In Your Wildest Dreams (26 page)

She tensed slightly, and he chuckled.

"No worries,
chère.
No leaks in my boat."

She cast a sheepish smile, tilting her head. "I thought Louisiana had alligators, not crocodiles."

He nodded. "But my ancestors didn't know the difference, started callin' 'em
cocodries
and it stuck."

"Mmm," she said, seeming to relax, turning to study the small, dark caiman where it rested still as a statue. Never scared for long, his Miss Chardonnay.

They'd had sex twice more before falling asleep last night—the same slow, sensual sex as the first time, but with each liaison she'd grown a little more daring, planting her hands on his ass to pull him deeper inside her, once wrapping her legs around his back. Common fare for most people, but not for Stephanie—he knew without her saying so. He felt like she'd been a closed-up little flower and last night he'd watched her begin to blossom, stretching her petals a little wider each time they connected.

And she had a lovely little bottom, but that wasn't really why he'd been checking it out last night. For some reason, even when she'd said no, he'd had to see for himself that she didn't have a flower tattooed there—like in one of the dreams.

One more sign you're losing your mind, once and for all.
He gave his head a short shake with the realization that fife had seemed a little off-kilter since the moment Stephanie Grant had arrived. Then again, life hadn't exactly been on-kilter before that, so maybe he was just imagining things.

The second time they'd made love had been after his little examination of her rear. The third time after he'd woken from the dream—in total shock.

Because why the hell was he still having erotic, needful dreams when he'd just gotten the satisfaction his body had clearly needed so damn bad? He'd been sure it was simple lust causing the dreams, that they'd been nothing more than wishes in the night, because he couldn't have her. But now he
could
have her,
had
had her, so the dream had left him feeling more disturbed than usual.

After dreaming of sex, it had seemed natural to reach for her. The room had been dark, the lamp extinguished, only a thin ribbon of moonglow lighting his way. And like the dream—God, how the need had struck him, like something new and overwhelming. He'd been glad they were both half asleep, glad her sighs of pleasure came with closed eyes, glad she couldn't see the emotion surely dripping from his face. He still didn't understand it and it was damn unsettling.

A blue dragonfly buzzed, flitting in between them in the boat before darting away, and the silence began to bother him. He was normally content to go hours without speaking, even if he was with someone, but he supposed this was just part of feeling uncertain about last night. "You're quiet," he said.

"Tired," she replied softly, offering a smile. "You wore me out."

His own grin escaped, unbidden. He liked the idea of having caused her exhaustion. They'd definitely had that hot, slow, all-night-long sex he'd been thinking about lately.

'Tell me about the house," she said.

He raised his eyes to her—she was pretty in the morning, even sans makeup and hairbrush, high pink color lighting her cheekbones. "Already told you about the house."

"No, about the work you're doing on it. The new floor in the kitchen and the new sink. Are you going to move back out here or something?"

No, just run away to it whenever I can.
"It's just a weekend place for me now," he said instead.

"And you're doing all the refurbishing yourself?"

He nodded.
Hard physical labor makes it so I think less and sleep better. It fills the days when I have nothing else to fill them.
"It's cheap that way."

She looked down at the boat they floated in and said, "How do you get the materials out there? Surely not in this?"

He laughed softly. "No,
beb.
There's a road leads up to the front of the house. But if I'm not haulin' anything, takin' the water cuts the trip by half."

"You love it there." Not a question, a statement.

"Yeah, it's . .."
Safe. Private. Far away from the bad stuff.
"It's home."

She glanced down at her toes for a minute, then met his gaze. "I'm glad I followed you last night."

He let the corners of his mouth turn up just slightly. "Me too,
chère."
Much to my surprise.

Up ahead, a clearing split the elderberry bushes and willows that hugged the shore. The landing came into view and Jake angled the boat toward it.

Five minutes later, he'd locked up the pirogue and was shutting her into her car. Her window lowered immediately and her blue eyes pierced him. "I wish I could ride back with you."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he stooped next to the sedan, rested his bent arms on the door, and gave her a warm—but short—kiss.

She tilted her head, offering a soft laugh. "That was a horrible thing to say. It sounded so high school."

"Not so horrible," he admitted. Even though he thought it was probably good for them to be parting ways now. Because no matter what he'd felt with her last night, it still didn't—
couldn't
—mean anything. Good sex.
Great
sex. That was all. "You'll need to follow me back, make sure you don't lose your way."

She nodded. "But can you slow down a little, Speed Racer? I had a hell of a time keeping up with you last night."

He laughed. "Sure,
beb.
I'll make sure I keep you in my rearview 'til we get back to town."

And then?
She didn't ask, but the question hung in the air.

"I'll drop by to get Tina's pictures from you later, or tomorrow sometime."

She nodded. And he relaxed a little. He'd added the "or tomorrow" part so she'd understand he wouldn't be sharing a bed with her again tonight. He couldn't say he wouldn't be doing it again
sometime,
but he had no plans to let this become an every-night thing.

