Tonight, the dream changed.
He shook, vividly recalling each second with stunning clarity.
Feverishly, he had spurred his steed across the dew kissed fields. The sounds of his ragged breathing and the steady tattoo of the horse's dashing hooves filled the morning air. The mingled choruses of hoof beats and breath echoed in the stillness, accompanied by the scent of brutally trodden soil.
Reach her! The voice within his head had savagely prompted. Don't let her to slip away! Not this time!
Vainly, for nearly twenty-five years, he attempted to come within reach of the woman. He always woke as he neared her side. For decades, he surfaced from the dreams enraged and disheartened, sensing he lost a vital piece of his wicked soul.
Now, there was an extreme urgency to his actions.
For some nameless reason, he had to win her attention.
The coveted moment arrived. He sensed unspoken exhilaration rise within him, threatening to burst forth like the beams of the rising sun. He had to touch her, reassuring himself of her existence. He had to touch her, capture her in his arms, hold her….
He would do anything to prevent her from leaving.
Caught unawares by the sound of his voice calling her name, she twisted toward him, uncertain of his intent. Rapidly colliding emotions flashed across her face, and he understood her outrage. Ignoring her anger, savoring the satiny smoothness of her name on his lips, he drew his prancing mount close. He wanted to draw her across the horse and in his tight embrace, before smothering her with kisses he had held in check for too many decades.
He restrained himself, his emotions held by six centuries of noble breeding. He shuddered, remembering the emerald clarity of her eyes, the questions forming on her lips. He chaffed with unspeakable longing and drove his hands through the tangled darkness of his hair, vividly recollecting every morsel of the dream with graphic exactness.
This was his Kaitlyn, he mused, and then shook himself.
No, Kaitlyn wasn't correct; he had addressed her otherwise.
He had called her Kate, his sweet Kate.
She was a significant part of his life, her image firmly etched into the very strains of his bloodline and history. This woman had plagued his ancestors for centuries. Eternally, she tormented each male descendant with her guileless eyes and kissable lips as they awaited her return to Colinwood Manor.
He swiped a quivering hand across his stubble-roughened chin, laughing cheerlessly before sweeping the tumbled sheets aside and rising from the bed. Dante Burroughs stroked his chin again and shook his head. He was slipping into some form of insanity, succumbing to the lady's curse. It would be a matter of time before he would go mad, tormented by love for a long dead woman.
He raised thickly corded, brawny arms high above his dark head and stretched to his full and awe-inspiring height, the motion defining a multitude of rippling and tightly hewn muscles. Dante grunted, his arms falling limply to his sides, recognizing the torment his male ancestors endured. Their damnation was all due to the love between a common household servant and the illustrious Earl of Ravensmoor.
Over the years, the tale of Kaitlyn and Nathan became common knowledge among the staff of Colinwood. The romantic narrative had long since left the privacy afforded by the walls of the holding, filtering throughout the countryside and becoming every young girl's fantasy. Women of all ages would twitter and swoon at the fairy tale of unfulfilled love, all without regard to the driving force behind the torment of the great lords.
Dante was the last of the chosen ones, the final heir to the Ravensmoor lineage.
The persistent dreams of Kaitlyn began shortly after his twelfth year. The nightly visions of her laughing face, lifted to the morning sky, had stolen his heart. Eagerly, he sought her as darkness fell across the land, the dreams his means of escape. After years of haunting dreams, seductive thoughts, he had done the unspeakable, falling in love with a woman long dead.
Tonight's vision was unusual.
She seemed incapable of understanding he would do anything to gain her attention, to receive even the slightest bit of acknowledgement. If he had to get on his knees and beg her, he would, and savor every moment of it. Although entirely against his nature, she deserved much more than simple words and kindhearted gestures. She deserved the world, and he wanted to be the man at her side when it was delivered.
A feeling entirely against his nature.
