Different Dreams (7 page)

Malou's first call was to her mentor at the university, Professor Everitt. He supplied her with names, numbers, and tips on the best approaches to take with the various foundation directors. He also suggested a number of renowned primatologists she could call for support and testimonials as to the value of Los Monos. She thanked him and dived into the long list she had accumulated.

Not surprisingly, most of the men and women she needed to speak with were out. Those she did catch were treated to a sincerely impassioned plea. Impressed enough by the urgency in Malou's voice not to brush her off with a standard reply, most promised to look into the matter further.

“Don't look too much further,” she ended her spiel to the director of the National Genetics Research Lab. “There's not time enough if we're going to save the troop. The new owner has only given me three weeks to come up with new funding sources.”

Cam, who'd obviously been listening in, asked, “Why do I feel like the heavy here?”

“You're not,” Malou assured him, still not entirely
convinced herself. “You've given me a fair chance to save them. You didn't have to do that.”

Before Cam could respond, Malou's phone rang. It was Charlotte Dunsmore returning her call. Malou was surprised to find herself addressing the founder and director of the Dunsmore Foundation, which was dedicated to saving and studying primates.

“Yes, yes, Albert has told me all about your monkey ranch down there,” the woman, who sounded to be a very jaunty seventy, interrupted when Malou started in on her set explanation of exactly what Los Monos was. It took her a second to realize that “Albert” was Professor Everitt. “Now, what's the current difficulty?”

Malou outlined the problem.

“Sounds serious,” Mrs. Dunsmore said.

Malou waited for Mrs. Dunsmore to tell her to submit her application in triplicate and she would give it “every consideration.” Instead, the older woman asked, “Would five thousand help out?”

Malou felt her mouth working, but no words were coming out.

“We aren't a large foundation, you realize,” Mrs. Dunsmore continued, a slight annoyance at Malou's silence prickling her voice. “All we'd be able to do is help tide you over this emergency; then you'd have to find permanent support elsewhere.”

“Oh, five thousand would be fantastic!” Malou was finally able to force the words out.

“Fine, I'll put a check in the mail today and we can look after the paperwork when it's convenient. You'll have to excuse me now. Polly just wheeled in the tea tray.”

In the middle of Malou's effusive thanks, the line went dead.

“We got five thousand dollars!” she whooped.

Cam cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “Bravo. You've saved a bit more than three monkeys.”

Startled by his cool response, Malou's exuberance sagged.

Cam put down the forty-page contract he was reviewing. “You still don't understand, do you? We have to have more than just enough to pay the water and feed bills for a few months. We need steady, long-term income to cover taxes, lost revenues, and, more than that,
I
need a great big lump of cold, hard cash to plunk down on my banker's desk in three weeks' time. All of which means that you'll have to find a foundation interested in purchasing not only the monkeys, but also the land along with them. Because I'll guarantee you this: I can most certainly sell that land
without
the monkeys on it.”

“Forgive my naiveté,” Malou said, her flashing temper frozen into her icy tone. “My childish enthusiasm over such a pittance must be a sore trial to you.”

“Don't be snippy,” he commanded. “You need to know what the facts are if we're going to work together. You keep trying to make me into some kind of ogre out to crush you and your little monkey farm. That's not who I am, Malou, or how I operate. My idea of winning is when both sides get what they want. No losers, no tears. It's not in my power to
give
you what you want unless I forfeit everything I've worked for all my life, so you'll have to work for it. Your five thousand is an encouraging sign. When you multiply it a few hundred times, we can start thinking about breaking out the champagne. Until then, if you plan on holding up your half of this joint venture, you'd better graft that phone onto your ear.”

Malou turned away, smoldering. Furious at Mr. Cameron Landell and even madder at herself because he was, once again, right. Undeniably, insufferably right.

