Handful of Dreams

by Heather Graham

  Inside, there was gentle light. The fire burned brightly, and a candle glowed before Susan on the table.

  The electricity had failed the moment they had gotten downstairs.

  And Susan had to admit that although David Lane was, indeed, the most arrogant and high-handed man she had ever had the ill fortune to meet, when he determined to be responsible for someone, he was that to that letter. Darkness had been no difficulty for him. With a mild sigh and a “That’s to be expected, I guess,” he had gotten her to the couch in the parlor, gotten a fire going with little fuss or effort, disappeared to produce tea made with water boiled on a camp stove, then warned her to sit still before disappearing again.

  And so far they hadn’t argued again, but that was because she hadn’t opened her mouth at all.

  She shivered a little, then drew her bare feet beneath her, covering them with the long skirt of her terry robe. She should have worn her slippers, she thought idly, but dismissed the idea of running back up the stairs for them. She didn’t want to risk a surprise meeting with David Lane in the darkness. Not when he’d told her to sit still.

  Not that she was accustomed to obeying orders in such a fashion. It was just that she knew a few things about him. She knew what he thought of her, and she had discovered that there were no holds to be had on him. She’d slapped him—poor judgment on her part—and wound up on the floor. Not hurt, albeit, but forced against her will by greater strength. And she had no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t blink before using that same strength again. Against her, at any rate.

  Was that what he was always like? she wondered wistfully as she nursed her tea and stared into the flames. No, she had seen hints of someone else, of a different man. One who could be gentle…

  Could be! What was the matter with her? If she had the least bit of self-respect, she would manage to be as cold as he. She wouldn’t lose her temper. She would wait out the storm because there wasn’t any choice, then she would turn her back on him—give him her half of the beach house and forget that he existed.

  She sighed softly and took another sip of her tea. Let him think the worst. She wasn’t going to tell him anything else, not that his father had been dying and knew it long before the merciful heart attack took him. Of course, that fact would be the stab that could really cut him, but she wouldn’t ever use it, not when she’d heard his words, seen his face when she first came in.

  And as far as other things went, the hell with it. Anger still burned deeply within her. He had instantly jumped to conclusions without meeting her, without even wanting to meet her. Fine, she vowed, she’d be glad to help his warped little mind right along. Whatever he said from here on out, she’d manage to smile and agree.

  And yet, as she stared into the fire in the darkened room, she shivered again slightly but not with cold. Whether closing her eyes or watching the flame, she kept seeing his face. His deep, crystal-blue eyes that were so like Peter’s! The curve of his mouth, the lean structure of his cheeks, the set of his jaw. He was an arresting man. The type that anyone might turn to watch. His handsome features had a slightly elusive quality, and his indifference, the coolness with which he had totally ignored her in his office, could change so quickly to passion. He would always be like that, so quiet until, without warning, the sudden explosion of heat broke through.

  “Oh!” she cried out as she was suddenly touched by a flicker of that heat. She hadn’t heard him; he had come up behind her and set his knuckles against her throat.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re cool, and your pulse seems to be just great.”

  “I’m fine.”

  David walked around the couch to the fire and bent on one knee to toss another log onto it. “Did you keep the ice on the bump at all?” he asked dryly, his back to her.

  She looked a little guiltily at the bowl set before her on the floor with melting ice cubes and a washcloth.

  “I kept it on for a while. I’m telling you, I’m fine. I don’t have a headache or even a sniffle.”

  He was still down on one knee, his elbow resting over the other as he gazed into the flames. He’d showered, she noted, and changed into very worn jeans and a burgundy sweater. He’d looked so elegant and sophisticated on that day she’d gone to his office—or at least what she had seen of him had been. Now he looked more relaxed, more approachable.

  “I was just talking to Jerry again,” he said, poking at the fire. “The way you blacked out, you’re not in the clear. You should be in a hospital.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! I’ve cracked my head before.”

  He stood, rubbing his nape idly, then turned his attention from the fire to her. He picked up the tea he had left on the mantel and sat in the overstuffed Early American chair that faced the sofa, resting his bare feet on the oak coffee table between them.

  Susan felt ridiculously like retreating from her corner of the sofa to the other—farther away from him. She stiffened, reminding herself that she wasn’t going to crack a bit, and wondering a little painfully why she cared what this hateful man thought.

  She didn’t move. She sipped her tea carefully, eyeing him over the brim of the mug. “I really can’t see why you’re so concerned, Mr. Lane, the way you hate me.”

  His lashes fell over his eyes. He shrugged, then put his tea aside and laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back to make himself more comfortable. “I don’t hate you, not personally. I hate what you did.”

  “Really?” Susan inquired politely. “And what did I do, Mr. Lane? I was here when you weren’t. I helped your father. I listened to him and I respected him.”

  His eyes fell on hers with idle speculation. “And you made a hell of a lot of money off him, too, didn’t you?”

  She forced herself to smile sweetly. “I was paid for services rendered, Mr. Lane, if that’s what you’re getting at. But you pay all of your employees, don’t you? Does that make them all whores?”

