Czytaj książkę: «In Dreams»

Heat began to penetrate her

Heat from Justin’s body as he pulled her close and caught her mouth in a sweet, savage kiss. “Oh, chère,” he murmured.

Part of Lucy knew this was wrong. That she should back off before they got caught up in something they couldn’t stop. Something that might even get him killed.

But another part of her couldn’t help herself. One kiss, Lucy thought. Just one sexy kiss.

Justin swept his hands over her breasts. Her nipples hardened and the soft flesh ached for more. His tongue plunged deep inside her mouth, the rhythm making her think of him plunging deep inside her.

A moment later he pulled her out of the chair and against his chest. She felt his throbbing length through her clothing. Hands cradling her bottom, he pressed his erection low against her belly. Oh, the sensations that spread through her like wildfire! Her hips began to move, and more than anything she wanted to rid them both of their garments.

She could just picture it. Naked. Her straddling him in the darkened bedroom.

She moaned and Justin swallowed the sound as if he were having the very same fantasy.

As if he’d had the very same dream…

Dear Reader,

What’s hotter than a sultry Louisiana night? For my heroine Lucy Ryan, nothing. Lucy has psychic dreams…psychic erotic dreams of a man she doesn’t know…yet. Justin Guidry comes into her life just when she needs him to get her out of a jam. Then, not only is her life at risk, but her heart, as well.

I had a great time writing Lucy and Justin’s story. Almost as great as I did exploring New Orleans itself. So pull up a comfy chair, pour yourself a cup of chicory coffee, grab a beignet and enjoy In Dreams.

Happy reading,

Patricia Rosemoor

In Dreams
Patricia Rosemoor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Edward…see you in dreams…

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1

SHE SWEPT HER TONGUE up his hard length. His moan sent fingers of fire down her body to the heat between her thighs.

She wanted him there.

Slowly, she eased her body upward until their mouths met. He swallowed her whole with that kiss, making her feel as if she were drowning. Ending the kiss, she pushed herself up so she could see him. His sharp features, punctuated by a fall of inky hair across his high forehead, had never seemed so alive. Heavy lids over pale brown eyes revealed the promise of pleasure…bedroom eyes that could make her insides curl.

Her insides were curling now.

She felt him moving under her, his hot hands on her thighs, a clever thumb lingering at her sweet spot. He stroked her clit until she arched back and opened herself wider to him.

“Now, chère, now,” he urged.

She wanted to hold on, to draw out the pleasure a while longer, but he wouldn’t ease up on her and the friction push-push-pushed her over the edge. As the pulsing began deep inside her, she dug her nails into his thighs. He jerked and made a low guttural sound. Then a treacherous sound pushed them both into the abyss from which there was no rescue….

“A-ah!”

Suddenly awake, Lucy Ryan sat straight up, her body soft and humming with pleasure from the erotic dream. But there was no pleasure in the pounding of her heart, like that of a frightened bird captured in flight.

In flight—that she was—and the erotic dream was in reality a nightmare….

The image of her lover came back to her as clearly as if he stood before her. Sharp features. Inky hair. Bedroom eyes.

She didn’t know anyone who looked like that.

At least not yet.

Dear Lord, no. She couldn’t bring anyone else into this, she couldn’t risk another life. But even as she denied it, Lucy knew she had no control over what was shown to her in dreams.

A glance at the glowing numbers of the digital clock told her it was barely four. She’d slept a little more than an hour. Climbing off the thin mattress, she tried to stop herself from shaking as she made her way into the bathroom.

The motel was cheap and threadbare, but at least it was clean. She washed her face, then stepped into the shower, hoping the warm water would soothe her. Instead, it cleared her mind, made her remember too sharply what she had witnessed several hours ago, a nightmare turned real.

She couldn’t stop the dreams from coming, couldn’t change them. And because of that, a young woman was dead. And she was on the run, fleeing from the murderer’s accomplices who were after her.

The only witness.

So what the hell was she supposed to do next?

Now that she had time to think, to consider her options, Lucy realized she had to go back to New Orleans and contact the police, tell them everything she knew. Rather, a version they could handle. That was the only way. Earlier she’d panicked and headed out of the city to anywhere away from the danger following her, but eventually she’d lost the thugs. And if she went back to the city how in the world would they know where to find her?

