To See The Daises ... First (5 page)

She felt the searing heat slide lower, lingering on her delicate collarbone, then coming to rest at last on the rounded tops of the breasts that strained for freedom beneath the thick yellow towel.

Suddenly she was lost in an incredibly sweet fantasy. A ghost lover with Ben's face caressed her. She felt his spectral hands slide through the thickness of the towel to cup her swelling breasts and surround them with his illusory warmth.

As she stared from beneath weighted lids, his eyes descended and she felt the strong hand of the phantom glide over her stomach, exploring its softness thoroughly before moving down. The magical warmth came to rest on the hidden seat of her womanhood and lingered there, growing more and more powerful with each passing second, spreading a throbbing ache outward from the vulnerable spot between her thighs.

Her body began to quiver in spontaneous reaction as she tried feverishly to assimilate the unbelievable sensations that were flooding her body. She was being ravaged—and neither of them had moved a muscle. She could see the desperate, aching need in his face; she could hear his ragged breathing. And she knew she wasn't in her fantasy alone. Something powerful and unexpected was happening to both of them.

Suddenly he brought his gaze back to her lips, and with his gaze came every nerve in her body, tingling and aching in the soft flesh of her lips. The ache grew steadily, until she felt that if she couldn't have the relief of his lips on hers soon, she would die of want.

At last, when the throbbing need had reached unbearable proportions, he lifted an unsteady hand and, with the dazed look of a sleepwalker, extended his index finger to touch her trembling mouth.

She couldn't hold back a soft moan of pleasure as he slowly outlined her mouth. His finger lingered on her lower lip, pulling down on the sensitive flesh. She opened her mouth slightly to touch the tip of his finger with her tongue, tasting the salty roughness before nipping at it gently with her teeth.

His breath sounded labored and painful as he drew his finger away and brought it slowly toward his lips.

Then suddenly all motion stopped as a groan caught in his throat and he closed his eyes tightly as though he were in pain. A violent shudder shook his large frame and she could almost feel all his muscles tighten in reaction.

When he opened his eyes again they were glazed with shock. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Four

Sunny stared at the door in stunned silence. Her eyelids drifted down weakly as she wrapped her arms around her waist in an unconscious attempt to halt the quakes of reaction that shook her body.

"So that's what it was," she said in a dazed whisper.

At last she knew what the peculiar feeling in her stomach meant. A mind-boggling, strength-sapping attraction for the man in the next room, that's what it meant.

She gave a short, confused laugh, covering the sound with a trembling hand. She wanted Ben! What an extraordinary thing to have happen. And judging by the breath-stealing mime that had just taken place, the feeling was mutual.

Walking to the bed in a daze, she sat down abruptly. What on earth was she going to do now? The strength of the emotions that had just surfaced had been so overwhelming—almost frightening In their depth—that her first reaction was to run from the intensity of her feelings. To pretend the dazzling scene hadn't happened, because a confrontation with that kind of reality might prove more than she was able to handle.

But that was wrong, she thought, running a distracted hand through her damp curls. She was already running from the past. She couldn't run from the present, too. Besides, Ben was the only friend she had. She would not risk losing his friendship simply because she couldn't face up to the facts. She would have to clear the air now, before embarrassment and tension had a chance to grow.

Moving quickly, without giving herself a chance to succumb to the temptation of hiding beneath the turquoise comforter, she walked toward the door, then paused, biting her lip as she glanced down at the towel that barely covered her body. It was her careless attitude about the way she was dressed that had caused the problem in the first place. She couldn't make the same mistake twice.

Grabbing the navy blue terrycloth robe that lay on the bed beside the shirt, she wrapped it tightly around her slight form, then moved again toward the bedroom door.

Stopping abruptly, she felt her pulse quicken when the door swung open before she could reach it and without warning, she was staring at Ben.

For a moment the air sizzled between them as their eyes locked and memory of their encounter of moments before held them frozen in time. Then Sunny recognized emotions in his strong face that had been absent before. Lines of concern and self-blame were etched deeply into his brow and bracketed his stiffly held lips.

Shaking free of the sensual threads, she gave a small smile and murmured weakly, "Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into."

For a moment he stared at her in uncomprehending silence; then amusement and relief drove the harshness from his face. The happiness that flooded her at the change in him astounded her. How could a virtual stranger's peace of mind mean so much to her? "Sunny—"

"Ben—"

"You first," she said, laughing with him as they moved to sit on the couch.

