The Dream (Crosslyn Rise Trilogy) Read online

  “Very,” she said with a sigh and a smile.

  “Will you be able to relax this weekend?”

  “A little. I still have more work to do, but then there are things like this—” she nodded toward the linens “—and the market and the drugstore, none of which are heavily intellectual tasks. I relax when I do those.”

  “No time to sit back, put your feet up and vegetate?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not good at vegetating.”

  “I used to be good at it, back in the days when I was raising hell.” His mouth took on a self-effacing twist. “Used to drive my mother wild. Whenever the police showed up at the door, she knew she’d find me sprawled out in the back room watching TV.” The twist gentled. “I don’t have much time for vegetating now, either—” he jabbed his chin toward the camera “—which is why I’m here. I thought I’d do that exploring. I have nothing to think about but Crosslyn Rise, and it’s a gorgeous day.” He made a quick decision, based on the open look on her face. “Want to come?”

  Nothing seemed to be helping Jessica’s breathlessness or the incessant fluttering of her insides. Suddenly she didn’t seem to be able to make a decision, either. “I don’t know … there’s this laundry to do … and vacuuming.” She could feel the warm air coming in past him, and it beckoned. “I ought to dust … and you’ll probably be able to think more creatively if I’m not around.”

  “I’d like the company. And I won’t talk if the creative mode hits. Come on. Just for a little while. It’s too special a day to miss.”

  His eyes weren’t as much charcoal brown today, she decided, as milk chocolatey, and their lashes seemed absurdly thick. Had she never noticed that before?

  “Uh, I have so much to do,” she argued, but meekly.

  “Tell you what,” Carter said. “I’ll start out and follow the same route we took last time. You take care of what you have to, then join me.”

  That sounded like a fair compromise to Jessica. If he was willing to be flexible, she couldn’t exactly remain rigid. Besides, Saturday or not, he was working on her project. Maybe he wanted to bounce ideas off her. “I may be a little while,” she cautioned.

  “No sweat. I’ll be here longer than that. Take your time.” With a wink, he set off.

  The wink set her back a good ten minutes. Several of those were spent with her back against the wall by the door, trying to catch up with her racing pulse. Several more were spent wandering through the kitchen into the den, before she realized that she was supposed to be headed for the laundry, which was in the basement. The rest were spent getting the washer settings right, normally a simple task, now complicated by a sorely distracted mind.

  Never in her life had she done the vacuuming as quickly as she did then. It was nervous energy, she told herself, and that reasoning held on through a dusting job that probably stirred more than it gathered. Fortunately, the rooms in question were only those few she used on a regular basis, which meant that she was done in no time. The bed linens were in the dryer and her personal things in the wash when she laced on a pair of sneakers, grabbed a half-filled bag of bread and slipped out the door.

  Carter was sitting cross-legged on the warm grass by the duck pond. Though for all intents and purposes he was concentrating on the antics of the ducks, he’d kept a lookout for her arrival. The sight of her brought the warm feeling it always did, plus something akin to excitement—which was amusing, since in the old days he’d have labeled her the least exciting person in the world. But that was in the old days, at a time in his life when he’d appreciated precious little, certainly nothing subtle and mature, which were the ways in which he found Jessica exciting. He could never have appreciated her intellect, the way she thought through issues, the natural curiosity that had her listening to things he said and asking questions. She was a thoroughly stimulating companion, even in silence—unless she felt threatened. When that happened, she was as dogmatic and closed minded as he’d once thought her to be.

  The key, of course, was to keep her from feeling threatened. Most of the time, that was easy, particularly since he felt increasingly protective of her. The times when it was difficult almost always had to do with sex, which was when he was at his least controlled both physically and emotionally.

  But he’d try. He’d try, because the prize was worth it.

  “Watch out for the muck!” he called, and watched her give wide berth to a spot of ground that hadn’t quite dried out from the spring thaw. His eyes followed her as she approached, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jeans, her ponytail swaying gently with her step. “That was fast.”

  “Don’t you know it,” she said in a way that stunned him, then pleased him in the next breath. She’d drawled the words. Yes, there was self-mockery in them, but there was playfulness, too. Opening the bag of bread, she began breaking off chunks and tossing them toward the ducks, who quacked their appreciation. “I hate cleaning. I do it dutifully. But I hate it.”

  “You should hire someone—and don’t tell me you can’t afford it. That kind of help is cheap.”

  But she nixed the idea with the scrunch of her nose, which served the double purpose of hitching her glasses up. “There’s really not enough to do.” She tossed out another handful of bread and watched the ducks try to outwaddle each other to where it landed. “I hire a crew twice a year to do the parts of the house that I don’t use, but there’s no good reason why I can’t do the rest myself.” She turned to stare at him hard, but her voice was too gentle to be accusing. “Unless someone stands at my door tempting me with the best spring weather that’s come along so far.” She looked around, took a deep breath, didn’t pause to wonder whether the exhilaration she felt was from the air or not. She was tired of wondering about things like that. She was too analytical. For once, she wanted to—what was it he’d said—go with the flow. “So,” she said, reaching for more bread, “are you being inspired?”

