A Dream to Cling To Page 3

  “Well?” she asked. She tightened the sash on her robe and looked at him steadily. “What’s it to be, sir, court? Or are you going to admit thirty-five dollars is a cheap price to pay for following and harassing an innocent woman?” She smiled slightly, a small dimple appearing in her right cheek.

  Progress, Sam thought. “I concede, Brittany. Sorry for the chase, I’ll pay my due restitution … this time. But you still owe me at least an explanation—”

  “I don’t like to be followed.”

  “An explanation for your less than enthusiastic response to the game for your father.” He combed his hands roughly through his hair and looked around the room, then focused back on Brittany and smiled crookedly. “I’m not used to being turned down.”

  “It doesn’t really matter what I think, Mr. Lawrence—”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam. Because, as you well know, the game will happen.”

  He leaned over and scratched Dunkin’s ear. “Hmmm.”

  “So, you see,” she continued, “there was no reason for you to follow me, to raise your car insurance rates, to climb my steep stairs, now, was there?”

  When he looked up, his eyes, she saw, were filled with silent laughter. Not at all the eyes of a man who had made a wasted trip. “I’d love a brandy,” he said. Dunkin nuzzled his hand to encourage another scratch.

  She shook her head in surprise, but walked into the hall, relieved to escape him for a brief moment. Standing on tiptoe, she pulled a squat bottle of Courvoisier from the highest shelf of the glass-fronted hall cabinet, then rummaged around until she found two brandy snifters. She nibbled intently on her bottom lip and considered the man settling in on her sofa.

  She was at ease around men, and had a comfortable number of male friends. And she had worked with many male civic leaders while raising money for Petpals. Being a member of a well-connected, socially prominent family, she never went wanting for escorts and invitations, even though she often opted to skip the more visible social events. But Sam Lawrence was unlike any of the men she’d known, and there’d been only one other who had even come near to having such a startling effect on her. And David was so far buried in her past, he didn’t count anymore.

  She placed the glasses and bottle on a small oval tray and turned back to the living room. Sam Lawrence was something altogether new, she mused. And she couldn’t put her finger on the reason why, so she couldn’t begin to handle it in her careful and effective way. And that bothered her considerably.

  Be careful, Brittany, she cautioned herself, and walked back into the fire-warmed room.

  Sam was standing at the fireplace, intently examining the dozens of snapshots displayed in small ornate frames.

  “My rogues’ gallery,” she said, and laughed self-consciously.

  “Nice. Very nice. The Winters clan is a very handsome one. This must be your father.” He held up a framed photo of Katherine and Gordon Winters, their arms comfortably wound around each other. In the background was an old two-story house with elaborate, ornate features. “Ah, in Brussels, I’d guess.”

  She set the tray down on a small coffee table and walked over to look more closely at the picture. “Yes, I think it was. They went to Belgium and Wales that summer—and I especially liked that picture of them.” When she looked at it a second time, her expression changed from the softness of nice memories to one of surprise. “But how did you know? There’s just a tiny part of a house showing and it’s mostly door. There have to be a thousand spots in Europe that look similar.”

  Sam grinned. “I remember things like that. Shapes and relationships linger in this thick head. For fun and profit, I did a photo study of European doors one summer.”

  “Doors?”

  “Uh-huh. I added some text and put it all together in a book. Doors can be fascinating, and the ones in Brussels are especially so.”

  She smiled to encourage him to continue.

  “They tell stories, welcome you, or shut you out. But they’re not silent, generic rectangles. They speak to you in wonderful old crooning voices.” His strong hands moved through the air as he spoke, fashioning it into shapes and images.

  “How nice. I’d never thought about doors quite like that.” She crossed her arms and watched him carefully.

  He nodded toward the picture, a half smile softening the line of his jaw. “When you tune in to them, you discover wonderful things. It’s kind of nice—an introduction to the folks who live there. We don’t take time for that kind of craft much anymore. Too bad, really.”