Reassured, she quickly pulled on her cotton flood pants and crop top, then shoved her feet into thick-soled sandals.

The authorities wouldn’t believe her if she told them everything, but she didn’t have to explain that she’d purposely gone to the scene of the crime, but had been too late to save that poor woman. She could simply say she’d been out for a walk and had stumbled on the murder. That would be believable. New Orleans was a late-night town and on weekends pedestrians crowded French Quarter streets.

In her mind’s eye, Lucy could again see the horror she hadn’t been able to stop. But before fear could change her mind, she shook away the memory.

Scraping a thick skein of coppery hair from her eyes, she grabbed her wallet and shoved it in her pocket—she’d left her shoulder bag on the floor of her car. Then she found her keys and peeked through the blinds. The motel sign glowed at her through a wet neon haze. There was no one was out to see her leave. Opening the door to a blast of humidity, she crossed the rain-slick pavement to her car.

It wasn’t until she pulled out of the parking lot and checked her rearview mirror that she saw a set of high beams turn on.

Her chest tightened, but she told herself someone else had merely chosen to leave the motel at four in the morning. Though the rain had stopped and the moon was trying to pop out from behind a cloud, she turned on her wipers to clear the windshield, then checked the mirror again. The other car swung out behind her. Coincidence, she told herself, but just to make certain, she took a turn she hadn’t meant to on a road she didn’t know.

The other car followed.

She pressed the accelerator harder.

The other car kept pace.

She made another turn.

The other car turned, as well.

Her mouth was dry, her pulse fierce, but she told herself to stay calm. She was intelligent enough to think her way out of this.

Think!

They were speeding along a moonlit bayou, the long narrow finger of water crossed by home-built bridges to small dwellings, mostly ramshackle, some boarded up. Fishing camps probably, but none so far showed any sign of life. And there was no doubling back.

Her headlights hit a sign that indicated a split ahead.

Which way to go?

Driving on instinct, she stayed left, venturing deeper into bayou territory, and when she saw another road ahead and to the right—this one gravel—she killed her lights and made a wild turn, trusting the moon to guide her.

A check of her rearview mirror revealed a flash of lights as the other car continued on past her.

Drawing a shaky breath, she took her foot off the accelerator and let the car slow. But her relief was short-lived. A beam of light swept over her from behind. Checking her mirror, she realized the other driver had turned around somewhere and was once more on her tail.

The moment of distraction proved disastrous. Her left wheels strayed off the gravel, and when she tried to steer the car back onto the road, she couldn’t. The wheels spun, spitting gravel on one side, mud on the other. The car slipped and slid sideways and then started to tilt as if it were sinking. A cypress loomed before her and she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid crashing into it.

Not stopping to count her blessings, Lucy cut the engine, and grabbed her car keys with its micro light attached to the key ring. Not that she would use the tiny light now, but it might come in handy later. Wincing as the mud sucked at her feet, trying to trap her, she pushed herself away from the road. She had always been a city girl, but thankfully she’d never been girlie-squeamish.

She glanced back. The other car had stopped.

“Don’t run, chère, no place for you to go now!” a man called out as she slopped through ankle-deep swamp water.

Heart beating wildly, she plunged ahead. Two doors slammed and she assumed they were now after her on foot.

“We just want to talk to you,” the second man singsonged. “Them alligators, they like a tasty meal.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she breathed, knowing alligators killed to eat, not because they were trying to cover up a crime. Talk? Yeah, right.

Moonbeams filtered down through the cypress trees, giving her just enough illumination to find her way. Unfortunately, the light was undoubtedly enough for the two men to see her. She heard them splashing through the shallows in her direction. One of them cursed and the word shoe drifted to her.

If she weren’t so afraid she might smile.

She tried to move soundlessly through the swamp.

Maybe she could lose them.

There was a splash to her left. Not the two men. Her throat tightened.

An alligator!

But she realized nature was the last thing she ought to be worrying about when one of the men said loudly, “Let’s get this over with. Shoot the bitch!”

