A Dream to Cling To (3 page)

Brittany stopped at the edge of the fringed Oriental carpet and drew in a lungful of air. She was doomed.
She turned slowly and looked into her mother’s soft gray eyes. She could hear the words before they were murmured.

“It’s for your father, dear, and will mean so much.” Katherine patted her daughter’s arm. “I knew I could count on you. I always can, Brittany.”

Brittany didn’t trust herself to pause, nor to look at Sam Lawrence, nor to say good-bye. Her head spinning for reasons she didn’t begin to understand, she planted one more kiss on her mother’s forehead, nodded her terse agreement, and picked up her oversized purse.

Sam leaned over the back of a gold brocade Queen Anne chair and watched as a battered sneaker, a huge bottle of calcium pills, and a bright blue dog collar tumbled out of the cavernous bag and onto the floor. But all he saw of consequence was the lovely light in Brittany Winters’s startling eyes. A surge of adrenaline shot through him as he watched her scoop up the scattered items and stuff them back into the purse. As he straightened up, just about the time Brittany disappeared through the door, Sam realized he wasn’t tired anymore. He felt quite alive as a matter of fact.

Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced over at Katherine Winters.

Her eyes were twinkling merrily. “Well, Mr. Lawrence, I do believe we have primed the pump!”

He grinned. “I think you’re right, Mrs. Winters.”

The tiny woman accepted his hand and let him help her from the chair. “I also believe, young man, that with the slightest bit of gentle persuasion, Brittany Ellsbeth will move over into our camp directly and be a more willing accomplice than she seemed tonight.”

Sam took his jacket from a butler who appeared out of nowhere. “I hope you’re right. You know your daughter far better than I do.” He moved toward the door, then paused as he mulled over Mrs. Winters’s words. A little friendly persuasion? That shouldn’t be too difficult a task.… When he turned back, Katherine Winters
was standing in the same spot, a knowing smile playing across her face.

A lovely woman, Katherine Winters, he thought, then waved good night and slipped through the butler-held door and out into the night.

Sam heard the door click shut behind him and shrugged his jacket into place. Perhaps if he had time to talk to Brittany alone, he could lure a more willing sparkle into those lovely green eyes. He looked around the wide circular drive, lit now by tiny low lights that flickered against the black New England night. At the far end, just where the driveway emptied into the street, he spotted taillights turning right. Without a second thought he jumped into his orange VW Rabbit and gave serious pursuit.

In seconds Sam realized that what he was following was a rather used van. He squinted hard to see the driver. It couldn’t be … not in a muddy van … But a pause at the first red light two blocks down the road confirmed that it was indeed Brittany Winters. He grinned and shook his head. It was like watching a Polaroid picture emerge from the black film paper. With each passing minute Brittany came into clearer focus, with more defined lines and shades and hues. What they all added up to, Sam didn’t begin to guess. But she was definitely as intriguing as any game he’d had yet to figure out.

If she knew he was following her, she gave no indication.
The light changed and the scratched van headed south.

She drove carefully, Sam observed, but at a healthy clip. With one hand on the wheel he leaned an elbow against the window frame and ran his fingers through his thick hair, his brows drawn together thoughtfully. Why did she resist his games? Or was it helping
him
that gave her problems? Well, he’d simply have to sit her down and explain that
he
was safe and harmless, the
game
would be brilliant, she’d love working with him, and—who knows?—they might even become friends.

Just then, as both vehicles obediently stopped for a red light, Brittany unexpectedly rolled down her window, stuck her head out, and stared at his small car.

He nodded in recognition and lifted a hand in greeting but quickly dropped it to avoid the arrows her look was spearing straight at him. For an endless moment she stared at him. Then, as the light was just turning yellow, he saw the flash of a smile in a cloud of auburn hair, and she stepped on the gas and sped across the intersection.

He followed, his foot pressing down heavily on the gas pedal. He shook his head and grinned lopsidedly. Hell, he hadn’t chased fire engines in fifteen years!

She leaned around the next corner and skidded into an alleyway.

He followed.

Crazy, he thought, as stones spun beneath his wheels. Getting Brittany Winters’s home address would be as difficult as finding sand in a desert. Why the hell was he doing this? He could call her tomorrow, discuss the whole game matter in a way that would charm her into willing acquiesence, and get things rolling. He could …

It was when he let his mind wander to more practical things that Sam got himself in trouble. As he pulled onto the main street, he spotted Brittany’s van ahead,
and with a surge of renewed purpose he shot after her, not giving a thought to the fact that she had slowed to a respectable twenty-five miles per hour.

The circling red light came out of nowhere.

“Oh, damn.” Sam moaned as he pulled slowly over to the side of the street. He rolled down his window and shot his license out to the imposing-looking officer. “Dangerous speed, mister. Why, if there’d been traffic”—he looked up and down the deserted street—“coulda been trouble.”

Sam mumbled an indecipherable answer, then looked beyond the policeman to the van that had made a U-turn and was cruising slowly past them. Brittany lifted her hand, curling her fingers in a soft wave, and continued on down the street.

He watched her until the van was a dot in the darkness, then faced the policeman with a crooked smile on his face.