  “There’s a difference, Miss Anderson,” he replied as cordially as she had spoken. “Most of them work hard, they’re damned good at their jobs, and their salaries reflect those traits. They aren’t paid for … your kind of services.”

  She managed to laugh softly. “Ah, but Mr. Lane! How could you know the full nature of my services? I assure you, I worked very hard, and I was … excellent at my job.”

  He lifted his teacup to her, smiling as his bitter survey ran over her form in the fire’s glow. His reply was softly spoken. “I’ll just bet you were, Miss Anderson.”

  She lowered her eyes, weary and sickened by her own pretense. “How long will we be stuck here?” she asked tersely.

  “Depends on what the storm does. If it hovers, we’re in trouble. If not …” He shrugged. “A day or two at most.”

  “A day or two!” She groaned.

  He lifted a brow to her. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to be hemmed in here, myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

  “I certainly wasn’t expecting you.”

  “You weren’t? How curious. Logic alone should have told you I’d come here.”

  “Why? You never came before.”

  “May I remind you, Miss Anderson, that I spent my childhood summers here. It’s my family home.”

  “If you would have written or phoned, Mr. Lane, I would have been happy to leave for those few moments you chose to walk down memory lane.”

  “It didn’t occur to me, Miss Anderson, that you would still be here. I thought you would have had the decency to clear out.”

  The tone of their voices grew sharper and more cuttingly restrained with each retort.

  “Decency!” It was an outraged whiplash. She quieted then, her green eyes narrowing and sparking like flint in the firelight. “Decency, Mr. Lane, is common civility. It’s also caring; it’s respecting a person’s wishes and loving them whether you approve of their actions or not. You fell on your father like judge and jury. You condemned him and made him pay. I had no reason to clear
out, Mr. Lane. I knew the house was being left in my name as well as yours. He worried about me, and I couldn’t argue him out of it. I had assumed that I could merely refuse to inherit and toss it all back into your lap. But now, Mr. Lane, I’ve come to realize that I have more right to be here than you do.”

  It had been fun to watch the change in his face. Fun to strip away that look of scornful temperance. Very satisfying to watch the mocking curve around his mouth stretch out to a tight line.

  But she didn’t like it at all when he placed his feet on the floor, rose, and stalked behind her.

  She twisted to watch him, too unnerved to have him at her back when she couldn’t see him.

  His head was slightly lowered so that she could not see his features. His hands were in his pockets as he idly, slowly paced the distance of the couch behind her.

  “Did you ever study much history, Miss Anderson?” he inquired politely.

  “What are you getting at, Lane?”

  “Oh”—he paused, very close to her, looking down at her to smile, a blue iciness in his eyes that belied his pleasant words—“I was just thinking about Charles II of England. Have you heard of him? He was a man famous for his mistresses. And on his deathbed one of his favorites came to him—they’re not sure whether she bothered to say good-bye or not—and wrenched a jeweled ring off his finger. You see, she knew her days were numbered.”

  Keep your temper! Susan thought, warning herself. She returned his chilling smile. She even chuckled softly. “I could hardly ‘wrench’ the beach house off your father’s person, Mr. Lane.”

  “Yes, well, it’s still the same, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  The mask slipped from him. He looked hard and determined. Almost ruthless.

  “Whatever you want for your half, I’ll pay it, Miss Anderson.”

  “Will you really? Even an outrageous sum?”

  “Name your price.”

  Susan unwound her legs and stood, smiling as she faced him. “You couldn’t come up with my price, Mr. Lane,” she said sweetly. She picked the candle up from the coffee table and sailed through the hallway to the kitchen, setting the candle back down on the counter with fingers that trembled with both triumph and anger.

  The sense of triumph left her as she heard his soft tread behind her. She spun around, bracing herself against the counter.

  He didn’t come near her; he paused across the large room, leaning against the hardwood breakfast table. “Did you really manage to be left in such a comfortable position that money doesn’t matter to you?” he asked in a manner that sounded ridiculously conversational.

  She answered evenly. “It’s none of your business. But if I were starving, Mr. Lane, I wouldn’t sell you my interest in this house.”

  She didn’t realize how tightly her hands were braced against the counter until he started to approach her, looming too tall and powerful in the dark shadows of the kitchen.

  “Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her determination to play it entirely cool. “I swear I’ll call the police and get a warrant against you!”

  He laughed, walking past her to the sink. “I wasn’t planning on touching you, Miss Anderson.” He grimaced, still a little too pleasant, then raised his hands to her, looking at them himself. “I’m well aware that it isn’t at all logical,” he murmured, and to Susan’s annoyance she discovered that she stared at his hands, barely hearing his words. They were large and long-fingered—just as Peter’s must have been once. Short-clipped, clean nails. He wore a sports watch and one ring, on his right hand, a garnet.

  “But I’m afraid I’d feel a little tainted,” he continued pleasantly.

  “What?”

  She stared into his eyes, the blood draining from her face. His pleasant, searching smile brought home the import of his words, and the raging desire to tear into him again was almost more than she could bear.