He, Ravensmoor, never craved a woman to behold him. Since his youth, when his height and build had matured, women sought to devour him. He had relished the attention and delighted in their undisguised hunger and insatiable lust.
In his youthful naiveté, he had been taught to pleasure jaded and aging egos, with little concern for the consequences.
One fiasco, due to his negligence, had harshly introduced him to the real world.
His irresponsibility had made him an egotistical fool and nothing more than a diversion. Age had made his outlook on life change and he now avoided the cloying attention of society. He didn't relish being a slab of prime meat on exhibit and felt ill at ease as women undressed him with their eyes.
After the obligations of the estate, coupled with the one duty he would choose over his hereditary title, he hadn't time for the escapades of youth.
Kate was entirely different matter, though. He wanted her to gaze ravenously on him. Her image was the one that taunted him every time he took a woman to bed and, in all these years, he remained unfulfilled. His reputation as a legendary lover followed him from the days of his misspent youth and made him laugh in mocking disregard.
Those women had been certain of their own sexual prowess. They boasted of having a Ravensmoor as their lover, but none had known the truth.
He was forever seducing a woman who hadn't existed for nearly two hundred years. It was her body he wanted to bring to ecstasy, and her sighs of pleasure he longed to hear.
Dante wondered if his dream woman had read his thoughts. As he rode to her, he chafed, feeling gargantuan and bungle-some. He was entirely too large and dark, a hulking mass of a man, and lost for words.
He prided himself in being proficient in deliberating rapidly on his feet. On any given day, he dissected the legal verbalization of business mergers and computed a year's worth of bank subtotals, all over morning coffee. He oversaw six estates, hundreds of staff and an international corporation with established branch offices in ten countries.
One woman left him smarting with insecurity and lacking in social graces.
In the total darkness of the pre-dawn hours, Dante flicked on the lights to the immense vanity of his hotel suite and halted. Blinded by the glare, he blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. As shapes and images cleared, he glowered into the mirror. He grunted at the dark image that frowned at him.
He was a behemoth of a man, by contemporary standards, standing an impressive five inches over six feet. The mirror wasn't large enough to reflect the entirety of his burnished form. In a muted voice, he cursed his extraordinary height.
Tightly, Dante clenched his jaw, emphasizing his prominent chin and high planes of his cheeks. His appearance stunned her, he recalled, having heard her muffled gasp. He had expected her to bolt in horror, but she had remained, staring deeply into his eyes.
Plain blue eyes, he thought contritely and looked into the reflective glass. They weren't the windows to his soul, as many women murmured. None understood his soul, cursed from birth, forever tormented by images of her.
He bent closer, his expression grim. Dante detected solely disenchantment and annoyance in the cobalt colored depths. He slanted a dark brow in a mock salute before moving from the mirror with a disgusted grunt, despising the image revealed in the glossy depths.
Wearily, he rolled his broad shoulders to alleviate the cramping of the taut muscles in his neck. Dante closed his eyes and raked an unsteady hand through the thick crispness of his disheveled hair.
Immediately, he regretted the action. Behind closed lids
, he imagined her face, glowing in the rays of the morning sun. An unbidden smile rose to his lips with the image, the curse of a defining dimple evident in his cheek.
She was all he wanted, all he could feel, all he needed.
Dante groaned. He struggled to control the unspoken hunger surging through him, his body pulsating with unfulfilled need. His features twisted with agony, and a fine sheen of moisture dampened his sun-darkened skin. Sweat trickled down the arch of his spine as he struggled to control his racing heart, drawing each breath deep into his starving lungs.
He had to find her.
She was his, this woman of his dreams. His sweet Kate had to be out there, somewhere, in this city of twinkling streetlights and sizzling summer heat.
