Once upon a Dream (7 page)

“O
H
!”
THIS TIME
she instinctively covered herself. “You might have warned me.”

“I'll have you bathed in moonlight, and dressed in star-shine.”

She felt a tug, gentle but insistent, on her hands. Her arms lowered, spread out as if drawn by silken rope. “Flynn.”

“Let me touch you.” He kept his eyes on hers as he stepped forward, as he traced his fingertips down her throat, over the swell of her breasts. “Excite you.” He took her mouth in quick, little bites. “Possess you.”

Something slid through her mind, her body, at the same time. A coiled snake of heat that bound both together. The rise of it, so fast, so sharp, slashed through her. She hadn't the breath to cry out, she could only moan.

He had barely touched her.

“How can you…how could I—”

“I want to show you more this time.” Now his hands were on her, rough and insistent. Her skin was so soft, so
fragrant. In the moonlight it gleamed so that wherever he touched, the warmth bloomed on it. Roses on silk. “I want to take more this time.”

For a second time he took her flying. Though her feet never left the ground, she spun through the air. A fast, reckless journey. His mouth was on her, devouring flesh. She had no choice but to let him feed. And his greed erased her past reason so that her one desire was to be consumed.

Abandoning herself to it, she let her head fall back, murmuring his name like a chant as he ravished her.

He mated his mind with hers, thrilling to every soft cry, every throaty whimper. She stood open to him in the moonlight, soaked with pleasure and shuddering from its heat.

And such was his passion for her that his fingers left trails of gold over her damp flesh, trails that pulsed, binding her in tangled ribbons of pleasure.

When his mouth found hers again, the flavor exploded, sharp and sweet. Drunk on her, he lifted them both off the ground.

Now freed, her arms came tight around him, her nails scraping as she sought to hold, sought to find. She was hot against him, wet against him, her hips arching in rising demand.

He drove himself into her, one desperate thrust, then another. Another. With her answering beat for urgent beat, he let the animal inside him spring free.

His mind emptied but for her and that primal hunger they shared. The forest echoed with a call of triumph as that hunger swallowed them both.

 

She lay limp, useless. Used. A thousand wild horses could have stampeded toward her, and she wouldn't have moved a muscle.

The way Flynn had collapsed on her, and now lay like the dead, she imagined he felt the same.

“I'm so sorry,” she said on a long, long sigh.

“Sorry?” He slid his hand through the grass until it covered hers.

“Umm. So sorry for the women who don't have you for a lover.”

He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Generous of you,
mavourneen
. I prefer being smug that I'm the only man who's had the delights of you.”

“I saw stars. And not the ones up there.”

“So did I. You're the only one who's given me the stars.” He stirred, pressing his lips to the side of her breast before lifting his head. “And you give me an appetite as well—for all manner of succulent things.”

“I suppose that means you want
your
supper and we have to go back.”

“We have to do nothing but what pleases us. What would you like?”

“At the moment? I'd settle for some water. I've never been so thirsty.”

“Water, is it?” He angled his head, grinned. “That I can give you, and plenty.” He gathered her up and rolled. She managed a scream, and he a wild laugh, as they tumbled off the bank and hit the water of the pool with a splash.

 

It seemed miraculous to Kayleen how much she and Flynn had in common. Considering the circumstance and all that differed between them, it was an amazing thing that they found any topic to discuss or explore.

But then, Flynn hadn't sat idle for five hundred years. His love of something well made, even if its purpose was only for beauty, struck home with her. All of her life she'd been exposed to craftsmanship and aesthetics—the history of a table, the societal purpose of an enameled snuffbox, or the heritage of a serving platter. The few pieces she'd allowed herself to collect were special to her, not only because of their beauty but also because of their continuity.

She and Flynn had enjoyed many of the same books
and films, though he had read and viewed far more for the simple enjoyment of it than she.

He listened to her, posing questions about various phases of her life, until she was picking them apart for him and remembering events and things she'd seen or done or experienced that she'd long ago forgotten.

No one had ever been so interested in her before, in who she was and what she thought. What she felt. If he didn't agree, he would lure her into a debate or tease her into exploring a lighter side of herself rarely given expression.

It seemed she did the same for him, nudging him out of his brooding silences, or leaving him be until the mood had passed on its own.

But whenever she made a comment or asked a question about the future, those silences lasted long.

So she wouldn't ask, she told herself. She didn't need to know. What had planning and preciseness gotten her, really, but a life of sameness? Whatever happened when the week was up—God, why couldn't she remember what day it was—she would be content.

For now, every moment was precious.

He'd given her so much. Smiling, she wandered the house, running her fingers along the exquisite pearls, which she hadn't taken off since he'd put them around her neck. Not the gifts, she thought, though she treasured them, but romance, possibilities, and above all, a vision.

She had never seen so clearly before.

Love answered all questions.

What could she give him? Gifts? She had nothing. What little she still possessed was in the car she'd left abandoned in the wood. There was so little there, really, of the woman she'd become, and was still becoming.

She wanted to do something for him. Something that would make him smile.

Food. Delighted with the idea, she hurried back toward the kitchen. She'd never known anyone to appreciate a single bite of apple as much as Flynn.

Of course, since there wasn't any stove, she hadn't a clue what she could prepare, but…She swung into the kitchen, stopped short in astonishment.

There certainly was one beauty of a stove now. White and gleaming. All she'd done was mutter about having to boil water for tea over a fire and—poof!—he'd made a stove.

Well, she thought, and pushed up her sleeves, she would see just what she could do with it.

 

In his workroom, Flynn gazed through one of his windows on the world. He'd intended to focus on Kayleen's home so that he could replicate some of her things for her. He knew what it was to be without what you had, what had mattered to you.

