Dream Trilogy Read online

  “First what? First car?”

  “That’s right.” He grinned at her baffled stare. “Bought her when I was seventeen. She’s got over two hundred thousand miles on her and still purrs like a kitten.”

  Kate would have said it was more “roars like a lion,” but that wasn’t her problem. “Nobody keeps their first car. It’s like your first lover.”

  “Exactly.” He downshifted, eased around a turn. “As it happens, I had my first lover in the backseat, one sweet summer night. Pretty Lisa Montgomery.” He sighed reminiscently. “She opened a window to paradise for me, God bless her.”

  “A window to paradise.” Unable to resist, Kate craned her neck and studied the pristine backseat. It wasn’t very difficult to imagine two young bodies groping. “All that in the back of an old Mustang.”

  “Classic Mustang,” he corrected. “Just like Lisa Montgomery.”

  “But you didn’t keep her.”

  “You can’t keep everything, except memories. Remember your first time?”

  “In my college dorm room. I was a slow starter.” Marvin Gaye had given way to Wilson Pickett. Kate’s foot began to keep time. “He was captain of the debate team and seduced me with his argument that sex, next to birth and death, was the ultimate human experience.”

  “Good one. I’ll have to try it sometime.”

  She slanted a look at his profile. Hero perfect, she judged, with just a hint of rugged. “I don’t imagine you need lines.”

  “It never hurts to keep a few in reserve. So what happened to the captain of the debate team?”

  “He was used to getting his point across inside of three minutes. That ability bled over into the ultimate human experience.”

  “Oh.” Byron fought back a grin. “Too bad.”

  “Not really. It taught me not to build up unrealistic expectations and not to depend on someone else to fulfill basic needs.” Kate scanned the scenery. Her foot stopped tapping as she tensed up again. “Why are we on Seventeen Mile?”

  “It’s a pretty drive. I enjoy taking it every day. Did I mention that I was able to arrange renting the house I’m buying until we settle?”

  “No, you didn’t.” But she was getting the drift. “You said we were going to have dinner and a civilized discussion.”

  “And we are. You can take a look at the favor you did for me at the same time.”

  Even as she formulated several arguments against, Byron turned into a driveway and pulled up behind a dramatically glossy black Corvette.

  “It’s a ’63, first year the Stingray rolled out of Detroit,” he said with a nod toward the car. “Three hundred sixty horsepower, fuel-injected. An absolute beauty. Not that the original ’Vette wasn’t a honey before the redesign. They don’t make bodies like that anymore.”

  “Why do you need two cars?”

  “Need isn’t the issue. Anyway, I have four cars. The other two are back in Atlanta.”

  “Four,” she murmured, and found this little quirk of his amusing.

  “Fifty-seven Chevy, 283-cubic-inch V-8. Baby blue, white sidewalls, all original equipment.” There was affection in his voice. Kate thought the southern heat of it flowed over the words like a man describing a lover. “Every bit as classy as the songs they wrote about her.”

  “Billie Jo Spears.” Kate knew her music trivia. “Fifty-seven Chevrolet.’”

  “That’s the best.” Surprised and impressed, he grinned at her. “Keeping her company is a ’67 GTO.”

  “ ‘Three deuces and a four speed’?”

  “Right.” His grin widened. “And a 389.”

  She grinned back. “Just what the hell are three deuces, automotively speaking?”

  “If you don’t know already, it would take a little time to explain. Just let me know if you ever want a serious lesson.”

  Then he put a hand over Kate’s and shifted his gaze to the house. She was relaxed enough not to pull away. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

  “It’s nice.” All wood and glass, she mused, bilevel decks, flowers already blooming riotously, that wonderful cypress bent and magical. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “From the outside.” Knowing she’d never wait for him to come around to her door, he leaned across her to open it. And inhaled the simple scent of soap. Enjoying it, he let his gaze wander lazily from her mouth to her eyes. “You’ll be another first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  God, was he losing his mind or was he actually starting to look forward to that edgy tone? “My first guest.” He got out of the car, retrieved his briefcase and jacket. As they started up the walk, he took her hand in a friendly gesture. “You can hear the sea,” he pointed out. “It’s just close enough. I’ve caught a couple of glimpses of seals, too.”

