A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS

by Barbara Daly

  "Yes," she said. "It's a deal."

  "Sealed with a kiss," he said, and leaned down to capture her mouth with his.

  * * *

  The brief kiss at the party hadn't been for him, not really. But the reason for it didn't matter. It had whetted his appetite to the point that he would have used any excuse to kiss her again. Still, he'd intended it to be a light, casual kiss, just the merest taste of her to take home with him.

  Who was he kidding? He'd begun to want her with an intensity that threatened to take over his life, to want her in a way that was dangerous to his carefully made plans. And now, for a blip in time, he had her.

  He moved his lips lightly over hers, feeling her slight shock and his own surprise at the tentative responding pressure from her warm, soft mouth. It was unbearably sweet, her kiss, and it gave him the nerve he needed to let his arms slide around her, his hands to splay against her back, touching as much of her as he could at one time.

  As tentative as she was, he slipped his tongue over her full, sensuous lower lip and into the crease of her mouth, almost groaning when she allowed him entrance, welcomed it. Aching with want, he explored, his tongue tangled with hers as they came together in quick consent to seize this moment, almost as if it were stolen, almost as if it could only happen now, might never happen again.

  His arms tightened around her, caressing her back in long, desperate strokes, bringing her as close to him as he could, resenting the layers of coats that kept him away from skin that would feel like cream to the touch. His erection, instant and demanding, throbbed insistently and he pressed her against it, trying to ease the ache, only making it worse.

  Even through all the layers, he could feel the mounds of her breasts as she pressed them against his chest. Was she aching, too? Was it too much to hope that she saw this moment as something to build on—

  Hell, something to finish, and soon. His heart pounded hard in his chest, his head felt light as the blood rushed to his groin, and he poured his whole being into a single kiss she'd never be able to forget.

  Unable to resist, he slipped his hands inside her coat and parted it, sliding his arms around her again, brushing her breasts with his fingertips. The low moan that came from deep in her throat added fuel to the fire already burning inside him. He stroked her back, moved lower to her waist, took her mouth more deeply as he molded her to himself. The moan ended in a sigh as she twisted against him.

  It was pure torture. Letting her go with nothing more than a kiss was inconceivable, unbearable. He would take her home, and they would make love.

  As that thought ran through his barely functioning brain, he realized he was in trouble, agonizingly turned on, nearly out of control, and there was absolutely no chance Hope would let him come home with her and make love. "Love" wasn't part of the deal. They still hadn't even negotiated sex.

  It took the most enormous effort of will, but he loosened his hold on her, slowed down the kiss and finally wrenched himself away from her with what he hoped was a sort of method-acting rendition of resigned reluctance. What he wanted to do was bash something. Hard.

  Not Hope. What he wanted to do to her was ease her down on a soft surface and bring her to unprecedented heights of ecstasy—in the most primitive way. But that silver Jag parked across the street—it could use a bashing.

  Thinking how gentle he'd be with Hope, he slid his hands out from under her coat as slowly as he dared, then pulled the coat tightly around her with one last stroke down the lapels. She gazed up at him, giving him a tremulous smile. Her face was flushed, her mouth looked bruised and swollen.

  "And if I default on the contract?" she said, but her voice sounded shaky.

  "I got a little carried away," he admitted.

  "Tension," she said, nodding.

  "Tiredness."

  "Long week. It's only Wednesday."

  "And it's almost Christmas."

  "We have a tendency to overdo at Christmas," Hope said.

  "Nobody overdid next week," he said. He'd made himself calm down—how, he didn't know. He could hear real regret—no method acting here—seeping into his voice. "As far as I know, there's nothing on our schedule until a week from Friday night."

  "Oh." She didn't sound happy about it either. "I guess that's right."

  "Time to catch up on work."

  "I can use it."

  "Me, too."

  The scene was getting silly in Sam's opinion. He didn't want to let her go, and he sensed somehow that she didn't want to let him go, but they both knew that the deal was to let each other go, absolutely, no strings, between their public appearances. He didn't know how she felt, but he knew that any addenda to the deal would have to be negotiated. And you didn't negotiate in the heat of passion.

