What Dreams May Come (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  Praise for the authors of

  WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “A grand dame of the paranormal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A wild, wicked delight . . . No one does sexy, tormented heroes better—or more inventively—than Sherrilyn Kenyon.”

  —Nicole Jordan, bestselling author of Ecstasy

  Rebecca York

  “York delivers an exciting and suspenseful romance with paranormal themes that she gets just right . . . a howling good read.”

  —Booklist

  “A true master of intrigue.”

  —Rave Reviews

  “[Her] books deliver what they promise: excitement, mystery, romance.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  Robin D. Owens

  “Owens writes the kind of futuristic romance we’ve all been waiting to read . . . She provides a wonderful, gripping mix of passion, exotic futuristic settings, and edgy suspense. If you’ve been waiting for someone to do futuristic romance right, you’re in luck, Robin D. Owens is the author for you.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz

  “[Will] sweep readers into an unforgettable adventure with every delicious word, every breath, every beat of their hearts.”

  —Deb Stover

  What Dreams

  May Come

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Rebecca York Robin D. Owens

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / July 2005

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2006

  Copyright © 2005 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  “Knightly Dreams” by Sherrilyn Kenyon copyright © 2005 by Sherrilyn Kenyon.

  “Shattered Dreams” by Rebecca York copyright © 2005 by Ruth Glick.

  “The Road of Adventure” by Robin D. Owens copyright © 2005 by Robin D. Owens.

  Cover art by Franco Accornero.

  Cover design by Annette Fiore.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-11895-5

  BERKLEY SENSATION®

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Version_2

  Contents

  Knightly Dreams

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Shattered Dreams

  Rebecca York

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  The Road of Adventure

  Robin D. Owens

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Knightly Dreams

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  One

  “Well,” Taryn Edwards said into her cell phone as she stood beside the road, watching the steady Dallas traffic pass by her broken-down car, “I would throw myself under the nearest bus, but considering my luck today, I’m sure it would break down less than a millimeter from me and just ruin my clothes. . . . Probably break my watch, too.”

  “You wear a Timex.”

  She snorted. “Trust me, today not even my Timex could take a licking and keep on ticking. Give me a Tonka truck and I’ll squash it with my ink pen.”

  Janine’s laughter echoed through the static. “Taryn, is it really that bad?”

  Holding her cell phone in a tight grip, Taryn looked at her stalled-out Firebird, which was the prettiest, most expensive lawn ornament she’d ever purchased.

  Of all the rotten luck, especially since all she wanted to do was get home and drown her woes in gallons of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. “Considering the fact that I’m stuck out in this wretched heat wearing high heels with a black car that currently wouldn’t go downhill with a hurricane pushing it, I’d say yes.”

  Janine laughed again. “Do you need me to come pick you up?”

  “No. I appreciate the thought, but I have to wait on the tow truck, which seems to be the only thing moving slower than my DOA Firebird.”

  “Jeez,” Janine said. “You are in a pissy mood.”

  That’s because I just caught my boyfriend in his office with his secretary showing her a position I’m sure would qualify them for the Kama Sutra Hall of Fame. . . .

  Pain sliced through Taryn’s heart as she remembered the sight of them going at it on his desk. Unable to breathe for a moment, she wanted desperately to tell Janine the whole story, but the last thing she needed was to cry on the side of the road. Her dignity was all she had left, and she had no intention of giving Rob that last piece of her.

  “Taryn, why don’t we . . .”

  All of a sudden the phone, much like her car, went dead. “Janine?”

  Nothing.

  Taryn tried to redial the number, but the static was so severe, she couldn’t hear anything.

  “Great,” she mumbled, turning the phone off and glancing at the shopping center across the street. It would be a bit of a hike through screaming traffic, but at least it had a grocery store where she could grab something cold to drink and a few shops she could browse in to pass the time until the tow truck could get here.

  And with any luck, a car or truck might plow into her and put her ou
t of her misery.

  Dodging traffic, she made her way over to the shopping center. Damn, she actually arrived without bodily injury. It really wasn’t her day.

  Disgusted by that, she headed for the grocery store, but as she drew near the entrance for it, she happened to see the small bookstore next door.

