Handful of Dreams

by Heather Graham

  “Could you, Miss Anderson,” he whispered huskily, “consider this an olive branch of peace?”

  Susan was barely aware of his words. It was his eyes that captured her. They were intense, seemed to probe her soul and sizzle with blue flame. The sound faded in the room, and she felt a moment’s panic. It had been like this that night at the beach house when they had sat before the fire. He had had the same look in his eyes, then he touched her and she had gone into his arms as if she had belonged there, wrapped in the magic of fire and rain, spinning with the ache of desire and longing….

  Thank God they were in a public place, she thought as the people and laughter around them intruded on her mental wanderings.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue; they had suddenly gone so dry. She smiled weakly and leaned forward to take the offering of shrimp, her teeth tugging lightly on the sticks. It seemed that his breath drew in sharply, and above those sounds of laughter and conversation it was as if she could hear the mutual echo of their hearts.

  “Hello!” A soft, sultry, and friendly female voice shattered the moment.

  David frowned, turning. Susan did the same. Both David and John rose quickly.

  “Hello, Miss Jameson!” Erica said first.

  “Vickie.” David moved past the back of Susan’s chair, taking the woman’s hands and kissing her cheek. John said something with his usual charm, but Susan didn’t really hear him, because she was watching the new arrival with a dreadful fascination.

  Miss Jameson to Erica, Vickie to David, was without a doubt one of the most striking women Susan had ever seen. Susan loved clothing, jewelry, and accessories, so she was particularly able to appreciate the other woman. From her small tilted hat to her heeled boots, Vickie Jameson was chic. She was tall and slender—but curved. Her hair was a lovely, natural blond, her eyes hauntingly dark. Her dress was silken simplicity, belted casually at the hips; her earrings and scarf were a bright blue that offset the red silk dress. She smelled subtly of a wonderful perfume, and though her smile seemed slightly reproachful and curious, it was warm and genuine.

  David, Susan realized, was smoothly performing introductions. Vickie Jameson was stretching a lovely and delicate hand to her, measuring her with her eyes—just as Susan had done to her, she realized ruefully.

  “How do you do?” she somehow murmured at the right moment.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Anderson,” Vickie Jameson replied.

  “Sit for a moment, Vickie,” David said, moving for her to take his chair. She did so, still studying Susan. David leaned over her shoulder, smiling at Susan.

  “Vickie, Susan is the author of the book I was telling you about. The one based on my father’s life.”

  “Oh, how lovely! I really can’t wait to read it!”

  The enthusiasm was real; the woman was pleasantly real. Susan felt a little ill.

  “Thank you,” she said, returning the smile. “I just hope it lives up to—to everyone’s expectations.”

  Vickie glanced up at David, chuckling slightly. “This is delightful business, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it is business!” Erica proclaimed, then hushed quickly as she received a sharp glance from David—one that was quick, but clearly denoted his displeasure. David, she realized, would never have anyone else making excuses or giving explanations for him.

  Susan grasped a little desperately for her drink as she realized that Vickie Jameson and David Lane were probably intimately involved. Everything about them, the glances they exchanged, the casual way he stood behind her, the fact that a date had obviously been broken this evening, suddenly seemed to pound into her head, complicating what had already been a miserable tempest in her soul.

  Oh, God! It was all so much worse than she had allowed herself to believe. Speak of casual affairs! But then, David had thought she was his father’s mistress—for hire. Curiosity and whim had made him reach out in a firelit room, and she had capitulated without thought or protest. And all the while he really had had this spectacular woman back in New York, waiting, obviously with real warmth and affection, while Susan had meant absolutely nothing….

  She found herself talking, complimenting Vickie’s clothing, listening as Vickie told her that she was a high-fashion model.

  And then Susan could stand it no longer. She was on her feet, mumbling something about a trip to the ladies’ room, then flying blindly to reach that sanctuary.

  Susan leaned against a stall in absolute physical misery. Her hands were shaking, her palms were clammy, and she felt as if she were burning from head to toe. She hurt inside with a horrid, scratching pain that left her totally bewildered until she realized an awful truth. Against all logic, she had been falling for him; not just for the feel of his arms, of being held and loved and cherished, but for him… Fantasizing that she could fall in love with, him; his crystal-blue eyes, his scent, the feel of his muscles, the sound of his laugh. Falling for his quicksilver changes of temper and his capability for tenderness. Even his scowl and the silver flash of his eyes when his temper began to rise…

  She had to get out of there. She couldn’t change what had happened between them; she had helped him to complete his image of her. There would be no chance for truth and understanding between them now, and even if there was, that lovely woman was sitting at the table and had obviously known him a long time and known him well.

  Susan bent over the sink, tossing cool water on her face. She had to get away now, but she had to do so smoothly. She stood, stared into the mirror at her too wide green eyes, and decided that she could run out into the hall, call a cab, then excuse herself by pleading a terrible headache. And it would be the truth, surely. Her head was pounding like a kettledrum.

  Susan hurried out to the quiet, carpeted hallway, dug in her bag for a coin, and slipped it into the slot. She dialed the cab number listed on the phone.