M
alou turned back to the
phone. So intent was she, that she didn't notice when the canyon wrens fell abruptly silent or when the temperature began to plummet or when sullen gray clouds began to shroud the sun. Had she been paying attention to anything other than a series of disembodied voices, she surely would have felt in her bones the ominous stillness that fell across the land just before the first fat, angry drops of rain pelted from the sky to kick up tiny geysers of dust wherever they fell. But it was Cam, disentangling himself from the slippery tentacles of legalese in the contract he was studying, who noticed first.

“We'd better think about starting back,” he said, directing Malou's attention to the downpour.

“But that was Edward Darden,” she moaned, gesturing to the phone she'd just hung up. “
The
Father of American Primatology,” she explained to Cam's blank look.
“He's just gone to check on a funding report he received yesterday; then he's going to call me right back. I can't risk being somewhere that the reception is bad.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn't want to drop a call from
the
Father of American Primatology,” Cam jibed.

“It'll only be a few minutes.”

“With the way that rain is coming down, you'd better hope it's not much longer. Like every other kind of weather down here, rain is serious in south Texas.”

“Don't worry,” Malou reassured him. “I've lived through lots of rainstorms at Los Monos.”

“I'm sure you have, and that's because Los Monos is on high ground. We're considerably lower here.”

“Just a few more minutes,” Malou pleaded.

“Take all the time you need. I'm quite comfortable here.”

And so they waited: Cam stretched out on the couch with his contract and a ceramic mug filled with spring water and some of Mr. Stallings's fine scotch. Malou perched nervously watching the phone, waiting to take up the conversation with Edward Darden, a man she'd read about in textbooks and admired since her first days in primatology. The sky grew darker and hurled more rain with each passing minute.

By the time her phone rang, raindrops were pattering down on the tin roof with the machine-gun vigor of a team of tap dancers rehearsing for a Busby Berkeley
spectacular. And all
the
Father of American Primatology had to report was that he'd been unable to locate the papers he'd gone to hunt for. But he did promise to alert everyone in the primatology community to how dire the situation was out at Los Monos. Malou thanked him politely, hung up, jumped off her stool, and began scurrying about collecting her papers and hat.

Cam, disturbed by the sudden flurry of activity, peeked his head over the top of the couch.

“It's raining,” Malou explained. “We've got to get out of here.”

“Why didn't I think of that?” he asked, bundling papers back into the briefcase.

A few seconds later he was holding the door open as Malou bolted out into the cloudburst. They were both drenched by the time they reached the car. Sheets of rain made the short drive to the low water crossing into a twenty-five-minute test of navigation by instinct. Half the journey was conducted with Cam's head stuck out into the downpour, trying to ascertain whether or not they were still on the road. But the worst was yet to come, and come it did at the low water crossing. Unable to see it, Cam stopped cold mere inches away from plunging into the trickle, which had been transformed into a rushing torrent.

“Looks like this is the end of the line,” Cam announced jauntily.

“Why?” Malou asked with sudden alarm.

“Why?” Cam echoed with disbelief. “Malou, there's no way we're going to make it across that.”

A kind of panic swirled up from the pit of Malou's stomach at the thought of being trapped overnight with Cam. “Can't we at least try?” she asked.

Cam's brow furrowed at the suggestion. “Malou, that water's four feet deep if it's an inch. This is no amphibious vehicle. I don't intend ending up as one of those silly people you read about every year who are swept away when they try to cross a creek in a flash flood.”

“You're right. I guess I was just worried about Bambi and . . .” Her voice and explanation trailed off weakly. In the awkward silence that followed her fib, the sound of the rain drumming on the car roof seemed to be amplified.

“Malou, you were worried about spending the night with me.” Cam's voice was gentle as he stated the obvious truth.

A withering shame flushed through Malou. Was she really
that
transparent?

“You can put your mind at ease,” he continued. “I'm not in the habit of compromising the honor of prim primatologists.”

“What a boon to the profession,” Malou answered with a mocking gaiety, trying to disguise her abashment as Cam put the SUV into reverse.

