Wayward Dreams (26 page)

“I never quoted you a price.” He smiled, calculating his chances for success. “Let's say I do this
gratis
, to satisfy my curiosity.”
And to keep you safe.
He kept his last thought to himself, hoping he was wrong, that Kelvin Michael Payne wasn't playing fast and loose with the kind of serious people he suspected.

“I guess that's a reasonable rate.”

“What about Vive la Reine? I'll need some signatures to set up a system there.” Harry felt her stiffen and knew he'd pushed too far.

“No, I told you I have that covered already.”

Her independence again.
“Just pressure plates by the doors, and motion detectors…”

“No, Harry.”

“Then let me…”

“No.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind?”

“I won't.”

He knew she wouldn't—not unless something happened to change it for her. But that didn't mean he couldn't have Vive la Reine watched. Harry kissed her again, his lips lingering on hers, and promised to assign a team the second he got back to the office.

Almost as though she'd heard his thought, Bianca pulled back. “Maybe we should start all over again.”

Harry smiled like an idiot, and hardened when her lips curved in response. “Hello, Bianca.”

“Hello, Harry. Nice to have you home again.” She lowered her eyes, tracking the long finger he used to trace the path from her chin to the soft crease between her breasts.

“I missed you,” he said, then whispered into her skin, “
Kimi-ni muchü-nanda.
”

Bianca pushed close and breath slowed between them when his hands moved to mimic the curve of her breasts and the bow of her waist. When he pulled at the ties that bound her dress, it gave way and cool air brushed her skin.

“I brought you something.” Harry's voice was low and hungry, vibrating through her.

“You came back,” she murmured, pulling at his shirt and slipping it over his head. Her deft fingers went to the band of his pants. Flattening her hands, Bianca pushed against his lean hips and Harry forgot the kimono and his fears for her.

His mouth on hers, his hands moved beneath the dress she now barely wore. When he called her name, his voice, striped with low, growling hunger, tightened her core. Crushing her mouth to his, her long leg wrapping his and binding him close, the taste and feel of him was everything she remembered, and craved. “You came back,” she whispered again.

His teeth grazed her shoulder as her dress fell away, leaving only the silky black bra and panties, the tiny garter belt and lace-topped hose behind. His hand skimmed her body, finding warm places reserved only for him. Dipping his head low, curtained by her hair when she dropped her head to follow him, felt like an act of prayer. “Tell me you missed me.”

“Aw, Harry. You already know I did,” she panted, moving her leg to surround his hips.

Harry suffered an aching moment of clarity. That long leg, the garter belt, and the stiletto heels…all that was missing was the stripper pole; his world blurred when she lifted the other leg and climbed his body.
Damn.
Hot at the core and totally dedicated to him, Harry felt her mouth on his skin and would have sold his soul to lock the moment in time. His hunger surged and he swept her up into his arms and out of his office.

Tangled with him, Bianca let herself be carried, swinging her feet a time or two. Burying her face in the tender juncture of his throat and shoulder, she giggled. “You're not going to drop me, are you?”

“Never.” Harry was proud to tell her that he had no intention of letting her go, even when he bounced her high enough to make her squeal and tighten her arms around his neck, but he was ready to stumble by the time he dropped her to his bed. It was not her weight that caught him, it was his need. When she pulled him down with her, he was glad to feel desire and heat steaming from her in waves that matched the urgent tsunami that threatened to drown him.

“Bianca…” Captured by desire, he shed exhaustion when the taste of her filled him. Violent tremors from tender places rumbled between them, crossing from his skin to hers and back again, telegraphing yearnings and their cries became a shared moan as he met her call to parts of him no other woman had ever touched.

“Bianca…” Her name, distant as the stars and as close as his heartbeat, came between them as ambition crumbled beneath the weight of emotion and obsession. Falling over the skinny edge of furious lust and intoxicated craving, he carried her with him into completion.

