Dream A Little Dream

8

Rachel kept the beam of her flashlight low. As she neared the back of the house where she'd known so much misery, she bunched her hooded sweatshirt more tightly around her, warding off a chill that came as much from within as it did from the cool night breeze. The house was as dark as Dwayne Snopes's soul.

Even though the night was cloudy and visibility poor, she knew where she was going, and, with the few shards of gray moonlight that penetrated the clouds, she managed to navigate the curved path across the small stretch of overgrown lawn. The paint-spattered skirt of her dress caught on some shrubbery. As she freed it, she considered the fact that she would have to buy something else to wear soon, but her new resolution to take better care of herself didn't extend to luxuries like clothing, and she decided to postpone it.

She couldn't believe the difference having a full stomach made in the way she felt. It had been her turn to cook dinner tonight, and she'd eaten a full meal. Although she was still tired, the dizziness had vanished, and she felt stronger than she had in weeks.

The house loomed over her. She turned off her flashlight as she approached the back door. It led into a laundry room, and from there into the kitchen. She hoped Cal Bonner and his wife hadn't installed a security system. When she and Dwayne had lived here, their only problems had been with overly zealous fans, and the electronically controlled gates at the bottom of the drive had kept them at a distance.

She also hoped they hadn't changed the locks. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt, she pulled out a house key attached to a loop of coiled purple plastic that she used to slip over her wrist when she went on her walks up the mountain. This had been her spare key, the only one the police hadn't taken. She'd found it several weeks after she'd been evicted tucked into the pocket of this very same sweatshirt. If the key no longer worked, she would have to break one of the windows in the back.

But the key did work. The lock caught in the same stubborn place, then gave way when she pulled on it. A sense of unreality encompassed her as she stepped inside the mudroom. It smelled damp and unused, and the darkness was so thick she had to feel her way along the wall to the door. She pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen.

She'd always hated this room with its black marble floors, granite counters, and a crystal chandelier more suited to an opera hall than a kitchen hanging over the center work island. Dwayne's well-groomed appearance and polished manners camouflaged a man who'd been born poor and needed opulence surrounding him so he could feel important. He'd loved the house's garishness.

Even though it was dark, she knew the kitchen well enough that she could ease her way along the counters until she arrived at the entryway to the family room that stretched across the back. Even though the house was deserted, she moved as quietly as her heavy shoes allowed. Enough weak moonlight came through the sliding-glass doors for her to see that nothing had changed. The pit sofa and matching chairs still conjured up memories of an eighties bachelor pad. In the oppressive silence of the empty house, she crossed the room toward a back hallway and, with the aid of the flashlight, approached Dwayne's study.

The lofty room with its Gothic furnishings and heavy draperies had been Dwayne's idea of something that might be used by a member of the British royal family. A quick sweep of the flashlight revealed that the animal trophy heads were gone. So was the Kennedy chest.

Now what? She decided to risk turning on the green-shaded desk lamp and saw that the desk had been cleared of papers. There was a new telephone, a computer, and a silent fax machine. She gazed at the shelf where the Kennedy chest had been positioned in the photograph and saw only a pile of books.

Her heart sank. She began to search the room, but it didn't take her long to discover that the chest had disappeared.

She turned off the desk lamp, then slumped down on the couch where Cal Bonner and his wife had been photographed. Had she really thought this would be easy when nothing else had gone her way? Now she would have to search the rest of the house and hope that they'd simply moved the chest, not taken it away.

Using the flashlight to see, she made quick work of the living and dining rooms, then moved through the foyer and past the night-club fountain, which was mercifully unlit. The foyer rose two stories above her. The upstairs bedrooms opened onto a balcony surrounded by gilded wrought iron. As she mounted the curving staircase, she began to feel strangely disoriented, as if three years hadn't passed and Dwayne were still alive.

She'd met him when he was on his first crusade through the midwest. He'd been appearing in Indianapolis as part of an eighteen-city televised tour to expand his cable audience. Most of the members of her little church had agreed to be volunteer workers, and Rachel had been assigned to act as one of the backstage gofers, a task, she later learned, that was always given to the more attractive of the young female volunteers.

