“Why don’t you come back to bed?” Carla whispered

Tobias hesitated even as his gaze burned down every inch of her body. “Back to bed?”

Carla frowned. Had she heard right? Or was she confusing her dreams with reality again?

His voice was husky. “Uh…you sure?”

“After last night?” She smiled in invitation. “Absolutely.”

He paused, then unbuttoned his shirt and let it shrug from powerful, sleek shoulders. His jeans were unsnapped next, the bulge of his masculinity unmistakable. “Climb in,” she offered, her mind racing with the events of the past two nights. “Am I dreaming?”

Grinning, he reached over and gently pinched her cheek. “How’s that feel?”

She pushed the sheet aside in welcome. Another look of indecision crossed his features. “You’re overdressed,” she complained, putting her arms around his neck. As pImages** from their previous night’s lovemaking flashed through her mind, she snuggled against his hard body. “And I was counting on a repeat performance….”

Judging by the arousal beneath the fly of his jeans, Tobias was more than ready to oblige her.

Dear Reader,

Like most people, I’ve always been fascinated by dreams, the unconscious and the elusive pImages** that often haunt us for years, swirling in our minds like fairy dust looking for the right place to land.

All Tucked In…proved to be such a landing place. The sexy hero, Dr. Tobias Free, has become a dream researcher in order to cure his ex-fiancée of the nightmares that haunt her. But sparks really fly when his cure works better than expected, turning her nightmares into hot dreams about him!

I hope All Tucked In…will tuck you in and keep you up well into the night!

Very best,

Jule McBride

All Tucked In…
Jule McBride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Birgit,

for her saintly patience with this deadline, and for so deserving all the good things that are coming her way!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

1

THIS WAS HARDLY THE FIRST time Dr. Tobias Free wished he hadn’t discovered steel baron Cornelius Sloane’s nineteenth-century pornography collection. In fact, the only other thing in life that had caused Tobias more sleepless nights was Carla DiDolche, the Italian spitfire who’d left him at the altar seven years ago. Now he surveyed the “artwork” spread across the boardroom table, his eyes trailing over a few pieces before settling on an ink drawing of a whip-wielding woman in a bustier and frilly pantaloons, a pencil sketch of three topless chorus girls, and a watercolor of a man in cross-tied breeches having his crotch fondled.

Then Tobias looked around the crowded board table.

“Well,” Margaret Craig was saying to J. J. Sloane the seventh, sole heir to Cornelius Sloane’s fortune, “we all know how much this ancestral mansion has meant to you, since you used to live here, Mr. Sloane, and we also know how much it means now—” She shot a piercing, significant look at Tobias “—to the University of Pittsburgh, which has been using it to house its sleep clinic research facility for the past ten years.” Margaret paused for a deep breath. “However—and I’m speaking for every member of the Pittsburgh Preservation Society, not to mention the community at large—we feel it’s our duty to open this mansion to the public, especially since Dr. Free has discovered such a vast vault of art….”

J. J. Sloane, whom Tobias secretly referred to as Sloane Junior, was a tall, thin, overly pretty, silver-haired playboy who’d just hit forty and begun to realize that he was an only child with no heirs. He leaned forward, looking interested. “Does the Society really think it could do something with the mansion? Something for posterity that we’d be remembered by?”

“Of course!” Margaret assured him, squaring her matronly shoulders. “We’re prepared to make this your legacy, Mr. Sloane. Stone mansions of this magnitude are rarely found intact, as you can imagine! Most of the places along this part of Fifth Avenue, which we Pittsburghers so fondly refer to as mansion row, have been turned into apartments or businesses. And yet this remained a private home until you left in the nineties, sir, which makes it very special. Its architecture is gorgeous. The extensive grounds are divine. Even the astonishing stone fountain just off the veranda is in working order. With the exception of the Frick mansion in the Point Breeze neighborhood, few buildings in Pittsburgh are this impressive….”

Sloane leaned further forward. “You really think it compares to the Frick museum?”

“Absolutely!”

“And the Preservation Society would…?”

“The plans—and let me tell you, we have many, Mr. Sloane—are all included in the prospectus in front of you. We’d like to offer tours of the mansion, as well as lectures about the many contributions the Sloanes have made to our city. Maybe open a gift shop. Possibly even lend books from the extensive library. And of course, we’ll be opening a gallery, not only for the photographs displayed in this room, but also for the new art found by Dr. Free….”

Tobias’s eyes shifted to the pornographic pictures again, landing on a charcoal drawing of a woman removing veils as she danced. Most of the stuff wasn’t that racy, at least not by comparison to today’s Guess ads, but in the late 1800s, it must have been as hot as tamales.

Tobias shook his head. Under any other circumstances, he would have laughed. Yes, watching the members of the Preservation Society—mostly prim elderly ladies like Margaret with blue-rinsed hair and American flag pins proudly affixed to the lapels of their linen suits—sit around trying to elevate a porn collection to the level of high art would have brought a chuckle.

Except that Tobias’s ten-year lease on this building was over in a month, and these sweet little ladies were truly going to snap his dream clinic out from under him. Having finally realized he lacked heirs, Sloane had become determined to do something to give his life meaning. As near as Tobias could tell, turning forty had been a rude awakening, and now Sloane hoped the Preservation Society could lend his previously dissipated life some credibility.

To add insult to injury, Tobias had once married Margaret Craig’s daughter, Sandy—this was after Carla DiDolche, of course—and while the union had lasted only three disastrous months before it was annulled, Margaret had never forgiven him for leaving her daughter. Now she was relishing taking away the building in which Tobias housed his life’s work. Oh, yeah, he thought now, eyeing her, Margaret definitely carried a grudge. Probably Sandy had told her mother the truth. That even after marrying another woman, Tobias simply couldn’t get his mind off Carla.

Not that Tobias felt any guilt. He’d dated Sandy on the rebound and let her pressure him into marriage. When things hadn’t worked out, she’d quickly remarried a mall developer from North Carolina who’d kept her in high style ever since. Last time she’d visited the Burgh for the holidays, she’d been pregnant with twins.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Tobias tugged the knot at his throat, wishing he could take off his tie. He hated ties. In fact, the only thing more loathsome than ties were the jackets you had to wear with them. Unfortunately, even his best jeans and corduroy blazer couldn’t hold a candle to the suits worn by his competitors. Last night, on the phone, his mother had urged him to go buy some dress slacks. Maybe he should have listened. She’d also mentioned Carla, the way she always did. After seven years, Laura Free still missed the young woman she’d been so sure was going to become her daughter-in-law. She and Sandy hadn’t really hit it off.

Tobias blew out a sigh. What a couple of days! It didn’t help that one of the three male members of the Pittsburgh Preservation Society was Vince Gato, owner of Gambolini and Gato Imports, which was a wine importing business on Liberty Avenue, at the opposite end of the block from DiDolche’s, the family-owned café of which Carla was now the sole proprietor. From what Tobias recalled, the Gatos and DiDolches went way back. They’d known each other since the old country, which meant circa 1850.

Nope. Even after seven years, there was no escaping Carla. She intruded on his thoughts at the most unexpected times. Tobias suddenly realized that Sloane Junior was addressing him and even though Tobias hadn’t actually seen Carla for awhile, he silently cursed her for breaking his concentration. “Yes, Mr. Sloane?”

“Once more,” asked Sloane Junior, “how did you come across the drawings, Dr. Free?”

As if he didn’t know. For some reason, Sloane Junior loved this story. Tobias retold the tale of how, a couple of months ago, when he and a colleague were moving some equipment, he’d inadvertently tripped, hit the side of a mantle in what had previously been Cornelius Sloane’s study—only to have the wall swing inward, just like in an old horror movie, to expose a hidden room.

“What a find!” Margaret exclaimed breathlessly.

“Yes, indeed,” seconded Vince Gato.

“And you were carrying one of those…what was it, Dr. Free?” asked Sloane Junior.

“An electroencephalograph,” Tobias reminded him.

“Ah, yes. An electroencephalograph.”

“Yes,” Tobias added quickly, glad for the opportunity to speak his piece since, as far as he was concerned this meeting had definitely focused too much on the Preservation Society’s concerns. “The electroencephalograph is an incredible piece of equipment. It allows researchers to chart brain activity during sleep by attaching electrodes to the head. And as you know, because of the long-term lease we negotiated in the past, we have been able to make great headway in our research.”

