Finding the Dream

  "Nah." When her face fell, he laughed. Grabbing her by the shirt, he tugged her sideways just enough to meet her lips. "What do you think?" He dismounted, "Let's give them a rest. We've been riding them hard."

  He tossed the reins over a branch as she slid agilely to the ground. "Did you find any more coins yesterday?"

  "Nothing. Not even a bottle cap. I can't—Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? The other night—"

  "I heard." For reasons he couldn't pin down, it had annoyed him that she hadn't come running to him with her coin. "Good for you."

  "It was the oddest thing." She stretched muscles unused to riding. "I put my hand right on it. Just the way you would if you'd dropped a quarter and reached down to…"

  She blinked, lost her train of thought. He was standing there, just standing there with the sun at his back and his eyes focused on her face. "What is it?"

  "You said you'd dreamed of me. Now, and years ago. On the cliffs, in your room, in the forest. You'd turn and I'd be there."

  "Yes." Wasn't it foolish to have her heart lodged in her throat? To feel both fear and anticipation prickle hot on her skin. "Michael."

  "And I'd touch you." He floated a palm over the curve of her breast, felt the quiver. There were parts of her life that were barred to him, parts of his that he would keep barred from her. But here… here was equal ground. "And taste you." Laid his mouth over hers, felt the heat. "And take you." Swept her into his arms, felt the ache. "And I will."

  She lay beside him, naked in the sunlight, with birds singing in the trees. He hadn't torn her clothes. It amazed her that she wouldn't have stopped him from doing so even if she'd had to ride back to Templeton House bare as Lady Godiva.

  Instead, he had been so gentle, so tender that even now she could have wept.

  "I've never made love outside," she murmured. "I didn't know it could be so lovely." She sat up, stretched. "So many firsts. I don't suppose there are many firsts I can give you." She smiled down at him. "Bad Michael Fury's already done them all."

  "And then some," he said with his eyes closed.

  "There's so much you don't talk about." Knowing it was all too typical to pry into a man's past when you were in love didn't stop her. She traced a finger down his chest. "So many secrets inside."

  "You told me a couple of yours last night. Quid pro quo?''

  "No, of course not."

  He opened his eyes. "You want to know something about me, ask."

  She shook her head and started to shift, but he reached up and held her still. "Afraid of the answer?"

  "No," she said steadily, "I'm not. And I'm surprised you'd think I would be."

  "Fine. Ask."

  "I—" she hesitated still, then gave in. "All right. You said you were married before, but you never mentioned her or what happened."

  "Her name was Yvonne. We got divorced."

  "All right." Miffed by the terse response, she reached for her shirt. "We should be getting back."

  "Shit." He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up as she shrugged into the soft—and now wrinkled—broadcloth. "Okay, you want to know. I met her when I was racing. She liked to party with drivers."

  "And you fell in love with her?"

  "Christ, you're a child in so many ways." He stood and dragged on his jeans. "I fell into bed with her. We liked each other, we had good sex. So we kept falling into bed, and we kept having good sex. Then she got pregnant."

  "Oh." She rose slowly and kept her eyes on her trousers as she slipped them on. "You said you didn't have children. I assumed—"

  "Do you want to hear this or not?"

  She looked up, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. "Not if you don't want to tell me."

  "If I'd wanted to talk about it, I probably would have." He swore again, then took her arm as she bent to retrieve her boots. "Sit down. Just sit, goddamn it. Nobody uses that wounded look the way you do."

  He pressed his fingers to his eyes and struggled for control. Once he'd opened up this part of his life, he would have to open others. She would ask more questions, he would give her the answers.

  He accepted it there, in the sun-washed woods, with his body still warm from hers, that this was the beginning of the end.

  "Okay, she got pregnant. So we talked about it. The best thing for everybody was to go for the abortion. Simple, quick, done. So we made the arrangements."

  "I'm sorry. That's a difficult decision. You—you never questioned that you'd been the one who—"

  "That I'd gotten her pregnant? Yvonne wasn't a liar or a cheat. She said the kid was mine, it was mine. We were friends, Laura."

  "I'm sorry. It was hard for both of you."

