, unable to prevent her tongue from flicking over the spot at the corner of her lips where his thumb had stroked.

  “You—” He broke off, swallowing hard as his gaze followed that unconscious motion of her tongue. “Your sex appeal is so strong, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. For Pete’s sake, Jeanie, why do you think we both went to the trouble to, as you put it, establish that we hated cages? It was because we were both aware of the danger we represented to each other’s freedom.”

  She didn’t want to answer that. She didn’t even want to think about it. She felt the way she guessed a trapped politician must feel. Deny, deny, deny!

  “You’re crazy!”

  He took her hand and flattened it on his chest.

  “Feel what you do to my heart rate, Jeanie. You make me crazy, all right! You make me want you like I’ve never wanted anyone else in my life, and it makes me just as mad as it makes me horny, but I’m not backing off!”

  She felt another helpless laugh escape; there was nothing she could do about it, and this time it held genuine amusement—at both of them. The situation was so bizarre that there was nothing to do but be amused. “Most men, feeling that way about a woman, would be doing their damnedest to get her into a bed, not a church,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. I know.” She thought he looked puzzled by his own actions and words, resentful, too, and confused. He frowned. “But maybe this is all because I think it’s time I got married. My brother pointed that out shortly before I met you. Minutes before, as a matter of fact. I laughed. I didn’t take it seriously at all. Until I saw you. And then I knew that if I was ever going to do it, I was going to do it with you, because you are the right one for me.”

  She slid her hand from under his, wondering if he could feel the tremor running through her, and stepped clear of him. “Max,” she said, “you have to realize that you can’t just get married because your brother thinks it’s time. Sit down,” she said. “Tell me about your brother. And about you. Do you always do what he says you should? Is he older?”

  She didn’t know why she was doing this. It didn’t make any more sense than his impulsive proposal, but she didn’t want to send him away without learning more about him and his strange idea. Not that she was considering it for a moment, of course, but for some odd reason, she couldn’t just kick him out. Not until she’d heard everything he had to say.

  He didn’t sit but walked to one of the tall bookcases that flanked the fireplace and ran his fingers along a row of titles. “Rolph’s a couple of years younger than I am. I’m thirty-eight, if you’re interested,” he added almost parenthetically, “and no, I don’t usually listen to his suggestions about how to run my life. He was probably joking when he said it anyway. He was making his usual complaint about the way women respond to me.”

  Jeanie raised her brows and eased herself down onto the cushions of the sofa. “And how is that?” What a question! She knew all too well how she responded to him and was certain that other women did exactly the same. It gave her a bad feeling. She had never liked to be one of a crowd. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of continuing to be one of those women. She could control her responses.

  “They—uh—” His cheekbones took on a dark red shade, and his mouth twisted wryly. “Well, let’s just say that I’ve never had trouble getting dates and—Hell! That sounds pretty juvenile, doesn’t it? Like I’m a high school kid bragging. What I mean is women like me. As a general rule.”

  “They… well, they usually claim to have fallen in love with me if I see them more than a couple of times. I don’t have to do anything to make it happen, and Rolph believes that there’s no point in him trying to have a serious relationship with a woman, because the minute he brings her home to meet the family she’s going to drop him and make a play for me.” He took a large book from the case, opened it at random, and studied the page in front of him. The flush on his face deepened as he assiduously avoided her gaze.

  She leaned back and eyed him curiously. He wasn’t boasting. She could see that. He was truly abashed at having to tell her about women’s reactions to him. “Does that happen?” she asked. “Do your brother’s friends drop him and make plays for you?”

  He looked up. “Sometimes.” He put the book back. “All right. Nearly always.” He came and sat in a wing chair opposite her. “Dammit, Jeanie, it’s embarrassing!”

  “What is? Talking about it or the fact that it happens?”

  His mouth twisted sideways again in an expression of distaste. “Both.”

  “Do you try to stop it from happening?”

