Nighttime Sweethearts

by Cara Colter

  And that small flame of hope within his own breast that had been fanned to life since he had first encountered her, flared up. Maybe he was not as destroyed as he had allowed himself to believe.

  Not that he could go back and be what he had been before. But perhaps something brand new would emerge. A young man's brashness and confidence would give way to an older man's maturity with a strength that came from having experienced sorrow.

  It was as if a spell had been cast on him.

  And when she reached up and touched his face, it was broken. Her hands were tender on the scars, but he jerked away from her questing fingertips. He had forgotten, momentarily, that even as a new man he was disfigured, repulsive.

  There had been a woman in his life at the time of the accident. Gorgeous, professional, cultured. He had not planned any kind of future with her, but it had still stung unbelievably when he had been able to see he repulsed her. She couldn't look at him after it happened, could barely touch him, had shrunk away from his lips.

  Pain burned through him as he remembered.

  He put Cynthia aside and swam for the shore.

  "Wait," she called. "Don't go, please. I still don't know your name."

  But he didn't wait, and he didn't tell her his name.

  He was trying to outrun pain, furious, burning, all-consuming.

  "I'm going to call you Bear, then."

  She was going to call him something, as if she expected she would see him again, as if she was engaged in this relationship whether he wanted to be or not.

  He wanted to tell her, no, don't give me a pet name. Don't.

  Don't draw me in any deeper, and don't you get in over your head, either. But he could not bring himself to utter those words.

  Nor to promise himself he would spare her by never seeing her again.

  Cynthia stood in the water and shivered. What had happened? What had she done? One minute their laughter had danced on the night air, the next minute he had gone.

  She had touched his face, she realized. She had felt the scarred ridges and known he was wounded.

  A few days ago she had known nothing about bears, but now she knew that a wounded bear was the most dangerous animal on the planet.

  And the most vulnerable.

  She emerged from the water and slowly packed up the wine, the chocolates and the strawberries, still untouched.

  A woman with an ounce of good sense would not want to pursue this thing. She was moving into dangerous territory and she knew it.

  But all her life she had been afraid. She had chosen, always, the way that was safe, the way that was secure. Isn't that why she had chosen to work for her mother instead of pursuing her own dreams? That way she did not have to fear not making it, did not have to fear failure. She had gained security.

  And lost herself.

  And somehow that man could lead her back.

  She was not taking the safe road this time. She was not selling her soul for the certainty of security. No more.

  And when she arrived home and found the carving of the dove on her table outside, it was cemented. She could not stop herself.

  She would find out who he was. And for once in her life, Cynthia Forsythe was going after what she wanted.

  Danger be damned.

  Chapter Six

  There, Rick thought, slamming his door behind him and leaning against it with the bone-deep weariness of a man who had run a marathon. He'd fixed it. Even if he couldn't get over his obsession with Cynthia, he was sure he'd fixed it so that she would never want to see him again. He'd left without an excuse and without saying goodbye. She'd always been smart, classy and proud. She wasn't going to put up with that. He hoped.

  But before his self-congratulations got too strenuous, he recalled that in their parting moment she had called after him, given him a name—Bear.

  That's exactly what he felt like these days. A bear. Holed up in his cave, crabby and reclusive. Bears didn't see that well, either.

  Restless, he picked up a piece of carving wood. He could see the shape of the bear in it, could almost feel it emerging from under his knife. But it would be a bigger piece than he normally did, and his mood wasn't right for it.

  Instead, he turned to his sketchbook, opened it up and stared at the rough drawing of the stairs and floor for the chapel that he had drawn.

  Despite how little was there, it was good. Real. Capturing exactly that mystical "something" that he was trying to capture.

  And then he thought of swimming with Cynthia, of her laughter filling the air, and of how that carefree time together had made him feel. Young again.

  As if her laughter—her laughter, not to mention the taste of her lips, the press of her sweet, wet curves into him— could heal something in him. Lift him above the pain.

