Free Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham

certain of it. Precautionary measures weren’t really necessary. She’d bumped her head and passed out. She’d been waterlogged and frozen, but now she was dry and warm, and her eyes were bright and her pulse was strong.
    He stepped into the room, setting the chocolate on the coffee table. He got down on the floor on his own side of the Scrabble board, leaning on an elbow, his legs stretched out beyond him.
    “Pick your letters,” she told him.
    He did. They played in silence for a while, the game moving swiftly. Her prowess with words surprised him a little, then he wondered why it should. She was obviously very smart. Bright, challenging, mocking. He could tell by the tilt of her head, the glint of her eyes, that she had decided to do battle with him. She would never cringe or apologize for her actions; she would flaunt them in his face. Taunt him, bait him…
    It was his turn. He formed a word.
    “What are you planning on doing now?” he asked, offering a crooked grin.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you are off the payroll. We only pay for services while they’re still being rendered. And you have been living with champagne tastes. What will you do for money?”
    He saw her tighten; her fingers twitched, as if she longed to set them around his throat. But she spelled out her word, commenting that it was a triple score, then smiled directly at him.
    “I’m quite sure I’ll get by,” she purred.
    “I’m sure you will. You could get by a little better if you sold me your half of the beach house.”
    “I have other things to sell, Mr. Lane.”
    He chuckled a little too harshly. “Is that an offer, Miss Anderson? Maintain the status quo? You keep up the beach house and I keep writing out payroll checks. You just transfer the services to a different Lane?”
    One of the little wooden letters went snapping out of her fingers, but she managed to smile at him. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lane.” Her eyes moved over his reclined length in an unimpressed assessment. “You just don’t …” She hesitated, as if she were trying desperately to speak gently. Then she shrugged, as if it were useless. “You just don’t compare, Mr. Lane.”
    Somehow he managed to laugh. “Ah, but what if it meant a tremendous increase in salary?”
    “You couldn’t pay me enough. Besides,” she reminded him very nicely, “you condemned both your father and me for what you’re now offering yourself. You consider me more grating than the sand on the beach. Why on earth would you want to suggest such a thing?”
    “Curiosity,” he told her very quietly.
    Susan found her eyes drawn to his, although she was trying very hard to maintain control over her temper and return his humiliating taunts with digs guaranteed to draw blood from his male ego.
    She couldn’t help but stare at him and quiver inside. Curiosity. It was his word, but despite her rational mind, all her good sense—and her absolute fury—she felt it too. Something, something about him … His eyes, so blue. His ironic smile. His hands…
    Something inside her ached. It had nothing to do with thought, the natural assessment she gave any person in regard to becoming friends—much less lovers. Some small part of her, some instinct, wanted him. Wanted to know how his hands would feel on her, how his mouth would touch hers in a kiss. The wanting swept over her like a tide made hot by the sun. Like a storm taking root inside of her, whirling into a reckless wind.
    He’s an insolent, dominating idiot, she reminded herself harshly. No self-respecting human being would ever forgive his words or treatment of her.
    She picked up the letter she had dropped.
    “Curiosity?” she returned idly.
    “Curiosity,” he said softly again, and though she didn’t look at him, she could feel that strangely speculative look in his eyes. The crooked smile ruefully turning up his lips. For all the violence he had shown her, she could imagine that he could be gentle. That he would