While She Was Sleeping... (16 page)

“Of course.” She dug it out of her bag. “Hold still.”

He put a hand in front of his face. “Not me, a picture of the city.”

“I will. But I’ll want pictures of you, too.”

“You’ll forget me otherwise?”

She gave him a sassy grin over the camera. “In a heartbeat.”

“What if you had me every day to look at? In the flesh.” He stood for another picture, hands on his hips, wonder ing how far she’d go, if she felt as deeply as he did, loathing his vulnerability as strongly as he was determined to keep her here.

She took a step back, focused her lens. “What, you’re going to move to Florida, too?”

“No. You’re going to stay here.” He smiled. The camera clicked.

“You think so?”

“Milwaukee is your home. Florida is torturously hot eight months of the year. Milwaukee is only torturously cold for four.”

“Where did you make up those statistics?” She circled around him, taking more pictures.

“I saw them online.”

“Yeah? What site?”

“Madeupstuff.com.”

“Ah.” She clicked the lens again, walking backward while he advanced on her. “
And
Florida has cockroaches the size of New Jersey.”

“Those are palmetto bugs.”

“They’re cockroaches. Friends of mine who lived in Orlando had slimy slug trails on their living room walls every morning, frogs hopping around the house, crickets, lizards. When they moved, there was a menagerie of death under the piano where the cat had chased them all.”

She stopped taking pictures. “Ew, really?”

“I swear.” He made an
X
over his heart. She clicked the camera. “And there’s no bratwurst, no custard…”

“No shoveling, no icy roads.”

“Black ice. They have that. And horrible traffic.”

“Year-round barbecues.”

“No me. No us.” He lunged forward, stopped her walking away from him. “Only Milwaukee has us.”

She kissed him as eagerly as he kissed her. The part of his brain that could still think remembered what her grandmother had said about her and Melanie being more alike than they thought. Beneath Melanie’s passion there must be a practical streak, because certainly beneath Alana’s practical streak
there was passion. And how. He wanted to unearth all of it, push her to the border of what she could handle, sexually and emotionally. He couldn’t bear the thought of any Florida guy making those incredible discoveries.

“Let’s take a picture of both of us.” She dropped to her knees, beckoning him to join her, put her bag on the sand and adjusted the camera until she could get the shot she wanted. She set the timer, hurried next to him, and slid her arm around him the same time he slid his around her and hauled her close, mugging for the camera even as his body registered how good hers felt next to him.

She fit him. Better than his friends, his family, better than himself. She brought out the fun in everyday doings that he had lost track of, that he’d spent the past months trying too hard with too little success to capture after he quit his former life. Most valuably, she’d inspired him to look to his future with something other than pressured disinterest.

Alana was good for him. Other women had been nice companions, pleasant lovers, but he never felt any of them belonged in his life the way he felt Alana did.

“One more.” She reset the timer, posed again, then broke her radiant for-the-camera smile with all-out laughter when he tickled her. “Hey!”

She brought up the picture in the viewer, studied it and handed the camera to him, her smile turned more serious. He looked. Shook his head, handed the camera back. “You ever see two happier people?”

Alana looked again, biting her lip. “No.”

“You won’t know anyone down there.”

“I’ll make friends.”

He shrugged, pretended to let it drop. He’d gotten her to stay another few days or so, and had planted the seed of forever. He gestured to the lake, to the greenery lining the shore, to the city skyline a mile to the south. “Take more pictures.
So when you move to Florida you can take Milwaukee with you.”

“I’d like that.” She stood for a moment facing the city, the sun heading toward the west for its eventual night’s rest glowing on her face, lighting her eyes, which were slightly troubled.

It was all he could do to keep himself from saying it, and in the next second he forgot why he shouldn’t and gave in, throwing common sense and pride to the Lake Michigan winds.

“Alana, I love you.”

S
AWYER’S SUMMER PLACE
was beautiful, nestled among firs, oaks, maples and birches at the edge of the small lake, which, with the surrounding land, belonged entirely to the Dalton/Kern family. The house was a cozy little six-bedroom—just the thing for a casual weekend away from their other cozy six-bedroom on Lake Michigan.

