While She Was Sleeping... (8 page)

And, yes, about Sawyer.

The longer she tossed and turned, the closer the clock crept to the hour she’d decided to get up, the less she realized she’d sleep and the more agitated she became. Honestly.

Finally, she felt her body relax as exhaustion took over. She could survive. Just a few hours of sleep…just a few…

It was time to get up. Her alarm was beeping, but she couldn’t get to it. Couldn’t make herself move. Someone was here in the room with her. Sawyer, taking her picture over and over again, then climbing into bed with her. Why couldn’t she wake up? She hadn’t taken a pill this time. She needed to wake up before his tongue and fingers and hands made her surrender again, before she fell so in love with him that she couldn’t leave at all.

No, Sawyer. Stop.

He didn’t, surrounded her with his body, undressed her, touched her everywhere. He was clothed, then naked, his chest hot against her, his thighs insistently parting her legs.

No, no, no.

He chuckled softly.
No means yes when you’re with me.

Then he was inside her, and her body caught fire from the inside out while his stayed cool and solid, urging her upward toward a climax that hovered just out of her reach.

In Florida, Gran and Grandad were trapped by a fallen tree, calling for her, calling while she was in bed with the man of her dreams.

I love you, Alana. Stay with me. I can’t live without—

Alana woke up, breathless with panic, wildly aroused…and alone.

“Oh my God.” She rose to her elbows, pushed her damp hair back from her face. Or more appropriately, “Oh,
thank
God.”

Just a dream. Sawyer wasn’t with her. Gran and Grandad were safe. Alana had time to get to them and make sure they stayed that way, though with her shaky and sick from not enough sleep, the drive loomed impossibly long and lonely ahead of her. A crazy undertaking.

Why had she dreamed Sawyer was in love with her?

More crazy. And crazier still to feel warm and blissful and cared-for and desirable when her dream thought he did.

She laughed to illustrate how gosh-darn wacky it was, but something in her heart refused to smirk along and the laughter never quite convinced her.

Did she mention crazy?

She dragged her eyes to the clock. Three-thirty. She’d planned to get up at four, might as well cut her losses and do it now.

Yawning, she stumbled to the bathroom, not thinking about Sawyer standing there hours earlier, not thinking about his warm body in the dream, not thinking about being unaccountably sad leaving him, not thinking about him, not thinking, not, not, not.

She showered, shivering from lack of sleep, towel-dried
her hair, then threw the towel sleepily around her and went back out into the hallway.

“Hi.”

She couldn’t believe it. She absolutely could not believe it. Had he been
listening
for her? Had he somehow known he could find her damp and naked except for draped terry cloth? “What are
you
doing up?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t sleep. You?”

“I’m…me, neither.”

“So you thought a shower would help?”

Alana sighed. “I figured I’d just leave now.”

“Sneaking out, huh?” He took a step toward her as he had earlier, but this time darkness made the wide hallway seem even more intimate, and this time Alana doubted Melanie would burst out of her room to interrupt; she was a reliable and heavy sleeper.

So this time Alana had to deal with him all by herself, and rely on her common sense and her strength and—

“Mmm, you smell good.”

“Um. Well.” She backed up. “Strawberry shampoo. Could you not stand so close?”

“Why?” He was barely making tone, but the silence in the house was so profound his voice traveled easily.

“Because…you’re too close.” She edged toward her room, hugging the wall at her back.

He followed. “Too close for what?”

Too close for sanity.
“For rules of personal space.”

“Answer this for me, Alana.”

She frowned, not liking the note of intimacy that had crept into his voice. “What?”

“Do I make you as insane as you make me?”

Her breathing hit a speed bump. “I have no idea. I don’t know how insane I make—”

“Completely…” He laid a finger on her bare shoulder, let it trail sensually down her arm.

No. He was
not
going to do this to her again. She was attracted to him, yes. So what. “Look, Sawyer, I’m on my way to Florida in about fifteen minutes, so there’s no point in starting anything.”

