Free What Dreams May Come by Kay Hooper Page A

accept, really. I don't think about it much anymore."
    Kelly smiled a little, forcing herself to be casual. "The patch makes you look piratical. Dangerous."
    He considered that opinion for a moment, watching her with a faint smile but an unreadable expression. "Other men hardly notice it, as far as I can tell. Women definitely do. I just figured the interest came from a kind of maternal instinct. You know—a bird with a broken wing."
    "It may be partly that," she said dryly, "but not all. Like I said, it makes you look dangerous, and a lot of women are drawn to that look. Pirates and rakes. Heartbreakers."
    "Including you?" The question was light, but his gaze remained watchful.
    She should have expected it, but she was nonetheless caught off guard. Compelled by something in him or by her own innate honesty, she said slowly, "I don't know. When I look at you, it isn't the patch I see. You're more impressive somehow than I remember. More complex. There's a stillness in you, a quiet that wasn't there before. Maybe I'm drawn to that."
    Her own admission surprised her, but she didn't try to take it back. She was drawn to him, and for her own peace of mind she needed to understand why. Past, or present? Was it remnants of her guilt over having left him, or a deeper connection that had lain dormant inside her until she had been able to look at him through a woman's eyes?
    Mitch seemed to hesitate, then said, "If that's what you see, it's deceptive. And elusive."
    "Is that a warning?" She held her voice steady, even though something in his made her heart thud unevenly.
    He half nodded, still looking at her. "I'm trying, Kelly. I'm trying to work through all this, I promise you. I don't want to be the kind of man my father was, holding on so tightly to someone I care about that I strangle them. But I've lost too much not to be afraid of losing again. It's something I have to fight all the time, that fear. I think that's why I haven't touched you."
    She wanted to tell him that he had touched her, that she felt every glance, but her throat had closed up. She was aware of her pulse throbbing, of a strange, restless heat inside her, and the force of her own feelings bewildered her. And even though she'd never felt this way before, some instinct deeper than knowledge warned her that all the strength she'd fought so hard to gain would never be enough to fight this.
    If she wanted to fight it.
    Without a single physical touch he had made her aware of him, had made her feel the stirrings of longing. New, unfamiliar feelings that made what she had once felt for him seem like dim and distant echoes.
    She was afraid. The fear had more than one level, like steps going down into darkness, and she couldn't make herself move from the topmost tread. She stood on the top step now, shaken by her own yearnings—and frozen by memories of pain. She hadn't felt these longings then, but she couldn't forget the pain and helplessness another man had taught her, couldn't make herself believe it would be different, because she could feel the intensity in Mitch, and the danger.
    His low voice roughened. "I might not be able to let go once I touch you. I've wanted to hold you for so long that I'm afraid I'll hold too tight."

Four
     
    Kelly didn't think he meant that literally. Then again, perhaps he did. Either way, she wasn't ready to find out. And she knew that his feelings were still unresolved; she'd heard that in his voice last night.
    Did you love him?
    After a long moment, holding on to every scrap of control she could manage, she said, "I'm glad you're trying not to be like your father. For your own sake." She couldn't bring herself to refer to the far more personal note he'd finished with, too wary to invite any discussion about touching.
    Mitch didn't press her; he merely nodded and said, "I wanted you to know."
    After breakfast Kelly retreated to her office with a cup of coffee and tried to concentrate on work. But she found herself distracted,