The Sheriff’s Christmas Surprise

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Listen, I might be able to find Mona’s old playpen in the attic. It would give you someplace to put your nephew when he’s sleeping.” He nodded over toward the bed. “That way you don’t have to worry about him rolling off and hurting himself.”

  He really was more thoughtful than she’d given him credit for, she thought, impressed.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. If there was a playpen in the attic, they had to have lived in the house a long time. “How long have you and your sister lived here?”

  “Mona was six when my grandmother took us in. I was eleven, but she took care of us off and on—mostly on—right from the beginning.” His eyes met hers. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” she answered evasively. It occurred to her that she was asking too many personal questions.

  Olivia had a feeling he felt the same way when he replied, “Uh-huh.”

  When she turned to ask him what he meant by that, Rick had already left the room. A couple of minutes later, she could hear the sheriff walking around in the attic, just above her head.

  That was when Bobby woke up fully and began to fuss. Like any three-month-old who hadn’t eaten in a couple of hours, he was hungry. He let her know the only way he knew how. He cried.

  “Message delivered, loud and clear,” she assured him. The next moment, she began to sing softly, hoping to distract him. She made her way back to the front of the house and the cooler. Bending down carefully, still singing, she extracted a bottle. “Now all I need to do is find a microwave,” she told her nephew. Bobby cried again. “You don’t want to know the logistics, you just want your bottle, right?”

  She shifted the baby to her other side, took the bottle and went in search of the kitchen.

  It wasn’t much of a search. By the time Rick came back downstairs, carrying the slightly scarred playpen—folded in fourths—in his hands, she had just finished warming Bobby’s bottle and was testing its warmth on the inside of her wrist.

  “I see you found the kitchen,” he noted.

  “Wasn’t hard. It was the only room with a stove,” she cracked. Sitting down with the baby, she began feeding him. “And you found the playpen.”

  He leaned the playpen against a wall and went to the sink to retrieve a dish towel. After running water over it, he crossed back to the playpen.

  “It’s a bit dusty,” he told her, “but nothing a little water won’t fix. There’s even a mattress for it.” That, too, was folded in fourths inside the playpen. “It’s kind of thin,” he admitted, “but I can fold up a couple of blankets and put them on top of it. That should keep him comfortable.”

  Bobby made greedy sucking noises as he ate. She smiled at him. She’d never thought about having children—taking care of Tina had filled that void, or so she thought. But Bobby had stirred things up, made longings emerge. Longings that probably didn’t have a chance in hell of being fulfilled. That didn’t make them any less intense.

  “Why are you going to all this trouble?” she asked Rick suddenly. After all, they were nothing to him.

  “Because he needs a place to sleep. And so do you,” he added. “And Miss Joan was right, that motel is too vermin infested. You’d probably catch something, sleeping there.”

  It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful, she was just trying to understand. “But we’re perfect strangers.”

  One side of his mouth rose a little higher than the other, giving him an oddly endearing appearance that instantly shot a salvo through her gut. She tried not to notice, but it was too late.

  “I don’t know about perfect,” Rick said, “but as for being a stranger, my grandmother always said that a stranger was just a friend you haven’t made yet.” And then he laughed quietly. “Of course, she said it in Spanish, but I think the translation might be lost on you.”

  Olivia vaguely recalled taking Spanish in high school, but right now, that seemed like another lifetime. Her sense of competition goaded her to answer him in Spanish, some small, trite phrase she could fit her tongue around. But with her luck, he’d think that she was fluent and start rattling off at a mile a minute. If that happened, she’d only be able to marginally follow maybe a few key words. And maybe not even that. She didn’t want to amuse him, she wanted to impress him.

  Why? In a couple of days, you’re never going to see him again. Why does impressing him matter?

  She didn’t know why, it just did.

  “You’re right,” she agreed, “it would be. I only remember a few words in Spanish, none of which would work their way into a regular conversation.”

  She had him wondering what those words were.

  Olivia focused her attention on her nephew. The greediness had abated and his pace had slowed. He’d only consumed half his bottle. Thinking it best not to force him to drink any more, Olivia placed the bottle on the table and then lifted Bobby up, placing the infant against her shoulder. In a routine that had become second nature to her, especially in the middle of the night, she began patting the baby’s back, coaxing a burp from him.

  For once, the burp didn’t come with a soggy deposit of formula on her shoulder. The small eyes drifted shut and he dozed off again. With any luck, she would be able to put him down for a few hours.

  Very softly, she tiptoed back into the bedroom where Rick had put the playpen. She laid her nephew down very carefully, afraid of waking him up. She needn’t have worried. Tonight, he slept like a rock. She thanked God for small favors.

  She paused over the playpen for a moment longer, looking down at this small, perfect human being. For the most part, Bobby led an uneventful life and right now, she had to admit she envied him for it. Her own life seemed to be going at ninety miles an hour with no signs of slowing down.

  As she turned away from the playpen she almost walked right into Rick, who was standing in the doorway observing her. He stepped back at the last minute, preventing a collision.

  How was it, she wondered, that she could feel the heat radiating from his body? Feel it against her own skin.