She was twenty at the time, and she hadn't been able to believe her luck when one of the crusade's staff members had assigned her to deliver a pile of preselected prayer cards to Dwayne. She was actually going to see the famous evangelist up close! Her hand had shaken as she'd knocked on the door of his dressing room.

"Come in."

She'd opened the door tentatively, just far enough to see G. Dwayne Snopes standing at the lighted mirror and running a silver-backed hairbrush through his thick blond hair, so attractively graying at the temples. He smiled at her reflection, and she felt the full jolt of Snopes's charisma.

"Come on in, darlin'."

Her pulses pounded, and her palms went damp. She was giddy and overwhelmed. He turned, his smile grew wider, and she forgot to breathe.

She'd known the facts about Dwayne Snopes. He'd been a North Carolina tobacco broker when he'd gotten the call ten years ago and gone on the road as a traveling evangelist. Now he was thirty-seven, and, thanks to cable television, the fastest-rising evangelist in the country.

His magnetic speaking voice, bold good looks, winning smile, and charismatic personality were tailor-made for television. Women fell in love with him; men considered him one of the guys. The poor and the elderly, who made up the majority of his audience, believed him when he promised health, wealth, and happiness. And unlike the fallen televangelists of the eighties, everyone thought they could trust him.

How could you not trust a man who was so open about his own shortcomings? With a boyish earnestness, he confessed a weakness for alcohol, which he'd overcome ten years earlier when he'd gotten the call, and an attraction toward pretty women, which remained a struggle. By his own admission, his first marriage had ended because of his philandering, and he asked his television congregation to pray that he could continue putting his womanizing behind him. He combined Jimmy Swaggart's hellfire-and-damnation preaching with Jim Bakker's cozy God of love, abundance, and prosperity. In the world of Christian broadcasting, it was an unbeatable combination.

"Come on in, honey," he repeated. "I won't eat you. At least not till after we pray about it." His boyish mischievousness immediately won her over.

She handed him the prayer cards. "I-I'm supposed to give you these."

He paid no attention to the prayer cards, only to her. "What's your name, darlin'?"

"Rachel. Rachel Stone."

He smiled. "God surely has blessed me today."

That was the beginning.

She didn't board the bus with the other members of her congregation that night. Instead, one of Dwayne's aides approached her grandmother with the news that the televangelist had received a message from God that Rachel was to accompany him as a helper on the rest of his tour.

Rachel's grandmother had been in frail health for some time, and because Rachel knew how much she needed her help, Rachel had refused a scholarship to Indiana University to stay home and take care of her. It had been difficult to satisfy her deep intellectual curiosity by taking only a few courses each semester at the local community college, but her grandmother meant everything to her, and she'd never resented the choice she'd made.

She'd told Dwayne's aide she couldn't travel with the crusade, not even for a short period of time, but her grandmother had overruled her. God's call could not be ignored.

During the next few weeks, Dwayne lavished attention on her, and she soaked up every drop. Each morning and evening, she knelt at his side as he prayed, so she was able to witness his unfaltering dedication to the business of saving souls. It would be years before she understood how complex the demons were that lurked beneath his faith.

She couldn't comprehend why he was attracted to her. She was a lean, leggy redhead, pretty in a well-scrubbed way, but she wasn't beautiful. He certainly didn't press her for sex, and when he asked her to marry him shortly before she was supposed to return home, she was stunned.

"Why me, Dwayne? You could have any woman you wanted."

"Because I love you, Rachel. I love your innocence. Your goodness. I need you at my side." The same tears that sometimes filled his eyes when he was preaching now glittered there. "You're going to keep me from straying from God's path. You're going to be my passport into heaven."

Rachel hadn't understood the ominous side to his words, the fact that he didn't believe he was saved and that he needed someone else to do it for him. Only during her pregnancy with Edward two years later did the last of the romantic scales fall from her eyes so she could see Dwayne exactly as he was.