Sloane Junior barely looked interested. “Hmm.”

“It’s really because of you, sir,” Tobias forced himself to repeat, “that we’ve been able to make such great strides in sleep and dream research. And not just in better-known areas such as insomnia, narcolepsy or sleep apnea, but most importantly in the area of guided dream imagery.”

As he spoke, Tobias’s eyes settled on one of the old sepia-toned daguerreotype photographs that graced the walls, this one of turn-of-the-century construction on Liberty Avenue in the block that would eventually house both Gato and Gambolini’s as well as DiDolche’s café. Once more, he pushed away an image of Carla, and yet she always remained in his mind, running under his conscious thoughts like the unseen current in a river. Her image intruded when he least expected it, least wanted it, and, in this case, most resented it. Right now, he needed to concentrate. “We really feel, if given the chance, that the research we do here will change people’s lives.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sloane Junior. “I read the article in Newsweek.”

He sounded so dismissive. Was this dissipated playboy really going to turn a research facility into an art gallery for hundred-year-old porn? As soon as Tobias had stumbled upon the art, the Preservation Society had started angling to open the mansion to the public. “Already—” Tobias forced himself to smile as he continued “—we’ve helped countless people who suffer from nocturnal eating syndrome and REM behavioral disorder.” He implored Sloane Junior with his eyes. Couldn’t the other man see how important this work was? “We’ve done exemplary work with troubled children plagued by nightmares,” he explained. “And now, we’re really making exciting headway with guided dreams, which promises all sorts of therapeutic uses…”

As he spoke, his voice quickened with passion. If he hadn’t been so attached to his work, he’d never have survived the humiliation, not to mention emotional pain, of Carla’s bolting back down the aisle. After that, discounting his brief marriage to Sandy, he’d worked at this clinic around the clock. “We’ve made progress translating electrical impulses into written accounts of what people dream about,” he said. “In other words, we’re identifying patterns that will allow us to examine your brain waves and tell you what you’re dreaming. Someday our researchers will even be able to watch your dreams on a screen….”

One of the Preservationists gave in and voiced curiosity. “You mean, you’ll be able to watch someone’s dreams, like a movie?”

“We hope,” Tobias said just as another lady elbowed the first for showing interest.

Sloane Junior lifted his chin. “Do you really believe you’ll be able to do that?”

Tobias nodded. “Already, by monitoring brain waves, we can make a fair guess as to what you’re dreaming. During guided dream experiments, we’ve discovered we can deliver electronic impulses to disturbed sleepers and change the content of their dreams. We’ve been able to change nightmares into pleasant dreams. As you know—”

Sloane Junior raised a staying hand. “We’ll get back to that, Dr. Free. And thank you for the input. For now, however, I’m ready to announce that I’ll be spending the next two weeks at the clinic while I make my decision. I know that you’ve—” he nodded at Tobias “—accomplished a lot here. And yet, because this mansion is part of my heritage, it may be best to turn it over to the Preservation Society.

“Within two weeks, I should be able to decide the future of the mansion. Meantime…” He chuckled. “I don’t know about the group, but I’m starved, and judging by my watch, it’s lunchtime.”

Smiling around the table, he added, “Dr. Free has arranged for us to dine in the day room. Shall we?”

Everyone nodded assent.

Tobias tried not to let his temper get the best of him. He’d hardly wanted to feed the very people who were about to dismantle his dream clinic, but he didn’t want to appear ungracious. Years ago, he’d needed a science lab, not this drafty mansion, but when he’d landed a grant and found this place, he’d made do, turning it into one of the country’s most prestigious clinics. As much as he’d hoped the University would set him up in a space better suited to his work, competition for funding was fierce. Between the University of Pittsburgh, Carnegie-Melon and Dusquene University, Tobias Free was hardly the only academic in town who needed to house a research facility. If he lost the lease, he—not to mention all the people who’d worked for him for the past ten years—might be out of a job.

As he stood and lifted a briefcase, his eyes strayed to the old photographs on the wall. Taken when Pittsburgh was a boomtown, they were all yellow-toned, depicting crowded streets and skies made dark by smoke pouring from Cornelius Sloane’s steel mills. Some showed barges marked with the Sloane name that had once traveled choked rivers, transporting steel. Others showed the tenements Cornelius Sloane had built to house the immigrants who’d worked for him, many of whom had been Italian.

Tobias’s eyes settled on Carla’s block in Bloomfield, and he visualized the Italian neighborhood as it was today, complete with the West Penn Hospital, the Paddy Cake Bakery and Tessaro’s restaurant. Unfortunately, his mind zeroed in on the Church of the Immaculate Conception—and everything else came in a flash: the white aisle runner, the crowded pews, his four buddies leading her four girlfriends down an aisle strewn with red and white rose petals.

For a second, Tobias’s heart welled with the love he’d felt when he’d seen Carla in the strapless wedding dress. Wild black curly hair had spilled like corkscrewed ribbons over her bare shoulders, and white satin showed off a gorgeous figure made full by the endless Italian feasts her mama served. From under the veil had been only hints of her face, the dark eyes and wine-red lips that Tobias still dreamed about. She’d been only five steps away, almost in his arms, when she’d suddenly gasped, turned on the heel of a slender, white-beaded slipper, and run back down the aisle.

Pulling himself back to reality, Tobias began leading toward the day room, only to have one of the elderly women—he wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Agnes—politely curl a hand around his upper arm and ask, “What made you decide to work in the field of dreams, anyway, Dr. Free?”

For the same reason he’d done many things in his life: Carla. Tobias managed a shrug as he guided the woman through the doorway. “Oh. I don’t know. I started out in biochemical research. One thing led to another.”

It was only the partial truth. Really, he’d wanted to cure Carla’s insomnia. She was so hot, so passionate, so full of life. But she sometimes couldn’t sleep through a night. After their lovemaking, he’d witnessed the torture she endured in her sleep. Not only were her dreams so real that she’d become convinced they’d happened, but she’d also had a bizarre recurring dream about golden underwear.

Over and over, from as far back as Carla could remember, she’d dreamed of seeing a man seated at a shadowy desk in a dark, dank room she couldn’t identify. Each time, the dream was the same. The man would slowly lift a pair of sparkling underwear made of gold.

It might have been funny, except that Carla would awaken feeling terrorized. He’d held her, too. Even now, he could remember the heat of her soft, well-loved body. She was nothing like Sandy Craig, the woman he’d married. While Sandy was angles and points, Carla was curves and cushions. So feminine, too. With her trembling in his arms, not wanting to let go, he’d never felt like more of a man. Everything about her had made him feel…strong. Protective. Necessary.

Briefly shutting his eyes as he guided the woman toward the day room, Tobias envisioned Carla’s repeating dream, conjuring the dark dank room, the man lifting the gold underwear. And then, very close to Carla’s ear, the man’s voice would sound, saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

As far as Tobias knew, that was the real reason Carla DiDolche had run from the altar on their wedding day.

THE BELT!

His palms broke out in a sweat as his eyes drifted nervously over the drawings left on the table. The picture of the belt was nearly buried under the others. His fingers itched to touch it. Somehow, he had to get it.

“Aren’t you going to the day room with the others?” asked Margaret Craig.

Surveying her buxom, matronly form, the blue-rinsed hair and bright blue eyes, he forced a smile. “Just enjoying the art,” he said, shaking his head, glad to hear that his voice sounded steady. “It’s such an incredible find.”

“If we get the lease,” Margaret agreed, “these pictures, not to mention the mansion itself, will be available to the public.” She smiled. “And then I’ll feel I’ve done my duty to the community.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he watched her begin gently lifting the pictures from the table. Arranging them between pieces of parchment paper, she placed them into a portfolio.

He swallowed hard, hating how tight his chest felt. All the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. He could scarcely breathe. “Are the pictures catalogued?” he managed, hoping he sounded only casually curious.

She frowned. “You know, it’s funny you ask. I believe so, though, now that you mention it, I don’t know who took care of the matter. It would have been someone in the Society.”

Was it possible she was wrong?

Warding off an excited shudder, he eyed the picture he wanted…the picture he had to have. Of course, the picture of the golden chastity belt was nothing compared to the genuine article, a priceless relic that belonged to him.

