Читать книгу All Tucked In... - Jule McBride, Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

“CARLA,” TOBIAS SAID, extending his hand. “I saw your name on the roster. This is a surprise.”

An unpleasant one? It was hard to tell by his tone. “Hello, Tobias.” As she said his name, Carla’s heart missed a beat. Just eyeing the big strong hand that, in the past, had slowly, dexterously caressed every inch of her sent prickles dancing across her skin. When she slid her palm to his, her breath stilled completely. The handshake was quick, firm and businesslike, and yet not quick enough, since Carla instantly registered the smooth feel of his fingers. Her belly fluttered as they ghosted over hers. The muscles of her lower body tightened as they withdrew. Tingles made the tips of her breasts constrict, and she could only hope he hadn’t noticed.

Yeah, she reflected, that hand was just as she remembered: warm, dry to the touch and intriguingly alive. She tried not to take the thoughts any further…to how that hand had felt sliding up the creamy skin of her shuddering inner thighs. He could caress her for hours, bringing her to satisfaction over and over. He was the kind of man who loved every second of a woman’s pleasure….

Heat suffused her cheeks. The room was air-conditioned, but suddenly every interior inch of her felt as if it had hit triple-digit temperatures in August. Maybe even the depths of Hades. Right about now, she’d kill for an ice cube. A bead of sweat snaked between her breasts and she exhaled shakily. No, she never should have let her mother bully her into coming here.

“Have a seat,” he suggested in a voice that could have been whispering sweet naughty nothings into her ears for the past seven years.

Vaguely, she realized she was staring at his mouth as if mesmerized. What had she been thinking? Lord, Carla, she thought now. You could have married this luscious hunk.

No, Carla hadn’t forgotten the voice any more than the feel of his hands. Deep and rich, it had seemed to rumble in his chest like thunder before a storm, then pour out like sweet, succulent honey. “Seat?” she echoed, her mind ceasing to function as her eyes dropped over his body—the wide, broad shoulders, the hard chest, the jeans that were just tight enough to gracefully trace his masculinity. But why was Tobias wearing a sport coat and tie? If he was still the man Carla had known, his employers were lucky to get him to wear a shirt. Or anything at all. Yes…the Tobias Free she’d known had been very anti-clothes.

His lips were curling into the slow, sexy smile she remembered—and with that smile, the whole of their history threatened to overwhelm her. “Seat,” he said, chuckling and pointing to a velvet upholstered love seat. “That thing you put your rear end on.”

Hmm. So he still had a sense of humor. “Just wanted to make sure,” she quipped. “I’d hate to wind up being a centerpiece for your table.”

“Or hanging from a chandelier.”

“You have that much fun around here, huh?”

“You’d be amazed where sleepwalkers wind up.”

“Not really,” she returned, thinking of her own nocturnal habits. Relaxing a little as she sat, she glanced around the fancy, old-fashioned parlor, taking in the red carpet and dark wood-paneled walls. “The place hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, then wished she hadn’t said the words since they were another reminder that she’d been here with him before.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply, taking a clipboard from under his arm as he turned away to seat himself on a settee opposite her. “It’s right out of a Stephen King novel. If you ask me, this mansion looks haunted.”

“Good for a dream clinic,” she offered.

“Only if you’re having nightmares.”

“Which I still am.”

“I can see that from your intake form.”

She could barely believe they were talking like two normal, rational people. No doubt it wouldn’t last long. Their only real conversation after she’d run from the altar had quickly degenerated into a screaming match. She wasn’t interested in having a replay. Neither was he. Ever since, on the rare occasions they’d spoken, the conversations had been brief and polite. They were adults, after all.

As he scanned down the form she’d filled out when she’d arrived, she took another look around the room, mulling over the details—a mosaic fireplace, crown ceiling moldings and ancient oil paintings. Original beaded lamps from the nineteenth century were perched on end tables, and the hammered bronze candelabra on the mantle looked like something Dracula might carry up a flight of stairs. Tobias was right. The mansion, which had been leased with most of its original furnishings, did look a little spooky, like something out of a horror story. “It’s not really scary,” she decided aloud.