  As quickly as he could, he navigated both of them to Madison Avenue and shouted, "Taxi!" so fervently that a cab crossed three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic to pull up in front of them.

  He helped her into the car over her protests, then tried to hand a ten to the driver, but she grabbed his hand and steered the bill right back into his pocket.

  He wished she'd aimed for a pants pocket, and overshot her mark.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  "How's it going?"

  "Quite well," Hope informed her sisters. She'd finished the newspaper, she'd microwaved a pancakes-and-bacon frozen breakfast, and now she sat cross-legged on the sofa gazing thoughtfully at Getting a Cat, a book she'd purchased recently to help her with the all-important adoption decision. "When I feel I'm ready to bring him home, I'm going to a rescue agency. I'm leaning toward a long-haired—"

  "Not the cat!" Charity interrupted her.

  "Oh. Oh, she's going to work out just fine." Hope snuggled more deeply into the corner of the sofa and glanced out the window at the snowflakes drifting down.

  "She?" Faith asked.

  "She?" Charity echoed hollowly.

  "Why, yes, Yu Wing, the interior…"

  "Not Yu Wing." Matching sounds of annoyance came at her through the receiver. "The man."

  "Oh, him." Hope had known perfectly well which aspect of her life her sisters had called to quiz her about, but they were so cute when they sputtered. "He's very nice. Attractive, too."

  Now they were actually holding their respective breaths. Didn't they have anything more important to do than wander like ghosts at the margins of her life? They'd always had lots of dates. Why weren't they focusing on finding that one special man for themselves?

  She realized they must be turning blue waiting for her answer. "We've gone to several parties together."

  Whoosh! "Did you have fun?"

  "Has he kissed you good night yet?"

  "No," Hope lied. It wasn't a lie exactly. Sam's kiss hadn't been your standard good night kiss.

  "No to which question?" Charity said.

  "Kissing me good night is not part of our deal," she hedged. "We see each other on business occasions for business reasons." And it was driving her mad! "Which is exactly the way it's supposed to be," she added, emphasizing that fact to herself more than to her sisters.

  "Of course it is," Charity said soothingly.

  "Oh, yes," Faith said. "Exactly."

  There was a long, pregnant pause before Charity said, "Is he the kind of man you might wish would kiss you good night sometime in the future?"

  "She means the distant future," Faith hastened to add.

  It was fortunate for all concerned that Hope's call waiting beeped. If it hadn't, she might have burst into tears and told them he'd given her a kiss against which all future kisses would be measured, then loaded her into a taxi and sent her home, a quivering mass of Jell-O that hadn't completely set. "Can't tell you how I've enjoyed talking to you," she said briskly, "but I must take this call. Hello," she said to whomever had delivered her.

  "Hope? Sam."

  It wasn't fair, the shiver of anticipation that threaded through her body. Only the most desperately de
prived of females could react so strongly to, "Hope? Sam." Just because she'd been out with the man a few times, shared a laugh or two, a touch or two and a kiss against which all future kisses would be measured didn't mean she ought to be melting like ice cream under hot fudge sauce at the sound of his voice.

  "What's your take on Christmas shopping?"

  Hope blinked and sat up straighter. "Pardon me?"

  "Would Christmas shopping fit within the parameters of our deal?"

  Parameters. Borders. Limits. The limits of the deal. Now the word "parameters" was making her heart thud dully against her white cotton sports bra. She was a pathetic excuse for a woman, she truly was.

  "It hadn't occurred to me," she said uncertainly, "but I suppose the idea is to help each other out, so I guess…"

  "I have some time this afternoon. I like to shop early."

  Early? This was early? She'd done her shopping months ago.

  "It's snowing," she informed him.

  "That's the best time."

  "Could this be a romantic streak showing up?" As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't.

