Dream 3 - Finding the Dream (11 page)

"I am taking care of myself." She smothered a smile. Byron's stand on health and fitness was well known. "I just didn't get much sleep last night. I went to the pound yesterday."

He brightened, as she'd known he would. He'd adopted two dogs the year before. "Yeah? What did you get?"

"A puppy and two kittens. The girls are in ecstasy. And this morning, I caught Annie carrying the pup like he was a newborn baby, and telling him that good dogs mustn't piddle on the Bokhara rug."

"Start stocking up on newspaper. We'll have to come over and check out your new additions."

"Come by tonight."

He raised an eyebrow. "Before or after the country club dance?"

"The Valentine's Day dance." She shut her eyes. "I forgot."

"No getting out of it, Laura. You're a Templeton. You're expected."

"I know, I know." There went the long, indulgent bath-and-early-to-bed night she'd been fantasizing about. "I'll be there. I would have remembered."

"If you hadn't, Kate and Margo would have reminded you. Look, why don't you let your partners handle the shop this afternoon? Go take a nap."

"J.T. is having his checkup this afternoon. I can't leave Kate on her own. We're inundated with the Valentine's Day sale."

"Which reminds me…"

Understanding, she smiled. "It's only the tenth, Byron. You still have time to pick up that well-thought-out, loving gift. And no matter what Kate says, don't buy her computer software. Flowers always work for me."

And no one had sent her flowers, she thought, in too long to remember. When her mind drifted to a tiny yellow wildflower, she pulled it back, and called herself an idiot.

"She's not getting that new calculator she's been hinting for, either." He rose. "Do you want a lift to the club tonight?"

So went the life of a single woman, Laura mused. Always tagging along with couples. "No, thanks. I'll see you there."

"I'm not the country club type, Josh." As if someone had already forced him into a suit, Michael rolled his shoulders.

"I'd consider it a favor."

Scowling, Michael measured out grain. "I hate it when you do that."

"And I'd be able to introduce you to a lot of potential horse owners. I happen to know someone who has an impressive stud. You did say you have a mare ready to breed."

"Yeah, she's ready." And he wanted the right sire for her. "So, you'll give me his name, and I'll talk to him. I don't have to go to some lame dance. And I'm the last person your sister wants taking her to some lame dance."

"It's not like a date." So Margo had said when she'd drilled the request into his head. "It's just that Laura's feeling like a third wheel at these things. I didn't realize it myself, but Margo pointed it out."

And, Josh thought as he watched Michael divvy up grains, had made him feel like a lower form of life. "Then I realized how often Laura either skips going to events, or cuts out early. It would be nice for her to have an escort, that's all."

"A woman like your sister ought to have a platoon of likely escorts lined up and waiting." And all with the proper pedigree, Michael thought.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't seem interested in swimming with the sharks in the dating pool." Was he supposed to do something about that, too? Josh wondered and nearly shuddered. "She knows you, Mick. She'd be comfortable with you. And it would give you the chance to make some contacts. Everybody's happy."

"I'm not happy when I have to wear a tie." He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Not like you, Harvard, in your fancy Italian suit. Get the hell out of my barn."

"Come on, Mick. It's just one night out of your fascinating and fun-filled life. We'll hit the game room, play some billiards, tell some lies."

There was that, Michael considered. And the alternative was a sandwich and an evening hunkered over his drawings for his projected house. "I can still bury your ass at pool."

"I'll lend you a tie."

"Fuck you." One of the cats streaked by, pounced in a blur of black. There was a short squeal.

"Christ, that's disgusting."

"That's life, Harvard." Michael moved back to deal with Darling's meal, measuring the additives necessary for her condition.

"You really know what you're doing around here, don't you?"

"Apparently we all have our niche."

Josh mused over how many niches Michael had already found and rejected. Yet he had a feeling this one was different. They'd known each other too long and too well for Josh to miss the easy contentment in his friend's moves. A contentment, he thought, that had never quite been there before.

"This is the one, isn't it?"

Michael glanced over. He didn't need to explain, not to Josh. He only needed to say one word. "Yeah."

"If I know you, you want to make something big out of it."

He yearned to. "In my own time."

Josh took his, waiting while Michael fed the expectant mother, checked her hay-net, babied her. "Monterey Riding Academy? The owners are friends of the family."

"So?"

"They'll be at the club tonight. Kate was their accountant when she was with Bittle and Associates. They do a lot of buying and selling. So do their students."

Ambition, Michael admitted, was always a trap. "You're a slick son of a bitch, Harvard. You always were."

Josh merely grinned. "We all have our niche."

"Laura might not go for this little arrangement of yours."

"I can handle Laura," Josh said confidently, and checked his watch. "I've got enough time to slip by the shop and do just that before my last meeting today. The dance is at nine. I'll tell her you'll pick her up at eight-thirty—wearing a tie."

"If you don't make this worth my while, pal, I'll have to kick your ass." He brushed grain dust from his hands. "I won't enjoy it, but I'll have to do it."

"Understood." Satisfied with the outcome of his mission, Josh headed for the door. "Ah, you do know the way to the club, don't you?"

Appreciating the sarcasm, Michael tilted his head. "Maybe I will enjoy it after all."

She was furious, livid. And trapped. They'd ganged up on her, Laura fumed as she yanked the pearl gray Miska cocktail dress out of her closet. Josh and Margo and Kate, cornering her at Pretenses and all but presenting her with a fait accompli.

Michael Fury was escorting her to the country club dance. The arrangement would suit everyone. They wouldn't have to worry about her driving there and back alone or about her feeling awkward at an event designed for couples. Michael would gain an entree and make contacts in the horse world.

