Falling Awake (3 page)

Ken grimaced and looked at Sphinx. “So, you not only wind up saving the old man’s cat from the pound, you also salvaged thirty or forty years’ worth of Belvedere’s crazy private research. You’re too soft-hearted, Isabel.”

Sphinx flattened his ears. Isabel stiffened and pushed her new, black-framed glasses up on her nose. In addition to spending a fortune on hairstylists in the past few months, she had also invested heavily in expensive, fashionable optical wear in an attempt to find a
look
.

The exotic, elegantly sculpted frames had been designed in Italy. The salesperson in the optical shop had assured her that they made a statement and brought out the green-gold color of her eyes but she had serious doubts. She had a nasty feeling that another trip to the optician’s shop was on the horizon.

That was what came of finally obtaining a professional-level position with an excellent salary and benefits, she thought. The exhilaration of having a stable income at last had enabled her to splurge on a variety of long-delayed indulgences. Her former
career as an operator on the Psychic Dreamer Hotline had not stretched to high-end salons and Italian spectacles.

The new clothes and fashion accessories were the least of her major purchases in the past year. The really big investment had been the furniture, all of which had come from Europe and all of which was currently still in the original packing crates and sitting in a rented storage locker because she had not yet found the Dream House.

She frowned at Ken. “Just because no one would publish Dr. B.’s research does not mean that his theories were crazy. Oh, I know what the staff said about him behind his back but you and the others should keep in mind that Dr. B. was your employer and he paid all of us very generous salaries.”

Ken winced. “You’re right. I suppose it would be more polite to call his theories ‘out of the mainstream.’ Anyhow, like I was saying, in my dream I’m in my car, heading toward the intersection. I can see another car, a red one, entering the intersection from the street on the left. I know that if I don’t stop, I’m going to smash right into the other vehicle. I can see people inside the other car. A woman and a kid. I want to yell at them to stop but I can’t—”

“But you know they can’t hear you and you can’t get your foot off the accelerator and there will be a terrible disaster if you don’t find a way to stop the car,” Isabel concluded, opening a drawer to remove her new designer shoulder bag. “We’ve been over this a dozen times, Ken. You know what’s going on as well as I do.”

Ken exhaled heavily and seemed to slump in on himself. The happy-go-lucky facade disintegrated. He rubbed his face in a weary gesture.

“The heart thing?” he said.

“Yes.” She straightened and met his eyes. Her own heart sank when she saw the veiled fear that lurked in his gaze. “The heart thing.”

“Yeah, sure.” He tried for a wry smile. “I knew that. Hey, I’m an expert on sleep, right? Dr. Kenneth Payne, neuropsychologist and fellow here at the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research. I know an anxiety dream when I see one.”

She walked toward him and came to a halt a step away. “I can only give you the same advice today that I gave you the first time you and I talked about the car dreams. Make the appointment with the doctor, Ken.”

“I know, I know.”

“You’re a doctor, yourself. What would you tell one of your patients if he was in your shoes?”

“My doctorate is in psychology, not medicine.”

“All the more reason you should realize that you can’t postpone this any longer. Make the appointment with the cardiologist. Give him your family medical history. Tell him that your father and your grandfather both dropped dead from heart attacks in their late forties. Get a thorough physical workup.”

“What if it turns out I’ve got the same genetic heart defect that killed my dad and granddad?”

“They died decades ago. You’re living in a different time and
place. There are new therapies and treatments available for all kinds of heart problems these days. You know that as well as I do.”

“And if it can’t be fixed?”

She touched his shoulder. “The dreams aren’t going to stop until you know whether or not you inherited the genetic problem. That little kid you see in the car in the intersection? The one whose face you can’t quite make out? That’s the son you may or may not have someday; the one you’re afraid to have because you think you might pass along whatever it is that is killing the men in your family.”

His face tightened. “You’re right. I know it. I’ve got to act. Susan is starting to get restless. I can feel it. Last night she asked me if there was something I wasn’t telling her.”

