Handful of Dreams

by Heather Graham

  “Yes, thank you,” Susan said coolly, suddenly very exhausted. What difference did any of it make? If she held on to one iota of her pride, she would rightly despise him for his cold, ruthless judgment and his heated, deceptive passion.

  But maybe that was the point. She just couldn’t forget, and she still couldn’t believe that anyone could be so tender and so temptuous and then … leave her a check.

  Why not? He could wear any variety of masks. He was being civil; she was being civil. It was the most that could be hoped for, the most that she wanted. No! She didn’t want anything. She wanted to forget that he existed, to get on with her own life.

  “By the way, Miss Anderson,” he said suddenly, glancing her way. “I’m curious. What was your major in college?”

  “Psychology,” Susan replied curtly.

  He laughed. “That figures!”

  “Why?”

  “It explains your determination to find some elusive trauma in my past life.”

  “Was there one?”

  “Everyone’s life is filled with trauma, Miss Anderson. Isn’t it?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Some more than others.”

  “Did you ever use your training, Miss Anderson?”

  She hesitated only briefly. “Yes. But you seem to be confused, Mr. Lane. I’m not a psychiatrist, just a student of behavioral sciences. Although I must say, you do make a fine specimen for such a study.”

  He arched a brow. “So do you, Miss Anderson, so do you.” He twisted around. “We’re here, the St. Regis.”

  Yes, they were. They had arrived. Julian opened the door, and David helped her from the car. A porter was there for her luggage.

  “Well, thank you for getting me here,” Susan murmured. He didn’t reply but walked her through the small elegant lobby to the registration desk.

  There he left her at last. “Have a pleasant stay in New York, Miss Anderson,” he said, inclining his head slightly, then walking away.

  And somehow, watching him leave, straight, broad-shouldered, completely casual, Susan did hate him all over again.

  He was gone, out of her life at last! she thought. But it wasn’t as comfortable a thought as it should have been. It left her shivering.

  She should see the attorneys and turn the beach house over to him. Then he really would be out of her life.

  But stubbornly she refused to do so. She checked into her room and took a long hot shower. Confused with the turmoil of her feelings, she tiredly curled up on her bed and stared up at the moldings on the ceiling.

  Susan didn’t understand any of it at all, but she was still determined that hell could freeze over before she gave David Lane anything.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON DAVID picked up Vickie Jameson and they went to an early dinner. He commented on her clothing, asked her about work, and managed to look mildly interested while she chatted about the ups and downs of a model’s life.

  There was a musician playing on the street corner, and they stopped to listen. But when he had walked her to the door of her apartment and she asked him in, he knew he wasn’t fooling himself, and he wondered if he was fooling her. He didn’t want to go in.

  “I’ve got an early morning—Monday, you know,” he told her. “And I just flew back this morning. I’m beat.”

  She laughed softly, the warm, friendly woman she was naturally. “I can make it all better.”

  He took both her hands, kissed them, and stepped back, shaking his head. “Not tonight, Vick.”

  “How about a Tuesday dinner here?”

  “I—oh, no. I’ve got a business appointment Tuesday that might run late. I’ll see you on the weekend, okay?”

  “Seems as if I don’t have a choice,” Vickie murmured, her eyes on him curiously. “Something has a hold on you, David. Something has a tight hold.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just tired. See you soon, hmm?” He kissed her forehead and hurried away.

  That night, lying awake in his spacious apartment, he thought about Vickie’s words. He knew that it wasn’t something that had a hold on him, but someone. He closed his eyes against the night, wincing as tension tightened his muscles with a cruelty that wouldn’t let up. What was it? What was it about her that had wound around him, snared him and kept him from everything else?

  Was it her eyes, was it her face? Was it the night they had spent together? Was it her voice? Just what was it that was so deadly fascinating to him…?

  And had been to his father too. “Ah, Dad!” he whispered to the room. She’d admitted to being little better than a well-kept prostitute, and still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Seeing her in his mind’s eye, again and again, naked, beside him, touching him, creating magic…

  He opened his eyes and twisted, staring out the skylight. It was a full moon, and full moons were known to have their effect. Maybe that was it. And he had just left her this morning after two days and one full night in her company, seeing her imprisoned by that wretched Harry Bloggs, after a night in which they had talked, dined, enjoyed themselves.

  Until he had been so curtly reminded that he was “dating” his deceased father’s mistress.

  “Leave it be; leave her be. Nothing can change that fact,” he told the moon.

  At length he fell asleep, and his dreams were of a far distant past. He was in the dreams, but he wasn’t the man he was now. He saw the boy he had been at twenty, grown tall but thin, responsible, but still with that edge of youth. The edge that allowed a man to be trusting, to care intensely. To fall in love.

  She was a beautiful woman. Her hair wasn’t chestnut and fire red, it was black. She was petite, large-breasted, slim-hipped. He could still remember watching her, thinking that he would gladly die in her arms…. And he had almost done so. He still had the scar on his back to remember her by. He saw her in his dream, coming to him, smiling.

  And just before the blade touched his flesh, she changed. She was a redhead with shimmering green eyes, eyes filled with innocence and liquid beauty. Then he felt the searing pain of the knife.