Chapter Two
Kathleen Bennett leapt up the cement steps leading from the parking lot to the heavy steel entryway. With a barely muffled grunt, she pulled the door wide and stepped inside. As the door slammed shut behind her, Kate waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The already stifling morning heat of the Arizona landscape was effectively shut out behind thick cinder block walls. Kate savored the welcoming coolness, stepping into the refrigerated air-conditioned comfort of the prefabricated office.
She unlocked her desk with a slight jangle of her keys, dropping her purse into the bottom drawer. Mechanically, she tapped the power button of her computer. The distant sound of raised voices and grinding machinery drowned out the computer's hum. The odor of grease and metal shavings seeped in from the warehouse, and she disdainfully inhaled the odor of burnt molding plastic. After five years, she wondered if the day would arrive where she would have a sense of smell beyond the odor of dust, burning plastic and heavily oiled machinery.
Kate swept a stray curl behind her ear, reaching for the telephone, ever mindful of the vibrantly flickering message button. Cradling the receiver in the curve of her neck, she checked over the evening messages, jotting notes. She returned the telephone receiver to the cradle, the gleaming glow of assorted lights informing her who was in the office and on their phone line. The exclusive right of being the receptionist, she guessed, and the advantage of a ten line telephone system.
Reports were due, she sighed, drawing a heavy circle around the reminder on her calendar. There were spreadsheets and forms to gather from departmental supervisors. Production numbers had to be investigated, tallied, crosschecked, and given to her manager. Moring would reexamine the paperwork before electronically transmitting the data to the English main offices.
Notwithstanding the consistent reminders sent via e-mail, Kate knew getting her hands on the reports was going to be a headache. She would have to listen to the excuses of 'not having enough time' to process more paperwork, especially reports considered a waste of time. It was futile to explain how the corporate offices demanded their numbers, justifying the pilot American branch of the British owned and operated automotive company. Statistics were significant and the reports were crucial. Regrettably, too many supervisors were self-centered, argumentative, and uncooperative.
Humming tunelessly, Kate sauntered to the large coffee maker and drew a paper cup from the shelf. After spooning a liberal amount of sugar and creamer into the empty depths, she poured the coffee into her cup. She sipped slowly, the bittersweet taste filling her mouth as she returned to her desk. Kate suppressed a groan as, around the cubicle partitions, a heavily made-up and overly perfumed co-worker flagged her down.
“Early enough for you, Kate?” Grace Sanchez queried, lifting a heavily penciled facsimile of an eyebrow. They were two of a handful of women in an office predominately staffed by men. Grace arrived as early as Kate but for entirely different reason, primarily to make personal telephone calls and gossip. Kate dreaded seeing the heavily painted face and brightly colored hair, knowing whatever said would be distorted before escaping on the warehouse grapevine. “Did you hear the news?”
Kate shook her head, sipping her coffee.
“Well,” Grace paused and lowered her voice to a whisper. Tempted to roll her eyes, Kate restrained the urge. “I heard from Laura, in the front office, the juiciest bit of news.”
Laura Gonzalez was the receptionist for the manager of Burton Automotive Industries, Ltd., Devon MacLean. She occupied a spacious office in the socially acceptable section of the front offices.
“What?” Kate asked, hating her curiosity. Grace nearly bounced with glee, pleased the shop receptionist lacked knowledge of the latest tidbit.
“The jefe of the English branch is arriving today.”
Kate frowned. This was news her boss, Charles Moring, had failed to disclose. What troubled her more was, if the information was correct, why hadn’t Laura given them a heads-up? “Duncan Forsythe is arriving?”
Grace afforded her a vapid excuse for a giggle. She waved her manicured hand and a dozen thin metal bangles jangled. Kate willed herself not to inhale the heavy cloud of overwhelming perfume or the underlying odor of cigarettes caused by the movement.
“No, Kate, not Duncan,” Grace countered, as if she knew the man intimately. “The man who owns BAI!”
