A Kiss to Dream On

by Neesa Hart

  A spark darkened his eyes to near black as he visually consumed her features. “Where did you get a lamebrained idea like that?”

  Cammy would have responded, except the lights blinked, signaling the beginning of the recital. Jacob slipped his arm around Macon’s shoulder. “That’s our cue.”

  Jackson nodded. “We’d better find seats. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  Cammy felt a slight tug on her sleeve and turned to find Macon studying her with avid interest. “Tomorrow,” Macon hissed. “You and I are having lunch tomorrow. We have a lot to talk about.”

  four

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  Laura Glynn didn’t bother to turn her head. Propped against the white pillows, her bed framed by the grayish green walls of the psychiatric hospital, she stared avidly at the water pitcher on her nightstand.

  Cameo drew a deep breath. “Do you want some water?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to look at me today?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They lapsed into silence. Cameo searched her mother’s profile for signs of change. Hard lines of disillusionment still etched her face. Her hair, perfectly coifed as always, seemed at odds with the confusion in her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t get by to see you earlier this week.”

  She’d been busy trying to pretend that Jackson Puller wasn’t having a serious effect on her equilibrium. She turned her thoughts instead to his behavior at the dance recital. As the children had danced, performed miracles on a stage where deafness didn’t prohibit them from keeping time and rhythm, she’d sensed a storm brewing inside him. His casual good mood had given way to something more emotionally profound during the course of the recital. The fleeting dark look she’d seen when she’d mentioned Leo had taken up permanent residence on his face. By the end of the evening, ghosts had lived in his gaze.

  Concerned, she’d pressed him slightly during the intermission. He’d responded with distracted answers and a hollow tone in his voice that told her his mind had returned to Bosnia. Frustrated at her own inability to reach him, she’d offered to drive Amy home for him after the show. He’d seized the opportunity with a mumbled apology about his deadline and left before the finale.

  Cammy wasn’t normally prone to panic, but then Jackson Puller represented an unusual set of circumstances. Forcibly, she set the image of his haunted look aside and dragged herself back to the sterile room. “I’ve had a lot to do,” she told her mother. “What with the fund-raiser for Wishing Star coming up, and my usual appointments. I’m very busy.”

  “Aren’t you always busy?”

  The bitter statement explained much. “Generally, yes.” Cameo leaned back in her chair as she reminded herself of her mother’s emotional immaturity. Oddly, years of professional psychiatric training never seemed to prepare her for facing the grim reality in this room. Nor, evidently, the worry she’d battled through the night about Jackson’s peace of mind. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for you.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Cameo. Sitting here, day after day, wondering if your only child forgot you.”

  “You know I won’t forget you.”

  “If you’d had children, you’d understand.” Long ago, the barb had lost its ability to hurt her. She’d come to terms with the birth defect that had caused her infertility, just as she’d come to terms with her deafness. When puberty had failed to bring the usual changes to her body and her system, her mother had dragged her to an endless stream of specialists. With her fear and confusion amplified by her deafness, Cammy had withdrawn even further into her shell. The night her mother had confronted her father with the news of Cammy’s infertility, he’d been on his way to a speaking event. He’d taken the news in stride and casually dismissed it as a “blessing in disguise.” No chance, he’d informed her mother, that Cammy’s deafness could be genetically transferred. Cammy had sat on the steps of their town house and read the brutal words as they’d tumbled from his lips. He’d offered her a forced smile on his way out the door.

  She hadn’t realized she’d lapsed into the memory until her mother finally looked at her. A hint of wildness flitted across her gaze. “Where’s your father?”

  She always asked. Cammy always gave her the same answer. “He’s out of town.” For years, Laura Glynn had refused to accept the reality of her late husband’s death. Cammy had eventually found the evasion easier than the truth. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “He was supposed to take me to the ball this week.”

  “Really?” This was a new development.

  Laura nodded. She raised a weathered hand to pat her graying curls. “I’ve had my hair done.”

  “Which ball, Mother?”

  “Ivan and Nadeja Korsinski are in town for the summit. Hadn’t you heard?”

  Cammy’s brows lifted slightly. Of course she’d heard. Traffic jams, news reports, and tightened security had surrounded the Russian president’s state visit for the past several days. “I didn’t know you had.”

  “I read the papers,” her mother snapped. “There’s a ball tonight. At the embassy. Your father is supposed to take me.”

  The fantasy, Cammy admitted, was not completely beyond the realm of reason. During her father’s reign as chairman of the U.S. Senate Foreign Affairs Committee, he often attended state functions. “Did he tell you he would?” Cammy prompted.

  Laura nodded. “Last week. He stopped by.” Cool gray eyes registered a look of triumph. “He’s getting rid of her, you know. I knew he would.”

  “Her?”

  “That woman. Don’t be so naive, Cameo. You know about her. Everyone knows about her.”

