Dream of Me (Harmony Falls, Book 1)

by Gaelen Foley

Idly, he wondered how it was possible that no one had come along yet and put a ring on her finger.

  “My dear, you must tell me where you learned to speak French. Your accent is impressive.”

  “Semester in Paris. I was studying art history.”

  “Ahh!” Hearing that, it was quite possible Monty fell in love with her on the spot.

  Harry hid his amusement while they discussed the glories of walking along the Seine. They chatted for another couple of minutes until the waiter deftly interrupted, thank God, bringing the next bottle.

  “Here we are.” Monty’s smile was expansive as he raised the glass the waiter had just poured. “To what shall we toast?”

  Harry looked expectantly at Bea.

  “To pursuing our dreams?” she suggested, sending Harry a pointed look.

  “Lovely,” Monty agreed. “May they all come true.”

  They clinked glasses, and privately, Harry winced at the knowledge that he still had every intention of wresting her dream away from her if he could.

  He glanced shrewdly at Montclair, who looked like he was about to start another conversation with Bea. “As an art student, you must’ve visited Florence while living abroad.”

  “Briefly, yes. Of course, I saw the David,” she told him. “Magnificent.”

  “Ahem,” Harry interjected. He turned to the billionaire. “So how’s your golf swing these days, Monty?”

  The elegant fellow scoffed. “Tolerable, Harrison. But you know I find the game a bit slow-moving for my tastes. Polo, now, there’s a sport. Game of kings!” he told Bea, showboating grandly. “But while we’re on the topic of golf… I trust Curtis is well?”

  “Could be better, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?” Montclair said with a longsuffering stare.

  “Just a recurring case of foot-in-mouth disease. But he’s aware of the problem, and we expect a full recovery.” Harry offered a penitent smile, holding his breath and praying that would suffice as a formal gentleman’s apology on his boss’s behalf. Then this nonsense could end.

  Monty narrowed his eyes and thought it over. “You’ll give him my best, then.”

  “Certainly. Thank you, sir. I will,” Harry said in surprise. That actually worked?

  Harry could’ve fallen off his chair, grateful but shocked at the billionaire’s magnanimity. Bea’s presence must’ve put Monty in a good mood.

  Oh, thank God. Relief flooded through him. Because that meant that now, hopefully, when he told his boss things were cool with Monty—that Curt could return to Silver Oaks—the cowboy would give up his pursuit of the Palmer Family Farm.

  Then his entire dilemma with Bea would just go away by itself, and he’d be off the hook. His heart leaped at the prospect of taking her out again, this time, with none of this business stuff hanging over their heads.

  Because whether he wanted to admit it or not, Harry knew he was already pretty smitten with the woman.

  But then Harry remembered Tammy Reese. She might not let Curt back out of their scheme, he thought. The “lavender queen” was not one of the billionaire’s usual mindless young bimbos. Successful women his own age, like Tammy, knew better how to run the game.

  Crap, thought Harry.

  “I hope you two will stay to enjoy the music that’s about to start,” Monty said, gesturing with his glass toward the terrace. “It may be a little old-fashioned for your tastes, but they’re marvelous musicians.”

  Harry glanced over his shoulder in the direction Monty indicated. Beyond the sparkling fountains, snuggled among a neatly sculpted garden, sat a small stage tented by a white canopy. A lone upright bass leaned against its stand while a bearded man dressed in black shifted around some barstools, tapped on a microphone, and stocked the stage with water bottles for the players.

  “A little French-inspired jazz ought to get you dancing and help ward off the night’s chill,” Monty added, leering at Bea like he couldn’t wait to watch.

  “Father?” Just then, Montclair’s long-legged daughter, Vanessa of Christmas Goose fame, came runway-striding toward them. Her bony frame was draped in a flowing silver gown and airy matching scarf. Delicate jeweled earrings peeked out beneath her stacked brown bob.

  “Pardon the interruption,” she said, stopping at their table. Then a startled smile appeared when she noticed Harry. Her smiles always looked a little painful; a glare was more the financier’s natural expression. “Why, Harrison Riley. My, it’s been a while. You’re looking well.”

