His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (14 page)

"Come, Michael," she called, opening her arms in invitation. "Come join me in the dance."

Forcing his eyes open, he drew a shuddering breath. Then another. The sweetness of that memory fanned the fire in his loins.

Eden.
How he ached for her.

He wanted to consider the dream an improvement. He wanted to be encouraged by its variation on the theme that had plagued him for years. In the days before he'd known the woman Eden had become, he would dream of himself pining for love in the wildflowers, and she would appear, raising her skirts with a sultry smile and sinking her hips to mount him.

But the Eden with the daisy chaplet was nothing like the Eden he usually envisioned unencumbered by bloomers.

Much to his chagrin, though, his pecker hadn't noticed the difference.

Michael grimaced, shifting gingerly. He could almost hear the ghost of his father shrieking,
"You are your mother's son!"

Oddly enough, Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a woman—or rather, the last time he'd wanted one badly enough to consider some discreet relief. In fact, he'd been mortified to think his illness might have deadened his carnal urge.

"Divine justice," his father would have called the irony. "Satan's revenge" had been Michael's moniker for it. He'd been so ashamed to think he might have become infertile, his hands had actually shaken when he'd reached for his medical books, forcing himself to research the symptom and its cure. He would have died right there on the spot if Sera had surprised him poring through those pages.

But it looked like he wouldn't have to run
that
risk again. Thank God for Eden. He might have a brain tumor, but at least he wasn't impotent.

Jones, you are one sorry, sick sonuvabitch.

He shook his head. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he had inherited his mother's fascination for forbidden fruit. As the clock chimed the hour, announcing him ninety minutes late for dinner, he wasn't thinking of the victuals his no-doubt infuriated sister had slaved to cook for him. No, he was thinking about Whiskey Bend.

And a certain livery that never failed to remind him of Eden.

And any memory of Eden so outshone the harsh, lurid reality that he would face on the sagging straw mattresses above the Jade Rose Saloon, that in the end, he would never make the journey, opting instead to writhe alone until his lust finally ebbed.

So, fornicate or abstain, he was damned either way. He supposed he'd have to reconcile himself to that fact as long as Eden Mallory plagued his dreams... and most every waking moment, too.

Smiling ruefully, he unfolded his legs and pushed back from the cramped quarters beneath his cherrywood desk. His captain's chair struck a cabinet, and a stack of patient records which he'd never found time to file toppled to the floor. He would have hired help if he hadn't been so worried an assistant might witness his vertigo and report it to Sera.

But he needed the help desperately. His patient load was increasing, and because of it, the space in this two-room storefront was eroding. He'd had to make space for two more examining rooms by partitioning off the first and sacrificing the privacy of his study. In fact, many of his research books were at home now because his precious shelf space was crammed with ointments, sutures, bandages, and lollipops. He kept the latter on hand for children and Claudia.

Thoughts of his irascible neighbor made him smile a little, despite the sorrow that squeezed his chest. Because she'd refused to heed his warnings about candy, Claudia had lost most of her teeth. Because she refused to heed his warnings about her pulmonary arteries...

Pensively, he fingered a sunny-yellow candy wrapper, his mind drifting to her physical examination two months ago. Waiting for his prognosis about her tingling limbs and shortness of breath, she'd sat on his examining table, her gnomelike face screwed up with glee as she kicked her feet and sucked a lemon lollipop. To see her so impish in the face of his news was almost his undoing. He wanted to fling his stethoscope across the room for verifying her sickness.

"It's your heart, Claudia," he announced, struggling to choke back his grief. "It's working harder than it should. You need to slow down. No more tree climbing. Or bear hunting. Or craps shooting with Angus."

She stopped her noisy sucking sounds to smack yellow lips and glare. "You tryin' to make me mad?"

"This is serious."

"So I'm a goner?"

"For Christ's sake, don't say that!"

Spinning away, he regretted his outburst. A physician needed to be calm. Indifferent. But how could he be? During those early years when Mama had doted on Rafe and Papa had been too bitter to recall he was raising other children, Claudia had been the one who'd patched Michael's scrapes and sheared his unruly hair. She'd given him his first whittling knife. She'd tucked forbidden dime novels into his prayer book so Papa wouldn't be the wiser.

No, dammit! I won't let her die!

"Here now." She joined him by the window and awkwardly patted his shoulder. "Ye're takin' this too hard, boy. A body can't live forever."

He shook his head. "You aren't going to die."

"Sure I am. But I ain't scared. Folks who fear dyin' are folks who ain't really lived."

Then Gabriel must have been terrified.

Staving off a fresh attack of guilt, he forced his attention back to the present by systematically packing his valise and shrugging into his frockcoat. He was just about to blow out the lamps when he spied the miniature rocking horse he'd painted and left to dry on the windowsill. He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

Ordinarily, when he wanted to apologize to Sera, he stopped along the side of the road and gathered wildflowers. But he suspected the recent weeks of rain had pummeled even the hardiest daisies into the mud.

The toy rocking horse, on the other hand, would make a perfect peace offering. He'd been carving it for the Queen Ann-style dollhouse she was forever redecorating.

His throat constricted and he reached for the horse. How the hell was he supposed to tell Sera he was dying?

By the time Michael arrived at his front yard, the clouds had unleashed a smattering of plump, splashy drops to slick down his hair and roll past his collar. He hurried Brutus through a currying and a sack of oats, then took the shortest route to the house through the kitchen. He found a pot of corn chowder on the stove and the lemony aroma of shortbread wafting from the oven. For once, the first wasn't curdled, and the second didn't smell charred.

Sera wasn't exactly a blue-ribbon cook.

Chagrined to think that his tardiness had caused his sister to waste yet another afternoon in her apron, when she loathed the kitchen so much, he called her name as he crossed into the hall. He prepared to lie about his impromptu snooze.