"That was an asinine thing for me to do," he l said bluntly. "I can't understand how it happened, but you've got to believe that I didn't plan it." He smiled ruefully, "I won't lie and say I haven't been attracted to you from the very first."

He stopped and watched her with an exasperated expression on his tanned face. "Would you stop looking so pleased? I only mentioned it because I want you to know that you have no reason to be afraid of staying here with me. I didn't intend for you to know how I felt."

Such a nice man, she thought, observing the sincerity in his gray eyes. Perhaps she shouldn't be pleased by his confession. Perhaps she should be nervous or shy or something other than thrilled to her toes. But she wasn't and she couldn't pretend to be.

"Ben," she said as she gazed across the room at the delicate lines of a watercolor hanging on the wall directly opposite her. "Do I look frightened?" She smiled. "And did it seem to you that what happened in the bedroom was all one-sided?" She swung her eyes back to him. "I thought I was being disgustingly obvious."

Standing abruptly, he walked to the window. "I've been trying not to think about that," he muttered over his shoulder. "Because that only makes things more complicated."

"Why? I should think that makes everything
simpler. I like you and you like me," she said in
confusion. She hadn't consciously thought of having a close relationship with Ben, but now that
he had vetoed the idea, she knew that something
inside her would have welcomed it. "I can't see
the problem."

Walking back to the couch, he leaned down to pick up her left hand. "Now can you see the problem?"

She followed his gaze to the pale strip of flesh on her left hand. "Oh . . . that," she muttered disagreeably. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that?"

"We didn't agree to anything. You refused to discuss it or even think about it. But dammit, Sunny, that doesn't make it go away. And it doesn't change the fact that you are in all likelihood one very married lady."

"Don't say that!" she gasped. Jumping up, she brushed by him, wrapping her arms around her waist as her eyes darted around the room in nervous agitation. "You have no way of knowing that. People do wear rings other than wedding rings on that finger," she added hopefully.

"Yes, you're right," he conceded, his quiet voice soothing to her fragile nerves. "But there is always a chance that you are"—he paused when she glared at him—"that you have someone waiting for you. And as long as there is a chance, then we have to ignore what happened in the bedroom."

"Nothing happened," she said, her jaw set in stubborn lines. "So there's really no need for all this fuss."

"You know better than, that," he chided softly. "Like you said, it wasn't a unilateral thing."

"I didn't say that," she replied irritably. "I didn't say unilateral. In fact, I bet I never say unilateral. It's a pompous word. A bank-president word." He simply gazed at her, smiling without comment until she had to shake her head and laugh.

"Okay. You win. I still don't believe I'm married, but I agree it would be thoughtless to ignore the possibility. So if we're not going to have an affair, how do we handle the situation?" She curled a lock of her hair around her index finger, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. "It could get very sticky around here."

Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and she watched in fascination as his chest expanded beneath the blue shirt, subtly outlining taut muscles. Then, slowly and noisily, he exhaled and opened his eyes to stare at her in frustration.

"The first thing you've got to do is learn to curb your tongue," he said drily. "Since—as you so aptly put it—things could get sticky, don't make it worse by being provocative."

She batted her lashes at him. "Is that what I'm doing?"

"Don't give me that innocent look," he said, chuckling. "You know damn well what you're doing." Easing his large frame down onto the couch, he stared at her with solemn eyes. "Can we talk seriously now?"

She turned away from him and shrugged in casual unconcern. "Sure. Why not?"

"Sunny, I'm going to need your help if we're going to make this work," he said softly, his voice almost pleading.

What was she doing? Why was she trying to make things more difficult for him? "I'm sorry." She turned back and sat down beside him. "I'm a thankless wretch, aren't I? Why are you bothering with me? You should chuck me out on the street and say good riddance."

"Yes, I should." He laughed. "But since I rarely do what I should, I guess I'll keep you. Now, are you ready to discuss some rules?"

"Rules?" she asked, her brow wrinkling in bewilderment. "What kind of rules?"

"Oh, things like remaining clothed at all times. No, don't interrupt," he said as she opened her mouth to protest. "I don't mean when you bathe so don't you dare say anything."

"I wasn't going to say that. I probably would have if I'd thought of it, but it didn't occur to me," she added with an honest grin. "I was going to say I don't have anything except that coat." She gave him a skeptical look. "I'll wear it if you want me to, but it's not going to be easy."

"I didn't mean that. I'll take care of rounding up some clothes for you," he said, his face looking comical, like it couldn't decide whether to fall into lines of amusement or impatience. "The next rule is to respect each other's territory. You take the bedroom and I'll have the living room."