Dashing back into the stone house left them drenched again by the cold rain. Cam went for his third fully clothed shower of the day by running out to the woodshed for an armload of logs. After dealing expertly with a temperamental damper, he sparked a blazing fire that restored the room, gloomy and darkened by the storm, to its former cheeriness. Malou stood before it trying to bake out the chill that had seeped into her bones.

“This will not do,” Cam announced, watching her shiver. He pulled a quilt off a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, then lit a kerosene lantern and set out to explore the rest of the house. A few minutes later he returned with several thick terry towels slung over his shoulder, dragging a steamer trunk behind him. He tossed a towel to Malou and opened the trunk. Inside was a complete wardrobe, male's and female's, circa 1935. “If you don't mind, I'll just slip into something a little bit drier.” Without any further preamble, Cam stripped off his sodden shirt, used it to rub away the beads of moisture trickling down his back, and dug into the pile of clothes.

Malou was mesmerized by the display. His back, bathed in the golden light of the fire, was magnificent. It was the leanly muscled back of the modern dancer he had reminded Malou of at their first meeting. His body, spare and strong and limber, suited him and thoroughly unsettled her.

He fished out a shirt of unbleached muslin, soft and pale from many washings and dryings in the sun, and slipped it on. As it fell to just below the tops of his legs, he stood and unceremoniously unbuckled his jeans. They dropped away to reveal a dancer's long, muscled thighs and calves. His grace and ease of movement confirmed the impression. They also signaled to Malou that Cameron Landell was a man who had long ago lost any self-consciousness he might ever have had around women.

Before tugging on the dry jeans, he turned to her. “Do pardon me,” he asked again. “But modesty will have to goeth before I getteth pneumonia.”

“Please, carry on,” Malou replied as if the sight of such a gloriously sculptured male body were one she was treated to every day. Cam, hopping from one foot to the other, quickly slipped into the slightly baggy jeans.

“All I need now is a blade of hay sticking out of my mouth,” Cam said, appraising his countrified outfit. Malou silently disagreed. The soft, loose clothes flowed around his torso, emphasizing its grace and subdued power. “Now you,” he commanded.

Malou shook her head. “No. Thanks. I'm fine.” She bit off the words as she pulled the quilt a bit more tightly around herself. Unlike him, she had an ample supply of self-consciousness to deal with.

“Please, I've already told you that you have no reason to play the prim primatologist with me. Off with those
soaking clothes.” He turned back to the trunk. “Surely we can find something in here for you too. Why should I be the only one dressed like a hayseed?” He ripped into the trunk, pulling out a cotton dress. “This looks like it would do.”

Malou was unable to resist the delicate garment. Even its smell was alluring. Rather than the musty odor she'd expected it to exude, the dress was fragrant with the scent of cedar from the trunk lining and the lavender and dried mountain laurel blossoms that had been packed away with the clothes. It had been handmade of a fine, powder blue cotton, its front lovingly worked with an intricate pattern of tucks and embroidery. The embroidery had all been done in ivory, so that the effect was one of understated elegance rather than contrived busyness. The skirt and long sleeves both flared out with an abundance of soft drapes.

“Go ahead, put it on. It'll be warmer than those damp things you're wearing,” Cam urged. “Here, I'll hold up the blanket and you can change in absolute privacy.” He took the quilt from her and held it up with his arms stretched over his head so that his view was entirely blocked. Malou hesitated for a moment.

“Hey, I'm not Hercules. I can't hold up this temple to your modesty all day.”

Malou shucked off her damp shirt and shorts, relieved to have their clamminess away from her skin.
She wondered if she dared remove her bra and panties as well. The warm, dry feel of the fire against her bare skin answered her question, and she stripped them off too. Standing there, naked before the flames, she became acutely aware that only a thin quilt separated her from Cameron Landell. She glanced over. The quilt rose and fell beside her with the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing. Firelight played across the cold-stiffened tips of her breasts, gilding them in gold. The tops of her thighs and the gentle curve of her stomach were also traced in the flickering light. Lost in shadow were the full underslopes of her breasts, the indentation of her navel.