  There was a brief pause. "I was thinking the snow might keep some of the folks home. I hate crowds. Tell you what. If you'll help me pick out stuff for the women on my list, I'll treat you to a drink at the Oak Bar when we finish."

  The women on his list? She'd imagined him as being without women. Was he suggesting he had a stable of bimbos, the empty-headed, spandexed type you could clean up, but not take anywhere?

  She supposed she ought to feel flattered that she was the one he could take anywhere. She had a sudden vision of herself and Sam in the elegant old bar, laden with packages, looking like any of the other couples she'd seen collapsed there after a day of strenuous shopping. It made her feel strangely warm inside. Bimbos, eat your hearts out.

  And she did need wrapping paper.

  "I do need wrapping paper," she said.

  "Great. I'll meet you at Saks at one."

  "The Trish McEvoy counter."

  "The who?"

  "Okay, just inside the main entrance on Fifth Avenue."

  "It's a date."

  No, it wasn't a date, Hope reminded herself as she put down her cat book, not as regretfully as she should have, and glanced at her laptop, not as longingly as she should have. It was a business meeting, pursuant to the procurement of inventory. Christmas presents for the women on his list. She could hardly wait to hear who they were.

  * * *

  "They'll love cashmere sweaters. You can never have too many cashmere sweaters. All I'm saying is I don't think you should give all of them the same cashmere sweater."

  "You don't? It sounded so efficient. Yellow for Mom, pink for Betsy and blue for Kris."

  That wasn't how he felt, really. He'd be sending them big checks for Christmas, his parents and both of his sisters. Betsy and Kris would spend the big checks on their kids, or bills. Whatever he sent Mom and Dad seemed to go directly toward presents for his four nephews and the care of Mom's parents.

  He wanted his personal gift, the one under the tree, to be something special, but sometimes he felt so helpless, thinking one cashmere sweater, one pair of real gold earrings wasn't going to make the slightest difference in their lives. Still, he'd asked Hope to help and she'd never help again if he didn't listen to her. God, the woman was bossy! But for some weird reason, he liked having her boss him around.

  "Okay, what would you buy for them?"

  "I need to know more about them," Hope said with an air of patience stretched to the limit.

  He liked the way she looked today, too. Black pants tucked into black snow boots, black sweater, probably one of those cashmeres - you - couldn't - have - too - many - of, and a leopard jacket that nobody would take for real leopard. It turned her eyes even greener, her hair even more coppery.

  But he was afraid he'd be having the same feelings about her no matter how she looked, and "afraid" was the operative word here. He'd stretched his imagination to the limit to think of a reason to see her today. He would see her next Friday night, and he should have let it go at that. He needed every minute, every second of that time to get over the effect of a perfectly natural, ordinary kiss.

  To get back, in fact, to the "spirit of the law" they'd agreed to in their business deal. He'd never in his life closed a contract by kissing his client. Never felt even remotely inclined to.

  So what he should have done was concentrate on his work, the way he'd trained himself to do, and not had another thought about Hope until his Palm Pilot reminded him to pick her up on Friday.

  Problem was, it hadn't been an ordinary kiss. So instead, here he was, doing his Christmas shopping earlier than he'd ever done it in his life, because he knew that asking her out to dinner or a movie wasn't part of the deal, and ending either of them with another kiss—and more—wasn't either. He knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't handle another kiss like that without demanding more.

  He needed to stick to the original rules. She did, too, according to her.

  "Your family," Hope said. "I asked for a few details."

  She was literally tapping her foot. "Ah," he said, coming around. "Mom's, you know, sort of…" He held his hands out from his hips to indicate that Mom had gotten a little stout over the years. "Betsy's skinny as all hell and Kris is starting to look way too much like Mom."

  "Hair color?"

  "Gray, blond and blond."

  "Eyes?"

  "Brown, blue and blue."

  "Like yours?"

  Sam, who'd been admiring the curve of her mouth with those very same eyes, felt that familiar tingle in his groin, intense enough to make him wonder if he might be able to make partner without concentrating quite so completely on his work. Take time to give in to the tingle every now and then. But he wanted Hope to give in with him, and giving in wasn't on her agenda.