So maybe she was a little awed and a little bitter. It was hard to imagine having this much room to move around in without inflicting yourself on anyone else. Not another house in sight; the lake, vaguely kidney-shaped, might as well have been in the wilds of Alaska.

Which for this evening suited Alana just fine. How long she’d stay in Milwaukee before making the trip to Florida she didn’t know, but a huge weight had lifted when Sawyer convinced her to stay these few extra days…not that he’d had to work too hard to change her mind.

How long since she’d taken a vacation? Too long. She’d worked with Grandad year-round, through summers, through college, then taken the week between graduation and starting her job in Chicago to move and get settled.

“I’ll show you around.” Sawyer grabbed the cooler from
the trunk where it had thudded back and forth during their hour’s drive from Milwaukee.

“I’d love that.” She got out of the car and inhaled the warm woodsy air, slapped at the mosquito trying to welcome her to Lake Wishkitba.

What would have happened if she’d decided not to come to Milwaukee, to leave Melanie to her own mess this time? She’d be in Orlando now, having just been through a hurricane. The outgoing manager of Shady Oaks Condos would have to cope with the cleanup, but she’d probably have been called in to help even though she didn’t start officially for another week. Instead, she was here, toward the end of a perfect day, in a lakeside paradise with a man who said he loved her.

Loved her!
When he’d said the miraculous phrase on Bradford Beach, she’d been paralyzed, torn between joy and shock so that she’d probably looked like a parody of a stunned person. Sawyer had laughed when he took her in his arms, told her not to say anything, that he’d been feeling it and wanted her to know. Again, the unflappable Sawyer, taking life as it came, though she could sense his disappointment. What would she give for that easy nature? If she’d been in his place and gotten no response, she probably would have hurled herself face-first into the sand and howled.

She’d wanted to give him some indication that her feelings had progressed way beyond the initial thrill, too, but it was beyond her to make that kind of declaration. Not now. Maybe not ever. Even if this was the beginning of love—which was certainly possible, given that she’d never felt this way about anyone—it was love already doomed. In a few days she’d be starting an entirely new life. She didn’t want to do that with half her heart bound to someone she’d left behind. Long-distance relationships satisfied no one.

A breeze came across the lake, bringing more forest fragrances. A chickadee hopped on a nearby branch, head tipped to watch them curiously. A squirrel scolded Sawyer
for intruding on its territory; apparently it wasn’t intimidated by the Dalton/Kern dynasty.

“Let’s go in.” Sawyer slapped a mosquito away from his ear. “Screened-in porch is a savior this time of year.”

The house, shaded by trees, was decently cool. Unused in a while, it smelled of pine and a faint fragrance of cleaners and moth balls. The furniture was summery in florals and pastels, walls decorated with landscapes and occasional kid art, the kitchen any cook’s dream, the dining room informal chic.

She helped Sawyer open windows. Then he disappeared upstairs to start the attic fan, which drew air inside and up through the house, soon replacing the unpleasant stuffiness with fresh grassy aromas.

“I brought you a change of clothes and toothbrush.” He came back down, caught her examining a beautiful watercolor of the lake by a “Mark” she assumed was his brother. “I hope it was okay to go into your room back home and dig.”

“Of course. You think of everything.”

“I try.” He put his arms to her shoulders, kissed her forehead tenderly.

“You know what I’d like before dinner?” She put a hand to his chest, loving that he was so physical. “A shower.”

“Swim first?”

“I don’t have a suit.”

He grinned, lifting one eyebrow. “Private lake.”

“Ah.” She’d act as if skinny-dipping in daylight was something she did all the time. “Okay, then.”

“I’ll put some things in the refrigerator and join you.”

“Let me help?”

“No. You go have fun.” He shooed her out onto the side deck through the French doors in the large, airy kitchen.

Alana gave in and started for the lake, wondering how she’d survive those first weeks in Florida without this man she’d only known a few days. She’d been sure separation
would quickly take care of the feelings they’d started. Now she wasn’t sure at all. She enjoyed him so much—and being madly pampered wasn’t bad, either.