"But you can't sleep on this couch," she protested. "It's just barely long enough for me. You take the bed and let me have the couch."

"It folds out to make a bed. And I'm inclined to use the desk at odd hours, so this room would be more convenient for me. Obviously, I'll have to go through the bedroom to get to the bathroom and you're free to use the living room any time you want to—except at night—but I think we can work around those things. Now, any questions?"

The bank president was back with a vengeance. A place for everything and everything in its place. Maybe I should salute, she thought, hiding her smile.

"No, sir. No questions," she replied briskly.

He grinned, his expression looking remarkably boyish as he acknowledged the thrust. Pushing her in the direction of the bedroom, he said, "Go to bed. If you'll pull the drapes, it will be cooler to there."

"I'll be fine," she said, smiling back at him. Then her face grew solemn. "Ben, thank you . . . for everything."

As the door closed behind her, she walked to the bed and picked up the cream-colored shirt he had left there for her. Silk. Soft, fine silk. He had obviously not left everything behind to the suburban house.

What a curious man he was. A curious man and a curious situation. Two survivors with disparate personalities forced to share the same life raft. As she pulled on the shirt, she wondered wistfully what would happen to them before they reached the end of their precarious voyage.

"Don't think about the end," she murmured as she pulled back the comforter. Now was what was important. Every day was an adventure, and she had a friend to share those adventures with her. A little hesitantly, to be sure, but still he was there to share them.

Would he have been a friend in her former life? Was he the kind of man she had once been attracted to? Married to?

Lying on the bed, she curled up in a ball as she fought the idea of being married. She didn't want even to consider the possibility. She would not allow herself to be married. She was new clay, and being married wasn't part of the image of Sunny that was beginning to take shape. The vague lines showing were fluid and free. Sunny was open and unrestrained. Kind to old people and children. Friend to rebelling executives. Sunny was . ..

She paused in her reflections when a yawn took her by surprise. Sunny was exhausted.

***

Ben silently let himself into the apartment and stood for a moment listening, then breathed a raspy sigh of relief. She was still there. Not that there was any obvious indication of her presence. No sound of her, no forgotten scarf or comb to point out the fact that she had appeared in his life. But just the same there was something there. Or was it only in his imagination that the air seemed to vibrate, alive with the knowledge that in the short space of an afternoon his whole life had changed?

Dropping the packages he carried onto the couch, he walked to the bedroom door and silently eased it open. He stood there for a while, peering through the shadows to watch her sleep.

She lay on her back, her golden hair making a bright splash of color on the white pillowcase. Her face in sleep was just as enchanting, the vibrancy and life not absent, merely resting for the challenge of a new day.

Watching her should not feel this right. He should feel that he was invading her privacy—like a voyeur, perhaps—but he didn't. He was responsible for her welfare. He felt somehow entitled to the pleasure of watching her.

Dangerous thinking, he warned himself silently. She was a woman, not a puppy who had followed him home. He couldn't put her in a box and take her out to pet her when it pleased him. He didn't own her—had not even the smallest right over her, in fact.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he walked back to the couch and began pulling his purchases from the large sack. The jeans and shirts he had bought for her had been simple to buy, but the underwear . . . God, the underwear had been another matter entirely.

He laughed mockingly at himself as he remembered how he had left the apartment in self-defense, to escape his own thoughts as he tried not to listen to the rustling of the covers in the next room. First, he had made a half-hearted attempt at writing; then, when he recalled that Sunny had eaten his lunch, he had spent an enthusiastic thirty minutes concocting a monumental sandwich, which he had then left half-eaten.

So the shopping trip had been more for his
peace of mind than out of necessity. He had lingered as long as he dared over the choosing of her
outerwear, but eventually he had been forced to
consider the delicate, frothy pieces of lace that
women wear beneath their clothing.

It had proven impossible to choose them without imagining Sunny wearing them. A vivid imagination was a curse to a man in his condition, for it had been beyond his scope to pick out the skimpy underthings without picturing how they would look next to her ivory skin.

You're crazy. You know that, don't you? Going on middle-aged crazy. About-to-reach-forty crazy. And he was finally facing up to the most damning symptom of all: being captivated by a woman more than a decade younger than he.