“No,” he agreed. “Just old.”

She shifted her gaze to Tobias, sucking in a breath when pure lust blindsided her again. Past memories of their lovemaking came, as visceral and unwanted as the dreams that so often seemed real to her. She found herself recalling the strength in his legs as they’d glided along her thighs, and how the short silken strands of his chest hair could feel, teasing the sensitive skin between her fingers.

He’d changed in the past seven years. Oh, he was still the same heartthrob who’d stolen her attention in high school, when he was a track star and she was a member of the pep club. He had the same straight, hay-blond hair that he wore too long and that occasionally dipped into melting brown eyes. The same sexy light-brown dot of a mole beside lips that could kiss like the devil. The same burning, penetrating concentration that he brought to every task, including lovemaking. But a few lines had appeared around his eyes, and the skin over his high cheekbones seemed more taut, making him look more mature. Yes, any trace of the boy had definitely left Tobias Free. He’d grown up completely, into a man.

He glanced up from the intake form. “Is this everything?”

Suddenly, she wished he wasn’t being quite so businesslike, and that she was outfitted in something other than khaki pants and a T-shirt. Recently, she’d bought an emerald-green sundress, but she’d decided against wearing it, not wanting Tobias to think she’d dressed for him, if she saw him. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d sit down and read her intake form. She fought the urge to reach and smooth her hair, the wild curly strands of which were frizzing in the heat. “Yes,” she said. “I really can’t think of anything else.”

“Before I show you to your room, I’d like to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

He was showing her to her room? “Are you sure?” she managed, feeling more nervous by the minute. When she’d made the appointment, she’d convinced herself that she might not even see Tobias. “I mean…” She didn’t know quite how to say it. “I didn’t expect you to be involved in the…”

“Nitty-gritty? You know me better than that.”

“So, that’s how you think of me?” she couldn’t help but tease. “As the nitty-gritty?”

His eyes captured hers. “Hands-on, if you prefer.”

Heat slid through her veins again. He’d been hands-on in more ways than one. “I know how involved you are in your work,” she answered, wondering if he’d actually just flirted with her. It was impossible to tell from his tone. “I’ll be glad to answer anything I can, of course,” she quickly added.

“How often do you suffer insomnia?”

She shrugged. “Not often anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

She’d forgotten that, too. He’d always gotten straight to the point. He was the same way in bed. He’d go straight for erogenous zones that sent her soaring. Suddenly, she wished she’d slept with some other man, if only once. That way, Tobias might not have such a hold over her fantasy life. “The dreams, when I do have them,” she forced herself to say, “seem more—” she searched for a word “—intense.”

“Intense?”

Like your melting brown eyes. “Yes.”

“And they still seem real?”

She thought of the other morning, when she’d been so sure that Jenna had planned to take the day off work. “Very. Sometimes, I find myself assuming things happened that really didn’t. For instance…” Furrowing her dark brows, she thought a moment. “The other day, when I saw Mrs. Domico walking her poodle, I was shocked because I’d thought Missy—that’s her name—had been dyed green.”

He laughed softly, and the sound warmed her blood. “Dyed green?”

She couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. “I know it sounds crazy. Who would dye a dog green, but—”

“Mrs. Domico,” Tobias interjected, thrusting the splayed fingers of a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “From what I remember, she was just the type.”

Carla laughed appreciatively, but the sound died abruptly on her lips. Tobias remembered everything, even Mrs. Domico. Was he as plagued by memories of their passion? “Well, the dog hadn’t really been dyed green, of course. But as I passed Mrs. Domico on the street, I asked why she’d dyed Missy white again, instead of some other color. I said I thought she’d told me she was thinking about dying the dog blue, but…”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You actually had this conversation with Mrs. Domico?”

“Fortunately, people in the neighborhood are used to this quirk of mine,” she reminded him. As her eyes drifted over Tobias, she couldn’t help but suddenly frown.

He frowned back. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, then changed her mind and shrugged, eyeing his clothes, “I guess I’m just shocked by how respectable you’ve gotten.”

“Sounds like resistance.”

“Resistance?”

