by Grace Green
So here she was, stuck in a remote lodge with a—
‘Well, hello and good morning.’
Stephanie swiveled, convulsively swallowing the coffee she’d been swirling around her tongue, and stared wide-eyed at the man standing in the doorway.
McAllister.
If indeed he was McAllister...
He was tilted forward, and he had a hand pressed flat on either jamb, at shoulder level. He was wearing what seemed to be the same pair of jeans he’d had on the night before; certainly he was wearing the same scowl. And he looked for all the world like one of America’s Most Wanted...but at least he wasn’t carrying an ax. Not that he would have needed a weapon to overpower her, Stephanie reflected as her gaze skimmed over the sleek muscles cording his arms, his dark-haired chest, his powerful thighs—
She flicked her gaze up and noticed with dismay that his eyes—slightly bloodshot but keen—were fixed with interest on her own thighs, revealed beneath the hem of her short nightie. She’d awakened so early she’d decided she’d be safe enough to have a mug of coffee before showering and getting her clothes on. A mistake.
‘I hate to be a nuisance,’ she said, ‘but you did indicate last night that I could stay over.’
‘You’re real.’ His mouth quirked up at the edges.
‘Real?’
‘I thought you were Mrs. Claus.’
She raised an incredulous eyebrow.
He dropped his arms and slumped sideways against the doorjamb, the brown of his tanned skin accentuated by the crisp white of the door’s painted trim. ‘The red coat, the red-and-white hat...the sack of toys...’
‘Oh.’ Stephanie chuckled. ‘My duffel bag. No, it’s just got a few clothes and my toilet things... not toys. The teddy bear—well, I stuffed him on top at the last minute.’
Her host scratched a hand over his chest, and yawned, showing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. ‘I thought, this morning, that I’d been hallucinating last night, but I wasn’t. Your reindeer—’ he corrected himself ‘—your van...it’s in a snowbank?’
‘I lost control coming down the hill, ending up slewing off to one side and got stuck at the bottom of your driveway. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I saw this place—all the lights on, and every sign of being inhabited. But I admit I began to panic when—’
‘When I took so long to answer the bell.’ He pushed himself lazily from the doorjamb. ‘I seem to recall telling you to make yourself at home.’ His gaze drifted to the mug in her hand. ‘I see you took me at my word.’
Stephanie indicated a second mug on the table. ‘I was going to pour you some shortly and bring it to your room.’
‘Had I but known...’ Amusement lurked in his voice.
Was the man flirting with her? Good Lord, that was all she needed! In a prim tone, she said, ‘Cream and sugar?’
‘Just cream. Thanks.’
He was halfway to the nearest chair, when he started to wobble.
Stephanie frowned. ‘Are you all right? You look—’
He started to keel over.
In a flash she was at his side, grasping his arm, trying to steady him. Might as well have been a tug nudging a listing freighter! she thought as she felt his powerful body sag against her slender frame...yet her support seemed to do the trick. He steadied and threw an arm around her shoulders. The arm was lifeless, and so heavy she thought she might crumple under its weight. She didn’t.
‘Should have stayed in bed,’ he muttered.
‘Let’s get you back upstairs then.’ Her breath came out in a series of strained grunts. ‘Here, turn around.’
The maneuvre was a complicated one and they somehow got all tangled up, she trying to guide him one way, he starting to turn the other. He lost his balance, and she was unable to keep him from toppling backward, and still under the weight of his arm, she found herself reeling with him. They ended up together, over by the door, their progress halted abruptly when they clattered against the wall. His back was to it, his arm was around her as if a trap.
And her palms were pressed against his chest.
She could feel the erratic hammering of his heart under her fingertips; could feel the texture of his hairroughened skin, slick with sweat. She thought she felt his eyes on her. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
She jerked her head up. His head was angled back against the wall, but he was slanting his gaze down toward her, through lashes that were almost closed. Gorgeous lashes. Thick, as black as soot, and turning up ever so slightly at the ends—
‘My,’ he drawled, ‘you are a pretty one!’