  But just as a dispatcher answered, a male hand appeared on the silver receiver hook, cutting her off. Susan quickly spun around to find David lounging against the wall behind her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I was making a phone call,” she replied tartly.

  He arched one of his dark brows. “In the middle of dinner?” He took the receiver from her hand and returned it to the phone. “Why were you calling a cab?”

  “I’ve this wretched headache—”

  “You’re a wretched liar.”

  “It’s really none of your damn business!”

  He inclined his head toward her slightly. “Miss Anderson, I got you here, and I will see you back to your room.”

  “You didn’t get me here. I’m out with John—”

  “Who is out with my secretary.”

  Susan backed slightly away from him, tightening her long fingers around her hips. “Look, David. I’m interrupting something. I know it and you know it. I’m horribly uncomfortable, so if you want to play the gentleman, please, let me get out of here!”

  He didn’t leave the wall. He slowly crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you interrupting?”

  “David, Miss Jameson—”

  He frowned. “Miss Jameson left with the friends with whom she came.”

  “Well, why? That was stupid!”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “How can you be so callous! She’s in love with you!”

  “Vickie?” He smiled bemusedly. “No, she isn’t. She’s a friend who understands me.” He reached out a hand to her casually. “Shall we return to the table?”

  Susan sighed with exasperation. She didn’t take his hand, but he cupped her elbow with it.

  Erica and John were head to head when Susan and David reached them, but they quickly broke apart. “How about a carriage ride through the park?” John suggested cheerfully.

  “It’s a little cold, isn’t it?” Susan murmured. “I think I’ll pass, but you all go ahead—”

  “Oh, come on, Miss Anderson. Where’s your spirit of adventure?” David said smoothly, a
nd she couldn’t protest further because he and John started arguing over the bill, John saying that he was entertaining a client, David arguing that the client was his author. David won; Susan had the feeling that he would always win—charmingly.

  Before they could enter the limo outside, David managed to pull Susan back against him and whisper. “Where’s your empathy for young love? If you refuse the carriage ride, they certainly won’t go!”

  And so, fifteen minutes later, John and Erica were pulling off in one carriage, and she and David were following in another.

  He was businesslike at first, asking her if she was satisfied that the book would be handled to her taste. She told him quite honestly that his employees were all pleasant, enthusiastic, and very capable of inspiring trust.

  “So, you see,” he said softly, “it won’t be such a nightmare, after all.”

  It was a nightmare, she wanted to scream, because she was feeling the way she had on that night they had spent together. He was against her, he was warm, his arm was draped casually around her, and his scent was a subtle taunt. She found herself staring at him and smiling ruefully, thanking him in person for the flowers. He laughed and told her that his secretary didn’t always attend to his personal affairs. And for a moment, in the moonlight, his eyes looked like the frosty eyes of a mischievous Satan, and then they appeared smoky, a sensual blue. His features were dark in the shadows, and he was moving toward her, kissing her.

  It was a gentle kiss, an exploration. It filled her with warmth and longing, and it made her quiver and wonder. His hand caressed her cheek while his lips moved warmly over hers, and then he moved, pulling away to watch her with eyes that were now cobalt and enigmatic.

  “Susan…” His whisper touched the breeze, resonated with the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. It might have been a shout, and it was so light that she might have imagined it.

  “I could have—”

  The driver called out a command; the horse stopped. David was rising, pulling the blanket off their legs, then helping her from the carriage.

  And minutes later they were all back in the limo.

  They drove to her hotel first. David walked her in, and in front of her door he smiled whimsically, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. She didn’t say anything. He hesitated, then took a breath and spoke softly. “I meant it, Susan. The olive-branch-of-peace business. The house is yours, and you can feel comfortable in it. I—I won’t be making any sudden appearances. I don’t understand any of your past, but I’m not your enemy. Just do me a favor, please, and be careful. Make sure that the security is in and that it works. And if you ever need anything, call me. You know where to reach me.”

  He grinned, pulled her close to him for a minute, kissed her forehead, then turned and walked down the hall. He didn’t wait for the elevator; he took the stairs.

  Susan flew back to Maine via a commercial airline and, to her total annoyance, spent her first week home waiting for the phone to ring. It rang, but it was never David on the other end. The longer she was away from him, the worse it seemed to hurt and the more irritated she became with herself.

  It couldn’t be over because it had never begun.

  But life had become mechanical for her. Jerry had commissioned a security company to wire the house; if anyone ever tried to break in, the police would know immediately. But she wasn’t frightened; Harry Bloggs had been a fluke.

  She spent time walking along the cliffs; she spent time working. She bought half a dozen new nail polishes and changed them every day.

  Another week passed, and she found herself sitting at Peter’s desk, playing with his pipes, thinking of him, missing him.

  “Oh, Peter! Of all people, I know what it is to love and lose. I can’t even think of this thing in such a light! And when you do love and lose, Peter, the therapy is to pick up the pieces and get on with your life.”

  There were just so many shattered pieces to her life. She didn’t know where to start picking them up.

  When friends called, she didn’t seem to have the energy to go out. And despite the thoughts of David Lane that she could not quell, she discovered that she was spending ridiculous amounts of time sleeping.