She tramped down the path toward the narrow sandy beach where she’d have to get naked, peering around anxiously for stray hunters or nosy neighbors or armed psychotics.

Nothing but tiny waves rippling the lake’s surface, a breeze that stiffened suddenly, keeping the worst of the mosquitoes away, and a small brown bird with a yellow beak hopping along the water’s edge.

So. Apparently she was supposed to strip now.

Okay.

She pulled the yellow top over her head, folded and laid it neatly over a low tree branch, stepped out of her shorts, folded those and did the same. Glanced around nervously again, approached the water and tested it with her toe. Nice cool temperature; the air was warm enough this far inland that the lake would feel good on her stale sweat-dried skin, and the sun lowering in the sky was still strong enough to reheat her after she got out.

So.

Okay.

She unhooked her bra, keeping careful watch for trespassers, and turned to her clothes-hanger branch when something caught her eye up at the house.

Sawyer, staring through the French doors.

Pervert.

But knowing he was there keeping watch also made her feel safe. And daring. And yes, suddenly very ready to be naked.

She took off her bra, twirled it in circles over her head like a cowgirl stripper, and let it fly. Lifted her arms over her head and danced in a slow circle, undulating her hips, swinging her hair, then added a long topless shimmy facing the house, pretending she wasn’t at all aware of him. For her
next number, she covered her breasts with her hands and did a few boom-bada-boom moves, then slid fingers down and beyond, snagging her panties on the way.

Voila. Naked. She turned her back to the house, caressed her rear in luxurious circles while performing a slow, erotic buns-out version of the twist, taking her down almost to kneeling, then back up. Not even glancing behind her, she tossed her head and sauntered toward the water, hearing, too late, the thud of his feet coming after her.

She squealed and started to run, splashing through the shallows; he caught up with her, lifted her around the waist and dunked her with him.

“Argh!” Alana surfaced, dripping, giggling, energized by the cold. “Why you—”

She lunged and tackled him around the waist, scoring a direct hit and rewarded with his collapse into the water. She swam away, then around in a circle. He came up grinning, flung his head to the side to get hair off his face. “What were you trying to do with that striptease? Kill me?”

“Gee, Sawyer, I had no idea you were watching.”

He splashed her in punishment. She giggled and dove under, feeling as if she were starring in one of those falling-in-love montages from a chick flick. Couple in a romantic French bistro, couple taking pictures along the beach, couple laughing and splashing naked in a lake. Later, couple in bed, making love.

Falling in love.

It could happen for her, too. It might have already. Right now, dripping wet and high on life, she cared less and less about stopping it anymore.

They swam for a while longer until hunger drove them back inside and into the shower. Scrubbed and shampooed and refreshed, she dragged on one of his T-shirts over clean panties and left her wardrobe change at that on his request,
feeling sexy and comfortable and as if bliss was her new inseparable best friend.

They sat on the screened-in porch outdoors in cushioned Adirondack chairs, enjoying the breeze, protected from mosquitoes, drinking beer, eating the picnic Sawyer had packed: cold chicken flavored with soy sauce, ginger and garlic, Asian slaw, peanut noodles, watermelon and butterscotch brownies, then more beer, sitting with their feet up on the low table, sharing stories of their childhoods, enjoying the view of the setting sun turning the calm lake pink. Utter contentment.

“So…Alana.”

“Mmm?”

“Just wanted to warn you, I’m planning to get you naked again very soon.” He gestured toward her with his beer bottle. “Because looking at you in that T-shirt and panties has been pure pleasure, but it has also been pure torture.”

“I see.” His low, husky voice made her shift on her seat, nipples hardening under the soft cotton, which he immediately noticed and appreciated, which made her shift again.

“What do you think?”

“I think…” She sent him a smoldering come-hither look. “I need to powder my nose first.”

He chuckled. “Second door on the right. The bedroom is the door on the left past it. I’ll meet you.”

“Deal.” She kissed him and went into the bathroom, simply designed but top-quality like the rest of the house, from the enormous claw-foot tub to the stone vessel sink, to the toilet that barely made a sound when she flushed. A look in the mirror showed a very, very relaxed and happy woman. Today had been so perfect, from breakfast in bed to the museum, to lunch, to the, ahem, basement, then beach and now lake house.