“We already started something. This is finishing. Or no, I don’t like the sound of that. How about starting phase two?”

“Uh…no.” To her delight, common sense gained ground against her dream and his magnetism. “My sister is nuts about you, you’re going on a date tomorrow with Debbie, the woman you tried to pick up a few nights ago, but gee, who cares about any of that, how about a quickie with Alana while she’s still here?”

“I never said anything about quick.” He laughed at her glare, but without much humor. “Well, Alana, I’ll say this, you sure know how to make a guy feel good.”

Perfect. She was on a roll. “Sawyer, I am attracted to you, and the other night was really and very weirdly amazing, but…what’s the point?”

“The point is that we can make each other feel good and I can distract you for a few extremely satisfying days until after the hurricane, because it’s a dangerous decision to go now, a decision which will put an unfair burden of worry on your grandparents who already have plenty to worry about just taking care of themselves, which it sounds like they can do just fine without you, not to mention an unfair burden of worry on Melanie and…” He stopped for a breath and his gaze intensified. “On me.”

She nearly growled. The last thing she wanted was for him to start making sense. “I need to be there.”

“
You
need. This is about
you.
You can’t stand your grandparents being there and you being here with danger approaching, because you love and want to protect them. I get that. I
admire it. But putting yourself in the same danger isn’t going to help them. They’ve been responsible, they’ve taken care of everything.” His lips curved in a small smile. “They’ve even asked you not to make the trip so they don’t have to worry.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.
He
wasn’t supposed to be winning with common sense. How the hell was she supposed to think this through clearly standing naked in a towel with him so close? Right now, she was afraid he could tell her she was descended from a family of Irish tree frogs and she’d believe him. “So you’re going to distract me with sex?”

“I was planning to.” He put his hands on the wall on either side of her head; she felt trapped by his body and wasn’t sure she minded. “Until you graciously pointed out that I’m an unfeeling player who uses women indiscriminately to serve my body and my enormous ego. That what I feel for you is nothing special at all, that there isn’t some extraordinary pull between us that defies logic and explanation. Right? Isn’t that what you said?”

She had no idea what she’d said and less what to say now. He spoke in a low, even voice, but his words had the same impact as if he’d been shouting at her.

“Why are you so anxious to judge me badly? You take each shred of circumstantial evidence you can possibly use against me, then pump it up into an insurmountable character flaw.” He lowered his face an inch from hers; she forced herself to focus on his chin, except even that was sexy to her. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.” Her hoarse whisper trembled. Her body followed suit. She was terrified, and she didn’t know why.

“Then don’t stop me. I dare you.” His mouth found hers in a slow, gentle kiss that reached her so deeply it terrified her more. She pulled away. “Don’t.”

“Shh.” He slid his hands up the wall, moved closer, kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheek. The only sound was her shallow breathing, catching with each touch of his lips.

She couldn’t move, caught in the grip of exactly opposing forces, half instructing her to respond, half instructing her to break free.

“I have no romantic feelings for Melanie.” He slid a warm hand under her hair, tipped her head back so she was forced to meet his dark eyes, serious under dark lashes, his features softened in the glow from the bathroom light which she’d been too startled to shut off. “I’m having coffee with Debbie tomorrow morning. Not exactly a hot date. After meeting you, I can barely remember what she looks like.”

Alana lowered her eyes. Too much intensity, too powerful, too much temptation to believe him, believe everything, then take it further until she was expecting to live the dream she just had and believe he loved her. “Stop doing this.”

“What, being right? Being sensible? Being made insane by you?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “I want you safe, Alana. And to prove that I’m not just out to get laid, I promise you that I will stay completely brotherly the rest of your time here, if that’s a day, a week, a month or forever. Okay?”

She nodded dazedly, already feeling a sharp loss. “Okay.”

“Good.” He pushed away from the wall. “We have a deal. You stay until Cynthia’s passed, and I act the perfect gentleman.”

