Dream Maker Read online

  He hid in the shadows beneath the eaves, out of the brunt of the north wind, and observed the cozy scene before the flickering fire where the couple sat, enjoying a meal and sipping wine like lovers. The sight of food briefly resurrected his appetite, but he ignored his cravings. Time enough to eat when the job was finished. In the meantime, he would feast on revenge, the dish best served cold.

  So, this was a girlfriend of Slater’s. With a keen eye, he observed the look on Slater’s face as he studied his dinner companion, whose head was bowed over her plate. Yes, Slater was a lovestruck fool. Pain welled in the stranger’s heart—stabbing, twisting, making him want to howl with the wind in his agony and rage.

  Maybe killing was too good for Slater. Maybe Slater should suffer—suffer as he’d been made to suffer by Slater’s actions. And what better way to inflict pain on Slater than to make him witness the death of a woman he loved?

  The stranger yanked off his right glove with his teeth, slid the pistol from its holster, and aimed. Damn. No matter how he aimed the gun through the only uncovered window, the woman was aligned with Slater. If his shot killed them both at once, his purpose was foiled. But he was a patient man. The woman had to move away, and then he would kill her. Maybe he would even wait for another day. Either way, Slater would grieve before he, too, died.

  The stranger leaned against the building, tucked his hand, still holding the pistol, inside his coat, and waited.

  Chapter Two

  Jared poured coffee into a thermos and added wood to the fire before settling opposite Tyler. “I’m surprised the lines held this long. Luckily, I have a battery-powered radio to track the progress of the storm.”

  He reached behind him to a shelf beside the sofa and flipped a switch. As he replenished her wineglass, an old Simon and Garfunkel ballad filled the room.

  “The atmosphere here may not be five-star,” he said with a wry grin, “but it ain’t bad.”

  Tyler graced him with a nervous smile, twirled spaghetti onto her fork, and took a bite. Her eyebrows lifted in approval. “You make great spaghetti.”

  They ate in a silence broken only by the screeching wind, the hiss and crackle of pine logs on the fire, and the smooth sounds of golden oldies. A weather report roused Jared from his contemplation of the woman across the table.

  “Travelers’ warnings are still in effect,” the announcer drawled. “Looks like we’re going to be caught in this unseasonal May weather for a while, folks. Power crews are repairing lines, but for some remote areas, power may be out for several days.” The folksy announcer broadcast news of the devastating weather as calmly as if plugging a Sunday-school picnic.

  “Several days—damn!” Jared tossed his napkin on the table and leaned back against the sofa.

  Tyler flinched at his outburst, then flashed him a wobbly smile. “That anxious to get rid of me, are you?”

  That, too, but he couldn’t say it. “I’m thinking of several days without computers and modems.”

  “Are you on some kind of deadline?”

  His stomach clenched. He had a deadline, all right, in the most literal sense of the word. Several days without access to the public records and resources he needed. Several days before he could hire another assistant. And God only knew how many days before that assistant could report for work. Several days. Less time than that had meant the difference between life and death for Mary Stanwick. He couldn’t afford such a delay again.

  Tyler viewed the turmoil scudding like storm clouds across the sharp angles of his face. “Is it the murder story?”

  “What do you know about that?” His voice lashed at her with all the fury of the wind beating against the timbers of the house. Anger glazed his eyes.

  A flush crept up her cheeks. “I couldn’t help seeing the notes you left by the telephone.”

  He leaned forward, drilling her with his scrutiny. “Tell me about yourself. How’d you get a name like Tyler? And why did you choose library science as a career?”

  His abrupt reaction piqued her curiosity, and in spite of his obvious reluctance to discuss his work, she refused to change the subject. “I thought all writers liked to talk about their work.”

  “I can’t talk about it.” His words hung lifeless in the cooling air, wrung dry of all emotion as he drained his wineglass with a gulp.