  “I’m going to warm up a little of what Miss Joan sent over. You interested?” he asked.

  Yes, she was interested. Definitely interested. But not in anything that could be warmed up on a plate. The thought had come at her from left field, startling her. She shook her head, trying to extinguish the thought.

  “No?” he questioned when she simply shook her head.

  That hadn’t been to answer him, that was to clear her head. “No—yes. A little,” she qualified.

  “That wasn’t a multiple-choice question.” He studied her for a minute. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered a tad too quickly. “Just punchy, I think. I’m going to stay here a few minutes longer, just to make sure he stays asleep.”

  “Okay.”

  As he walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen, he could hear her singing softly under her breath. Some sort of lullaby, he guessed.

  She had a nice voice.

  RICK HAD JUST FINISHED heating up the food and putting it on the table when Olivia walked into the kitchen. “He still asleep?” he asked.

  Just for a moment, she’d debated using Bobby as an excuse, as a shield to hide behind. But she refused to behave like a coward. What was she afraid of? Eating? Sitting opposite a good-looking man and talking? It sounded very silly, putting it that way.

  “Still asleep,” she echoed. “For now.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “Smells good.”

  “I added a few things,” he confessed. That was when she noticed a collection of small jars of herbs and spices scattered along the counter like partying soldiers. “We can eat in the kitchen, or on the patio. It’s fairly warm tonight.”

  And there was a blanket of stars out tonight. She’d noticed that when she’d gotten out of the car. The thought of sitting with him in such a blatantly romantic setting made her feel uneasy.

  She seized the first excuse she could think of. “I think we should stay in the kitchen. I won’t be able to hear Bobby
if he cries if we’re outside.”

  “Good point. Kitchen it is.” He gestured toward the table. “Have a seat.”

  She sank down in the closest chair. Picking up a fork, she took a tentative bite of what he’d prepared. And then another, and another. The food tasted progressively better with each bite she took.

  Olivia glanced over to the counter beside the stove. More than a few containers had been left out. She recalled Rick telling her that his grandmother had taught him how to cook.

  Good-looking, sensitive and he knew how to cook. As far as she could see, that made him a triple threat and damn near perfect.

  There had to be something wrong with Rick. What was the deal breaker here? Was the man a closet serial killer? As she slanted a look at him, she had a pretty good feeling that wasn’t it.

  Rick could feel her eyes on him. Was she trying to find a polite way to tell him that she didn’t like his augmentations to the meal?

  Rather than speculate, he asked. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  He didn’t know what he expected her to say, or ask, but this didn’t even remotely come close. But two could play at this game. “Why aren’t you?”

  A fair question, she supposed. She told him what she told herself. “I’ve been too busy.”

  Rick laughed shortly. “Right. The weight-of-the-world-on-your-shoulders thing.”

  Just what was he implying? That she was using her busy schedule as an excuse not to get into any serious relationships?

  Well, aren’t you?

  Lots of people had thriving careers and still had the wherewithal and time to find love. She didn’t have a relationship because she was afraid. Afraid of losing someone else the way she’d lost her parents. Without any warning. In the blink of an eye. To lose a spouse like that, someone you loved with your whole being, would be completely devastating. She honestly didn’t know if she could survive that. The only solution was not to put herself in that position in the first place. If she kept out of the minefield, she wouldn’t run the risk of blowing up.

  “Well, you certainly can’t use that excuse,” she retorted defensively. Then she suggested, with a trace of sarcasm, “How about the other tried and true one? The one that goes ‘I never met the right girl’?”

  Rick pulled his shoulders back. She’d struck a nerve without realizing it. If he flippantly agreed just to terminate this line of dialogue, it would be dishonoring Alycia’s memory. Dishonoring it because she had been the right girl. And he would have been happy spending the rest of his life loving her.

  Taking a deep breath, his eyes met hers. “Oh, I met her all right.”

  “And? What happened?”

  When he spoke, his voice was completely devoid of emotion. Because he couldn’t allow himself to feel anything. It hurt too much.

  “She died.”

  For a moment, Olivia thought he was pulling her leg. But then she looked into his eyes and knew that he wasn’t. He was serious, and she felt terrible. The man had voluntarily acted as her chauffeur, driving her to the hospital when he didn’t have to. He’d literally taken her and Bobby in and she was repaying him by callously digging up memories best left untouched. Not once but twice.

  What was the matter with her?

  She knew she should be apologizing, backing away from the painful subject as quickly as she could. That was the way she normally handled an uncomfortable situation.

  That wasn’t the way she handled it now.

  All sorts of questions buzzed in her head, looking for answers. “What was her name?”

  “Alycia.”

  “Alycia,” she repeated. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  The smile was sad. “She was a beautiful woman.”

  An emotion she seldom experienced reared its head. Jealous. She was jealous.

  How could she be feeling jealous? Jealous of a dead woman?

  Because no one had ever felt that way about her; no one had ever said her name with such sorrow echoing in his voice.

