A Kiss to Dream On

by Neesa Hart

  Twice he’d tried to phone her at her apartment. When he didn’t get an answer, he took the only option open for a reasonable man. He swiped her address from his file at work, took a cab to her apartment in Crystal City, grilled her doorman for information, then scammed his way past her building security to beat on her door.

  That wasn’t doing him any good either. “This isn’t like you,” he announced to her gargoyle door knocker. “You’re a fighter, not a coward.”

  The gargoyle glared at him. With a dark curse, Jackson flipped open the notepad on his clipboard. He scrawled a quick note demanding that she call him, then stuffed it under the door. On his way down the corridor, he contemplated just how he’d allowed this woman to make him so crazy so fast. He was reaching for the elevator button when he heard his name.

  He jerked around to find Cammy, dressed in baggy pants and a monstrously oversized T-shirt, staring at him from her doorway. A kick of desire squeezed his gut. He was going to have to start getting used to that, he decided. Cammy clutched his note in her hand. “Come back,” she urged him.

  “Damn it, Cammy. It took you long enough.” He stalked down the hall. Her hair, he noted, was damp. She’d pulled it into a loose ponytail that somehow begged for the attention of his fingers. He suddenly felt like a first-class fool for lurking around by her door. She did that to him. She had a way of turning him into mush. “Why didn’t you answer your door?” He frowned at her. “Why didn’t you return my phone calls? I got worried.”

  She held up a hand. “Stop. Stop.”

  He advanced the final few steps to glare down at her. “Hell, if you were mad, you could have just told me.”

  “Jackson, will you stop.” She pointed to her ear. “No transmitter. I can’t hear you.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  She grabbed his hand to pull him through her door. “I don’t have my transmitter on. The implant doesn’t work without the transmitter.”

  “You took—” he muttered a frustrated oath. “Oh, hell.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “No need to swear. I can read your lips, you know?”

  He mouthed a succinct opinion. She laughed. That laugh, he thought, probably shouldn’t feel like buttered rum on a winter night, but it glided over his frayed nerves and sent blood pouring through his veins again. Cammy shook her head. “Wait a minute. I’ll put it on.”

  As he watched her retreat to her bedroom, he wondered just how an oversized shirt could look so alluring. From every angle. He tilted his head as she rounded the corner. Lord, she was making him nuts. She emerged, seconds later, with the tiny black box clipped to her waistband. “Hi.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Hi.”

  “How long did you knock on the door?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Were you loud?”

  “Maybe. Probably. You might want to apologize to your neighbors.”

  She smiled that secret smile that usually made him dizzy. “No need. Most of them are deaf.”

  He exhaled a long breath as he tipped his head back against the door. “I get it now.”

  “Get what?” She walked toward the kitchen. “This building. There’s no noise. Where I live there’s plenty of noise. Radios, TVs, telephones. There’s no noise here.”

  “How did you get past security?”

  He indicated the clipboard. “Old street reporter’s trick. A confident wave and a clipboard will get you past any security guard in the world.”

  She gave him a bemused look. “You could have asked him to buzz me.”

  “Would you have heard it?”

  “When someone buzzes in, the lights dim. The building is specially equipped for the needs of the deaf.”

  Which is why, he realized, she’d chosen to live here in this somewhat run-down building. Being willing to admit she had certain needs gave her a certain strength. Why hadn’t he managed to learn that lesson about himself? “I thought you might not let me up,” he confessed.

  She plunked an ice cube in a glass before she looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Really?”

  If she hadn’t used that tone, the same one he was sure she reserved for patients on the brink of a monumental confession, he might not have reacted. He simply could not, however, resist the urge to clear that look of professional inquiry off her face and replace it with something, anything, more real. He crossed her kitchen in three quick strides. With a hand on either side of her waist, he pinned her to the counter. “Really,” he muttered as he lowered his head.

  He covered her mouth in a leisurely exploration that made up for the nagging regret that he hadn’t been slower that morning. She was soft when he pressed her against the length of his body. So incredibly, gloriously soft. Even her worn T-shirt felt comforting to his quickly inflamed skin. He rubbed his mouth against hers in gentle persuasion. With a murmur of surrender, she leaned into him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Passion swept through him as his hands roamed her back. He wanted her, he realized, like a dying man wants time. With little encouragement, she could become an obsession. He could need her. Desperately and dangerously.

  In the dark places, where Leo’s memory haunted him, Cammy lit him up. She brought life where he’d begun to wonder if he’d ever feel again. He drank at that fountain like a man dying of thirst. His hands tightened on her upper arms. His mouth demanded. Blissfully, hers yielded. He pulled her closer, as close as he could get her. And still it wasn’t enough. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever be enough. With a groan, he deepened the kiss. She responded with an abandon that had his body heat nearing overload.