  “I’m sure what you’re doing is much more interesting than the story of my life.” She paused, waiting for him to volunteer information, but he sat stonefaced and silent, staring at her with eyes as deep, brown, and unfathomable as the French Broad River. A quiver of fear caused her hands to shake, and she set down her unsteady glass and clutched her napkin in her lap to hide her trembling. Maybe he couldn’t talk about his writing because there was no book. Maybe his gruesome notes were something else altogether.

  She retreated to the safety of answering his questions. “Tyler was my mother’s maiden name.”

  He relaxed visibly at her change of subject. “Having a man’s name must cause you problems.”

  “Only an abundance of junk mail addressed to Mr. Harris or Dear Sir. Until now. You’re the biggest obstacle I’ve encountered because of it.”

  “I’d say our inconvenience is mutual.” He rose to his feet with uncommon ease for such a large man and gathered dishes from the table. “I’ll wash these while the water’s still hot.”

  Tyler scrambled to her feet, picked up her plate and glass, and followed him into the kitchen.

  “The fireplace knocks the chill off most of the year, but with temperatures like they’re predicting, it’ll cool fast without electric heat.” His chilly gaze raked her from head to foot before he ran water into the sink, added detergent, and plunged the dirty dishes into the suds. “Hope you have some warm clothes in those suitcases.”

  “Of course, I do.” Cold air nipped through the thin silk of her blouse as she cleared the remaining dishes and carried them in to be washed. “I’ll dry.”

  He extracted a clean dish towel from a nearby drawer and tossed it to her. “You didn’t answer my other question, about why you chose your career.”

  “Why should I? You didn’t answer mine.” She shivered at her own recklessness, then picked up a dripping plate and rubbed it furiously. Jared’s refusal to hire her, his secretiveness about his work, the stranger’s warning, and the nasty weather gnawed at her nerves.

  “Touché, Ms. Harris.” An expansive grin softened the stony contours of his square jaw. “You certainly contradict the stereotype.”

  In spite of everything, she liked him when he smiled. When he didn’t, he frightened her. “What stereotype?”

  “The mousy librarian in a drab brown dress, sensible shoes, hair pulled back in a tight bun, and thick glasses.”

  She struggled to keep her tone light. “If I conform to that image, can I have the job?”

  He stared at the woman beside him. Even a drab brown dress wouldn’t conceal the soft curves of her hips so enticingly encased in gray tailored slacks or the alluring thrust of her small breasts against the shellpink fabric of her blouse. He doubted that even the tightest bun would tame the rebellious ebony curls, and glasses would frame those intriguing gray eyes like a work of priceless art.

  She squirmed under his inspection. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the job,” she said.

  He squelched his dangerous thoughts. “You’d better put on warmer clothes. If you get chilled, it may be days before you warm up again. I’ll finish here.”

  When Tyler returned, she’d covered her silk blouse with a knitted burgundy pullover and replaced her low-heeled pumps with thick socks and running shoes. She folded her legs beneath her in the corner of the sofa nearest the fire and stretched her hands toward its warmth. Desire washed over Jared in a torrent, and again he thrust the feelings away.

  “Humor me.” His voice sounded smooth and even, devoid of the turmoil seething within him. “Why did you become a librarian?”

  She stared at the fire, avoiding his gaze. “My par
ents died when I was twelve and my grandmother took me in. I was her only living relative, so her possessiveness was understandable. She rarely allowed me out of her sight, but I had free run of both the public and university libraries.”

  “You grew up in Chapel Hill?”

  She nodded. “That’s where Gran lives. Because of her overprotectiveness, I spent a lot of hours reading, escaping into books. Learning new things fascinated me. Becoming a librarian seemed the logical extension of my childhood passion.”

  Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, exhibiting none of the artificial guile of women he’d known in Richmond nor the tough sophistication of his female counterparts in Washington.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Why journalism instead of the Slater Tobacco Company?”

