Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham

came in.
    And as far as other things went, the hell with it. Anger still burned deeply within her. He had instantly jumped to conclusions without meeting her, without even wanting to meet her. Fine, she vowed, she’d be glad to help his warped little mind right along. Whatever he said from here on out, she’d manage to smile and agree.
    And yet, as she stared into the fire in the darkened room, she shivered again slightly but not with cold. Whether closing her eyes or watching the flame, she kept seeing his face. His deep, crystal-blue eyes that were so like Peter’s! The curve of his mouth, the lean structure of his cheeks, the set of his jaw. He was an arresting man. The type that anyone might turn to watch. His handsome features had a slightly elusive quality, and his indifference, the coolness with which he had totally ignored her in his office, could change so quickly to passion. He would always be like that, so quiet until, without warning, the sudden explosion of heat broke through.
    “Oh!” she cried out as she was suddenly touched by a flicker of that heat. She hadn’t heard him; he had come up behind her and set his knuckles against her throat.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re cool, and your pulse seems to be just great.”
    “I’m fine.”
    David walked around the couch to the fire and bent on one knee to toss another log onto it. “Did you keep the ice on the bump at all?” he asked dryly, his back to her.
    She looked a little guiltily at the bowl set before her on the floor with melting ice cubes and a washcloth.
    “I kept it on for a while. I’m telling you, I’m fine. I don’t have a headache or even a sniffle.”
    He was still down on one knee, his elbow resting over the other as he gazed into the flames. He’d showered, she noted, and changed into very worn jeans and a burgundy sweater. He’d looked so elegant and sophisticated on that day she’d gone to his office—or at least what she had seen of him had been. Now he looked more relaxed, more approachable.
    “I was just talking to Jerry again,” he said, poking at the fire. “The way you blacked out, you’re not in the clear. You should be in a hospital.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake! I’ve cracked my head before.”
    He stood, rubbing his nape idly, then turned his attention from the fire to her. He picked up the tea he had left on the mantel and sat in the overstuffed Early American chair that faced the sofa, resting his bare feet on the oak coffee table between them.
    Susan felt ridiculously like retreating from her corner of the sofa to the other—farther away from him. She stiffened, reminding herself that she wasn’t going to crack a bit, and wondering a little painfully why she cared what this hateful man thought.
    She didn’t move. She sipped her tea carefully, eyeing him over the brim of the mug. “I really can’t see why you’re so concerned, Mr. Lane, the way you hate me.”
    His lashes fell over his eyes. He shrugged, then put his tea aside and laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back to make himself more comfortable. “I don’t hate you, not personally. I hate what you did.”
    “Really?” Susan inquired politely. “And what did I do, Mr. Lane? I was here when you weren’t. I helped your father. I listened to him and I respected him.”
    His eyes fell on hers with idle speculation. “And you made a hell of a lot of money off him, too, didn’t you?”
    She forced herself to smile sweetly. “I was paid for services rendered, Mr. Lane, if that’s what you’re getting at. But you pay all of your employees, don’t you? Does that make them all whores?”
    “There’s a difference, Miss Anderson,” he replied as cordially as she had spoken. “Most of them work hard, they’re damned good at their jobs, and their salaries reflect those traits. They aren’t paid for … your kind of services.”
    She managed to laugh softly. “Ah, but Mr. Lane! How could you know the full nature of my