Although his faith in God was deep and unshakable, he was a man of limited intellect with no interest in the finer points of theology. He knew his Bible, but he refused to acknowledge its contradictions or wrestle with its complexities. Instead, he pulled verses out of context and twisted them to justify his actions.

He believed he was inherently wicked, but also that he was put on earth to save souls, and he never questioned the morality of his methods. His dubious fund-raising practices, his extravagant lifestyle, and his bogus faith healings were sanctioned by God.

His fame skyrocketed, and no one but Rachel understood that his public facade concealed a deeply held conviction that he was personally damned. He could save everyone but himself. That was to be her job, and in the end, he couldn't forgive her for not accomplishing it.

The beam of her flashlight settled on the door to the master bedroom. She had spent very little time in this room. Her eager sexuality had been a betrayal in Dwayne's eyes. He'd married her for her innocence. He wanted her, but he didn't want her to want him back.

There were other women he could use to slake that thirst. Not many-he could sometimes hold Satan at bay for months at a time-but enough to damn him forever. She pushed away the unhappy memories and turned the knob.

With Cal Bonner and his wife living in Chapel Hill, the house was supposed to be empty, but the moment she stepped in the room she knew that wasn't true. She heard the creak of the bed, a rustle… With a hiss of alarm, she swung the flashlight around.

The beam of light caught the pale-silver eyes of Gabriel Bonner.

He was naked. The navy sheet rode low, revealing a taut abdomen and the blade of one muscular hip. His dark, too-long hair was rumpled, and stubble roughened his lean cheeks. He supported his weight on his forearm and stared directly into the beam of light.

"What do you want?" His voice was gruff from sleep, but his gaze was unflinching.

Why hadn't she realized he might be staying here? Ethan had told her Annie's cottage held too many memories for him. This house would have no memories at all, but she hadn't stopped to think that he might have moved in. Her reasoning powers had weakened along with her undernourished body.

She tried to come up with a lie that would explain why she had broken into the house. His eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to peer more deeply into the beam of light, and she realized the flashlight had blinded him. He couldn't see who his intruder was.

To her surprise, he turned toward the bedside clock and looked at its glowing face. "Damn it. I've only slept an hour."

She couldn't imagine what he was talking about. She took a step backward, but kept the light shining in his eyes as he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. "You got a gun?"

She said nothing. He was definitely naked, she realized, although the beam of light was focused too high for her to make out any details.

"Go ahead and shoot me." He stared directly at her. She saw no fear in his eyes, nothing but emptiness, and she shivered. He didn't seem to care whether she was armed or not, whether she shot him or left him alone. What sort of man had no fear of death?

"Come on! Do it. Either do it, or get the hell out of here."

The ferocity in his voice chilled her so that all she wanted to do was run. She snapped out the light, whirled around, and rushed into the hallway. Darkness enveloped her. She groped for the balcony rail and stumbled along it toward the stairs.

He caught her on the first step. "You son of a bitch." Grabbing her by the arm, he threw her against the wall.

Her side hit hard and then her head. Pain shot through her arm and hip, but the blow to her head dazed her just enough to dull its intensity. Her legs gave out, and sparks shot behind her eyelids as she slumped to the floor.

He fell on her. She felt bare skin and hard tendon, and then his hand tangled in her long hair as it curled on the carpet.

For a moment he froze, then he spat out a nasty curse and lurched to his feet. An instant later, light flooded the hallway from the eight-foot chandelier that hung above the foyer. Dazed, she looked up at him as he loomed over her and saw that she hadn't been mistaken. He was definitely naked. Even through those dizzying whirligigs that were scrambling her brain waves, she found her eyes drawn to the most naked part of him, and just when all her resources should have been focused on survival, she got distracted.

He was beautiful. Larger than Dwayne. Thicker. In her grogginess-it had to be grogginess-she wanted to touch.

Dwayne had never let her satisfy her sexual curiosity. Lusty pleasures were reserved for him, not for her. She was heaven's gatekeeper, designed for piety, not passion, and she'd never been permitted to caress him or do any of those things she fantasized about. She was suppose to lie quietly, praying for his salvation, while he rutted inside her.

