Santa Reads Romance

by Dara Joy

  C. Hunter Douglas might say that dog does not belong to him, May thought, but the wiener believed otherwise.

  Chapter Ten

  By late that afternoon May wanted to murder him.

  In fact, she began to think up ways to do it.

  She closed her eyes as he paced by the back of her chair for the thousandth time. He had been pacing for hours. Admittedly, there wasn't much for him to do— there was no TV, her radio wasn't picking up any stations, and there was no phone for “business chats.” It was obvious that C. Hunter Douglas was completely at a loss.

  She clenched her jaw at his next pass. “Mr. Douglas, please! I'm trying to work here.”

  “It's Hunter.” He stopped pacing suddenly. “Hey, do you have any games on that laptop?”

  She gritted her teeth. “No. Just word processing. As in manuscript.”

  He groaned, clutching his stomach. “Don't mention that word to me, it's making my stomach hurt.”

  “You don't think it could be the six apples you ate?” she said wryly.

  He paused to look at her. “You think?” he asked seriously.

  She smiled at the boyish expression. “It's a distinct possibility. You better lay off them, Hunter.”

  “I'm starving!”

  “Oh, stop complaining! You'd have to pay a spa three thousand bucks a week for the same treatment you'll be getting here for free, and all they would add to the plate would be a little radicchio.”

  He threw her a dirty look.

  “Don't think about it.”

  “And what would you suggest I do to take my mind off it?” His glance ran suggestively over her again. If he had met her under other circumstances he would have asked her out to dinner. And more.

  May had no trouble reading his look. “Forget it. Men in moldy, baggy red velvet are not a major turn-on for me.” She wondering if her nose was growing. Hunter was an extremely attractive man. Even in the Santa suit.

  “If it'll make you feel better, I'd be happy to remove it.” He grinned wickedly at her.

  She exhaled. “You're just trying to annoy me because you're bored. Why don't you read?”

  “Read? You've got books here? Why didn't you say so hours ago?”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “What do you think has been staring at you in that open carton over there by the fireplace?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, well, those are romance books. I thought you meant you had—”

  That deserved a glare. “Don't say it if you value your red velvet hide.”

  “I didn't mean it like that. It's just that I've never— I mean they are women's books—”

  “It's not like you have anything else to do— why don't you pick up one, you might be surprised.”

  He speculated on that, then walked over to the box of books. He knelt down, shuffling through the titles. “Is your book in here?”

  “Why would I bring my own book?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Why not? Is May Forrester your real name?”

  “May is; Forrester is a nom de plume.”

  Hunter picked up one of her favorite books, opening the step-back cover. His eyes widened. “This guy doesn't have anything on but a towel!”

  “Best towel I've ever seen,” she agreed with a smile.

  He threw her a look. “So what is your real last name?” He sat down on the floor near the fireplace, opening the book.

  “Bea.”

  He read a few paragraphs, then stopped, capturing her in his gaze. “Your real name is May Bea?” Rich laughter filled the room.

  “Stop that!”

  “That must have been real interesting in high school— ‘May Bea she will and May Bea she won't.’” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No wonder you took a pen name.”

  May snapped the lid of her laptop shut. The man was not going to let her work! And he was too close to the mark; the kids had teased her mercilessly when she was young. Which was probably why she had become a writer; she had often run off by herself and daydreams had been her constant companions.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “And who are you to talk? I can just guess what hideous first name is hidden by the initial C, Mr. C. Hunter Douglas!”

  A dimple showed in his cheek. “Go ahead.” His silver eyes flashed challengingly at her.

  She hesitated, leery of the look on his provocative face. “Go ahead what?”

  “Try and guess.”

  She narrowed a distrustful look at him. “You'll tell me if I guess correctly?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right.” She tapped her foot against the wooden floor. “Cecil.”

  “Nope.”

  “Clem.”

  He grinned. “Uh-uh.” He went back to reading his book.

  “Don't you worry, I have a whole week to come up with it.”

  “It's enough to give one pause,” he said without looking up. Which was a good thing, because his eyes were definitely twinkling with humor.

  And something else.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the way, what was the name of your book?”

  It was late evening. Hunter had moved up to the bed. The floor was drafty and, with the winds still howling from the unabated storm, May guessed, downright cold.

  It was going to make sleeping difficult for him.

  She had already decided to offer him the one and only quilt. She would have to try to keep herself warm with her jacket.

  “You know very well what the name of it is.”

  He quirked his brow. “Let's pretend I don't.”

  “Love's Loose Canon.”

  He burst into laughter.

  May was incensed. “It's a pirate story, so stop that right now! There were lots of people who loved it.”

  He stopped laughing; that had gotten the publisher's attention. “By ‘lots’ what are we talking about?”

  “Romance is very popular.” Translated for him, it meant profitable.

  He suddenly became serious. “I know; I've been looking into it, actually. My uncle has some old-fashioned notions about what Fortuna should and should not publish.”

  “Well, this could turn out to be a very good opportunity for you! You have the time, I've got the books, not to mention my knowledge of the genre, which I am willing to let you pick at— you could make good use of your time here.”

