Read Online Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham - Free Book Online

been a thing to eat.”
    “Ah, but if you weren’t here, I could have merely taken the brandy bottle up to bed.”
    “You’re quite welcome to do so.”
    “What’s this stuff in the tinfoil?”
    “Chicken.”
    “Cooked?”
    “Yes.”
    “Dynamite.” He picked up the bowl and held it out for her to retrieve. She hesitated. “Take the damn thing!”
    With a sigh Susan took it and set it on the table. With everything else it seemed absurd to make a stand against a bowl of chicken.
    “Anything else in here that’s good cold?” he asked.
    “Potato salad,” she replied. “Lettuce. Tomatoes.”
    “A feast,” he muttered.
    Susan remained by the table. She watched him as he found the items she had mentioned, set the candle on the counter, and began to wash the lettuce. She didn’t move as he deftly prepared a salad.
    When he was done, he turned to her with a certain annoyance. “You could have set the table.”
    “I’m not hungry,” she replied.
    “That’s a bad sign,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Maybe you should lie down with the ice on your head for a while—”
    He broke off as she moved, flushing despite herself, afraid that he might come over and run his fingers through her scalp once more.
    Her fingers were shaking again as she pulled out the silverware drawer, and she hoped he couldn’t see them. It had occurred to her then that, although she might have “tainted” his righteous fingers, he had undressed her. He wasn’t just a stranger; he was the arrogant bastard who had jumped to conclusions, wronged her—and despised her. He’d not only seen her completely naked—he’d also made her that way.
    And to her horror she was afraid of his touch in more ways than one. In some dark and fascinating way, even as he stalked and baited her, he beguiled her. Dear Lord! How she wanted to get away from him….
    As serenely as possible she set the table. David placed the candle between them.
    “What’s there to drink?”
    “There’s a bottle of white wine—”
    “I wouldn’t dream of drinking without you.”
    “I’d love a glass of wine.”
    “I don’t think you should.”
    Well, that sounded absolute enough. “Pity,” she murmured, “it might have made you bearably palatable.”
    “What’s nonalcoholic?”
    “The brown pitcher is iced tea.”
    “It’s hard to tell what’s brown….”
    Not thinking, she brushed past him. He was solid and warm, and she could sense the muscle structure beneath the sleeves of his sweater.
    “This is brown,” she said quickly, thrusting the pitcher into his hands, then sweeping to the table. It was a square table with small Early American chairs, little diamonds carved out of their backs, and cheery cushions tied to the seats. Susan sat.
    He poured the tea and joined her. The table was too small. Her knee brushed his.
    She folded her legs in the other direction.
    He started to reach for the chicken, then frowned and reached beneath him, pulling a slim book from the chair. Susan felt her heart catch. She couldn’t help but watch him as his eyes narrowed and he studied the book in the flickering light.
    “ Night of a Thousand Storms, by S. C. de Chance,” he murmured. He studied the cover, then shrugged with little interest, placing it by the candle. His eyes fell on hers.
    “Science fiction?”
    “Yes.”
    He grinned. “The new romantic kind?”
    “Yes.”
    “Full of sex scenes?”
    “A few.”
    “Yours, I assume,” he said politely. “My father was never big on romance.”
    A breath escaped her. She wondered why she had been so nervous; there was nothing to give her away. And if he did know, what of it?
    She stared at her plate, pushing potato salad around with her fork. It did matter. She was still consumed with that furious urge to taunt him with his own despicable misconceptions.
    “Yes, it’s mine,” she said curtly. Then she smiled at him winningly. “But you are wrong, you know. Your father read everything. He always said