Holding the Dream

  strangling a cry as she pressed a hand under her breasts.

  Now he did come around the desk, cursing all the way. "Damn it. Damn it! What are you doing to yourself?"

  "Don't touch me." The burning pressure made her eyes water, but she struggled when he led her to a chair.

  "You're going to sit down. You're going to try to relax. And if you don't have your color back in thirty seconds, I'm hauling your skinny butt to the hospital."

  "Just leave me alone." She fumbled out her antacids, knowing it was like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. "I'll be fine in a minute."

  "How often does this happen?"

  "None of your business." She yelped in pain and shock when he pressed two fingers to her abdomen.

  "Do you have your appendix?"

  "Keep your hands off me, Dr. Feelgood."

  He only continued to frown and moved his fingertips to the inside of her wrist. "Been skipping meals again?" Before she could evade, he caught her face in his hands and took a long, objective look. Her color was seeping back, slowly, and her eyes were filled with temper again rather than pain. But he saw other things. "You're not sleeping. You're tired, overstressed and undernourished. Is that how you're handling this?"

  Her stomach quivered, an echo of pain and nerves. "I want you to leave me alone."

  "You don't always get what you want. You're exhausted, Kate, and until you start taking better care of yourself, someone else will have to do it for you. Be still,'' he ordered in an absent murmur, holding a hand on her shoulder as he checked his watch. "I'm tied up here until after six. I'll pick you up at seven. Will you be at the shop or at home?"

  "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere with you."

  "I realize I'm annoyed with myself for handling this matter badly. You do seem to bring out the worst in me," he added, mostly to himself. "So, you're going to get a decent meal and the opportunity to discuss these gripes of yours in a civilized manner."

  It was frightening her, the casual manner he assumed, the glint of heat in his eye that warned he could shift out of casual mode at any moment.

  "I don't want to have dinner with you, and I'm not feeling civilized."

  Considering, he rocked back on his heels, so that their eyes were level. "Let's try it this way. You go along with this or I pick up the phone and call Laura. It should take her about two minutes to get up here, and when she does, I'll tell her that twice now I've seen you go white and double over."

  "You have no right."

  "No, Kate, what I have here is the hammer. That beats the hell out of rights." He checked his watch again. "I have a conference call coming through in about five minutes, or we'd finish more of this now. Since the reasonable thing for you to do is go home and get some rest, I assume you'll go back to the shop. I'll pick you up at seven."

  Trapped, she nudged him aside and got to her feet. "We close at six."

  "Then you'll have to wait, won't you? And don't slam the door on your way out."

  Of course she did, and he found he had to smile. But the smile faded when he picked up the phone and hurriedly punched in a number. "Dr. Margaret De Witt, please. It's her son." Another look at his watch brought out a mild oath. "No, I can't wait. Would you ask her to call me when she's free? The office before six, at home after seven. Thanks."

  He hung up, then began to put in order the papers Kate had scattered. Almost amused, he pocketed the filing tips she'd left behind. He doubted that Kate would appreciate him calling his mother the internist for an over-the-phone diagnosis of her symptoms.

  But somebody had to look out for her. Whether she wanted it or not.

  Chapter Seven

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  She was going to be calm. Kate promised herself that. She'd made a fool of herself, barging into Byron's office, shouting and raging. She wouldn't have minded that so much—if it had worked. There was nothing worse than having a good temper fit snuffed out by reason, patience, and control.

  It was more than humiliating.

  She didn't much care for taking orders either. Frowning, she looked around the shop she'd just closed. She could simply walk out, she considered, drumming her fingers on the counter. She could just stroll right out, go anywhere she wanted. Home, for a drive, to Templeton House for dinner. That might be the best option, she thought, rubbing a hand absently over the grinding ache in her stomach. She was hungry, that was all. A good meal at Templeton House, an evening with Laura and the girls would soothe all the pangs and nerves.

  It would serve Byron right if she wasn't there when he came gunning for her. For that, she was sure, was his intention.

  Soothe the victim with reason, with promises of calm discussions, then, pow, shoot her between the eyes.

  And that, she knew, was the reason she was staying put. Kate Powell never walked away from a challenge.

  Let him come, she told herself grimly as she began to wander about the shop. She could handle Byron De Witt in her sleep. Men like him were so used to getting their own way with a quick smile, a murmured word, they didn't know how to act with a woman who stood firmly on her own feet.

  Besides, now that her finances were a little strained, she acknowledged the advantage of a free meal.

