Lake of Dreams by Linda Howard Read Free Book Online

she’d felt from the moment she’d heard his step on the porch. She had feared him even before she’d met him. He was a man whose reputation preceded him—
    Stop it! Thea fiercely admonished herself. What reputation? She’d never heard of Richard Chance. She looked around the bedroom, seeking to ground herself in the very normality of her surroundings. She felt as if things were blurring, but the outlines of the furniture were reassuringly sharp. No, the blurring was inside, and she was quietly terrified. She was truly slipping over that fine line between reality and dreamworld.
    Maybe Richard Chance didn’t exist. Maybe he was merely a figment of her imagination, brought to life by those thrice-damned dreams.
    But the alluring scent of fresh coffee was no dream. Thea slipped out of the bedroom and crossed the living room to stand unnoticed in the doorway to the kitchen. Or she should have been unnoticed, because her sneakered feet hadn’t made any noise. But Richard Chance, standing with the refrigerator door open while he peered at the contents, turned immediately to smile at her, and that unnerving aquamarine gaze slid over her jean-clad legs with just as much appreciation as when she’d worn only the nightgown. It didn’t matter to him what she wore; he saw the female flesh, not the casing, Thea realized, as her body tightened again in automatic response to that warmly sexual survey.
    â€œAre you real?” she asked, the faint words slipping out without plan. “Am I crazy?” Her fingers tightened into fists as she waited for his answer.
    He closed the refrigerator door and quickly crossed to her, taking one of her tightly knotted fists in his much bigger hand and lifting to his lips. “Of course you’re not crazy,” he reassured her. His warm mouth pressed tenderly to each white knuckle, easing the tension from her hand. “Things are happening too fast and you’re a little disoriented. That’s all.”
    The explanation, she realized, was another of his ambiguous but strangely comforting statements. And if he was a figment of her imagination, he was a very solid one, all muscle and body heat, complete with the subtle scent of his skin.
    She gave him a long, considering look. “But if I am crazy,” she said reasonably, “then you don’t exist, so why should I believe anything you say?”
    He threw back his head with a crack of laughter. “Trust me, Thea. You aren’t crazy, and you aren’t dreaming.”
    Trust me. The words echoed in her mind and her face froze, a chill running down her back as she stared up at him. Trust me. He’d said that to her before. She hadn’t remembered until just now, but he’d said that to her in her dreams—the dreams in which he had killed her.
    He saw her expression change, and his own expression became guarded. He turned away and poured two cups of coffee, placing them on the table before guiding her into one of the chairs. He sat down across from her and cradled a cup in both hands, inhaling the rich aroma of the steam.
    He hadn’t asked her how she liked her coffee, Thea noticed. Nor had she offered cream or sugar to him. He drank coffee the same way he did tea: black.
    How did she even know he drank tea? A faint dizziness assailed her, and she gripped the edge of the table as she stared at him. It was the oddest sensation, as if she were sensing multiple images while her eyes saw only one. And for the first time she was conscious of a sense of incompletion, as if part of herself was missing.
    She wrapped her hands around the hot cup in front of her, but didn’t drink. Instead she eyed him warily. “All right, Mr. Chance, cards on the table. What about your dreams?”
    He smiled and started to say something, but then reconsidered, and his smile turned rueful. Finally he shrugged, as if he saw no point in further evasion. “I’ve been dreaming about