Dream 3 - Finding the Dream (23 page)

She wasn't sure what her mother would have done, or said, but she did know when you'd done something wrong, you were supposed to fix it.

She'd gotten up early and dressed for school, then slipped out the side door to avoid any questions. Old Joe was here this morning, humming to his azaleas. Ali cautiously skirted that section of the garden and made her way toward the stables.

She had her speech all worked out, and she was very proud of it. She thought it was mature, dignified, and clever. She was certain that Mr. Fury would nod wisely, impressed, after she was done.

She stopped for a moment to watch the horses he'd let out into the paddock. He would be cleaning the stalls, then. She tried not to pout as she watched Tess and thought about what it was like to ride her and brush her and feed her apples.

Her mother might have evaded the subject of money, but Ali knew, with her new wisdom, that buying and keeping a horse would strain the budget.

Besides, she didn't intend to ask Mr. Fury for anything.

He had yelled at her, scolded her, threatened to spank her. That was simply not permitted.

Head high, she walked into the stables. All the smells she'd begun to love were there. Hay and grain and horse and leather. She remembered the way he'd shown her to saddlesoap the tack, how to curry a horse. How he had put her in the saddle for the first time. And praised her.

She bit her lip. None of that mattered. He'd insulted her.

She heard the sounds of the shovel, and she walked to the end of the row, where Michael was filling a wheelbarrow with soiled straw and manure.

"Excuse me, Mr. Fury." Her voice had a royal ring that she would have been surprised to know closely echoed her mother's.

He looked behind him, took in the slight young girl in the tidy blue dress and trendy Italian sneakers. "You're out early." Thoughtful, he leaned on his shovel. "No school today?"

"I don't have to leave for a little while." She glanced at her watch, folded her hands. The gestures were so like Laura's he had to fight back a smile.

"Something you want to say?"

"Yes, sir. I want to apologize for being rude, and for causing a family scene in front of you."

Little Miss Dignity, he thought, your chin's trembling. "Apology accepted," he said simply and bent to his work.

He was supposed to apologize now. It was, after all, the proper way to close a misunderstanding. When he didn't, her brows drew together. "I think you were also rude."

"I don't." He dumped the last load, propped up his shovel, then gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow. "Better move aside. You'll get your dress dirty."

"You raised your voice, you called me names."

He cocked his head. "And your point is?"

"You're supposed to say you're sorry."

He released the handles, brushed his hands over his jeans. "I'm not sorry. You deserved it."

"I'm not a brat." All her dignity crumbled, as did her face. "I didn't mean the things I said. I didn't mean to make her cry. She understands. She doesn't hate me."

"I know she understands. She loves you. A kid who has a mother like that in her corner's got everything. Pushing it away's pretty stupid."

"I'll never do it again. I know better now. I know lots of things better now." She knuckled a tear away. "You can spank me if you want, and I won't tell. I don't want you to hate me."

Michael crouched down, gave her a long, steady look. "Come here."

Trembling, terrified at her images of humiliation and pain, she stepped forward. When he grabbed her, she muffled a cry of alarm, then was dazzled to find herself being hugged.

"You're a stand-up gal, Blondie."

He smelled of the horses. "I am?"

"Swallowing pride's hell. I know. You did a good job."

Full of wonder, she held on tight. It was like Granddad, or Uncle Josh, or Uncle Byron. But different, just a little different. "You're not mad at me anymore?"

"No. You mad at me?"

She shook her head, and let the words tumble out. "I want to ride the horses, please. I want to come back and help you and feed them and brush them. I told Mama I was sorry, and I won't sass her anymore. Don't make me stay away."

"How am I supposed to get things done around here without you? And Tess has already been missing you."

She sniffed, eased back. "Has she? Really?"

"Maybe you've got time to say hi to her before you take off for school. But you want to get rid of these."

He took out a bandanna. Ali, experiencing the thrill of having her tears dried by a man for the first time, fell headlong in love.

"Will you still give me riding lessons and teach me how to jump?"

"I'm counting on it." He held out a hand. "Friends?"