“Yeah.” His lips turned upward, looking kissable. “Freud’s concept. As soon as we start to analyze your dreams, he predicted you’d shift the subject.”

She definitely wouldn’t want Tobias to analyze the dreams she could so easily have about him. His gaze caught hers, locked and held. “About the outfit,” he added. “Don’t let a sport coat and tie fool you, Carla.”

It wasn’t really fooling her so much as making her salivate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She could have kicked herself instantly. All at once, the air felt bristly, as if someone had come along with a syringe and injected it with pure, one-hundred-percent porcupine needles. Because, of course, he had worn a tie before. A tux, too. On their wedding day. To make up for the faux pas, she said, “It looks good.”

Clearly fighting not to roll his eyes, he stared back down at the paper on the clipboard and resumed his businesslike tone. “Are the dreams the same?”

She nodded. “Yep. Ma insisted I try to get some help. I haven’t had the…uh, underwear dream for awhile, but it’s bothered me for the past few nights in a row.”

“Your mother told you to come?”

Was it her imagination? Or, for the briefest instant, had he looked disappointed? Had he hoped this was an excuse to see him again? She hesitated. “Yes.”

“How is your mom?”

“Fine.” For a moment, she caught him up on her family, then asked about his, especially his mother, Laura, whom she missed. As he began reading her form again, she said, “According to the paper, you might lose the clinic. Is that really true?”

Looking vaguely annoyed, he lifted his chin once more, and somehow, she was glad to see the expression of his eyes soften when he registered her genuine concern. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. He glanced over his shoulder toward a long entry hall. “Actually, that’s the reason for the tie,” he confessed. Before explaining, he continued. “I’m still so clueless when it comes to wearing them that Elsie had to knot the thing.”

An image of Sandy Craig crowded into her mind. “Elsie?” she couldn’t help but ask, trying to sound casual. Who was Elsie?

“Oh.” His eyes widened slightly in surprise as if he’d expected her to know. “Elsie’s my assistant.”

She hoped she hadn’t sounded jealous. Obviously, she had no right to the feeling. Her lips parted. “Cassandra’s gone?”

He nodded. “Married a prof from Carnegie-Melon. What about Jenna?”

“She’s still at the café. She got married, too.”

“That mountain bike buff?”

She shook her head. “No. The tattoo artist.”

Weddings were the last thing either one of them probably wanted to talk about, but Carla plunged on. “He has his own parlor now. The bike buff went to Alaska for a summer and never came back.”

Another uncomfortable pause followed during which they tried to ignore the depth of their shared past and all the nuptial bliss that hadn’t been theirs. In the silence, Carla actually felt her pulse quicken at the fantasy that he was lying, and that he’d actually dressed up for her, a notion he squelched by saying, “J. J. Sloane’s in town. He’s staying in the mansion, so you’ll probably see him. He’s trying to decide whether to give the next lease to me or to the Preservation Society.”

“Ah. So, you’re on best behavior.”

He offered a droll expression she’d always loved that made him look uncharacteristically petulant and boyish. “Unfortunately.”

You do so hate to be good. The words were on the tip of her tongue, and suddenly, she wanted to suggest that they be naughty…together. “The dreams are the same,” she ventured instead, determined to get the interview back on track.

“Still having that golden underwear dream, huh?”

For a second, despite how the dream had often terrified her, she almost laughed. In the cold light of day, it seemed so ridiculous. She nodded. “Yes.” Though talking about underwear with Tobias was right up there with the subject of marriage.

His brows furrowed in thought. Thick and bushy, they almost came together, forming a ledge. “And the sleepwalking?”

She shrugged. “That’s hard to say. I live alone.” Once more, there was the reminder that they’d planned to share a home, and she mentally flashed on the two-bedroom apartment further down Fifth Avenue, near the university, which they’d rented. She’d wound up living in it for three years. When he’d married Sandy Craig, she’d decided she needed a change, and after that move, of course, she’d ended up back in the apartment she’d previously shared with her parents.

“So you don’t know if you sleepwalk?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t wake up in places other than your own bed?”

“Uh…no, Tobias.”

He sent her a long look. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Good Catholic girl that she was, she figured Tobias knew she hadn’t slept with anyone besides him. But maybe he’d actually been fishing. “Of course you didn’t.”

