All Tucked In…. Jule McbrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
eyes slid to the partition again.
His followed.
Before now, the room had never seemed so intimate. By rights, of course, he should have had a standard dream clinic facility, where glass walls separated observers and sleepers; because he’d been forced to convert the old mansion, he and his colleagues had settled on putting glass triparte panels near the beds. “We try to offer sleepers privacy while they’re being monitored,” he explained.
“I see.”
So did he. In just a few hours, Carla was going to be tossing and turning under the covers. Knowing Carla, she’d manage to get the sheets, not to mention whatever nightclothes she’d brought, twisted around her waist.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. Yeah, from what he remembered, Carla favored those little silk numbers that were calculated to drive a man crazy. Not that she’d have brought something like that here, of course. At least he hoped not. No, the staff always advised people to bring something comfortable and unrevealing. And yet…
Maybe it was too bad. As angry as he was with her—would always be with her—and as adamant about never rekindling their romance, Tobias had to admit he wouldn’t mind having sex with her again. At least once. For old time’s sake. Maybe he just needed to know that he could do it and walk away from her, the way she’d walked away from him. Gritting his teeth, he wished she hadn’t shown up here.
After all, on a physical level, no woman had ever excited him as she did. She made his palms itch to touch, his mouth yearn to plunder. His eyes slid to her figure. Her body was so lush. All curves. Her breasts and hips were full. Back when they’d been together, she’d sometimes complained about her weight; for a week or two, she’d deprive herself of the incredible food her mother made, and the sweet, gooey, syrupy cakes they’d served in the café.
But Tobias had thought she was perfect. Soft, just the way a woman was supposed to be. Personally, he hated women who were so thin that you could see jutting bones, not that he’d been able to convince Carla of it.
Realizing a long silence had fallen, he said, “I think you should be comfortable here for the next couple of nights.”
“Nights?” He could see her throat work as she swallowed.
“You really think it will be more than one?”
Just looking at her, he was sorely tempted to keep her here until his lease ran out. Given how his thoughts were progressing, and the way Carla kept dropping her gaze over him as if she, too, was fondly recalling their old times, Tobias had a sneaking suspicion they were soon going to wind up together in the four-poster bed.
So what if he’d nearly married her? Wasn’t that past history now? Wasn’t he over the pain and humiliation of that day? Not to mention over Carla? Wasn’t that why he’d married Sandy? To prove it?
“Can your parents stay?”
She nodded. “They’re here for two weeks.”
He smiled. “Staying with you?”
At that, she grinned back. “That’s why I came here. I needed to escape.”
He eyed her. Even if they had sex, they couldn’t do it at the mansion, he suddenly decided. Not with J. J. Sloane running around looking for excuses to give the lease to the Preservation Society. If J.J. caught him in bed with a patient, Tobias would be ruined. He shook his head to clear it of confusion. Was he really standing here, a foot away from Carla, planning to go to bed with her?
“So, I’ll need to stay over more than one night?” she repeated.
“Probably.”
“On the phone, they said they couldn’t tell me much.”
He tried to ignore the breathless flutter in her voice. And how good she looked. Prettier, he decided, than when he’d tried to marry her. Her hair was longer, past her shoulders, and inky-black corkscrew curls that he knew felt like satin spilled around her face, bringing out her rose complexion and making her round dark eyes sparkle. Summer had always suited her. She was the type of person who was always active, on her feet and moving—the trait seemed encoded in the DiDolche genes—but now she looked remarkably still. And beautiful…so damn beautiful. Coming to his senses, he realized she was waiting for some kind of response. “Hmm?”
“I was hoping that just one night…”
“It usually takes a couple. With something like sleep apnea or nocturnal eating, it’s often just a night, but when dreams are involved…”
When his voice trailed off, she nodded. Years ago, she’d sit and listen to him talk about his work as no other woman ever had, her eyes attentive, the set of her soft mouth rapt. She’d enjoyed those talks, asking questions that even his colleagues wouldn’t think to.
“It would be nice if you can help me,” she finally said.
He hoped he could. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
“And you’re going to monitor me?”
He’d already said so. He nodded. “Yeah.”
She looked nervous, but she ventured another smile. “When do you sleep, anyway?”
“I still catnap in the day.” He was one of those people who was blessed—or cursed—by only needing a few hours of sleep a day. “Hopefully, we’ll turn your nightmares into dreams, Carla.”
“And if you can?”
“Many times, when we’ve changed the dream content, people report that nightmares never come back.”
As her dark eyes widened, he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. He knew firsthand how the nightmares had haunted her since she was a kid, and now he knew she was hoping that he could whisk them away with one night of therapy. He saw that look on the faces of many people who came to him, looking for a cure. “Seven years ago,” he said, “our research hadn’t advanced to the point it has today.” Before now, he couldn’t have done much for her. He wished he could offer more in promise, but he couldn’t, so he simply remained silent.
She looked around again, slowly taking in an old-fashioned bedroom that was as hopelessly romantic as the rest of the mansion; salmon-painted walls were hung with discreet oils in gilded frames, mostly impressionistic landscapes and ocean views with sailing ships. Two wing chairs had been positioned on either side of a carved oak mantle, and just as downstairs, beaded lamps adorned small round tables. Carla’s eyes trailed from an oriental rug that covered the polished hardwood floor to a four-poster bed stacked high with pillows.
Then she looked at the triparte glass partition again, as if judging the distance that would be between them tonight. Behind the glass were machines he’d monitor. “The room belonged to Marissa Sloane’s lady companion,” he said apologetically. “I’d have put you in the master bedroom, but J. J. Sloane claimed it.”
“The room’s gorgeous.”
He nodded his agreement. “Yeah, it is,” he said. And suddenly he wished he was anywhere in the world other than here, in a bedroom with Carla, especially one with so many nineteenth century frills. No, he really couldn’t believe this was happening. Carla had been having these dreams since she was a kid, and he’d been involved in dream research for a decade, so why did she have to show up now? And in the same week as J. J. Sloane?
Sighing, he told himself he could be a professional.
“Do you really think you’ll lose the lease?” she asked as if reading his mind.
He shrugged. “I’m trying to be philosophical. But I do wish I’d waited a few more months before stumbling onto Cornelius Sloane’s porn collection.”
A smile tugged her lips. “I saw that in the newspaper.” The Pittsburgh Post Gazette had run a picture of the secret room. “Must have been exciting.”
“It was. I landed right on top of