Lindsay’s mug froze on the way to her lips.
His eyes gleamed. “I knew it. Lindsay, do you think that child in Bethlehem cares how many cards you send out, or whether you have a tree up? Those things are meant to help you remember the holiday, not be swallowed up in it. It’s supposed to be a time of joy, and you go about it with such grim purpose. ‘I’m going to have a merry Christmas this time even if it kills me.’”
Lindsay took a deep drink of her hot chocolate. But she could only hide behind her mug for so long. When she lowered it, Fred was watching her, eyes contemplative. For the moment, any trace of teasing seemed to be gone.
“I just figured out what you are,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re a present.” He nodded as if in satisfaction. “Tightly wrapped, with lots of tape, lots of beautiful shiny ribbon, all tied up in impossible knots. The kind of present that makes you half mad when you’re trying to get it open. Because you know, the whole time, what’s inside is going to be wonderful.”
He studied her, so long and so steadily that she ducked her head as she scooped out a spoonful of whipped cream. “I told you before,” she said. “You don’t know me.”
“I’m learning. Unwrapping the present.”
When she raised her head, his eyes were still on her. There was something heavy in that stare. Something more than attentiveness, or interest. He looked—
He shook his head, and the look was gone. “Excuse me. Lost my train of thought. So tell me. What was the nicest Christmas present you ever received?”
Lindsay flinched. “The nicest? Or the best?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Your favorite.”
“Well, the tape recorder was awfully nice, even if I did ruin the surprise. I used that thing for years, taping songs off the radio. And I learned something, too.” She fingered the base of her mug. “You were right. I never peeked again.”
“So that’s not the year Christmas went south for you.”
“Does it have to be any one year?”
“I suppose not.”
Lindsay smelled a personal question coming up and tried to dodge it. “What about you? What’s the nicest Christmas present you ever got?”
It worked. For possibly the first time, Fred seemed to be caught off guard. “Me? Not much point, my dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Suppose someone gave me a sweater, and my next case calls for me to be a jockey. Or a football player. Or a trained seal. It would never fit.”
She couldn’t help grinning at that.
“There,” he said. “That’s something I can take with me.”
“What?”
“Your smile.” He was smiling himself as he said it, but something in his eyes was serious. The longer they sat across the table from each other, the longer their stares seemed to get. Lindsay went for another scoop of whipped cream and found it had dissolved into a thin white foam at the top of her hot chocolate.
“Enough about me,” he said. “Where does Steven figure in?”
Lindsay’s throat tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come, now. This is going to look very bad on my performance review. Can you do me a favor?”
He touched her hand. Barely. He laid his fingertips lightly over her hand where it rested on the table, and Lindsay’s pulse skittered. That single touch brought her eyes back to his and made it impossible to look away.
“Take one small step.” His fingertips traced the back of her hand, still barely touching it. “Tell me one thing about Steven and I’ll drop the subject for the rest of the night.”
Lindsay licked her lips. He was touching her like that, and she was supposed to think about Steven?
“Let me guess.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, eyes glimmering. “He’s seven feet tall, with red eyes and arms the size of tree trunks.”
“No.” At least that helped her remember something about Steven. “His eyes were blue.”
“Too easy. Doesn’t count.” Fred released her hand. “Lindsay, if you could see yourself. You look like a poker player trying with all her might to give up the worst card in the deck.”
At least now that he’d let go of her hand, she could think. A little. “He was nice.”
Fred drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes fixed on her face, a clear signal she wasn’t going to get off that cheaply.
“Okay.” Lindsay tried to think harder. Fred waited, not moving, clearly ready to listen—ready, she was sure, to be sympathetic. He’d automatically assumed she was the injured party, and no other thought appeared to have entered his mind. He only seemed to see good in her. And wasn’t that what she wanted everyone to see?
If she ever told him what really happened, he wouldn’t look at her that way anymore. It shouldn’t matter. But somewhere, somehow, in the past few days, she’d started to care what he thought of her. When he shouldn’t even exist, and she shouldn’t even be sitting here with him.
She said, “We broke up a few days after Christmas.”
It sounded like a lot. But it really didn’t say anything.
And, as expected, Fred’s face filled with compassion. “That explains a lot.”
Hot chocolate turned to burning lava in her stomach. Lindsay slid her hand off the table as Fred leaned forward.
“All right,” he said softly. “I’m a man of my word. No more tonight. But we do have to talk about it sooner or later, you know.”
Fine. He wanted to set her up with her ex-boyfriend. So why did he keep giving her looks that made her heart threaten to melt into her shoes? “What happens if I don’t go along with all this?”
He shrugged, lifted his mug once again. “I’d be fired, I suppose.” His eyes were guileless, a transparent ploy to play on her sympathy.
“Fired? What does that mean?”
“My dear, I have no idea. Banished to outer Mongolia, maybe. Or vanished into a puff of smoke. But it’s not going to happen.”
She frowned. “How do you know?”
“Lindsay, relax. I’ve never heard of it happening.” He raised his mug to her. “You won’t let me down.”
Lindsay cringed inside, and she wondered how he could be so sure.