“There
is
something you aren’t telling her. You’re afraid to tell her because you think it might scare her off.”

“What woman in her right mind would want to risk starting a family with a man who has a serious genetic defect?”

“Make the appointment. Find out whether or not you’ve got the defect. And if it turns out you do have it, find out if there is anything that can be done to fix it.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll make the call.”

She went back to her desk, found the phone beneath a jumble of papers and picked up the receiver. “Make it now.”

Ken looked at the phone with the expression of a man who has just been invited to pick up a deadly snake. Then he glanced at his watch. “I’m a little busy this morning. Maybe after my next meeting.”

“Make the call now, Ken, or don’t ever darken my doorway to ask for an analysis of any of your dreams again.” She held the receiver out to him, striving to sound as forceful and determined as possible. “I won’t listen to another one if you don’t call the doctor this minute. I mean it.”

He looked surprised by her tone but he must have sensed that she was serious. Slowly he took the phone from her with one hand. With his other hand, he removed a small notebook from the pocket of his white lab coat.

She looked at the notebook. “The doctor’s phone number?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twisted sheepishly. “I wrote it down, just like you told me last week.”

Relief lightened her spirits. “That was a good first step. Congratulations. Now, make the call.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He punched the number out with deliberate, methodical movements of one finger.

Satisfied that this time he was going to go through with the call to the doctor, Isabel went quickly toward the door. “I’ll check back with you after my meeting with the new Dr. Belvedere.”

“That reminds me, did you hear the latest rumors making the rounds this morning?”

She paused and looked back at him. Ken had finished punching out the number and was now sitting in her chair. He reached for the teapot on the table behind the desk. People did things like that when they came into her office, she reflected. They had no professional respect for the work she performed here at the center but they felt quite free to make themselves at home while
they drank her expensive green tea and told her about the dream they’d had the previous night.

“What rumors?” she asked.

“Word is that Randy, the Boy Wonder, is convinced that he can turn the center into a hot acquisition target that will attract one of the big pharmaceutical companies.”

She had heard enough about the new director to know that “Randy, the Boy Wonder” was the nickname the staff had bestowed upon Dr. Randolph G. Belvedere, the old man’s sole heir.

“The gossip just started this morning,” Ken continued. Then he broke off abruptly. He put down the teapot. “Yes, this is Dr. Kenneth Payne,” he said very formally into the phone. His eyes locked with Isabel’s. “I want to make an appointment with Dr. Richardson.”

Isabel flashed him an approving smile, gave him a thumbs-up and hurried off down the corridor.

The interior of the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research was a maze of white hallways and stairwells that connected three floors of offices and labs. She had a lengthy hike ahead of her because the small Department of Dream Analysis where she worked was located on the third floor in a wing of the building. Dr. B.’s old office was on the same floor but in another wing.

She glanced at her watch again and stifled a groan. She was going to be late. Not the best way to start things off with a new boss.

She rounded the first corner, her lab coat flapping wildly in her wake, and nearly collided with the good-looking man emerging from a stairwell.

“What’s the rush, Izzy?” Ian Jarrow asked, chuckling.

“Late for a meeting with the new director.” She did not pause. “See you later.”

“Hey, you did something to your hair, didn’t you?” His eyes crinkled very nicely when he smiled.

“Yes.”

“It’s cute.” He reached out as she went past, evidently intending to snag some of the wispy tendrils. “I like it.”

“Thanks.” She dodged his hand and hurried away, out of reach.

Aaargh.
Cute. That did it. The style definitely had to go. Mr. Nicholas had promised to make her look sexy, not cute. Cute was for little girls and poodles.

Well, at least Ian had actually noticed her new cut, she thought, trying for a positive spin. That was better than having him not notice any change at all. But it was too late to make any difference in their relationship. They had stopped dating a month ago, right after Ian took her out to dinner and gently explained that he considered her a good friend, someone he could really talk to, almost a
sister.
He added that he hoped the fact that they would no longer be seeing each other privately wouldn’t affect their friendship.