  Everyone had. Cameo had first learned of her father’s infidelity in precisely this fashion. She’d been seven, then, and wholly unprepared for the harsh truth. Time had taught her that her mother’s psychological deterioration, not deliberate insensitivity, had triggered those early bouts of rage and near hysteria. Time had not, however, completely healed the wounds. Cammy briefly closed her eyes. “Yes, Mother. I know.”

  “He won’t get away with it.”

  “Won’t he?”

  “The press will destroy him. He hates them, you know. Just like he hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” The response was automatic. Years ago, she’d decided to play the role of daughter, not doctor. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Yes, he does. He hates me. And he hates you. It’s not my fault you can’t hear, you know?”

  Cammy nodded. This was familiar territory. Her mother had never seemed to comprehend that surgery had corrected most of Cammy’s deafness. Instead, she’d continued to remind her that Durstan had little use for either of them. “I know.”

  “Deafness runs in your father’s family. Not mine.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Then you can’t blame me for it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Your father does.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line of dislike. “Don’t ever forget it either, Cameo. No matter what he tells you, he can’t stand the fact that you’re deaf. He likes to drag you out in public to make himself look charitable, but he hates it. There’s nothing Durstan hates more than imperfection.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Cammy stepped out onto the sidewalk with the same sense of relief she felt each time she completed a visit to her mother’s hospital room. Inside, the building felt stifling, institutional. It resembled too many of the places where Cammy had spent long months of her childhood. On the best of days, it made her edgy.

  Today, however, when she was already disconcerted from a mostly sleepless night, her mother’s biting tongue had found its mark. The truth of her words, Cammy supposed, hurt more than the actual hearing of them. Laura had been right. Durstan Glynn couldn’t tolerate imperfection.

  Unbidden, and before she could stop it, a second memory assailed her. She was fifteen, and she’d failed to meet Durstan’s expe
ctations yet again.

  “Why didn’t you answer them, Cameo?” She read the cold accusation on Durstan Glynn’s lips, felt the equally cold condemnation in his gaze.

  She glanced at her mother. Laura was staring fixedly at the flower arrangement in the center of the table. “Durstan, did you give any more thought to attending that charity benefit next week?”

  “Damn it, Laura—”

  Cammy flinched. Though she couldn’t hear the words, the vibration of her father’s voice sent chills racing through her. She gathered a calm facade around her like a familiar blanket as she concentrated on her dinner.

  Her mother swallowed the contents of her wine glass. “She didn’t answer because she’s deaf, Durstan. In case it escaped your notice.’’

  Cammy didn’t attempt to read her father’s reply. Her parents were shouting now. Soon, she knew, he’d leave. Her mother would rage at her for making him leave. Her fault for making him angry. Her fault for failing to impress his supporters. Her fault for his infidelity. Her fault for . . .

  Forcibly, Cammy pushed the dark thought aside. She drew a long, tension-easing breath of the early spring air. Briefly, her eyes drifted shut as she mentally identified the sounds around her. A distant siren. A crumpled piece of paper tumbling down the sidewalk. The chatter from a nearby playground.

  “Cammy?”

  Her name. Her eyes popped open. Jackson stood beside her on the sidewalk, an intense expression on his angular face. He held a manila folder in one hand. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you all right?”

  She frowned at him. “Are you?”

  His expression gentled. “Yes. I was looking for you.” His gaze narrowed. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. You’re pale.”

  “Really? It’s probably not as bad as what I saw on your face last night.”

  He grimaced. “I can explain that. Sort of. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Costas.”

  She froze. “Mike? Mike told you I was here?”

  “He said you were visiting a patient.”

  Relief washed over her. Mike would have known, she reassured herself, that she was far from ready to give Jackson Puller the complicated details of her personal life. She drew a calming breath. “I was.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine, I—” She focused on his face. He looked exhausted. “I was worried about you.”

  “I know. What were you doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “Just now. Standing there with your eyes closed.”

  “Oh, that. It’s just something I do.”

  His expression lightened for the first time. The customary teasing glint returned to his eyes. “You stand around in the middle of the city with your eyes closed? Are you trying to get mugged?”

  “No. I’m listening.”

  Seconds passed before understanding dawned in his expression. On its heels came an aching tenderness that threatened to melt her into a puddle. “Oh. What do you hear?”

  “Everything. Nothing.” She drew a deep breath. “I hear the things that most people take for granted.”

  “You know what I did last night?”

  Several seconds passed before she adjusted to the abrupt change of subject. She decided to risk a joke, hoping it would ease him into the topic. “Went home and called dial-a-shrink?”

  He laughed, a genuine laugh that warmed her heart. “Not exactly.” He looped his hand beneath her elbow and began walking down the street. “If I’d wanted to call a shrink, I’d have dialed your number.”

  “I was up.”

  He glanced at her. “Really?”

  “You had me worried.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  “Strictly professional interest, I assure you.”

  “Damn. I was hoping Amy’s roses would buy me twenty-four hours of hero worship.”

  “She’s your friend for life.”

  “I wasn’t talking about her.”

  “Oh. And here I thought your interest in me was all for the sake of a story.”