She could barely see his eyes; his eyelids were drooping even as he spoke. He was, she realized, on the verge of flaking out
‘And you,’ she retorted as she hauled his arm even more securely around her shoulders, ‘are not!’
His chuckle had a cracked sound. ‘And that’s the truth—’
‘Let’s get you through to the other room and onto a sofa—’
‘Up to bed...’
‘No, you’ll never make it. For heaven’s sake, just do as you’re told.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
They staggered together through to the living area, where Stephanie steered him over to the long sofa where she’d spent the night. Seconds before he toppled sideways onto it, she whisked off the duvet she’d left there earlier. His head landed on the pillow; and even before it did, his eyes were closed.
‘Cover me,’ he said in a fast-fading voice. ‘I’m freezing...’
Stephanie was only too glad to throw the duvet over him. She had never seen such a magnificent male body, and it seemed almost voyeurish to stare, though she did...for just a moment...before she covered him. Caveman type, she decided, with his overly long hair, unshaven face, rugged features, powerful physique; a type that had never appealed to her...but he seemed harmless enough.
‘Your coffee,’ she said; ‘would you like me to...’
But she saw he was already out of it.
Exhausted from the effort she’d put into getting him where he was, she threw herself down into the nearest chair and looked at him broodingly.
Why, she wondered, was he here alone? And especially at this time of year, when families gathered together, drawn by love, memories and layers of tradition.
She herself couldn’t wait to get home.
But this man didn’t believe in Christmas. She frowned as she remembered the words he’d spoken to her the night before. Go away, he’d growled. I don’t do Christmas.
She hugged her arms around herself, and leaned forward in her seat, toward the sofa. Why? she wanted to ask the man lying there. Why don’t you do Christmas?
Even in sleep he looked forbidding. It was the scowl, of course. It was deeply etched, and looked as if it might be a permanent fixture on that hard male face. Her gaze became drawn inexorably to his mouth. The lips...though they were slightly parted she could detect a firmness there, that spoke of control...but along with that firmness was a sensuality, that spoke of something else.
She sighed.
He stirred, and murmured something that sound like ‘Ashley...’ and then settled back into sleep.
He didn’t waken again till early afternoon.
Damian remembered telling her that morning that she was pretty. He had been wrong. Now, half-awake and unnoticed, he scrutinized her as she sat curled up on the sofa across from his, engrossed in a magazine. She had changed into an emerald green sweater and navy stretch pants, and her hair was tied back with an emerald green velvet ribbon. His lidded gaze took in the delicacy of her bone structure, the sweet curve of her lips, the copper highlights in her hair. She was more than pretty, he reflected; she was beautiful. The subtle kind of beauty that could sneak up on a man if he wasn’t careful, and steal his heart. If he believed in Christmas, he would also believe in miracles, and he would believe she’d been sent to him, meant for him...
A Christmas miracle.
But if he believed in anything it w
as that Christmas, and miracles, were for other men. Never for him.
He cleared his throat. ‘You’re still here?’
She looked up, closed the magazine and laid it on the cushion beside her. ‘Mmm.’ Her full pink lips hovered between a grimace and a pout. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘On the mend.’
‘Good.’
He stretched, and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘What day is it?’
‘The twenty-fourth.’
His grin was wry. ‘Already? So...where were you making for last night, when you ended up in my snowbank?’
‘Home for Christmas.’ She was wearing dangling silver earrings; earrings with a dark green stone that picked up the color of her eyes. As she lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the earrings swung and briefly touched her pale neck, the silver glinting in the light. ‘I’m not expected till today—I was going to surprise them by coming early.’
‘Them? Your family?’
