Debbi Rawlins - In His Wildest Dreams

“Well, I stood there while the blonde tore off my clothes. The brunette just lay back and watched. I was getting pretty hot by then with all the tempting and teasing—”

Emma’s pencil snapped. She jumped and stared down at the stub left in her hand.

“Take it easy, Doc.” Nick laughed. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

She took a deep breath. “Are you sure this was a dream?”

He seemed momentarily disconcerted. “What? You think I made this up?” He moved closer and slipped his hand around her waist. “Doc, you wound me. I thought we were getting to be…close.” He lifted her chin and leisurely trailed his lips down her neck.

She moaned softly. “Nick, this isn’t right. If the study were over—”

He captured her mouth with his, her eager response fueling such a raging desire it made him so hard he throbbed.

“Doc, I think the study is going just fine….”

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

“BULL. HE’S NOT on a conference call. He’s watching the Lakers game. Tell him it’s Nick Ryder and to get his butt on the line.” Nick adjusted the phone between his jaw and shoulder, leaned back in his sister’s office chair and got comfortable.

On the other end of the line, the temp hemmed and hawed for a moment. Nick sighed, taking pity on her. If she’d been his financial planner’s regular secretary, she would’ve laughed, told him the latest dirty joke she’d heard, and then patched him through to Marshall.

“Just tell him I’m on the line, okay?”

“All right, Mr. Ryder, one moment please.”

He squinted out the apartment window, hoping he’d see Brenda coming down the street. When he saw no sign of her, he cleared a spot between the two stacks of student papers she was grading and swung his feet onto her desk.

“What the devil are you doing calling me in the middle of the game?”

Nick chuckled at his friend’s gruffness. They went way back to prep school days, followed by Yale. After graduation, Marshall had stayed for another two years of graduate studies, but Nick couldn’t wait to get the hell out, and he had. Not because school was hard, but because it was too easy. The curriculum bored him silly.

“By your pleasant tone I take it I’m winning our bet?”

“One of these days, Ryder, you’re going to fall on your ass.”

Nick snorted. “Tell you what, without even asking the score, I’ll give you another four points.”

“Smug bastard.”

“Man, that’s what I get for practically giving you your money back?”

Marshall’s laugh was interrupted by a cough, and Nick winced. He wished the guy would quit smoking like the doctors had advised. “What do you want, Nick?”

“I got a tip on a new restaurant chain. Their stock is about to go up and I want five hundred shares before it does.”

“You know restaurants are risky.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got this hunch.”

Marshall sighed. “Far be it from me to underestimate one of your hunches. No matter what, you always manage to land on your feet.”

“What’s life without a few risks?”

Marshall muttered something Nick didn’t hear. Just as well. He was sick of the “Golden Boy” cracks, even though he knew Marshall didn’t begrudge him his good fortune. Not like some of the other guys they’d gone to school with.

Was it Nick’s fault that he’d never had to study for exams, that he was lucky at the track, that at twenty-nine he’d invested well enough to have made close to a million, or that he didn’t have two kids and a nine-to-five job?

He wasn’t foolish. When it really counted he believed only in calculated risks that bred success, and once he’d thrown in, he stayed committed to the end. Not understanding the odds ended in failure. Nick made it a point not to fail. Not professionally, or personally.

He passed on the restaurant stock info and was hanging up when he heard a key in the door.

As soon as his sister stepped inside, her gaze flew to his booted feet. “Off the desk. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Look.” He raised his boots a couple of inches. “I’m using a coaster.”

Brenda shook her head, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “What are you doing here anyway?”

He got up and took the pair of bulky brown grocery sacks from her arms. “I need to talk to you.”

“I gave you a key for emergencies.”

“This definitely qualifies as an emergency.” He carried the sacks into the kitchen, and then pulled out a package of chicken. “The freezer, or the fridge?”

“The fridge.” She started unloading the second sack. “You could have called.”

“It’s easier to invite myself for dinner this way.”

“What?” Brenda slid him one of her amused glances that annoyed the hell out of him. “No date?”

“Tiffany has to work late.”

“You’re actually dating someone who has a job, and takes it seriously?”

“Pathetic, isn’t it? I keep telling her there’s more to life than sticking her knees under a desk eight hours a day.” He yanked out a bag of salad greens and made a face. It was a funky mix of wild greens—weeds if you asked him—that Brenda favored but made him gag. “Disposal?”

“Try it, Buster.”

He tossed it in the vegetable tray, and then took out a beer. “So what’s for dinner?”

“How do you know I don’t have a date?”

“Yeah, right.” He uncapped the bottle. “Want one of these?”

She sighed. “That hurt.”

Nick stared at his sister, puzzled by her sullen expression. “Come on, Bren, you know what I meant. You’re always working or studying for your doctorate. It’s not that you can’t find a date.”

She gave him the silent treatment for almost a minute, long enough for him to start feeling like a heel, and then she grinned. “Gotcha!”

“Brat.” She was two years younger but definitely more mature, or at least more serious about life, mostly because he refused to grow up. No fun in that.

“We’re having chicken and pasta.” She ducked around him to get to the spice rack. “If you’ll get out of the way and put some water on to boil.”

“Yes, ma’am. Oh, before I forget, you had a call…someone named Emma. She had to cancel lunch tomorrow. Her last subject bailed out on her. She said you’d know what that meant.”

“Oh, no.” Brenda set aside a jar of garlic salt, her expression crestfallen. “I can’t believe this. Did she sound really upset?”

“Kind of matter-of-fact, I guess.” He rooted around a lower cabinet until he found a large pot. When he stood, Brenda hadn’t moved, her expression still troubled. “Who is this woman?”

“A friend.”

“That much I figured out.”

“I mean a really good friend. She’s saved my butt a couple of times during midterms. She’s incredibly together, kind of like I want to be when I grow up.”

“Like that’s ever going to happen.”

That got him a tiny smile. “Look who’s talking.” Then she looked bummed again.

“Hey, cheer up. Your friend will figure it out.”

“Yeah, I know. It just doesn’t seem fair. Her thesis is on dream interpretation, and she’s been working hard at it for over a year now.”

“Ah, another one of your perpetual student friends.”