Yes, it was his. His alone. Believed to date from the earliest of the Crusades, the gold chastity belt carried a power all its own. The glint of its metal reflected the darker times when it was forged, and bespoke unholy alliances, sieges and slaughters. Those wars and skirmishes were rivaled only by the jealousy of the men who left their women behind, and who’d ensured by any means necessary that they’d never be touched by another man….

The belt was beautiful, the name of its owner lost to time and history. His heart hammered. Sweat beaded on his lip. He’d loved to have seen a woman wear it, he thought, imagining someone young and dark-haired. He could see how the heavy gold would tightly encircle her waist, locking in back.

Only when he heard a chuckle did he remember Margaret Craig was still beside him. Realizing he’d been staring at the picture of the belt, he quickly glanced away, cursing himself. He needed to steal the picture, but he couldn’t even contain his interest, so that Margaret wouldn’t notice.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” she said. “Golden underwear.” Offering a schoolgirl’s giggle, she lifted the watercolor.

Only from the back, he thought. Once turned around, the chastity belt was encrusted with priceless jewels…diamonds, rubies and emeralds that made him salivate every time he saw them.

“Someone had a naughty imagination,” said Margaret.

Only he knew the chastity belt was real, not just the subject of an artist’s picture. He worked to tamp down the sudden dark anger that churned within him. He had to get the picture Margaret Craig was putting into the portfolio! Before today, he’d never even known this picture existed. Years ago, Cornelius Sloane must have seen the picture first, then tracked down the genuine article, to add to his collection….

Realizing Margaret was speaking to him, he lifted his gaze.

“Ready for lunch?”

His throat tightened. “Would you like me to put the pictures away for you?” Could he somehow steal the picture now, without getting caught?

“They go in the safe downstairs. I’ll take care of it.”

The safe downstairs? Could he get the combination? How had he managed not to see this picture before today? He’d joined the Preservation Society hoping to find information about the belt, especially any documents that might identify the original owners. But now…the picture had to be destroyed. If it was made public, hung in a gallery in the Sloane mansion, there was a possibility Carla DiDolche might see it someday.

And Carla, who had dreamed of golden underwear, might realize the truth: that what she’d dreamed wasn’t really a figment of her imagination, but a dangerous reality….

“MA, YOU AND POP CAN’T visit,” Carla DiDolche muttered into the portable phone as she took a final glance around the apartment, wondering if she was forgetting anything. She’d shared this place with her parents years ago, before she’d moved to Oakland where she’d intended to live with Tobias after they married. Two years ago, after her parents retired to Florida, Carla had moved back home. Since she was running the café downstairs now, it was more convenient. “I love you dearly,” she continued. “But if you and Pop visit, you’ll criticize everything I’ve done to the café.”

Her mother gasped in horror. “We would never do that!”

“Oh, yes, you would,” returned Carla, heading downstairs. As she opened the lower door and headed into the café, she was relieved to see Jenna already hard at work, standing behind one of the espresso makers.

Despite how tired she felt this morning, Carla smiled and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scents of her childhood. A hundred percent pure Italian coffee, she thought. There was, quite simply, nothing like it. Almost every morning of her life, she’d breathed the heady scent that had always been the DiDolches’ lifeblood. Waving at Vince Gato, who was seated near the front windows with Sylvia Rossetti and Salvatore Domico, Carla beelined for Jenna, saying, “Is mine ready?”

“Coming right up, boss,” returned the other woman cheerfully. A moment later, Jenna turned. She was dressed in black, and when she grinned, the silver loop in her eyebrow flashed every bit as much as the smile. She set a heavy white cup and saucer on the counter. “This is that new Kenyan blend you wanted to try.”

“Kenya?” Mary DiDolche said into the phone. “Did I hear Jenna say Kenyan blend? You know we’ve never used that. Your father gets his shipments from Jack Liotta in the Strip District.”

“Mama,” Carla cut in, gripping the phone more tightly and trying her best not to lose her temper as she lifted the glass lids of the cake plates on the counter and carefully scrutinized cookies and pastries. In about fifteen minutes, the morning rush was going to begin. “I know how you and Pop feel about expanding our repertoire, but Starbucks is killing us. Besides, the Kenyan beans did come from Mr. Liotta.”

Her mother made a shocked sound. “Jack Liotta has quit selling Italian products?”

“Of course not. But he knows that we have to expand our menu. Just as he has to expand his. To keep up with the times.”

“We have our faithful customers,” her mother said defensively.

“I know, Ma, but…” Sighing, Carla decided not to point out that her parents’ friends weren’t going to be around forever. “We need to bring in new customers. The Marcottis retired to Florida around the time you did. And the Tuccis are trying to sell their place.”

“Vince Gato is still loyal to us,” claimed her mother.

“True,” Carla said, shooting Vince a quick grin. “He’s having his espresso right now, but we need more than one customer, now, don’t we?” Actually, there were seven in the shop. Not bad for this time of the morning, but if her parents would let her offer breakfast cereals, she could pull in some of the college kids. Lifting the lid of a cake dish, she took one of the decadent, sugar-loaded morning pastries that DiDolche’s had been serving the public, along with its turbo coffee, since 1888. “I take it Louie got here,” she said to Jenna as she took a bite, tucking the phone beneath her chin, “but where’s the tiramisu?”

On the phone, her mother inhaled audibly. “Did you just say there’s no tiramisu?”

“Calm down, Ma,” Carla said as she chewed. “If Louie didn’t bring all the cakes, he’ll be back, okay?”

“He’d better.”

Carla laughed softly. “If he doesn’t, I’ll call cousin Carmine, okay?” Carmine, who owned a locksmith business, was generally acknowledged as the toughest of all the DiDolche relatives.

“Carmine knows how to handle things,” agreed her mother.

Carla was still busy doing her usual morning once-over. The plate glass windows were gleaming, and she felt a surge of pride as she took in the green, gold-tipped lettering on the glass that read DiDolche’s Since 1888.

It was a wonderful café. Above, was the original tin ceiling; below, black-and-white marble floor tiles deeply veined with green. Curved-glass cases were chock-full of the rich, homemade Italian deserts Louie delivered every morning, and fresh daisies in vases graced marble-topped tables on iron stands laden with scrollwork. Carla frowned as her eyes settled on the green bench outside. “Mrs. Domico’s poodle is by our bench again,” Carla reported.

“That woman!” exclaimed her mother, outraged. “She never picks up after that awful animal.”

Through the plate glass, Carla caught Mrs. Domico’s eye and mouthed the words, Pick up. To her mother, she said, “Don’t worry. I just told her.”

“Good!” said her mother. Before Carla could start arguing once more about the changes she needed to make to keep their business in the black, her mother continued, “It’s nearly eight. Why are you just now getting downstairs? It’s those dreams again, isn’t it, Carla? You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“I’m fine,” promised Carla.

“No, you’re not. And if you can’t sleep, you can’t run a business. DiDolche’s has been around since 1888.”

The words put the fear of God into Carla. “I can run a business just fine.” At moments like this, it was hard to believe her parents had retired and lived in another state. If they decided to reclaim the business, Carla would be crushed. As far back as she could remember, she’d wanted to run this place. “I have a business degree, Ma. And you’re not coming here to go over the books.” If her father saw that she’d introduced three new kinds of coffee, she’d be in deep moose caca.

“I knew it when I called and you were still upstairs in the apartment,” said her mother, ignoring her. “It’s those dreams.”

“I’m fine,” Carla assured her just as her eyes landed on the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. The headline read Pittsburgh Preservation Society May Take Over Sloane Mansion. Her heart lurching, she edged closer and began reading. What on earth had happened? Was Tobias going to lose his clinic? That place was his life! Her cheeks warmed as she thought of how happy he’d been when he’d gotten the lease ten years ago—they’d had dinner at Tessaro’s to celebrate—then she mentally flashed on their wedding and how she’d run back down the aisle.

And then Carla firmly reminded herself that Tobias had married Sandy Craig, who was definitely everything Carla wasn’t: tall, thin, blond and Protestant.

She forced herself to finish reading the article. Of course, through Vince Gato who was a member of the Preservation Society, she’d known that Tobias had discovered Cornelius Sloane’s hidden porn collection, but she’d not known that he could lose his lease. Wouldn’t the university give him more funding, for another space he could turn into a clinic?