He sat heavily in the shabby armchair, relaxing a little as he watched the shadows slowly stretch across the room. They grew larger and longer as the day wore on, finally merging to engulf him and the room, dulling the sharp edges of the day, giving the apartment and its furnishings a soft, homey look it lacked in the harsh reality of full sunlight Heaving a deep, ragged sigh, he felt he was at last seeing things in their proper perspective. She had appeared to him at a time when he was at his most vulnerable. Since his parents were dead, his work had been his only family. And without that he had nothing to tie him to the world. In giving up his old way of life, he had been left a man without a home.

Although he knew he had made the right decision, he had felt alone in a way he couldn't have imagined a year ago. The writing was important to him, but how long could a man live inside his own head? The balloon had to land sometime and when it did, who would care? Who would be there to greet him?

He knew now that he had been looking for that someone. And, unwilling to accept a substitute, his search had been hopeless from the beginning . . . until he had stumbled across Sunny. In her, he sensed he had found the innocent, new world he had been seeking. In her, he had seen all the virtues he had hoped existed somewhere on this earth.

But now that he was thinking logically he realized that none of those things existed outside his mind. Sunny was a figment of his own fertile imagination.

The overwhelming, instantaneous attraction he felt was not a magical, mystical thing. It was a combination of his own barely acknowledged longings and good, old-fashioned lust. Her personality and her circumstances were the stuff of fairy tales, but she, herself, was still a real live, flesh-and-blood woman, and all the imagination in the world wouldn't change her into Guinevere. Once he came to grips with that, although the attraction would probably remain—how could it not?—the fascination he felt for her would, of necessity, have to dim.

A faint sound from the bedroom pulled him out of his deep reverie. Ben realized suddenly that he was sitting in total darkness. As he switched on the lamp beside him, he heard the sound again and walked to the bedroom door, opening it silently.

The drapes she had pulled against the heat blocked out the moonlight and the light from the open door didn't quite reach the bed. He could hear her shifting restlessly on the bed, then as he hesitated in the doorway, he heard her groan, "No," and walked instinctively toward the sound.

Crouching beside her, he touched her shoulder, not sure if he should wake her, but unable to stand by and do nothing.

"Sunny," he whispered gently, trying not to give her a shock by waking her too abruptly.

But she didn't hear him and the groan that escaped her as she lay sleeping reminded him of the cry of a small, trapped animal. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled her fragile body into his arms in an instinctive move of protection.

Her head rolled back against his arm and, as the sound of his voice echoed in the silent room, she began to struggle wildly, fighting his attempts to soothe her. His eyes were gradually becoming accustomed to the dark and suddenly he could see her face clearly. The agony he saw mirrored on her expressive features ripped at him. That kind of thing would have been difficult to witness in anyone. But this was Sunny. Bright and beautiful and carefree. Seeing it in her rocked the foundations of his strength,

"Oh, God."

It hurt so bad. And there was no escape. The face hung there, accusing her, piercing her heart. Why wouldn't it go away? Why didn't it leave her alone? She couldn't help him now. Couldn't he understand that?

"No—please—no," she begged in a ragged whisper.

"Sunny."

The deep voice in her ear barely penetrated her terror. She was too much in the grip of the spell cast by the handsome, pleading face that filled her dreams.

"Please, baby, wake up."

The desperate plea came closer to her consciousness, but her fevered mind couldn't seem to interpret its meaning. She might have stayed longer in her dark nether world if she had not heard the anxious reality in the husky voice.

Using a strength that would have surprised her if she had been aware enough to comprehend it, she pulled away from the dream to find herself being rocked in Ben's arms.

"Ben?" she rasped, gripping his shirt with frantic fingers. Then as his features became clear, she pressed her face into his broad chest, holding tightly to his blessedly familiar form.

But when she closed her eyes in relief, the spectral face of her dreams loomed in the darkness of her mind. "No," she moaned. "It was just a dream, baby." His deep, soothing voice sent the vision fleeing and she stared up at him with confused, frightened eyes.

"It was only a dream," he repeated, his strong face lined with concern. He smiled in reassurance as though he recognized the sanity in her eyes and was relieved by it. "You don't have to be afraid."

"Ben," she whispered hoarsely, then paused to allow her heartbeat and breathing to return to normal before continuing. "It was so real—so terrifyingly believable."

"What was it, baby? What scared you?"

She pressed her face against him, resisting the question for a moment, then shuddered convulsively and murmured, "It was a face. A man's face."

"And it frightened you? Do you know who he was?"