  He woke up shaking, drenched with perspiration. In a moment he knew that he was in his apartment, that Hong Kong was more than ten years behind him. David stretched out, tensing, relaxing, letting the air move over his burning flesh.

  It seemed strange that the dream would come back to him after all these years, stranger still that Yvonne LaRue changed into Susan Anderson. A psychologist would have a heyday with it!

  Susan Anderson was a psychologist.

  He groaned, rolled over, and hugged his pillow around his head. Nothing brought sleep. Eventually the moon faded as the first streaks of dawn rose. Thank God. He could get up and go to work.

  In the office he was careful to be charming. By ten, however, he couldn’t help asking Erica if Lena Sands in publicity was set for her meeting with Miss Anderson.

  “Oh, yes. They’re having a late lunch at the hotel.”

  He drummed his fingers against the desk. “We should have sent her flowers,” he murmured.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Erica told him.

  “No.” David stood up. “No, I’ll take care of it myself. The florist we use is just downstairs, isn’t he?”

  “No, across the street.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He did it himself; a combination of a dozen red and a dozen white roses. He hesitated over the card, smiled a little grimly, then wrote: “Lane Publications welcomes you to New York. David Lane.”

  When he returned from a four o’clock meeting with the art department, Erica told him that Miss Anderson had called to thank him.

  “Am I supposed to return her call?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t suppose so. She just said thank you.”

  David nodded and locked himself in his office.

  He stayed in the office, working until almost ten. It was the one way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t wander over to the St. Regis on one pretext or another. Before he left, he
found himself staring out the window to the street, musing. He’d gone back to Maine in a fury to get her out of the house; his fury had done an about-face. It was true; he wanted nothing more than to leave her alone. And he could do it. It was all a matter of will, nothing more. She was haunting his days and nights, but that was a matter of time. All he had to do was let enough time pass by….

  Tuesday morning he had a racquetball session with B. J. Jones, a friend and competitor from Taryton Press. He played with rugged strength, taking out all his confusion and frustration on the ball. B. J. bought him a coffee after the game and told him he’d won because he wasn’t married. “Sally spent all night harping at me to buy a house in Connecticut,” B. J. said with a moan. “I don’t think I slept two hours. Oh, to be free!”

  David smiled and drained his coffee. “Sure. I get to sleep whenever I want,” he murmured dryly.

  The meeting that he’d been afraid would last into the night on Tuesday didn’t last an hour. He had convinced himself to stop by Vickie’s when Erica poked her nose in the door.

  “I’m about to leave. Anything else you need?”

  “No thanks, Erica.” Then he frowned, wondering why she looked so nervous. “Come on in.” He grinned at her. “What’s the problem? I thought you had a date with John tonight.”

  Erica perched in the chair in front of his desk. “I did—I mean, I do. I’m not so sure I want to go.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated. “I shouldn’t say this. I mean, she is one of our authors.”

  “What are you talking about?” David asked, suddenly tense, his fingers winding around his pencil.

  Erica flushed. “John. Susan Anderson is his client, you know. She’s still in town … and John asked if I minded her coming along. Apparently they didn’t have much time together on Monday, and … well, actually, he wanted to change our date. I told him that I was just thrilled to have Miss Anderson along. Which, of course, I’m not, really, because I hear that she’s only about twenty-six and absolutely gorgeous.”

  “She is twenty-six, Erica,” David said, trying to smile. “You’ve seen her.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes, she was here last February. Remember? The hat, the sable coat?”

  “Oh!” Erica looked even more miserable. “Oh, no! Our Miss Anderson is that Miss Anderson?”

  Before he really knew what he was doing, David was on his feet. “Come on.”

  “Come on?”

  “Yes, come on. I’ll tag along for dinner and keep my arm around your gorgeous redhead all night, okay?”

  “Oh, David, will you really? I just hate to ruin your evening.”

  The gratitude in her eyes made him feel horribly guilty. He grimaced. Susan Anderson had already ruined the majority of his evenings because he was incapable of forgetting just one.

  “I’m sure I’ll survive,” he murmured. But then again, he wasn’t really.

  Susan and John were standing on the sidewalk far below his East Side office. The weather had turned suddenly cold during the day, and Susan was glad she had brought Carl’s present, the sable, along.

  “You don’t mind about Erica, do you?” John asked, shivering and stamping his feet while they waited.

  “Of course not. I hope she doesn’t mind about me. I mean, really, John, this isn’t necessary—”

  “Of course, it is,” he replied teasingly. “In case you get rich and famous, I want you to remember me as charming—and keep my ten percent coming my way!”

  “I’ll never forget you’re charming, John,” Susan promised, smiling. And he was. Medium in height and stature, he was young and energetic, with dark eyes and sandy, flyaway hair. Their relationship had been professional since Susan and Carl had found him in the phone book. He had been new then, and so had she. It had been nice. They were friends who were close but not too close. When Carl had died, John had shielded her from the world, work, and New York, until she had been ready to cope with it all again. When she had turned in the long manuscript, John had asked her curiously if she knew Peter Lane; she had said yes, and he had dropped it at that.