Once more, heat surged between them. A relationship was impossible, of course, she found herself thinking. After all, she’d left him at the altar, and then he’d married Sandy Craig. But Tobias was the only man she’d ever slept with—the only one she’d ever wanted to sleep with—and she’d definitely missed having sex. A lot. The truth was, Carla hadn’t done it in seven years now. The way she’d been brought up, a woman only slept with her husband. Or at least the man she’d thought was going to be her husband.

Sucking in a breath, she collected her thoughts. “Sometimes, come to think of it, I do wake up on the couch,” she said. “As you know, Ma said I definitely sleepwalked as a kid.”

He jotted something in the margin of her intake sheet. “Has anything changed in the dreams?”

“Changed?”

Chewing his lower lip, he thought a moment, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Is anything different?” Shrugging, he added, “Maybe about the room where the dream takes place? Does the man ever say anything new?”

As much as she hated visualizing the dream that had so often disturbed her, she shook her head. “No. Everything’s the same.”

He looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

She hated to say it. “Absolutely.”

He sighed. “Well…what I’d like to try tonight, assuming you have the nightmare, is some guided dream imagery.”

Now they were getting down to business, and she felt a rush of nervousness. Her hand tightened on the strap of the overnight duffel bag she’d nestled near her feet. “Meaning?”

“When your nightmare’s in progress, I’ll administer electrical impulses.” Interrupting himself as he stood, he added, “It doesn’t hurt. With any luck, it’ll change the course of your nightmare.”

She stood also, feeling surprised when he took her bag. Why, she didn’t know. Tobias was always a gentleman. Still, the bag wasn’t heavy at all, so the gesture was unnecessary. She was squinting at him. “Meaning?”

He considered. “Well…various things can happen,” he explained. “I’ll attach electrodes to your head, then when your nightmare begins, I’ll send small jolts of electricity to your nerve endings.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured. Already, he was doing a fairly good job of that, so she could hardly wait for tonight.

“Patients say that something new happens in their dreams,” he continued. “For instance, the dark room in which it occurs might suddenly change into an enchanted forest, and the bad people are dealt with, maybe sent away by trusted friends. Or you might confront the man. Either way, the content of the dream changes just enough that you find your way out of it. It turns into a good story with a happy ending.”

She paused, fighting a shudder. She didn’t want her repeating nightmare to occur tonight, much less to confront the man who’d haunted her for so many years. “Great,” she muttered. She was rewarded by the feel of Tobias’s hand. It landed on the small of her back, and he used it to guide her through the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” he said, reassuringly. The creamy brown eyes that cut toward her settled on her face and didn’t pull away. “I’ll be there all night, Carla.”

“You?” Recollections of how he’d held her after her nightmares came back then, and she almost could feel his strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close against his hard, naked body. All at once, she felt a rush of safety, just from the memory. But she also wondered what he was talking about. “You’ll be with me?”

He nodded. “While you’re sleeping, I’ll be right on the other side of a glass partition. As soon as we get upstairs, you’ll see.”

“A GLASS PARTITION,” she murmured.

Tobias could tell she wasn’t entirely happy with the setup. Not that he blamed her. He was just as uncomfortable. Was he really going to spend the night watching Carla DiDolche sleep? Why did she have to show up here, after all these years? And at a time when J. J. Sloane was considering whether or not to give Tobias the lease? Right now, he needed to concentrate, and he could hardly do so with Carla traipsing around the Sloane mansion in a nightgown. “See? It’s just a piece of glass. Last time you were here we hadn’t yet started using this room.”

“I don’t remember coming in here before,” she admitted.

“It’s a nice part of the building. Away from Fifth Avenue,” he said. “Quiet.”

Her eyes slid to the partition again.

His followed.

Before now, the room had never seemed so intimate. By rights, of course, he should have had a standard dream clinic facility, where glass walls separated observers and sleepers; because he’d been forced to convert the old mansion, he and his colleagues had settled on putting glass triparte panels near the beds. “We try to offer sleepers privacy while they’re being monitored,” he explained.

“I see.”

