The Dream (Crosslyn Rise Trilogy) Read online

  So her defenses were down by the time they returned to Crosslyn Rise. Darkness had fallen, lending an unreality to the scene, and while the drink had made her mellow, Carter had her intoxicated. That, added to her enjoyment of the evening, of the entire day, was why she gave no resistance when he slipped an arm around her as he walked her to the door. There, under the glow of the antique lamps, he took her chin again and tipped up her face.

  “It’s been a nice day,” he told her in a voice that was low and male. “I’m glad you agreed to come with me, and not only to see the real estate. I’ve enjoyed the company.”

  She wanted to believe him enough to indulge in the fantasy for a few last minutes. “It has been nice,” she agreed with a shy smile, feeling as though she could easily drown in the depths of his charcoal-brown eyes and be happy.

  “The real estate? Or the company?”

  “Both,” was her soft answer.

  He lowered his head and kissed her, touching her lips, caressing them for an instant before lifting his head again. “Was that as nice?”

  It was a minute before she opened her eyes. “Mmm.”

  “I’d like to do it again.”

  “You thought it was nice, too?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to do it again,” he said with the kind of logic that no mind could resist, particularly one that was floating as lightly as Jessica’s. “Okay?”

  She nodded, and when he lowered his head this time, her lips were softer, more pliant than before. He explored their curves, opening them by small degrees until he could run his tongue along the inside. When she gasped, he drew back.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. He slid his arms around her, fitting her body to his. “I won’t hurt you,” he said when he felt the fine tremors that shook her. “Flow with it, Jessica. Let me try again.”

  That was just what he did, caressing innocently at first, deepening the kiss by stages until his tongue was playing at will along the inside of her mouth. She tasted fruity sweet, reminiscent of the drinks they’d had, and twice as heady. When his arms contracted to draw her even closer, he wasn’t thinking as much about her trembling body as his own. He needed to feel the pressure of her breasts, of her belly and thighs, needed to feel all those feminine things against his hard, male body.

  Jessica clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the fire he’d started within her. It was like her dream, but so much more real, with heat rushing through her veins, licking at nerve ends, settling in ultrasensitive spots. When Carter crushed her closer, then moved her body against his, she didn’t protest, because she needed the friction, too. His hardness was a foil for her softness, a salve for the ache inside her.

  But the salve was only good for a minute, and when the ache increased, she remembered her dream again. She’d had a similar ache in the dream—until her mind had sparked what was necessary to bring her release.

  For a horrid split second, she feared that would happen again. Then the split second passed, and she struggled to regain control of herself. “Carter,” she protested, dragging her mouth from his. Her palms went flat against his shoulders and pushed.

  “It’s okay,” he said unevenly. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “We have to stop.”

  It was another minute before his dark eyes focused. “Why? I don’t understand.”

  Freeing herself completely, Jessica moved to the front door. She grasped the doorknob and leaned against the wood, taking the support from Crosslyn Rise that she’d taken from Carter moments before. “I’m not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Easy.”

  Carter was having trouble thinking clearly. Either the throbbing of his body was interfering with his brain, or she was talking nonsense. “No one said you were easy. I was just kissing you.”

  “But it’s not the first time. And you wanted more.”

  “Didn’t you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. And then he wasn’t sorry, because the ache in his groin persisted, making him want to lash out at its cause.

  Her eyes shot to his. “No. I don’t sleep around.”

  “You wanted more. You were trembling for it. Be honest, Jessica. It won’t kill you to admit it.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” he muttered, and took a step back. Tipping his head the slightest bit, he studied her through narrowed lids. “What is it about me that you find so frightening? The fact that I’m the guy who made fun of you when we were kids, or the fact that I’m a guy, period.”

  “You don’t frighten me.”

  “I can see it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Then you see wrong. I just don’t want to go to bed with you. That’s all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why? Come on, Jessica. You owe me an explanation. You’ve been leading me a merry chase all day, being just that little bit distant but closer than ever before. You’ve spent the better part of the day being a consummate tease—”

  “I have not! I’ve just been me! I thought we were having a nice time. If I’d known there was a price to pay for that—” she fumbled in her purse for her keys “—I’d have been careful not to have enjoyed myself as much. Is sex part of your professional fee?”

  Carter ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to the tight muscles at the back of his neck. With the fading of desire came greater control, and with greater control, clearer thought. They were on the old, familiar road to name-calling, he knew, and that wouldn’t accomplish a thing.

  He held up a hand to signal a truce, then set about explaining it. In a very quiet voice, he said, “Let’s get one thing straight. I want you because you turn me on.”