  “So what’s she like, John?” Susan quizzed, teasing him in return. “You haven’t told me once about her body, which means that either she hasn’t got a giant chest or that you’re really in love.”

  He wrinkled his nose at her, then laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ve been kind of in love a lot! And maybe this is a little different, because she’s got a beautiful body! And Susan, my dear, you should try falling in and out of love a few times. It’s fun!”

  “Is it?”

  “Ah … but still waters run deep, don’t they? Maybe you’re running ‘Susan’s Pleasuredome’ up in northern Maine. Gathering research for all that spicy sex!” He was looking over her shoulder at the traffic. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “The boss man is coming too!”

  Startled, Susan turned around. The chauffeur-driven limo was pulling up to the curb. The door opened, and David Lane stepped out, meeting her eyes briefly before turning to help a woman from the car.

  It was the receptionist who had been so horribly nervous on that long-ago day when Susan had decided to warn David about his father.

  She wanted to melt into the pavement.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” John said more loudly, grinning as he stepped up to shake David’s hand enthusiastically. “What made you decide to join this humble party, David? Never mind—we won’t look gift horses in the mouth.” He set an arm around the receptionist and turned to Susan. “Susan, this is Erica Harris, the love of my life. Erica, Susan Anderson.

  Susan extended her hand, trying very hard to appear gracious and pleased. “Erica and I have met,” she said cheerfully. Lord, it suddenly seemed frigid outside.

  “And this—but I get the impression that you two know each other, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” David replied pleasantly, staring straight at Susan and smiling slowly. “Quite well, actually.”

  Susan wanted to stamp on his foot.

  He turned back to John quickly. “Where are we going? The car is waiting.”

  John gave him the name of a Japanese restaurant downtown. David tapped on the window and spoke briefly to Julian. A second later his grip was firmly on her elbow, propelling her into the car, and she was seated almost on top of his lap despite the size of the car.

  He asked her politely about her meeting with publicity; Erica, still nervous, told her loyally that she was working with wonderful people, and John cheerfully commented that he was certain the entire association was going to be wonderful.

  “Of course, we’ve got to get Susan started working on some kind of similar material,” John said. “We’re anxious to get a good follow-up going.”

  Susan didn’t at all like David’s expression when he turned to her musingly. They had reached the restaurant then; John and Erica got out of the car, and David’s hand was extended to her. His lip was curved in a cynical grin.

  “A follow-up?” he murmured as he steadied her on the pavement. “What rich, aging legend will get the pleasure of your companionship next?”

  She knew that neither John nor Erica had heard, so she smiled sweetly and said, “I think I’ll do a young legend next, Mr. Lane. Of course, he’ll have to be very rich and very famous.”

  “Ah, not like a charity case, I take it?”

  “What are you doing here this evening, Mr. Lane?”

  “Protecting the innocent.”

  “Oh?”

  “My secretary. She’s quite taken with your agent. You interrupted a planned night.”

  “I did? Damn that John! I told him—”

  “Hey!” The little devil spoke himself. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go in!”

  It was a lovely restaurant. The women were given roses and soft pillows for their feet. Their meal was to be cooked on the table skillet before them, but it was a private section of the restaurant; no other couples would join them. David and John were on opposite ends of the curved
table; Susan and Erica sat next to each other.

  David was to Susan’s left, and yet neither of the men were really out of the conversation because of the curve. John must have thought the evening a wonderful boon indeed, Susan realized as their drinks were served, because he was politely pitching a Western author to David Lane. David listened pleasantly and promised to have one of the editors look at the manuscript right away.

  “When are you going back?” David asked Susan suddenly.

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “So soon?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t forget to check with Jerry on the security.”

  “I won’t.” Susan picked up the little paper umbrella floating in her drink and gave her attention to it. “And when, Mr. Lane, are you planning your next trip to Maine?”

  He took a sip of his drink, staring straight ahead. “I’m not,” he said, then he turned and spoke to her softly. “I told you, I’ve no arguments with you anymore, Miss Anderson. I—”

  He broke off as their waitress returned, smiling pleasantly, to take their orders. While John and Erica ordered David bend his head toward Susan.

  “How would you feel about the shrimp appetizer and the lobster-and-steak combination? It has to be ordered for two, you see.” He tapped her menu. She wondered why she didn’t say that she’d rather eat dry wood than share anything with him.

  “Fine,” Susan murmured, and David ordered for them.

  Erica spoke to her then, telling Susan how she loved her book. She seemed much more relaxed at last, and pleasantly enthusiastic.

  Their chef reached the table, greeting them, bowing, and proceeded to prepare the meal with such élan that they were all clapping and applauding his prowess with the knife and spatula. Shrimp flew with perfect aim onto their plates, then the lobster, steak, and vegetables. The chef bowed one last time, grinning with his own pleasure, then disappeared.

  Susan picked up her chopsticks, which the others were all using. She could use them competently, but on her first effort she lost her shrimp. It fell on the table between her and David.

  He stared at the shrimp, then into her eyes, and he smiled slowly, retrieving the shrimp himself with his chopsticks. He lifted it to her mouth, his eyes riveted to her lips, and then to her eyes once again.