The sidewalk leading to Lindsay’s apartment stretched out gray-white in front of them, thanks to the bright moon overhead and the remaining snowdrifts on either side of the pavement. Lindsay slowed her steps, not sure what to expect when they reached the front porch. The scene reminded her too much of a blind date, the kind that generally ended with that awkward clinch on the front porch. Did the situation carry that kind of association for Fred? Probably not. After all, it wasn’t likely you could call this unconventional, if lovely, evening a date. For Fred, this was purely professional. She thought so, anyway.
So what would Fred do when they got to the door?
What did she want him to do?
She didn’t know.
Lindsay handled the moment the same way she’d handled similar ones in the past. She prattled. “I think it might snow again.” The brisk stillness did, in fact, hint that more snow might be on the way. She breathed deeply, sampling the air as if she were Colorado’s leading meteorologist, able to gauge the weather sheerly through sense of smell. “Probably not tonight, though.”
“Care to make another bet?”
She glanced up at him. Mistake. She wasn’t ready for the impact of his dark eyes and that smile, even in the half-light. But even as stupidly nervous as she was, she couldn’t help smiling back. “Your bets are rigged.”
“You’re catching on,” he acknowledged.
They had almost reached the door. Keys. That was it. Lindsay lowered her head and busied herself digging through her purse, as if its vinyl compartments offered someplace to hide. “So, you say, snow tonight?”
“No.” A thoughtful pause, or at least it sounded thoughtful, as Lindsay kept her eyes fixed on the key ring she’d just fished out from under her w
allet. “Not for another few days. But I predict you’ll have a white Christmas.”
“That could make it hard to get to my parents’ house.”
“A white Christmas with clear roads, then.”
Could he possibly arrange the weather? She’d wondered, briefly, if Fred could have had anything to do with the storm that had snowed her in yesterday. Another question she didn’t really want to ask. Lindsay fumbled with her keys, concentrating with all her might on getting the right one into the doorknob. It was nearly as difficult as she tried to make it look; her fingers were half-numb, and the porch light was turned off.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me.” If Fred was nervous, or had any idea of the thoughts circling through her head, his tone didn’t show it. He reached for the doorknob, and Lindsay moved her hand as though dodging fire.
He opened the door and, to Lindsay’s surprise, swept past her into the apartment. At first it seemed like an unprecedented breach of his usual gentlemanly etiquette. But no. Fred appeared to be exercising an even more ancient manly ritual, checking the household for intruders.
He flicked on the entryway light—the one where he’d hung the mistletoe—and motioned her inside. Then he strode away, skirting past the mistletoe, and started turning on the rest of the lights. First, in the living room, beginning with the lights on her Christmas tree. Then the kitchen. And then, down the hall, to the bedroom.
Lindsay walked past the dangerous mistletoe and waited beside the couch for Fred’s return. No way was she following him into the bedroom.
Did he really feel the need to check the apartment, or could he possibly be as uncertain as she was?
He returned from the bedroom with a smile, turning off lights behind him as he went. “All clear. Not even any monsters under the bed. I checked.” As if she’d asked him to.
He’d handily avoided the front porch ritual. But now he still had to find his way out of her apartment. Lindsay would have found it amusing, if her heart hadn’t been thrumming in her throat. And at this point, she was starting to feel a little insulted. Come on, Fred, a ticklish little demon in her brain sneered. It’s not like I have the Black Plague or something.
He stood at the edge of her living room, two steps away from Lindsay and several long strides away from the front door. Fred contemplated her, then the door. He’d have to pass the mistletoe again to get to it. His eyes returned to Lindsay. And stayed there.
He knew, all right. The weight of that stare threatened to hold her pinned to the spot for all eternity, or at least until she crumpled to the floor. Lindsay felt drawn in by that dark-eyed gaze, tempted to take a step forward and close part of the space between them. But it would have to be his move, because right now her legs didn’t seem able to do anything she told them.
“Did you have a nice time tonight?” His voice was no quieter than usual, yet it had the feel of an intimate whisper.
“Yes.” She must have been desperate to fill the building silence, because she heard herself jabber, “I wish this wasn’t all business.” Idiot.
“All business? For me, there’s no such thing.” He stepped forward. Less than arm’s length away now. “This isn’t random. I was chosen for your case for some very special reason.” Reaching up, he ran the outside of one finger lightly, excruciatingly, along her cheek. “Believe me, there’s no other place I would have rather been tonight.”
She believed him implicitly. Those heavy dark eyes held no trace of artifice.
His touch lingered on her cheek. Just one finger, and it threatened to be her undoing. Lindsay half-closed her eyes, ready for whatever came next.
Or so she thought.
“I haven’t given you my lesson in proper Christmas tree appreciation, have I?” he said.
His tone was much more conversational, bringing Lindsay’s eyes wide open again. “I don’t think so.”
“Let me put it this way. Have you spent any time looking at your tree since we put it up?”
“I’ve barely been home.”