So did he. In just a few hours, Carla was going to be tossing and turning under the covers. Knowing Carla, she’d manage to get the sheets, not to mention whatever nightclothes she’d brought, twisted around her waist.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Yeah, from what he remembered, Carla favored those little silk numbers that were calculated to drive a man crazy. Not that she’d have brought something like that here, of course. At least he hoped not. No, the staff always advised people to bring something comfortable and unrevealing. And yet…

Maybe it was too bad. As angry as he was with her—would always be with her—and as adamant about never rekindling their romance, Tobias had to admit he wouldn’t mind having sex with her again. At least once. For old time’s sake. Maybe he just needed to know that he could do it and walk away from her, the way she’d walked away from him. Gritting his teeth, he wished she hadn’t shown up here.

After all, on a physical level, no woman had ever excited him as she did. She made his palms itch to touch, his mouth yearn to plunder. His eyes slid to her figure. Her body was so lush. All curves. Her breasts and hips were full. Back when they’d been together, she’d sometimes complained about her weight; for a week or two, she’d deprive herself of the incredible food her mother made, and the sweet, gooey, syrupy cakes they’d served in the café.

But Tobias had thought she was perfect. Soft, just the way a woman was supposed to be. Personally, he hated women who were so thin that you could see jutting bones, not that he’d been able to convince Carla of it.

Realizing a long silence had fallen, he said, “I think you should be comfortable here for the next couple of nights.”

“Nights?” He could see her throat work as she swallowed.

“You really think it will be more than one?”

Just looking at her, he was sorely tempted to keep her here until his lease ran out. Given how his thoughts were progressing, and the way Carla kept dropping her gaze over him as if she, too, was fondly recalling their old times, Tobias had a sneaking suspicion they were soon going to wind up together in the four-poster bed.

So what if he’d nearly married her? Wasn’t that past history now? Wasn’t he over the pain and humiliation of that day? Not to mention over Carla? Wasn’t that why he’d married Sandy? To prove it?

“Can your parents stay?”

She nodded. “They’re here for two weeks.”

He smiled. “Staying with you?”

At that, she grinned back. “That’s why I came here. I needed to escape.”

He eyed her. Even if they had sex, they couldn’t do it at the mansion, he suddenly decided. Not with J. J. Sloane running around looking for excuses to give the lease to the Preservation Society. If J.J. caught him in bed with a patient, Tobias would be ruined. He shook his head to clear it of confusion. Was he really standing here, a foot away from Carla, planning to go to bed with her?

“So, I’ll need to stay over more than one night?” she repeated.

“Probably.”

“On the phone, they said they couldn’t tell me much.”

He tried to ignore the breathless flutter in her voice. And how good she looked. Prettier, he decided, than when he’d tried to marry her. Her hair was longer, past her shoulders, and inky-black corkscrew curls that he knew felt like satin spilled around her face, bringing out her rose complexion and making her round dark eyes sparkle. Summer had always suited her. She was the type of person who was always active, on her feet and moving—the trait seemed encoded in the DiDolche genes—but now she looked remarkably still. And beautiful…so damn beautiful. Coming to his senses, he realized she was waiting for some kind of response. “Hmm?”

“I was hoping that just one night…”

“It usually takes a couple. With something like sleep apnea or nocturnal eating, it’s often just a night, but when dreams are involved…”

When his voice trailed off, she nodded. Years ago, she’d sit and listen to him talk about his work as no other woman ever had, her eyes attentive, the set of her soft mouth rapt. She’d enjoyed those talks, asking questions that even his colleagues wouldn’t think to.

“It would be nice if you can help me,” she finally said.

He hoped he could. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

“And you’re going to monitor me?”

He’d already said so. He nodded. “Yeah.”

She looked nervous, but she ventured another smile. “When do you sleep, anyway?”

“I still catnap in the day.” He was one of those people who was blessed—or cursed—by only needing a few hours of sleep a day. “Hopefully, we’ll turn your nightmares into dreams, Carla.”

“And if you can?”

“Many times, when we’ve changed the dream content, people report that nightmares never come back.”