  By the end of her third week home, she determined that she had picked up some kind of flu—she wasn’t lovesick, she was simply sick, and if she could beat the illness, she could get going.

  Susan didn’t really have a doctor, so she called Harley Richmond at the hospital.

  “Sue, I’m a cancer specialist—”

  “Harley, couldn’t you just take some blood or something and make sure I’m not anemic? I’m not deathly ill, I just think I need some vitamins or something.”

  “Sure, kid. Come on in, then.”

  Relieved, and sure that a shot of vitamin B would rid her not only of exhaustion but of David Lane as well, she cheerfully dressed for a visit to the doctor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SUSAN WAS DAZED WHEN she walked back into the beach house. She didn’t remember the drive back; she couldn’t remember thinking. All that touched her mind was the awful shock.

  She wasn’t sick, she was pregnant.

  She should be grateful; she’d not allowed herself to really think about it, but she knew that though certain diseases weren’t necessarily hereditary, they were prone to occur in certain families. And after Carl’s illness she should be very, very grateful for such a totally clean bill of health. But pregnant? It was just so … stunning.

  And then she began to think of it all as such a ridiculous trick of fate that she started to laugh in the foyer, laugh so hard that she doubled over, catching herself only when she realized she was going to start to cry.

  It’s not real, it’s not real. It can’t be real, she told herself. She could wait for nightfall, go to sleep, and then wake up and prove to herself in the morning that it was all a dream.

  She didn’t really feel anything. She was refusing to face this thing, she warned herself. But maybe that was good. Maybe that was a survival instinct coming to the surface. She needed some time to get over the shock before dealing with the facts.

  She noticed that there was dust on the coffee table. With a whirl of energy she raced into the kitchen, dug out the chamois and polish from beneath the counter, and hurried out to the parlor to set to industriously cleaning the table. Her eyes fell on the fire—cold now. But it had been here, right here, that she had fallen. She winced, bringing the knuckle of her thumb to her mouth and biting down hard. This was it, the scene of the crime. One haphazard, stupid indiscretion in her adult life, and she was certainly being brought to task for it. Here … right here.

  But maybe it hadn’t been here. Maybe it had been upstairs. In his room. Of all the nights in the world to have gone as mad as a March hare….

  Susan brought her hands to her face and sank down to the sofa, feeling extremely sorry for herself and hateful toward fate. One night! If David Lane had just shown up a week later, she might have hated herself, but she wouldn’t be in this predicament. If the storm hadn’t come, if she hadn’t walked out to the sand, if a branch hadn’t broken her window…

  If she’d had the common sense to stay away from him at all costs!

  None of it mattered now. The ifs hadn’t occurred.

  The phone started to ring. Not really giving a damn who it was, Susan ignored it. Eventually the shrilling stopped. She continued to sit on the sofa, her thoughts a jumble, then blank again.

  About fifteen minutes later the phone started up again. Mechanically she rose. Mechanics! If she could just get the mechanics down for the next few days at least! Eat, sleep, work. See people, laugh, talk. Surely then she would get her mind back and be able to deal with things.

  She answered the phone with assurance, quite positive that it wasn’t David Lane. Since New York, apparently he had called a truce that he intended to keep. He had decided to leave her alone.

  It wasn’t David. It was Joan, her sci-fi editor.

  “How are
you?” Joan asked cheerfully.

  Just wonderful. Pregnant by a man who thought she was an exorbitant call girl who preyed on rich old men.

  “Real good, Joan, thanks. How are you? Did you get away to California with your husband?”

  “Yes, and we had a great time.” Joan went on to tell her a bit about the vacation, then asked what she had been doing. Susan mentioned a few nights out with her friends and sounded amazingly cheerful. Joan teased her for a few minutes about working on a real-life romance, then switched the conversation to business.

  “I was just calling about your last proposal and outline.”

  “Oh, good. I should get going on it, I guess. Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, no. I love the concept! Murder on a space shuttle station. I just have a few minor suggestions. Got a pencil and paper?”

  “Ah … yes,” Susan murmured, quickly rummaging through the top desk drawer for a pad and pencil. “Can you hang on for a second? I’ll find my copy.”

  She set the receiver down and dug into the bottom drawer, glancing quickly over the manila envelopes there. She found the correct one and straightened up. See? she thought, taunting herself. Nothing had changed. She didn’t become green or sprout ten extra fingers. Keep at it, it’s very calming….

  “I’m all set, Joan,” she said.

  “Great, great. Okay, chapter two, spice up the argument a bit. A little more heated. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “In chapter four, I don’t think your heroine would walk out like that, not without saying something. See what you can come up with, okay?”

  Susan scribbled on the paper. “Okay.”

  “Now, chapter eight—this is my only real problem with the outline. I don’t think the heroine should seem so defenseless against the enemy when she’s taken and accused of the murder. She needs to be stronger, stand up to them, and fight back—even if she is scared out of her mind. Susan, are you there?”

  Oh, yes, she was here, she thought hysterically. The strong, defensive, fighting back—pregnant woman.