  "We figured we were doing the smart thing. I was trying to make a name for myself on the circuit, she had just started a new job. A baby didn't fit. Hell, neither of us knew anything about kids, about parenthood. We were what we were." He looked her in the eye. "Scrabblers, looking for a good time."

  She kept her gaze level. "Are you telling me it was easy? A casual shrug. An oops?''

  "No." His eyes shifted, stared off into the trees, into the shadows. "No, it wasn't easy. It just made sense. We agreed it was the best solution. But the night before we were to go in for it, we figured out something else. We both wanted it. We both wanted the baby. It didn't make any sense, we didn't know what we were doing, but we both wanted the baby."

  "She didn't have the abortion."

  "No. We got married. We figured what the hell, let's do it, let's have a baby. She tried to knit things." A smile ghosted around his mouth. "She didn't have a clue. We read books. Went in for one of those sonogram things. Jesus Christ, it was just… beautiful. We argued about names and did all the things I guess everybody does."

  The smile went away and, she thought as she watched his eyes, so did he.

  "Middle of the night, she was about four months along, she started bleeding, bad. She was in pain and scared. We were both so scared. I got her to the hospital, but it was already pretty much over by then. We lost the baby."

  "I'm sorry." She rose again, but didn't touch him. "I'm so sorry, Michael. There's nothing more painful than losing a child."

  "No, there's nothing. The doctors said she was young and healthy and we could try again in a little while. We pretended we would. Tried to keep it together. But we started fighting, sniping at each other. I'd slam out, leave her alone. She'd slam out, leave me alone. One night I came home and she was waiting for me. She'd figured it out before I had. She was a smart woman. We'd stopped being friends. All we'd had to keep us married was the baby, and the baby was gone. Now we were stuck, and we didn't have to be stuck. She was right. So we decided to start being friends again and stop being married. End of story."

  She touched him now, took his face in her hands, felt the tension. "There's nothing I can say to ease that kind of grief, the kind you carry with you forever, no matter what."

  He shut his eyes, let his brow rest on hers. "I wanted the baby."

  "I know." She eased her arms around him. "You loved it already. I understand. I'm sorry, Michael." Gently, she stroked his back. "I'm sorry I made you tell me."

  "It was almost ten years ago. It's done." He drew back, then swore at the tears on her cheek. "Don't do that. Hell, you should have asked me something else." Uneasy, he brushed the tears away. "Like about how I used to stunt double for Mel Gibson."

  She sniffled, straggled to give him the smile he wanted. "Did you? Really?"

  "You women always go for Mel. Maybe you should come down to Hollywood with me. I could introduce you." He twined a blond curl around his finger. "Me and Max, we have to go down tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" She shook her head. "You're going to L.A.? You didn't mention it."

  "Just got a call Saturday." With a shrug, he sat down to tug on his boots. "Action western with your pal Mel. He wants me and Max. So we got to do some meetings, some test shots. See if we can give them what they're looking for."

  "That's wonderful. I'd
think you'd be more excited."

  "It's a job. I don't suppose you're interested in tagging along."

  "I'd love to, but I can't leave the girls, and work. How—" How long will you be gone? She bit the question back. "They'll be so impressed when I tell them."

  "I've got a guy coming in for a few days to see to the stock while I'm gone. I should be back by Friday."

  "Oh." Only a few days. She smiled again. "If you are, I have this opening I have to go to on Friday night. Would you like to go?"

  "An opening of what?"

  "It's an exhibit at the art gallery. Expressionists."

  To his credit, he didn't snort. "You want me to go look at paintings and make all sorts of idiotic comments on brushstrokes and underlying meanings." His cocked his head. "Do I look like a guy who's going to stand around sipping espresso and talking about the use of color on canvas?"

  "No." He was sitting on a stump, bare to the waist, with faint purpling braises on his ribs. His hair was wild and tousled. "No, you don't."

  No more, he thought, than she looked like a woman who would toss aside responsibility and ran off to L.A. with her lover for a week.

  What the hell is she doing with me? he wondered as he rose. And to me? If this goes on much longer, what will we do to each other?

  "We'd better get back." He shrugged into his shirt. "You don't want to keep Seraphina waiting."

  "Michael." She laid a hand on his chest. "I'll miss you."

  "Good." He lifted her into the saddle.

