Holding the Dream (20 page)

“You've got that line between your eyebrows,” he commented, sampling and approving her mixed salad. “The one you get when you're trying to calculate your bottom line.”

“I was calculating how much of this steak I can eat without exploding.” Eyes on her plate, she cut another bite. “It's wonderful.”

“While I find it surprisingly satisfying to feed you, the food isn't what's bouncing around in your mind like a pinball.” He started to ask her to look at him, then took the more direct route. He laid a hand on her bare thigh and watched her gaze
shoot to his. “Why don't I make it easy for you? I want you to stay with me tonight.”

She picked up her wineglass, fiddled with the stem. “I don't have any clothes.”

“So we'll get up early, give you enough time to swing by your place and change before work.” He reached out, ran a fingertip down her throat. Such a long, slim throat. “I want to make love with you again. I want to sleep with you. Is that simple enough?”

Because it should have been, she nodded. “I'll stay, but I don't want any complaints when the alarm goes off at six.”

He only smiled. It was a rare day for him not to be up already and jogging along the beach by six. “Whatever you say. Now, there's more. I said there were strings. I meant it.”

That was what she'd been trying to keep neatly locked in the back of her mind. Wanting to choose her words with care, she continued to eat. “I'm not involved with anyone,” she began.

“Yes, you are. You're involved with me.”

A quick chill of warning ran down her spine. “I meant I'm not involved with anyone else. I don't intend to see anyone else while we're . . . involved. However it may seem by the way I came here tonight, sex isn't casual for me.”

“Nothing's casual for you.” He topped off his wine, then hers. “But sex is the easy part. It doesn't take a lot of thought, instinct kicks in, the body takes over.”

His gaze rested on her face. Her eyes were wary, he noted, like those of a doe that had unexpectedly come across a stag in the woods. Or a hunter. “I have feelings for you.”

Her heart bumped. She used knife and fork to cut meat as if the precise size and shape of it were paramount. “I think we've established that.”

“Not just desires, Katherine. Feelings. I'd planned on sorting them out before we found ourselves at this stage. But . . .” He shrugged, ate, let her absorb the words. “I like maps.”

Her already baffled brain clicked over into complete confusion. “Maps.”

“Points of interest. Routes from one place to the next. I like plotting them out. One of the reasons I'm interested in hotels is because they're like a world. Self-contained, full of movement and places and people.”

As he spoke, he cut the bone from what was left of his meal, then did the same with Kate's. He gave each of the wide-eyed dogs a feast.

“Hotels are never really stationary. Just the building is. But inside there are births, deaths, politics, passions, celebrations, and tragedies. Like any world, it runs more or less a certain way, along a certain route. But the detours, the surprises, the problems, are always there. You explore them, enjoy them, solve them. I fucking love it.”

She pondered as he sat back, lit one of his cigars. She had no earthly idea how they had shifted from a discussion on their relationship to his work, but it was fine with her. Relaxed again, she picked up her wine.

“That's why you're so good at your job. My aunt and uncle consider you the best, and they're very picky.”

“We generally do our best with something we enjoy.” He watched her through a haze of smoke. “I enjoy you.”

Her smile spread slowly as she edged toward him. “Well, then.”

“You're a detour,” he murmured, taking her hand before it could become too busy, bringing it to his lips. “When I map out the particular world I'm moving in, I always anticipate a few detours.”

“I'm a detour.” She was insulted enough to tug her hand free. “That's flattering.”

“It was meant to be.” He grinned at her. “While I'm on this intriguing and very attractive alternate route, I don't intend to worry how long it will take to navigate it.”

“And I'm along for the ride? Is that it?”

“I'd prefer saying we're in this together. Where we end up depends on both of us. But I know this. I want you with me. I haven't completely figured out why, but I can't get past the wanting part. When I look at you, it's enough.”