  That's what being with her did. It made him feel hope.

  And wasn't that what love did? Made people feel hope beyond what they probably had any right to feel?

  Still, if you were going to draw it, if you were going to put that feeling into a building, how would you do it?

  His pencil seemed to work on its own. Before he knew it, his exhaustion was gone and walls were sitting on those granite floors, but walls like nothing he had ever built or even seen before. They were walls made of glass.

  He looked at the drawing and felt his breath stop. The concept was beautiful. Probably impossible to execute, but beautiful.

  He snorted. "It's Florida. The average temperature here is eighty-five degrees, day in and day out. People would cook in a chapel made of glass."

  Well, not necessarily. The huge tree that sheltered the clearing would help reduce the heat if he could manage to save it. And there was amazing technology. There were argon-gas-filled windows that let in light but filtered out heat.

  And wasn't that what hope did? Let in the light and filtered out all else?

  Was it possible to build something like this? Of course it was. Greenhouses were built on this concept. He fiddled, did some math, figured out some bearings, figured some more. The glass would not stand on its own. It would have to fit into a framework. How could he make the framework seem nearly invisible?

  The challenge engrossed him completely. When he finished, hours had slipped away from him and he was aware of feeling a way he had not felt for a long time. Passionate. Fully engaged in life.

  Excited. And he knew he had one person to thank for that, and he had treated her badly.

  He looked again at the piece of wood that spoke of a bear and rejected it for a smaller lighter piece.

  The dolphin took shape of its own volition, joyous, leaping from the water, playing with the elements.

  That was what Cynthia had given him tonight, a spirit of play. He peeked out of his eternally closed drapes and realized morning had come. He looked at his watch. He had been so engrossed, first in the walls of the chapel and then in the carving of the dolphin that he had lost track of time. More important, he had lost track of himself. He had been free, for a while, from the pain of loss. It had not even crossed his mind that he was scarred or blinded in one eye or that his larynx had been crushed or that he was haunted by dreams of being trapped and crushed under a pressing weight.

  It was too late to go there now, to Cynthia, with dawn already strong, but tonight, he would leave her the gift of the dolphin. He didn't have to see her. He didn't have to engage her anymore in his life.

  It was a thank-you and a farewell. "Of course," he told himself gruffly, "I think you've said that before."

  And he actually laughed at himself.

  Cynthia awoke feeling as if she had a hangover. When she remembered some of the details of the night before it occurred to her a hangover was a distinct possibility. She had come home and put her vow to live dangerously into practice by drinking that whole bottle of champagne by herself.

  "What a pathetic thing to do," she scolded herself. She had left the beach feeling so brave, so determined.

  But with each sip of that wi
ne, instead of becoming braver, her determination had faltered. You couldn't chase a man. You couldn't throw yourself at him if he wasn't interested. Where was her pride? Plus, you especially couldn't pursue him if you didn't even know who he was, or exactly how to find him.

  Something rustled near her fingertips, and she sat up and groaned. Chocolate wrappers. She had polished those off, too. The wrappers littered her bed.

  Memories of the rest of the evening, after her disastrous departure from Bear, crowded into a mind that had not invited them. Oh, yes, after half the bottle of champagne she had hunted for Hot Desert Kisses, finally finding the book under the sofa cushion where she had tucked it, in a sober moment, to keep her mind off kisses of any sort at all.

  So, barreling toward full-blown inebriation, she had finished off the book, not to mention every single one of those chocolates.

  Had the book been trashy? No! It had been glorious. She had been weeping volumes and stuffing back chocolates at an alarming rate for the last three pages.

  Now someone knocked on her door, and she pulled her pillow over her head. She was tired of being woken up by mysterious knocks. She was tired of hoping it was him. She was tired of her excruciatingly boring life. She was tired of the fact that it kept promising to be something else and instead left her feeling more deflated and pathetic than before.