Oh, yeah, it suited everyone just fine. Everyone but herself.

It was humiliating, she thought as she jerked the zipper up. A thirty-year-old woman being fixed up by her big brother. Worse, now Michael knew that she was the pathetic divorcee who couldn't get her own date. As if she wanted one in the first place, or the last place, or any place at all, for that matter.

"Which I don't," she told the dog, who had come into her room to watch her every move with adoring eyes. "I don't even want to go to the damn country club tonight. I'm tired."

Sympathetically he wiggled his butt as she stormed over to the closet for shoes and a beaded jacket. She didn't need to hang on to a man's arm to feel complete. She didn't need to hang on to anything, anyone. Why couldn't she just crawl into bed and read a book, she wondered. Eat popcorn and watch an old movie on TV until she fell asleep with the set still on.

Why did she have to dress up, go out in public, and be Laura Templeton?

She stopped, sighed. Because she
was
Laura Templeton. That was something she couldn't forget. Laura Templeton had responsibilities, she had an image to maintain.

So, she told herself as she picked up her lipstick and applied it skillfully, she would maintain it. She would get through the evening, say the right things to the right people. She would be as polite and friendly to Michael as necessary. And when the whole blasted thing was over, she would fall facedown on her bed and forget it. Until the next time.

She checked her hair. God, she needed a trim. And when was she going to fit that in? She turned for her bag and watched in mild horror as the pup wet on her Aubusson. "Oh, Bongo!" He grinned up at her and sat in his own pee.

It was only a small rebellion, but Michael didn't wear a tie. He figured that with Laura Templeton at his side they wouldn't boot him out for wearing a black turtleneck under his jacket.

He parked between the island of spring bulbs and the grand front entrance. And if he'd been wearing a tie, he would have tugged at it.

Nerves. They amazed him, disgusted him. But no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he felt like some pimply-faced teenager on a first date.

Ignoring the sky dusted with icy stars, the sheen of silvering moonlight, the scent of sea and flowers, he walked to the door like a man taking his last mile in shackles.

How the hell had he let himself get talked into this?

He'd never used the front door at Templeton House. As a boy, if he came by for Josh, or came along with him, he used the side or rear. The entrance was so damned imposing, grandly tall, recessed, and framed in. tile. The knocker was a huge brass affair in the shape of a stylized T. Over his head hung an antique carriage light.

It didn't make him feel welcome.

Nor did Ann Sullivan when she opened the door to his knock. She stood, tight-lipped, in her starched black dress. He noted first that the years sat lightly on her. She was a lovely woman, if you looked past the jaundiced eye. Margo had come by her looks naturally.

"Mr. Fury." The faint hint of Ireland in her voice might have been charming if it hadn't been so damning.

Because for reasons he couldn't name he'd always wanted her approval, she put his back up. His smile was insolent. His voice matched it. "Mrs. Sullivan. It's been a while."

"It has," she returned, clearly telling him it hadn't been nearly long enough. "You're to come in."

He accepted the grudging invitation and stepped into the soaring foyer. The ivory and peacock-blue tiles were the same, he noted. As was the gorgeously ornate chandelier that sprinkled light. The place was welcoming, even if its doyenne wasn't. It was full of cozy scents, rich color, warming light.

"I'll tell Miss Laura you're here."

But as she turned to do so, Laura came down the wide, curving steps. Though Michael would tell himself later that he was a fool, his heart stopped.

The lights caught the fussy beads of her jacket and shot color. Beneath was a simple dress the color of moondust. There were jewels at her ears, sapphires and diamonds, framing the face that her swept-back hair accented.

She looked so perfect, so lovely, with one ringless hand trailing along the glossy banister. She might have stepped out of a painting.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting." Her voice was cool, betraying none of her panic at the way those eyes of his bored into her, or her fluster at having to mop up after the dog.

"Just got here," he said, equally cool. Then some of the absurdity struck him. Here he was, Michael Fury, holding out a hand for a princess. "I wasn't supposed to bring, like, a corsage or something, was I?"

She managed a small smile of her own. "It's not the prom."

"Amen to that."

"You be careful, Miss Laura." Ann shot a warning look at Michael. "And you drive responsibly, boy-o. It isn't one of your races."

"Annie, the dog's in with the girls, but—"

"Don't you worry." She gestured toward the door, thinking philosophically that the sooner they were gone, the sooner she'd have her girl back. "I'll take care of him, and them. Try to enjoy yourself."

"And I'll try to bring her back in one piece," Michael added, for the hell of it, as he opened the door.

"See that you do," Ann muttered and began to worry the moment the door closed.

"It's nice of you to drive me to the club." She would put things on the proper footing, Laura determined. And keep them there. "You don't have to feel obliged to entertain me once we're there."

He'd been planning to say pretty much the same thing himself, but he resented her saying it first. He opened her door, leaned on it. "Who are you pissed off at, Laura? Me, or the world in general?"

"I'm not angry with you or anyone." Gracefully, she slipped into the passenger seat of his Porsche. "I'm simply explaining matters so that we get through the evening comfortably."

"And here you said you liked mongrels." She blinked. "I don't know what you mean."

"Right." He resisted—barely—slamming the door. The evening, he thought as he rounded the hood, was off to a flying start.

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It could have been worse, Michael supposed. He could have been back in some Central American jungle sweating bullets and dodging them. He could have had his skull bashed in, as he had once when a stunt gag went wrong.

Instead he was standing in a room with people he didn't know and didn't care to know.

He'd rather have had his skull bashed in.