Dare to Dream (13 page)

Chapter 28

C
arl was livid and humiliated. He sat in his car unable to move. How could he have allowed himself to do something like that? He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. What had gotten into him? It wasn’t in his nature to be violent, especially toward women. But something inside him had snapped.

What must Desiree be thinking? Had he hurt her? He glanced up at the window. Her lights were still on and that man, whoever he was, remained inside. He clenched his jaw. Who was he and what was his relationship to Desiree? The time to worry about that was not now. At any moment he was certain the police were going to pull up. How could he have been so stupid?

Taking one last look up at the window, he finally put the car in gear and drove off.

Several times on his way home, he thought about going back and apologizing. But he felt certain that Desiree wouldn’t listen to anything he said. When he pulled onto his street, it suddenly dawned on him that his home would be the first place the police would look for him. He kept going. Until he could make peace with Desiree, he’d have to lie low at least for a little while.

* * *

Hours later, Cynthia was still shaken by her visit with her mother. Even after all these years her mother still had the power to make her fall apart. She’d killed her father as sure as if she’d personally given him the heart attack that took his life, and she ran off her second husband. Now all she had left was her money, her housekeeper and Cynthia.

Cynthia turned on the light in the kitchen and opened the fridge and gazed at the scanty contents. The strongest thing she had in the house was apple juice. What she really needed was a drink. With that determination in mind, she returned to her bedroom, picked up her jacket and her purse and headed out. She needed anonymity—to be in a place where no one knew her and she didn’t know them. She snatched up her keys from the table in the hall and headed out.

Twenty minutes later she pulled up in front of a nondescript bar/lounge. She parked her car and got out.

The interior was typically dim, which suited her just fine. There were only a few patrons, most of whom were totally involved in staring down at the bottom of their glasses. She found an empty table in the back of the room and sat down.

“What can I getcha?” a girl who didn’t look old enough to babysit asked her.

“Gin and tonic with a twist.”

“Coming right up.” She smacked her wad of gum and switched away, her black micromini not leaving much to the imagination.

Cynthia looked around, her eyes slowly adjusting to the almost nonexistent light. She’d been reduced to this, she thought. The waitress returned with her drink, and before she could set it down, Cynthia took it. She closed her eyes as the liquor slid down her throat. The young waitress gave her a look and walked away. Cynthia didn’t care. She stirred her drink and took another long swallow.

All she’d ever wanted in life was her own life, she thought, misery rising in her belly like the smell of sour milk. Her mother had refused to give it to her. Even after she moved away, her mother still tried to control her life. She finished off her drink and signaled for another one.

“Mind if I join you?”

Cynthia looked up. The face of an unfamiliar man stood above her. He wasn’t bad to look at. What harm could it do?

“Not at all, have a seat.”

The waitress returned with her drink. “What can I get for you, sir?”

“Jack Daniel’s, no ice.”

“Right away.” She gave him an extra smile.

“What is a pretty lady like you doing here alone?”

“It would take more time than you have,” she said in a monotone. She tossed back half of her drink and set it down.

“Can’t be that bad.”

“Says who?”

He chuckled. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

“A matter of perspective.” She finished off her drink and ordered another when the waitress returned with the Jack Daniel’s for the somewhat handsome stranger.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.

Numbly, Cynthia tapped her empty glass against his.

“My name is Lance Freeman.”

“That’s nice.” She nodded her thanks to the waitress and took a good gulp. The edges of her life were getting soft and fuzzy.

“Do you have a name?”

“Of course. What a silly question.” She giggled.

“Maybe you should slow down.”

“Maybe you should bug off,” she tossed back, her tone turning nasty.

Lance leaned back and looked at Cynthia. She was beautiful, intelligent, he assumed, well-off from the cut of her clothes, and obviously very hurt and lonely.

“I’m a pretty good listener.”

She looked at him through bleary eyes. “What if I don’t want to talk?”

“I think you do.”

She snorted. “What makes you so smart?”

“I listen to people for a living.”

She squinted and tried to get him in focus. “What does that mean? You some kinda shrink?” She giggled.

“So I’ve heard.”

Cynthia laughed. “You’re funny and kinda cute, too.” She reached for her glass and Lance put a hand on top of hers to stop her.

“Why don’t I get you a cup of coffee?”

“I really want to get drunk, you know,” she said, struggling to get the words across her tongue.

“That’s pretty obvious, but why?”

“’Cause I hate her and she makes me hate myself,” she slurred.