"Yes, sir."

"Michael. My friends call me Michael."

He'd never been inside Templeton Monterey. Though Michael had grown up just up the coast, it wasn't so odd. He'd never had a need for a hotel in the area, and if he had, Templeton would have been beyond his touch.

He'd been to the resort. After all, his mother had worked there. So he knew what to expect. Then again, he mused as he passed the uniformed doorman, you usually got more than you expected from Templeton.

The lobby was enormous, sprawling, with conversation and waiting areas tucked away behind potted palms and greenery to offer the cozy and the private. The bar, long and wide with generous chairs and gleaming tables, was up a short flight of stairs and separated by a trio of brass rails.

Those who wanted a little lift could enjoy their cocktail and watch the people come and go.

There were plenty of them, Michael noted.

They were six deep at check-in, flooding the long mahogany counter while clerks hustled to assign rooms. Two waitresses worked the waiting crowd and passed out glasses of fizzing water.

The noise was huge.

Wherever they stood, sat, or wandered, they talked. Primarily women, he observed, some of them dressed for business, others drooping from travel. And all, he thought, studying the heaped luggage carts, with enough suitcases for a six-month stay.

As he maneuvered out of the way, two women streaked toward each other over the shining tile and met with squeals and embraces. Several others were eyeing him. Not that he particularly minded being ogled, but being so completely outnumbered, he chose discretion as the better part of valor and contemplated retreat.

Then he saw her, and there might not have been another woman in the room. She carried a clipboard tucked atop a fat file. Her hair was pinned up, smoothed somehow into a neat, professional twist. She wore a simple black suit that even one with a fashion-impaired eye could see was painfully expensive.

For his own pleasure, he let his gaze wander down to her legs. And gave thanks to whatever sadist had convinced women to wear those skinny high heels.

Though she was deep in conversation with the conference chair and frantically sorting out details in her head, Laura felt a flush of heat, a tingle at her back.

She shifted, struggled to ignore it, and at last glanced over her shoulder.

In the midst of all those women—many of whom where rolling their eyes behind his back—he stood with his thumbs tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. Smiling at her.

"Ms. Templeton? Laura?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, Melissa, I'm going to check on that right away."

The conference chair was as busy, as harried, as Laura. She was also as human, and she felt a quick tug as she looked across the room. "My, my." Grinning, she blew out a breath. "You sure do grow them fine in Monterey."

"Apparently. If you'll excuse me a minute." Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she hurried toward Michael. "Welcome to bedlam. Did you come by to see Byron?"

"I had no idea corporate executives were so sexy." He lifted a hand, flicked it over a glittering heart pin on her lapel. "Cute."

"All the staff are wearing them. It's a romance writers' convention."

"No kidding?" Intrigued, he surveyed the crowd, met several pairs of equally intrigued female eyes. "These women write those books with all that steam?"

"Romance novels are an enormous industry that accounts for more than forty percent of the paperback market and provides enjoyment and entertainment for millions while focusing on love, commitment, and hope."

She reached around to rub the back of her neck. "Don't get me started. 1 used to read because I liked a story. Now I've become an advocate. Byron's in the penthouse. The elevators—"

"I didn't come to see Byron, though I might swing by. I came to see you."

"Oh." She turned her wrist to glance at her watch. "I'm awfully pressed just now. Is it important?''

"I went by your shop first. Quite a place." It had impressed him, as the hotel impressed him with its style and charm. "You had a crowd there too."

"Yes, we're doing well." She tried to imagine him taking a turn around Pretenses. Not quite the bull in the china shop, she decided. More like the wolf among the lambs. "Did anything catch your eye?"

"The dress in the front window had its points." His eyes slid down her. "Would have had more with a woman in it. I don't know much about doodads and glitters. Kate fast-talked me into some blue horse."

"Ah, the aquamarine mare. It's lovely."

He jerked a shoulder. "I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with it, or how she managed to con me out of three bills for that little statue."

Laura laughed. "She's good. But I'm sorry you had to run around looking for me. And now I've—"

"I like looking at you." He eased forward.