Even so, when she said, "Good-bye, Jake—and about last night, thank you for being so patient with me," impulse drove him to lean through the window for one more kiss, this one complete with tongues and her soft sigh, shooting heat straight to his groin.

"No,
chère,
thank you."

They exchanged a quick last look that spoke of fresh desire and propelled him away from her and into his truck before he did anything stupid like open her door and drag her into the backseat. What they'd shared had been damn hot, but the guilt was beginning to set in now.

Starting the old truck, he reached down to shift gears, then circled around Stephanie's car and headed up the gravel road away from the bayou.

Being with another woman was one thing, but being with another woman and experiencing so much emotion, that sense of attachment—
that
felt like betrayal. Even if Becky wasn't around to feel betrayed anymore. As he braked at the end of the unpaved thoroughfare, it felt almost as if Becky sat next to him in the truck, knowing what he'd done—knowing how bad he'd wanted Stephanie, and how good it had all felt
...
in more than just a physical way.

That was it—he was losing it. Ghosts in the Quarter, that was one thing. But ghosts in the damn truck with him? He had to be out of his mind. Becky wasn't here. The sad, still-painful truth was
...
Becky wasn't anywhere.

But he had to move on, didn't he? Wasn't Tony always saying that? His mother too. "She'd want you to be happy," his mom always said—most recently over fried chicken at the tiny table in her little kitchen, the place still smelling of peroxide and perm solution.

"If she could have what she wanted," he'd replied, "she'd still be here with me." They would still live in the little house he'd been refurbishing, she'd still be teaching second grade at the little school nearby. Life would still be great.

Jake shook his head. Sometimes that life seemed a world away, like something he'd made up, or just dreamed. He'd never expected to find someone like Becky, someone who'd made him feel so good about himself, someone who'd had enough goodness for both of them—she'd made him a better man than he'd been before her.

Other days, he woke up still not quite believing it was all gone and that he'd sold the house and traded in the car and moved into a shithole because it didn't matter where he lived anymore.

Shake this off man.
Stephanie had made him feel so good last night—why couldn't he just be happy about that?

You have to try.

He wasn't sure where the words came from, but it was as if they'd been whispered in his ear. He knew they were true. He had to believe it was okay to have had astounding sex with Stephanie. Mostly, he had to believe it was okay to do it
again
—because even as anxious as he'd been to get in his truck and put that little bit of distance between them, he already wanted more.

He had to believe something else, too. He had to believe he could find Tina Grant. Because he
had
to now. He had to give Stephanie her sister back. He didn't think he could bear it if he let her down.

Just then, he remembered she was following him and glanced in his rearview mirror. Damn—he could barely make out her car a good distance behind. He stepped on the brake and berated himself.
You 're thinking about the woman so much you forgot about her.

Within thirty seconds she came speeding up behind him. He slowed to a crawl so that she came up even closer, then rolled down his window and hung his head out to yell, "Sorry,
beb."

"Good thing you're not still a cop," she yelled in reply, "or you'd have to give yourself a ticket."

He smiled at her in his mirror, saw her smile back. Felt it warm his heart. And the insides of his thighs. After which he pressed the gas pedal, because he was already starting to think it would be easy just to stop here, just pull off the quiet roadway and relieve that ache with her one last time before they headed back to the city.

But he already had enough guilt eating at him—he didn't need any more.

"Bye for now,
chère,"
he murmured in the mirror, then tried to concentrate on what else he could do to look for Tina as he headed back toward New Orleans.

Stephanie pushed through the door to her room feeling like a new woman. A satisfied woman. A woman who finally understood what the fuss over sex was all about.

She fell onto the bed, giggling like a teenager after her first kiss. Hugging a velvet bolster, she lay staring at the ceiling, reefing in the wonder of it all. Oh God, it had been so good! The memory made her let out a sexy little growl. And Jake had been so patient, so sweet—and so utterly
incredible.

She wished she could tell Tina. Her sister popped to mind instantly—the only female Stephanie was close to who she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, would
get
this, and would think it was as wonderful as she did.

Where are you, Tina?

On impulse, she tossed the round pillow aside and reached for the bedside phone. She dialed her own number in Chicago, keying in the code to retrieve messages as she did every day, just in case her sister had left something on her answering machine. But still no Tina.

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, she went to her laptop. She doubted Tina would e-mail her—mainly because she doubted Tina was anyplace where she had computer access. Yet she longed to talk to her sister so badly right now that she couldn't help checking every possible method of contact.

Nothing in her e-mailbox looked promising, though, and her stomach churned at the sight of all the new messages from Grable & Harding.
Yech.
Clenching her teeth in distaste, she opened the first to find one of her coworkers just needed a quick answer on something. She typed in a response and sent it off. The next message, however, wasn't as simple and would take some time. Nor was the next. Or the next.

The last message was from Curtis. She grimaced at seeing his name.

S—

Bad news. Things are getting sticky with the phone co. campaign.
Rod
Hartman
there is wondering where you are and seems shaky about dealing with anyone else. Can you call him and put his mind at ease?