  “Yes …” Brittany murmured, enjoying the rich sound of his voice spinning such nice thoughts. She shoved away the feelings of hurrying him out the door … just for a moment.

  “Ever been to Europe, Brittany?”

  The spell was broken. She nodded, her eyes focusing on the leaping flames of the fire.

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere special. London, Paris.”

  Sam swallowed his smile when he glanced down and read the sadness in her eyes. Traveling to far-off places was a delicious panacea for him, refreshing fuel for his mind. For Brittany, it must have been something far different. “Well,” he said gently, “perhaps you were simply with the wrong person.”

  Her gaze remained fixed on the flickering orange flames that danced off the bricks, leaving eerie shadows cavorting around the room like live jesters. “The brandy,” she said absently. “It’s there on the table.”

  “So it is.” He moved to the table and poured the Courvoisier into the two glasses, then sank back onto the comfortable couch and motioned for her to join him.

  The brandy slid down her throat easily, loosening the tense feeling around her heart and behind her eyes. She settled back into the soft cushions and faced him, her smile back in place. “Now, Sam, about this game for my father …”

  “Yes. About that game.” He lifted one arm over the back of the sofa and rested his fingers inches from her head. “Help me to understand why a lovely woman like you doesn’t want to help me with a gift for her own father.”

  His husky voice wasn’t helping. She shook her head and tried to be annoyed. “I already told you why. But it doesn’t matter. What matters now is that my family has offered my services to you—”

  One brow rose.

  “Oh, you know very well what I mean!” She dipped her head quickly to hide the blush and fumbled for her brandy snifter. “I simply don’t have time to spend on this … this project. I really don’t. Sara has more time. Or my brother.”

  Her emerald eyes flashed with tiny specks of gold, and her flushed face was framed in a soft mass of wavy hair. He watched as she lifted her hand to drink the brandy. The fleecy purple robe pulled tight against her firm breasts. He swallowed hard around the knot forming in his throat. He took a quick drink of brandy and continued.

  “But according to everyone, Brittany, you’re the one with the memories, the perception I need.”

  His nearness was suddenly taking away air she badly needed. “But, Sam …”

  His fingers closed the space between them and dropped gently onto her shoulder.

  She stared at his hand. “What is that?” She fought in vain to keep her voice smooth and calm.

  “That is my hand touching you in a friendly gesture.” Warmth spilled from his brown eyes and landed somewhere inside her. She bit down hard on her lip.

  “I want only a little of your time, your help,” he said. “I don’t want to cause problems for you—”

  She lowered her head. She was being foolish, and she was the best person to help him. She knew it, and he knew it, and her family knew it. Then why was her mind sending up flares of warning? Why couldn’t she be more reasonable about this? Was it a fear that Sam would get too close to her life in the process? That he would loosen the dust over things best buried and forgotten?

  Or was it simply Sam—and the fact that in a very short amount of time spent together, he had made her desire him—and it had nothing to do with games or
work or reason!

  She didn’t realize he’d covered her hand with his own until she tried to wave it through the air as she spoke. It didn’t move.

  “Sam, I—”

  She finally managed to untangle her hand, but it was too late. His long body had gradually shifted until it was as close to hers as the heat of the fire, his breath a soft, tantalizing breeze on her cheek.

  Then slowly, gently, he kissed her, covering her lips with a sweet pressure that stopped her breath and drained the strength from her limbs in an instant.

  She moaned silently, but was unable to move an inch as his arm curled around her back and gathered her close, his fingers separating and closing on the material of her robe just beside her breasts. Her mind was fading away, her heart doing aerobics, and her lips parted slowly as she tasted the wonder of his kiss.

  She might have stayed there forever, wrapped in that delicious warmth, except she couldn’t breathe at all and Dunkin was nuzzling his wet nose into her lap curiously.

  “Oh …” She pulled back and slowly opened her eyes. She focused on Dunkin and patted his head, then looked up at Sam. In a quick, purposeful movement, she scooted as far to the end of the couch as possible and cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose that’s one way of insuring cooperation, Mr. Lawrence. But let’s not be silly about this.”