"Michael." She backed up, bumped into a shamelessly eavesdropping guest. "I really have to get into my office."

"Fine. I'll go with you."

"No, it's this way," she began when he took her arm. "I really don't have time."

"I do. I'm meeting another breeder in a couple hours." He saw the glass door with "Executive Offices" printed on it. "Is it always so noisy around here?"

"No. Check-in for a convention livens things up considerably."

It wasn't much more sedate behind the desk. Phones were ringing, boxes were stacked, people whizzed by. Laura turned into a small office with a central desk piled with tidy stacks of paper. The fax machine was humming away, spitting out an enormous stream.

"Christ, how do you work in here?" Feeling immediately hemmed in, he rolled his shoulders. "How do you breathe in here?"

"It's more than adequate, and the limited space demands efficiency." She tore off the fax and skimmed it as she picked up her phone. "Sit down if you like. I'm sorry, I have to finish this."

After punching in numbers, she cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder to keep her hands free. "Karen, yes, I've got it right here. It looks fine. They need to set up their registration desk an hour earlier. Yes, I know, but they've had to readjust their estimate on walk-ins. Yes, I know Mark's handling that, but he doesn't answer his page. No, I don't think he's gone over the wall."

Chuckling, she set the fax aside and picked up a memo. "Uh-huh. That's on my list, don't worry. If you could just… My life for you. No, I'll buy the bottle when it's over. Thanks. I want to—Hell! I've got another call coming through. I'll check with you later."

Michael took his seat, rested his ankle on his knee, and watched her work. Who would have thought it, he mused, the cool, pampered princess, up to her elbows in details. Swinging from phone to computer and back like a veteran soldier flanking the enemy.

Depending on the topic, her voice was warm, chilly, brisk, or persuasive. And she never missed a beat.

Actually, her heart missed quite a few—every time she looked over and saw him sitting there. Black denim and worn boots and dark windblown hair. Eyes that watched everything.

"Michael, you don't—"

Before she could finish, even begin to nudge him along, a skinny man with a quick smile poked his head in the door. "Sorry. Laura?"

"Mark, I've been paging you for an hour."

"I know. I was trapped, I swear it. I'm on my way to deal with conference registration setup. But there's a small crisis in the Gold Ballroom. They want you."

"Of course they do." She rose. "Michael, I need to see what this is about."

"Let's go."

"Don't you have something to do?" He made her nervous, matching her pace as she strode back into the lobby.

"I'm having fun watching you. A guy's entitled to an hour off now and again."

As they climbed a flight of wide carpeted steps, he looked around curiously. "I've never been in here before. Hell of a place."

"I didn't realize. I wish I could show you around, but…" She shrugged her shoulders. "You can take a tour on your own, but I wouldn't recommend using the elevators. We've got about eight hundred checking in today and they'll be jammed."

"Jammed into an elevator with women who write romance." He shook his head. "I can think of worse things."

The second-floor meeting-room level was as spacious as the lobby, as elegantly appointed, and nearly as crowded. Enormous chandeliers were brilliantly lit, shooting light onto brass and silver, dripping it on pots of flowering begonias in snowy white and blood red. Along one wall, heavy drapes were open to a spectacular view of the bay.

Laura marched toward a bank of six doors topped with an ornate brass plate identifying the Gold Ballroom.

"You have to admire the Templetons."

"What?"

"They know how to build a hotel."

Because she appreciated the statement, she stopped for a moment. "It is wonderful, isn't it? It's one of my favorites, though I can't think of any that don't have some special aspect. The one in Rome rising above the Spanish steps. There are views from the windows that break your heart. Templeton New York has this lovely courtyard. You never expect to find something that quiet in the middle of Manhattan. You take a step off Madison Avenue, and the world changes. There are fairy lights in the trees, a little fountain. And in London…" She trailed off, shook her head. "That's something else you shouldn't get me started on."

"I always figured you'd take it for granted. Misconceptions," he murmured as they walked toward the ballroom again. "There's a lot more I don't know about you than I do."