Midnight Man

by Lisa Marie Rice

  He arched his head away from her, neck tendons corded, jaws clenching. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment, and brought his head back down as he stepped back reluctantly, frowning. “You’re going to use sex to get everything you want from me, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

  “It works, damn it,” he grumbled. He reached for his sheepskin jacket and stopped, pointing a finger at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he growled.

  “Of course not.” She smiled innocently. “Where would I go, anyway? Look, I’m staying right here, you will be in sight of the cabin at all times, nothing will happen except that we get ourselves a Christmas tree and feel better.”

  He stared at her, as if she were going to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or run away into the forest. He gave a sudden nod, pulled on thick leather gloves and walked out the door.

  She needed this, but she knew what it cost him. He had an overly protective nature. This went completely against the grain of every instinct he had. It was a promising sign that he’d gone out to look for a tree for her. It showed that there was room for compromise in his hard nature.

  Suzanne sprang into action. She didn’t have much time. It would take her hours to dig up a tree with the roots, place it in a bag and haul it into the cabin. But John was stronger than most and was frighteningly efficient. So she had to hurry.

  In half an hour, a turkey leg was basting in the oven together with baked potatoes. Frozen biscuits were waiting to be put in, corn on the cob was boiling on the stove and an apple pie was waiting to be baked. It was frozen, but a good brand. Vanilla ice cream was in the small freezer.

  A bowl of unbuttered popcorn awaited threading. Apples studded with cloves were in a bowl, adding their spice to the air.

  The Fork in the Road supermarket had even had a surprisingly decent selection of wines. One bottle was boiling gently on the stove, steeped in sugar, cloves and cinnamon. She breathed in the heady air of vin brulè and smiled. The other bottle was airing.

  It wasn’t Comme Chez Soi, but it would do. Now the shack.

  This place was so bleak, so spare. So unloving and unloved, it hurt her heart.

  Opening the bags, she spread out the supplies. Three cheap single-bed red sheets billowed out. She tied them with decorative knots over the sorry, dull brown sofa and two armchairs, placed red and white striped pillows on them and arranged them together in the middle of the room, creating a pleasing little grouping. John had simply shoved them against the walls. An upended wooden crate she’d found outside the kitchen door covered with two pretty oversized linen tea towels made a makeshift coffee table.

  She’d found a lovely rose-patterned tablecloth and napkins with big cabbage roses on them for the dining table. Two taper candles in cut-glass holders and the table looked almost…elegant.

  She’d made John stop by the roadside on the way back. As he watched, astounded, she’d used a knife he kept in the SUV to cut boughs of evergreens. She put the boughs in a big plastic vase filled with water, and put it beside the sofa. The fresh smell of pine soon permeated the living room. She lit two big red perfumed candles and placed them on the coffee table and lit a line of votive candles she’d arranged on a shelf. She twirled the knobs of the radio until she found a station playing Christmas music.

  Hurry! Everything had to be just so by the time John returned, including herself. A quick shower and application of perfumed body lotion. Check. Cherry-red cashmere sweater. Check. Lightly applied makeup, the first she’d worn in two days. Check. Perfume on her pulse points, hair, between her breasts. Check. She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard the front door open and hurried into the living room.

  It had turned dark and very cold while she’d made her preparations. John stood in the doorframe, a good-sized tree with its roots attached over one shoulder, a large tin tub hanging from one big hand, looking for all the world like Paul Bunyan minus the ox. A gust of frigid, pine-scented air gusted in behind him. His breath swirled whitely around his head.

  He took in the room and her in one dark glance and something—something dark and powerful—moved in his eyes. He froze in place, face hard and set as he looked at her.

  Oh God.

  She’d wanted so much to surprise him, delight him. Make him forget his woes, and hers. Clearly, she’d overstepped the bounds. With a quick rush of shame, Suzanne realized that trying to “fix up” his shack was an implicit criticism of it. As if she were too refined to spend time in a place that was less than designer perfect. He must think she was a terrible snob. Snobbery was the farthest thing from her mind. It was so instinctive for her—to make her surroundings better, to prettify—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might take it badly.

  The last thing she wanted to do was offend him. He’d risked his life for her. He’d abandoned his business without a backward glance in order to protect her. He’d taught her more about sex and passion in the past few days than she’d learned in twenty-eight years of life. The thought that she’d insulted this magnificent man made her heart-stricken.

  They stared at each other across the room.

  “I’m sorry, John,” she whispered. “Did I overstep the bounds? I thought I’d surprise you.” She was wringing her hands and forced herself to stop. “I hope I didn’t offend you if I changed a few things around. I didn’t want to insult you, I just—”

  “No.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and moved into the room. “No, I’m not offended. Of course not. Everything’s very…nice. Where do you want this?”