Glancing back, she saw one of the them raise his arm and a dull blue glow suddenly flared into heat…heat that tore at her side and made her stumble….

Shot!

Before she could grasp the concept, before she could move to find a place to hide, a hand covered her mouth and an arm snaked around her waist and dragged her back into the shelter of a cypress.

His “Shhh” was unnecessary. She had no intention of calling out so they could find her more easily.

But who was he? A definite he. No softness behind her. Only hard muscle and a tension that was contagious. Almost enough to distract her from the pain burning her side.

The shooter said, “I think I got her—”

“Dammit, I lost my other shoe!”

“Screw the shoe! Better than losing your life. Let’s go make sure.”

“You wanna go, then you go. There’s something moving in that water.”

“What? An alligator?”

“This is the swamp, idiot, whad’ya think? We can come back to finish the job tomorrow when we can see what’s what.”

She heard them cursing, then their voices receded. They were moving back toward their car. Her knees grew weak and she sagged back in relief.

Her rescuer waited a beat, then whispered, “I’m going to let go, but I would suggest you don’t make any noise until they’re gone.”

His breath laved her ear, pebbling the flesh along her spine. She nodded her agreement and true to his word, he released her. It took her a minute to breathe normally again, to stand steadily on her own as she heard the car start and the wheels spin away.

That’s when, to thank the man who’d saved her life, she turned and triggered the microlight on her key-chain so that she could see her rescuer’s face.

Sharp features…inky hair…bedroom eyes…

“Oh, no,” Lucy moaned. “Not you!”

And then she passed out.

2

HE PULSED BEHIND HER as she clung to the iron bedstead on her knees, her bottom pressed into his groin.

He ran his hands over every inch of her body as if he were trying to memorize her, as if he might be tested as to the fullness of her hips or the firmness of her belly or the sensitivity of her breasts. Mmm, her breasts…he paid special attention to detail there, his clever fingers rolling and tugging the nipples into hard, sensitive points until she cried out in pleasure-pain. Keeping one hand busy tweaking them, he used the other to feather the auburn curls of her pubis with a light touch before dipping into her well.

“There,” she murmured as he slid a single finger laden with her cream along her clit. “Oh, yes, sweet heaven…”

She’d never been so wet. Or so deliciously hot.

She glanced up across to the dresser with its antique mirror where she caught a reflection of their sexual dance. His bedroom eyes glittered at her via the mirror, and their gazes locked.

Slowly, he rocked into her…buried himself…pulled back so only his tip teased her.

No, no, fuck me deep and hard.

She mouthed the words she couldn’t say. Had been raised not to say. She was too much of a lady. Though at the moment, she looked anything but. Wanton. A lust-filled, flushed-face wanton, her red hair wild and radiant. Her lust for him had transformed her into this creature of seduction.

She could tell he read her lips via the mirror, because his features went taut and his gaze dropped so that he could see what his fingers were doing to her nipple. He squeezed hard and when she sighed, squeezed a little harder until she moaned.

Licking her lips, she rubbed her breast against his hand and lifted her tush and pushed back so they smacked together with an electric wallop.

He was doing what she wanted, doing her fast and hard. His slick cock plunged in and out of her. And his finger, oh, his finger was equally delicious, rubbing her with the same speed and intensity.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and became pure sensation. When she opened them, she caught him watching her again, his eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth open as he gasped harder and faster in perfect rhythm with his actions.

Letting go of the bedstead, she reached back with one hand through the vee of her thighs and let his cock slide her juices against her fingertips. Then she flexed her fingers and scraped her nails against his hard flesh, and the sensation seemed to undo him. He gave a low shout that unnerved her, and then plunged deep inside.

Even as waves of pleasure rippled through her, she stared straight ahead at their reflection, fascinated by his expression of pure lust….

Lucy blinked open her eyes to see the face she’d dreamed. Only rather than expressing lust, it reflected worry. Over her.

“You’re awake.”

She blinked and sniffed the air redolent with chicory coffee and andouille sausage. In response to the heavenly smells, her stomach growled.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“My family’s fishing camp.”