If not, what would he do? A dream researcher of his caliber would probably have to relocate to work. He’d even been written up in Newsweek. Somehow, she simply couldn’t stand the idea of him leaving the Burgh. This was his home. Even though they barely spoke anymore, she and Tobias had begun dating in high school, and he was the only man she’d ever slept with. Even though they weren’t in love, he was…

Hers.

It didn’t matter that she’d caught him trying to avoid her when they’d bumped into each other in a grocery store last month. Deep down, she knew that if she ever really needed something, she could call on him.

“Are you listening, Carla?” demanded her mother.

“I was reading an article about Tobias,” she admitted.

“See!” her mother exclaimed as if she’d just won a long-standing argument. “You still think about him! You can’t get over him! He never leaves your mind!”

“He’s in the paper, Ma,” she said defensively. “It sounds like the clinic might close.”

Her mother offered another of her trademark, theatrical gasps. “Well, this means you’d better make an appointment and see if he can cure you, Carla.”

“Ma,” she managed as two customers came in, signaling the beginning of the rush hour, “I’ve really got to go. I need to look at the air conditioner.” It had gone on the blink for an hour yesterday. Not good, in the middle of August. Carla glanced longingly at a strip of unused ground beside the building. It would be the perfect place to build a patio and serve drinks—if only her parents would allow her to make the change.

Carla suddenly looked at Jenna and squinted. “Why are you here? Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment?”

Jenna’s eyes widened. “Uh…nope.”

Her mother heaved a sigh. “It’s those dreams again.”

And it was, as much as Carla didn’t want to admit it. Months had passed in nocturnal bliss, but then suddenly, last night, Carla had tossed and turned. She’d awakened with damp sheets twisted around her body. Right now, she could absolutely swear she and Jenna had had a conversation about her taking the day off.

Yes. The memory was razor-sharp, as clear as this hot, scorching day promised to be. Jenna was standing near the counter, wearing a black sundress.

And yet it was only a dream.

The nightmare had returned, too. Carla could recall hazy visions of mazes and secret passageways. Stairs that led to nowhere. A dark, enclosed, musty-smelling cramped room where a man seated at a desk slowly lifted a pair of golden underwear. Golden underwear! What a crazy notion! So crazy that the dream shouldn’t have been scary, and yet it was. Carla had never been able to make sense of it. Now she shuddered. Because, for a second, she could almost hear his voice at her ear, saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

“Carla?” her mother was saying. “Carla?”

She snapped back to attention. “Huh?”

“This settles it,” she said. “Your father and I are coming to Pittsburgh next week. No ifs, ands or buts. I want to know what you’re doing at the café. The DiDolches have had this business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma. If you and Pop would start having some faith in me—”

Once more, her mother gasped. “We have faith in you!” she defended quickly. “You’re our daughter! You’re a DiDolche! We love you!”

Despite how drained she felt from the lack of sleep, Carla finally smiled. “I know you do.”

“So, we’re coming next week. And while we’re there, you’re going to take a few days off and go to that dream clinic, huh? What do you say, Carla?”

She slid her eyes to the newspaper article again, and her heart did that awful telltale flip-flop. Oh, she’d never forgive him for marrying Sandy Craig, but she guessed when it came to hurting each other, they were now even. And yes, he’d definitely hurt her. Deeply. Not that it made any more sense than her dreams, since it was she—not he—who had run out on the wedding. Still…just thinking about seeing him made her whole system start going off kilter. His name alone could give her sweating palms, a racing pulse, a melting core. You name it.

“Carla,” her mother was saying, “as soon as we hang up this phone, you get right back on it, call the clinic and get yourself an appointment.”

Carla hedged. “Ma…”

“If you don’t, your father and I might have to come back home and help with the café….”

Carla’s lips parted. “You know you’re matchmaking, don’t you?” Before her mother could answer, she added, “It really is over between me and Tobias, Mama.” Their near-marriage was seven years ago, past history. She still wasn’t completely sure why she’d run. Was it really because of some stupid dream? Was she that haunted by phantoms of her own imagination? By things that weren’t even real?

“I’m not matchmaking!” her mother was saying. “I’m worried about your health. And if you don’t make an appointment with Tobias, I’m afraid you’ll be too tired to run the café. The DiDolches have been in business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma.” If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times. Lifting her mug from the counter, Carla decided to ignore her mother’s veiled threats about reclaiming the café she took a deep draught of coffee. The new Kenyan blend was going to be a keeper, she realized instantly. “You know what happened at the church, Ma,” she finally said. “I can’t make an appointment with Tobias.”

“You can’t,” her mother rejoined decisively. “But you will.” Another audible breath sounded. “Or else I really will come back and run the café myself.”

“You’re not serious,” Carla muttered. But then, when it came to the manipulations of Mary DiDolche, one never knew. Carla hesitated, then she thought of last night, which had been pure hell. Then she had an image of her parents coming back to town and working in the café again. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll call the clinic. I promise.”

“If any man can turn a woman’s nightmares into dreams,” declared her mother on a relieved sigh, “it’s probably Tobias Free.”

And how, thought Carla. Mothers might know best, but they usually didn’t know the half of it.

2

“CARLA,” TOBIAS SAID, extending his hand. “I saw your name on the roster. This is a surprise.”

An unpleasant one? It was hard to tell by his tone. “Hello, Tobias.” As she said his name, Carla’s heart missed a beat. Just eyeing the big strong hand that, in the past, had slowly, dexterously caressed every inch of her sent prickles dancing across her skin. When she slid her palm to his, her breath stilled completely. The handshake was quick, firm and businesslike, and yet not quick enough, since Carla instantly registered the smooth feel of his fingers. Her belly fluttered as they ghosted over hers. The muscles of her lower body tightened as they withdrew. Tingles made the tips of her breasts constrict, and she could only hope he hadn’t noticed.

Yeah, she reflected, that hand was just as she remembered: warm, dry to the touch and intriguingly alive. She tried not to take the thoughts any further…to how that hand had felt sliding up the creamy skin of her shuddering inner thighs. He could caress her for hours, bringing her to satisfaction over and over. He was the kind of man who loved every second of a woman’s pleasure….

Heat suffused her cheeks. The room was air-conditioned, but suddenly every interior inch of her felt as if it had hit triple-digit temperatures in August. Maybe even the depths of Hades. Right about now, she’d kill for an ice cube. A bead of sweat snaked between her breasts and she exhaled shakily. No, she never should have let her mother bully her into coming here.

“Have a seat,” he suggested in a voice that could have been whispering sweet naughty nothings into her ears for the past seven years.

Vaguely, she realized she was staring at his mouth as if mesmerized. What had she been thinking? Lord, Carla, she thought now. You could have married this luscious hunk.

No, Carla hadn’t forgotten the voice any more than the feel of his hands. Deep and rich, it had seemed to rumble in his chest like thunder before a storm, then pour out like sweet, succulent honey. “Seat?” she echoed, her mind ceasing to function as her eyes dropped over his body—the wide, broad shoulders, the hard chest, the jeans that were just tight enough to gracefully trace his masculinity. But why was Tobias wearing a sport coat and tie? If he was still the man Carla had known, his employers were lucky to get him to wear a shirt. Or anything at all. Yes…the Tobias Free she’d known had been very anti-clothes.

His lips were curling into the slow, sexy smile she remembered—and with that smile, the whole of their history threatened to overwhelm her. “Seat,” he said, chuckling and pointing to a velvet upholstered love seat. “That thing you put your rear end on.”

Hmm. So he still had a sense of humor. “Just wanted to make sure,” she quipped. “I’d hate to wind up being a centerpiece for your table.”

“Or hanging from a chandelier.”

“You have that much fun around here, huh?”

“You’d be amazed where sleepwalkers wind up.”

“Not really,” she returned, thinking of her own nocturnal habits. Relaxing a little as she sat, she glanced around the fancy, old-fashioned parlor, taking in the red carpet and dark wood-paneled walls. “The place hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, then wished she hadn’t said the words since they were another reminder that she’d been here with him before.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply, taking a clipboard from under his arm as he turned away to seat himself on a settee opposite her. “It’s right out of a Stephen King novel. If you ask me, this mansion looks haunted.”

“Good for a dream clinic,” she offered.

“Only if you’re having nightmares.”

“Which I still am.”

“I can see that from your intake form.”