  It was charming—almost too charming, she thought. The setting, the sounds, the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine. What was left of the setting sun spread vivid, heartbreaking color across the western sky. The twisted shadows from the trees were long and deep.

  “A lot of tourists drive along here,” she said, fighting the spell. “Isn’t that going to bother you?”

  “No. The house is set back from the road, and the bedrooms face the water.” He turned the key in the lock. “There’s just one problem.”

  She was glad to hear it. Perfection made her nervous. “What?”

  “I don’t have much in the way of furniture.” He opened the door and proved his point.

  It shouldn’t have delighted her. Bare floors, bare walls, bare space. Yet she found it delightful, the way the entranceway flowed into a room. The simplest of welcomes. The wide glass doors on the facing wall exploded with that stunning sunset, almost demanded to be opened wide to it.

  The yellow pine floors gleamed under her feet as she stepped inside, crossed over them. There was no rug, as yet, to tame that ocean flood of shine.

  He would get one, she imagined. It was practical, sensible. But, she thought, it would also be a shame.

  From her outside survey of the house, she hadn’t guessed that the ceilings were so high or that the stairs leading to the next level were open, as open as the carved pickets in the ornate railing that skirted the second story.

  She could see how cleverly, how simply one room became another, so that the house appeared to be one large living space. White walls, golden floors, and the beautiful bleeding light from the west.

  “Great view,” she managed and wondered why her palms were damp. Casually she wandered to a crate on which stood an elaborate stereo system. The only piece of furniture was a ratty recliner with duct tape holding the arms together. “You’ve got the essentials, I see.”

  “No point in living without music. I picked up the chair at a yard sale. It’s so awful it’s wonderful. Want a drink?”

  “Just some club soda, or water.” Alcohol was off the list for a couple of reasons, and he was one of them.

  “I’ve got some Templeton mineral water.”

  She smiled. “Then you’ve got the best.”

  “I’ll take you on a tour after I’ve gotten dinner started. Come in the kitchen and keep me company.”

  “You know how to cook?” It was the shock of it that made her follow him.

  “Actually, I do. You like grits and chitlins, right?” He waited a beat, turned, and wasn’t disappointed with the look of sheer horror on her face. “Just kidding. How about seafood?”

  “Not those crawfish things.”

  “I make a hell of a crawfish étouffée, but we’ll save that for when we’re better acquainted. If the rest of the house hadn’t already sold me, this would have done it.”

  The kitchen was done in dramatic maroon and white tiles, with a center island that gleamed like an iceberg. A built-in banquette curved in front of a wide window that looked out on blooming flowers and the deep-green lawn.

  “Subzero,” Byron commented, running a loving hand over the stainless-steel front of a wide refrigerator. “Convection oven, Jenn-Air range, teak cabin
ets.”

  There was a big blue bowl of fresh, glossy fruit on the counter. The grinding in Kate’s stomach told her if she didn’t eat soon, she’d die. “You like to cook?”

  “It relaxes me.”

  “Okay, why don’t you relax? I’ll watch.”

  She had to admit it was an impressive show. She sipped chilled water while he sliced an array of colorful vegetables. His movements were brisk and, as far as she could tell, professional. Intrigued, she moved closer, watched his hands.

  Very nice hands, now that she took a good look. Long fingers, wide palms, with a neat manicure that didn’t take away from the basic masculinity.

  “Did you, like, take a course or something?”

  “Or something. We had this cook. Maurice.” Byron turned a red bell pepper into long, neat strips. “He told me he’d teach me how to box. I was tall and skinny, regularly got the shit beat out of me at school.”

  Kate stepped back, did a slow survey. Broad shoulders, trim waist, narrow hips. Long limbs, certainly. And with his sleeves rolled up for cooking, she could see forearms that looked just a bit dangerous. “What happened? Steroids?”

