thought somebody was killing you. Although who’d come way up here on a night like this…?” He lifted his head as the wail of the wind suddenly penetrated into the room. “It’s storming again.”
Brooke hastily averted her eyes from his bare and unexpectedly furry chest, trying to ignore the little voice in her head reminding her brightly that she’d never seen his naked chest before. Looking steadfastly at her pillow, she murmured, “I’m sure. And I’ll probably sleep just fine now; I always do in a storm.”
Cody, having a problem with his own eyes since Brooke was wearing some kind of filmy nylon thing with a plunging V-neckline, rather hastily accepted her assurances. He released her hand and rose to his feet. “Okay, then. But if you have another—involved dream…”
“Uh-huh,” Brooke murmured quickly, her side-long glance showing her that Cody wore pajama bottoms. She wondered if he’d been about to offer to keep her company, but she wasn’t about to ask. “Good night, Cody.”
He crossed the room to the open door, pausing there with one hand on the doorknob and one on the light switch, his glance going to where Phantom had curled himself up on the rug beside Brooke’s bed.
Brooke followed his glance. “He won’t hurt me, Cody.”
“I know.” Cody smiled just a little. “After all, he’s spent every night in here, hasn’t he?” When Brooke only blinked at him, he added softly, “Good night, honey. Sweet dreams.” He went out, turning off the light and closing the door.
Brooke sat there for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the darkness, then looked down at the feathers she was still holding. Thoughtfully she leaned over and deposited them on her nightstand. Then she put the wounded pillow at the foot of her bed, drew the covers up, and energetically pounded the other pillow. Before putting her head on it, she peered over the side of the bed and at the wolf quietly lying on the rug.
“Phantom, did you ever hear of the Cinderella Complex?” she asked musingly. The wolf thumped his tail once in polite if sleepy attention. Sighing, Brooke lay back on her pillow and stared at the shadowy ceiling.
“Someday my prince will come,” she murmured, and then giggled. “Trust me not to have the traditional human or frog-prince. My prince has to be a talkative feathered dragon!”
Just before she drifted off to sleep, Brooke heard her voice again, the words unconnected with thought.
“I wonder where I landed…or if he caught me…I wonder if I should have jumped….”
SIX
C ODY GREW MORE bemused during the following few days. Until then, he’d felt that he possessed a fairly accurate perspective regarding Brooke. He had identified her dragons and fought them the best way he knew how, first with his patience and then in forcing Brooke to face her feelings toward her mother. He didn’t doubt that his methods had been successful, because Brooke seemed to have become a different woman overnight.
That was what baffled him.
He’d first been knocked off balance by the fact that she accepted his touch just as casually as ever—but with a new amusement that Cody could sense but not really pinpoint. Her green eyes always invited him to share her amusement, and a puzzled Cody couldn’t see the joke. Still, if it had been only that, he could have coped.
It was more than that.
She called him Prince. She teased him in a manner which, Cody felt strongly, was more reminiscent of a lover than a pal—the way she’d teased him until then. She was casually offhand about touching him. There was an expression in her eyes from time to time that touched something primitive deep inside Cody, the expression of a woman becoming aware of her own womanhood. But at the same time she seemed to have discovered the childlike enthusiasm and recklessness that her mother’s exploitation had banished.
And it was that childlike, infectious cheerfulness that kept Cody more off-balance than anything else.
Brooke hastily averted her eyes from his bare and unexpectedly furry chest, trying to ignore the little voice in her head reminding her brightly that she’d never seen his naked chest before. Looking steadfastly at her pillow, she murmured, “I’m sure. And I’ll probably sleep just fine now; I always do in a storm.”
Cody, having a problem with his own eyes since Brooke was wearing some kind of filmy nylon thing with a plunging V-neckline, rather hastily accepted her assurances. He released her hand and rose to his feet. “Okay, then. But if you have another—involved dream…”
“Uh-huh,” Brooke murmured quickly, her side-long glance showing her that Cody wore pajama bottoms. She wondered if he’d been about to offer to keep her company, but she wasn’t about to ask. “Good night, Cody.”
He crossed the room to the open door, pausing there with one hand on the doorknob and one on the light switch, his glance going to where Phantom had curled himself up on the rug beside Brooke’s bed.
Brooke followed his glance. “He won’t hurt me, Cody.”
“I know.” Cody smiled just a little. “After all, he’s spent every night in here, hasn’t he?” When Brooke only blinked at him, he added softly, “Good night, honey. Sweet dreams.” He went out, turning off the light and closing the door.
Brooke sat there for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the darkness, then looked down at the feathers she was still holding. Thoughtfully she leaned over and deposited them on her nightstand. Then she put the wounded pillow at the foot of her bed, drew the covers up, and energetically pounded the other pillow. Before putting her head on it, she peered over the side of the bed and at the wolf quietly lying on the rug.
“Phantom, did you ever hear of the Cinderella Complex?” she asked musingly. The wolf thumped his tail once in polite if sleepy attention. Sighing, Brooke lay back on her pillow and stared at the shadowy ceiling.
“Someday my prince will come,” she murmured, and then giggled. “Trust me not to have the traditional human or frog-prince. My prince has to be a talkative feathered dragon!”
Just before she drifted off to sleep, Brooke heard her voice again, the words unconnected with thought.
“I wonder where I landed…or if he caught me…I wonder if I should have jumped….”
SIX
C ODY GREW MORE bemused during the following few days. Until then, he’d felt that he possessed a fairly accurate perspective regarding Brooke. He had identified her dragons and fought them the best way he knew how, first with his patience and then in forcing Brooke to face her feelings toward her mother. He didn’t doubt that his methods had been successful, because Brooke seemed to have become a different woman overnight.
That was what baffled him.
He’d first been knocked off balance by the fact that she accepted his touch just as casually as ever—but with a new amusement that Cody could sense but not really pinpoint. Her green eyes always invited him to share her amusement, and a puzzled Cody couldn’t see the joke. Still, if it had been only that, he could have coped.
It was more than that.
She called him Prince. She teased him in a manner which, Cody felt strongly, was more reminiscent of a lover than a pal—the way she’d teased him until then. She was casually offhand about touching him. There was an expression in her eyes from time to time that touched something primitive deep inside Cody, the expression of a woman becoming aware of her own womanhood. But at the same time she seemed to have discovered the childlike enthusiasm and recklessness that her mother’s exploitation had banished.
And it was that childlike, infectious cheerfulness that kept Cody more off-balance than anything else.
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