  Almost before she knew what was happening, he tugged her into a doorway out of the bustling traffic on the sidewalk. His hands settled on her upper arms, and his gaze landed squarely on her face. “You know, that’s one thing I’d just like to go ahead and get straight. I’m writing a story, that’s my job. But that doesn’t even begin to cover what I want to know about you. Despite what you may think, I’m perfectly capable of keeping my professional life and my personal life separate. I know the difference, Cammy. I’m a big boy.”

  The vehemence of the statement surprised her. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  His hands tightened on her arms, guided her closer. “What I want from you professionally is a few answers to some general questions.” His voice had lowered to a husky rasp. “I’m not even sure I can put into words what I want personally.”

  “Jackson—”

  “Oh, to hell with it,” he muttered as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was electrifyingly warm and very, very thorough. After her initial surprise, Cammy felt her hands gliding up the soft fabric of his well-worn shirt. Her fingers settled at his nape as he thoroughly explored her lips. She had the sensation of drifting in a warm sea where the sound of his heartbeat kept time with hers. His thumbs urged her mouth open so he could deepen the kiss. The warm sea became an ocean of sensation, where she felt drenched, enveloped. As his lips moved over hers, she felt her hands thread into the thick weight of his hair. Before she realized it, she was clutching him to her with something close to desperation.

  Jackson shifted so she was pressed fully against him. He deepened the kiss, tugging at her mouth, exploring her with a frank sensuality that made her ears ring. When he lifted his head, she blinked three times and still couldn’t quite bring him into focus. With a slight chuckle, he dropped her glasses back on her nose. She hadn’t even realized he’d removed them.

  “Are we clear on that?” he asked.

  He didn’t have to sound so damned calm, she thought irritably. Not when her own feet were having trouble making contact with the sidewalk. “I guess we are.”

  She would have moved away from him, but Jackson grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest, where his heart pounded a steady rhythm. “Feel it?” He waited for her nod. “Sometimes, I’m not sure you really hear what I’m saying. I want to make sure you don’t misunderstand me.”

  She stared at him several seconds, then released a long breath. “I understand.”

  “Good.” He guided her back to the sidewalk. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

  Somehow, she didn’t think he should sound so calm, so normal, as if he hadn’t just rearranged her mind and cemented himself in her thoughts. She forced herself to glance at her watch. “I have a little time.”

  “I’m glad. I wanted to explain what happened to me last night.” He pulled open the door of the coffee shop.

  “The kids affected you, didn’t they?”

  “You could say that.” He fixed her with a direct look. “After I left, I went home and tried not to hear anything.”

  Warmth, and something dangerously close to the feeling she’d had when she’d watched him give Amy those roses, filled her. “You did?”

  “You have things you do.” A wry smile pulled at his lips. “I have things I do. Part of what makes me good at my job is that I try to relate to the people I write about.”

  “It also makes you a nice person.”

  “Don’t let that get around. I have a reputation as an unscrupulous, power-hungry, filth monger to protect.”

  She had to laugh. The feeling surprised her. It generally took her several hours to shake the dark feelings she experienced after each visit with her mother. Today, Jackson had managed to send her through an entire
cycle of emotions in the span of twenty minutes. “I’ll keep it between us.”

  His gaze turned curious. “So can I safely assume that you’ve revised your opinion of me?”

  She forced herself not to look away. “I told you not to take it personally.”

  “Force of habit.”

  “I never said ‘filth monger.’ ”

  “You thought it.”

  “Guilty.”

  He frowned. “I knew it.” With a tilt of his head, he indicated the menu. “You want anything?”

  “Black coffee.”

  His eyebrows lifted. The shop was notorious for its wide selection of specialty blends and flavored roasts. “What? No French vanilla, cinnamon bon-bon latte with heavy foam and a decaf chaser?’’

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a plain-Jane kind of girl. Besides, I get confused when I try to read the menu.”

  He handed her the folder he still carried. “Why don’t you grab us a seat? I’ll get the coffee.”

  She settled herself in a booth by the window. To avoid the temptation of glancing through the folder, she studied Jackson’s back while he ordered. He had such broad shoulders. But still not broad enough for the burden of Leo’s death. She’d tried several times to get him to talk about it. He’d neatly avoided the conversation with a verbal two-step that would have shamed Gene Kelly. She resolved, again, to get inside him.

  The thought sent a flutter along her nerve endings. If that kiss he’d given her was any indication, she wasn’t the only one having those kinds of thoughts.

  He turned from the counter to catch her watching him. Deliberately, she held his gaze while he eased his way through the crowded shop. He set the coffee on the table, then slid into the booth. He took a long swallow of his coffee, then indicated the manila folder. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I didn’t look at it.”

  “You could have.”

  “You didn’t give me permission. I make a habit of keeping my nose very firmly where it belongs.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Unlike me who is constantly sticking mine right into other people’s business.”

  “You said it.”

  He shook his head, then downed a sip of his coffee. He laid his bandaged palm on the folder. “I wrote this last night when I went home.”