She could barely believe they were talking like two normal, rational people. No doubt it wouldn’t last long. Their only real conversation after she’d run from the altar had quickly degenerated into a screaming match. She wasn’t interested in having a replay. Neither was he. Ever since, on the rare occasions they’d spoken, the conversations had been brief and polite. They were adults, after all.

As he scanned down the form she’d filled out when she’d arrived, she took another look around the room, mulling over the details—a mosaic fireplace, crown ceiling moldings and ancient oil paintings. Original beaded lamps from the nineteenth century were perched on end tables, and the hammered bronze candelabra on the mantle looked like something Dracula might carry up a flight of stairs. Tobias was right. The mansion, which had been leased with most of its original furnishings, did look a little spooky, like something out of a horror story. “It’s not really scary,” she decided aloud.

“No,” he agreed. “Just old.”

She shifted her gaze to Tobias, sucking in a breath when pure lust blindsided her again. Past memories of their lovemaking came, as visceral and unwanted as the dreams that so often seemed real to her. She found herself recalling the strength in his legs as they’d glided along her thighs, and how the short silken strands of his chest hair could feel, teasing the sensitive skin between her fingers.

He’d changed in the past seven years. Oh, he was still the same heartthrob who’d stolen her attention in high school, when he was a track star and she was a member of the pep club. He had the same straight, hay-blond hair that he wore too long and that occasionally dipped into melting brown eyes. The same sexy light-brown dot of a mole beside lips that could kiss like the devil. The same burning, penetrating concentration that he brought to every task, including lovemaking. But a few lines had appeared around his eyes, and the skin over his high cheekbones seemed more taut, making him look more mature. Yes, any trace of the boy had definitely left Tobias Free. He’d grown up completely, into a man.

He glanced up from the intake form. “Is this everything?”

Suddenly, she wished he wasn’t being quite so businesslike, and that she was outfitted in something other than khaki pants and a T-shirt. Recently, she’d bought an emerald-green sundress, but she’d decided against wearing it, not wanting Tobias to think she’d dressed for him, if she saw him. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d sit down and read her intake form. She fought the urge to reach and smooth her hair, the wild curly strands of which were frizzing in the heat. “Yes,” she said. “I really can’t think of anything else.”

“Before I show you to your room, I’d like to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

He was showing her to her room? “Are you sure?” she managed, feeling more nervous by the minute. When she’d made the appointment, she’d convinced herself that she might not even see Tobias. “I mean…” She didn’t know quite how to say it. “I didn’t expect you to be involved in the…”

“Nitty-gritty? You know me better than that.”

“So, that’s how you think of me?” she couldn’t help but tease. “As the nitty-gritty?”

His eyes captured hers. “Hands-on, if you prefer.”

Heat slid through her veins again. He’d been hands-on in more ways than one. “I know how involved you are in your work,” she answered, wondering if he’d actually just flirted with her. It was impossible to tell from his tone. “I’ll be glad to answer anything I can, of course,” she quickly added.

“How often do you suffer insomnia?”

She shrugged. “Not often anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

She’d forgotten that, too. He’d always gotten straight to the point. He was the same way in bed. He’d go straight for erogenous zones that sent her soaring. Suddenly, she wished she’d slept with some other man, if only once. That way, Tobias might not have such a hold over her fantasy life. “The dreams, when I do have them,” she forced herself to say, “seem more—” she searched for a word “—intense.”

“Intense?”

Like your melting brown eyes. “Yes.”

“And they still seem real?”

She thought of the other morning, when she’d been so sure that Jenna had planned to take the day off work. “Very. Sometimes, I find myself assuming things happened that really didn’t. For instance…” Furrowing her dark brows, she thought a moment. “The other day, when I saw Mrs. Domico walking her poodle, I was shocked because I’d thought Missy—that’s her name—had been dyed green.”

He laughed softly, and the sound warmed her blood. “Dyed green?”

She couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. “I know it sounds crazy. Who would dye a dog green, but—”

“Mrs. Domico,” Tobias interjected, thrusting the splayed fingers of a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “From what I remember, she was just the type.”

Carla laughed appreciatively, but the sound died abruptly on her lips. Tobias remembered everything, even Mrs. Domico. Was he as plagued by memories of their passion? “Well, the dog hadn’t really been dyed green, of course. But as I passed Mrs. Domico on the street, I asked why she’d dyed Missy white again, instead of some other color. I said I thought she’d told me she was thinking about dying the dog blue, but…”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You actually had this conversation with Mrs. Domico?”

“Fortunately, people in the neighborhood are used to this quirk of mine,” she reminded him. As her eyes drifted over Tobias, she couldn’t help but suddenly frown.

He frowned back. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, then changed her mind and shrugged, eyeing his clothes, “I guess I’m just shocked by how respectable you’ve gotten.”

“Sounds like resistance.”

“Resistance?”

“Yeah.” His lips turned upward, looking kissable. “Freud’s concept. As soon as we start to analyze your dreams, he predicted you’d shift the subject.”

She definitely wouldn’t want Tobias to analyze the dreams she could so easily have about him. His gaze caught hers, locked and held. “About the outfit,” he added. “Don’t let a sport coat and tie fool you, Carla.”

It wasn’t really fooling her so much as making her salivate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She could have kicked herself instantly. All at once, the air felt bristly, as if someone had come along with a syringe and injected it with pure, one-hundred-percent porcupine needles. Because, of course, he had worn a tie before. A tux, too. On their wedding day. To make up for the faux pas, she said, “It looks good.”

Clearly fighting not to roll his eyes, he stared back down at the paper on the clipboard and resumed his businesslike tone. “Are the dreams the same?”

She nodded. “Yep. Ma insisted I try to get some help. I haven’t had the…uh, underwear dream for awhile, but it’s bothered me for the past few nights in a row.”

“Your mother told you to come?”

Was it her imagination? Or, for the briefest instant, had he looked disappointed? Had he hoped this was an excuse to see him again? She hesitated. “Yes.”

“How is your mom?”

“Fine.” For a moment, she caught him up on her family, then asked about his, especially his mother, Laura, whom she missed. As he began reading her form again, she said, “According to the paper, you might lose the clinic. Is that really true?”

Looking vaguely annoyed, he lifted his chin once more, and somehow, she was glad to see the expression of his eyes soften when he registered her genuine concern. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. He glanced over his shoulder toward a long entry hall. “Actually, that’s the reason for the tie,” he confessed. Before explaining, he continued. “I’m still so clueless when it comes to wearing them that Elsie had to knot the thing.”

An image of Sandy Craig crowded into her mind. “Elsie?” she couldn’t help but ask, trying to sound casual. Who was Elsie?

“Oh.” His eyes widened slightly in surprise as if he’d expected her to know. “Elsie’s my assistant.”

She hoped she hadn’t sounded jealous. Obviously, she had no right to the feeling. Her lips parted. “Cassandra’s gone?”

He nodded. “Married a prof from Carnegie-Melon. What about Jenna?”

“She’s still at the café. She got married, too.”

“That mountain bike buff?”

She shook her head. “No. The tattoo artist.”

Weddings were the last thing either one of them probably wanted to talk about, but Carla plunged on. “He has his own parlor now. The bike buff went to Alaska for a summer and never came back.”

Another uncomfortable pause followed during which they tried to ignore the depth of their shared past and all the nuptial bliss that hadn’t been theirs. In the silence, Carla actually felt her pulse quicken at the fantasy that he was lying, and that he’d actually dressed up for her, a notion he squelched by saying, “J. J. Sloane’s in town. He’s staying in the mansion, so you’ll probably see him. He’s trying to decide whether to give the next lease to me or to the Preservation Society.”

“Ah. So, you’re on best behavior.”

He offered a droll expression she’d always loved that made him look uncharacteristically petulant and boyish. “Unfortunately.”

You do so hate to be good. The words were on the tip of her tongue, and suddenly, she wanted to suggest that they be naughty…together. “The dreams are the same,” she ventured instead, determined to get the interview back on track.

“Still having that golden underwear dream, huh?”

For a second, despite how the dream had often terrified her, she almost laughed. In the cold light of day, it seemed so ridiculous. She nodded. “Yes.” Though talking about underwear with Tobias was right up there with the subject of marriage.

His brows furrowed in thought. Thick and bushy, they almost came together, forming a ledge. “And the sleepwalking?”