  Her determination to live with more verve faltered in light of the fact that her first spontaneous decision—to polish off the champagne on her own—had left her nursing the most horrible headache of her entire life.

  Reasonable people knew that's what living dangerously did!

  The knock came again. Her mother coming over to call a truce? Jerome again?

  What if it was the mystery man?

  "I don't care if it is him," she told herself, but of course she did.

  What would it hurt to get up and just take a tiny peek out of her security peephole? She tiptoed to the door and pressed her eye to it. Merry Montrose stood there. Cynthia held her breath and hoped the woman would go away. But she didn't. She knocked and then she knocked again.

  Muttering under her breath, Cynthia finally opened the door. "What?" she asked, and could hear the surliness in her own voice.

  "It must be contagious," Merry said cheerfully.

  "What?"

  "A certain crabbiness in the air. Especially in the mornings."

  Cynthia was aware of Merry's sharp eyes taking in her appearance. She could guess exactly how she looked. She probably still had a ring of chocolate around her mouth. She tried to look dignified and not at all haggard and hung-over. She suspected she failed from the look of concern on Merry's face.

  "Are you feeling all right, my dear?"

  "Not particularly," Cynthia said.

  "Your romantic evening?" Merry ventured, her eyes searching for and finding the basket, which was lying topsy-turvy beside the couch.

  And then she saw the champagne bottle lying on its side, empty, on the coffee table.

  "There was no romantic evening," Cynthia said. "I mean there was the start of one but I finished it by myself. I hate that man. Whoever he is." What she really hated was all the things he made her feel—self-doubt, then soaring confidence, then more self-doubt. Hope and then the letdown of things hoped for not happening. She hated how she was evaluating a perfectly respectable life—her life—as if her choices had all been rotten and wrong for her.

  "Hate him?" Merry said, uneasily. "I would hope that's a little, er, strong."

  "Ha. Not nearly strong enough."

  "But the wine—" she ventured.

  "I drank it by myself. And ate all the chocolates. And the strawberries. Don't tell my mother." She could have kicked herself for saying that, as if she needed her mother's approval, but she simply wasn't in her best form. "Never mind. I don't want to discuss last evening. Or my romantic endeavors or lack thereof. Or my mother."

  "Oh," Merry said. "Are those things linked in some way?"

  "I hope not," Cynthia said dejectedly. "Is there something I can help you with?" Quickly, so that I can go back to bed, pull my pillow over my head and suffocate myself.

  Merry looked momentarily confused, as if she had totally forgotten what brought her knocking on the door at the ungodly hour of—Cynthia slid her eyes to the clock— ten-thirty. And then she smiled. "Oh, yes, I've come to deliver an invitation."

  It was him, Cynthia thought, and felt her traitorous heart pick up tempo. This was his style exactly. Use a middleman, build the intrigue and excitement! She could feel the excitement building even as she ordered herself, that no matter what the invitation was, she must say no. All that excitement kept building only to end in a big fat zero. Much more of that kind of stress and she would end up addicted to romance novels. She could probably live without the chocolate and champagne, but without hot, hungry kisses?

  "Do you remember meeting Parris at the dress shop the other day?" Merry asked her. "She told me you shopped together and had so much fun."

  Oh, yes, Parris, who encouraged red and sexy things.

  But what did Parris have to do with her mystery man?

  "She told you she was getting married, didn't she?"

  "Of course," Cynthia said, and tried not to feel envious of the other woman's obvious love. Parris shone—her skin glowed with it, her eyes danced, she walked with the unconscious sensuous sway of a woman who was adored. Parris was way beyond all the confusing fun-and-games part of a courtship.

  Though so far, Cynthia thought cynically, she had not had a courtship, plenty of games but no fun.

  Except for last night, when they had played like dolphins in the black silk of a calm sea. And he had wrapped himself around her and kissed her…

  "Er, Cynthia, did you hear me?"