  “That’s—”

  “Shh. Let me finish.” When she remained silent, he said even more slowly, “You turn me on. No strings attached. No price I expect you to pay for lunch or dinner. You … just … turn me on. I didn’t expect it, and I don’t want it, because you are a client and I don’t get involved with clients. It’s not the way I work. Sex has nothing to do with payments of any kind. It has to do with two people liking each other, then respecting each other, then being attracted to each other. It has to do with two people being close, but needing to be even closer. It has to do with two people wanting to know each other in ways that other people don’t.” He paused to take a breath. “That was what I wanted just now. It was what I’ve been wanting all day.”

  Jessica didn’t know what to answer. If she’d been madly in love with a man, she couldn’t have hoped for a sweeter explanation. But she wasn’t madly in love with Carter, which had to be why she was having trouble believing in the sincerity of his desire.

  “As for sleeping around,” Carter went on in that same quiet voice, “it means having indiscriminate sex with lots of different people. I’m not involved with anyone else right now. I haven’t been intimately involved with anyone for a while. And I feel like I know you better than I’ve known any woman in years. So if I took you to bed, I wouldn’t be sleeping around. And neither would you, unless you’ve been with others—”

  She shook her head so vigorously that he dropped that particular line of inquiry. He’d known it wasn’t true anyway. “Have you been with anyone since your husband?”

  She shook her head more slowly this time.

  “Before him?”

  She shook her head a third time.

  “Was it unpleasant with him?” Carter asked, but he knew that he’d made a mistake the minute the words were out. Jessica bowed her head and concentrated on fitting the key to the lock. “Don’t go,” he said quickly, but she opened the door and stepped inside.

  “I can’t talk about this,” she murmured.

  He took a step forward. “Then we’ll talk about something else.”

  “No. I have to go.”

  “Talk of sex doesn’t have to make you uncomfortable.”

  “It does. It’s not something two strangers discu
ss.”

  “We’re not strangers.”

  She looked up at him. “We are in some ways. You’re more experienced than me. You won’t be able to understand what I feel.”

  “Try me, and we’ll see.”

  She shook her head, said softly, “I have to go,” and slowly closed the door.

  For a second before the latch clicked in place, Carter was tempted to resist. But the second passed, and the opportunity was gone. Short of banging the knocker or ringing the bell, he was cut off from her.

  It was just as well. She needed time to get used to the idea of wanting him. He could give her that, he supposed.

  * * *

  He gave her nearly an hour, which was how long it took him to drive back to Boston, change clothes and make a pot of coffee. Then he picked up the phone and called her.

  Her voice sounded calm and professional. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jessica. It’s me. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  She was silent for a minute. Then she said in the same composed voice, “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not angry, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He paused. “I didn’t mean any harm by asking what I did.” He tapped a finger on the lip of his coffee cup. “I’m just curious.” He looked up at the ceiling. “You’re afraid of me. I keep trying to figure out why.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” came her quiet voice, sounding less confident than before.

  “Then why won’t you let yourself go when I kiss you?”

  “Because I’m not the letting-go type.”

  “I think you could be. I think you want to be.”

  “I want to be exactly what I am right now. I’m not unhappy with my life, Carter. I’m doing what I like with people I like. If that wasn’t so, I’d have changed things. But I like my life. I really like my life. You seem to think that I’m yearning for something else, but I’m not. I’m perfectly content.”

  Carter thought she was being a little too emphatic and a little too repetitive. He had the distinct feeling she was making the point to herself as much as to him, which meant that she wasn’t as sure of her needs as she claimed, and that suited him just fine.

  “You’re not content about Crosslyn Rise,” he reminded her, then hurried on, “which is another reason I’m calling. I’m going to start making some preliminary sketches, but I’ll probably want to come to walk around again. I’d like to take some pictures—of the house, the land, possible building sites, the oceanfront. They’re all outside pictures, so you don’t have to be there, but I didn’t want to go wandering around without your permission.”

  “You have my permission.”

  “Great. Why don’t I give you a call when I have something to show you?”

  “That sounds good.” She paused. “Carter?”

  He held his breath. “Yes?”

  After a brief hesitation, her voice came. This time it sounded neither professional nor insecure, but sincere. “Thanks again for today. It really was nice.”

  He let out the breath and smiled. “My pleasure. Talk with you soon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  * * *

  What time Jessica spent at home that week, she spent looking out the window. Or it seemed that way. She made excuses for herself—she was restless reading term papers, she needed exercise, she could use the time to think—but she managed to wander from room to room, window to window, glancing nonchalantly out each one. Her eyes were anything but nonchalant, searching the landscape for Carter on the chance that either she’d missed his car on the driveway or he’d parked out of sight.

  She saw no sign of him, which mean that either he’d come while she was in Cambridge or he hadn’t come at all.

  Nor did he call. She imagined that he might have tried her once or twice while she was out, and for the first time in her life she actually considered buying an answering machine. But that was in a moment of weakness. She didn’t like answering machines. And besides, it would be worse to have an answering machine and not receive a message, than to not have one and wonder. Where one could wonder, one had hope.