“That’s pretty tough. But this doesn’t help,” he said, pointing to her glass.

She shrugged. “Got a better idea?”

“You could start with your name.”

“Cynthia. My friends call me Cynthia.” She giggled.

“Well, Cynthia, why don’t I see that you get home safely? Did you drive?”

She nodded and the room spun.

“Not a good idea for you to be driving. Where is your car?”

She shrugged. “It should be outside.”

Lance stood up and pulled out his wallet. He put three twenties on the table, then helped Cynthia to her feet. “Do you remember the color of your car?”

“Red!” she said, her face lighting up like a child who gets the right answer in class.

“Okay. Come on.”

He put his arm around her waist, tucked her purse under her arm, then ushered her outside. The cool night air slightly cleared her head.

“I feel…like…a fool,” she mumbled, leaning against him.

“It happens to the best of us. Do you have any idea where you parked your car?”

Cynthia stopped walking and blinked several times to clear her head. She looked up and down the street until she spotted her car. “Over there,” she said, pointing to her car.

Lance walked her to the passenger door. “Give me your keys.”

Cynthia fumbled in her purse and dug out her car keys.

Lance opened the door and helped her inside, then came around to the driver’s side and got in behind the wheel.

“Address?” He turned the key in the ignition.

Cynthia took a deep breath and told him.

“Sit back and relax. I’ll have you home in no time.”

Cynthia leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“What, treating you decent?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe because I’m a decent guy.” He glanced at her, then back at the street.

“You could be a serial killer,” she muttered.

“Yeah, I could be.”

“I hope not,” she muttered and drifted off.

Shortly after, Lance pulled to a stop in front of Cynthia’s building. He lightly tapped her shoulder. She mumbled something under her breath and snuggled deeper into the plush seat.

Lance was thoughtful for a moment. Without any options he got out of the car and came around to her side. He plucked her purse from beneath her hip and looked for her ID. At least if he knew what her last name was he would know which apartment to put her in. He found a piece of mail.

“Okay, pretty lady, let’s go.” He gathered her in his arms and lifted her out of the car. She curved her body against his and tucked her head on his neck. Lance smiled.

Juggling the weight of a half-asleep Cynthia and trying to get her door open without dropping her wasn’t easy, but he managed. When he finally got the door open and turned on the light he was pleasantly surprised by the tasteful and obviously expensive surroundings. The lady had class, even if she was a little troubled. He looked down into her sleeping face and wondered what had really happened to make her do what she’d done to herself—get so out of her head that she would let a perfect stranger drive her car and take her home.

She was right, if he’d been a different type of man, she would be easy prey. But what he really wanted to do was get to know this sleeping beauty under better circumstances.

Lance found her bedroom and placed her down gently on the fluffy rose-colored comforter. He took off her shoes and covered her up with her robe that was draped across the foot of the bed. He put her purse and car keys on the dresser, then dug in his jacket pocket for a pen and paper. He wrote a quick note and included his phone number. Hopefully he’d hear from her again.

Taking a final look, he closed her bedroom door and left. As he walked to the corner to hail a cab, the image and feel of Cynthia in his arms wouldn’t leave him. What he’d done tonight he’d never done in his life, but there was something about her that touched him in a place that had been dark and vacant for a very long time. He hoped she’d call, but if she didn’t he knew where to find her.

Chapter 29

L
incoln opened the door to his Upper East Side apartment and stepped aside to let Desiree in.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, switching on the lights. He put her bag down in the foyer.

Slowly, Desiree walked inside and took a look around. The space was totally Lincoln: stylish, classy and thoroughly a man’s space. The living room was done in a soft chocolate brown, the leather couch and love seat looked good enough to eat. African-print throws were the only accessories other than the smoked-glass coffee and end tables.

What was most striking was that on the stark white walls hung one of her original paintings, the one she’d painted for him years earlier. It was a picture of a white sandy beach with a lone house just off the shore set against brilliant blue water and soft clouds.

She turned to him. “You kept it.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “It was the inspiration for The Port.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“Your paintings have more power than you realize.” He quickly changed topics when he saw the pain leap back into her eyes. “Let me show you your room so you can get settled.” He led her down a narrow hallway to the spare bedroom and opened the door. “It’s not much but it’s comfortable.” He turned on the light. “I use it for my office sometimes when I stay over in the city.”

The room was fully equipped with the latest in technology, from a state-of-the-art computer system complete with speakers, to a fax machine and scanner, a television and a queen-size bed.