‘Mmm. They all live in Rockfield. Two grandmothers, two parents, several aunts and uncles, four brothers and their wives and an assortment of nieces and nephews ranging from a newborn baby with colic, to a teenage boy with acne and raging hormones.’
Family. Boy, did this woman ever have a family. Envy pierced him. ‘And you’ve brought only one teddy bear?’
Her laugh had the clear tinkle of water gurgling over white pebbles in a brook. ‘Of course not. I’ve loads more presents in the van.’ For a moment, as she spoke, her eyes had sparkled, but as he watched, the sparkle faded. With a barely concealed sigh, she got up from the sofa, crossed to the window and hugged her arms around herself. She was looking out, but there could be little to see but the falling snow. She stood still for a long while. Silence filled the room, except for the occasional howl of the wind outside, the frequent blatter of snowflakes against the window.
She wiped the fingertips of her right hand over the mist her breath had made on the pane. He saw her shift restlessly; flick back her ponytail.
‘You’re anxious to get going,’ he said.
She turned. Her expression was strained. ‘I phoned Grantham Towing again while you were asleep and they won’t be sending anyone out till the storm’s over and the side road’s been ploughed. I may be stuck here for another night.’
He shoved back the duvet and got up. He swayed a little, but as she moved toward him, he steadied himself. ‘I’m okay,’ he reassured her. ‘Just dizzy there for a sec.’ He crossed over to where she was standing and held out his hand. ‘Damian McAllister.’
‘Stephanie Redford.’ He noticed that her fingertips still retained the damp from the windowpane, but her skin was soft. Now she was close, and he was conscious again of her perfume. Faint and elusive, yet intensely disturbing, it made him think of moss and roses...and slow sensual kisses.
He swallowed, released her hand and robbed the heel of his thumb over his stubbled jaw. Dangerous, he told himself, to let himself think that way.
‘I’m going up to have a shower,’ he said.
‘I’ll fix us something to eat.’
‘Cupboard’s pretty bare.’
She smiled faintly. ‘Not totally.’
His head was getting a bit dizzy again. ‘Good.’
As he ascended the stairs, he realized he was whistling contemplatively under his breath, and with a frown, put a stop to it Irritably he admitted he’d been wondering what it would feel like to untie the green velvet ribbon, spread out that glorious brown hair and let the lustrous strands spill through his fingers.
And even more irritably, he admitted he’d been wondering what it would feel like to sink down with this woman on a bed of green moss, with the scent of pink roses all around, and claim her pouting lips in a passionate kiss.
He glowered. His instincts warned him that Stephanie Redford was not the type to take such kisses lightly. She was beautiful and desirable—but she was also ‘nice’; his deepest instincts told him that, as they also told him that here was a woman who believed in love and marriage...and all the trimmings.
Christmas, for example. It was clear she believed in Christmas.
He did not.
He muttered an oath as he pushed open his bedroom door. He would have to make sure he never kissed her, because his deepest instincts told him something else. They told him that if he ever did kiss her, she’d be impossible to forget.
CHAPTER THREE
TEARS rolled down Stephanie’s cheeks, and with a choking sob, she clumsily wiped them away with her sweater sleeve as she hurried across the kitchen to click off the radio.
She should have known better than to switch it on; should have known that the airwaves would be joyous with the music of Christmas.
‘Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht...’
Even though the choir had been a German one, and the language unfamiliar, the sweet purity of the children’s voices as they sang ‘Silent Night’ had moved her unbearably.
She loved Christmas and had always been emotional at this time, but her feelings were especially near the surface this year because of her broken engagement—
‘Smells good.’
Stephanie froze. McAllister. Hoping she had dashed away all signs of her tears, she forced a bright smile and turned around...to find not the man she expected, but a complete stranger standing in the doorway. No—she blinked incredulously—not a stranger. It was McAllister...