She could have written the script for him. All of her relationships ended in a similar, disturbingly mundane fashion. Men started out wanting to tell her their dreams, proceeded to ask her for advice and ended up regarding her as a good friend; the sister they never had.

If one more man told her he thought of her as a sister, she would be sorely tempted to strangle him with his tie.

The worst part was that now, at thirty-three, she was pretty sure she was on borrowed time. By forty, the line about thinking of her as a sister would probably metamorphose into
you’re like an aunt to me
.

Just once it would be interesting to have a man look at her and see a warning sign:
CAUTION
,
DANGEROUS CURVES AHEAD
. And know that he would keep on coming, regardless, like the exciting, mysterious man she fantasized about in her dreams.

Maybe she should try something a little more radical in the fashion line, she mused. Maybe it was time to purchase a pair of stiletto heels and a leather bustier. She had a sudden vision of herself striding the halls of the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research dressed as a dominatrix.

Ahead in the hallway, the door of the ladies’ room opened. A tall, striking woman garbed in a hand-tailored lab coat stepped out.

“Isabel.”

“Hello, Dr. Netley.”

Amelia Netley’s stellar résumé listed a number of glowing degrees and achievements in the field of sleep research. But it was her red hair, cool blue eyes and long, elegant legs that kept everyone buzzing. Isabel thought of her as a sort of modern-day Boadicea. Like the ancient queen of the Iceni who led the famous rebellion against the Romans in the British Isles, there was something regal and dedicated about her.

A number of betting pools had been formed to pick the name of the lucky man she would deign to date first but Isabel had a feeling that Amelia would keep everyone guessing for a while.

“Is something wrong?” Amelia asked, auburn brows drawing together in concern. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Got a meeting with the new director.”

“Really? That seems strange.”

Amelia had not been intentionally rude, Isabel decided. It was just that her people skills were somewhat deficient. It was not an uncommon problem among members of the research staff.

“Why do you say that?” Isabel asked politely.

Amelia’s fine brows puckered a bit. “I heard that he has scheduled a meeting with each of the various department heads today. You’re only a research assistant.”

Isabel resisted the urge to grind her back teeth. She admired Amelia in some ways. She had even toyed with the idea of using her as a role model. Lately she had begun to wonder how she herself would look with red hair. But there was no getting around the fact that Amelia occasionally exhibited a certain lack of tact.

That did not make her unique on the center’s staff, Isabel reminded herself. No one except Dr. B. had ever taken the tiny Department of Dream Analysis seriously and that meant that no one had ever taken her own position as the center’s one-and-only dream analyst seriously.

She summoned what she hoped was a cool, confident smile. “Shortly before he died, Dr. B. made it clear that he intended to appoint me head of the Department of Dream Analysis. Now that he’s gone, I’m really the only one qualified to take the position.”

Amelia’s eyes widened faintly. Then, somewhat to Isabel’s surprise, she nodded crisply, as if the thought had not occurred to
her prior to this moment but now that it had, it made perfect sense.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” she said, her expression brightening. “Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” Isabel turned to rush off down the hall.

“By the way,” Amelia said, “I mentioned to Dr. Belvedere that you were the person who found his father’s body.”

Isabel paused again. “Did you?”

“Yes. Just thought I’d warn you in case he brings up the subject.”

“Thanks.”

“Finding the old man dead at his desk must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“It was. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Certainly.” Amelia actually winked. “I’ll look forward to seeing your name on the next list of department heads.”

Absurdly pleased by this small show of collegial acceptance, Isabel inclined her head and tried to appear modest.

“I hope so.”

She turned the corner and walked swiftly toward her destination. Visions of her future flashed before her eyes. The promotion to department head would not only elevate her status at the center, it would mean a hefty increase in salary. She did the calculations and concluded that if she was careful, the raise would enable her to pay off her credit card debt ahead of schedule. In a few months, she might even be able to start looking for the
Dream House. She was tired of living in apartments. She longed for a home of her own.