  “Ms. Montclair. Nice to see you again.” Harry stood and gave her an obligatory handshake.

  Vanessa wrapped both her palms around his hand, scanned him with a quick, proprietary glance, then whipped her head toward Bea. Her hair swished, and a pointy tip of it landed on her cheekbone. “I don’t believe we’ve met, dear.”

  Monty introduced the two women with his Old World, faux-Euro flair, but the daughter was another story. Vanessa’s handshake and the gleam in her eye was that of an all-American corporate shark.

  In addition to her job at the bank, Daddy had put her in charge of whole swaths of the Montclair dynasty holdings, and she ruled with an iron fist.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Palmer.” As they were introduced, Vanessa focused her gaze for a long moment intimidatingly on Bea before dismissing her and returning her attention to Harry. “Nice work on the Stackhouse Lofts, Riley.” She laid a willowy hand on her hip. “Who would’ve thought that blighted strip of rundown factories could become such a bustling draw for the city? Well done.”

  Harry nodded his startled thanks. An outright compliment from Vanessa Montclair was as rare as a comet’s passing.

  But he was not surprised that the project earned her approval. He’d worked feverishly for the last year to bring the upscale complex to fruition in one of Pittsburgh’s formerly grittiest neighborhoods. Curt had fronted the startup money for the project, based on Harry’s analysis that it would be a success.

  Against Vanessa’s better judgment, she’d agreed to have her underlings at the bank process a subsequent construction loan when the builders ran out of capital. Over an awkward lunch meeting, Harry had convinced her that people would actually buy the luxury condos and that the loan would easily be paid back in full. After all, even Google had moved part of its offices into the city. Trendy, high-paid tech workers needed to live somewhere.

  Having been proved right, Harry smiled but tried not to gloat. Still, it was pretty satisfying hearing a hoity-toity ballbuster like Vanessa Montclair acknowledge his victory aloud.

  Truth was, Harry would’ve paid good money to have been a fly on the wall at the Christmas Goose incident. He tried to imagine the horror on her haughty face when Curt had poked her in the ass.

  The moment at hand called for graciousness, however. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Vanessa.”

  She smirked, not buying his charm. “Oh, you’d have found a way, Riley. You always do. Daddy!” She whipped around again to Montclair. “The Samuelsons are here. It’s been ages. Come,” she ordered.

  Monty smiled and obeyed, rising from his chair. “So nice to meet you, Beatrice. Thank you for the charming company this evening.”

  “Likewise. Thank you for the wine,” Bea answered with a smile as Vanessa hooked her arm through the crook of her father’s elbow and started to tug him away.

  Monty nodded farewell to them and started to turn away. Suddenly, he stopped, pointing his finger in the air, a massive green gemstone glistening on his signet ring. “Harrison, there is one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “When you speak to Curtis, do advise him that Silver Oaks does not tolerate his particular brand of high jinks, hmm? If he wishes to return in the future, he’ll be expected to display more gentlemanly behavior—and above all, to apologize to my daughter.”

  Vanessa humphed and rolled her eyes. “That Neanderthal.”

  Harry pretended not to hear that. “Absolutely, sir. I’ll be sure to relay the mess
age at once.”

  “Fair enough,” Monty declared, then he and Vanessa strode off to greet their other guests.

  Harry’s heart sank as they walked away. Curtis Culpeper…apologize? His brief hope of getting out of this dilemma promptly dwindled.

  Curt didn’t do apologies.

  Then Harry noticed Bea looking at him with mirth sparkling in her honey-brown eyes. “You know some very colorful people,” she whispered.

  He couldn’t help but grin. “Do I ever. You charmed him,” he murmured. “He usually doesn’t give me the time of day.”

  They shared the joke in warm, humorous silence.

  The truth was, Monty considered himself as much of a ladies’ man as Curt did. He just took a different approach. When the two of them got together, it tended to become a feeding frenzy of money flying around a cloud of hot, young, greed-driven women.

