Maybe This Time, page 40
“But you won’t know me!” she cried.
He closed his eyes, summoned a courage he didn’t feel. “Not at first.”
Words seemed to rush from her. Angry and bitter. “How many more times, Prophet? How many more times must I find you only to lose you again?”
Fear churned in his stomach. If she failed to prove her success, they would never be together again. He couldn’t speak.
“Prophet?”
He heard her worry, but his own had grown too great to conceal. Through anguished eyes, he looked at her. “This will be your last level, Angel.”
“And then?”
He watched her swallow, saw her emerald eyes cloud. “I don’t know,” he confessed.
“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know? What kind of answer is that, for pity’s sake? You’re a prophet—my guide. You love me, damn it. You’re supposed to know—”
A lone tear sliding down his cheek stunned her silent. She touched it, and whimpered. “Dear God. This next level is of consequence.”
“Yes.”
His fear stole into Alyssa like a living, breathing thing. She drew in a ragged breath. “I’m frightened.”
He met her gaze and held it. “I’m frightened, too.” He rolled until she lay beneath him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. “Love me, Angel. Love me like this is the only time in your life you’ll have the chance to love me.”
The despondency in his voice, the grim lines of dread creasing his face, the stark and desolate panic in his eyes, startled her. Alyssa went numb. “Is that possible?” she whispered. “Could this be our last time together?”
Prophet flinched and looked away.
“You can’t shatter my dreams,” she told him. “I won’t let you. We’re going to grow old together, to have children, and a home.” She touched his cheek. “Look at me. Damn you, look into my eyes. See the truth there.”
He pivoted his neck and met her gaze. She looked like his little warrior. Serious. Determined.
“You once told me that to succeed in these trials, I must believe in love. That in it weakness becomes strength.”
He studied her face, the shape of her nose, her eyes, her chin. “And you told me that love was a mystery to you.”
“I’ve found my faith now,” she assured him. “I believe in you, and in your abilities. I trust you.” She paused rubbing his arm, and squeezed. “Don’t let your belief in me waver. Not now. We’ve come so far. We’ll do what we must. We have to. I—I need you now.”
He hugged her to him and rocked. “I won’t abuse your need. I swear it. Oh, God, Angel, I love you so much.”
“I know.” She gave him a smile that seemed to sear him. “Until we next meet, I will miss you, darling.”
“You won’t remember me,” he reminded her.
She sensed the hurt that knowledge brought him. “I love you. My heart will remember that.” She kissed him, lovingly, longingly. “I promise you, my heart will never forget that.”
Thirty
Contemporary New Orleans
“THIS COULD be it, Margaret.” Alyssa swiveled in her office chair and banged her knee on an open desk drawer. She hissed in air, cupped her injured anatomy, and groaned. “God, that hurts.”
Sympathetic as a stone, Margaret lifted the phone receiver and, holding it by the cord, let it dangle near Alyssa. “If you keep the boy waiting all day, this’ll be it, all right.”
Alyssa reprimanded her secretary with a grunted harumph. “Duncan Foster is hardly a boy.”
The old woman pursed her lips, pitting wrinkles at the sides of her mouth. “If he’s younger than God, to me, he’s a boy. Besides, you’ve never seen him. You don’t know squat about him.”
“Not true,” Alyssa disagreed. “I’ve talked to him, and I know that anyone who’s accomplished all he has with Paragon Oil in the past three years, couldn’t be a boy. He’s probably older than God with a gray beard and horns to match his God-awful disposition.”
Margaret wiggled the receiver. “You gonna talk to him, or daydream about the boy’s assets? Without that contract, we got spit.”
“Since when is an awful disposition an asset?”
Margaret shrugged. “You’re doing fine, aren’t you?”
Alyssa narrowed her eyes at the wispy woman with more wrinkles than face. “Why do I tolerate you?”
“Because I’m good.” Margaret headed to the office door. “And because I keep your butt out of slings.”
“True, but you should be less obnoxious. I am your boss, you know.”