  Desperate for the feel of her, he slid his hands beneath the T-shirt to rest on the silkiness of her bare skin. Cammy breathed his name against his lips in a sigh of surrender. Her hands moved to his chest, over his shoulders and into his hair. “Jackson—’’ she muttered again, as she caressed him.

  His body was surging, he pulled back from the brink with his last shred of restraint. With a ragged groan, he tore his mouth from hers to press his face against her neck. Her hands cradled him to her. His heart pounded an uneven rhythm that echoed the shredded cadence of his breath. “Cammy.” He had nothing else to say.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair as she softly stroked his head. Pressing a light kiss to his ear, she eased slightly away. “Feeling better?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Worse.” His hands, still tucked beneath her T-shirt, moved over her spine.

  A flicker of amusement played at the corner of her swollen lips. He found the sight almost unbearably tempting. He tilted his head again, but she stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. “Then you should stop this kind of activity. In therapy, we call it destructive behavior.” She eased away from him, then pushed a glass of soda into his now empty hands. The flush in her cheeks told him she wasn’t as collected as she’d have him believe. “I think I’ve had all I can take for one night.”

  He narrowed his gaze but didn’t comment. Cammy studied him in the bright kitchen light. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or are you going to stand there and watch me all night?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Jackson—” She stopped, fiddled for a few seconds with the earpiece of her transmitter, then met his gaze once more. “Something’s wrong. I can tell. I’d like you to trust me enough to tell me what it is.”

  He fought for his equilibrium. “You’re the professional. You tell me.”

  “You haven’t even shaved. I mean, this morning, you looked like hell, but you told me you’d stayed up all night.” Behind her glasses her eyes registered concern. “Did you go home at all today?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You met your deadline.”

  “I was waiting for you to call.” He downed the soda in four swallows, uncomfortable with the admission. “I want to know what you thought.”

  Her eyes widened. He felt some of the tension leave him. “Of the column, Cammy,”
he clarified. “I know damn well what you thought of the kiss.”

  She visibly swallowed. “Oh.”

  When she didn’t say anything else, he wiped a hand over his face in frustration. The woman made him nuts. “Damn it, Cammy—”

  “I had no idea you’d be this concerned with my reaction.”

  He stared at her. “You had—” He swore again.

  She tapped her earpiece. “It’s working now. No need to shout.”

  “I’m not shouting.”

  “You’re swearing.”

  “I’m frustrated as hell.”

  “Why is that?”

  He could feel his teeth clenching. “If you don’t stop trying to crawl inside my head—”

  Cammy interrupted him by pressing a hand to his cheek. “Jackson, I’m concerned. I’m not analyzing.”

  He reached for her hand, held it. Tight. “And the temptation is almost impossible to resist, isn’t it?”

  That half-smile danced on her lips again. “A little.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Do you want a personal opinion, or a professional one?”

  “Can I have both?”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “Name your price.”

  “I tell you what I think is going on in your head, and you tell me about Leo.”

  “I don’t think—”

  She held up a hand. “That’s it. All or nothing.”

  He thought it over. “Nothing.”

  She surprised him with a brief nod. “I thought so.” She pointed to his glass. “Do you want more soda, or not?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes. Have you?”

  “Not since this morning. I was going to take you somewhere.”

  “I’m down for the night. I can make you a sandwich if you want.’’

  “You don’t have to.”

  She laughed. “I know that. I’m a professional woman with the highest educational credentials possible in my field. I’ve won multiple awards, I’ve published articles in half a dozen professional journals, and I’m in high demand as a speaker and lecturer. Believe me, if I didn’t want to feed you, I’d make you do it yourself.”

  She absolutely delighted him. He even found himself looking forward to the roller coaster of emotions she sent him through. That had to be the secret. In a world overpopulated by artificial people, Cammy Glynn was the genuine article. “I’ll make it myself,” he offered.

  “You’ll probably mess up my kitchen.” She pointed to a counter stool. “Sit and entertain me. It’ll do you good for a change.”

  He dutifully sat and watched, reveling in the feeling of contentment he felt with her. It was such a novelty, he realized, that he’d momentarily forgotten the purpose of his unorthodox visit. He drew a long breath as he prepared for verbal combat. Cammy had a gift for keeping a conversation exactly where she wanted it. “So, are you going to keep me in suspense for the rest of the evening, or are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  She stared into the bottom of a glass jar. “I’m thinking I need to buy more mayonnaise. I didn’t realize I was almost out.” She gave him a benign look. “Do you want mustard on this, or not?”

  “Cammy—”

  “I have yellow, brown, and Dijon.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Of course, for a man whose idea of refrigerator stock is a quart of milk and an apple,” she shrugged, “you’re probably not very particular, are you?”

  The quip about his refrigerator made him feel like he’d just successfully stormed the Bastille. He’d written that line in his column. In the piece, it fell somewhere between his description of listening to his appliances for the first time and his recounting of the dance recital. “You read it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I read it.” She spread two pieces of lettuce on the sandwich. “That’s why you gave it to me.”