Fishing…water splashed somewhere nearby…and the room with nothing but a bed and some pegs on the wall seemed to shift just a little.

Confused, she murmured, “Feels like we’re moving.”

“We’re on a houseboat tied to shore.”

Lucy started to sit up until a sharp pain reminded her that she’d been shot. The breath whooshed out of her and she froze, her hands pressed to the mattress of the double bed.

“Let me help you.”

Help meant he had to put his hands on her again. Hands about which she’d dreamed. Erotic hands. Hands that could do more interesting things than help her to sit up.

The thought made her blush.

“Well, at least you’ve got some color,” he noted, which made her even warmer.

When he got her into a sitting position, she realized the wound was bandaged, and that she was still fully clothed. Despite the odds, she was alive and had him to thank for it.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Justin Guidry. Don’t worry about the wound. Flesh only.” He helped her stand. “It’ll smart for a while, but it’ll heal nice.”

“Dr. Guidry?”

He shook his head.

“You’re an EMT?”

“Nope, not a paramedic, either,” he said, heading for the doorway. “And you can call me Justin.”

Now truly curious, Lucy followed him into a larger space that served both as kitchen and living room. There was a small couch and rocker set near the Franklin stove, plus a wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs. The walls were of rough-hewn wood, relieved by a few framed photographs that looked like they’d been taken on family outings.

The wound twitched and she frowned down at the bandage. Conveniently, the thug had caught her flesh on her side between her crop top and flood pants. There wasn’t even any blood on her clothing.

“If you’re not a doctor or a medic, then how did you know what to do to take care of me?”

“Call it instinct, not to mention too much experience tending to my own and brothers’ childhood injuries. Mama probably wished my brothers and I were dead many times over. Not that we used guns on each other. Well, maybe pretend ones.”

His grin was self-effacing and contagious. Despite the circumstances, Lucy felt herself relax.

“Thank you, Justin.”

“That would mean more to me with a proper introduction, so I would know who was thanking me.”

“Lucy Ryan.”

His grin widened. “Lucille. Fits you, chère. I always loved that name.” As he took the coffee pot from the stove and filled a mug for her, he said, “Sit,” and began humming the song “Lucille.”

She didn’t correct him. Didn’t want to admit she wasn’t a Lucille with all that exotic name conjured. She was just plain Lucy and had always been so. The Lucy guys were comfortable talking to. The Lucy who never caught a leer at the singles bars she sometimes visited with Dana.

Dana! Good Lord, by now her roommate must have discovered she wasn’t home. That might not be of much concern, but when she didn’t show up at the shop…

“You don’t have a phone, do you?”

“Here? Afraid not.”

“No cell phone?” Hers was still in her shoulder bag on the floor of her car.

“That would defeat the idea of having a few days of solitude, don’t you think?”

Guilt flooded her. “Oh. I’ll be out of your way as soon as I can find someone to get my car unstuck.”

“I’m not complaining. But after we eat, we’ll find a phone and a tow.”

“Great. Thanks.”

As she carefully cased herself into a chair at the table, her stomach growled again.

“Patience, chère, food’s coming.”

Lucy tipped back her mug and watched him take the iron skillet from the stove, links of andouille on one side, scrambled eggs on the other. He handled the food like he knew what he was doing. Unlike her. He split the breakfast on two plates, shoved one at her, then sat opposite her and began to eat. Lucy followed suit, not stopping until every morsel was gone.

“Delicious,” she muttered after swallowing the last forkful.

“You really were hungry.”

“All that stress.”

“That. What was that about?”

“Just some guys stalking me.”

“Oh, chère, you make a very bad liar.”

She glared at him, and even though his expression wasn’t accusing, said, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“But I saw something I shouldn’t have.”

“And these guys wanted to keep you quiet.”

She nodded and pushed the empty plate away. “And were willing to kill me to do so.”

“Tell me.”

She took a deep breath. Knowing she couldn’t tell all of it, she said, “New Orleans, last night. It was in a courtyard.” The vision was as clear in her mind as if she were seeing it now. “They were holding her arms…those two swine…and a third man knifed her to death.”

“Did you know this third man?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even see his face. It was…like something out of a dream.”