“Yes. Okay.” She’d stay, not only because he asked her to, or bullied her into it, but because on some level she knew taking the trip now was madness. On some level she was grateful he reined in her blind obsession to do her duty and got her to acknowledge the right choice.

“Just one thing.” He leaned in again.

She shrank back. “Oh, no.”

“I’ll keep my promise.” A slow, wicked grin lit his face and melted a part of her she needed to stay solid and strong if she
was going to make it intact through the next few days. “But there’s nothing stopping you from inviting me to do whatever you want, however you want, whenever you want it.”

S
AWYER SHOWED UP
at Alterra by the Lake coffeehouse for his morning date with Debbie slightly crabby. He’d been back home in Whitefish Bay in his workshop basement, locked safely away from the fearless nephew foursome, working on his new bedside table, today cutting pieces for the drawer. He wasn’t the world’s most gifted cabinetmaker, but he loved the work, the precision of measuring and cutting, the smell and feel of the wood, the satisfaction of working with his hands. He’d forgotten the way he could lose himself in the pleasure of the job. Why couldn’t work be that way all the time? He couldn’t remember once losing himself in the sensuous pleasure of writing briefs or researching precedents. And yet, he had no one to blame but himself in betraying his passion and marching like a child after the Pied Piper into a career that would please his family above himself. He was just lucky he got out before it killed him.

Some aspects of returning to regular full-time work appealed to him—he wasn’t the type to be happy dithering around for the rest of his life—but losing the freedom to create wasn’t one of them.

A woman carrying a whipped-cream-topped beverage bumped his arm. Not Debbie. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d
been absorbed in the work, totally unaware of time passing, a Bach CD playing in the background, when Maria called down asking him to move his car. One glance at his watch and he’d used language his discipline-happy father would have locked him in the garage for. Sawyer resented the interruption, wasn’t looking forward to the date—Alana had blocked out any interest in Debbie—and he hated being late. Strike three.

Alterra was a Milwaukee institution. This café, Alterra by the Lake, situated, not surprisingly, across the street from Lake Michigan, inhabited an old flushing station for the city of Milwaukee waterworks. The pale brick interior, waterwheel and pump-room equipment were all original. In renovating, architects had made clever use of the existing space by providing two levels of seating—mezzanine and balcony—besides the first floor, where a cheerfully cluttered service counter offered Alterra’s own coffees, teas, baked goods, breakfast items and sandwiches.

Another quick look around, half-afraid he wouldn’t recognize Debbie since he’d been slightly out of his mind the night they met, Sawyer was relieved to see a familiar auburn head smiling from a table upstairs by the iron railing. He waved, pointed to the counter to show he’d be getting a drink, and ordered a plain black French Roast.

Up the stairs to the mezzanine level, most tables taken by students and adults chatting or glued to laptops, he climbed the next flight to the balcony seating which ran across the back of the building and gave an expansive view of the shop and the lake through the arched windows.

“Hi, Sawyer.” She offered her hand and another smile, even warmer than the first.

Her fingers were cool, her grip firm, her yellow top low-cut, her black skirt short. Sawyer took the seat opposite, wishing he were still in his basement. Life was confusing enough right now. He’d convinced Alana to stay on a few more days for
her safety, as well as for his own sake, and he didn’t regret the pressure he’d put on her. But now that she was staying…should he bother trying to get closer when she’d be moving away in only a few days?

He didn’t like that she’d had such a powerful impact on him in such a short time. Something was unnatural about this.
Obsession
was too strong a word. Infatuation? Something didn’t feel right. Or at least nothing like any infatuation that had taken him over before.

“How are you feeling, Sawyer?”

He smiled, uneasy at the way Debbie lingered over his name. “Much better. How’s Phil the human drugstore?”

“In trouble.”

“With you?”

“With the Wauwatosa police since the party.” She rolled her eyes. “With me, for weeks longer. We went out casually for a few months, but he started getting really intense and possessive and I broke it off.”

“Smart move.”