  Taryn paused and frowned at the cozy-looking place. When had they opened that? She couldn’t recall ever seeing it here before.

  She stared up at the hand-painted sign: DAYDREAMS AND RAINBOWS.

  How odd.

  Well, thank God for small favors. A good book would cure her woes tonight almost as much as Ben & Jerry.

  Heading inside the cheery store lined with bookshelves, she saw an elderly woman straightening the books on the wall to her right. There was something about the old woman that appeared youthful, almost sprite-like as she came off her ladder to greet Taryn. The woman moved with surprising agility. Her platinum gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a pink summer sweater.

  The store smelled like musty old books, and there was a small café in a corner on the far left where a pot of coffee percolated.

  “Welcome,” the woman said, her brown eyes bright with friendship. “I’ll bet you’re looking for something to read.”

  For the first time that afternoon, Taryn smiled. “You must be psychic.”

  The woman laughed as she closed the distance between them. “Not really. You are in a bookstore, after all.” She winked as she came to rest in front of Taryn. “So, what’s your pleasure? Thrillers, science fiction . . .” The older woman tapped her chin as she studied Taryn. “No. Romance. You look like you need a good romance to read.”

  Taryn wrinkled her nose at the very thought. She’d given up reading romance novels a long time ago. She had buried that naive Cinderella-wanting-Prince-Charming part of herself in the closet along with her Barbie dolls, and other childish fantasies and beliefs. “To be honest, I don’t read those.”

  The woman looked offended. “Why not?”

  “One man, one woman. Happily-ever-after. Forever and ever . . . baloney.”

  The woman shook her head at her. “My name’s Esther,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Taryn,” she said as she shook a hand that felt like warm velvet in her palm.

  Esther gave her a probing stare. “Now, tell me about this man who stole that dream from you.”

  Taryn had never been the kind of person to confide in anyone much, least of all a perfect stranger, and yet before she knew it, her entire history with Rob Carpenter came pouring out of her right down to the grittiest of details.

  “It was horrible!” she said, taking a tissue from Esther to dab at her eyes as she continued to tell her the whole miserable event. “I believed in that snake and he lied to me.”

  Esther led her to a small table in the café area and made her a cup of coffee.

  “So you see,” Taryn said before she blew her nose, “he told me that I was the only woman for him. That he would love no one else. And then the next thing I knew, he was calling me by the wrong name when he answered the phone. Good giveaway, you know?” She sighed. “I should have known then, but I stupidly believed his lies and now . . .”

  Again, she saw Rob and his secretary on the desk, their clothes scattered on the floor around them.

  Taryn fisted her hand in her hair as pain, embarrassment, and grief assailed her anew. “How could I have been so stupid? How could he be so damned clichéd?”

  Esther patted her hand. “It’s all right, love, and I am so sorry, but you shouldn’t base your opinion of all men on the actions of one thoughtless ass.”

  Taryn smiled at that, even though her heart was broken. “He was an ass.”

  “Of course he was. You’re a beautiful young woman with your entire life before you. The last thing you need is to be so jaded. What you need is a good old-fashioned hero.”

  Taryn sighed dreamily at the thought as that buried part of her reared its ugly head. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was that tiny, infinitesimal part of her that still believed in fairy tales. At least, it wanted to. “Some knight in shining armor, come to sweep me off my feet. It does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  She watched while Esther got up and went to the shelves on her left. After a minute Esther came back with a book in her hand. “You need a champion, my dear, and I know just the man. Sparhawk the Brave, the fourth Earl of Ravensmoor.”

  Taryn studied the purple paperback where a handsome, bare-chested man with a sword grinned roguishly at her. The wind swept at his ebony hair, and his honest eyes were a deep, vibrant green. A wicked green that was tinged with a look of esoteric knowledge and intelligence, and they bore the glint of a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. A man who would take his time and make sure he did the job right.

  Oh, yeah, he was a major hottie.

  His smile was devilish and there was something captivating about him. His arms bulged with strength and power, and he wore a gold, wolf-tipped torc that deepened the perfect tan of his skin.