  “Over there.” Suzanne pointed to the corner that positively cried out for a Christmas tree. “Put some water in the tub first.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He actually smiled, perhaps the third smile she’d seen cross his face. Her heart turned over. And just like that she knew. She was in love with this man.

  She must have been half-way there already because the knowledge settled in her heart not as a blinding revelation, but as if there were a John Huntington-shaped place already there, waiting for him to fill it and waiting for her to acknowledge it.

  Was this why she hadn’t given her heart to any other man? Because she hadn’t, not really. Oh sure, she’d dated and had had a few lovers, but right now, at this moment, she couldn’t remember a thing about any of them. She remembered everything—everything—about John Huntington.

  The way his deep voice seemed to set up reverberations in her diaphragm. The way his hard, callused hands could be so delicate. The way he unerringly put himself between her and danger. The way his tongue against hers robbed her of breath. The way his penis felt, hard and hot, inside her.

  Was it just sex? Maybe. Goodness knows, she’d thought of sex the instant she’d seen him. They hadn’t had one conversation that hadn’t had sex as the backdrop. It oozed out of the man’s pores and she’d fallen instantly in lust, the second she’d met him. So unlike her, the Queen of Cool.

  Whenever she’d thought about finding the love of her life, she’d imagined some nice, suitable man, whose tastes were similar to hers. They’d date for a month or two, going to recently reviewed restaurants and first-run movies. They’d go to bed together, discreetly, tastefully, and find they liked the same brand of coffee and plain croissants for breakfast. They’d read the same books and vote the same party.

  Nothing could be further from that scenario than John. He wasn’t a nice, suitable man. He was a warrior, a hard, tough man. They probably didn’t read the same books and didn’t have the same taste in music. And they very definitely didn’t vote for the same party.

  Instead of dating for a few months, they’d had wild sex the day they’d met. In bed, he was overwhelming, a force of nature, not the gentle and tame lover of her imagination. Nothing about him was easy or comfortable or familiar.

  And yet she loved him. She felt more for him, a man she’d known for a few days, than she’d ever felt for any other man. She’d follow him to the ends of
the earth if he crooked his finger.

  Was it sex? Maybe. God knows the sex was powerful enough to bind her to him on that basis alone. But there was more. They might not have the same tastes but she admired him more than any other man she knew. He was brave in a way she’d never seen before, never even knew existed. Astute about the ways of the world. Observant. Intelligent.

  She watched his broad back as he set the Christmas tree up in its tub and shook her head. Never in a million years would she have imagined loving a man like him. But here she was, heart thumping at the mere sight of him doing such a mundane task.

  “Okay.” John straightened, brushing his hands. The Christmas tree stood straight and tall. He’d chosen well. The branches were evenly spaced, a glossy forest-green pyramid. He’d centered it in the tub and it rose, tall and straight and perfect, nearly to the ceiling. “Now what?”

  She walked up to him and stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss that was pure affection. What a man. He’d never set up a Christmas tree before, yet the first time he’d done it, it was perfect. “Now…we decorate,” she smiled, and placed red ribbons in his hands, hiding a smile at the look of stupefaction in his face.

  She hadn’t had much to choose from in the supermarket in the way of decorations, so she’d opted for simple, natural objects in a color scheme of red and white. Red ribbons, apples, popcorn.

  While the turkey popped and hissed in the oven and an a cappella choir sang “The Little Drummer Boy” and “Do you See What I See?” they looped the red ribbons on the boughs, threaded the popcorn and hung clove-studded apples from a red ribbon bow. John was a fast learner and it didn’t take him long to get up to speed, though he’d been clueless at first about trimming a Christmas tree.

  “It’s about balance and color.” Suzanne pointed to the branch where an apple should be tied. “The decorations should be evenly spaced and you shouldn’t have too many objects of the same color too closely together. Didn’t you have Christmas trees when you were a kid?”

  “Hmm?” John was reaching up to place a ribbon near the apex of the tree. “Nah. My mom died when I was two and my dad wouldn’t have known how to decorate a tree if you’d put a gun to his head. We usually had Christmas lunch on base then went target shooting. That okay?”

  He stepped back and admired his handiwork. He stood as if on a mission—broad shoulders straight, wide-legged for balance. A frown of concentration pulled his black eyebrows together. He looked exactly like a man who, against all odds, has just finished a demanding and daunting task. Attacking a well-defended enemy stronghold, maybe, or rescuing hostages held by ruthless terrorists. The warrior’s stance was a little ruined by the fact that he was festooned with red ribbons. Two clove-studded apples dangled from one big hand.

  She stepped back, too, and he pulled her against his side, a heavy arm around her shoulders. “I smell like a goat,” he said. “Took me an hour to dig around the roots of that damned tree.”

  She turned her head and sniffed delicately. “A pine-scented goat,” she said politely.