  Ah well. Better the two aging playboys should tussle over resorts than women any day, Harry thought. Those occasions tended to get pretty unpleasant. Both men were just so damned competitive.

  “The daughter, though,” Bea continued with a sparkle in her eyes, leaning toward him, “I don’t think she liked me.”

  “Not unless you’ve got a few million in the bank,” Harry whispered back with a confidential smile. “I’m pretty sure that’s her policy.”

  “Guess I’d better go buy a lottery ticket, then. But hey,” Bea said with a curious grin, keeping her voice down. “What was all that about your boss? He and Monty know each other?”

  “They go way back,” he admitted in a guarded tone.

  “I take it they got into some kind of argument?”

  Harry nodded, but this was venturing onto dangerous ground.

  “What about?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes and dodged the question with a show of humorous exasperation. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  And he sure as hell didn’t want to tell her. First, he’d talk to Curt. See what the old man wanted to do. Until then, the less Bea knew about all this, the better.

  # # #

  After dinner, Bea sauntered through the swinging crowd on the terrace, staving off a shiver. She was alone for the moment; after draping his coat around her shoulders to keep her warm, Harry had been drawn away briefly to chat with yet another colleague.

  She didn’t mind. She was glad to have a moment to herself to gather her thoughts. So far, she felt confident she’d kept her wits about her with Mr. Cutie, had maintained her poise throughout this over-the-top night.

  If it hadn’t been for those few months of finishing school that her mother had insisted she undergo as a teen so she wouldn’t embarrass her parents at the country club, she’d be quite the fish out of water right now. It had felt good to speak French again, though her accent was rusty.

  Mr. Montclair didn’t seem to mind. And he was right—the music was marvelous. The female vocalist had a smooth, elegant voice, but after a few nostalgic verses from “La Vie en Rose” to set the mood, her song morphed into something livelier—a cover of something by Pink Martini, Bea was pretty sure.

  It was loud and wonderful, the joyous upbeat finger-picking guitar; deep, bouncing bass; the peeping clarinet; the sexy saxophone and drums. She felt like she’d been transported to a chic Paris bistro as she stood under the moonlight watching the musicians.

  The temperature, though, had dropped fast. She glanced up suspiciously at the star-speckled sky, worried about her fields. But as the singer crooned and the players strummed, she gave herself permission to simply enjoy the moment.

  She just hoped she hadn’t said too much to Harry. She was really starting to like him, but was that wise? A gnawing feeling inside warned she’d better watch her step, because there was still a chance that she was being played.

  When he returned, though, her doubts dissolved as he strode toward her, a huge, mischievous grin on his face. He held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

  Her eyebrows shot upward. Oh, God, it’s been ages.

  She hesitated, and Harry wagged his fingers.

  “Don’t leave me hangin’ here, Honey-Bea.”

  She smiled at that, left her worries behind, and took his hand.

  Before she knew it, she was being swung and twirled, her fingers intertwined with Harry’s. She obeyed his rhythmic tug and pull as he guided her gently, yet certainly, this way and that. He promenaded her around the terrace, stars dancing in his night-blue eyes; she tiptoed swiftly in her strappy sandals, in perfect sync with his capable steps to the festive melody, and had a glorious time.

  Harry circled her playfully, then wound his arms around her, hugging her waist, until he sent her off, unfurling her into a feverish spin. She beamed at him, breathless.

  As the song came to a raucous crescendo, he startled her, picking her up effortlessly and dipping her wildly backward. She laughed in sheer glee as he bent over her, suspending her, weightless, above the dancefloor with his immense power.

  She was momentarily dazzled by the sense of lying helpless in his embrace. The boxing he enjoyed must’ve explained the iron strength in the arms that held her with such ease. The broad angle of his shoulders blotted out the stars, and his muscled chest was warm against her. She could feel his heart thumping in time with her own as the song ended.

  Panting, they gazed into one another’s eyes, sharing the moment.

  As they righted themselves and most of the dancing crowd thinned for a break, the band drifted into a drowsy ballad. With no words exchanged, just a subtle look, Bea agreed to a second dance.

