Time After Time (15 page)

Leah choked on the breath that caught in her throat and began to cough. He said it as though he were talking about filing a report or planting a garden. No drumroll, no pregnant pause—just a flat statement.

"That's the easiest?" she whispered hoarsely. "Then I definitely don't want to know what the others are." She shook her head decisively. "I can't accept that. But even if I agreed with your explanation of what the dreams meant, I think it would be best to just leave it there." She glanced at him, then away again. "For heaven's sake, you're my boss. I can't think of you as... as..."

"As a lover," he said, nodding absently. "Yes, I see your point. It's easier for me, because I've seen you as an attractive woman for years. Remember, I told you that I'm used to dreaming about you."

Leah felt her heart jerk, skitter along wildly, then settle down again to a dull thudding. She didn't want to remember that. He had told her that in the Roman dream...just before her clothes had disappeared, giving her a strong indication of the kind of dreams he usually had about her.

"I'll have to give this some thought," he said, apparently unaware of her reaction. "I can see that you couldn't go into even a brief relationship without making some serious mental adjustments. Maybe we should go away together for a while... to allow you time to get used to me. Then, when you're more relaxed in my presence, we can see what happens."

She passed a trembly hand across her face. "You're going too fast," she said in confusion. "I couldn't...it wouldn't work. The whole time, I would be thinking 'This is Mr. Gregory. This is—'"

"Vulcan? Captain Bligh?" he offered, smiling. "I don't think so. You're an intelligent woman. Once we're away from the office atmosphere, you'll be able to see that I'm as human as you are."

"My imagination isn't that good," she muttered.

He laughed and moved closer. "Oh, I'm human all right. I can prove it to you right now, if you'll let me."

She met his gaze suspiciously. "How?"

"A kiss. That shouldn't threaten you in any way." He took another step. "Nowadays a kiss is almost as impersonal as a handshake."

Oh help,
she thought, as hysterical laughter rose in her throat. She stood frozen in horrified fascination, watching mutely as he moved even closer, until he was only inches away from her. Slowly, irresistibly, he lowered his head. .

When she felt his warm breath on her lips, Leah panicked and whirled away from him. "I think we'd better talk about this," she said warily, her eyes wide as she continued to back away.

"Miss French!" he said irritably. "Stand still and let me kiss you."

It was a tone that brought an immediate, conditioned response. "Yes, sir," she said.

Before she realized what she was doing, Leah closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

She felt his laughter on her face. "You look as if you're bracing yourself to take a dose of castor oil." His voice was no longer sharp; it was deep and husky... and too damned sexy.

Leah felt his fingers on her neck, clasping it gently. Then there came the whisper of a touch, the soft brush of movement across her lips.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he said against her lips.

Leah couldn't answer. She was being taken over by the sudden surge of sweetness flowing through her veins. His mouth found hers again, and this time the caress was more substantial. She felt his firm lips on hers, testing and exploring. Then, when the tension began to build and her breathing quickened, it wasn't his lips or her lips, his tongue or her tongue. It was
their
lips...
their
tongues. Together, they possessed this erotic, pleasure-producing organ.

When he sucked her tongue deeply into his warm, moist mouth, Leah's bones dissolved. She actually felt them turn from solid to liquid.

"That's enough," she whispered hoarsely, pulling away from him.

She could feel those probing eyes on her again, examining her, picking apart her emotions with cold

objectivity. Did he see? she wondered feverishly. Could he guess the effect the kiss had had on her?

Closing her eyes, she sighed. Of course he knew. Nothing ever got past him. Ever. Damn him....
Damn him.

"That wasn't fair," she said, anger making her voice firmer. "This—" she waved her hand helplessly between them "—feeling between us is nothing more than emotion left over from some damned pornographic dreams. We had a nice, ordinary relationship. We would still have a nice, ordinary relationship, if we hadn't started skipping over the rainbow to Emerald City at night." She raised her chin stubbornly. "I will not allow my life to be rearranged by mirages."

Clenching her teeth to still the aftershocks that were shaking her body, she continued. "So you see, this experiment wasn't necessary. Even if I decided to look at the dreams as some kind of message from beyond, they've stopped. If they were important, if they really meant something, they would have continued. But they didn't. The minute I stopped playing those stupid movies, the dreams stopped."

Her anger fell into a pit of silence. For long, tension-filled moments he didn't speak. Then, when she finally got up enough courage to look at him, he met her eyes squarely. "Yes, they stopped," he said quietly. "But that doesn't make the message any less valid," he said.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and moved toward the door. "You're still afraid. But have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is that frightens you?

I don't think it's the unusual nature of the dreams that worries you most. No, don't shake your head at me— just listen. I can see that you've put them in the same category as magic or supernatural mumbo jumbo, and you tell yourself that's reason enough to be leery."

He opened the door and glanced back at her. "But I think what you're really wary of is what the dreams are trying to tell you. You compared the dreams to the fantasy of Emerald City. Why don't you look more deeply into that fantasy? The Wizard of Oz didn't give the Tin Man a heart, Leah. He merely showed him that he had had one all along," he finished quietly. And then he walked out.

Chapter Seven

For you, in my respect, are all the world:

Then how can it be said I am alone When all the world is here to look on me?

A Midsummer Night's Dream
—Act II, Scene 2

A
s Paul paced restlessly around the perimeter of his oversized bedroom, light from the single lamp beside the bed cast shadows on his bare back, highlighting the lean, hard strength of his shoulder muscles.

If Leah had been able to see his face now, she probably would have made some quick mental adjustments. Tonight, the tight control that usually made his features seem so harsh was absent.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he ran a hand through his dark hair. He hated tossing and turning in that damn

bed, but he had to get some rest. There had been too many sleepless nights lately.