  So, she’d researched him. He settled back in his chair. “I had intended to go into the family business, even started college in business administration, but working on the school paper convinced me to switch to journalism. I learned I had a nose for news.”

  “Sounds exciting—and researching for stories is not altogether different from what I do.”

  She shuddered with cold, and he retrieved an afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it over her knees. When she looked up and thanked him, her face was only inches from his. He caught the subtle fragrance of her perfume and the scent of sunshine in her hair. Reluctantly, he returned to his chair opposite her.

  “Journalism taught me a whole new way of looking at the world. Until I learned investigative techniques, I’d accepted the tobacco industry’s standard line—that no proof links cigarettes with cancer and heart disease. It’s an opinion still held by everyone in my family except me. After I’d gathered my own information and studied it carefully, I could never work for my father. It would be like selling death.”

  “Must make things tough for you at family gatherings.”

  “No problem—I don’t go.”

  Her sympathetic smile caught at his heart. It had been too long since he’d had someone to talk to, to understand him; but for now, he couldn’t afford the luxury. Not with this woman.

  Tyler watched as he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair. His expression hardened once more, and reflected firelight danced in his eyes. So Jared had shut himself off, not only from his friends, but his family, too. But why? She wanted this job in the worst way, but alarm bells in the back of her mind warned there was much more to Jared Slater than even her painstaking research had revealed, and that something more could be dangerous.

  She opened the thermos, poured hot coffee into a mug, and handed it across the table to him. When his fingers brushed hers, a shock raced up her arm, and she jerked away.

  “Sorry. Static electricity,” he explained.

  She retreated into the corner of the sofa, tucking the afghan more firmly around her knees. The heat from the fire warmed her, and in spite of the coffee she’d drunk, she felt drowsy and slightly woozy from wine.

  Relaxed, she blurted out the first question that entered her head. “What happened to you two years ago?”

  His strong fingers dwarfed the mug as he sipped his coffee. “If you ever want to be a successful journalist, you’ll have to make your questions more specific.”

  “I read you were ill and gave up your job at the Post.”

  “Was it only two years ago? It seems like a hundred.” His eyes clouded with pain, and he sat unmoving, as if lost in thought. Again, a gamut of emotions flitted across his face before his eyes focused on her once more. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere soon. I have all the time in the world.”

  His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “All our days are numbered, Tyler.”

  She fidgeted, shaken by the veiled threat, uncomfortable under his somber gaze. “Will it take longer than a few hours?”

  “What?”

  “To tell me what happened to you.”

  Disregarding her question, he stirred the ashes of the dwindling fire and heaped on more logs. Uncomfortable silence swelled between them, growing and menacing. She couldn’t spend the night here. She would have to chance driving down the mountain, even if the storm hadn’t abated.

  She shifted her gaze to the wall of windows. A hulking black figure dusted with snow stared back at her. She screamed.

  Jared whirled from the fireplace, temporarily blocking her view. “What the hell?”

  Unable to speak, she pointed past him to the window, but when he moved toward it and out of her way, only a vast expanse of white filled her vision.

  “Someone was out there!” she insisted.

  He stepped closer to the window, peering out into the whiteness. “There’s no one. You must have seen the shadow of a blowing branch, or a reflection from inside the room. Besides, only a maniac would be out in this weather.”

  Her nerves had unraveled to the point where she could no longer trust her own senses. She had seen something, but had her hyperactive imagination twisted a simple shadow or reflection into a looming figure? One thing was certain. She couldn’t remain another minute on the mountaintop with Jared Slater and her suspicions. Even if her host was harmless, her own uneasiness would drive her stark, staring mad.

  She tossed aside the afghan, retreated to the bedroom, and returned with her bags in hand and her computer carrier slung over her shoulder. She dumped the load beside the door and tugged on her jacket. “Storm or no storm, I can’t stay here.”

  When she reached for the doorknob, Jared blocked her way. “Are you crazy? You can’t drive in this weather.”

