In Your Wildest Dreams Read online

  She turned onto her side to look down on him. "Were you ever wounded?"

  He shook his head. "Guess Michael took care of my body okay. My mind, my heart, not so much."

  The sexy, seductive Jake from earlier seemed to have faded slightly, making room for the other side of him she'd seen sizable, even if inexplicable, hints of. Something had hurt him—badly. She could almost feel the pain oozing from him like perspiration in the warm night air.

  "Tell me why," she said. "Why aren't you a cop anymore?"

  He gave her a long, somber look she couldn't read. Her heart hurt for whatever secrets he held inside. "Lost too much to keep doin' it," he finally said.

  "What'd you lose?"

  He shook his head and looked back to the slow turn of the ceiling fan above. "Stuff I don't wanna talk about."

  She swallowed, trying to decide how much to pry. She didn't want to ruin what they'd shared tonight. She didn't want to dampen the sense of security she felt lying in his arms. "Remember, earlier, when I told you about my parents?" Her stomach pinched a little at the thought, but she pushed away the emotion and stuck to the facts. "I didn't want to think about it—but you kind of... made me. And that turned out to be a good thing, in a way. Don't you think?"

  He shifted his brown gaze to her. "It got to the bottom of a problem you were havin', chère. I got no problems that can be fixed by thinkin' about unpleasant things."

  She drew in her breath, wondering what had hurt him so much that he'd give up his career. A man who had the patron saint of police tattooed on his arm clearly cared about his job, considered it his life. It made the fact that he'd given up that part of himself in order to make a living serving drinks to hookers more monumental than she'd ever realized before. What did you lose that was so dear, Jake?

  The question burned in her heart—she longed to ask it. She'd been right when she'd suspected that following him tonight would open up his world to her, and now that they'd made love, she wanted to know every thought in his head, every secret in his soul.

  God, that was sobering. And bad—really bad.

  Because this was sex—casual sex. That's what it was supposed to be anyway. All the more reason not to pry any deeper into what he held back, no matter how much she wanted to know. The greatest sex of her life aside, this would be a bad guy for her to get attached to—a guy who lived a thousand miles away from her, a guy who had troubles that probably ran deeper and blacker than the bayou outside. A guy who came from an entirely different world. Yes, this was sex and nothing more. And despite his patience and tenderness tonight, she had no illusions that he felt any different, and she knew he'd be glad she had the sense to take it for what it was.

  "Besides," he finally said, flicking a glance her way, "I've got better things to think about right now." He rolled back onto his side and slid one hand beneath the white sheet to her hip. "Like this pretty body of yours."

  The blatant sexuality flashing in his gaze made her summon a teasing smile. "I hope you're going to do more than just think about it."

  He quirked a sexy grin. "And what exactly is it you want me to do?"

  "Surprise me."

  With that, he pulled her to him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. A hot column of rock pressed against her abdomen. "Is that a surprise?"

  "That's a very good surprise." Even better than earlier, now that she knew she could handle what he had to give. Peering into his eyes, she bit her hp and impulsively slid her arms around him, planting them on his firm butt.

  "Mmm," he growled, doing the same. At which point he got a peculiar look on his face and said, "You don't have any tattoos I haven't noticed, do you?"

  She pulled back slightly to laugh. "Me? No. I'm not really a tattoo sort of girl."

  He chuckled at her reply, then pulled away and rolled her onto her stomach. Hand still on her bottom, he seemed to be inspecting it.

  "What are you looking for?" She smiled over her shoulder.

  "Nothin'," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Just checkin'."

  "Checking what?"

  He raised a grin to her. "Just seein' if your ass looks as good as it did in those blue jeans." "And the verdict is?" "Guilty as charged, beb."

  A white room is filled with stiff, colored netting, like on a bridal veil or a ballerina's tutu. Pink, lavender, blue the color of the sky. Yards of it stretch back and forth across the space—and on the other side of it all, you see her.

  Only her face is clouded by the netting, and the colors cast thick shadows. The one thing you can make out clearly is the vibrant tulip she holds, the shade of an amethyst—she stretches out her arm, offering it to you.

  You push your way through the curtains of sheer fabric, hacking through it with outstretched arms like machetes helping you fight your way through a pastel jungle.

  She beckons with one long, tapered finger that curls toward her, silently saying, Come here. But it seems no matter how many layers of netting you push past, more grow in your path and you never get closer.

  Your heart beats like a freight train and you're determined to reach her, so hungry for what she has to give you. Not the tulip—everything else. You hope she sees how hard you 're working, trying to carve your way to her. You hope she knows how desperately you want her.

  Finally, only one last layer of blue net stretches taut between you. Through it, you see her lovely flesh, pale curves, welcoming smile. The tulip is gone—her arms are spread open, waiting for you.

  You gather the netting in your fists, tighter and tighter, but then ... the bunched swath of blue is covering your eyes. Just when you could almost see her without any barriers, your vision is fogged again by a blue blindfold.

  Her small hands come firm on your arms, pushing you backward, and you wait to hit the floor, but instead you land on a bed, and you feel her climbing, crawling to straddle you, thighs stretched across your stomach. You still see her only in shadow as she pushes your arms over your head, holding you down, taking control.