Bonner knelt next to her, bending his near leg and spoiling the view. "How many?"

"One," she managed.

"Try to focus, Rachel. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Fingers? He was talking about fingers? She groaned. "Go away."

He left her side only to return a moment later with her flashlight. Once again, he knelt down, then flicked on the light, peeled open her lids, and shone the beam in her eyes. She tried to turn away.

"Hold still."

"Leave me alone."

He turned off the light. "Your pupils contracted. You don't seem to have a head injury."

"What do you know? You're a vet." A naked vet. She groaned again as she tried to sit upright.

He pushed her back. "Give yourself a minute. I want you fully recovered before I call the police and have you arrested."

"Bite me."

He gazed down at her, then sighed. "You need a serious attitude adjustment."

"Stuff it, Bonner. You're not going to have me arrested, and both of us know it, so just give it up."

"What makes you think I won't?"

"Because you don't care enough to call the police."

"You think I don't care that you've broken into this house in the middle of the night?"

"A little maybe, but not much. You don't care much about anything. Why is that, by the way?"

She wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. The world began to steady around her. "Look, would you mind putting some clothes on?"

He glanced down at himself as if he'd forgotten he was naked. Slowly he rose to his feet. "This bothers you?"

She gulped. "Not at all." Her gaze locked on that most amazing of all his body parts. Was it her imagination, or was it getting larger? She began to feel fuzzy again. Maybe she had a head injury after all. Except the fuzziness didn't seem to be in her head. It was in her legs. Her stomach. Her breasts.

"Rachel?"

"Um?"

"You're staring."

Her head shot up, and she could feel herself blushing. That made her mad. But she got even madder when she saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and realized that something had finally struck Mr. Sourpuss's funny bone. Unfortunately, it was her.

She struggled into a sitting position. "Just get your clothes on, will you? You look revolting naked."

He splayed his hands on his hips. "You're the interloper! I was sound asleep when you broke into my bedroom. Now tell me what you're doing here."

She wobbled to her feet. "I've got to go."

"Sure you do."

"Really, Bonner. It's late, and I've had a swell time seeing you naked and all, but-"

"Move it." He steered her into his bedroom, and another crystal chandelier sprang to life as he hit the switch.

"Don't do that."

"Shut up." He pushed her down on the bed, which rested on a large dais befitting the king of the religious airwaves, then snatched up a pair of jeans from a straight-backed chair that had once been in her bedroom. She watched every motion as he thrust in first one leg and then the other. She didn't fail to note that he hadn't bothered with underwear. Dwayne had worn paisley silk boxers tailor-made in London. She barely repressed a sigh of regret as Bonner drew up the zipper. He might be a bastard, but he had one killer body.

The sizzle of sensual awareness she felt in his presence aggravated her. Her body had been dead to the world for so long. Why had it finally come alive now? And why with him?

She forced her attention away from him and took a quick survey of the room. The Kennedy chest was nowhere in sight, but the furniture was as dark and heavy as she remembered. Red velvet draperies decked out with black and gold tassels covered the windows. Although she'd never been in a whorehouse, she'd always believed this room would have fit right in.

The worst feature was the mirror surrounded by the red velvet canopy that hung over the bed. Since Dwayne had never brought other women here, and he'd kept the lights out when he had intercourse with her, she could only imagine what kind of kinky thrills that mirror had given him. Eventually she'd grown to suspect that he needed to see himself the moment he awakened to make certain God hadn't sent him to hell overnight.

"All right, Rachel. How 'bout you tell me what you're doing here?"

Some men, she decided, were better seen than heard. "It's late. Another time." He came over next to her, and a shiver passed through her as she gazed up into those implacable features. "I'm really not feeling well. I think I might have a head injury after all."

He brushed his hand over her face. "Your nose is cold. You're fine."

Now he had to turn into a comedian. "This is none of your business, you know."

"You want to run that one by me again?"

"This has to do with my past, and my past doesn't involve you."

"Stop stalling. I'm not letting you go till you tell me the truth."