Kate hesitated, her cup of coffee halfway to her mouth. Never seen or photographed, Burton Automotive Industries’ owner was a mystery. He never attended scheduled teleconferences, or traveled to the plants, unless his presence was a dire need. She dealt with the ever-efficient Barbara McMillian, the manager's personal secretary, at the facilities in Western England. The readily recognizable front man, Duncan Forsythe, managed all other business matters. To her, the owner of BAI was a roughly scrawled, illegible name beneath the company logo.
“I didn't know.” Kate admitted, a slight frown marring her smooth forehead and an anxious stab gnawed at her stomach. If the owner of the company was visiting the Arizona facility, there was a serious problem, somewhere.
“It was a last minute deal,” Grace continued, unaware of Kate's discomfort. “Tu sabes, the harness recalls from some months ago caused some problems.”
The production and delivery numbers for the Phoenix offices had been astounding for the month of February. Burton Automotive's managerial offices had been delighted with the delivery of nearly two thousand parts in a fourth of the time forecast. As the sole American manufacturer of automotive harnesses, the Phoenix office was lauded as an innovator in timely delivery and excellent customer service, a jewel in the crown of the ever-growing Burton Automotive Industries.
That was before the recalls.
Kate remained silent, moving to her desk, knowing the recalls would happen. Secretly, she had flinched with the delivery of every supervisory pat on the back at the marvelous numbers. All she could recall was Moring's ill-tempered growl as he delivered his harsh instructions. I don't care about the problems. Shim it and ship it, there are numbers to show! We need the numbers for those damn reports. Override Quality Control and ship it.
The impromptu banging of the office door interrupted her brooding thoughts. Over her desk, Kate wanly welcomed her fellow employees. It was Monday and she empathized as each person trudged in, veering toward their assigned cubicle.
A few moments after seven, as was his accustomed time, she gave her manager a tight but welcoming smile. Charles Moring rushed past her desk without acknowledging her presence. His keys jangled as he struggled to open the door to his office, located immediately behind her. He flung the door open with a grunt and impatiently flicked on the lights to his office. His briefcase came down with a loud bang atop his desk, followed by the audible clatter of his keys.
“Kate!”
She rose and entered the office, notepad in hand and pen poised. Under the luminance of the overhead fluorescent fixture, Charles Moring's balding pâté glistened. His cheeks were a ruddy shade of red and a vein throbbed in his neck. He generated the faux appearance of a jovial man, his stout form encased in an off-the-rack business suit.
First impressions were misleading, she knew, by the conversations overheard from behind sealed doors. Moring's voice would lift
in anger at tardy vendors and his obscene vocabulary would make her ears burn. There existed a merciless and mean-spirited streak within him and everyone knew his wrath could cost employment, promotion or both.
“Yes, Mr. Moring.” She stifled the impulse to click her heels together.
Charles hefted a muttered expletive, his jaw constricting until she could audibly detect the grinding of his teeth. “Close the door.”
Kate turned and shut the office door behind her, waiting for the subsequent explosion.
“He called me last night!” Charles declared, throwing himself in his plush office chair, the maneuver almost sending the seat careening into the wall. Kate's stomach lurched and Grace's words leapt into her thoughts.
“Duncan?” She questioned with forced lightness.
“Yes, Duncan!” He sneered. “On a Sunday night, he calls me at home!”
His voice grew louder with each syllable, his heightened color rapidly advancing to a florid red.
“How dare the damn fool think he can call me on my day off and just drop a bomb on me?”
His fist banged heavily on the desk, an empty coffee cup leaping. Kate cringed, but didn't retreat, reassuring herself that he was only venting. The presence of a large office chair, positioned between her and his desk, comforted her.
“There's a time difference between England and Phoenix, Mr. Moring.” She managed in a near squeak.
“There wasn't a fucking time difference!” He shouted crudely, unlocking his briefcase and nervously handling the documents inside. “Duncan wants the last six months of reports ready for review before nine this morning.”
Kate blinked at the announcement, her eyes wide.
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 3