  He waited. It almost killed him, but he waited. She spread mustard on the top slice of bread with culinary precision. She completed the sandwich, then sliced it diagonally. He wondered if she’d cut the crust off merely to stall for time. Finally, she pushed the plate toward him. When her gaze met his, he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

  “It hurt,” she whispered.

  That hit him like a blow to the head. Of all the things he’d guessed she’d say, that had never entered his mind. Frantically, he searched his brain for some reason, some word, some mishandled phrase that might have put that vulnerable look on her face. Alarmed, he left the stool. “Cammy—”

  She shook her head. “No, no, you don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know.” She pushed him back on the stool with a gentle shove. Wiping beneath her glasses with the tip of her finger, she gave him a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to imply you hurt me. Mike says I’m too economical with words sometimes.”

  “You didn’t have any until you were eighteen. I guess that makes sense.” He wished he could crawl inside her head. Never in his life, he realized, had he wanted that level of intimacy, but this woman had untold mysteries in there.

  “When I did have them,” she continued, “they weren’t always easy to say.” She straightened her glasses. “And there wasn’t always someone who wanted to listen to them.”

  He heard the aching loneliness in the comment and carefully tucked it away in the place where he treasured the few insights she gave him. He’d spent his career learning how to read people, how to watch their expressions and guess what they were thinking. Cammy Glynn was harder to read than most, but he was learning. Each little glimpse she gave him tantalized him. Those treasures, he knew, would eventually help him decipher the rest of her. “I’m listening.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “In fact, I can categorically say that I love listening to you.”

  “Even when I’m analyzing you?”

  He chuckled. “Except then.”

  Her smile warmed him. “If you love listening to me so much, why do you complain that I’m always trying to divert your attention?”

  “Because you are. You’re doing it right now.”

  “I’m very good at it.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “What else have you noticed?”

  He picked up his sandwich. “I’ve noticed that you’re doing your damnedest to keep from talking to me about my column. If I had an artist’s ego, I’d be crushed.”

  “I already told you what I think about your ego.”

  “Sure. You just won’t tell me what you think about my writing.” He took a bite.

  She exhaled a long breath that seemed to come from her toes. “You know, I can see why you went into the newspaper business. You’re relentless.”

  “Don’t forget it, either.” He gave her a meaningful look. “I’m like a dog with a bone.”

  “Do they pay you to come up with original material like that, or is it just a bonus?”

  “Cammy—” His voice held a warning note.

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  He picked up the other half of his sandwich. “This isn’t working.”

  “You don’t like the mustard?”

  “I’m not being deterred. If you think you’re going to get away with telling me I hurt you, then duck the conversation, you can forget it.”

  “I didn’t say you hurt me.”

  “I jumped to conclusions. Help me find my way back.”

  He watched her struggle for a minute, then sensed her surrender. The energy seemed to flow out of her like air from a balloon. She edged past him to sit on the other stool. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to irritate you.”

  “I’m not irritated. I’m just trying to learn the rules.”

  “Jackson—”

  “Seriously. I realized it last night while I was writing that column. I have all the information I could possibly want on your charity, your kids, your vision, and your background. I know your dad was a senator with high-flying political aspirations
who thought you and your mother were liabilities. I know your mother is in a mental hospital—” He paused. “That’s where you were this morning, wasn’t it? You were visiting her.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hell.” He shook his head. “That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out until now. I know everything there is to know about the public you—like the fact that you overcame terrific obstacles to make that little box you wear a workable option for you. But what I know about you personally wouldn’t fill a single page of my notepad.”

  “You know a lot about me—”

  “I know who your friends are. I know how you spend your time. I know what your goals are for Wishing Star. I know you have a deep commitment to help make the world an easier place for deaf children, but I haven’t got a clue as to what makes Cammy Glynn tick. I’m not used to that. I read people for a living. It generally comes easily to me.”

  “Sorry I’m so frustrating.”

  He ignored that. “Until I got here, I wasn’t even sure you intended to read my column.”

  “Why wouldn’t I read it?”

  “See? You’re doing it again. Every time I think I have you pegged, you find a way to wiggle away from me.

  “I’m really not that complicated.”

  “It was supposed to be a compliment.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Here’s the rub, Cam. Somehow in the back of my mind I just can’t get past resenting that you feel like it’s perfectly acceptable for you and Costas to figure out what’s going on inside my head, but I don’t get to know what’s in yours.” He leveled a look at her. “Did you know that when Krista told me this afternoon that you were planning a Wishing Star fund-raiser, I actually spent a half hour wondering if you’d try to manipulate me into promoting it for you?”

  She looked stung. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “A lot of people in your position would.”

  “I’m not a lot of people. I was the one who tried to talk you out of this story, remember?’’