  Harry pulled her to him, pressed his hand against the small of her back, and ushered her gently into the rhythm. Bea slid her arms a little more tightly around him, crossing her wrists behind his neck.

  “Thank you for showing me the falls this morning,” he murmured, slowing his movements to a sensual sway.

  “I was glad I could.” She forced herself to concentrate on his words instead of the maddening delight of his body caressing hers.

  “You know, I realized, after everything that happened today”—he paused, looking for the right words—“that you helped me.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Moi? How’s that?”

  “I’ve spent years with this silly phobia. I always hated that in myself. But today, you made me break through it. Something primal took over inside of me when I realized you were—what’s the phrase? Taking a drink?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Yeah, that. When I saw you floating down the river, headed for that massive tree, fighting with every ounce of courage you had—”

  “I thought I was going to die, Harry.”

  “So did I. God, I really did. But you were strong. And when I saw your bravery, I forgot my own fear. When it came down to that moment of life or death, it all just washed away. Crazy, huh? So I wanted to thank you for that.”

  “Oh, Harry, I’m the one who owes you the thanks—” she started, but Harry cut her off.

  “No. If anything would’ve happened to you… I don’t think I could handle that.” His piercing blue eyes stared right down into her soul.

  Right then, she felt it. The weightless free fall into the unknown. Harry was giving her a glimpse into himself, the real him, beyond the surface charm.

  But something he’d said had bothered her all day. She bit her lip for a heartbeat, then forged ahead softly. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Uh-oh,” Harry said with a wary half-smile. “Okay.”

  “You said your mom was working two jobs and really struggling when you were a kid. I was just wondering, where was your dad in all this?”

  She saw him close down a little, felt his muscles tense.

  “Good question,” he replied, and glanced away. “My parents split up when I was nine. By the time I was eleven, he was out of the picture.”

  She searched his face with a sympathetic frown. “Sorry. I just wondered.”

  “It’s all right. Not my favorite topic, but yo
u told me about your accident, so…”

  “I can understand why.”

  He paused. “He hurt my mom pretty bad. She really thought he was a prince. Turned out he had a gambling problem, and the constant need for funds turned him into some kind of a con man. Embarrassing having that sort of a guy as a father.”

  “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

  “Yeah.” He watched the band, avoiding her gaze. “You ask me, it’s a miracle the guy even hung around as long as he did. Guess one of his other girlfriends finally agreed to let him shack up at her place.”

  Bea winced.

  “Mom had no idea he was two-timing her all over town until one of the neighbors finally told her. It was bad enough she put up with his gambling. Figures he’d leave her as soon as he struck a big win. I guess he felt it was time to upgrade to a newer model, and definitely ditch the burden of a kid.”

  She squeezed his shoulders comfortingly as they danced. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about this if you’d rather not.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just reality. Besides, he lost all those winnings within a year. We know because that’s when he came crawling back to Mom with his tail between his legs, broke again. My mother almost took him back, too.” Harry shook his head. “But I stopped her. Cuz a ten-year old makes a great marriage counselor.”

  “Harry,” Bea said sympathetically.

  “The worst part is knowing she put up with all his shit for so long because of me. She wanted me to have a father, even if he was a lowdown, dirty dog. No thank you.”

  “Sounds like you had to grow up fast.”

  “Well, at least I knew early on what I didn’t want to be when I grew up because of him.”

  With the song ending, Bea decided it was the perfect time for that selfie she’d wanted to take earlier as a handy way to lighten the mood.

  Harry was amenable to the idea, so they moved to the terrace railing to get out of the crowd’s way. Getting a good picture turned out to be harder than expected, though, and soon had them laughing at the awkward results: closed eyes, lopsided hair, goofy smiles.

  Determined to get at least one good shot to show her fairy godmothers, Bea slid her arms around his waist and smiled from ear to ear, waiting for the flash while Harry curled his arm around her shoulders, cuddled her close, and held his cell phone out before them in his other hand.