  He chuckled and went briskly to work on an onion. “I grew into my arms and legs after a while, started working out, but I was about twelve and pathetically awkward.”

  “Yeah.” Kate sipped, remembering her own adolescence. The trouble was, she’d never grown into anything. Still the runt of the litter, she mused. “It’s a rough age.”

  “So Maurice said he’d teach me to defend myself, but I had to learn to cook. It was, according to him, just one more way to become self-sufficient.” Byron drizzled oil into a large cast-iron pan already heating on the stove. “In about six months I whipped Curt Bodine’s bad ass—he was the bane of my existence at the time.”

  “I had Candy Dorall, now Litchfield,” Kate put in conversationally. “She was always my bane.”

  “The terminally pert Candace Litchfield? Redhead, smug, foxy face, annoying little giggle?”

  Anyone who described Candy so accurately deserved a smile. “I think I might like you after all.”

  “Did you ever punch Candy in her sassy nose?”

  “It’s not her nose. She had rhinoplasty.” Kate snacked on a strip of pepper. “And no, but we did stuff her naked into a locker. Twice.”

  “Not bad, but that’s girl stuff. Me, I just beat the hell out of Curt, salvaged masculine pride while earning the appropriate macho rep. And I could produce a chocolate soufflé to die for.”

  When she laughed, he paused and turned to face her. “Do that again.” When she didn’t respond, he shook his head. “You really ought to laugh more, Katherine. It’s a fascinating sound. Surprisingly full and rich. Like something you’d expect to hear floating out of the window of a New Orleans brothel.”

  “I’m sure that’s a compliment.” She lifted her water glass again, made herself keep her eyes level with his. “But I rarely laugh on an empty stomach.”

  “We’ll fix that.” He tossed minced garlic into the hot oil. The scent was immediate and wonderful. The onion went in next, and she began to salivate.

  He pried the lid off a covered bowl, slid shelled shrimp and scallops into the pan. She thought it was a bit like watching a mad scientist at work. A glug of white wine, a pinch of salt, a slight grating of what he told her was ginger. Quick stirs and shakes to mix all those pretty strips of vegetables.

  In less time than it might have taken her to peruse a menu, she was sitting down to a full plate.

  “It’s good,” she said after her first bite. “It’s really good. Why aren’t you in food services?”

  “Cooking’s a hobby.”

  “Like conversation and old cars.”

  “Vintage cars.” It pleased him to see her eat. He’d decided on the menu because he’d wanted to get something healthy into her. He imagined her snatching junk food when she remembered to eat at all, snacking on antacids. No wonder she was too thin. “I could teach you.”

  “Teach me what?”

  “To cook.”

  She speared a shrimp. “I didn’t say I couldn’t cook.”

  “Can you?”

  “No, but I didn’t say I couldn’t. And I don’t need to as long as there’s takeout and microwave ovens.”

  Because she’d refused his offer of wine, he stuck with water himself. “I bet there’s a place reserved for you at McDonald’s drive-through window.”

  “So? It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s filling.”

  “Nothing wrong with the occasional french fry, but when it’s a dietary staple—”

  “Don’t start with me, Byron. This is why I’m here in the first place.” Remembering her plan, she got down to business. “I don’t like people, particularly people I barely know, interfering in my life.”

  “We have to get to know each other better.”

  “No, we don’t.” It was weird, she realized, how easily she’d become distracted, and interested, and at ease. Time had slipped by when all she’d meant to do was give him the sharpest edge of one piece of her mind. “Your intentions might have been good, but you had no business going to Josh.”

  “Your eyes are fabulous,” he said and watched them narrow with suspicion. “I don’t know if it’s because they’re so big, so dark, or because your face is narrow, but they really pack a punch.”

  “Is that one of your reserved lines?”

  “No, it’s an observation. I happen to be looking at your face, and it occurs to me that it has all these contrasts. The snooty New England cheekbones, the wide, sexy mouth, angular nose, the big, doe eyes. It shouldn’t work, but it does. It works better when you’re not pale and tired, but that adds a rather disconcerting fragile quality.”