  He cleared his throat and looked away toward a sexless pile of turtlenecks. "Yeah, all us kids got Dad's eyes."

  "Okay, then, let's see what we have here."

  Her small, slim hands rifled through stacks. Her green eyes sent a narrowed gaze toward the displays. "How about this for your mom?" She laid out a bright-red sweater, loose and long, that sort of curled at the neck.

  Sam tried to imagine his mother in red. The more he thought about it, the more he thought she might look pretty in a red sweater. She'd wear it all Christmas day. "Good choice," he said. "I'll take it."

  "Now Betsy," she said, and came up with a blue, not a light blue, but a medium-sort-of-blue sweater set. The kind that had the sleeveless thing underneath and the cardigan to match. "Two down," he said approvingly, "and one to go."

  "Kris."

  She had a head for names.

  "We want something slenderizing for Kris that doesn't yell 'lose weight.'"

  He was offended. "I would never…"

  "Of course you wouldn't. You wouldn't have to. She'd be yelling it to herself." Hope busied herself in another stack. "How about this? What this says to me is 'blond bombshell.'" Hope held it up in front of herself.

  All it said to Sam was three hundred twenty-five dollars, but he had to admit it was a good choice for Kris. It was black, not exactly a turtleneck, but it came up high under Hope's chin—a small chin, the point of her heart-shaped face, but a strong chin, too.

  The sweater. Kris. "Yeah, I think she'd like that."

  "The way it's knitted," Hope said, seemingly unaware of his ruminations about her chin, "with these triangles that tuck in a little bit, it'll be slimming. Okay, who's next?" She gazed at him expectantly.

  "Well, there's Grandmother Sharkey and Grandmother Ellsworth."

  She seemed to relax a little. "Robes, maybe? Or something a little less clichéd? I've got this foot spa…"

  "I like it here," Sam said.

  "But shouldn't you vary your…"

  "I'll give them shawls. I'm happy in this department." She might be bossy, but he wasn't exactly Beta Man himself. "I
t's not too crowded, nobody's bugging us…"

  "Nobody's waiting on us at all."

  Hope sent a disapproving gaze at a salesperson. It somehow motivated the woman to scurry toward them burbling, "May I help you?"

  "Yes. We'd like these sweaters."

  "And maybe some shawls," Sam said.

  "Oh, we've got some lovely shawls and capes," the salesgirl said. "Right over here."

  "We'll look," Hope said repressively, "while you put these sweaters in gift boxes."

  It only took her three minutes to convince Sam that shawls said, "old lady," at least when you gave them to old ladies, and that fuzzy mohair cardigans would make his grandmothers feel younger. "Who's next?" she said, giving him that same expectant look.

  Was there something else in that look? Something guarded? Suspicious?

  "My cleaning lady and my administrative assistant."

  She relaxed again. "Can I possibly talk you out of the cashmere department and into jewelry or scarves? Or gloves. Gloves are nice."

  "Oh, okay," he grumbled. There was some brand of scarf women talked about, just the kind of status symbol the administrative assistant he shared with two other lawyers would recognize and appreciate as an addition to the check he always gave her. His cleaning lady would like finding a pair of warm gloves along with her Christmas check.

  "You want to wrap these yourself?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  "All Saks is going to give you is a gray box and a red ribbon," she warned him. "Or—" she waved a threatening finger "—we can stand in line at the gift wrap kiosk for about two hours. I did that once. In a pinch. I've been careful not to get in a pinch ever since."

  Sam weighed his horrible options. "I'm going with the gray boxes and red ribbons," he decided. The truth was, his mother would help him with the wrapping when he went home to Nebraska for Christmas.

  * * *

  "How exactly did you talk me into stopping into F.A.O. Schwartz," Hope asked, embracing an Irish Coffee with both shivering hands.

  "You deserved a reward for getting me out of Saks so fast," Sam said. "F.A.O. Schwartz was your reward."