And this was the man she’d classed as a caveman? She put a hand on the countertop to steady herself. Now that his beard was gone, his face was revealed in all its angular male perfection—she could see the hard slash of strong cheekbones, the firm set of a determined jaw, the deep lines etched either side of his mouth. His hair was as shiny as tar, his eyes clear and the same steel blue as the exquisite alpaca sweater he wore so casually over a pair of old jeans.
In his previous scruffy state she’d labeled him one of America’s Most Wanted. And now? Oh, certainly he would be one of America’s Most Wanted...wanted by every woman in the country who had a drop of red blood in her veins!
Breathlessly, as if her heart had tilted against her lungs for support and was squeezing out all the oxygen, she said, ‘Oh, there you are. I found some sausages in the freezer section, and eggs and milk in the fridge. The Best Before date on the bread was yesterday, but it seemed okay.’ The toast popped up. She turned away and busied herself buttering it. ‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘Sunny-side up, please. Here, I’ll pour the coffee.’
He had to pass her to get to the coffeepot, and as he brushed by, she caught the spicy scent of his shaving cream. Tantalizingly male. And disturbingly intimate...
She took a deep breath, and scooped up a spatula.
By the time he had filled two mugs with the steaming coffee, the toast was on the table, and she’d flipped a couple of fried eggs and several nicely browned sausages onto a warmed plate for him, and one egg and a couple of sausages onto another for herself. She set the plates on the place mats, and he pulled out a chair for her.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, and as he took his seat she passed him the cream jug. ‘You take cream, don’t you, and no sugar?’
He did a double-take. ‘Are you psychic?’
He was sitting directly across from the window and the light from the snow outside seemed reflected in his eyes, making the blue so electrically dazzling she almost blinked. ‘No,’ she laughed lightly. ‘I offered you coffee when you came downstairs this morning. You don’t remember?’
‘Oh...now...vaguely.’ He stirred cream into his coffee and took a thirsty gulp. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Good and strong.’
For the next few minutes, they ate without talking. And as Stephanie occasionally peeked at him from under her lashes, it occurred to her that an outsider looking in might think them comfortably married. But they weren’t married; and she at least didn’t feel at all comfortable. Not since the rather frightening caveman had turned into the most elegantly at
tractive man she’d ever—
‘So—’ stretching back in his chair, he looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug ‘—tell me something about yourself. What do you do for a living?’
She saw that he had finished his meal, as she had, except for one small triangle of toast. She nibbled it, and looked at him teasingly. ‘Guess.’
‘Give me a clue.’ He put down his mug.
‘You’ve already had one.’
‘I have?’ He scratched his head. ‘Let me see. Ah, you’re a short-order cook.’
‘Try again.’
He stared at her as if trying to read the answer in her face. ‘You smash vans for the Rent-a-Wreck company?’
She gave a gurgling laugh and tilting her chair, reached across to the countertop for the nutmeg teddy bear, which she’d set there earlier. ‘This is what I do.’ She tossed it to him. ‘I design stuffed animals—I have them manufactured to my specifications by a Montpelier firm.’
He caught the bear, and held it. Held it gingerly, she thought with some amusement, the way a man—unused to children—might hold a baby for the first time. He looked down at it and, oddly, his features seemed to tighten. Then abruptly he flipped the bear back onto the counter.
“Then what?’ His tone was neutral. ‘You sell them?’
‘I have my own store. My own business.’ She corrected herself. ‘The premises are rented.’
‘Where? Montpelier?’
‘Boston.’ She saw his eyes widen, as if she’d caught him by surprise. ‘I’ve been there three years. The first couple were tough, but business is quite brisk now.’ She smiled. ‘If you’re ever in Boston, you must pop by. My place is called the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store.’
Stephanie knew it was a whimsical name—which was why she had chosen it—and usually, when people heard it for the first time, they smiled. McAllister didn’t smile. For a long moment, he stared at her, his eyes suddenly as glassy as the bear’s, and then his black brows lowered in a scowl, a dark scowl, as if she’d said a four-letter word.