Hours later, watching dawn creep along Atlanta's skyline, Harry woke to find her still there. On her back with the sheet twisted at her waist, one arm shielding her breasts, and her hair spilled around her, Bianca slept easily. Rising on his elbow, he watched the colors of the morning touching her. Loving the picture she made, he marveled again at her ability to fall instantly and completely asleep under almost any circumstances.

Sleeping the sleep of the righteous; must have a clear conscience.
That's what Patti-cake would say.

For a second, he thought about calling AJ and Dench, and canceling.
I could put them off for a few days. They know I just got back. They would understand.

But
she
might not.

He remembered lying there with her in the night, her fingers gliding along the planes of his back. “A man should have his own friends, his own interests. And as much as I missed you, I don't want to take you from your friends. Go, do what you planned. I'll be here wearing that kimono when you get back.”

Her fingers had traced his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and his lips
.
She curled against him and smiled when he kissed the corner of her mouth, feeling blessed. Easing from the bed, Harry debated smashing something in hopes of waking her, but he suspected she would roll over and keep right on sleeping.

Finally giving up on the hope of a little early-morning loving, he showered, dressed, scribbled a note for her, and left it on her pillow.

Leaving the Ferrari Bianca had come to love behind, Harry climbed into his Audi and turned north on I-85. The drive was only about fifty miles outside the city, just under an hour in good traffic and heading away from downtown. He settled back with Gladys Knight's voice bringing clarity to the road.

Harry let his GPS guide him along the highway and looked forward to the day ahead. Barely noticing the scenery, his thoughts drifted. The Falcons official conditioning program wouldn't start until August, but Dench had the new team members starting early, a sure sign he intended to come into the season with a chance to improve on last year's playoff appearance.

Gladys was singing about the “Midnight Train to Georgia” and Harry hummed along. Knowing that today's workout was voluntary didn't make it any less interesting. The guys on the field today would be hard workers looking to impress. Dench said he'd been working with the team's Director of Athletic Performance to tweak pre-season conditioning. Harry couldn't have cared less. He was going to see some good old American football.

Finally pulling off I-985, with Gladys and the Pips making promises to the “Landlord,” Spout Springs Road came up almost before he realized it. He followed the turns, and Atlanta Highway brought him to the Falcons' complex.

Slowing at the compound gate, Harry tuned his music lower and rolled down his window while he waited for the security guard to step out of the air-conditioned cubicle and over to his car. Round with richly tanned mahogany skin, his uniform neatly pressed and a small nametag bearing the name Phil clipped to his shirt, the guard tried to show a little hustle. Harry doubted if he could have run a city block on a bet, but he was cheerful when he asked for Harry's name.

Scanning the sheets attached to the clipboard he carried, Phil's finger traced the line of names. When he came to Harry's he looked up and smiled. “Coach is waiting for you. He's over in the dorms, right over there.” Reaching back to tap a button just inside the window, Phil waved Harry through and onto the Falcons' campgrounds.

Rolling slowly into the parking area, Harry spotted AJ and Dench as they walked out of the building. Glad to see the men he'd called his friends for so long and saw so seldom, he had to admit he was excited about the VIP treatment Dench's position garnered.

Sliding out of the Audi, he couldn't help laughing. “Look at you two—all grown up!”

Tall and broad-shouldered with bodies built by a lifetime of athletics, both men were solid and healthy. AJ, the taller of the two, still wore his height with almost elegant comfort. A former running back, he still looked like he could hit a few speed drills and not wind up sucking wind. Always at his side, Dench looked steady and solid, but definitely hitting the gym—hard. Out here with all these young, wild boys, Dench probably had no choice but to stay in shape.

“Us? Look at you, Mr. Making-a-Splash-in-International-Business! You look good, Harry, real good.”

“You look good, too, Mr. Hall-of-Fame. And you're not too shabby, either, Mr. NFL-Head-Coach.” Offering his hand, taking AJ's and then Dench's, Harry loved the camaraderie.

“It's been a minute,” Dench said, handing a Falcon cap to Harry. He grinned when Harry's eyebrows shot up in appreciation. “That's a team cap, dude. Only special people get them.”

AJ elbowed him. “That means his wife has one.”