  And that thought confused her, because she wasn’t sure why she wanted hope. Carter Malloy was … Carter Malloy. They were involved with each other on a professional basis, but that was all. Yes, she’d enjoyed spending Sunday with him. She’d begun to realize just how far he’d come as a person in the years she’d known him. And she did hope, she supposed, that there might be another Sunday or two like that.

  But nothing sexual was ever going to happen between them. He wasn’t her type—a perfect example being his failure to call. In Jessica’s book, when a man was romantically interested in a woman, he didn’t leave her alone for days. He called her, stopped in to see her, left messages at the office. Carter certainly could have done that, but there had been no message from him among the pink slips the department secretary had handed her that week.

  He was showing his true colors, she decided. Despite all his sweet talk—sex talk—he wasn’t really interested in her, which didn’t surprise her in the least. He was a compelling man. Sex appeal oozed from him. She, on the other hand, had no sex appeal at all. Her genes had been generous in certain fields, but sex appeal wasn’t one.

  So what did Carter want with her? She didn’t understand the motive behind his kisses, and the more she tried to, the more frustrated she became. The only thing she could think was that he was having a kind of perverse fun with her, and that hurt. It hurt, because one part of her liked him, respected him personally and professionally and found him sexy as all get out. It would be far easier, she realized, to admire him from a distance, than to let him come close and show her just how unsatisfying she was to a man.

  Knowing that the more she brooded, the worse it would be, Jessica kept herself as busy as possible. Rather than wander from window to window at home, by midweek she was spending as much time as possible at school. Work, like Poppycock, had a soothing effect on her, and there was work aplenty to do. When she wasn’t grading exams, she was reading term papers or working with one of the two students for whom she was a dissertation advisor. And the work was uplifting—which didn’t explain why, when she returned to Crosslyn Rise Friday evening, she felt distinctly let down. She’d never had that experience before. Work had always been a bellwether for her mood. She decided that she was simply tired.

  So she slept late on Saturday morning, staying in bed until nine, dallying over breakfast, taking a leisurely shower, though she had nothing but laundry and local errands and more grading to do. She didn’t pay any heed to the windows, knowing that Carter wouldn’t come on a Saturday. Work was work. He’d be there during the week, preferably when she wasn’t around. Which was just as well, as far as she was concerned.

  It was therefore purely by accident that, with her arms loaded high with sheets to be laundered, she came down the back steps and caught a glimpse of something shiny and blue out the landing window. Heart thundering, she came to an abrupt halt, stared out at the driveway and swallowed hard.

  He’d come. On a Saturday. When she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt pushed up to the elbows, looking like one of her students playing laundress. But someone had to do the laundry, she thought a bit frantically; the days of having Annie Malloy to help with it were long gone.

  Ah, the irony of it, she mused. Then the back bell rang, and she ceased all musings. Panicked, she glanced at her sweatshirt, then at the linens in her arms, then down the stairs toward the door. If she didn’t answer it, he’d think she wasn’t home.

  That would be the best thing.

  But she couldn’t do it. Tucking the sheets into a haphazard ball, she ran down the stairs, crossed through the back vestibule and opened the door to Carter.

  His appearance did nothing to ease her breathlessness. Wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, he looked large and masculine. His clothes were comfortably worn—a far cry from the last time she’d seen him in jeans, when they’d been d
irty and torn—and fit his leanly muscled legs like a glove. The shirt was rolled to the elbow, much as her sweatshirt was, only his forearms were sinewy, spattered with dark hair, striped on the inside with the occasional vein. His collar was open, showing off the strength of his neck and shoulders, and from one of those shoulders hung a camera.

  “Hi,” she said. In an attempt to curb her breathlessness, she put a hand to her chest. “How are you?”

  He was just fine, now that he was here. All week he’d debated about when to stop by; he couldn’t remember when he’d given as much thought to anything. Except her. She’d been on his mind a lot. Now he knew why. Looking at her, taking in the casual way she was dressed, the oversized pink sweatshirt and the faded blue jeans that clung to slender legs, he felt relieved. Her features, too, did that to him. She was perfectly unadorned—long hair shiny clean and drawn into a high ponytail, skin free of makeup and healthy looking, smile small but bright, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose—but she looked wonderful. She was a breath of fresh air, he decided, finally putting his finger on one of the things he most liked about her. She was different from the women he’d known. She was natural and unpretentious. She was refreshing.

  “I’m real fine,” he drawled with a lazy smile. “Just stoppin’ in to disturb your Saturday morning.” His gaze touched on the bundle she held.

  Wrapping both arms around the linens, she hugged them to her. “I, uh, always use Saturdays for this. Usually I’m up earlier. I should have had two washes done by now. I slept late.”

  “You must have been tired.” He searched for shadows under her eyes, but either her glasses hid them, or they just weren’t there. Her skin was clear, unmottled by fatigue, a smooth blend of ivory and pink. “It’s been a busy week?”