"Yes . . . no . . . oh, I don't know. I knew him, but I dont remember him, I can't explain it." She paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. "He had red hair and—and he seemed so terribly vulnerable. His turquoise eyes were so sad and hurt..." She closed her eyes tightly as she once again saw the face, then continued in a low, intense whisper. "And Ben—I loved him. I know I did, I could feel it."

Sunny came slowly away from the painful recollection when she felt Ben stiffen. Gazing up at him, she saw that his eyes were trained on the long finger of light that crept across the shadowy ceiling.

"If you love him, why were you afraid?" he asked in a low, faraway voice.

"It was his eyes—those odd, sad eyes. They pleaded with me. They accused me." She swallowed a painful lump in her throat. "I'm afraid, Ben," she whispered. "I must have done something terrible to him."

"You can't know that," he said quietly. "But if you feel that strongly about it, why don't you let me see if I can find out who you are?"

"No!" she gasped. Then, biting her lip, she said more calmly, "No, I don't want you to do that. I don't want to know what I did to make him look at me like that."

"Sunny, that's ridiculous." He moved away from her and began to stand up.

"No!" She grabbed anxiously at his sleeve. "Don't leave me. Not yet. . . please."

"Shhh," he soothed, taking her back into his arms. "I'm not going anywhere. I just can't understand why you won't let me do something. You say you saw a man in your dreams, a man that you love, but you won't let me try to find him. That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe not to you, because you're logical and practical and . . . and mentally neat. To me it makes perfectly good sense. I am—for all intents and purposes—mentally incompetent. If a dream reflects me like this, how do you suppose I'll react to the real thing?"

"Are you honestly worried about being crazy?"

"Yes, I'm honestly worried about being crazy." She gave a shaky laugh. "Well, maybe not worried, but I consider it a definite possibility," she amended. "However, crazy doesn't bother me. Terror does."

She paused for a moment, thinking objectively about the dream for the first time. "No, not terror. I wasn't afraid of the face. I loved it. I wanted to reach out and touch it. It was something else. Something dark and . . . debilitating. Something inside me, not in the face."

For a moment he sat beside her in silence, then began to speak softly. "Sunny, I can't feel the way you felt, but I can understand wanting to avoid a confrontation with the darkness that you're afraid exists inside you. I think all of us have fears about the contents of our own souls. But there's something you haven't considered. When you woke up yesterday, you were in a locked room. Your clothes had been removed as though someone wanted to keep you there. There may be nothing to it. I mean, it could be something as innocent as a quarrel with a jealous lover. But it could be something more serious—there's still the matter of the bump on your head. If someone was trying to harm you, we need to know about it. We need to find out who it was and do something about it." He paused as though giving her a chance to think about what he said. "Don't you see?"

Sunny shifted uncomfortably. Why did he have to make so much sense? Every word he spoke was logical and reasonable, but Sunny wasn't in the mood for logic. Her brain wasn't working reasonably tonight. She couldn't—didn't want to—think about the past or the future or anything else that required a decision.

"Can I think about it a while before I make up my mind?" she asked wearily. She felt his hand on her neck; then he tilted her chin with his thumb.

"You're tired," he said gently. "Of course, you can decide later. We couldn't do anything tonight anyway. You go back to sleep and we can discuss it tomorrow." He chuckled suddenly, a low, rumbling sound that soothed her. "It has been a truly amazing day. I don't know if this much excitement is good for me."

Relaxing under the spell of his teasing voice, she snuggled closer to his chest, joining him in laughter. "I know what you mean." Rubbing her face against his throat like a contented cat, she added, "But it's been fun, hasn't it?"

When he didn't answer right away, she lifted her gaze to his face and found the curiously baffled look she had seen before once more in evidence. His eyes were sliding restlessly over the silk shirt that stopped high on her thighs, lingering on the bare length of her legs.

"Ben, wasn't it?" she repeated, her voice growing strangely hoarse.

"Huh? Oh, yes . . . fun," he said distractedly, then hurriedly switched his eyes to the ceiling without removing his arms from their comfortable hold on her body. He cleared his throat vigorously. "Sunny?"

"Yes?" Her gaze lifted to the ceiling to join his, her cheek now lay pressed to his.

"I—I should probably go back to the living room now, don't you think?"

She felt his cheek move as he spoke and his chest surge beneath her as he breathed, but neither of them made a move to break the embrace.

"I—" She swallowed and began again. "I think that would probably be the smart thing to do."

"Yes, definitely the ..." He took a deep breath and she rode the wave of his chest. "The smart thing," he finished in a gust, his head moving in an almost imperceptible nod.