  A tiny line formed across his brow as he considered it. “Mmm… that's not a bad idea.”

  “Just remember, I'm off limits.”

  He looked her questioningly.

  “I— I mean as far as writing for your company,” she stammered.

  He smiled rather sexily, enjoying her discomfort. “Does that mean you're ‘on limits’ for anything else?”

  “Don't be cute.”

  He batted his thick lashes at her. “I can't help it; I'm a publisher. We're naturally alluring to writers.”

  “You have a warped mind.”

  He winked at her. “I'm going to take a shower. Any chance of finding a razor?” He rubbed the dark shadow on his cheeks.

  While May thought the shadowy beard very attractive, giving him a brooding, dangerous look, she also recognized the wisdom of removing it from her sight. Hunter was starting to look tempting.

  “Check the medicine cabinet; I think Billy left some stuff in there.”

  “Billy?”

  “My neighbor— this is his place.”

  Hunter nodded, whistling off to the bathroom.

  Surely she had misread that brief flash of relief in his eyes?

  Hunter lathered his thick hair with some shampoo he found. Along with razor, shaving cream, deodorant, and best of all, a new toothbrush, he didn't feel half bad. Good ole Billy. He'd have to thank the man personally for the supplies.

  Earlier, Hunter had noticed a box of condoms on the top shelf behind a large bottle of mouthwash. It remained to be seen whether he would be thanking the man for those as well. Ms. May Bea was looking mighty tempting to him.

  In fact, she
had from the instant he had first seen her.

  Admittedly, he had been momentarily turned off when he discovered she had almost cracked his skull. But once he found out she was a writer, he realized he couldn't hold the outlandish behavior against her.

  She couldn't help it. The poor kid.

  The hot water sluiced over his head.

  It felt great. The cabin was drafty as hell, and the heating system didn't keep up with the nightly drop in temperature.

  When he came out of the shower, he eyed the red velvet outfit distastefully. He was going to have to see what he could rustle up in the way of clothes. And he wasn't going to put on that moldy red suit again until he washed it.

  Donning his T-shirt and boxers, he padded out of the bathroom.

  May was leaning over the bed, and he had a very good view of her backside. She had changed into a heavy flannel nightgown; inexplicably the old-fashioned garment looked sexier than a lacy negligee to him.

  Her derriere wiggled under the loose flannel as she tried to pull the quilt free from the top mattress. Hunter crossed his arms over his chest and, leaning against the fireplace mantel, considered the scenery. It was… picturesque.

  And it worked for him.

  He felt himself begin to harden.

  When she turned around and saw him standing there, she jumped a little. Seemingly against her will, her sights drifted to his paisley boxers, hesitating slightly. He wasn't really erect but he was… bulging. A becoming blush stained her cheeks.

  Which made him bulge more.

  He stepped forward. “Ready to go to bed?” His voice held the slow drawl of suggestion.

  May sucked in her breath. He was gorgeous. Even the wretched red suit had not been able to disguise that fact, but when he appeared fresh from his shower in a V-neck white T-shirt and silk boxers, May was nonplused. He had an exquisite physique. Perfectly toned.

  Real contemporary hero material, she acknowledged to herself.

  However, the heated look in his silver eyes said he had more on his mind than sleeping. Therefore, May did the only thing a romance writer could do in this situation: she stuffed the quilt into his arms and showed him the floor.

  To say that C. Hunter Douglas was not a happy camper was an understatement.

  He was even less happy when she allowed the wiener dog to get into bed with her.

  The floor was hard, cold, and drafty. Hunter heard the dog rustling close to her under her jacket. He bit off an expletive.

  For a dog, Benny was one lucky bastard.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sometime in the middle of the night, May felt the bed dip.

  Sleepily, she opened her eyes to the sight of Hunter crawling into bed with her.

  She was instantly wide awake. “What do you think—” He placed a finger against her mouth.

  “It's freezing on that floor. I'm sleeping here and I don't want to hear one word.” That said, he covered them both with the quilt.

  Then he turned his back to her.

  May's lips curved in amusement. And didn't that sound just like a hero in a book? She'd have to remember that line.

  The bed shook slightly and she realized he was shivering. So he really had been cold. Unaccountably, she felt bad for him. His T-shirt and boxers couldn't be providing him with much protection.

  Turning her back to him, she scooted a little bit closer to give him some of her body heat. May heard a faint sigh of contentment coming from his side of the bed.

  Benny wiggled under the quilt like a sand worm, heading to the foot of the bed. He covered Hunter's cold feet with his long, puppy-warm body, giving his ankle a little lick before settling in to sleep.

  Hunter got the strangest impression that he had just come home.

  It didn't make sense, but he was too comfortable to care.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘He threw back his head and roared with laughter…’

  May looked at the sentence she had just typed on her screen. Something about it bothered her.