She wasn’t going to tell him that by the time she arrived, the deed had been done and the woman’s blood was spreading over her white dress as the accomplices let her fall facedown to the pavement. Or that she had seen the actual knifing in a dream that had awakened her an hour before. Lately, her dreams had been more frequent and more vivid than ever before.

Even so, she had arrived at the crime scene too late to save the victim…though not late enough for her own safety. As she’d stared at the body, she’d heard a shout, and the next thing she’d known the killer’s accomplices were after her.

If she told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Justin wouldn’t believe her. No one would.

Only her family would, and even they tried their best to make her stop tapping into the universal unconscious. Even her younger sister nagged at her to stop, though Lucy suspected that Jennifer was more intimately acquainted with the family curse of precognition than she would admit to. They all told her to ignore the dreams and they would go away. Only they never had. She’d really tried. Gran was the only one who really understood, because she’d had a lifetime of those dreams. Gran had suggested the day would come when she would want to develop her own gift.

So here she was, being taken care of by the man she’d made love to in her dream—make that dreams, plural—and she couldn’t even warn him that she’d put him in danger.

Which made her feel awkward and intimidated.

“This courtyard,” Justin said, “is it near your home? Would those two be able to find you easily if they went looking for you?”

“The murder took place near Canal, and I live right off Esplanade, so no, I don’t think so.”

“Opposite ends of the French Quarter,” he mused. “So you chose to leave the city instead of going home. And you were on foot so late at night?”

“I walk for exercise,” she hedged. She really did, even if that hadn’t been her purpose last night.

“But your car was nearby.”

Oops. Caught. Now what?

Not thrilled that he was questioning her like a cop with a prime suspect, Lucy took the offensive. “If you don’t believe me, just say so!”

Justin stared at her for a moment before lowering his lids, stopping her from reading his expression. “I simply wanted the whole picture of what happened. More coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Lucy tried to relax again, but Justin Guidry was throwing her off-kilter in more ways than one. This unsettled feeling was due to more than a couple of erotic dreams featuring Justin that might link him to the dangerous situation she found herself in. He knew she wasn’t telling him everything.

“Why run here to the bayou?” he continued. “Why not go straight to the New Orleans police?”

Irritation growing, she countered, “Why didn’t you take me to a doctor and report a gunshot wound to the closest sheriff’s office?”

“Impulse. It was only a flesh wound…and I wanted to hear your story before acting.”

Pacified by his explanation, she echoed him. “Impulse, right. Me, too. I was too freaked out to think clearly. But afterward, I had time to give it some thought, and I was going back to New Orleans, straight to the police, when those creeps caught up to me. Now I don’t know what to do.” Another way of saying she was afraid, Lucy supposed. She didn’t want to end up dead like that poor woman last night. “What about you? Are you going to turn me in?”

“Interesting turn of phrase,” Justin mused. “But no. I don’t want to bring you more trouble than you already have. I’m aware that things aren’t always black or white, and secrets have a way of staying hidden in bayou country.”

A thrill shot through Lucy, and she wondered if he meant something beyond her own situation.

She certainly wasn’t a bayou country kind of girl, so the hiding part was only temporary. Sooner or later, she was going to have to return to New Orleans and deal with this mess.

But the ache in her side and fear made her opt for later.

LUCY RYAN was hiding something. That much was obvious. And she was afraid.

Looking out over the bayou where a lazy alligator pretended to be a floating log, Justin let all his questions drift at the back of his mind.

Let her be, part of him thought. But letting her be could get her killed, and I don’t need another death on my conscience.

Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to go back to New Orleans sooner than he liked.

Hearing movement at the door, he turned to face Lucy, who’d insisted on cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Funny the way, each time he looked at her, she got more appealing. With her womanly hip pressed against the doorjamb, her gaze soft and her lips parted slightly, she was downright tempting.

He cleared his throat. “You ready to go to town?”

She met his gaze and lifted both hands. “These are the only clothes I have, so what you see is what you get.”

Justin liked what he saw and wouldn’t mind getting some of it for himself, he thought, his groin tightening.