  “Here? Always. It’s a beautiful spot.” Tossing several feathers out of the way, he patted the grass by his side.

  She sat down and shot a look at the camera that lay in his lap. It wasn’t one of the instant models, but the real thing. “Have you used it?”

  He nodded. “I’ve taken pictures of the house, the front lawn and the beach. Not here, yet. I’m just sitting.”

  She aimed a handful of bread crumbs toward the ducks. “Are you a good photographer?”

  “I’m competent. I get the shots I need, but they’re practical, rather than artistic.” He took the camera up, made several shifts in the settings, raised it to his eye and aimed it at her.

  She held up a hand to block the shot and turned her head away. “I hate having my picture taken even more than I hate cleaning!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like being focused on.” She dared a glance at him, relaxing once she saw that he’d put the camera back down.

  “Focused on” could be interpreted both broadly and narrowly. Carter had the feeling that both applied in Jessica’s case. “Why not?” he asked, bemused.

  “Because it’s embarrassing. I’m not photogenic.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true. The camera exaggerates every flaw. I have plenty without the exaggeration.”

  Looking at her, with the sun glancing off her hair and a blush of self-consciousness on her cheeks, Carter could only think of how pretty she was. “What flaws do you have?”

  “Come on, Carter—”

  “Tell me.” The quacking of the ducks seemed to second his command.

  Sure that he was ridiculing her, she studied his eyes. She saw no teasing there, though, only challenge, and where Carter challenged her, she was conditioned to respond. “I’m plain. Totally and utterly plain. My face is too thin, my nose is too small, and my eyes are boring.”

  He stared at her. “Boring? Are you kidding? And there’s nothing wrong with the shape of your face or your nose. Do you have any idea what a pleasure it is for me to l
ook at you after having to look at other women all week?” At her blank look, he said, “You’ve grown up well, Jessica. You may have felt plain as a child, but you’re not a child anymore, and what you think of as plainness is straightforward, refreshing good looks.”

  Her blankness had yielded to incredulity. “Why do you say things like that?”

  “Because they’re true!”

  “I don’t believe it for a minute,” she said. It seemed the only way to cope with the awkwardness she felt. Rising to her feet, she tossed the last of the bread from the bag and set off. “You’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll like your designs.” Wadding up the bag, she stuffed it into a pocket.

  Carter was after her in a minute, gently catching her ponytail to draw her up short as he overtook her. His body was a solid wall before her, his hand in her hair a smaller but no less impenetrable wall behind. Against her temple, his breath was a warm sough of emotion. “If I wanted to butter you up, I’d just do my work and mind my own business about the rest. But I can’t do it—any more than I can sit back and listen to you denigrate yourself. I’m highly attracted to you. Why can’t you believe that?”

  Struck as always by his closeness, Jessica’s breathing had quickened. Her eyes were lowered, focusing on his shirt, and though there was nothing particularly sensual about the plaid, there was something decidedly so about the faintly musky scent of his skin.

  “I’m not the kind of women men find highly attractive,” she explained in a small voice.

  “Is that another gem of wisdom from your ex-husband?”

  “No. It’s something I’ve deduced after thirty-three years of observation. I don’t turn heads. I never have and never will.”

  “The women who turn heads—the sharp lookers, the fashion plates—aren’t the women men want. Call it macho, but they want softer women. You’re a softer woman. And I want you.”

  “But you have your choice of the best women in the city.”

  “And I choose you. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

  “It tells me that you’re going through a phase. Let’s call it—” she raised her eyes to his to make her point “—the give-the-little-lady-a-thrill-for-old-times’-sake phase.”

  Dangerously close to anger, Carter drew her closer until she was flush against him. “That’s insulting, Jessica.” His dark eyes blazed into hers. “Can’t you give me a little credit for honesty? Have I ever lied to you?” When she didn’t answer, he did it for her. “No. I may have said cruel things, or downright wrong things, but they were the things I was honestly feeling at the time. We’ve already established that I was a bastard. But at least give me credit for honesty.”

  His blood was pulsing more thickly as her curves imprinted themselves on his body. “I’ve been honest with words. And I’ve been honest with this.” He captured her mouth before she could open hers to protest, and he kissed her with an ardor that could have been from hunger or anger.

  Jessica didn’t know which. All she knew was that her defenses fell in less time than ever before, that she couldn’t have kept her mouth stiff if she’d tried, that she should have been shocked when his tongue surged into her mouth, but the only source of shock was her own enjoyment.

  That thought, though, came a moment too soon, because she was in for another small shock. Well before she was ready, he ended the kiss. She hadn’t even begun to gather her wits when he took her hand from its stranglehold of his shirt and lowered it to the straining fly of his jeans.

  “No way,” he said hoarsely, “no way could I fake that.” Keeping his hand over hers, he molded her fingers to his shape, pressing her palm flat, manipulating it in a rubbing motion. A low sound slipped from his throat as he pressed his lips to her neck.

  Jessica was stunned by the extent of his arousal, then stunned again when the heat of it seemed to increase. Her breathing was short and scattered, but Carter’s was worse, and a fine quaking simmered in the muscles of his arms and legs.