  He nodded. “Not that it does much good.” He looked even more uncomfortable. “Some women just don’t want to take no for an answer. They seem to think I can’t possibly mean it. That if they feel for me whatever that thing is they insist on calling ‘love,’ then I have to return the feeling. And I don’t. I never have. I never will, because it isn’t a real feeling. It’s just another name for sex.”

  “And you think if you were married, it would stop them from coming after you, just like that?”

  “Well, yes, of course! I mean, women would see that there’d be no point in chasing after a married man, wouldn’t they, and—” He looked miserable as he shook his head. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt, anyway. It would give me some kind of an edge. Make a barrier of sorts. I have had a couple of pretty serious, live-in relationships in the last ten years or so. One lasted nearly two years, and, during that time, things with other women eased up a bit. So I figured if I were married for real—” He broke off with a helpless shrug.

  Jeanie shook her head. “You’re pretty naive for a man of thirty-eight, McKenzie. At least about women.”

  He stared at her. “No I’m not! Lord, if anyone should know about women, it’s me! Didn’t I just tell you, I can’t seem to keep them away? I probably could have married a hundred times, if I’d wanted to. I just never wanted to.” He blew out a breath of air, his lips pursed. “Until now. And now I do.”

  “Right.” she said, smiling wryly. “Now you want to give your brother a break, so you’re willing to marry someone. That’s really weird, Max. Maybe you should write yourself up as one of those people making a strange job offer.”

  He rose so quickly, she thought he was going to come and drag her off the couch. But he stood where he was, blue eyes snapping with sudden anger and possibly with hurt, although she doubted that. His feelings for her were purely sexual, so how could her refusal cause him emotional pain? His flush faded as he approached her, leaving his face without color. “I’m not willing to marry ‘someone’! I want to marry you, specifically you. I thought I had made that clear. That was no job offer, Jeanie. It was a sincere and genuine proposal of marriage, the first and only one I have ever made, and I never expected to have it laughed at.”

  A spurt of responding anger propelled Jeanie to her feet too. “Forgive me for seeing humor in it, but I’m afraid I can’t possibly take it seriously. It might as well have been a job offer the way you made it. What you were doing was propositioning me, Max! Offering a wedding ring in exchange for regular sex and protection against marauding females. Well, thanks, but no thanks! People marry for love or not at all in my book. They marry when their love is so big and so wonderful that they only want each other and they want it forever. Other people. As for me, I won’t marry, not for love nor, as the old saying goes, money. I’ll hang onto my freedom with both hands till the day I die! And so should you, since you’re a self-confessed cage hater too. Besides, if you were to marry someone and that had the desired effect of getting women out of your hair long enough for your brother to be happily settled, what would happen when a woman came along who wasn’t intimidated by your married status? And believe me, women do exist who don’t care if a man’s married or not! Some of them see it as a challenge they can’t turn down. If you wanted her, you’d be free to go after her, wouldn’t you? There’ll be none of that
neat little emotion known as love that sometimes holds people back from hurting others.”

  His expression gentled. “Is that why you’re refusing me, Jeanie? Because you’re afraid I’d hurt you?”

  She sighed in exasperation. “No, Max. I’m refusing because we don’t love each other. We don’t even know each other!”

  He stepped so close, she could smell the subtle scent of his cologne. She wished she didn’t have to breathe, but more than just an autonomic reflex dictated that she draw in deep drafts of it.

  “We could get to know each other. If love makes self-respecting people act the way I’ve seen some women—and guys—act, then I’m glad I can’t feel it. I’d hate to look like a fool. But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel, Jeanie.”

  His hands were warm on her arms. She knew she could pull away from him, that he wouldn’t stop her, but he was like a magnet drawing her closer. Her breasts brushed the front of his shirt, her nipples peaking instantly, pushing out the fabric of her sweatshirt. She saw a flicker in his eyes, knew he felt their hardness against his chest, and knew he was pleased by it.

  “Max …” Her voice cracked. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. “Max, I …”

  “Yes, you do,” he murmured, and she knew now that he could read her mind. “You want this as much as I do, Jeanie.” One of his hands slid up over her shoulder, then lifted to cup her chin, his thumb brushing over her full lower lip. “But I won’t do it until you say I can.”