  You don't fight, though, because why would you? You want her to do everything she's doing—you want her to run her fingernails lightly down your chest, to lower her breasts to your mouth, to sheathe your hardness with her softness, connecting you to her warm and tight.

  You want her to moan and writhe on top of you. You want her to kiss you hard and whisper your name in jagged breaths.

  You want her to scream her pleasure. You want her to buck against you and make you feel every ounce of her joy. And you want to let it all push you over the edge until you come inside her, emptying all your desire into her accepting body.

  When it's over, you want to hold her, feel her snuggled against you.

  Only when the netting leaves your eyes and you strain to focus on the woman nestled at your chest, you still can't see her clearly, and despite the warm connection, you feel strangely alone.

  Chapter 15

  The warm night wind whipped through Tina's hair as Robert's vintage 1957 Thunderbird zipped along 1-10. As they traveled the causeway across Lake Pontchartrain, the moon cast a silver glow on the water. She hummed along with the Tubes to "She's a Beauty" and clutched tight to Robert's arm while he drove.

  The whole night had been beyond dreamy. They'd just shared a fabulous dinner at a ritzy plantation house out in the country and she'd felt like a princess. She wore an elegant dress he'd picked out for her, and earlier tonight he'd added a diamond tennis bracelet to the diamond necklace and earrings he'd already given her.

  Now he sang along with the radio, too, occasionally turning for a quick kiss before refocusing on the road.

  It was getting better, kissing him, having sex with him. Maybe not as good as with Russ, but that would come over time. And moments like this—just being with him, laughing, having fun—wasn't that what a relationship was really all about?

  "I love you," she said, curling her free hand over his Armani-clad thigh.

  "Mmm, I love you, too, darling."

  A familiar thought
edged into her mind: wouldn't Stephanie be surprised to see what a class act she'd become? The musing, though, made her a little sad. Despite herself, she missed Steph. She was tempted to call her when she got home, just to tell her—tell someone—what a fairytale evening she'd had.

  But no, you can't. Not yet. Not until Robert was free of Melissa. It sounded much better to say you were dating a man who was in the process of a divorce than one who was still living with his wife. It would be a mistake to call Stephanie while it was any less than perfect, while there was still any ammunition her sister could fling at her. She loved Steph, but her approval was hard to come by.

  "Can you spend the night?" she asked.

  He cast her a you-know-better look. "You know I can't, love."

  Yes, she knew, but for some reason it still stung, taking a little of the "perfect" out of the evening. "I can't wait until it's not like this anymore, until you can sleep beside me each night."

  She hadn't always minded his leaving so much, but now she found herself getting lonely, and depending more and more on Robert for her happiness. As for the I-love-you, the words fell from her lips easier lately as well. The more time she spent with him, the more real it seemed that this man's life was becoming her life, that he wanted her to share in it. So maybe it wasn't as good as with Russ in terms of pure romance, but there was something about Robert, something so established and sophisticated—she wanted to belong in his world, and she wanted to be the sort of wife he could be proud of.

  "Couldn't you make up some excuse, some business problem that ran all night long?"

  Next to her, he laughed. "Not if I want her to believe me."

  Does it really matter if she believes you? The question weighed on her instantly, making her wonder why he even cared about Melissa's reaction if the marriage was over. But she didn't want to ruin the night. She sighed. "When are you leaving her?"

  "Soon, love. Soon."

  "And then I can manage the boutique?" "Of course."

  "I'm going to do such a good job, you're going to wonder how the place ever got by without me."

  He flashed a debonair smile. "I already do, darling."

  The reassurance shot straight to her heart. Soon everything would be perfect. "I love you," she breathed again. Saying it helped make it more true.

  "Why don't you show me how much," he suggested, reaching down to cover her hand with his. He moved it higher up his thigh, between his legs.

  "When we get back to the apartment," she cooed. 1 "No, love. Now."

  The light air of demand in his voice caught her off guard, and her stomach tightened. She spoke soft and sexy in his ear. "I'd rather wait. It won't be long. And it'll give you something to look forward to."

  He only chuckled. "There'll still be plenty to look forward to. We can just call this an appetizer." He pressed her palm harder into him—without her realizing it, her touch had frozen in place. Lifting both hands to the wheel, he leaned back against the headrest, and said, "Unzip me."

  She didn't want to. She wasn't sure why ... except that maybe this seemed like something you paid a whore to do, not something you insisted on with the woman you loved if she wasn't into it.

  His eyes shifted from the road to her, his smile persuasive. "Do I ask so much, darling?"

  No, he didn't. That she couldn't deny.

  And why was she making such a big deal of this anyway?

  He gave her everything—and asked for very little in return. Just her love. And her sex. She'd been working hard to meld the two together the past few days—that made it all real, made everything all right.

  She swallowed. This would be okay. It didn't mean he still thought of her like a prostitute.

  "What are you waiting for?"

  "Nothing," she whispered, then unzipped his pants. And told herself this made the night no less dreamy. Everything would still be perfect in the end.