“He hasn’t seen it that way. I met him on the rebound and should have known better.” She shrugged, used her napkin to mop up a drop of spilled coffee. “I generally date a pretty laid-back type, because that’s how I am.”

“Ah.” Sawyer, too, though he didn’t want to say so and leave that connection hanging between them. If he’d met Debbie for coffee like this without having met Alana, he’d be excited at the prospect of getting to know this poised, beautiful woman. On the surface, she seemed much more his type. But Alana had his brain and heart in an illogical stranglehold.

Based on what? Maybe that was what bugged him. He’d had a few one-night stands with women he was attracted to superficially, but they’d never unsettled him like this. Women he liked on a deeper level he usually tried to get to know before they hit the bedroom. Alana occupied a nebulous middle ground. He was wildly attracted, but they’d never sat down
and had a lengthy conversation. It was all chemistry between them, plus this odd challenge he felt around her, wanting to overcome her prickly resistance, to arouse in the clear light of day the passionate nature he glimpsed on the fog of that first night together, to get into her mind and find out what went on there.

They needed to relax one night in Melanie’s kitchen with a bottle of wine. Or go out somewhere casually, without Melanie there to start the bickering. He might find out they were completely incompatible, which would make his life a lot easier when she left. If not…

He didn’t want to think about
if not.

“So I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you out.”

He blinked. Whoa. “Not to get to know me?”

“Oh.” Debbie put down her coffee, which he noticed was straight up like his. He liked women who drank coffee the way coffee was meant to be, not clogged with fat and sugar and whatever other candyland stuff they did to it at places like this. He’d already noticed and approved that Alana liked hers black, too. “Yes, I’d like to get to know you, as well. I really enjoyed talking to you at the party, before you…”

“Did involuntary drugs?”

“Right. That.” She laughed. She was beautiful, laughing, showing extra-white teeth, swinging extra-red hair.

He might as well have been gay for all it did for him. “Why
did
you invite me out?”

She leaned forward and put her clasped hands on the table, light brown eyes enhanced by mascara-thick lashes looking squarely into his. Direct and businesslike. He liked that in a woman, too. “I found out some very interesting things about you from Dan.”

“Like?” He knew. How many times had he had this conversation? Most recently with Alana.

“Like that you’re Dalton Brewery.”

“Yeah.” He sipped his coffee, but acid had already started
churning in his stomach and he didn’t need more. Money again. Damn stuff. If it wasn’t his family heritage and extremely convenient, he’d be tempted to get rid of it. But then, of course, it was easy for him to say; he’d always had plenty.

“And that the head of your foundation is leaving.”

“Have you been talking to Finn?”

She smiled politely, clearly not about to be interrupted. “And that you have a lot more affinity with the arts than he did and could take the foundation in a different direction if you were in charge.”

“Okay.” He gritted his teeth. “What’s your point?”

She lifted a hand. “Hear me out. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Sawyer straightened his legs abruptly under the table; his shins smacked the railing and he pulled them back, trying not to grimace. He definitely did not want to spend his morning being told what to do with his family’s money. Attempted seduction, no, he wasn’t in the mood, but at least that would have been exciting and flattering. His big old male ego was bruised already, and now Debbie turned out to be Dad Part Two. “I’ll listen. But I’m not planning to take—”

“Just hear me.”

He drew his hand impatiently down his face. “Yeah, okay.”

“As I told you at the party, I work in insurance, but I’m also an artist, a painter. There are a lot of really talented people in this city.”

“Right. I’ve been to some of the open gallery nights.”

“Yes.” She smiled, her eyes assessing him. “Those are great events. But I’m talking specifically about artists who show a lot of promise but might not have gotten to the gallery stage yet.”

“What about them?” Sawyer resisted looking at his watch.

“I want the Dalton Foundation to buy me a building.”

He laughed bitterly, took a sip of his coffee. “Good luck with that.”

“There’s one for sale in the Fifth Ward, the old Franklin Seed Company warehouse.”

“Okay.” He was both annoyed and impressed that she ignored his jabs and continued calmly. “What will you do with this building?”