Margaret’s bony shoulder raised up. “It’s your aura. You need a man to sweeten your soul. Nothing like a good roll in the hay with a hot-blooded man to—”
“Margaret,” Alyssa warned.
“I know. I know. You’re not shopping.” Margaret shot her a disgusted look. “Maybe in your next life you’ll have more sense.”
“Would you stop with that stuff. I’ve heard all about karma and soulmates and me finding a man to—to . . .” Heat flooded her face. Annoyed by it and at Margaret for putting it there, Alyssa blurted, “More than I care to hear.”
“Window-shopping is free.” Margaret pointed to the phone in Alyssa’s hand. “Don’t forget that’s in your hand for a reason. Without that contract, we got spit.”
Muttering under her breath, Alyssa turned back to her desk and banged her knee on the same open drawer. She gritted her teeth, slammed the blasted thing and, punching the button on her phone, forced a smile into her voice. Nodding her approval, Margaret stepped into her outer office, leaving the door cracked open so she wouldn’t miss a thing. Alyssa’s smile became genuine. “Good morning, Mr. Foster.”
“I’ve reviewed your proposal, Cameron,” he said in clipped, terse tones. “Paragon’s interested.”
Alyssa’s heart started pounding. “Good. I’m sure the computer system and programming we’ve outlined will save Paragon—”
“I’ve seen your savings projections,” he interrupted. “The system is good, but the programming lacks finesse. On-line’s is better.”
The man was as offensive as a line-tapping hacker. Her heart plummeted. Was he giving her the contract or not?
“Paragon wants the two of you to team up.”
Work with her chief rival? Was the man out of his mind? Oh, how she’d love to hang up on him. To tell him what to do with his rude manner and his blasted Paragon Oil. But she couldn’t. She was a newcomer in the field, and, though she’d done well in the past year, she didn’t have the luxury of alienating anyone. Not that she ever would. Old offenses never die. They lurk in the shadows until the worse possible moment, then pounce out to bite you. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I’ve set up time on the island for you and Buchannan to brainstorm. You leave Friday. Monday afternoon, we’ll meet and see what you’ve got.”
Kevan Buchannan. Again. Programming genius. The man who set the industry standards. Her chief rival. Alyssa swallowed her frustration. She couldn’t afford it. Half a contract was better than no contract. Besides, she brightened, one never knew what one could learn from a genius. “Has Mr. Buchannan agreed?”
“Monday. My office at three o’clock. And, Cameron, I expect results. Paragon has high standards. If you want this contract with Buchannan, exceed ‘em.”
Alyssa bit back a sharp retort. Foster’s position was clear. Buchannan’s contract was secure. Her own was not. “I intend to, Mr. Foster.”
“Hold on.”
Before she could blink, the line went dead. Then an equally abrasive female introduced herself as Mrs. Stone and began doling out instructions. Jotting them down, Alyssa bet Foster’s secretary didn’t give him the flack that Margaret gave her. But then Mrs. Stone probably didn’t have Margaret’s assets, either.
The woman finished, and Alyssa repeated: “Biloxi Marina, slip twenty-seven, Friday at six.” She tapped her pen against her desk blotter. “Why Mississippi?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Ms. Cameron. Perhaps Mr. Foster can answer your inquiry. Shall I connect you?”
Set firmly in her place, Alyssa frowned. “No, it’s not important. Just curious.”
“Mr. Foster does not promote curiosity.”
Nor, obviously, did he promote freedom of thought. Alyssa rolled her eyes back in her head. “Thanks.”
She hung up and slumped in her chair. So much for her long-awaited R and R weekend. Being stuck in Paragon’s luxurious island condo with a wimpy genius, she was more apt to have two plus days of tension and stress.
She chided herself for her unkind thoughts about Buchannan. She’d never even met the man, for pity’s sake. Still, geniuses were notoriously weird—and wimpy.
ALYSSA STRUGGLED down the wooden-slatted boat dock. Squeezing the handle of her leather suitcase, she hiked it up so it’d stop banging her calf. Now it banged her thigh. “I don’t need this,” she muttered, spitting wind-whipped hair away from her mouth. “I really don’t need this.”