"I was feeling nostalgic, that's all. I thought the house was empty."

He gestured with his thumb at the mirror mounted in the canopy over the bed. "Lots of good memories here?"

"This was Dwayne's room, not mine."

"Yours must have been next door."

She nodded and thought of the pretty sanctuary she'd made for herself in the adjoining room: the cherry furniture and braided rugs, the pale-blue walls with chalk-white trim. Only her old bedroom and the nursery didn't bear Dwayne's imprint.

"How did you get in?"

"The back door was unlocked."

"You're a liar. I locked it myself."

"I jimmied the lock with a hairpin."

"That hair of yours hasn't seen a pin in months."

"All right, Bonner. If you're so damned smart, how do you think I got in?"

"Jimmying locks works great in the movies, but it's not too practical in real life." He studied her, then, moving so swiftly she had no time to react, ran his hands down the sides of her body. It only took him a moment to find the key in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

He dangled it in front of her. "I think you had a key that you conveniently forgot to turn in when you were evicted."

"Give that back to me."

"Sure I will," he said sarcastically. "My brother loves having his house robbed."

"Do you really think there's anything in this house I'd want to steal?" She jerked her sweatshirt back up on her shoulder, then winced as a shaft of pain shot down her arm.

"What's wrong?"

"What do you mean, what's wrong? You threw me into a wall, you moron! My arm hurts!"

Guilt flickered across his face. "Damn it, I didn't know it was you."

"That's no excuse." She flinched again as he began moving surprisingly gentle hands along her arm, checking for injury.

"If I'd known it was you, I'd have thrown you over the balcony. Does this hurt?"

"Yes, it hurts!"

"Damn, you're a crybaby."

She lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin, but he was too close to do much damage.

Ignoring her, he released her arm. "It's probably just bruised, but you Should have it X-rayed to be safe."

As if she had the money for an X-ray. "If it's still bothering me in a couple of days, I will."

"At least keep it in a sling."

"And get fired for not doing my job? No, thank you."

He took a deep breath, as if he were summoning the last ounce of his patience, and spoke in labored tones. "I won't fire you."

"Don't do me any favors!"

"You're impossible! I try to be a nice guy, and all I get is mouth."

Maybe it was that word mouth, but the image of the way he'd looked before he put on those jeans flashed through her mind. She realized she was staring at him again, and he was staring back. She licked her dry lips.

His own lips parted as if he were about to say something, but then forgot what it was. He rubbed his thigh with the flat of his hand. She couldn't stand this sudden, inexplicable tension, and she pushed herself up from the bed, breaking the spell.

"Come on. I'll show you around."

"I live here. Why would I want you to show me around?"

"So you can learn something about the history of the house." And so she could get a look at the other rooms in hopes of finding the chest.

"It's not Mount Vernon."

"Come on, Bonner. I'm dying to see the house, and you don't have anything else to do."

She waited for him to tell her he could go back to sleep, but he didn't, and she remembered the remark he'd made earlier when he looked at the clock. "House tours in the middle of the night are good cures for insomnia."

"How do you know I have insomnia?"

So, she'd guessed right. "I'm psychic."

She moved toward Dwayne's walk-in closet, and before Bonner could protest, threw open the door. Her eyes slid across the neatly arranged shelves and half-empty rods. A few men's suits hung there. Were they Gabe's or his brother's? She saw some dark slacks and denim work shirts that definitely belonged to Gabe. Jeans were stacked on one shelf, T-shirts on another. No chest.

Bonner came up behind her, and before he could protest her invasion of his closet, she said, "Dwayne filled this place with designer suits, hundred-dollar silk ties, and more pairs of handmade shoes than anybody could wear in a lifetime. He always dressed up, even when he was lounging around the house. Not that he lounged much. He was a workaholic."

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, Rachel, but I don't give a damn about Dwayne."

Neither did she. "The tour only gets better."

She moved toward the hallway, then led him through the guest bedrooms, mentioning the names of famous politicians who'd stayed in each one. Some of what she told him was even true. He followed her, saying nothing, merely regarding her with a calculating look. He obviously knew she was up to something, but he didn't know what.