Fortunately, the deception wasn't necessary. Sera bounced out of the parlor, her flushed cheeks and shining eyes making her look more like a smitten belle than an angry cook.

"At last!" she greeted gaily, rising on tiptoe to buss his cheek. "I thought you'd never come home."

Michael arched a brow as she grabbed the valise from his hands and tugged at a sleeve of his coat.

"A person could starve on a work schedule like yours, Michael."

"I'm sorry, I was—"

"Delayed," she finished for him. "Yes, I know. Gout and chilblains are especially plaguey when it rains. Honestly, Michael, you might remind your patients you have a private life. Even if you don't mind a bowl of rewarmed stew, very few dinner guests do."

"Dinner guests?" he repeated warily. As exhausting as his practice was, he'd come to welcome the work as an excuse. The last thing he wanted was to field dinner invitations from the half dozen or more women who'd set their caps for him. But wedding-bell chasers, he'd learned, were relentless. They didn't comprehend tact. They certainly didn't understand a man's need for privacy. And Sera, who'd joined their ranks only last year, had a tendency to side with them.

Had his sister let some besotted chit weasel her way to his table?

"Now don't get all grumbly," Sera said, her grin as impish as a leprechaun's. "You'll like this one. It's not Bonnie. Or Kit."

"Hmm." This gave him hope. Maybe Sera had finally allowed Henry Prescott to break bread with her. "You shouldn't be entertaining alone, Sera."

"My sentiments exactly. But if I waited for
you
to come home every night, I'd sprout cobwebs." She giggled. "Maybe even moss."

She has a point.
He smiled reluctantly. It was good to see her in such high spirits. If the person waiting in the parlor had the power to spark that girlish blush in her cheeks, Michael had to admit he approved. Besides, any beau, at this point, would be an improvement over McCoy.

"Sera... " He hesitated, remembering the rocking horse. "I really don't mean to neglect you."

She laughed, but surprise registered in those sky-blue eyes. "I should hope not. But just in case you do, be forewarned: I've been collecting recipes for turnips."

He chuckled. They'd shared the joke ever since last spring. Why God had placed such a curse on the vegetable kingdom, Michael would never know. But when Aunt Claudia's order of six onion bins had somehow turned into sixteen turnip crates, the only way she could rid herself of them was to give a dozen to each homeowner. For weeks, turnips were served on every dinner table in Blue Thunder. Now Michael couldn't walk into a patient's house and smell a steaming bowl of turnips without wanting to retch.

"I have something for you," he said awkwardly. "It was going to be a Christmas present, but... well, I wanted you to have it early."

"Early?" She clasped her hands, forgetting to be demure and ladylike. "What is it?"

He couldn't hide his smile. "See for yourself. It's in my coat."

Her beau apparently forgotten, she raced to the hall tree, and rummaged through the garment until she found the telltale lump. When she pulled out the miniature pony, she gasped, her eyes sparking like twin flames. "It's for my dollhouse!" Then her brows furrowed, and she grew very still, staring down at the tiny gray flanks, the black tail and mane.

"It... looks like Gabriel's pony."

"Yes," he said quietly.

She bit her lip, touching a forefinger to the red saddle and blue runners. "Gabriel's favorite colors," she said softly.

He nodded.

Her eyes glistened. Suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck. "I love it, Michael." She sniffled as he clasped her to his heart, and the old, familiar ache constricted his chest. "Thank you."

He tightened his hold, and she clutched him a moment longer before she broke free to give him a watery smile.

"Uh-oh." She dashed away tears and wrinkled her nose. "The shortbread!" A look of comical horror crossed her features. "It's burning!"

With a muttered oath, she dashed toward the kitchen, and Michael's humor struggled to the fore. Sera Jones was going to make some man a belly full of aches someday, unless her husband came to the dinner table with a cast-iron stomach.

Curious once more about McCoy's replacement, Michael combed a cursory hand through his hair and turned toward the parlor. He had to admit, he was delighted to know Sera's infatuation for the drifter had finally run its course. Still, he did have one misgiving about the newcomer. He wanted to make perfectly clear that in the future, he would not tolerate unchaperoned sparking with his sister.

The gaslight flames danced in their sconces, casting wild, writhing shadows across the wall as he walked along the hall. The shades reminded him a bit too uncomfortably of a drawing from a college history text, one of naked pagans celebrating the rites of spring. Why he kept such garbage locked in his mind remained a mystery, since he needed every available brain cell to track the lies he'd been telling recently about his fatigue. If nothing else, he needed a clear head to discuss courtship etiquette with Sera's new beau.

Gathering his wits, he rounded the corner—only to freeze in midstride on the threshold. Sera's visitor stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her attention riveted on the book titles that ordinarily would have held no interest for Sera or her friends. Even though the woman's back was to him, Michael would have recognized that cascade of russet hair anywhere. How many times had he seen it blowing in the wind through his dreams? How many times had he imagined its taste, its scent, its feel as it tumbled across his face while Eden made love to him?

His response was instantaneous. He grew as hard as any randy youth.

He wanted to believe his thoughts of writhing pagans had something to do with his lust; unfortunately, he knew better.

Christ, Jones. She's an innocent. She won't notice the difference. Walk into the room, exchange a few pleasantries, and get out. She'd have to be deaf not to hear you panting out here like a bull.

But Eden didn't hear him, thanks to the tumult of the heavens. Instead, she rose on tiptoe. Her tongue jutted in determination as she stretched her hand as high as it could reach. Somehow, she managed to grasp the first volume in his medical set. The one entitled
Compendium of Ailments: Abrasions (Aa) to Hemophilia (He).
The one whose dog-eared corners clearly marked the sections on cranial pathology.