  He was striking and gorgeous, and the woman in her responded automatically to such overt masculinity. It might only be a drawing, but it was a damn good drawing. The kind that made a woman wish for one minute that she could find such perfection in the flesh.

  At least for a night or two.

  The title, Knightly Dreams, swept across the cover in gold foil, but the name of the author appeared to have been worn off.

  Oddly enough there was no blurb on the back and she didn’t recognize the publisher. “Ma Souhait?”

  “They’re an old publisher,” Esther said. “Been around since before I was born.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ll like it, trust me.” Esther looked out the windows to where Taryn’s Firebird was waiting. “Your tow truck is here. You’d better run.”

  Taryn pulled her wallet out.

  Esther waved her hand at her. “Oh, pooh, dear, after the day you’ve had, consider it a gift.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” Esther walked her to the door. “Good luck to you and Sparhawk. And remember, sometimes our dreams appear where and when we least expect it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you can even find them waiting in your own bed when you open your eyes.”

  Taryn arched a brow at the odd comment, but then Esther was quite a wonderfully eccentric character. “Thank you, Esther.”

  With Sparhawk in her hand, Taryn headed across the parking lot, then crossed the street and told the driver where to take her car.

  Later that night, after she’d had a good cry over Rob, a pint of Phish Food, and a long geld-the-useless-bastard conversation with Janine, Taryn pulled out her book and decided to give Sparhawk a try.

  And reading this book will help you how?

  It was stupid, she knew that, and yet she couldn’t seem to help herself from wanting to read the book and get Rob-the-Prickless-Bastard off her mind before she fell asleep.

  She skimmed the first paragraph.

  The Earl of Ravensmoor was a hero like no other. Tall, powerful, and magnetic, he had windswept jet hair and a ruggedly handsome face that was neither pretty nor feminine. He was all male.

  Rumor said he’d killed over a thousand men in battle, and as he walked through the crowded hall of bejeweled nobles with one masterful hand on his gilded sword hilt, his arrogant swagger bespoke of a man whose very presence had devastated over a thousand women. . . .

  Taryn smiled at the image. Oh yeah, he definitely sounded like someone who could get Rob Dickhead off her mind.

  She sighed as she read more about the wandering, rogue champion and his quest to claim his fair, if somewhat insipid, maiden. It was a pity they didn’t make guys like this in modern-day America.

  “Sparhawk,” she whispered, smiling slightly, “I wish for two seconds that you were real.”

  Closing the book, Tar
yn laid it on her nightstand, turned out the light, and settled down to sleep. But as she lay there, all she could see was the last image she’d read of the hero.

  A knight in armor on the back of his huge white stallion, riding into the forest to seek out the village enchantress . . .

  Sparhawk dismounted halfway through the forest, his heart pounding in expectation. The brush was so thick, he knew from this point on he’d have to travel afoot.

  Not that he minded. He would traverse the very fires of hell to escape that which he was sworn to.

  Life with Alinor.

  A shiver of revulsion went down his spine. He had to find some way to escape his fate, and if the town gossips were to be believed, the old witch in the woods should have some miracle that could save him.

  He picked his way through the dense underbrush. No one ever ventured this deeply into the forest. No one except the Hag. This was her home and it kept her safe from any who would see her harmed.

  As he walked, he felt an eerie presence. Almost as if the trees themselves were watching him.

  But he feared not at all. Not this man who had stared down the heathens in Outremer. This man who had built his wealth on the strength of his sword arm and sweat of his brow. There was no ghoul or demon inhabiting these woods that was more dangerous than he.

  Indeed, it was said that the devil himself was terrified of Sparhawk.

  He walked forward until at last he found the earthen hut draped with twisted vines. The only sign of life from within was the flicker of a large, tallow candle.

  More determined than before, Sparhawk knocked upon the vine-encrusted door. “Witch?” he called. “I mean you no harm. I come seeking your guidance and help.”

  After a brief pause the door slowly creaked open to reveal an old woman with long, silvery-gray hair. Her old brown eyes glowed with the vigor of a much younger soul, and her long gray hair fell loose about her frail shoulders.

  “Milord,” she greeted, opening the door to allow him entrance. “Come and be seated and tell me of this matter that has you venturing into my realm.”