  Olivia pressed her lips together, her mind ordering her to drop the subject. She didn’t listen, of course. Instead, she heard herself asking, “What happened to her?” And for the life of her, she wouldn’t have been able to explain why she was asking. She just needed to know.

  He recited the circumstances to her the way he had to her parents, struggling to distance himself from the words. “One of those cross-country moving vans lost control and jackknifed on the highway, crushing her car. Doctor said she died instantly.”

  How devastatingly awful for him. She felt his pain. Felt that terrible hole widening in her gut. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He shrugged carelessly, looking away. “Nothing to say.”

  The ensuing silence seemed to separate them.

  This would have been a good time for Bobby to wake up crying. But he didn’t wake up. He continued sleeping. “Is it true?” she asked.

  “Is what true?”

  “That saying about it being better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” She had no idea why it was suddenly important for her to know.

  “You mean if I had a choice between losing her and never having had her at all, which would I pick?” She nodded in response. “That’s easy. I’m glad I had her for whatever short time we shared together.”

  It made her realize how empty her own life was, despite the turmoil and the breakneck pace she kept. The thought negated her tired feeling and made her restless instead.

  “Let me get the dishes for you,” she offered. She needed to do something with her hands.

  “No need,” he told her. “I usually just stack them in the sink until I run out of plates and glasses. I’ve got a few days to go.”

  “I can’t sleep with dirty dishes in the sink,” she said.

  As she reached for his plate, he put his hand out to stop her and nearly wound up knocking over his glass. He made a grab for it and so did she. The result was that her fingers went around the glass and his went around her hand.

  Something basic and raw, and very, very vulnerable telegraphed itself back and forth between them.

  It was hard to pinpoint the source, whether it originated with her, or with him. The only thing that was clear was what pulsated between them. Waiting for a chance to explode.

  Chapter Eleven

  For one isolated, tense moment, Olivia was almost certain that the man was going to kiss her. And, if she was being honest with herself, hoped he would kiss her.

  But the moment slowly passed and nothing happened.

  Embarrassed and determined not to show it, Olivia cleared her throat and nodded toward the glass that they were both keeping upright. “I think you can let go. I’ve got it.”

  “Yes,” Rick agreed quietly, the timbre of his voice softly slipping along her skin, sending her body temperature up by several degrees, “you do.”

  The erratic electricity rushing up and down her spine made her oblivious to everything else in the room.

  Everything but Rick.

  She couldn’t help wondering if this man had a clue as to how sexy he was, and that he just seemed to radiate sensual appeal simply by breathing. He couldn’t be oblivious to it, but he acted as if he didn’t realize that he was tall, dark and bone-meltingly handsome.

  Were the women in this town blind?

  One by one, his fingers left her hand. She became aware of the fact that she’d stopped breathing for the duration of the contact.

  “Maybe you’re right about those dishes,” Olivia murmured, tearing her eyes away from his. “Maybe I’d better get to bed and get some rest. It’s been a very long day and there’s no telling how long Bobby’s going to be asleep.”

  Rick nodded, as if he didn’t see through the thin excuse. As if he didn’t know that she was running for dear life, running from something that had flared to life. Something that, given the present situation, had absolutely no chance of longevity.

  “See you in the morning,”
he said.

  “Right.”

  Instantly on her feet, Olivia got out of the kitchen—and away from him—as fast as possible without running. She needed to get away before she regretted her actions and consequently had him thinking she was the kind of woman she wasn’t. The kind of woman who enjoyed having casual, fleeting hookups.

  She wasn’t that kind of a woman.

  Olivia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a man who wasn’t engaged in giving her a deposition.

  Get a grip, she silently lectured, leaning against the bedroom door she’d just closed.

  Lectures not withstanding, it took a while for her heart to settle down and stop pounding.

  RICK HAD ALWAYS THOUGHT of himself as a light sleeper. But apparently, there was light and then there was light. Although he thought he’d been listening for the baby’s cries, when morning broke he hadn’t heard any sounds coming from his miniature houseguest—or the baby’s aunt.

  There was no other reason why, when he made his way to the kitchen, Rick was caught by surprise when he found her in the room ahead of him.

  But there she was, in the center of a homey scene that looked straight out of some Family Channel Christmas celebration. She was making breakfast with the scent of fresh brewed coffee—strong, just the way he liked it—filling the air, along with other delicious aromas.

  What really completed the picture for him was Olivia, standing there with her hair down about her shoulders. She looked younger, softer. Approachable. And damn embraceable.

  Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Rick masked his surprise. “You cook?” It turned out he wasn’t the only one who was surprised that morning.

  When Olivia glanced over her shoulder at him, about to confirm his query, she almost dropped the spatula. She did drop her jaw. Last night, she hadn’t thought it was humanly possible for Sheriff Enrique Santiago to look any sexier than he did.

  But she was wrong.

  Barefoot and with his hair tousled, he was sexier than any living creature had a right to be. Especially since he’d neglected to button the shirt he’d carelessly thrown on. It hung open, testifying to the fact that the good sheriff was either the recipient of some incredibly fantastic genes from his family tree, or that he worked out religiously. She could count all his rigidly displayed abdominal muscles.