  No, he couldn’t fake what she felt, and the knowledge was heady. It made her feel soft and feminine and eager to know more of the strength beneath her hand. Without conscious thought, she began to stroke him. Her eyes closed. Her head tipped to give his mouth access to her throat. Her free arm stole to the bunched muscles of his back. And when she became aware of a restlessness between her legs, she arched toward him.

  Carter made a low, guttural sound. Wrenching her hand from him, he wrapped her in his arms and crushed her close, then closer still. “Don’t move,” he warned in a voice that was more sand than substance. “Don’t move. Give me a minute. A minute.”

  The trembling went on as he held her tight, but Jessica wasn’t sure how much of it was her own. Weak-kneed and shaky, she was grateful that his convulsive hold was keeping her upright. Without it, she’d surely have slid down to the grass and begged him to take her there, which was precisely what the tight knot at the pit of her stomach demanded.

  That was probably the biggest shock of all. The dream she could reason away. She could attribute it to any number of vague things. But when she was being held in Carter’s arms, when she felt every hard line of his body and not only took pleasure in the hardness but hungered to have it deeper inside her, she couldn’t lie to herself any longer.

  The issue, of course, was what to make of the intense desire she felt for him. The moment would pass now, she knew. Once Carter regained control of his libido, he would set her back, perhaps take her hand and lead her on through the woods. He might talk, ask her what she feared, try to get her to admit to his desire and to her own, but he wouldn’t force her into anything she didn’t want.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want sex with Carter, rather that she wasn’t ready for it. She’d never been a creature of impulse. It was one thing to “go with the flow” and spurn housekeeping chores in favor of a walk on the woods, quite another to “go with the flow” and expose herself, body and soul, to a man. She’d done that once and been hurt, and though she’d never made vows of chastity, the memory of that hurt kept her shy of sex.

  If she was ever to make love with Carter, she had to understand exactly what she was doing and why. She also had to decide whether the risk was worth it.

  7

  Carter didn’t leave right away. Nor did he allow Jessica to leave. He insisted she stay while he took the pictures he needed at the duck pond, then walked her back to the house. She had feared he’d want to talk about what had happened, but either he was as surprised by its power as she, or he sensed she wasn’t ready. He said nothing about the kiss, about the way she’d touched him, or about the fact that he’d nearly lost it there and then in front of the ducks.

  Instead, he sent her inside to finish her chores while he completed his own outside. Then he drove her to the supermarket and walked up and down the aisles with her, tossing the occasional unusual item into her cart. When they returned to Crosslyn Rise, he made his special tuna salad, replete with diced water chestnuts and red pepper relish.

  After lunch, he left.

  * * *

  He called on Monday evening to say that the photos he’d taken had come out well and that he was getting down to some serious sketching.

  He called on Thursday evening to say that he was pleased with the progress he was making and would she be free on Sunday afternoon to take a look at what he’d drawn.

  She was free, of course. The semester’s work was over, exams and papers graded, grades duly recorded—which was wonderful in the sense of freeing her up, lousy in the sense of giving her more time to think. The thinker in her decided that she definitely wanted to see what he’d drawn, but she didn’t trust him—or herself—to have a show-and-tell meeting at Crosslyn Rise.

  So they arranged to meet at Carter’s office, which satisfied Jessica’s need on several scores. First, she was curious to see more of him in his professional milieu. Second, even if he kissed her, and even if she responded, the setting was such that nothing could come of it.

  She guess
ed she was curious to see him, period. It had been a long week since the Saturday before, a long week of replaying what had happened, of feeling the excitement again, of imagining an even deeper involvement. Though it still boggled her mind, she had to accept that he did want her. The evidence had been conclusive. She still didn’t know why he wanted her, and the possibilities were diverse, running from the wildly exciting to the devastating. But that was another reason why the setting suited her purpose. It was safe. She could see him, get to know him better, but she wouldn’t have to take a stand on the physical side of the issue.

  And then, there was Crosslyn Rise. The part of her that had acclimated itself to the conversion of the Rise was anxious to see what he’d drawn. That part wanted to get going, to decide on an architectural plan, have it formally drawn up and give it to Gordon so that he could enlist his investors. That part of Jessica wanted to act before its counterpart backed out.

  Jessica wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she took a first look at Carter’s drawings, but it certainly wasn’t the multicolored spread before her. Yes, there were pencil sketches on various odd pieces of paper, but he’d taken the best of those ideas and converted them into something that could well have been a polished promotion for the place.

  “Who drew these?” she asked, slightly awed.

  “I did.” There were times when he left such drawings to project managers, but he’d wanted to do this himself. When it came to Crosslyn Rise, he was the project manager, and he didn’t give a damn whether his partner accused him of ill-using the resources at hand. Crosslyn Rise was his baby from start to finish, even if it meant late nights such as the ones he’d put in this week. They were worth it. Concentrating on his work was better than concentrating on his need.

  “But this is art. I never pictured anything like this.”

  “It’s called a presentation,” he said dryly. “The idea is to snow the client right off the bat.”