  She lifted a hand to place it against his arm, meaning to shove him away, but her fingers discovered the solidity of his biceps, curled around, and slid higher. Dimly, she heard the faint tinkle of golden bangles and her own voice saying, “Yes…” on a soft, helpless sigh.

  “Yes … you’ll marry me?”

  Startled, she drew back and saw his blue eyes dancing with light. A laugh escaped her, surprising her. “No! Of course not. But you could kiss me.”

  “Ahh … yes,” he murmured, drawing her into a full embrace. “That will do for now.”

  It was a magic kiss, slow and sweet and undemanding, letting trust build along with need, so that when his tongue slipped through the narrow opening between her lips, she was ready to welcome it and greet it with her own. A heavy fluttering began deep in Jeanie’s body, warming her until she felt as if she glowed all over. One of Max’s hands splayed across the small of her back, moving slightly up and down, his fingers curved to massage her flesh. The other hand tugged at her hair tie, slid it free, and then plowed through the thick mass of curls that hung down her back, spreading them over her shoulders, around her face. He took great care, she realized, not to tug on the side where her scalp was cut.

  Reluctantly Max withdrew his mouth from hers as he buried his face in her thick hair, breathing in its scent, murmuring his appreciation. His lips caressed her cheeks, her closed eyes, her earlobe. His teeth nibbled gently beside her earring. “Jeanie …” As reluctantly as he’d stopped kissing her, he let her go, steadying her for a moment before stepping back.

  “Ahh … Jeanie, you are so sweet. So wonderful to hold, so perfect to kiss. I have to leave now. I have to say good night while I still can,” he said, cupping her flushed face between his hands. Dropping a kiss on her nose, he added, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No.” She moved away from him, shaking her head, her arms wrapped tightly around her own waist.

  He picked up his jacket, shrugged into it, then draped his raincoat over his arm. “No? Why not?” He had no intention of taking no for an answer.

  “Because I don’t think we should see each other again.”

  He smiled. “How can we get to know each other properly if we don’t?”

  He heard a note of desperation in her voice. “We aren’t going to get to know each other properly.” Then, as if his expression had given him away, she added quickly, “Or improperly, for that matter.”

  “Nothing is improper between two consenting adults,” he said, grinning at her.

  “What you’re thinking is,” she retorted.

  He put on a hang-dog face. “Really?”

  To his gratification, she spluttered with laughter. “Dammit, why do you have to try to charm me? I feel sorry for your brother. Maybe I should take you out of circulation for a month or two to give poor Rolph a chance and—”

  “It’ll be a whole hell of a lot longer than a couple of months, Jeanie.” He bent toward her again, kissed her hard and deep, then swung around and headed out the door.

  While he still could.

  Chapter Five

  JEANIE STOOD STARING at the door for several minutes, then sank back down onto the couch, lifting her hands to tame the wild hair he had set free. Again, she heard the faint tinkle of gold bangles and looked sideways at her arm. It was bare but for the shoved-up sleeve of her sweatshirt. She had removed the bracelets earlier when she changed, yet she distinctly recalled hearing them jangle at the moment she’d responded to Max’s kiss.

  “All right, Grandma Margaret,” she said. “What in the heck are you up to? Just go away. Leave me alone. Keep out of my love life!” With that, she went to bed.

  Love life? The words snapped back into her mind as she was about to slide into sleep and shocked her wide awake. Now, wait a minute! She didn’t have a love life, dammit! She didn’t know who she was telling, her long-departed ancestor or herself, but it didn’t matter. Thinking about it kept her from having nightmares about men in dark parking garages—and dreams about blue-eyed heroes with magic kisses. She awoke feeling more energetic than she had in many months, and much more eager to face the day.