“Turn it into studio space for young artists. Most can’t afford to rent a place separate from where they live.”

He thought of the guy Melanie had been babbling about over dinner at Il Mito, his tiny apartment crammed full of work that no one ever saw. “Why would they be able to afford this space?”

“We give it to them for next to nothing. A token amount and a share of the utilities. Then open it to the public at certain hours for a small fee so people can watch talent being shaped, watch works in progress. Periodically, I’m thinking four to six times a year, we invite Milwaukee’s art-loving community for a dinner event and show, so wealthy investors can meet the artists, see their work and buy or commission new pieces, talk them up to their rich friends, their companies, etc. Essentially they’d become patrons.”

“This isn’t the type of thing the foundation invests in.”

“You could change that. Let me tell you the story of one kid…” She told him about a young talented man catering a party for extra cash, who met an art-loving couple and struck up a friendship. The couple hosted a party for him at their lakeside mansion, and one of their friends loved his work so much, he had his company buy paintings for its lobbies throughout the country. “We want to make it possible for this to happen on a regular basis, instead of leaving it to fate.”

Sawyer nodded, interested after all, at least somewhat. “Go on.”

Another story, another artist’s path to success through chance. Kids who didn’t want to sell out by getting a corporate
job, who deserved a chance doing what they loved; a student whose parents were so furious he wanted to paint for a living, they kicked him out of the house. Another woman who could only afford studio space in a bad neighborhood was mugged and raped.

Sawyer cringed, already feeling partly responsible. Debbie continued her well-planned pitch by painting her own picture—of a city young artists would be proud to call home, building on the success of the art museum’s new addition, broadcasting Milwaukee to the country as more than sausage, beer, cheese…“And the Green Bay Packers.”

He grinned. “Lest we forget.”

She went on, Sawyer paying serious attention now, caught up in her glowing description of the ornate stone building, her vision of its renovation—skylights installed, large windows to look over the river and let in the light, different directions and intensities at different times of day. Green heating and cooling systems, making use of steam already piped under the city streets for heating, plants on the roof for natural cooling. Studios on each of the six floors, partitioned but open, so artists could communicate if they wanted, so visitors could see finished works displayed, as well as works in progress. “Introducing the public to affordable original artwork, and giving young people a chance to see some financial rewards for their talent and hard work.”

To reel him in, since she’d already hooked him, she listed the other powerful local companies who had already pledged to invest. She and her partners had nearly reached their dollar goal before they announced the project publicly. The Dalton Foundation would be able to put them over the top if it agreed to be the largest donor so far.

“And not just painters, sculptors, photographers…” Her gaze turned sly. “Cabinetmakers, too.”

He laughed. “You’ve definitely been talking to my brother.”

“I’d never come to a meeting unprepared.”

“Okay.” He sipped his coffee, definitely interested, excited even, he admitted it, and certainly impressed. The project seemed to promise something personal to him, though he had no intention of working in a drafty old building next to twenty-year-olds throwing paint at canvas to express their angst. But to be in charge of the foundation as a way to help other kids not have to sell their souls—at least not until they gave what they loved a real shot—that would be a job he could get behind. “No promises, but send me a proposal and I’ll look it over.”

He’d do more than that, he’d do what his father wanted, for once gladly, and think seriously about taking the job, as long as he could give their grant-giving a different emphasis, away from energy and medical research, important as that was, and more toward the arts, making sure people who needed to keep creativity in their lives would be able to do so.

He and Debbie finished their coffee, chatting about other topics. As he suspected, they had a lot in common. In any other circumstance he’d find out if she was involved, and if not, ask for her number to see what they could start. Today he had no desire to. Maybe that drug Phil gave him scrambled his brain permanently.

Because as he waved goodbye to Debbie and headed back to his car, a crazy thought hit him. If he bought the building for Debbie, the building would need a manager.

And if he could find some way to get Alana the job, maybe she wouldn’t leave Milwaukee.