  He snorted. “Tree turned out okay, though, didn’t it? Not bad for a first effort.”

  The tree was pretty, she thought with satisfaction. It reached almost to the ceiling and the branches, thick and glossy, contrasted cheerily with the ribbons and apples and strands of fluffy white popcorn. The tree glowed with color. There were no store-bought ornaments on the tree, but that only made it charming, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “Pity we don’t have an angel,” she sighed. Her mother had a wonderful hand-made papier-machè white-and-gold angel picked up in Naples, which would have looked perfect on top of the tree.

  John squeezed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. His deep voice was quiet as he said, “You wouldn’t fit on top.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Is it okay?”

  Suzanne was watching him anxiously, so John had to stop simply forking food into his mouth like there was no tomorrow and pretend to savor it. The food was great, considering what Suzanne had had to work with. Certainly better than his usual lukewarm can of soup and crackers up in his hideaway. But the sober truth was, he was starved. There hadn’t been much time to eat these past two days and he’d worked up an appetite, what with the sex and digging up a tree. He’d have happily sucked up MREs or burnt toast, if he had to, let alone the perfectly decent meal she’d laid on. The fact that the food was good was a plus.

  “It’s wonderful.” Reluctantly, he put his fork down and pasted an expression of sincerity on his face; when the only thing he wanted to do with his face was stuff it. “Never eaten better.”

  Suzanne laughed. “You are so full of it, John Huntington. Are you trying to convince me that a man who keeps an account at Comme Chez Soi can become ecstatic over frozen turkey leg pumped full of God knows what preserving agents? Give me a break.”

  “No, no,” he protested, eyeing his forkful of turkey and baked potato with longing. “It’s great, just great. Trust me.” She was going to protest further, he could see it on her face. He put the fork in his mouth so he could at least be chewing while she answered.

  But she only shook her head. “I guess if you compare it to raw goat, it’s okay,” Suzanne conceded.

  She was leaning forward, beautiful face lit with amusement. Candlelight loved her face, bringing out the soft glow of her skin, highlighting the elegant curve of her cheekbones, finding hidden licks of fire in her hair. This was a woman made for candlelit dinners and romancing.

  Shit. He hadn’t done much of that with her. He didn’t really know how. He’d always considered whatever went on between “Hello” and “Let’s get it on” to be perfectly useless. An empty wasteland of time getting to what both parties wanted.

  For the first time in his life, he could see how intriguing the journey from hello to sex could be, how pleasant it could be to smell the roses—or, rather, rose-scented skin—along the way.

  His swim buddy during SEALS training, Martin Harding, had fallen in love with a philosophy student waitressing in Coronado. Marty had sent flowers and notes when they couldn’t meet, which was often. SEALS training didn’t allow for hearts and flowers. Marty had given up precious sleep time to see her when she got off work at eleven and to walk her home to her apartment in a rough neighborhood. And for three months he hadn’t gotten laid, not once. You’d have thought that Hell Week was the last week of seminary training, for all the good it had done Marty.

  At the time, John had found that amazingly stupid. All that effort and not one fuck. What was the point? Except there was a point. Marty was now married to the girl and they had three kids. And were happy.

  He’d gotten everything ass-backwards with Suzanne. She was a courting kind of woman. Even a blind man could see that, could see her refinement and class. Jesus, all he’d seen were dainty curves he wanted to put his hands on and full lips he wanted to kiss. All he could think about was what her breasts tasted like and how quickly he could make her wet. All he wanted was to get into her and stay there as long as his stamina could keep him.

  Even now—right now—sitting in candlelight across from her, aware that she’d somehow waved a fairy’s magic wand to turn his dusty little mountain retreat into a Christmas delight, he wanted to do her. Hard and fast.

  This was insane. He should have got the first fast heat of her out of his blood by now. He should be capable of settling down. But he still felt edgy around her, always semi-aroused, ready to jump her bones the instant she gave some kind of sign. Even without the sign.

  He needed to slow it down, make conversation with the woman instead of remembering how soft her skin was and how it felt to be buried deep inside her. Counting the minutes between eating and when they could have sex again.

  Still, even the down time was great, more intriguing than actual sex with most women.

  It occurred to him, for the first time, that he might actually be in a relationship, instead of having sex. It was a novel thought,
a not totally welcome one. It meant a major shift in his life, a realigning of his priorities. He wasn’t entirely sure how he should feel about this.

  It might even be too late. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d already made the leap, and his head was just now catching up.

  He stole an uneasy glance at her across the candles and she responded with a smile so blinding it was like a fist to his heart.

  Oh God, he was done for. Like being parachuted into a hostile foreign country with no compass and no weapons. Dead, dead, dead.

  “A penny for your thoughts, John.” She spooned ice cream over a huge portion of hot apple pie and handed it to him. She cut a slice about a tenth as large as his own for herself.