For a time he lost himself there, moving his mind through the rooms where she had once lived, studying the way she'd placed her furniture, what books were on her shelves, what colors she'd favored.

How tidy it all was, he thought with a great surge in his heart. Everything so neatly in place, and so tastefully done. Did it upset her sense of order to be in the midst of his hodgepodge?

He would ask her. They could make some adjustments. But why the hell hadn't the woman had more color around her? And look at the clothes in the closet. All of them more suited to a spinster—no, that wasn't the word used well these days. Plain attire without the richness of fabric and the brilliance of color that so suited his Kayleen.

She would damn well leave them behind if he had any say in it.

But she would want her photographs, and that lovely pier glass there, and that lamp. He began to set them in his mind, the shape and dimensions, the tone and texture. So deep was his concentration that he didn't realize the image had changed until the woman crossed his vision.

She walked through the rooms, her hands clasped tightly together. A lovely woman, he noted. Smaller than
Kayleen, fuller at the breasts and hips, but with the same coloring. She wore her dark hair short, and it swung at her cheeks as she moved.

Compelled, he opened the window wider and heard her speak.

“Oh, baby, where are you? Why haven't you called? It's almost a week. Why can't we find you? Oh, Kayleen.” She picked up a photograph from a table, pressed it to her. “Please be all right. Please be okay.”

With the picture hugged to her heart, she dropped into a chair and began to weep.

Flynn slammed the window shut and turned away.

He would not be moved. He would not.

Time was almost up. In little more than twenty-four hours, the choice would be behind him. Behind them all.

He closed his mind to a mother's grief. But he wasn't fully able to close his heart.

His mood was edgy when he left the workroom. He meant to go outside, to walk it off. Perhaps to whistle up Dilis and ride it off. But he heard her singing.

He'd never heard her sing before. A pretty voice, he thought, but it was the happiness in it that drew him back to the kitchen.

She was stirring something on the stove, something in the big copper kettle that smelled beyond belief.

It had been a very long time since he'd come into a kitchen where cooking was being done. But he was nearly certain that was what had just happened. Since it was almost too marvelous to believe, he decided to make sure of it.

“Kayleen, what are you about there?”

“Oh!” Her spoon clattered, fell out of her hand and plopped into the pot. “Damn it, Flynn! You startled me. Now look at that, I've drowned the spoon in the sauce.”

“Sauce?”

“I thought I'd make spaghetti. You have a very unusual collection of ingredients in your kitchen. Peanut butter, pickled herring, enough chocolate to make an entire ele
mentary school hyper for a month. However, I managed to find plenty of herbs, and some lovely ripe tomatoes, so this seemed the safest bet. Plus you have ten pounds of spaghetti pasta.”

“Kayleen, are you cooking for me?”

“I know it must seem silly, as you can snap up a five-star meal for yourself without breaking a sweat. But there's something to be said for home cooking. I'm a very good cook. I took lessons. Though I've never attempted to make sauce in quite such a pot, it should be fine.”

“The pot's wrong?”

“Oh, well, I'd do better with my own cookware, but I think I've made do. You had plenty of fresh vegetables in your garden, so I—”

“Just give me a few moments, won't you? I'll need a bit of time.”

And before she could answer, he was gone.

“Well.” She shook her head and went back to trying to save the spoon.

She had everything under control again, had adjusted the heat to keep the sauce at low simmer, when a clatter behind her made her jolt. The spoon plopped back into the sauce.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” She turned around, then stumbled back. There was a pile of pots and pans on the counter beside her.

“I replicated them,” Flynn said with a grin. “Which took me a little longer, but I didn't want to argue with you about it. Then you might not feed me.”

“My pots!” She fell on them with the enthusiasm of a mother for lost children.

More enthusiasm, Flynn realized as she chattered and held up each pan and lid to examine, than she'd shown for the jewels he'd given her.

Because they were hers. Something that belonged to her. Something from her world.

And his heart grew heavy.

“This is going to be good.” She stacked the cookware
neatly, selected the proper pot. “I know it must seem a waste of time and effort to you,” she said as she transferred the sauce. “But cooking's a kind of art. It's certainly an occupation. I'm used to being busy. A few days of leisure is wonderful, but I'd go crazy after a while with nothing to do. Now I can cook.”

While the sauce simmered in the twenty-first-century pot, she carried the ancient kettle to the sink to wash it. “And dazzle you with my brilliance,” she added with a quick, laughing glance over her shoulder.

“You already dazzle me.”

“Well, just wait. I was thinking, as I was putting all this together, that I could spend weeks, months, really, organizing around here. Not having a pattern is one thing, but having no order at all is another. You could use a catalogue system for your books. And some of the rooms are just piled with things. I don't imagine you even know what there is. You could use a listing of your art, and the antiques, your music. You have the most extensive collection of antique toys I've ever seen. When we have children…”

She trailed off, her hands fumbling in the soapy water. Children. Could they have children? What were the rules? Might she even now be pregnant? They'd done nothing to prevent conception. Or she hadn't, she thought, pressing her lips together.

How could she know what he might have done?

“Listen to me.” She shook her hair back, briskly rinsed the pot. “Old habits. Lists and plans and procedures. The only plan we need right now is what sort of dressing I should make for the salad.”

“Kayleen.”

“No, no, this is my performance here. You'll just have to find something to do until curtain time.” She heard the sorrow in his voice, the regret. And had her answers. “Everything should be ready in an hour. So, out.”

She turned, smiling, shooing at him. But her voice was too thick.

“I'll go and tend to Dilis, then.”

“Good, that's fine.”

He left the room, waited. When the tear fell from her eye he brought it from her cheek into his palm. And watched it turn to ashes.