Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page B

here; you might very well have a concussion. I don’t want you hurt—honestly—and I don’t want you to hurt yourself because of me. Honestly.”
    She didn’t bolt, but she still stared at their fingers, held high and laced together.
    “We can discuss the weather, politics, recent movies—nothing else.”
    “I don’t think I can discuss anything with you,” she said with a sudden flash of anger. “Not after—”
    “Truce!” he said, reminding her sternly. He’d be damned if he was going to apologize for any of the obvious truths he had stated earlier. He didn’t wait for her answer but tightened his fingers around hers and started down the stairs. “Come on.”
    She tugged back with little success and found herself following him down the stairway. “Why should I?” she said, protesting irritably. “Because I’m supposed to be so damned grateful that you saved my life when the whole thing was your fault to begin with?”
    He stopped so suddenly that she crashed into his back. He steadied her and smiled rigidly into her eyes.
    “Not because I saved your life. Because I’m not giving you any damned choice! Last chance—truce?”
    Everything about her went rigid. “Truce,” she snapped back.
    It didn’t sound like a truce at all.

CHAPTER THREE
    O UTSIDE, THE STORM CONTINUED to rage. Rain and wind smacked ferociously against the windowpanes. It was dark beyond them, the whirling darkness of a tempestuous nightfall.
    Inside, there was gentle light. The fire burned brightly, and a candle glowed before Susan on the table.
    The electricity had failed the moment they had gotten downstairs.
    And Susan had to admit that although David Lane was, indeed, the most arrogant and high-handed man she had ever had the ill fortune to meet, when he determined to be responsible for someone, he was that to that letter. Darkness had been no difficulty for him. With a mild sigh and a “That’s to be expected, I guess,” he had gotten her to the couch in the parlor, gotten a fire going with little fuss or effort, disappeared to produce tea made with water boiled on a camp stove, then warned her to sit still before disappearing again.
    And so far they hadn’t argued again, but that was because she hadn’t opened her mouth at all.
    She shivered a little, then drew her bare feet beneath her, covering them with the long skirt of her terry robe. She should have worn her slippers, she thought idly, but dismissed the idea of running back up the stairs for them. She didn’t want to risk a surprise meeting with David Lane in the darkness. Not when he’d told her to sit still.
    Not that she was accustomed to obeying orders in such a fashion. It was just that she knew a few things about him. She knew what he thought of her, and she had discovered that there were no holds to be had on him. She’d slapped him—poor judgment on her part—and wound up on the floor. Not hurt, albeit, but forced against her will by greater strength. And she had no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t blink before using that same strength again. Against her, at any rate.
    Was that what he was always like? she wondered wistfully as she nursed her tea and stared into the flames. No, she had seen hints of someone else, of a different man. One who could be gentle…
    Could be! What was the matter with her? If she had the least bit of self-respect, she would manage to be as cold as he. She wouldn’t lose her temper. She would wait out the storm because there wasn’t any choice, then she would turn her back on him—give him her half of the beach house and forget that he existed.
    She sighed softly and took another sip of her tea. Let him think the worst. She wasn’t going to tell him anything else, not that his father had been dying and knew it long before the merciful heart attack took him. Of course, that fact would be the stab that could really cut him, but she wouldn’t ever use it, not when she’d heard his words, seen his face when she first