She shrugged. “That’s hard to say. I live alone.” Once more, there was the reminder that they’d planned to share a home, and she mentally flashed on the two-bedroom apartment further down Fifth Avenue, near the university, which they’d rented. She’d wound up living in it for three years. When he’d married Sandy Craig, she’d decided she needed a change, and after that move, of course, she’d ended up back in the apartment she’d previously shared with her parents.

“So you don’t know if you sleepwalk?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t wake up in places other than your own bed?”

“Uh…no, Tobias.”

He sent her a long look. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Good Catholic girl that she was, she figured Tobias knew she hadn’t slept with anyone besides him. But maybe he’d actually been fishing. “Of course you didn’t.”

Once more, heat surged between them. A relationship was impossible, of course, she found herself thinking. After all, she’d left him at the altar, and then he’d married Sandy Craig. But Tobias was the only man she’d ever slept with—the only one she’d ever wanted to sleep with—and she’d definitely missed having sex. A lot. The truth was, Carla hadn’t done it in seven years now. The way she’d been brought up, a woman only slept with her husband. Or at least the man she’d thought was going to be her husband.

Sucking in a breath, she collected her thoughts. “Sometimes, come to think of it, I do wake up on the couch,” she said. “As you know, Ma said I definitely sleepwalked as a kid.”

He jotted something in the margin of her intake sheet. “Has anything changed in the dreams?”

“Changed?”

Chewing his lower lip, he thought a moment, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Is anything different?” Shrugging, he added, “Maybe about the room where the dream takes place? Does the man ever say anything new?”

As much as she hated visualizing the dream that had so often disturbed her, she shook her head. “No. Everything’s the same.”

He looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

She hated to say it. “Absolutely.”

He sighed. “Well…what I’d like to try tonight, assuming you have the nightmare, is some guided dream imagery.”

Now they were getting down to business, and she felt a rush of nervousness. Her hand tightened on the strap of the overnight duffel bag she’d nestled near her feet. “Meaning?”

“When your nightmare’s in progress, I’ll administer electrical impulses.” Interrupting himself as he stood, he added, “It doesn’t hurt. With any luck, it’ll change the course of your nightmare.”

She stood also, feeling surprised when he took her bag. Why, she didn’t know. Tobias was always a gentleman. Still, the bag wasn’t heavy at all, so the gesture was unnecessary. She was squinting at him. “Meaning?”

He considered. “Well…various things can happen,” he explained. “I’ll attach electrodes to your head, then when your nightmare begins, I’ll send small jolts of electricity to your nerve endings.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured. Already, he was doing a fairly good job of that, so she could hardly wait for tonight.

“Patients say that something new happens in their dreams,” he continued. “For instance, the dark room in which it occurs might suddenly change into an enchanted forest, and the bad people are dealt with, maybe sent away by trusted friends. Or you might confront the man. Either way, the content of the dream changes just enough that you find your way out of it. It turns into a good story with a happy ending.”

She paused, fighting a shudder. She didn’t want her repeating nightmare to occur tonight, much less to confront the man who’d haunted her for so many years. “Great,” she muttered. She was rewarded by the feel of Tobias’s hand. It landed on the small of her back, and he used it to guide her through the doorway.

“Don’t worry,” he said, reassuringly. The creamy brown eyes that cut toward her settled on her face and didn’t pull away. “I’ll be there all night, Carla.”

“You?” Recollections of how he’d held her after her nightmares came back then, and she almost could feel his strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close against his hard, naked body. All at once, she felt a rush of safety, just from the memory. But she also wondered what he was talking about. “You’ll be with me?”

He nodded. “While you’re sleeping, I’ll be right on the other side of a glass partition. As soon as we get upstairs, you’ll see.”

“A GLASS PARTITION,” she murmured.

Tobias could tell she wasn’t entirely happy with the setup. Not that he blamed her. He was just as uncomfortable. Was he really going to spend the night watching Carla DiDolche sleep? Why did she have to show up here, after all these years? And at a time when J. J. Sloane was considering whether or not to give Tobias the lease? Right now, he needed to concentrate, and he could hardly do so with Carla traipsing around the Sloane mansion in a nightgown. “See? It’s just a piece of glass. Last time you were here we hadn’t yet started using this room.”

“I don’t remember coming in here before,” she admitted.

“It’s a nice part of the building. Away from Fifth Avenue,” he said. “Quiet.”

Her 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 a life-size nude.”

“Have you spent much time reviewing—” she paused with mock delicacy “—artwork?”

“Not really. A couple of days ago, during a meeting, Mar—” Cutting himself off, he decided he would rather not mention Margaret Craig, Sandy’s mother. “The Preservation Society put some of the pictures on the boardroom table.”

“You have a boardroom?”

“Dining room,” he corrected. “We use it for meetings.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I hadn’t seen the pictures for awhile. They’re kept in the safe.” He hated how heat was slowly suffusing his body again. It was bad enough that he was spending tonight with nothing but a piece of glass between him and Carla, but he hardly wanted to stand around discussing porn. “Guess ads are hotter. While you’re here, one of the society members will probably take you downstairs to see them, if you want. Like I said, they’re in a safe.” He was loathe to admit it, but he added, “It really is a worthwhile art collection.” He was just afraid the pictures would wind up being hung in his dream clinic. “I’ll make sure you see them.”

“Thanks.”

Another silence fell, and when it turned awkward, Tobias said, “I’d better let you settle in. Dinner’s in a half hour. When you get downstairs, just about anybody can direct you to the ballroom. That’s where we eat.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“I’ll be at a staff table, but…”

Somehow, he wished she didn’t look quite so relieved. “Then I’ll wave,” she promised graciously.

“The food’s nothing like your mother’s.” Or hers. When he thought of Carla’s homemade cannoli, his mouth watered. pImages** of candlelit dinners followed, and suddenly, all the memories hurt. Why had she run back down that aisle? In a heartbeat, the question he’d never ask again was on his lips. In the past, she’d tearfully said she didn’t know, but that had hardly soothed him.

He figured it was because of her dreams. Not that curing her tonight—if he could—would make a difference. It was too late now. Realizing they were still standing in the frilly bedroom gawking at each other, he said, “See you downstairs.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

Turning on his heel, Tobias headed down a red-carpeted hallway. When he reached the stairs, he gave in to the urge to look back. Her hands were on her hips, and she was staring at the partition, her dark eyes piercing through the glass as if she was imagining him sitting on the other side. He watched as she took a deep breath, seemingly bracing herself for the long night ahead.

He knew exactly how she felt.

3

“JUST IGNORE ME,” Tobias suggested quietly as he fiddled with the monitors behind the glass partition.

Yeah, right. How was she supposed to do that? With a frustrated sigh, Carla snuggled deeper into the bed, wishing she’d brought shorts and a shirt to sleep in, instead of the new pajama set her girlfriend, Melanie, had given her for her birthday. Not that she wanted to think about Melanie at the moment, since she’d been one of Carla’s bridesmaids.

Just sleep, she commanded herself. She tried to roll onto her side, which would have been more comfortable, but then she remembered the white tabs affixed to her head. “Drats,” she muttered, glancing at the long, multicolored wires that spilled over the pillow and snaked toward Tobias.

“I know it’s difficult,” he murmured from just a few feet away. “You’ll get used to it, though. Do you think you can sleep on your back?”

“I’ll try.”

“You usually sleep on your stomach, don’t you?”

Every time he remembered intimate details about her, she found herself half hoping his memory was every bit as graphic as hers. “Yeah, I do.” Just as he probably still slept stark naked.

As she squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, her mind returned to the pajamas she was wearing. In her drawer, they’d looked like exactly what the receptionist had asked her to bring, something comfortable and unrevealing. Once she’d put them on, however, she’d realized that the bicycle style shorts, while definitely easy to move in, were also incredibly tight. The top wasn’t, but the way the jersey fabric draped her torso didn’t disguise her breasts at all. Because of the slender straps, she hadn’t been able to wear a bra without making her concern obvious. Besides, she’d finally told herself, it wasn’t anything Tobias hadn’t seen before….