  She paused, brow furrowed. “He threw back his head and roared with laughter”? She read it again, this time picturing the strange scene in her mind. May wondered if the gesture didn't indicate a silent plea from her hero for Prozac…

  What's the matter with me? Everyone loves it when the hero does that! I love it when the hero does that…

  May sneaked a peek at Hunter, who was sitting on the floor by the fire, engrossed in one of her books.

  Well, if Hunter started throwing back his head to roar with laughter she was going to radio that sheriff to have them parachute down some medication for him!

  She shut off her laptop.

  When this kind of stuff happened, May knew it was useless even to attempt to write. Yawning, she stretched her hands over her head to loosen stiff muscles, her mind going to that morning and how she had awakened in Hunter's arms.

  He had been wrapped all over her, and to make matters worse, Benny was tangled up in there with them, too. The three of them lay there like a multi-tentacled lump of snoozing flesh.

  The man might suffer insomnia on occasion, but when he did fall asleep, he slept like the dead.

  “Hunter!” She jabbed an elbow in his side.

  “Nnnn,” he mumbled into the curve of her neck. The man was too comfortable.

  “Claude?”

  She felt him smile against the skin of her throat. “No.” He snuggled in and went back to sleep. After a few minutes, May gave up on the idea of untangling herself and fell asleep again as well.

  The next time she woke, Hunter was up and making coffee in the kitchenette.

  That's when she discovered him draped over the refrigerator drinking the Half-and-Half. From the carton.

  She let out an ear-piercing shriek.

  Stupefied, Hunter stared at her, a mustache of white coating his upper lip.

  May made a dive for the carton, rescuing what was left of her cream. “You fiend!” She clutched the carton to her bosom.

  “What in the world is wrong with you?”

  “I'm a writer; I have to have coffee! It's our lifeblood; our adrenaline!”

  Having had a great deal of experience with the breed, Hunter calmly inquired, “Can't you drink it black?”

  “No!” She clutched the carton tighter. “It's my one weakness. My God, you drank almost half the container!”

  He gave her a patient look. “Your one weakness,” he said dryly.

  “And you were drinking right from the carton!” She screwed up her face. “Eew! I hate it when men do that! What is it— something genetic with you guys?”

  She ranted on until he poured her a cup of coffee, pried the cream lose from her, plopped some into her cup, and brought it to her lips, forcing her to drink.

  Those silver eyes flashing all the while in amusement.

  She was fine after the first cup.

  May glanced to where he was sitting by the fire. What was he reading that had him so engrossed? He hadn't lifted his nicely shaped nose from that book in hours.

  She squinted her eyes to read the title. No wonder. It was one of her favorite authors and the woman wrote steam heat. Her love scenes could blister paint from a wall. Smiling, she went back to her own story.

  Hunter closed the book and leaned his back against the wall of the cabin.

  He had just had an incredible revelation.

  He had just realized that all these years he had known next to nothing about women. Not according to these books, anyway.

  Like most men, he had always assumed that women wanted the same things men did. Now, he realized, they wanted something else. Something completely different. Something more.

  Did they really go for the swaggering, drag-them-by-the-hair, boy-next-door type? And what did that mean? How could one man be all those things?

  Did a man with a heavy-lidded expression— whatever the hell that was— turn them into… He tried to recall how the last author had phrased it. “A bowl of mush.”

  An
d those love scenes.

  Mama mia.

  They were beyond even his imagination. Since Hunter had always prided himself as a man with an excellent imagination, especially in bed, he was impressed. I've discovered something here.

  It was a blueprint! A set of directions. Waiting in every bookstore, supermarket, and airport for any man smart enough to find it.

  His sights rested on May. Luscious, soft, sweet-smelling May. Totally-oblivious-to-her-own-appeal May. Who had made him stone hard with one sweep of those sexy green eyes.

  Hunter smiled wickedly. The theory was at least worth a test run.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That night Hunter came out of his shower wrapped in the quilt.

  He sat by the fireplace and pretended to read. Making doubly sure the quilt slipped over his shoulder and down one side of his chest.

  May finished the last sentence in her chapter and gratefully closed down her computer. “Well, that does it for toni—”

  Hunter was sitting by the fire dressed in nothing but that fluffy comforter. May swallowed. Is he naked under there?

  Firelight bounced off the highlights in his rich brown hair, gilding his shoulder and chest. May noted that said shoulder was plenty muscular and said chest was nicely delineated.

  Hunter shifted his attention from his book to her, gazing at her with a carefully constructed, boyishly sweet, totally innocent expression. Like the book said. “Were you saying something?”

  She quaked a bit under that intense regard. “N-no, just that I'm finished working for the night.”

  “Oh. Were you going to take a shower? I washed all my clothes and hung them up over the tub, but I'll take them down if you need to use it.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice cracked a bit. She was right; he was naked under there.

  It was sweet of him to offer to clear the shower for her… although, she didn't want him to move just yet. He looked awfully cute sitting there quietly reading a book.

  Naked.

  But for the quilt.

  “It'll just take me a minute.” He stood up, clumsily gathering the quilt about him. A section accidentally parted, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of tanned, muscled thigh before his fist clenched the material closed.