The officer looked at him curiously. “Most people don’t react quite so nicely, fella. They’re all full of excuses about how this or that is broken and they really didn’t mean to, or the wife is sick at home or havin’ a baby or what have you.” He flashed Sam a grin and slapped the ticket into his hand.

“No, sir. I was speeding all right. No argument there.” And she’d coaxed him into it, he thought, that lovely lady who seemed so soft and vulnerable back in the plushness of the family home. His smile broadened. “Is there a phone around here?”

“Around the corner at the 7-Eleven. Now, you be careful, you hear?” The officer sauntered back to his car, leaving Sam alone to consider his next move. He scratched his chin absently as thoughts of Brittany played across his mind. He felt like a kid again, playing hooky from school and following rainbows. Damned if he didn’t feel good!

The phone book was in shreds and Brittany’s number was unlisted according to the efficient-voiced operator,
but it took only two phone calls for Sam to get what he needed, then he was back on the road, headed north toward a quiet residential area. As he pulled onto a tree-lined street with lovely old homes, the streetlights turned from harsh neon to muted gaslights and soft shadows fell lazily across the silent pavement. He scanned the large three-story houses, then glanced down at the scribbled address on a piece of paper. Five fifty-five
a
Elery Lane. Well, he mused, admiring the stateliness of the old, well-kept homes, Brittany definitely didn’t deny herself plush quarters! Five fifty-five loomed up from behind a copse of old oak trees, its gabled roof and pillared porch visible through the leafless branches. But the address he was looking for was 555
a
. Where the hell was that?

And then he saw the small post beside the driveway, a tasteful wrought-iron rectangle with an arrow and a “555
a
” raised from the surface to beckon visitors down the long brick drive that wound behind the main house. Sam followed, his senses fully tuned and his mind lit with curiosity.

Several hundred yards behind the house was a brick and wood carriage house, set like a plaything beside the massive main structure. An expanse of lighted, sashed windows stretched across the second floor and a stairway to the side offered entry.

Sam parked the car and climbed the stairs.

He glanced at the name beside the door. B. E. Winters. Right place. Now, if his luck held, the door wouldn’t be opened by a man. He decided to take his chances and knocked.

It wasn’t a man, but the black nose of a large, floppy-looking dog that poked through the crack in the door. Finally it opened wider and Brittany stood in the doorway, a soft fleecy robe pulled tightly around her, her eyes wide. “What …” she sputtered, “what in heaven’s name are
you
doing here?”

He leaned against the doorframe, one foot firmly in
place should the door suddenly be closed. “You owe me thirty-five dollars for that speeding ticket, Ms. Winters.” His eyes flashed. “And just for the record, it was damn foolish of you to open this door without first asking who was out here!” Standing there like that with her hair loose and free … and that robe inviting the eye to look beneath! Why, she’d stir the insides of a monk!

“You’re absolutely right about the latter! As for the ticket—”

“You set me up. You knew that cop was there!”

She smiled almost shyly, rubbing her arms as a chill wind whipped around Sam’s lanky frame. “You can lead a horse to water … Perhaps you shouldn’t drive so fast.”

He stepped in before she could stop him and leaned back against the door, snapping it closed. The reddish-brown dog smelled his pants leg, then settled down between them.

“Ms. Winters, you and I have some business to settle. Now”—he looked over her shoulder, then half-smiled into her surprised face—“shall we talk here in this drafty hallway, or warm ourselves before that fire that I see in the next room?”

The dog thumped a large hairy tail on the floor.

Brittany glared at it. “Dunkin, be quiet!” She looked back at Sam and took a step away from him. “I don’t have anything to talk to you about.” Her heart began to beat erratically and she wondered briefly if she was going to be sick. She was hot and cold at the same time, and her palms tingled within her clenched fists. She put one hand on the doorknob, but Sam was already walking down the hall and into the firelit room. She stiffened her back and quickly followed. “Mr. Lawrence, it’s not a good time for business—” Even before Sam interrupted, she knew the words sounded faint and strangely void of purpose.

“I didn’t know carriage houses had fireplaces,” he
said. He shrugged out of his jacket and angled his long body down onto the plump-pillowed couch in front of the fire. He looked around the room at the thriving plants that seemed to be everywhere and the comfortable, tasteful furniture. “This is nice, very cozy.” Dunkin licked his hand, then settled down on the hearth. “And you have a great dog, Brittany.”

Brittany was silent.

“Here. There’s room.” He eyed the empty space on the small couch and extended a hand. “You look cold.”

She moved out of his reach and stood near the edge of the mantel, her thoughts a fragmented mess. She didn’t know whether she needed to be warmed or chilled or both. All she knew for sure was that Sam Lawrence confused her and made it difficult to think straight.

“All right, Mr. Lawrence. Since you’re here, let’s settle this business quickly. I’m very tired. If it’s the thirty-five dollars you’re after, you’ll have to take me to court.”

Sam watched her as his body soaked in the warmth from the fire. The light seemed to shimmer around her, clearly outlining the curving lines of her body and turning her hair into a halo of fiery auburn-gold. His breath caught in his throat. She looked so young, a raw beauty who didn’t seem to fit well anyplace he’d seen her thus far: her parents’ house, the rusty van. Maybe she fit here, in this cozy den of a house with a blazing fire and soft, comfortable furniture that looked used and friendly.

“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.