Leaving New Orleans during peak traffic in the middle of a hellacious storm, finding a place to park away from the beach and the salt spray that’d rust her new Volvo in a heartbeat, hobbling down an endless dock in high heels, lugging two tons of suitcases and trying to dodge the cracks between the wooden boards was not a good way to start the weekend. Tension and stress. Already twinges of pain in her temples signaled an imminent, whopper headache.
She looked down at the white numbers painted on the weathered dock. Forty-three. She grimaced. Nine hundred miles to go. Overhead, dense gray clouds churned in an angry sky and the blustery wind smelled of rain and sea. Foster sure had picked a lousy day for a boat ride.
“Miss Cameron?”
She turned to see who had called her. Wearing sun-washed jeans and a white shirt, the man approached. He couldn’t be Buchannan. Far from a wimpy genius, this man was magnificent—firm, muscular, a heavy-boned giant. His black hair curled low on his neck, his wide mouth set in a tentative smile.
He drew closer. She met his eyes and heard whispered secrets of purpose, wisdom. In her mind, images snapped like a camera shutter. A signet ring on his left hand. A strip of leather coiling his neck, holding some glowing object. Him astride a powerful black stallion, then walking through a winding tunnel, wearing a minuscule fur loincloth. And flowers. Why did she see flowers?
Her heart thundered. The flowers he held were for her! How she knew this, she’d no idea, but she was certain. Emotional sensations bombarded her: wary disbelief, then fear; annoyance, then tolerance; acceptance, then respect; trust, and then love.
Love? The case slipped from her hand and thudded on the dock. Dear God—love!
Standing beside her, his smile faded. Worry etched the tender skin around his eyes. “Miss Cameron?”
A light rain misted her face. He seemed to want reassurance. Thinking to give it to him, she stepped to retrieve her case. Her heel dropped into the space between two smooth slats. Her ankle turned, and she lost her balance. “Oh—Oh my—”
He caught her in his strong arms. They tightened around her like heated bands, just under her ribs. She looked up at his face. For some reason, she couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked at his throat. Bare. No glowing object. Her pounding heart eased.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
All right? No, she wasn’t all right. Who was this man? Why had she just run an emotional gauntlet for him? “I’m—I’m fine.” She straightened up. Pain sliced through her ankle, and she winced.
“You’re hurt.” He squatted down, his fingertips testing her ankle.
She looked down at the crown of his head, not at all certain he hadn’t brushed his hand across her heart. She lifted her hand to touch the masculine curls at his nape, dampened by a sheen of misty rain.
He rotated her foot. “Does that hurt?”
Pain shot up her leg. She jerked her hand back. “I—I think I’ve sprained it.”
“You did.” He looked up at her, his eyes sober, his tone resigned. “It’s swelling already.”
“Wearing heels wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. I’m a bit of a klutz,” she confided. God, he had soul-searing eyes. They invited her confidence. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“Why?” He shot her a puzzled look. “You just did.”
His confusion tugged at her heartstrings, made her more nervous. Why? “Who are you?”
“Kevan Buchannan,” he said, standing up. “I’d better carry you. The boat’s still a bit further.”
She should refuse. But the rain was progressing from a fine mist to a heavy sprinkle and the lure of his arms tempted her beyond good sense. She superimposed cool logic, too, forcing it past the maelstrom of emotion she was experiencing. If he held her, she might see more images, might understand her intense reaction to him. She nodded her agreement.
He lifted her. The feel of his arms under her thighs and wrapping her shoulders sent her heart racing. He’d held her before—and she’d liked it.
“Hold on,” he instructed.
She chided herself to gain control of her emotions, then curled her arms around his neck and forced her voice calm. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Mr. Buchannan, but not of your chivalry.”
He grinned and lifted her higher. “Remiss in your homework, Ms. Cameron?”
“Mmm. Evidently.” She looked down and saw his ring—the ring she’d envisioned in such vivid detail. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The gold mounting, the silver sword, and the emerald insignia—all exactly the same!