No one had ever made her feel more desired. He'd used no soft, alluring words, composed no odes to her eyes, and yet she felt vital and alive and very much wanted. “I'm not sure whether I'm confused or seduced, but it seems to be enough for me, too.”

“Good.” Most of the tension he'd been holding in seeped away as he brought her hand to his lips again. “Now that you're relaxed, why don't you tell me about this fascinating day of yours?”

“My day?” Absolutely blank, she stared at him. Then her eyes cleared, went bright. “Oh, Jesus, my day. I'd completely forgotten.”

“I can't tell you how gratifying that is.” He laid a hand on her thigh again, slid it slowly up. “If you'd like to forget about it for a while longer . . .”

“No.” As she pushed his hand firmly away, she chuckled. “I was bursting to talk about it, and then I started thinking about getting you into bed, and it slipped down a couple of notches on the priority list.”

“How about I let you get me in bed again, and we talk later?”

“Nope.” She scooted out of reach. “I've already had you, pal. The encore can wait.”

“That sound you hear is my ego deflating.” He sat back with his cigar, his wine, gestured with the glass. “Okay, kid, spill it.”

She wondered how it would feel to simply say it aloud. “In March I found out that my father had embezzled funds from the ad agency he worked for before he was killed.” She let out a breath, pressed a hand to her stomach. “God.”

It was, he thought, the piece he'd been sure was missing, falling into place. “In March,” Byron repeated, studying her face. “You hadn't known about it before?”

“No, nothing. I keep expecting people to be shocked. Why aren't you shocked?”

“People make mistakes.” And his voice softened when he
calculated just how much she'd suffered. “Cut you off at the knees, didn't it?”

“I didn't cope very well. I thought I was. I thought I could bury it, just push it in. Didn't work.”

“You didn't talk to anyone?”

“I couldn't. Margo found out she was pregnant, and Laura, she's handling so much and . . . I was ashamed. That's what it comes down to. I couldn't face it.”

And had made herself ill, he thought, with worry and stress and guilt. “Then you got hit at Bittle.”

“It didn't seem that it could really be happening. Some sort of cosmic joke. It paralyzed me, Byron. I've never been so afraid of anything, or felt so helpless. Ignoring it seemed the only solution. It would go away, somehow just go away. I'd just keep myself busy with other things, not think about it, not react, and it would get better.”

“Some snap,” he murmured, “some collapse, and some dig their trenches.”

“And I pulled the covers over my head. Well, that's done.” In a half-toast to herself, she lifted her glass. “I talked to my aunt and uncle. Instead of making it better, that made it worse. I hurt them. I was trying to explain why I was grateful to her and Uncle Tommy, and I said things wrong. Or I was wrong, and it came out badly. She was so angry with me. I don't remember her ever being that angry with me.”

“She loves you, Kate. You'll square this with her.”

“She's already forgiven me. Or mostly. But it made me realize I had to face it. All of it. I went to Bittle today.”

“Now you're digging the trenches.”

She let out a shaky breath at his response. “It's past time I did.”

“Now are you going to beat yourself up because you weren't iron woman, because you needed time to pull your resources together?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. She'd been tempted to do just that. Apparently he knew her very, very well. “No, I'm going to concentrate on dealing with now.”

“You didn't have to go to Bittle alone.”

She looked down at the hand that had covered hers. What made him offer support so easily? she wondered. And what was making her count so heavily on the offer?

“No, I did have to go alone. To prove to myself and everyone at Bittle that I could. I used to play baseball, in school. I was a good clutch hitter. Two out, a run behind, put Kate in the box. I'd concentrate on the feel of the bat in my hands because my stomach would be churning and my knees shaking. If I concentrated on the feel of the ash solid in my hands and kept my eyes dead on the eyes of the pitcher, I'd still be terrified, but nobody would know it.”

“Trust you to turn a game into life or death.”

“Baseball is life or death, especially in the bottom of the ninth.” She smiled a little. “That's how I felt when I walked into Bittle. Two out, bottom of the ninth, and they'd already winged two strikes past me while I stood there with the bat on my shoulder.”

