Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham Page A

closer,” he muttered. Then he stepped forward and quickly lifted her from the sea of glass. She didn’t have time to think about it or protest; it was something he just did in his no-nonsense, determined way. She was clinging to his neck with little choice, noting that he smelled very clean, that he had thrown on one of his dad’s brocade smoking jackets, and that the hair on his chest just below his collarbone tickled her nose. She also noted that he was very warm when she had been so cold, that he held her with a complete sense of confidence, that the strength in his arms seemed incredibly secure.
    In the hallway he paused, balancing her so that he could throw the flashlight’s beam around. “You can’t sleep in there tonight. I can board up the window, but the bed is already drenched.”
    “I guess I can take your father’s room,” she murmured, lowering her head and wincing the moment the words were out; he had stiffened like ice.
    “Yes, I suppose you’ll be comfortable there, won’t you?” he asked almost lightly.
    He started walking again, quickly, as if he were truly loath to be touching her now.
    He knew his way around and set her down in the center of Peter’s firm bed and quickly stepped back. “Is there anything you want from your room? That gown of yours is all wet.”
    She stared down at herself uncomfortably in the yellow glare of the flashlight. The sleeveless silk gown she had put on with so little interest earlier was indeed drenched—and clinging to her skin so closely that not only were her chilled nipples clearly delineated, but the dusky color around them showed almost as plainly as if she’d been naked.
    Her eyes rose to his with a start as she automatically shivered and hugged her arms around herself. There was a grin on his face now, but it seemed to be a bitter one.
    He didn’t comment on her appearance, but the air between them seemed riddled with what he could have said.
    “Would you—” Her voice caught, and she straightened, instinctively striving for dignity. “Would you mind grabbing my robe? It should be on the peg by the door.”
    He nodded, then started to turn away, but paused. A frown creased his brow. “You’re bleeding.”
    “What?”
    He bent on a knee before her, a determined rather than a humble gesture, and his fingers gently caught the damp material at her thigh as he inspected the bloodstain there. “Where are you hurt?”
    “I’m not—oh, it’s just my thumb, see? I must have brushed it against my gown.” She showed him the cut on her thumb, then automatically brought her thumb to her lips, sucking on the small cut. He stared at her for a long, strange moment, as he had done before. She couldn’t understand the look on his face. It wasn’t really tenderness—certainly not tenderness—and yet there was something … gentle, yet something that wasn’t really gentle at all in his eyes. It sent the whirling sensation in motion inside of her and made her feel as if a touch of velvet stroked along the length of her spine.
    “I’ll get your robe,” he said briskly. He stood and left.
    “Watch your feet against the glass!” she called. He didn’t answer. She sat in the darkness, awaiting his return, remembering that his feet had been bare, that he had really nice calves, which were tightly muscled and riddled with dark, crisp, masculine hair. Nice kneecaps too. The hem of the smoking jacket had been just above them. He wore the smoking jacket well, she decided. He looked made for it; the executive, the man in power, in nonchalant control. The black lapels and hem against the Chinese brocade made it a very elegant garment.
    Then she found herself wondering what he was wearing beneath the smoking jacket he had so hastily thrown on. And then she hated herself for the thought.
    The approaching beam of the flashlight warned her that he was coming back. She hugged her arms more tightly around her.
    He tossed the robe on the foot on his father’s bed.