  She shifted. “I’m not fragile. I’m not tired. And my face has nothing to do with the subject under discussion.”

  “But I like it. I liked it right away, even when I didn’t like you. Now I wonder, Kate,” he continued, laying a hand over hers, twining fingers. “Why did you put so much effort into making sure I didn’t look twice in your direction?”

  “I didn’t have to put any effort into that. I’m not your type any more than you’re mine.”

  “No, you’re not,” he agreed. “Still, I occasionally enjoy sampling something . . . different.”

  “I’m not a new recipe.” She pulled her hand free, pushed her plate aside. “And I came here to have, as you termed it, a civilized discussion.”

  “This seems civilized to me.”

  “Don’t pull out that reasonable tone.” She had to squeeze her eyes shut and count to ten. She made it to five. “I hate that reasonable tone. I agreed to go to dinner with you so that I could make myself clear, so that I could do so without losing my temper the way I did earlier today.”

  For emphasis, she leaned forward a little, was distracted by discovering that there was a thin gold halo around his pupils. “I don’t want you meddling in my life. I don’t know how to make it any more plain than that.”

  “That’s plain.” Since they seemed to have finished the meal, he picked up the plates and carried them to the counter. Sitting again, he took a cigar from his pocket, lit it. “But there’s a problem. I’ve developed an interest in you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You find that difficult to believe?” He puffed out smoke, considered. “So did I initially. Then I realized what kicked it off. I’m driven to solve problems and puzzles. Answers and solutions are essential to me. Do you want coffee?”

  “No, I don’t want coffee.” Didn’t he know it drove her crazy the way he could slide from one topic to the next in that slow, southern drawl of his. Of course he did. “And I’m not a problem or a puzzle.”

  “But you are. Look at you, Kate. You white-knuckle your way through life.” He reached out, deliberately uncurled her fist. “I can almost see whatever fuel you bother to put inside you being sucked away by nerves. You have a loving family, a solid base, an excellent mind, but
you pick at details as if they were knotted threads. You never consider just snipping one off. Yet when you’re faced with the injustice, the insult of being fired from a job that was a huge part of your life, you sit back and do nothing.”

  It grated and hurt and shamed. And because she couldn’t explain to him, or to those who cared for her, it festered. “I’m doing what works for me. And I didn’t come here for an analysis.”

  “I haven’t finished,” he said mildly. “You’re afraid to be vulnerable, even ashamed of it. You’re a practical woman, yet you’re aware you’re physically run-down and you’re doing nothing about that either. You’re an honest woman, but you’re putting all of your energy into denying there might be even a mild hint of attraction between us. So you interest me.” He took a last drag on his cigar, tamped it out. “The puzzle of you interests me.”

  She got to her feet slowly to prove to both of them she was still in control. “I realize it might be difficult—no, next to impossible—for you to realize that I’m not interested in you. I’m not vulnerable, I’m not ill, and I’m not even mildly attracted.”

  “Well.” He unfolded himself and rose. “We can put at least one of those statements to the test.” His eyes stayed watchful on hers as he cupped a hand behind her neck. “Unless you’re afraid you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong. And I don’t want—”

  He decided it was simpler not to let her finish. The woman could argue with the dead. He covered her mouth with his quietly, with barely a whisper of pressure and promise. When her hands jerked up to his chest, he scooped an arm around her waist and brought her gently closer.

  For his own pleasure, he skimmed his tongue over her lips, then dipped inside when they parted. He thought, foolishly, that he could hear a new window to a new paradise begin to creak open.

  Then she trembled, and he forgot to be amused at both of them. When he eased back he saw that she was still pale, her eyes dark and clouded. Testing, he pressed light kisses on either side of her mouth and watched her lashes flutter.

  “I don’t—I can’t—God.” The hand pressed against his chest balled into a fist. “I don’t have the time or the inclination for this.”