“Then you’re missing out. And you’re not letting your tree do its job. I’ll show you what I mean.” Any sign of hesitancy gone, he took her by the shoulders and steered her to the couch, pressing down gently but firmly until she sat. She was too confused to resist. Fred crossed the room to douse the main light switch. Now the only illumination came from the lights on the tree, and a faint glow from the kitchen beyond. Fred perched on the arm of the couch, next to her but slightly behind her, just out of her line of sight. His hands rested on her shoulders again. “I almost forgot. Music.”
Lindsay felt a movement behind her, as though he’d nodded, and her stereo clicked on. Her shoulders jumped under his hands. “Sorry,” he said, squeezing her shoulders lightly. “It’s the only way I’ll ever master that stereo of yours.”
The CD she’d left in the player yesterday started up, an acoustic guitar playing “The First Noel.”
“Nice choice,” he murmured. He rubbed her shoulders lightly, as though he could feel the tension there. “Relax. There’s nothing so strange about a little magic at Christmas. Don’t forget, all of Christmas is built on the most magical thing that ever took place.”
“What are you . . .”
“Hush. Remember, eyes on the tree.”
She’d been staring at the blue readout lights on the front of her stereo. Lindsay pulled her gaze away and focused on the tree.
“Now,” he said. His voice was soothing, and so was the warmth of his breath at the top of her head. “Here’s the hard part for you. Don’t think. That is, don’t think about work, or mailing cards, or shopping. Think of that first Christmas. Of all the best Christmases you’ve known. Little moments, big ones . . . this year, last year . . . It’s all part of one large, beautiful thing. Just let it wash over you. Feel it. Enjoy it.”
His hands stilled on her shoulders. The room went still, too, except for the carols playing quietly in the background. There seemed to be nothing else to do but drink in the sight of the Christmas tree. Its bright bulbs, the chief source of light in the room, illuminated her ornaments, new and old, in a haphazard jumble. Rudolph, the ballerinas, and the old silver star at the top. The green scent of pine, the gentle weight of Fred’s touch on her shoulders, the soothing Christmas melody. It was all part of this moment, and as she gazed across the room, Lindsay allowed her eyes to go slightly out of focus so that the tree was a soft blur of color.
“There.” The gentle baritone voice caressed her ears, and Lindsay felt a rare contentment. She wasn’t sure where it came from, the man behind her or the tree in front of her, but it felt as if she could sit here, hour after hour, and still not a minute of time would pass.
She was, she realized, completely in the present.
She had no idea how long they sat that way before Fred moved, slowly, as if afraid to disturb her. When she started to turn, his hands on her shoulders stilled her once again.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. He leaned forward, and Lindsay felt the brush of a kiss at her temple. “Good night, darling.” His kiss, and his voice at her ear, sent a warm shiver through her. She never would have thought a shiver could be warm, but this one was.
He rose, and the space where he’d been felt cold and vacant behind her. Lindsay tried to move, but her limbs seemed to have turned to syrup and wouldn’t obey her.
Before she could even begin to get up, she heard the front door close after him.
He hadn’t expected to be summoned to Headquarters so abruptly.
Usually he reported in of his own volition. Which, come to think of it, he hadn’t done in the past couple of days. Not since they’d given him his instructions about Lindsay and Steven.
One moment he was strolling down the street away from Lindsay’s apartment. The next, he was—not.
How are things going on the Lindsay Miller case? His supervisor wasted no time.
Fine. He composed his thoughts, still trying to adjust. This wasn’t the way they normally did things; be
ing jerked out of the physical realm without warning had left him disoriented. He tried to compose himself. I think we made some good progress tonight.
I hope so. Time is short. What sort of progress?
He found, once again, he didn’t want to share details. Since when did Headquarters micromanage, anyway? I think she’s beginning to see the value in focusing on the present. There. He couldn’t help but convey his satisfaction in that.
What about the past?
He hesitated, wishing he could take a deep breath. Strange, having the urge to breathe when you didn’t have a body at the moment.
His supervisor reminded him: Before she can truly live in the present, she needs to correct her past mistakes.
The past sends her running the other way. It wouldn’t be wise to press—
Perhaps you still need to earn her trust. Perhaps she’s suspicious of your motives.
This time he really felt the need to struggle for air. He started to say, My motives are as pure as the day is long—
And then he was gasping for breath, drawing in gulps of the cold air that suddenly surrounded him. It surprised him what a relief it was to be solid again, even if it left him doubled over and panting.
He was back at Lindsay’s front door. The porch light was out, and at first he thought she’d retired for the night. But no. The lighted Christmas tree glowed through her living room window, with another light beyond it.
Fred stepped back, his footstep betraying him on the crunching snow. Footstep? He didn’t need feet, not out here. He didn’t need his body at all. He’d been abruptly thrown back into it, as suddenly as it had been taken away from him.
It had never happened this way before.
He stepped back again, more quietly this time. A simple matter to be gone again, or remain here unseen—just wish it so—but he found he wanted to catch a better glimpse with his eyes, through that lighted window.
Then the front door cracked open, the sound of the wood in the jamb magnified to a rifle shot. She’d heard something, probably his asthmatic wheezing when he first reappeared on her porch. He winked out of his physical form again before the door opened.
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