  Chapter Nineteen

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  He wasn't gone a few days, but nearly two weeks. Laura reminded herself every night that he was under no obligation to call her, to tell her what was delaying him. Or just so that she could hear his voice.

  She reminded herself that they had an adult relationship in which each party was free to come and go as he or she pleased. It was because she'd never had a relationship like it before, she told herself, that she was fretting. Worrying. Feeling hurt.

  She certainly had plenty to keep her busy. And she had learned the hard way never to allow a man to be responsible for providing her with a fulfilling life. That was her job, one she intended never to neglect again.

  With her work, her children, her family and friends, she had a full, contented life. Perhaps she wanted to share it with Michael and to be a part of his life, but she wasn't a lovestruck teenager who sat by the phone hour by hour waiting for it to ring.

  Though she did try to will it to ring a time or two.

  At the moment, though, she wasn't worried about the phone. She had other problems on her hands. Ali's spring dance recital would begin in less than two hours. Not only was no one ready but one of the kittens had coughed up a hairball in the middle of Kayla's bed, causing much dismay and more female disgust—and one of the barn cats had gone exploring, seducing Bongo into giving mad chase through the herb garden, which resulted in bad news for the chamomile and tansy and earned Bongo a bloody nose.

  Nothing Laura did could lure the insulted, hissing cat down from the cypress tree where he had taken shelter. And Bongo continued to whimper pitifully under her bed.

  Despite all of that, her biggest problem was Ali herself. The girl was moody, uncooperative, and whiny. Her hair was terrible, she claimed. Her stomach was upset. She didn't want to go to the recital. She hated recitals. She hated everything.

  Her patience strained, Laura tried one more time to style Ali's hair to the child's specifications.

  "Honey, if you're nervous about tonight, it's all right. You'll be wonderful. You always are."

  "I'm not nervous." Ali pouted into the mirror. "I never get nervous before I dance. I just don't want to go."

  "People are depending on you—your instructors, the other girls in your troupe. The family. You know how excited Grandma and Granddad were when they left for Uncle Josh's. Everyone's looking forward to tonight."

  "I can't depend on anybody, can I? I have to do what I say I'll do, but nobody else does."

  Around the circuit again, Laura thought. "I'm sorry you're disappointed your father won't be there. He's—"

  "I don't care about him." In a bad-tempered move, Ali shrugged and scooted out from under her mother's hands. "He never comes anyway. It doesn't matter."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "Nothing. I'll go. I'll do it because I keep my promises. My hair looks much better now," she said with dignity. "Thank you."

  "Honey, if you'd—"

  "I have to finish getting dressed." She pressed her lips together, a small girl, pretty in her tights and ballet skirt. "It's not your fault, Mama. I didn't mean it to sound that way. I'm not angry with you."

  "Then what—

  "Mama!" Kayla's wail bounced down the hallway. "I can't find my red shoes. I want to wear my red ones."

  "You can go help her," Ali said and tried to smile. "I'll be downstairs in a minute. Thanks for doing my hair over."

  "It's all right." Because she could see the sorrow haunting Ali's eyes, she leaned down and kissed her on both cheeks. "I love playing with your hair. And I suppose if you wanted to put just a little of that lip gloss on, it would be all right."

  "You mean before we go, not just for onstage?"

  "Just for tonight." Laura tapped her fingers against Ali's lips. "You're not growing up on me any faster than I can help it."

  "Maaamaaa, my shoes."

  "And neither is she," Laura murmured. "I'm coming. Downstairs, Ali, ten minutes tops."

  She found the shoes. Who would have expected to find them right there on the shoe shelf in the closet? After pulling a brush through her own hair, Laura herded her girls toward the door.

  "Come on, troops, get a move on. This train leaves in five minutes. I'll get it, Annie," she called out when the doorbell rang. "Could you check on Bongo before you leave? He's under my bed and—"

  She broke off as she pulled the door open and found Michael standing on the other side.

  "Michael! You're home."

  "It looks that way."

  If she had leapt into his arms, right there in her own home, there in front of her children, he doubted he could have stuck with the decision he'd made. But she didn't. She only smiled at him, held out a hand.

  It was Kayla who leapt. "Did you bring Max back?" With the simplicity of childhood, she hugged his waist and lifted her mouth for a kiss. "Did he come home too?"