  She picked up her bags again. “If I drive slowly, I’ll be all right. Now, please, get out of my way.”

  “Tyler.” The sound of her name on his lips caressed her ears. “I feel bad enough about not hiring you, but I couldn’t live with myself if you drove your car into the ravine just to escape my poor hospitality.”

  She hardened her heart against the warmth that coursed through her at his nearness and reminded herself that she was possibly in danger. “I can’t stay here.”

  He clasped her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes, as if searching for something. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  She dropped her gaze but did not reply.

  He grasped her chin in gentle fingers and tilted her head until her eyes met his once more. “I promise you, Tyler Harris, I am not a dangerous man.”

  Unable to avoid his eyes, she met the full intensity of his gaze, filled with warmth and an unmistakable pain—and she believed him. She had not a single rational motive for doing so, except the affirmation in her heart as she faced him and felt the heat of his fingers against her chin.

  For a split second, she closed her eyes and considered her options. She could plunge into the storm, where a faceless figure lurked and an icy road could mean her death, or she could stay the night with Jared Slater, enigmatic, troubled and frustrating, and possibly as dangerous as the perils that awaited outside.

  Some choice.

  Her only recourse was to listen to her instincts, and they told her to wait. She hoped to God they were right.

  “I’ll stay.” She dropped her bags and set her computer on a shelf by the door. “But only until the storm eases.”

  Jared removed a down-filled parka from a peg beside the door, shrugged into it and pulled gloves from the pockets. “We’ll need more wood before the night is over.”

  Uneasy with her compromise, she couldn’t decide which was least frightening—braving the elements or remaining inside alone. The elements won. “I’ll help. Two can carry twice as much.”

  He opened his mouth as if to protest, but said nothing and opened the door to the arctic blast. The force of the gust almost knocked her off her feet, and she had to put her head down and turn her shoulder into the wind to make forward progress. Sleet stung her cheeks and eyes, and the screeching wind made talk impossible. The raw and hazardous weather suppressed any hope she had of leaving before morning.

/>   Jared guided her down the steps, across the snowcovered lawn and around the corner of the garage to a well-stocked woodpile. Her foot slipped on a patch of ice, and she would have tumbled had he not yanked her back, slamming her against him to break her fall. Through the down of his jacket, she detected the iron strength of rock-hard muscles. Whatever Jared had been doing the last two years, he hadn’t sat around going soft. He had the muscles and reflexes of a trained athlete, and a strength that could snap her in two.

  “You okay?” His breath warmed her ear.

  She nodded and struggled to regain her footing. Keeping her arm locked tightly in his, he steered her to the edge of the woodpile, where he stacked logs into her outstretched arms. In spite of the cold, heat prickled her nape. Surely it was her imagination, but she felt as if she was being watched. Jared might not believe her, but she was sure she’d seen something out here…Someone.

  “Too heavy?” Jared called against the wind.

  The look in his eyes dared her to say yes. Maybe he was testing her resolve.

  “No!” she yelled against the wind’s roar, staggering under the weight. “Give me a few more.”

  A flash of admiration lit his face before he stooped, picked up some sticks of kindling and added them to her burden. Tucking his own load of logs beneath one arm, he led her back inside.

  The chilly house seemed warm after the freezing blasts of ice and snow. Tyler unloaded her burden into the woodbox by the fireplace, removed her sodden jacket, and waited for Jared to build up the fire. As soon as he’d settled into his deep leather chair, her eyes flitted anxiously toward the window. Perhaps she’d seen an animal. To get her mind off the figure in the snow, she confronted Jared.

  “Now, don’t you have a long story you were going to tell me?” The first rule of survival was Know Thine Enemy. She smiled into his scowling face. “I love long stories before the fire.”

  Jared grimaced at her. “You never give up, do you?”

  “One of my better qualities. Makes me a helluva researcher.”