into a sitting position and with both hands wiped the hair out of her face, over her shoulders. It was a mess; she couldn’t even get her fingers through it.
It didn’t make sense for her to be having a dream like this, especially now. She was fed up with men, at least for the moment.
For a while she wanted no more love and romance to complicate her life. Men demanded so much attention and coddling and ego-stroking; she really was quite tired of it and felt in need of a well-deserved man rest. Now if only Tony would quit bothering her she might find a little peace.
She’d met him at a party three weeks ago, and it hadn’t taken long to realize that the only topic of conversation of interest to Tony, was Tony. Much to her despair, he had taken an immediate fancy to her and was now making a nuisance of himself by devising various crazy schemes to gain her interest.
She was not interested.
Amused, maybe, but not interested. He did have a sense of humor, she had to give him that. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and grinned, thinking of the hideous painting of a half-dead weeping willow he’d sent her as a joke two days ago, accompanied by a poem—something impressively maudlin about how he wept like the willow for being unable to gain her love. Last week he’d sent her reservations on a love boat cruise through the Caribbean. She’d returned them, of course—not that she didn’t want to go on a cruise, but she wasn’t for sale.
Cruise. Islands. Palm trees. She was thinking about the unknown lover in her bed again, the feel of his naked body against hers. She groaned. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it! She struggled to her feet, swaying a little, feeling a distinct lack of energy. The dream sure had taken it out of her.
In the bathroom she turned on the shower and gingerly tested the temperature of the water. Jason, who shared her spacious loft apartment with her, liked his water frigidly cold—some torturous regimen to keep him awake so he could work on his doctoral dissertation, something excruciatingly brainy to do with statistics. She adjusted the temperature and stepped into the warm spray. No more men for a while. She’d concentrate on her career. She was twenty-six and she had plenty of time for them later. No, not them, she corrected herself. She wanted just one man: the right man. And children, too, of course. She’d teach them how to bake cookies and paint and sculpt and sing and dance waltzes. They’d have a blissfully happy, creative, colorful family…
Later.
She turned off the water, dried herself and went back to her bedroom.
She slipped into a long, slim skirt with an exotic, multicolored design and topped it with a white silk T-shirt. Humming a little tune, she brushed her hair until she’d tamed it into some sort of order and tied it back with a scarf the color of sandalwood. When at work she needed to keep her hair out of her face, constrained in a scrunchy or a scarf, or it would end up in a bright halo of out-of-control curls, which made her look even younger than she already did. Blond hair and big blue eyes were the stuff of baby dolls. She made a face in the mirror, then put on some makeup and a pair of long, artsy earrings to add a touch of sophistication.
In the kitchen area she made coffee and contemplated the view from the window—an untidy design of brick walls and rooftops adorned with antennae, water tanks and chimneys. Here and there hopeful souls had created what looked like small gardens of potted plants.
Maybe she needed a change of scenery, to do something different, go somewhere else, get away from the men in her life.
Now where had that thought come from? Why would she even think about a change? She was happy. She loved her work and her roomy loft, she loved New York, and her friends. What else could a person want?
A sexy lover.
“No, I don’t,” she said out loud, glancing up at the sound of a door opening. Jason emerged from his room, dressed in gray sweatpants and a blindingly white undershirt. He was tall, blond and handsome like a Viking, but he had no social life to speak of. Why he hid his drop-dead gorgeous self from the world was anybody’s guess.
“Good morning,” Kim said cheerily, pouring him a cup of coffee. He looked bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and in need of some serious fortification.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the coffee from her and leaning his hip against the counter to drink it.
“Sit,” she suggested.
He raked his free hand through his thick hair. “I’ve been sitting all night.”
While she’d been dreaming of her secret lover making passionate love to her in a moonlit room, he’d been conquering the universe of numbers, or whatever genius thing it was he did.
“When you dream,” she asked on impulse, “do you ever have the sense that there’s a message in it?”
“I don’t dream,” he said.
“Everybody dreams,” she returned. “You just don’t remember them necessarily.”
“Which relieves me of the worry of interpreting them.” There was a flicker of humor in his deep blue eyes.
Kim sighed. “I keep dreaming the same thing over and over again and it’s beginning to be a bit…concerning.”
“What type of dream?” he asked. “Is someone chasing you? Are you falling down a bottomless hole?”
“No. It’s more of a…romantic variety. A man I don’t know comes into my bedroom while I’m in bed. He takes off his clothes—”
“You don’t need to go into detail,” Jason said, taking a gulp of coffee.
Kim laughed; she couldn’t help it. She’d done it on purpose, wondering at what point in the story he was going to stop her. “Haven’t you ever had a really wonderful romantic or erotic dream, one that—”
“I told you, I don’t dream.” His face was expressionless. “I’ve got to go back to work.”
She watched his broad, retreating back and grinned.
The dream would not leave her alone; images of lovemaking floated into her mind as she worked, discussing the designs for a line of lamps she had created for a small, exclusive interior decorating firm, which was going to have them manufactured in Honduras.
How many tall, broad-shouldered men were there in Manhattan? Kim had never paid any attention or kept count, but now she saw them everywhere—walking in the streets, sitting in restaurants, riding in elevators, smiling down at her from billboards. She imagined them slipping into her room at night, getting into bed with her, stroking her. She couldn’t help herself; it was embarrassing; it was awful.
The dream followed her as she rode home in a taxi, and stayed with her as she worked at her computer all afternoon. She kept seeing the tall dark man, kept feeling his tender touch, tasting his kisses. And the magic word he’d whispered, sounds that had no meaning to her, floated on the edges of her consciousness—tantalizing, mysterious.
She was going nuts. When a friend called and suggested meeting for dinner, she was so relieved with the distraction that she found herself leaning weakly back in her chair, gulping for air.
“Girl,” she muttered, “get a grip on yourself.”
Coming home later that night,