“So you figured if you were going to go down, you'd go down swinging.”

“Yeah, now you get it.”

“Honey, I was a starting pitcher all the way through college. Went All-State. I ate clutch hitters like you for breakfast.”

When she laughed, some of his worry eased. She took a moment to sip her wine, study the star-strewn sky. “It felt good. It felt right. Even being scared felt right because I was doing something about it. I demanded a partners' meeting, and there I was, back in the conference room, just like the day they fired me. Only this time I fired back.”

She took a deep breath before launching into a play-by-play of what had happened inside the conference room. He listened, admiring the way her voice strengthened, her eyes hardened. Perhaps her vulnerability pulled at him, but this confident, determined woman was no less appealing.

“And you're prepared to deal with the fallout if they press formal charges?”

“I'm prepared to fight and to face all the fallout. And I'm prepared to do some serious thinking about who set me up. Because somebody did. Either because they were focused on me or because I was convenient. But someone used me to cheat the firm and the clients, and they're not going to get away with it.”

“I can help you.” He held up a hand before she could object. “I've got a feel for people. And I've spent my entire adult life dealing with the intrigues and petty pilfering of a large organization. You're the expert with figures, I'm better with personalities, motivations.”

He could see her turning it over in her mind, weighing the possibilities. He smiled. “Let's use baseball again. You're the batter, I'm the pitcher. You swing away. I finesse.”

“You don't even know any of the people involved.”

He would make it his business to, he thought grimly, but he kept his voice mild. “So, you'll tell me about them. You're practical enough to admit there's an advantage to a fresh viewpoint.”

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Thanks.”

“We can start working on the bios tomorrow. I can see why you were wired. You've had quite a day.”

“It took some doing to bring myself down after the business at Bittle. Then I knew I had to face Aunt Susie. I took a breather at the cliffs, and—”

She jumped up from her chair. “Jesus, I forgot! I can't believe I actually forgot! God, what did I do with it?” Foolishly, she patted her hips, then remembered she was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. “My pocket. I'll be right back. Stay here.”

She streaked inside like a bullet, leaving Byron shaking his head after her. The woman was a mass of contradictions, he decided as he rose to clear the table. It was no use reminding himself that he preferred the quiet, soothing, and sophisticated type. The Laura type, he supposed. Well-mannered, well-read, well-bred.

Yet he'd never felt this bright, hot need with Laura. Or with anyone, for that matter.

Instead, it was Kate, this bumpy and often inconvenient detour, who continually fascinated him.

Just how would his complicated and turbulent Kate react if he told her he was beginning to believe he was falling in love with her?

“Hah!” Triumphant, she bolted back into the kitchen, prepared to bask in his astonishment. She smiled smugly as he stared at her, eyes dark and intense. “I found it.”

She was flushed and rumpled. Her short hair stood in spikes, those long, slim legs pale gold beneath the hem of his shirt. She had no figure to speak of, was more bone than curve. The little mascara she'd bothered with was smudged under her eyes. Her nose was crooked. Had he noticed that before? The nose was just slightly off center, and her mouth was certainly too wide for that narrow face.

“You're not beautiful,” he said in a quiet statement that made her brow knit. “Why do you look beautiful when you're not?”

“How much of that wine did you drink, De Witt?”

“Your face is wrong.” As if to prove it to himself, he came around the counter for a closer look. “It's like whoever put it together used a couple of spare parts from someone else's.”

“This is all very fascinating,” she said impatiently. “But—”

“At first glance your body looks like it belongs to a teenage boy, all arms and legs.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Universe. Have you finished your unsolicited critique of my looks?”

“Almost.” His lips curved a little as he skimmed a hand along her jaw. “I love the way you look. I can't figure out why, but I love the way you look, the way you move.” He slipped his arms around her, drew her in. “The way you smell.”