“Aw, dude.” Dench's hand went to his chest and he dropped his head.

“You two may look grown, but you're the same as always.” Harry curved the cap's brim between his hands, shaping the visor, then pulled it on.

“Looks good,” AJ said. “You're going to have to show up in Atlanta and wear it more often.”

Harry shouldered the nylon backpack Dench offered, and grinned. “I'm going to take you up on that.”

Starting to walk along the path to the field, Dench gave him a sidelong glance. “Do I hear the sweet sound of a woman mixed in with that?”

“Could be.” Harry felt AJ and Dench exchanging eye signals and ignored them. Their path curved upward and past a small group of cool-looking trees, and Harry stayed silent. What was he supposed to do? Run ahead and do some kind of cheerleader dance? Tell them he woke up one morning and there she was? No, better to wait and let things come out naturally. He kept walking.

Six young men, little more than boys, jogged by, sweating in their workout gear. When they shouted greetings, Dench muttered something ending in “knuckleheads.”

They walked another hundred yards before the silence got the better of AJ. He took two long steps and stopped. Standing in front of the other two men, he made his face serious and jabbed a finger into Harry's chest. “What the hell kind of an answer is ‘could be'? What does that mean, anyway?”

The chuckle came from deep in Harry's chest. He rubbed at his cheek and then pulled his cap low over his eyes, shading them. “Means I woke up one day and decided I needed to do something I'd never done before. I decided I needed to open up my life.” He started to walk, giving AJ and Dench no choice but to follow.

“That means you woke up either horny or lonely.”

“Or both, dude.” Dench opened the gate at the end of their path and held it for the other two.

“Mixed in with some homesickness. So I packed my bags and headed back to the ATL.”

Harry followed Dench to the bank of reserved seats and dropped the backpack at his feet. AJ followed, but unzipped his pack to pull out a bottle of water. Dench stood with his back to the railing surrounding their seats and leaned with his ankles crossed.

“We saw you in Fortune.” Dench nodded rhythmically. “Nice. Very nice.”

He probably would have said more, but more than thirty young men rushed onto the field. Two assistant coaches and their assistants ran behind the men like cowboys wrangling rambunctious steers, and for whatever reason, Dench felt compelled to turn and add his voice. When he turned back, he found AJ and Harry reared back in their seats with their legs stretched across the seats in front of them.

“So, tell us about the woman.” AJ barely turned his head when he dropped the empty water bottle back in his bag.

“What's to tell?”

“Man, don't make me pitch your ass out of the stands and down on that field. You know what we want to know.”

Dench cocked his head. “Got any pictures?”

“No.”
Damn. Said that too quickly.
Knowing he had no intention of saying more, he turned his attention to the field and pointed. “That guy over there, the one in the number seven jersey, is he as good as Mike Vick was?”

Dench grinned when AJ dropped his head and sighed heavily. They both knew what Harry was doing—had done it themselves from time to time. So they let him get away with it. “That's Terry Gordon, and yeah, we're hoping he's as good as Mike was back in the day.”

“Boy's got skills,” AJ added.

“That's high praise, coming from you.” Harry looked back at the field and sighed. “Ever wonder if you'll have a son out there someday?”

“Whoa, hold up and let me show you my boy.”

“Now look what you did, dude.”

Harry tried not to look worried when AJ pulled out his phone. His finger flew through the applications until the photos came up and a long-limbed boy stood in cleats and full gear smiling into the camera and looking exactly like his father had at his age. “My son,” AJ said and smiled.

“You couldn't deny this kid if you had to. Is he as good as you were?”

Pride slipped into AJ's eyes and his chest filled. “Better, and I would say that even if I wasn't his father. He's fast and he's got the hands of life; this boy can catch and carry anything.”

Another flip of his finger and a graceful young girl in ballerina attire came into view. “My daughter, and don't let the dainty ballet thing fool you. Take off those toe shoes and she's as fast as her mother ever was. Marlea doesn't say it, doesn't want to push her, but this girl is going to set serious records someday soon.”