He turned out the light and stretched out on the bed, but he didn't close his eyes. He lay there, staring into the darkness, thinking about Leah. Maybe he was pushing her too hard. He smiled slightly. She had always been stubborn, the kind of woman who liked to make her own decisions. If he kept pressing her, she could very well dig in her heels with more determination than ever.

All his life Paul had been the one to make things happen. He resented not being in control of this situation, and he was impatient with the waiting. There shouldn't be an empty space in the bed beside him. Leah should be there.

His eyebrows drawn together in thought, he absently massaged the taut muscles of his neck. Couldn't she see that their lives would never get back to normal until they made love? Instead of letting these phantom emotions lead them around willy-nilly, they should be confronting the situation head on. They should face it and get it out of their systems, then go on with their lives. They would be connected by invisible ties until they took steps to break those ties.

But could the ties be broken? he wondered, frowning. Paul didn't want to consider that possibility. He had taken great care to convince himself that the dreams were only sexual, and he refused to accept any other explanation.

He wanted Leah, had wanted her for years. But there was a long list of complications—good, solid

reasons he had always given himself for never attempting to establish a personal relationship. Since Diane had died, his physical relationships had been limited to women who knew the rules. Tough, sophisticated women who regarded sex as a leisure activity, like tennis or backgammon. There was always one around when he needed sex. And until now that had been enough for him. The whole concept fit nicely into his structured life.

Leah was sophisticated, but she wasn't tough. He knew instinctively that anonymous men didn't float in and out of her bedroom. She would expect more of a man than the women Paul was used to dealing with. That fact alone should be enough to make him back off. But it wasn't. Because the truth was, Paul expected more of her, too. A lot more. With the others he had wanted sex. Now he wanted sex with Leah.

He frowned. That was wrong. He didn't just want to make love to her. He wanted to make love
with
her. He wanted to feel again what he had felt in that little Western cabin. He wanted her to look at him and see someone special.

But since that would never happen, he would take what he could get. God, yes, he would take it, he thought, drawing a sharp breath. Memory of the sweet fire he had felt in her tonight when he kissed her caused his heart to beat faster and harder. Sweet heaven, he couldn't forget the way she had tasted, the way her lips had almost begged for more. He had felt the tension building under his fingers as he held her.

Sooner or later she was going to give in to the feeling. He would make sure of that. He only hoped it was sooner, because he was going quietly insane thinking about her.

A shudder of desire shook him. Rolling over, he punched the pillow and closed his eyes in determination, waiting for sleep to come. Waiting... * * *

Paul sat at a small wooden table, staring at the hands that were folded in front of him. They twitched slightly, feeling the lack of activity. They were strong hands, hands that were unused to idleness. His clothes were those of a French laborer. Only his boots and the knife he kept hidden in them belonged to Paul, but even the boots had been dyed black so that they no longer resembled army issue.

At that moment he heard a noise outside the kitchen door and instinctively reached down to slip the slender blade from his boot. After rising from the wooden chair, he moved across the room, his steps as silent and stealthy as a white-tailed deer moving through the Texas brush.

Pressing his body flat against the wall beside the door, he waited. When he heard the key rattle in the lock, he lifted the curtain a fraction of an inch and glanced out. Immediately the muscles that had been tensed for action relaxed, and he stooped to return the knife to his boot.

As the woman entered the kitchen, the brief flicker of alarm in her eyes was the only detectable sign of

emotion in her face. She glanced at him, then away again.

"Why have you left the basement?" she asked, her voice husky, her French accent pronounced. "You wish to get us both killed? Two streets away from here the sidewalks are thick with Germans." Now the anger in her voice was evident. "If you cannot stay in the hidden room, you must take your chances on the street."

He moved back to the wooden table and swung the chair around. Straddling it, he rested his forearms on the back and watched her as she pulled food from a canvas bag, then filled a metal pot with water and placed it on the stove.

Her blond hair was pulled back tightly from a face free of cosmetics. There was no softness in that face, no attempt to make it more attractive. Her sweater, skirt, shoes and temperament all were a dull brown.

"The rats in the basement only speak French," he said, grinning slightly. "Gutter French. In my one year of high-school French, Mrs. Potts didn't teach us a word of gutter French." He paused deliberately, watching her. "But I understand enough of it to know you won't find a more boring bunch of rodents in all of Paris."

Leah knew he was waiting for a reaction, but she didn't allow her exasperation to show. She didn't understand this tall American who could smile when the world was slowly, inexorably eroding beneath their feet. For one angry moment she wished with all her heart that it had been his Texas the Germans had in-

vaded, that it had been his brother who had been sacrificed to Hitler's unconscionable dream.

Drawing a steadying breath, she walked to the table and, without comment, brushed his hair roughly aside to examine a cut on his forehead. "It is healing," she said flatly. Then, "I've had word."

Paul didn't move, but his green eyes flared with emotion as he studied her face. "And?" he said tightly.

"You must meet them in two days." She paused. "They are good men. If anyone can take you back to your people, these men can."

Paul assumed the men she spoke of were members of the Maquis, the fierce freedom fighters from the hills of France, but he didn't ask. She wouldn't tell him anything more than was necessary for him to know.

He followed her movements as she prepared their evening meal and suddenly began to wonder about this woman he knew only as Leah. In the week he had been in her house, hidden away in a secret room that opened off the basement, she had not let up in her care of him, nursing him through the fever that the cut on his forehead had brought. She knew his body as well as any woman in his life, and still they were strangers. She hadn't volunteered one piece of information about herself or her life, and had asked nothing about his.