  "Sorry. No." She was blushing. "What did you say?"

  "Parris and Brad are getting married here at the resort in a very private ceremony. It's too bad the new chapel won't be done."

  "The new chapel?" Cynthia asked.

  "You haven't even got that far yet?"

  "How far?" she asked, confused.

  "Oh, never mind," Merry said obviously flustered. "I just thought by now, if things were progressing—"

  "I'm not following you. What things? What progression?"

  "Forgive me," Merry said, rattled. "I'm just an old woman. I get dotty sometimes, mumble away to myself, stomp on cell phones that I need desperately."

  "Oh," Cynthia said with real sympathy. The woman did seem very flustered. "Well, thank you for telling me about Brad and Parris. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  "Oh, my apologies. I'm not done delivering the invitation! The ceremony is small and private, as I said, but they are planning quite the gala afterward. It will be outdoors and spectacular, naturally, since I'm helping with the arrangements. Parris asked me if I could track you down. She so wanted you to be there."

  "Me?" Cynthia asked, surprised and flattered. "Parris hardly knows me."

  "I don't think a person would have to know you very well to like you, Cynthia. You sparkle."

  "Me?"

  "Yes. Didn't you know? And I think you and Parris have quite a bit in common."

  Ha. Parris is madly in love, and I'm madly in limbo.

  "You're both young women on the brink of discovering the full joys of life."

  "I wish," Cynthia muttered, but still she took the details for Parris and Brad's reception, time and place. Oh, how she would love to bring her mystery man there. As far as she knew, her mother didn't know Parris, so she wouldn't be there, looking on, making judgments.

  She could almost hear her. "Darling, his manners." And "What's wrong with his face?"

  No, they could be normal. Have a few drinks, dance, laugh, talk.

  They could get to know each other as if it were a real date.

  But would he come into the light? Would he have to? At an outdoor gathering at night, surely there would be plenty of places where the lighting would be more subtle.

  Of cou
rse, there was still the challenge of finding him. How simple that had seemed, last night, emerging from the water, full of the energy and sizzle of his kisses. But now her energy had fizzled. Besides, her head hurt.

  No wonder her mother enjoyed a good migraine so much! It was a great excuse to completely abscond on life!

  In the harsh glare of early morning, with her head pounding unreasonably, Cynthia was not nearly so certain of what was possible, what was plausible, what was reality and what was just hopeful fantasy.

  "So, may I tell her you'll come?" Merry said.

  "I don't know. I don't want to go by myself."

  "Ask someone."

  "It's more complicated than that."

  "That's what I was afraid of," Merry said. "Hardly any progress at all." Her attention wandered and then stopped on the carvings that Cynthia had displayed on her table.

  "My gosh," she said, and pushed right past Cynthia. "These are beautiful. I have always wanted to start an art gallery here that would showcase exactly this kind of work. I'm afraid I have neither the expertise nor, at the moment, the enthusiasm."

  Merry wanted to start an art gallery? Here? Wouldn't that be Cynthia's dream job? To find wonderful one-of-a-kind pieces of art to fill a gallery in a beautiful place like this?

  Last night, emerging from the water, anything had seemed possible. She probably would have said to Merry, look no further, I'm the one for the job. But today…well, today, everything seemed different. Her old world seemed like a much safer place than this one. It might not have been exciting, but it had not had all these painful ups and downs, either.

  "Exquisite," Merry said, touching the carvings again.

  "They are beautiful, aren't they?" Cynthia said, and tried to quell the dreamy note in her voice.

  She could tell she failed because Merry slid her a look of sly interest.

  "Where did you get them?"

  Cynthia hesitated. "Someone leaves them for me. In the night."

  "Really?" Merry breathed. "Like the legend?"

  "Well, of course not like that," Cynthia said, blushing. "Not exactly like that. I mean he hasn't crept into my room and, you know."