  His eyes never left hers and a slow smile lit his face as he shook his head. “That, dear Brittany, was not silly, it was wonderful. And it wasn’t an insurance policy of any kind.”

  “What was it then?”

  “It was a very sensuous, lovely kiss between two people who were both enjoying it like hell!”

  Brittany sat stiffly. It wasn’t a lovely kiss at all. A “lovely kiss” wouldn’t leave her feeling so unglued—and filled with the desire to dig her hands into his hair and continue what he’d begun for an indeterminate amount of time. The “sensual” she’d grant him.

  He continued. “You’re a very attractive woman, you know. And I guess with the fire and the brandy and all, it seemed like a good idea.…”

  “Well, I don’t think so, not at all.” She stood up and tried to stomp to the fireplace, but her huge, furry slippers turned the stomp into a muted floppy sound. Sam smiled at her movements, suddenly touched by a vulnerability that Brittany was trying too damned hard to hide. She’d been so lovely to touch, so soft and warm in his arms.…

  He pushed himself off the couch and walked over to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently. “Brittany, I’m sorry. Not sorry I kissed you, that’d be a bold-faced lie. It was a wonderful kiss, in fact. But I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Brittany slipped from beneath his touch and circled around the back of the couch with Dunkin in intrigued pursuit. Sam Lawrence was slipping into her life, she thought. She could feel it as surely as she could feel the beat of her heart. He was bewitching her, beguiling her, and heaven only knew what else. But he didn’t fit in her life. She knew it as surely as she knew she wanted to kiss him again.

  “We need some rules, Sam.”

  “For playing ring-around-the-couch? That shouldn’t be too diffi—”

  “For getting this ‘game’ finished. There are some very basic things you need to know.”

  He lifted his brows, grinned, and settled back down on the couch.

  Brittany plunged in, her eyes focusing on a point just beyond his right ear. “First off, no more come-ons like that. I don’t intend to get involved with you … that way …” She snuck a look at him. He was smiling. “I mean it, Sam.” At least part of her. meant it, she thought. And the other part wasn’t making sense.…

  Sam nodded solemnly. Any game player worth his salt knew rules were meant to be broken. “Next rule.”

  “I really do have a job. And I won’t let it slide by the wayside for this game. I simply won’t.” Her eyes sparked with determination now.

  He caught the sparks and reveled in them. “Of course not,” he said soothingly. “I wouldn’t expect that. You shouldn’t shortchange your job for my job.”

  “Yes. I mean no, I shouldn’t. And I won’t. That’s firm.”

  “Right, firm.” He nodded again. “And it’s no problem, Brittany, because the only equipment I need in the beginning stages of a game is a yellow pad and plenty of pencils. I’ll just tag along—”

  “Tag along?”

  “Sure. We can talk as you work. When does your day start?”

  “Oh, early. Very, very early.” Tag along? She looked down at Dunkin for help. He was sound asleep, his head dropped comfortably on Sam’s left boot. “Much too early for a businessman, I’m afraid.”

  “Try me. How early?”

  “I usually begin the day at the veterinarian clinic about seven.” Her concentration began to falter as her gaze fell on the shadow of a beard shading his strong, square chin. He was a … very … sexy … man. Only great effort kept her hand from moving of its own volition to stroke the dark dusting of whiskers.

  “Seven o’clock is perfect,” he said. “I can get a short run in before breakfast and meet you at the clinic.” He stood and rotated his shoulders slowly. “This is great. See, Brittany, it wasn’t so difficult, was it? We’ve laid down the rules, and now we’re off and running. You’ll share your life—your father’s life—with me, I’ll help you, and in between everything else, maybe you and I can become friends. Who knows, maybe we’ll come up with a game about a beautiful woman named Britt—”

  “You’re a dreamer, Sam Lawrence.” She laughed now and found it fenced off the more unmanageable emotions. “Don’t push your luck.”

