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.