He was definitely looking at her. Earlier, she’d caught him, and now, with her eyes shut, she kept imagining him drizzling that syrupy brown gaze down the length of her body—over her breasts, to the soft protrusion of her belly, then to her hips and legs. At the thought, each inch of her turned warmer—until she considered tossing off the sheet that covered her, so he really could be tempted. Warmth slid between her legs, followed by a shower of tingles. Blowing out a surreptitious breath, she pulled the sheet higher, tucking it neatly beneath her chin. This was just too weird, she decided. She couldn’t sleep with Tobias in the room, no way.

She opened her eyes.

He truly was gorgeous. He’d removed the sport coat and tie, rolling the sleeves of a blue chambray shirt just above his elbows. Before she could say anything, he smiled encouragingly from behind the glass. “Just keep trying,” he urged in a gentle tone that suited his profession. Calculated to work on patients like a lullaby, his voice stroked her like a caress. “Everybody has trouble at first. It’s hard to sleep while people watch.”

What was he thinking about her? she wondered as she shut her eyes again. Surely, it hadn’t been easy to have her show up at the clinic. Her throat tightened. He was being so nice. And he didn’t have to be. During dinner, she’d been impressed by how well-respected he’d become, too. Obviously, the clinic was hugely successful. All the staffers treated him with deference, and clearly loved his sense of humor.

So did she. After dinner, he’d wound up showing her around the building, since she hadn’t been here for so many years, and she’d been astonished to find herself having fun with him and with the people he was treating. She’d dined with a vampirish night owl named Zeke Tanner whose pale complexion and black attire made him look as if he’d never seen the light of day; he was being treated for delayed sleep-phase syndrome. Seated next to Zeke was Lucy Jones, a housewife from the suburbs who’d fallen asleep twice while she tried to eat because she suffered from narcolepsy. And then there was a sweet elderly man, Mr. Clearview, whose REM behavioral disorder caused him to act out his dreams. He’d informed Carla that he didn’t really care, but he often dreamed about fighting attackers, and last week, just before dawn, he’d accidentally given his sleeping wife a black eye.

Carla smiled now, getting drowsy. Yes, the clinic’s patients were quite a crew. Unexpectedly, she’d felt some relief just from talking to the others. Hearing about their struggles, she didn’t feel so alone. For the first time, she began to think maybe Tobias could help her. Maybe the dreams that haunted her really would end soon. In addition to bearing their burdens with grace and equanimity, the people Carla met had also given her countless ideas about how to improve the café. She shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, who knew more about coffee than the sleep-deprived?

Sighing, she let her mind drift. Yes, Tobias was here in the room, but she had to forget that. She had to sleep. She had to let Tobias cure her….

As she drifted, her mind mulled over their after-dinner walk. Once alone, they’d been careful not to talk too much about the past. They’d simply walked around the mansion and its grounds, and as Carla began to dream, she imagined Tobias reaching over to twine his fingers through hers.

“Nice evening, huh?” he asked as her side brushed his.

Breathing in the complex scents of the summer night, she nodded her agreement as her eyes swept the landscape. “Beautiful.”

Was she really here with the man she’d nearly married? A man she’d never thought would forgive her enough to share such a quiet moment? She’d felt like a princess as they walked across a thick emerald-green carpet of late-summer grass, hugging the interior perimeters of the high wrought-iron fence that separated the clinic’s massive stone structure from Fifth Avenue. With its palatial columns and the stone swags that hung above French doors which, in turn, led to a wraparound veranda, the place looked like a French castle. Inside, room after room bespoke the opulent grandeur of another age, with fabric-covered walls, breathtaking antiques and gold tablecloths laden with thick fringe. Golden August twilight, streaked with the pink fingers of the coming night streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, adorned with sumptuous velvet draperies held back by gold ties.

The place was even more romantic than Carla remembered.

They’d wound up in the old dining room, and she’d been delighted when Tobias had shown her an old framed daguerreotype photograph of her building, dating from around 1880. Until tonight, she’d never known that the edifice where she lived and worked had been constructed by Cornelius Sloane, although it made perfect sense. At the turn of the century, when Pittsburgh was so smoky it was described as a two-shirt town, and when Sloane’s mills were pouring tons of steel into the economy, Cornelius Sloane had been greatly responsible for providing the city’s infrastructure.

Bloomfield, the Italian neighborhood where the DiDolches settled, was full of rowhouses and tenements designed to house immigrant workers. Carla’s great-great grandfather, the first DiDolche to come through Ellis Island in New York and land in Pittsburgh, had come expressly to work in Sloane’s mills. Instead, however, he’d opened DiDolche’s.

Even today, the block of connected businesses on Liberty Avenue housed Gato and Gambolini’s wine importing concern on the one end, and DiDolche’s on the other. As she and Tobias could see from the picture, the row of buildings had been constructed at the same time, going up much like one of today’s prefab units. Included were many small businesses needed to service the community. Like Gato and Gambolini’s and DiDolche’s, many of the others remained there today, even though most had changed hands. There was still a jewelry shop, a movie theater, a shoe shop and a hardware store. Each business had, as Carla’s did, an apartment overhead.

For long moments, she and Tobias had stood next to each other in front of the picture, with her feeling dangerously aware of his presence—of the warmth seeping from his body and the heady male scent of his skin. Tension had snapped between them like fire-crackers in July, and she’d considered simply turning to him, to ask if he wanted to revisit old times. She didn’t, of course. Instead, they’d only looked at the photo, letting the hazy yellow tones transport them to another age.

Her mind spiraling deeper down, Carla sucked in a sharp breath as she edged onto her side, barely aware now that she strained the white tabs glued to her scalp, along with the wires running across the floor to Tobias….

There was something disturbing about the photograph, she thought now. But what was it? As she stared into the picture, the streets came alive. Businessmen in old-fashioned suits walked along Liberty Avenue, sidestepping horse-drawn buggies, carrying bags containing their second shirts, ones they’d don when they reached work since the smoke-choked skies would always ruin the first. Her breath quickening, Carla trailed her gaze over the building that was under construction. Unusual scaffolding formed a makeshift staircase that ran the length of the block, from the topmost floor of what would later become DiDolche’s, to the ground floor of Gato and Gambolini’s. Apparently, this allowed construction workers access to all the floors of the connected buildings. The block-long staircase must have been removed when the building was complete….

Suddenly, everything turned dark. Her pulse quickened. Her heart missed a beat, then slammed back into action, beating a fast tattoo against her ribs, making her breath shallow. Where was she? She looked around wildly, but she could see nothing, only impenetrable inky blackness. The air was stuffy. Enclosed. Cramped. Claustrophobia claimed her. She had to get out of here!

But she was trapped. Stairs ran every which way. Some went upward. Some down. Some sideways. But how could steps go sideways? That was impossible. Horizontal steps didn’t exist….

Except in dreams.

She tried not to panic. Surely, she was just asleep. Surely, she’d wake up soon. Yes, that was it. She was sleeping and this was a very bad dream.

Wringing her hands in the darkness, she told herself to think, and yet she couldn’t. If only she could force herself to wake up. Open your eyes! she told herself.

And then the image vanished. It was replaced by the dark room she’d seen so many times before. Or was it really a room, after all? Darkness faded into the corners, seeping against the walls, obscuring them. Hidden in the shadows, she reached out her hand and touched something metal and cold. What was it? Where was she?

And who was the man seated at the desk? Terror gripped her. He was huge and burly. His massive shoulders were hunched, so he could better see whatever was on the desk. An overhead light seemed to move slightly, accentuating the weak, watery beam that shined down on a head covered with what might have been black hair. But it was hard to tell. It was too dark, the illumination too faint to work like a spotlight.

She watched as he slowly lifted something. His beefy fingers, she realized, were hooked around the sides of a metal object. Gold glinted—just a flash of it—then she realized his index fingers were curled around a waistband. To golden underwear?

Nothing made sense. But slowly, gently, he lifted a pair of golden underwear higher into the air, and she could hear his breath catch in the dark with an emotion that felt sinister. She had to do something! Run! Wake up!

But she was rooted to the spot.

And then everything changed again. The man vanished, and now he was nothing more than hot breath against her neck and a raspy voice sounding at her ear saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

Her pulse accelerated, ticking in her throat, making her feel weak from the adrenaline rush. The taste in her mouth was acrid, and sweat beaded on her forehead. She was desperate for this to end! Instead, the dream started over. She knew she’d never escape. She was alone in the dark again, wringing her hands. Stairs went upward. Downward. Sideways. She turned her head—this way, then that—but everywhere she looked, inky blackness stretched to eternity. There was no way out—

She felt a jolt.