  She pushed away from the counter, lifting her chin as she strode past him in the shadows.

  “Miss Anderson?”

  She ignored him and walked back to the parlor. He followed her but didn’t touch her. He blocked the stairway, leaning idly against the banister.

  “I think it only decent to warn you: I’m afraid you can’t call the police. We lost the phone wires while I was talking to Jerry.”

  He was staring at her very curiously. She wondered what he could see. Here—away from the glow of the fire—it was very dark. She could see little herself, except for the casual stance of his form and the glint in his eyes.

  “Would you excuse me, please, Mr. Lane?” she said politely.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to go up to my room.”

  “I’m sorry. You can’t.”

  “Why on earth not?” she exploded.

  “Because he said not to let you sleep for several hours.”

  “Oh, good God!” He still didn’t move, and Susan was sure that he wouldn’t. Even in the shadows she could see—or perhaps sense—something else about him that was heart-wrenchingly like his father. He had a certain twist to his jaw, a determined jut that meant neither hell nor high water would move him.

  She turned around again and strode back to the kitchen. He followed her.

  Back by the refrigerator she spun to face him. “Have a heart, Mr. Lane. Some semblance of one, at least! I will not pass out again. I will not drop dead and disturb your conscience. Please—let me be someplace where you aren’t!”

  “I wish I could,” he whispered softly.

  Returning his gaze, she found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Mesmerized for the passage of countless seconds. The way he looked at her … there was a real sense of sorrow, almost wistfulness, in his eyes. And more. A certain scrutiny that made her feel hot inside. Nervous and uneasy … and breathless, her heart pounding too hard within her chest.

  He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Darkness greeted him, and he emitted a soft groan, turned to get a candle, then returned with it to study the contents. “In regard to your earlier comment,” he muttered, “I’m starving at the moment. What have you got in here?”

  “If you’re starving,” she said tartly, “you should be grateful that I was around or else there wouldn’t have been a thing to eat.”

  “Ah, but if you weren’t here, I could have merely taken the brandy bottle up to bed.”

  “You’re quite welcome to do so.”

  “What’s this stuff in the tinfoil?”

  “Chicken.”

  “Cooked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dynamite.” He picked up the bowl and held it out for her to retrieve. She hesitated. “Take the damn thing!”

  With a sigh Susan took it and set it on the table. With everything else it seemed absurd to make a stand against a bowl of chicken.

  “Anything else in here that’s good cold?” he asked.

  “Potato salad,” she replied. “Lettuce. Tomatoes.”

  “A feast,” he muttered.

  Susan remained by the table. She watched him as he found the items she had mentioned, set the candle on the counter, and began to wash the lettuce. She didn’t move as he deftly prepared a salad.

  When he was done, he turned to her with a certain annoyance. “You could have set the table.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she replied.

  “That’s a bad sign,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Maybe you should lie down with the ice on your head for a while—”

  He broke off as she moved, flushing despite herself, afraid that he might come over and run his fingers through her scalp once more.

  Her fingers were shaking again as she pulled out the silverware drawer, and she hoped he couldn’t see them. It had occurred to her then that, although she might have “tainted” his righteous fingers, he had undressed her. He wasn’t just a stranger; he was the arrogant bastard who had jumped to conclusions, wronged her—and despised her. He’d not only seen her completely naked—he’d also ma
de her that way.

  And to her horror she was afraid of his touch in more ways than one. In some dark and fascinating way, even as he stalked and baited her, he beguiled her. Dear Lord! How she wanted to get away from him….

  As serenely as possible she set the table. David placed the candle between them.

  “What’s there to drink?”

  “There’s a bottle of white wine—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of drinking without you.”

  “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  Well, that sounded absolute enough. “Pity,” she murmured, “it might have made you bearably palatable.”

  “What’s nonalcoholic?”

  “The brown pitcher is iced tea.”

  “It’s hard to tell what’s brown….”

  Not thinking, she brushed past him. He was solid and warm, and she could sense the muscle structure beneath the sleeves of his sweater.

  “This is brown,” she said quickly, thrusting the pitcher into his hands, then sweeping to the table. It was a square table with small Early American chairs, little diamonds carved out of their backs, and cheery cushions tied to the seats. Susan sat.

  He poured the tea and joined her. The table was too small. Her knee brushed his.

  She folded her legs in the other direction.

  He started to reach for the chicken, then frowned and reached beneath him, pulling a slim book from the chair. Susan felt her heart catch. She couldn’t help but watch him as his eyes narrowed and he studied the book in the flickering light.

  “Night of a Thousand Storms, by S. C. de Chance,” he murmured. He studied the cover, then shrugged with little interest, placing it by the candle. His eyes fell on hers.

  “Science fiction?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “The new romantic kind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Full of sex scenes?”

  “A few.”

  “Yours, I assume,” he said politely. “My father was never big on romance.”

  A breath escaped her. She wondered why she had been so nervous; there was nothing to give her away. And if he did know, what of it?