  The grinding came back, like a sneering echo. Nerves, she thought again. Of course she was nervous. She knew better than anyone that Pretenses could barely support three incomes and stay afloat. They were lucky to have made it through the first year. But the odds were still against them.

  She frowned down at a stylish glass rhinoceros in pale gold. How long, she wondered, were they going to be able to sell things quite that foolish? The price tag made her laugh. Nine hundred dollars? Who in their right mind would plunk down nearly a thousand dollars for something so ridiculous?

  Margo, she decided, and her lips curved up again. Margo had a keen eye for the expensive, the ridiculous, and the salable.

  If Pretenses went down the toilet, Margo would be fine. She had Josh now, a baby on the way, a beautiful home. A far cry from her circumstances a year ago, Kate mused, and was glad for her.

  But there was Laura to worry about, and the girls. They wouldn't starve, Kate knew. The Templetons wouldn't allow it. They would live in Templeton House, which would give them far more than a roof over their heads. It would give them a home. Since Laura was too proud to touch the income from her Templeton stocks, she could work at the hotel and earn a living, a good one. But how badly would her ego be bruised if the business she started herself failed?

  Kate had discovered a great deal about the difficulties of functioning with a scraped ego.

  They had to make the shop work. It was Margo's dream, and it had become Laura's. It was all Kate had to hold on to. All her neat little plans were ruined. There would be no partnership at Bittle, no possibility of striking out with her own firm at some future date. No pretty brass plaque on her office door. No office, she thought, and sat down on a painted wooden bench.

  Right now she had sleepless nights, headaches that never quite faded, a stomach that refused to behave, and Pretenses.

  Pretenses, she thought with a thin smile. Margo had named it well. The three owners were just full of them.

  The knock on the door made her jolt, then swear, then straighten her shoulders as she rose and went to unlock it. She nudged Byron aside, stepped out onto the little flower-decked veranda, and locked up again.

  Pedestrian and street traffic churned past with all the noise and bustle that usually accompanied it. Tourists, she thought absently, searching for just the right spot to enjoy a vacation dinner. Members of the workforce heading home after a long day. Couples out on dates.

  Just where did Kate Powell fit in?

  "I'm not going because you told me I was going," she said without preliminary. "I'm going because I want the opportunity to speak calmly and clearly about the situation, and because I'm hungry."

  "Fine." He cupped a hand under her elbow. "We'll take
my car. I managed to find a space in the lot across the street. It's a busy area."

  "It's a good location," she began as he led her to the curb. "A stone's throw from Fisherman's Wharf and the water. Tourists are a big part of our business, but a lot of the locals come here to shop too."

  Two young boys on a rented tandem bike whizzed by behind her, laughing like hyenas. It was a beautiful evening, full of soft light and soft scents. A night for beach walking, she mused, or for tossing hunks of bread to the gulls as the couple by the water was doing just now. A night, she thought, for couples. Kate nibbled her lip as Byron guided her across the street.

  "I can follow you. There are a dozen restaurants within walking distance, for that matter."

  "We'll take my car," he repeated, gently and firmly maneuvering through the crowded parking lot. "And I'll bring you back to yours when we're finished."

  "It would save time and be more efficient if—"

  "Kate." He turned and looked at her, really looked, and scotched the annoyed remark hovering on his tongue. The woman was exhausted. "Why don't you try something new? Go with the flow."

  He opened the passenger door of his vintage Mustang and waited with some amusement for her bad-tempered shrug. He wasn't disappointed.

  She watched him round the hood. He'd ditched his tie and jacket, she noted, opened his collar. The casual, easy look suited those lineman's shoulders, she supposed, the beachcomber hair. She decided to realign her strategy and wait until they were at dinner before beginning the lecture she'd been planning.

  She could, when necessary, manage small talk with the best of them.

  "So, you're into classic cars."

  He settled behind the wheel. The minute he turned the key the radio exploded with Marvin Gaye. Byron turned it down to a murmur before cruising through the lot.

  "Sixty-five Mustang with a 289 V-8. A car like this isn't just a mode of transportation. It's a commitment."

  "Really?" She liked the creamy white bucket seats, the trained-panther ride, but couldn't think of anything more impractical than owning a car older than she was. "Don't you have to spend a lot of time babying it, finding parts?''

  "That's the commitment. Runs like a dream," he added with an affectionate stroke to the dash as he merged into traffic. "She was my first."

  "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 etouffee, 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 cabinets."

  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."