  "Sure. Max and I travel together. Where'd you get the red shoes, kid? Pretty snappy."

  "Mama bought them. They're my favorites."

  "You came."

  Michael halted his admiring study of Kayla's red shoes and lifted his gaze to Ali's face. She looked, he thought, so much like her mother just then, with that stunned wonder on her face and the emotion swimming in her eyes.

  "I told you I would."

  "I thought you'd forgotten. I thought you were too busy."

  "Forget an invitation from a beautiful ballerina to watch her dance?" He shook his head as he straightened. "Boy, that wouldn't say much about my memory." Head cocked, he held out the bouquet of pink baby roses. "We do have a date, right? You didn't go call some other guy to take my place?"

  "No. Are these for me?" Mouth open in a litle O of confused delight, she stared at the roses. "For me?"

  "Who else?"

  "For me." She breathed it, taking the flowers in her hands. "Thank you. Mama, Michael brought me flowers."

  "I see." And her eyes stung a bit. "They're lovely."

  "We'll use the Waterford." Annie stood a few steps back in the hall, her hands folded, her eyes on Michael's face. "When a girl receives her first flowers from a man, they should be treated as something very special."

  "I want to put them in the vase myself."

  "And so you should. It will only take a moment, Miss Laura."

  "Yes, all right. Thank you, Annie."

  "I'll help." Kayla raced down the hall. "Let me smell them, AH."

  "Her first flowers," La
ura murmured.

  "Man, why do females always get wet-eyed over a bunch of posies?''

  Which reminded him that he'd never given Laura flowers. Never real ones, just something plucked carelessly out of the ground. He'd never thought of it. Had never, he realized, given her anything but good, hot sex.

  "Flowers are symbolic." And she remembered the pretty little wildflowers he'd given her. So sweet, so simple. So right.

  "Everything is to women."

  "You could be right." She turned back, beaming at him. "It was so thoughtful of you to bring them. And to come. I didn't realize she'd asked you. Had no idea she was counting on it."

  "She asked me a couple of weeks ago." He dipped his hands in his pockets. Laura hadn't asked him, he remembered. Hadn't mentioned it. "I've managed to avoid ballet for thirty-four years. This ought to be an experience."

  "I think you'll find it painless." She started toward him now, and he took his hand out of his pocket to take hers before she could touch him.

  "So how are you?" he asked.

  "Fine." Was he just tired, she wondered, or was this distance she felt? "Did things go well in L.A.?"

  "Yeah, it went. They'll start shooting in about three weeks. We'll get a couple months' work out of it. Maybe more."

  "You'll stay in L.A. during the filming," she said slowly as a weight sank in her stomach.

  He shrugged. It wasn't the time to get into all of this, and he was spared when Ali marched back down the hall, bearing her vase of baby roses like a trophy.

  "Don't they look beautiful, Mama? Annie's going to put them in my room."

  "They're perfect. We really need to go. Performers have to be there thirty minutes before curtain."

  "I'll take those now, sweetheart." Annie slipped the vase from Ali's hand. "And I'll be there to see you dance." She inclined her head toward Michael in what, from anyone else, he would have taken as a friendly smile. "We all will."

  It wasn't impossible to put everything out of his mind for a couple of hours. The kid was so cute. All of them were. But it was hard to sit beside Laura, in the middle of all those people—the families, the partners, the couples—and not be miserable.

  But he'd had time, and he'd had the distance to allow himself to take a good hard look at what was going on. And what was happening to him. He'd fallen for her, all the way.

  It would never work.

  He'd seen himself in the dingy little bar in south L.A., drinking beer and swapping stories with wranglers. Going back to his hotel room after a long day, sweaty, dirty, smelling of horse. And he'd seen himself growing up in a house that had breathed neglect and violence and tension.

  He'd seen himself for what he was. A man who had chased all the wrong things most of his life and had found plenty of them. A cliff rat, son of a waitress and a wastrel, who would in time and with effort be able to make a decent living.

  And he'd seen Laura, the Templeton heiress, sitting in her plush country club drinking tea, dressed in her tidy suit, running a fancy boutique, strolling through a grand hotel that she owned.