There were only two rooms left-her bedroom and the nursery-and she still hadn't spotted the chest. She approached the door to the nursery, but his hand shot out and covered hers before she could turn the knob.

"The tour's over."

"But this was Edward's nursery. I want to see it." She wanted to see her old bedroom, too.

"I'll drive you home."

"Later."

"Now."

"All right."

He seemed surprised that she gave in so easily… He hesitated, then nodded. "Let me put on some clothes."

"Take your time."

He turned away and disappeared into the bedroom. She spun around and began to push open the nursery door.

"I told you the tour was over," he said from behind her.

"You're being a total jerk! I have a lot of happy memories of this room, and I want to see it again."

"I'm so touched I'm getting tears in my eyes," he drawled. "Come on. You can help me get dressed." He shut the door before she could see inside and began steering her toward his bedroom.

"Don't bother. I'll walk home."

"Now who's being a jerk?"

It pained her to admit he was right, but it was frustrating to get so close and not be able to see the rest of the house. He closed the bedroom door after they were inside and headed into the walk-in closet.

She spotted the key lying on the bedside table where he'd left it, quickly slipped it into her pocket, then leaned against the bedpost. "Can I at least take a peek in my old room?"

He reappeared buttoning a denim shirt. "No. My sister-in-law uses it for her office when she stays here, and I don't think she'd appreciate you mucking around there."

"Who said anything about mucking around? I just want a peek."

"You can't have it." He picked up a pair of sweat socks from the floor and pushed his feet into them. As he put on his shoes, she glanced toward the far side of the room where the bathroom lay that linked this room with her old one.

"How often do your brother and sister-in-law show up here?"

He stood. "Not too often. Neither of them like the house very much."

"Why'd they buy it?"

"Privacy. They lived here for three months right after they were married, but they haven't spent much time here since. Cal was finishing out his contract with the Chicago Stars."

"What are they doing now?"

"He's started med school at UNC, and she's teaching there. One of these days, they'll renovate." He stood. "So why didn't you and G. Dwayne sleep in the same room?"

"He snored."

"Cut the bullshit, Rachel. Do you think you could do that? Do you think you could cut through the bullshit long enough for us to have an honest conversation, or have you been lying so long you've forgotten how to tell the truth?"

"I happen to be a very honest person!"

"Bull."

"We didn't sleep in the same room because he didn't want to be tempted."

"Tempted to do what?"

"What do you think?"

"You were his wife."

"His virgin bride."

"You've got a kid, Rachel."

"It's a miracle, considering…"

"I thought G. Dwayne was supposed to be a hound. Are you telling me he didn't like sex?"

"He loved sex. With hookers. His wife was supposed to stay pure."

"That's nuts."

"Yeah, well, so was Dwayne."

He chuckled just when she could have used a little sympathy.

"Come on, Bonner. I can't believe you're so mean you won't let me see Edward's nursery."

"Life's a bitch." He jerked his head toward the door. "Let's go."

It was useless to argue, especially since she had the key back and could return when she was certain the house was empty. She followed him into the garage, which held a long, dark-blue Mercedes and Gabe's dusty old black pickup.

She nodded toward the Mercedes. "Your brother's?"

"Mine."

"Jeez, you really are rich, aren't you?"

He grunted and climbed into the pickup. Moments later, they were heading down the drive through the praying-hands gates.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, the highway was deserted, and she was exhausted. She leaned her head against the seat and gave into a few precious moments of self-pity. She was no farther along now than she'd been when she'd first seen the magazine photo. She still had no idea if the chest was in the house, but at least she had her key back. How long would it be before Gabe realized she'd taken it?

"Damn!"

She lunged forward as he slammed on the brakes.

Blocking the narrow road that wound up Heartache Mountain to Annie's cottage, a glowing, geometric shape loomed nearly six feet tall. The sight was so unexpected and so obscene that her mind wouldn't immediately accept what it was. But the numbness didn't last forever, and her mind was finally forced to identify what it saw.

The smoldering remains of a wooden cross.