The tiny hairs at the back of her neck stood up. No. No, she told herself. She’d no doubt seen the insignia while researching him and On-line.
“Loosen up a bit, Ms. Cameron. You can trust me. I won’t drop you.”
Realizing she had his neck in a death grip, she eased her hold. Heat surged to her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Buchannan. I—I didn’t . . .”
He smiled. “This is going to be a long weekend if we Mister and Ms. our way through it. Please, call me Kevan.”
“All right.” She couldn’t help but notice that carrying her and her two tons of luggage didn’t seem much of a task for him. Lord, he had sexy shoulders. And a long stride.
“I probably should dump you. You’re becoming stiff competition.”
His grin belied his words, and a smile curled Alyssa’s lip. “Thank you, I think.”
“I intended a compliment,” he said. “You’ve earned it. Paragon’s insisting on a joint venture is proof.”
He wasn’t a man prone to flattery, or false praise. Hearing respect in his voice, she felt a rush of pleasure. “I’m satisfied with my progress.” Moist from the rain, a dark curl clung to his ear. Her fingertips itched to feel its texture. Could it be as soft as it looked? She inched her fingertips closer. “It’s an uphill struggle.”
“Always. How did your cat react to being deserted for the weekend?”
“I see you’ve done your homework. But your bio on me is outdated. Tabby died.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked as though he meant it. “What else important has changed?”
How perceptive he was to know that Tabby wasn’t just a cat. “Not much.”
“Have you married?”
What an odd question for him to ask. Ah, she decided. The condo. “No, there’s no jealous husband to come pounding on the door tonight.” He grew more loose-limbed, as though he were relieved. “Is there a jealous wife?”
“No. Too busy to spend much time socializing.”
“Me, too.” His easy admission surprised her, but not as much as her own. “Dating is hard work.” Silky slick. She rubbed the curl between her thumb and forefinger. Her heart beat faster. Soft, and silky slick.
He stopped walking. Her gaze darted to his and her breath caught. He didn’t speak, just looked at her, his expression odd and unsettling. Thunderstruck. A raindrop glistened on his upper lip. The urge to lick it off, to taste him, swelled in her like rippling water disturbed by a plunked stone.
What was she doing, for pity’s sake? This man was her rival. Her business rival. Had the rain soaking her skin soaked her brain as well? “Why have you stopped?”
Kevan stood stock still. It took a moment for her words to sink in, and another longer one for him to get the vision of her in his bed, naked, making love with him, out of his mind. He cleared his throat. “We’re here.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks tinted a warm pink.
Still feeling dazed, he boarded the boat and dropped Alyssa’s case on the deck. “Will you be all right there?” He nodded toward the passenger seat.
“Yes.”
Could she feel his heart hammering against her side? Reluctant to let go of her and not understanding why, he lowered her into the passenger’s seat, then stepped away. The woman was beautiful, but he’d met beautiful women and he’d never fantasized any of them so vividly. He’d never seen himself making love—or felt himself making love—as he had when he’d looked at Alyssa. In his mind, she had accepted him into her body. And he had accepted her into his heart.
“The storm’s getting closer,” she whispered.
Kevan looked up. Thunderheads billowed in the southern skyline. “Yes, it is. The harbor master says it’ll blow over in no time, though.”
“I don’t know, Kevan. I’ve got this feeling—”
“The boat’s safe,” he assured her, hoping to ease her frowning. “I checked the log. It’s weathered more storms than you’d care to hear about.”
“Is the boat yours?” she asked, stowing her purse in a compartment beside the seat.
“Foster’s. But I am experienced.”
Alyssa rubbed her temples. The twinges in her head were growing worse. Stress, Doctor Samuels had said. Working too hard. Enjoying too little. She was tense. Who in the field could find a way around Kevan Buchannan’s shadow without getting tense? Or without working their socks off?
Well, flip. Maybe she was stressed. She began the relaxation exercises Dr. Samuels had given her. Why didn’t they seem to help? He’d know more, once the results of the CAT scan came back and she proved him wrong. A brain tumor. At her age? What a ridiculous diagnosis.