Her soft body wasn’t weak, merely inviting to a man’s hardness. Her reddish brown hair made her complexion appear pale and delicate, despite the splash of freckles across her short nose. She had alluring gray eyes and a luscious bow-shaped mouth. The thing that tempted him most, however, was the smooth expanse of skin between her short top and low-cut pants. Skin that he’d had to look at and touch when he’d tended to the wound in her side. Skin that he longed to taste….

For a moment, he forgot about New Orleans and murders and guilt. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to take her right there, in the doorway. For a moment, he felt so connected to this woman that he didn’t even know what he might do to protect her.

And then the moment passed.

Fighting off the sexual haze, he decided any questions he had for her could wait.

“No bridge?” Lucy asked, looking around at the nearby bank in confusion.

“No bridge. No vehicles out here, either.”

“Then how do we get to town?”

“Pirogue.” He indicated the shallow, flat-bottomed boat tied to the houseboat.

“We’re both going to fit in there?”

“Unless you want to walk through the swamp.”

“Been there, done that,” she muttered. “I have no desire to be a snack for an alligator.”

He stepped down into the boat and held out his hand. She took it and then stepped in gracefully.

Still, the pirogue tilted slightly and her body brushed against his. He slipped his hands around her waist to steady her. Her eyes flared and he dared to think her reaction was personal. With one hand, he touched her cheek. A becoming color again filled her face. He rubbed the fleshy part of his thumb against her mouth until her lips parted, and she flashed her tongue over the full lower one as if in expectation….

What the hell was he thinking? They were standing in the pirogue in the middle of the swamp, breathing hard like two teenagers.

“You’d better sit down,” he said more softly than he was feeling.

She nodded curtly, then dropped like a rock.

He untied the pirogue and pushed off.

“What’s the name of the town?”

“LeBaux.”

“You have people there?”

He immediately thought of his mother who would be ecstatic when he walked into the house with a woman on his arm. She’d been after him to marry for years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry. He’d even felt love for a woman before, but that emotion had been fleeting. They hadn’t meshed in the essential way two people needed to so they could make a life together. He’d drifted from one woman to another, and once he’d hit his thirtieth birthday still single, his mother had played matchmaker. He’d come to Sunday family dinner several times in the past year only to be treated to a prearranged companion. Nice women, but he’d felt no connection, not like he did with Lucy.

“My mother,” he said, “twin younger brothers, two aunts and an uncle, assorted cousins.” He’d been the only one in the family struck by the urge to move to the big city. “But to tell the truth, the whole town is like family. Anyone there would do anything for one of their own.”

“I don’t even know my neighbors,” she admitted.

He shoved off, and as always, ever since he’d been a kid, nature held him in thrall.

They drifted through patches of duckbill grass and under cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. Here and there a water lily poked out of the water and wild flowers were scattered along the banks. Ahead, an otter swam, and overhead a blue heron wheeled and then dove to pluck a fish from the waters.

“This place is a paradise,” Lucy said, turning to smile at him.

“A nice place to visit,” he agreed.

“Under the right circumstances. I am a city girl at heart, though. I don’t fit in here.”

“Where do you fit?” he asked, thinking she’d fit perfectly in his bed.

“In a town house at the edge of the French Quarter. Dana Ebersole and I have been renting it for more than a year now.”

He couldn’t keep his disappointment at bay when he said, “Ah, so you live with someone.”

“Oh, no, not like that. I mean, Dana isn’t a man. She’s been my best friend since we were kids. She’s my business partner, as well.”

A clarification that brought a smile to his lips. “What kind of business?”

“A shop in The Quarter called Bal Masque.”

“Souvenirs.”

“That, too. And masks for Mardi Gras. But mostly art pieces. We also give classes teaching people how to make their own masks.”

“Are you an artist?”

“I went to art school. Not the same thing.”

“So, some of those art pieces you sell—”

“Are mine,” she admitted. “I lead the classes, as well. Dana was a business major. She’s responsible for numbers and organization and advertising. In other words, she’s the one who keeps us from going bankrupt.”

“The partnership sounds like a good match.”

“Very good. What about you?” Lucy asked, glancing at him again. “What do you do for a living?”