A Dream to Cling To by Sally Goldenbaum Page A

over the shadowed figure beneath the tree. He wore jeans today, and a tan V-neck sweater over his shirt, and the same crooked smile that was laced through her dreams. His standing position afforded her a view that not only brought attention to the rugged lines of his face but emphasized the muscular strength of his beautifully proportioned body as well. Even in a casual stance he seemed brimming with carefully controlled energy, a kind of energy she wanted to touch with her fingers and feel with her body. She shivered, but continued to stare unabashedly, her gaze traveling slowly across the hard curve of his shoulders and the expanse of chest, then on downward until the catch of her own breath in her throat made her stop short.
    She pinched her eyes shut and breathed deeply to quell the gushing warmth rising within her. Finally, feeling some semblance of control return, she looked out the window again and noticed the others for the first time.
    Seated at the table were three people, all listening attentively to Sam, laughing comfortably at intervals, and scribbling occasionally on yellow legal pads.
    All were in their early twenties, Brittany guessed, and were dressed as casually as Sam. The only female in the group was a dark-haired woman. Her hair was pulled loosely back into a French braid and she wore an attractive sweater and jeans. She was pretty, Brittany thought, concentrating on the girl’s pleasant smile and shapely figure. She watched her ask Sam a question, then leaned closer to the window to assess his answering smile.
    Even from a distance she could see it was a friendly, satisfied group. They smiled like people who shared jokes and knew each other well.
    She spotted a back door next to the sink and walked quickly through it. Best not be caught spying.
    “Brittany!” Sam spotted her immediately and his warm smile welcomed her out into the sunshine. “Wonderful! I was hoping you’d make it. Come meet the crew.” He was at her side in three long strides and slid his arm around her waist. “This skeptical hodgepodge of humanity is claiming you’re a figment of my overactive imagination.”
    “But I can see you are definitely quite real,” broke in a bearded man. Sam introduced him as Gary Williams, the artist who created the game boards. Gary’s eyes were admiring as he shook her hand. “So happy to meet the lovely muse who has Sam working so hard.”
    “Oh, to the contrary. Sam’s the slave driver,” she said, then turned to meet Tim Warner and Jill Ford, the two game designers who worked under Sam’s direction.
    Sam stayed close beside her, his fingers playing lightly on her waist. “We were ironing out some wrinkles in the game and hoped the weather would inspire us,” he said. “But now we have
real
inspiration.”
    “It’s going to be a top-notch game, Brittany,” Jill said. “I think your father will be pleased.”
    “What a frontiersman your father was,” Tim added with respect in his voice. “He wasn’t afraid to try anything, was he?”
    Brittany fought to concentrate on the designer’s words. Sam’s fingers had played their game along her waist, and now they’d dipped beneath the edge of her sweater and traveled slowly back and forth across the smooth bare skin of her back. “Yes,” she murmured, “I guess he has broken his share of new ground. And I can see his life is in good hands here.”
    That
, at least, was true enough. But when she looked sideways and caught the flashing light in Sam’s eyes, she wondered fleetingly what was happening to her own careful life.
    Sam’s slow smile gave her no answer.
    “Well, Brittany, what do you think of the crew?” Sam stashed his notes into a tan file holder, then turned his attention back to the woman sitting in an old leather chair near the window. He’d had trouble all afternoon keeping his eyes off her. Bless Uncle Felix! He’d kept Sam for hours last night, carefully detailing twenty years of Gordon Winters’s life, and