Had she mentioned she could get used to this?

Three more days, give or take. Three more days to fall
harder for this amazing man, and then she’d get to rip out her heart and leave it with him when she left.

Florida. Most people thought of it as paradise. Right now it felt like jail.

She emerged from the bathroom into the dimly lit hallway and followed his directions toward the room with the glow of light spilling from under the nearly closed door which she lost no time in pushing open.

Candles. She stood and took in the scene. A dozen at least, at various locations behind and to the sides of the beautiful iron bed. On the polished wood mantel, on the bedside table, on the bookcase at the far wall, arranged on the low window seat. Her delighted laughter died the instant she looked at Sawyer.

He’d stripped to his boxers and stood by the bed, feet planted, hands loosely on his hips, chest and muscled arms lit to a golden glow. Shadows played on his cheekbones and strong jaw, his hair was carelessly tousled after his shower, but his gaze stopped her…from moving, from breathing. He watched her quietly, no grand gesture, but in his eyes she saw everything she’d ever wanted to see in a man’s heart.

Come here.
He didn’t say it aloud, but held out his hand. She moved forward, feeling as if she were starring in one of her most perfect fantasies, except this was real. Even understanding that, part of her kept wanting to know for sure she wouldn’t wake up and find out she’d been dreaming.

She stood opposite him. He put his hands to her waist and pulled her close, laid his cheek against her hair while she slid her fingers up the hard landscape of his arms. They stood like that she didn’t know how long. His skin was warm on her temple, rough where his beard had emerged. Her breath was audible, catching occasionally, his deep and regular.

Then his lips touched her hair…her cheek…the corner of her mouth. Alana turned her face toward him and up; his lips brushed hers, drew back, brushed them again, making them
tingle. She closed her eyes, trying to capture every sensation—his male scent, the hard heat of his muscles under her fingers, the warmth of his body so close, the soft tenderness of his lips, the acceleration in his breathing. His tongue drew a slow path across her mouth; he caught her lower lip between his, pulled gently, grazed it with his teeth. A shiver caught her, not from cold but from a necessary release of the building tension.

He pulled away; she opened her eyes and suddenly understood how it felt to drown in someone’s gaze. Emotion swelled to the familiar point where she’d have to look away or be lost. A second before she gave in, he bent and kissed her, gently, then lingeringly, then harder, then with possessive passion that made her whimper and push close, feeling his erection bulging through the thin cotton of his boxers.

She loved the silence, loved the communication only through their bodies, loved the way she could immerse herself in sensing instead of speaking. He turned her toward the bed, arms locked around her, and supported her slow fall back onto the soft sheets, still kissing her, body wide and secure on top of hers. He lifted to help her out of the T-shirt; her breasts reacted to the cooler air in the room, which made his warm mouth warmer on them; her hands traveled the expanse of his back, solid under smooth masculine skin.

This man. This man. Everything about their time together was so much
more.
More romantic, more fun, more intense and so much more meaningful.

He slid her panties down her hips, helped their leisurely long journey off her legs by encouraging every few inches with gentle kisses, down her thighs, knees, calves, the soles of her feet. On the way back up, he stopped to explore with his tongue, slipping his finger inside her, bringing her to helpless gasps of pleasure while she alternately stroked and gripped his hair.

Then his boxers were gone. He rolled on a condom and lay back over her, supported on his elbows. His penis moved
between her legs, anxious to gain entrance, but he took his time, patiently kissing her face and mouth again. She wound her hands around his arms, over his taut shoulders and not at all patiently pushed up her hips in silent invitation.

He accepted, slid inside her an inch at a time, pulling out in between advances so she really felt him stretching her, filling her. Then the final smooth slide to the hilt, and he started a slow and steady rhythm that made her clutch his biceps and grit her teeth to keep from crying out that he should go harder, get her to that peak she was so desperate for. She wanted their lovemaking at his pace, to satisfy his need, whatever he wanted. He’d given her the best day of her life. He’d given her candles and a bed with clean sheets. Everything else should be hers to give back to him.