  He shook his head and held her still with the intensity of his look. “I don’t push luck, Brittany. It simply saunters right along with me, usually. If not, I go out and find it. But today, I’d have to say, it seems to have swept me directly off my feet.”

  He didn’t touch her, but the husky richness beneath his words was more intimate than an embrace. Brittany held her smile steady. “Good night, Sam. I guess I’ll see you in the morning. But let me warn you, I won’t have time to concentrate. You’ll have to take what you can get. And it might not be much.”

  He laughed, undeterred. “My whole life’s a risk, Brittany. Don’t you worry about a thing.” He shrugged back into the jacket and headed for the door.

  “Sam?”

  With one hand on the doorknob he looked back into the softly lit room. “Yes, Brittany?”

  “Those rules … I mean it. I’m not comfortable with this whole thing, with someone looking into our lives. It’s not like that, you know. Life. It’s not really a game.”

  She was wrong there, he thought. Life was a game in a way. You played it hard, explored all its wonderful facets. But he knew this wasn’t the time to get philosophical with Brittany Winters. He nodded, touched two fingers to his forehead in a friendly salute as he said good night, and stepped out into the cold.

  The sky was inky black, studded with starlight. He stood there for a minute, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He picked out the Pleiades and counted its stars slowly. It was a perfect night for getting his telescope out.

  His gaze shifted to Orion and the two tiny pinpoints of light that blinked off the Hunter’s shoulders. Then he noticed it, the moon hanging against the velvety blackness, clearly visible in the winter night, with only a thin illumination circling its muted blue surface. A clear, bigger-than-life blue moon, its wrinkled face looking back at him quizzically. Sam pulled his collar up to his ears and stared back for a minute, then matched the moon’s creviced smile with one of his own.

  Peering out the tiny window beside the door, Brittany could see Sam standing against the blackness, his breath rising in feathery swirls in the cold air. His broad shoulders were pushed back. And for a minute she thought she heard faint music, a deep voice humming an old song—“Blue Moon.”

  She couldn’t remember the words, so she moved silently to the door and opened it a crack.

  But when she peered out, it was
silent and Sam was gone. Only a blue moon, hanging ominously low, looked down at her.

  Three

  Brittany pulled her hair back into a pony tail and ignored the hundreds of tiny curls that escaped the band, slipped into a comfortable pair of old blue jeans and a heavy knit sweater, and headed for the O’Malley Animal Clinic, nestled directly in the heart of Windermere, Maine.

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t slept much the night before, had tossed and turned in the moon-bred shadows of her room, because she had everything back in order now. Her emotions were in check, her perspective on the day was fresh, and she was ready for work.

  The fact that Sam was exploring the Winters family still bothered her, on principle if nothing else. Her life was private. But it was her father Sam was interested in, after all, and she’d see to it that that’s where his interest stayed.

  And as for the man himself, well, he had caught her off guard, plain and simple. And it certainly wasn’t his fault he sent her hormones into orbit. It was a purely physical attraction. Probably. And she could certainly deal with that.

  But as she walked through the friendly, freshly painted clinic that had been a second home to her for nearly two years now. the resolve born in the shadowy darkness of her bedroom the night before began to weaken. “I should have simply taken the day off and gone to his office,” she muttered. “It would have worked better, certainly, and—”

  “Grumbling? Before the day has even begun?” Dr. Frank O’Malley sauntered into the room carrying a clipboard and wearing that wonderful broad smile that had endeared Brittany to the gray-haired veterinarian the very first time they met.

  “Oh, Doc, I’m sorry. I must have been talking to myself.”

  “Scolding yourself, I’d say.” He let his thick glasses slip clear down to the end of his nose, where they rested comfortably. “Now, that’s no way to begin the mornin’, my dear. Here you go.” He picked up a steaming cup of coffee from a small table near the door, poured a heaping portion of thick cream into it, and wrapped her cold fingers around it. “This’ll help. Far too early for whiskey or I’d put a dab of that in to help coax a smile back to that beautiful face.”