  Her car was parked in the correct slot the next morning, and when she unlocked it with her spare key, she found her missing antique comb tucked into a small envelope on the passenger seat along with the other keys. She stroked the comb, unutterably glad to have it back, and so grateful to Max McKenzie that she could have wept—only weeping was not her thing. There was also a bright red full-blown rose lying across the dash. She picked it up, sniffed its heady scent, and laid it carefully on the seat beside her before starting the engine. As little as she knew him, she recognized that the rose was as characteristic of Max McKenzie as his charm. No tight little bud that she would have to wait to see in its full glory from him. He was showing her how it could be, right now, no waiting, no tiptoeing around each other. He’d said that he didn’t play games. He wanted her, wanted what they could create, wild and full and magnificent in its richness.

  She swallowed a thick lump that suddenly filled her throat, a lump that tasted strangely of fear. Because, when it came right down to it, she had to admit that she was probably just as eager as he that things between them progress far more rapidly than her mind told her was wise. In fact, if she were to listen only to her mind, she’d drive the car aboard the next ferry to the mainland and head out east, driving as far and as fast as she could. She wondered briefly what Newfoundland was like in October.

  The trouble was, she didn’t have only a wise mind to contend with; she had an aching body with a memory all its own and a growing need for something she hated to put a name to. But as she drove her usual route between home and work, she realized that she had never felt so alive, the world had never looked so bright. The air was completely clear, there was no morning haze that so often blurred the view of the off-shore islands. Six miles away across Haro Strait, San Juan Island in Washington State stood glowing with maples turned out in autumn gold and dogwoods in burgundy red, interspersed throughout the rich shades of the evergreens on its steep flanks.

  Nope. Newfoundland could have nothing to compare to this other island a whole continent away.

  She’d stay, regardless of the consequences.

  She should have been happy to feel so good, considering the close call she’d had the previous night. She was happy, of course. She was glad that the horror had been wiped away so effectively by subsequent events. She just wished those subsequent events wouldn’t keep filling her mind, flooding her sen
ses with delicious memories she’d be better off without. She shivered, remembering warm kisses, thrilling touches, soft murmurs, gasped words of mutual delight. She smiled, recalling another smile that she was totally incapable of resisting.

  “Max McKenzie,” she said aloud, “why don’t you just take your charm and your good looks and your crazy proposal of marriage, your red rose and … and … write bogus love letters instead?”

  He did.

  The first one was on her desk, not by the middle of the afternoon, but by the middle of the morning, and because he had forgotten or perhaps simply not bothered to take the initial list of instructions her client had provided, she knew the letter on her desk would be all wrong even without reading it. How could she send it to the client? It couldn’t possibly contain any of the right material.

  She knew she should have consigned it to the shredder the moment she realized what it was. She hadn’t thought of reading the letters her client had requested. All she’d been contracted to do was find the writer, accept his work, and forward it to the box number the client had given, thereby providing an added measure of anonymity for him. Or her.

  But Max had sent it sealed inside a courier’s envelope, with PERSONAL written big and bold across the front. Even Cindy had noticed and not opened it. Jeanie’s eyes widened and her heart began to pound as she scanned the letter. Before she had read more than four or five of the neatly typed, double-spaced lines, she was hooked and hoped that the client wasn’t a woman trying to make a man jealous, because if that were the case, then the letter from Max was certain to do the job. She’d hate to be an inadvertent accessory to murder.

  It read:

  Sweetheart,

  When I got home last night, I stripped off my clothes and headed toward the shower but halfway there I realized that if I bathed, I’d be washing away every vestige of your scent that remained on my skin. I put my shirt back on, because your cheek had rested against it, your hair had brushed over its fabric, your body had been pressed to it. It smelled of you. When I climbed into bed I still wore it, pretending that your arms, not just scented cotton, were wrapped around me, that you clung to me as tightly as did that shirt. Would that it had been more than mere fantasy! I spent most of the night thinking about you, and when I fell asleep in the early hours, my dreams were filled with you. I heard your husky laugh. I saw your smoky eyes. I felt your warm, soft lips under mine again and again, parted and sweet, accepting all I cared to give, and I cared to give everything. And in my dreams you wanted all I could give and gave your all in return. Your tangled, curly hair wrapped itself around my hands and wrists, brushed my chest, tantalized my belly. I ached for you, and when I awoke, my first thoughts were of you.