“I’ll get you some clean linen and towels.”

“I can do it. Just show me where.”

“The linen closet is right next to the bathroom. Take whatever you need. I’ll get your bag.”

Desiree followed him out, then peeked down the hall toward what she figured was the bathroom but found his bedroom instead. Tentatively she pushed the partially opened door and looked inside. In her mind’s eye she could see her and Lincoln sharing many nights in the comfort of the bed that dominated the room.

She jumped at the movement behind her.

“I promise to stay out of your room during the night,” he said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. He braced his hand against the door frame. “Are you okay?”

The tenderness in his voice moved her heart. She nodded, afraid to speak.

“Let me show you the rest of the place.” He put her bag in her room and took her on a tour, showing her where to find things in the kitchen, and extra blankets in a spare closet. He took her downstairs to a huge room that had been converted into a workout center. It had every piece of exercise equipment imaginable. The room was a three-dimensional infomercial. No wonder he was in such great shape, Desiree thought. Then he took her to his prized workroom in the attic space.

“This is where I do all the designing for the buildings,” he said with a note of pride.

Desiree stepped into the space that was filled with the tools of his trade: a drafting table, gooseneck lamp, another computer, filing cabinets and a wall filled with designs.

She turned to him. “I never knew you designed,” she said, surprised by the obvious talent. She took a closer look at the sketches.

“I don’t…not really.” He shrugged. “I kind of fool around. I took a couple of design classes just so that I would be able to get my ideas across.”

“I’m impressed.”

If he could blush he would have. “That means a lot coming from you.”

“It’s true, Lincoln.” She stepped close to him and looked into his eyes. “You were always talented. And you found a way to express it. It’s a gift.”

“Like yours?”

She turned away. “We’re not talking about me.”

“When will we talk about you, Desi? You can’t stay in hibernation forever. That’s why I brought you the easel and the paints. Art is in your blood, it’s like breathing to you. How long do you think you can go without it?”

She wrapped her arms around her body. “I’ve tried, Lincoln. I just need some time, that’s all.”

“But you seemed…happy with the gifts. Was that all an act?”

She took a breath. “I…I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“I see.”

“No. I don’t think you do, Lincoln. You weren’t in that room that night. You don’t know what it’s like to be so terrified that you can’t breathe, can’t sleep, are afraid of the dark, of being alone. Of having nightmares that are too real and the one thing you love is the catalyst for the recurring horror of it all.”

She turned and ran from the room, down the stairs and along the hallway to her bedroom. She shut and locked the door behind her. What she didn’t say was that even Lincoln was a painful reminder of what she could never have, as well.

* * *

Lincoln decided it was best to leave Desiree alone. It was apparent that all he’d attempted to do to help only made things worse. He walked into the living room to the bar and fixed himself a glass of rum and Coke.

He took his drink and turned on the stereo, slipping in his Kem CD. As the cool, jazzy sounds of the crooner’s voice gently filled the room, Lincoln leaned back against the couch cushions and sipped his drink, contemplating the past few days and especially the events of the evening.

It didn’t make sense to him that Desiree didn’t want to report what happened in her apartment to the police. Although her explanation sounded somewhat reasonable, he still had big doubts in his mind. If that guy would go so far as to practically rape her, what else was he capable of? He shuddered to think what would have happened had he not shown up when he did. He still had not told her about his conversation with her mother. Everything happened too fast, and now definitely was not a good time.

Lincoln sighed deeply and looked down the hall to where Desiree barricaded herself in her room. He’d heard the lock click on the door. Was she afraid of him, too? Or was it simply another one of her indirect “stay away from me” messages?

He couldn’t figure her out. One minute she acted as if things could be the same between them and then the next she acted as if he were her sworn enemy. Whatever it was, he was just as determined to get to the bottom of it all. He was not going to let her walk away from him this time.

Lincoln put his half-finished drink down on the coffee table, picked up the remote, aimed it at the television and put it on mute. At least the TV would keep him company.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he heard was a piercing scream that raised the hairs on his arms. He jumped up, disoriented and looked around in the semidark room. The scream came again, more intense this time.

Scrambling to his feet, he ran down the hall to Desiree’s room.

“Desi!” He pounded on the door. “Desi!”

He heard sobbing coming from the other side. He tried the knob. The door was locked. He rammed his shoulder against it…once, twice. The third time it gave way and the lock broke free from the frame. What he saw when he burst through the door chilled him to his bones.