  The next morning, Jake rowed his pirogue up the bayou, Stephanie seated across from him. Hers had sunk during the night.

  He loved the bayou in the early morning. Before the heat of the day pervaded, the sights and sounds around the water made him feel like the world was fresh, being born all over again. Lily pads sporting white blooms sprinkled the water to one side of the boat; duckweed, rimmed by elephant ears at the shoreline, floated on the other. A snowy egret soared past near the bank and drew Jake's attention to a caiman stretched out in the mud by the shore.

  "Little cocodrie," he said, pointing, for Stephanie's benefit.

  She tensed slightly, and he chuckled.

  "No worries, chère. No leaks in my boat."

  She cast a sheepish smile, tilting her head. "I thought Louisiana had alligators, not crocodiles."

  He nodded. "But my ancestors didn't know the difference, started callin' 'em cocodries and it stuck."

  "Mmm," she said, seeming to relax, turning to study the small, dark caiman where it rested still as a statue. Never scared for long, his Miss Chardonnay.

  They'd had sex twice more before falling asleep last night—the same slow, sensual sex as the first time, but with each liaison she'd grown a little more daring, planting her hands on his ass to pull him deeper inside her, once wrapping her legs around his back. Common fare for most people, but not for Stephanie—he knew without her saying so. He felt like she'd been a closed-up little flower and last night he'd watched her begin to blossom, stretching her petals a little wider each time they connected.

  And she had a lovely little bottom, but that wasn't really why he'd been checking it out last night. For some reason, even when she'd said no, he'd had to see for himself that she didn't have a flower tattooed there—like in one of the dreams.

  One more sign you're losing your mind, once and for all. He gave his head a short shake with the realization that fife had seemed a little off-kilter since the moment Stephanie Grant had arrived. Then again, life hadn't exactly been on-kilter before that, so maybe he was just imagining things.

  The second time they'd made love had been after his little examination of her rear. The third time after he'd woken from the dream—in total shock.

  Because why the hell was he still having erotic, needful dreams when he'd just gotten the satisfaction his body had clearly needed so damn bad? He'd been sure it was simple lust causing the dreams, that they'd been nothing more than wishes in the night, because he couldn't have her. But now he could have her, had had her, so the dream had left him feeling more disturbed than usual.

  After dreaming of sex, it had seemed natural to reach for her. The room had been dark, the lamp extinguished, only a thin ribbon of moonglow lighting his way. And like the dream—God, how the need had struck him, like something new and overwhelming. He'd been glad they were both half asleep, glad her sighs of pleasure came with closed eyes, glad she couldn't see the emotion surely dripping from his face. He still didn't understand it and it was damn unsettling.

  A blue dragonfly buzzed, flitting in between them in the boat before darting away, and the silence began to bother him. He was normally content to go hours without speaking, even if he was with someone, but he supposed this was just part of feeling uncertain about last night. "You're quiet," he said.

  "Tired," she replied softly, offering a smile. "You wore me out."

  His own grin escaped, unbidden. He liked the idea of having caused her exhaustion. They'd definitely had that hot, slow, all-night-long sex he'd been thinking about lately.

  'Tell me about the house," she said.

  He raised his eyes to her—she was pretty in the morning, even sans makeup and hairbrush, high pink color lighting her cheekbones. "Already told you about the house."

  "No, about the work you're doing on it. The new floor in the kitchen and the new sink. Are you going to move back out here or something?"

  No, just run away to it whenever I can. "It's just a weekend place for me now," he said instead.

  "And you're doing all the refurbishing yourself?"

  He nodded. Hard physical labor mak
es it so I think less and sleep better. It fills the days when I have nothing else to fill them. "It's cheap that way."

  She looked down at the boat they floated in and said, "How do you get the materials out there? Surely not in this?"

  He laughed softly. "No, beb. There's a road leads up to the front of the house. But if I'm not haulin' anything, takin' the water cuts the trip by half."

  "You love it there." Not a question, a statement.

  "Yeah, it's . .." Safe. Private. Far away from the bad stuff. "It's home."

  She glanced down at her toes for a minute, then met his gaze. "I'm glad I followed you last night."

  He let the corners of his mouth turn up just slightly. "Me too, chère." Much to my surprise.

  Up ahead, a clearing split the elderberry bushes and willows that hugged the shore. The landing came into view and Jake angled the boat toward it.

  Five minutes later, he'd locked up the pirogue and was shutting her into her car. Her window lowered immediately and her blue eyes pierced him. "I wish I could ride back with you."

  He didn't know what to say to that, so he stooped next to the sedan, rested his bent arms on the door, and gave her a warm—but short—kiss.

  She tilted her head, offering a soft laugh. "That was a horrible thing to say. It sounded so high school."

  "Not so horrible," he admitted. Even though he thought it was probably good for them to be parting ways now. Because no matter what he'd felt with her last night, it still didn't—couldn't—mean anything. Good sex. Great sex. That was all. "You'll need to follow me back, make sure you don't lose your way."

  She nodded. "But can you slow down a little, Speed Racer? I had a hell of a time keeping up with you last night."

  He laughed. "Sure, beb. I'll make sure I keep you in my rearview 'til we get back to town."