What was that? It wasn’t unpleasant…no, not at all. In fact, sweet relief seemed to slide through her body. All at once, the dream was gone. There was no trace of the man or of the darkness that surrounded him.

Light filled her mind. The mustiness she’d previously smelled vaporized. Soft, sweet-smelling summer air infused her instead, tantalizing her nostrils and filling her lungs. An explosion of beautiful pastel colors followed—dreamy blues and lilacs. Translucent pinks and yellows that were the color of a gorgeous day’s first rays of sunshine.

She felt another jolt, pushing pulsing electricity through her body. The pleasure was almost orgasmic. Her nerve endings hummed. Music played from somewhere far off. Close by, water gurgled, and in tandem with the sound she realized she and Tobias were on a bench in the garden of the Sloane mansion.

No…now they were standing. Everything was moving swiftly, the pImages** disjointed, the way they so often were in dreams. One more little jolt of inexplicable pleasure zapped her. It was as if someone was injecting her with a drug designed for love. Slowly, she ran her tongue across her lips.

“Let’s do it right here,” Tobias said.

Eyeing him, she knew she wouldn’t need much coaxing. At some point, he must have reached down, grabbed the hem of her new emerald-green sundress, and lifted it off, over her head. There was nothing beneath. She just so happened to be naked, which was going to work out quite well. Tobias’s dreamy brown eyes closed to half mast, the gaze turning smoky with lust as it swept over her. Hers traveled down his bare chest, settling on his belt, then dipped lower where worn denim curved over an obvious erection, cupping him like a gloved hand. Just looking at him, knowing he was ready to love her, she felt her tummy jump.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she managed to say, her voice catching. They had a past, a history. She’d left him at the altar, after all.

But right now, he didn’t seem to mind in the least. He tried to look innocent. “Do what?” he teased.

“Make love.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what I did to you.”

He merely grinned, his eyes flicking once more down her naked body. “I remember a lot of things you’ve done to me, Carla DiDolche,” he said. “Leaving me at the altar was only one of them.”

“But…”

Just as she started to offer some sort of apology, he silenced her with a deep, wet kiss. His mouth felt so impossibly good that it sent shivers coursing through her, racing through her limbs, settling at the core of her. All her nerve endings seemed to bunch into knots, and her lower belly felt as if it was melting into her thighs as he deepened the kiss, using his tongue to part her lips, time after time. Wonderful sweet scents from the garden mixed with something hotter, something more dangerously male. As he flicked his tongue with increasing urgency, gliding its silken side along hers, she forgot the past and responded, arching toward him and gasping as the smooth, long-tapered fingers of his hands glided up her rib cage.

“Touch me,” she urged as the pads of those practiced fingers teased her, lingering just beneath breasts she wanted him to cup and knead. She wanted him so badly. Shutting her eyes tightly, she rode the sensation wrought by the kiss, and she dreamed about the coming minutes, when he’d be inside her, stretching and filling her.

And then the magic came. As he captured her mouth more firmly, locking his lips tightly over hers, he closed both his huge hands over her breasts. Using his thumbs, he circled the already taut peaks, roughing the tips, making then tighten even more. As he pushed her toward the edge, she moved her hips, cradling his as she rocked against him, making him moan.

He was still dressed, and as a blaze of fire raced over her, she damned the jeans that covered his lower half. Reaching a hand between their bodies, she continued kissing him, thrusting her tongue deeply as she slid a hand downward, then over the hard ridge beneath his fly. He was so long…so thick. Her heart hammered.

“Yes…yes,” he panted.

“You’re so ready,” she whispered between kisses. So painfully, deliciously hard. Pushing out her chest, she offered her aroused nipples, and she could only suck in a quick gasp of longing and gratitude when he leaned back and angled his head downward. When the assault of his mouth began, she was totally lost. Blackness crowded into her mind, and she had no choice but to lean back her head in surrender. Over and over, she thrust her breasts for him…

He was panting softly. He gasped when her hand flexed on his jeans, closing firmly around his length. Sliding along the shaft, she explored every hot inch. Her thumb massaged ridges, her fingers, the head. She missed Tobias so much, she thought as she stroked him. Why hadn’t she married him? Why had she run like a fool? What the hell was she scared of? “I’ve needed you,” she moaned. “Needed this.” He was supposed to be hers forever. Her husband, her lover. The man who shared her bed every night, and to whom she awakened every morning.

He was still swirling his tongue, the sensations unbearable. Just like she remembered…but better. Yes, so much better, she thought illogically, as his mouth closed hard on a bud. His tongue flicked the nipple like a vibrator, then he suckled deep, pulling the excited tip into his mouth until it seemed to rest against the pure wet silk of his cheek.

She was wet elsewhere, too. Shamelessly, she’d melted. She was dripping, her hips arched and begging. Her hand closed more tightly over him, feeling every inch of hot steel through the silken worn denim. Somehow, her shaking fingers pulled down the zipper, freeing him. Quickly, she pushed down his pants.

And then the jeans were gone. Suddenly, he was naked. She didn’t know how he got that way, only that the dream fast-forwarded, and now he was standing before her without a stitch of clothes. He looked like a god. She’d forgotten how incredibly endowed he was. And how incredibly handsome. Or maybe she’d wanted to forget. Because if she’d remembered, she’d have had no choice but to drop everything and run to wherever he was. She would have begged him to forgive her for leaving him at the altar, just as he’d forgiven her in this dream. She would have asked him to please take off his clothes and let her…

Her eyes dropped hungrily. Time stopped as she took in every inch of a male body that just wouldn’t quit. The male nipples were tight, like hers. The broad chest was covered in a tangle of yellow-gold silken hair that tapered, narrowed, and arrowed down to…

She shuddered as her eyes settled, then she slowly took in each nuance. He sprung from a nest of impossibly soft-looking curls—so big, so hard, so ready. A pinkened head was tipped by moisture, the shaft covered with ridges that promised to take her to a climax she’d never forget. Her mouth went dry, but only for an instant because he quickly leaned in for a kiss. His mouth, already wet, slammed hers….

And the image vanished. In a poof, it simply disappeared, and they were lying on a bed of grass so soft that it could have been velvet, or the silken strands of a mermaid’s hair. They were shuddering and shaking, their skin damp, and Tobias was hovering over her. He raised himself on an elbow as he slid a hand between her legs saying, “You feel so good.”

Whimpering, she cried out. “Oh, yes…please.”

He’d been preparing her, making sure she was ready before he entered her, but now he paused to glide his hand over her folds. Using a finger, he opened the slit. “Oh,” he moaned, his voice rough with need. “You’re so wet.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t, not when he parted her once more, thrusting a finger deep inside her. Then another. But it wasn’t enough. Her skin was glazed with heat, her mouth dry from panting. She wanted more. Him…inside her, not this maddening, teasing, thoroughly annoying finger that kept thrusting and withdrawing, then lazily traced circles over her clitoris. “No wonder I didn’t marry you,” she muttered in hopeless frustration.

He merely laughed. “Bothersome, aren’t I?”

And how! Arching, she felt the fire inside her gather force. It was out of control. She was burning up! Every inch of her burned. Deep inside, she was aching. His thrusting finger seemed to touch her womb!

He had to stop.

Senseless words tumbled from her lips. She was begging him. But he wasn’t going to stop, of course. No more than she was going to stop her own hand, which found his silken length once more and stroked until he gasped. “Tit for tat,” she whispered, wanting him to give up…to make love to her, properly. I want you inside me, she thought. I need…

Please.

His finger was too much. She exploded. The sweet spasms of release were still rocking her when he knelt between her legs. Hot and smooth, the tip nudged her opening. She parted instantly, and he slid inside, each ridge pushing her back toward the edge she’d just visited. Yes. She was going to come again. Tobias was going to make her come and come, and never stop coming.

She closed around each thick inch as he pushed. Each glorious ridge caught on the insides of her slick tunnel, until he’d tossed her off a cliff, into a blissful state of joy she’d never imagined existed, not even with him…

And then she was simply riding him, moving and shaking, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Her full breasts were bouncing, the taut tips brushing the silken hairs of his chest. He was loving every second, too. Shuddering, he curled his hands on her backside, his fingers stroking as he urged her up and down…

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