As her dark eyes widened, he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. He knew firsthand how the nightmares had haunted her since she was a kid, and now he knew she was hoping that he could whisk them away with one night of therapy. He saw that look on the faces of many people who came to him, looking for a cure. “Seven years ago,” he said, “our research hadn’t advanced to the point it has today.” Before now, he couldn’t have done much for her. He wished he could offer more in promise, but he couldn’t, so he simply remained silent.

She looked around again, slowly taking in an old-fashioned bedroom that was as hopelessly romantic as the rest of the mansion; salmon-painted walls were hung with discreet oils in gilded frames, mostly impressionistic landscapes and ocean views with sailing ships. Two wing chairs had been positioned on either side of a carved oak mantle, and just as downstairs, beaded lamps adorned small round tables. Carla’s eyes trailed from an oriental rug that covered the polished hardwood floor to a four-poster bed stacked high with pillows.

Then she looked at the triparte glass partition again, as if judging the distance that would be between them tonight. Behind the glass were machines he’d monitor. “The room belonged to Marissa Sloane’s lady companion,” he said apologetically. “I’d have put you in the master bedroom, but J. J. Sloane claimed it.”

“The room’s gorgeous.”

He nodded his agreement. “Yeah, it is,” he said. And suddenly he wished he was anywhere in the world other than here, in a bedroom with Carla, especially one with so many nineteenth century frills. No, he really couldn’t believe this was happening. Carla had been having these dreams since she was a kid, and he’d been involved in dream research for a decade, so why did she have to show up now? And in the same week as J. J. Sloane?

Sighing, he told himself he could be a professional.

“Do you really think you’ll lose the lease?” she asked as if reading his mind.

He shrugged. “I’m trying to be philosophical. But I do wish I’d waited a few more months before stumbling onto Cornelius Sloane’s porn collection.”

A smile tugged her lips. “I saw that in the newspaper.” The Pittsburgh Post Gazette had run a picture of the secret room. “Must have been exciting.”

“It was. I landed right on top of a life-size nude.”

“Have you spent much time reviewing—” she paused with mock delicacy “—artwork?”

“Not really. A couple of days ago, during a meeting, Mar—” Cutting himself off, he decided he would rather not mention Margaret Craig, Sandy’s mother. “The Preservation Society put some of the pictures on the boardroom table.”

“You have a boardroom?”

“Dining room,” he corrected. “We use it for meetings.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I hadn’t seen the pictures for awhile. They’re kept in the safe.” He hated how heat was slowly suffusing his body again. It was bad enough that he was spending tonight with nothing but a piece of glass between him and Carla, but he hardly wanted to stand around discussing porn. “Guess ads are hotter. While you’re here, one of the society members will probably take you downstairs to see them, if you want. Like I said, they’re in a safe.” He was loathe to admit it, but he added, “It really is a worthwhile art collection.” He was just afraid the pictures would wind up being hung in his dream clinic. “I’ll make sure you see them.”

“Thanks.”

Another silence fell, and when it turned awkward, Tobias said, “I’d better let you settle in. Dinner’s in a half hour. When you get downstairs, just about anybody can direct you to the ballroom. That’s where we eat.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“I’ll be at a staff table, but…”

Somehow, he wished she didn’t look quite so relieved. “Then I’ll wave,” she promised graciously.

“The food’s nothing like your mother’s.” Or hers. When he thought of Carla’s homemade cannoli, his mouth watered. pImages** of candlelit dinners followed, and suddenly, all the memories hurt. Why had she run back down that aisle? In a heartbeat, the question he’d never ask again was on his lips. In the past, she’d tearfully said she didn’t know, but that had hardly soothed him.

He figured it was because of her dreams. Not that curing her tonight—if he could—would make a difference. It was too late now. Realizing they were still standing in the frilly bedroom gawking at each other, he said, “See you downstairs.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

Turning on his heel, Tobias headed down a red-carpeted hallway. When he reached the stairs, he gave in to the urge to look back. Her hands were on her hips, and she was staring at the partition, her dark eyes piercing through the glass as if she was imagining him sitting on the other side. He watched as she took a deep breath, seemingly bracing herself for the long night ahead.

He knew exactly how she felt.