A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS

by Barbara Daly

  In the end she'd reminded him that a decision should go to the one with a conviction, and she had a conviction that silver balls, crystal icicles and tinsel—hung one strand at a time—were meant to decorate her tree. But then she'd added a couple of dozen inexpensive terracotta-rose ornaments to the mix. Maybelle had said she needed more fire in her life, and so far, Maybelle seemed to know what she was talking about.

  Pulling her hair up into a careless, ratty-looking ponytail, Hope paused. Last night had been fire and flood, hardness and softness, darkness and light.

  Thinking about it created a heavy ache between her thighs, moistened her, made her breath come faster. Her lips parted. She snapped them shut.

  So she and Sam had yin and yang. So what? She briskly fastened the ponytail with a pink elastic band and went out to help with the tree-raising.

  * * *

  "If I move that one to the left," Sam said, "it's going to be too close to the one there at the back."

  "So we'll have to move the one there at the back."

  "Which will jam it right up against the one behind it."

  "Are we having our first fight?" Hope asked him, feeling a bit frosty about the whole enterprise.

  "Of course not. We're attacking a problem together, as a team. We're having a discussion of possible solutions. I have one possible solution."

  He started down the ladder, reaching for her, but Hope neatly evaded him. The sweats hadn't had their desired negative effect on the hormone-heavy air. They did feel soft and comfortable. She was just a little bit sore, although not sorry about it.

  "That would not solve our problem," she informed him. "It would merely be a stopgap measure. I feel obligated to point out that if we'd used the triangle in the first place, we wouldn't be in this predicament."

  "It's not a predicament. It's a Christmas tree." Sam came down the three-step ladder and regarded her for a moment. "Okay," he said, "we'll do it your way.

  "Oh, good," Hope said. "I love getting my own way."

  "Do you?" He moved closer.

  She edged back. "A lot." She shimmied out of his embrace and went off in search of her trusty triangle.

  She found it in the walk-in closet in a plastic container labeled "Tools." She'd never seen the container before. She stood in the center of the closet, transfixed, gazing at a home-magazine vision of life in perfect order.

  Tubs on wheels were labeled, "Cleaning Supplies," or "Catalogs." More plastic containers of varying sizes with matching mint-green lids lined the shelves in alphabetical order—"Office Supplies," "Sewing Supplies," "Shoeshine Kit."

  "You okay?" Sam moved up behind her. "Wow. It's like a store in here."

  "Another contribution from the decorator," Hope said. "She has this thing about keeping possessions in order. Here's the triangle. Let's get going on those lights."

  But still they gazed at the closet shelves.

  "You actually have empty spaces," Sam said. "There. Between Candles and Dry Cleaning. You've got room for Coca-Cola and Diet Pepsi."

  "Or cat food."

  "You getting a cat?"

  "Thinking about it."

  Sam's gaze zoomed toward the largest of the containers that sat under the shelves. Hope was already blushing hotly when he read the label. "Pipe." His head swiveled. "You have a pipe collection."

  "It's just pipe samples," Hope said, feeling cross about being embarrassed.

  "The folks at Revlon cosmetics, let's say, get to take home free lipstick, and you get pipe."

  "Well, yes."

  "And you bring it home and save it."

  "It helps to have samples here," she said stiffly. "I don't stop working when I leave the office."

  "Sure," Sam said. "I should have known that. You have any Number 12867 in there?"

  She eyed him suspiciously, but his expression was deadly serious. "The star of my collection," she said.

  He nodded, seeming to be lost in thought. Then he edged closer. "It's sort of nice in here."

  "Cozy," she agreed, still suspicious.

  "A microcosm of what you wish your whole life could be."

  "A what?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, wench. You know what I mean. Don't you wish your life could be in order like this closet? Everything in its place? With a lid on it that stays closed until you have time for it?"

  "And room for everything," Hope murmured, getting interested in the idea. "All the things a life should have. Some 'Office Supplies,' some 'Cleaning Supplies,' some…"

  "F for Family and Friends," Sam said, standing very close behind her, "P for Passion."

  She shivered a little as his arms closed around her. "L for Love, M for Marriage," he went on, "and there's room m C for Cat Food and Children."

  The words stilled the air. Hope turned in his arms to gaze up at him. His face was a mystery, revealing nothing. She asked him, "You want all those things?"

  "Someday. You?"

  "Someday."

  A sigh, or maybe it was just a deep breath, or maybe he was feeling the beginnings of claustrophobia, seemed to rise up through him. "I had some good news this week," he said. "Good and bad."

  She waiting, knowing, somehow what he was about to say.

  "The Magnolia Heights case is going to court. I'm in charge of it."

  Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound. Too many thoughts fought for dominance—hot defense of her product, pride in Sam and glad feelings for him. And that frantic exchange of e-mails no one knew about, presumably, except her and the parties writing those messages.

  "Phil as much as said it means I'm getting the partnership."

  On this topic she had no conflict in her feelings. She put her arms around him and gave him a hard hug. "Oh, Sam, I'm so happy. I know what this means to you." She drew back to smile at him. "When will you know for sure?"

  "About the partnership? The partners meet on December twenty-first. It'll be kind of a Christmas cliffhanger." He gave her a wry smile. "All part of seeing what kind of stuff we're made of. Can we handle the tension without cracking."

  "Of course you can," Hope said firmly. "You'll be working too hard to think about anything but the case."

  Including me. Was that what he was trying to tell her? That he wouldn't have time for her, that their deal would end after the holidays? That's all they'd contracted for, really. It was what she'd wanted when they made the deal. Why did it suddenly seem like such a bad idea?

  She felt better when he relaxed a little. When he spoke, the mischief, the sparkle, the wickedness had returned to his voice. "That starts tomorrow," he said. "In the meantime, we have a tree to light."

  It broke the mood, and she felt half-relieved, half sorry. Halves again. Whatever could have happened to her focus? She'd get it back, by golly, or die trying.

  "My triangle, sir," she said, saluting smartly. "The solution to our problem. You're going to thank me for this," she said as she marched out of the closet.

  * * *

  "That's everything but the star on top."

  "How could I have forgotten the star?" Hope said. "I accept full responsibility," she assured him. "I was head of the Ornaments Task Force, as I recall."

  "A small detail and easily fixed," Sam said in a way that both agreed she was the accountable party and generously excused her lapse. "I've got a business lunch tomorrow in midtown. I'll buy a star on the way back to the office."

  But Hope was eyeing the tree from a Palmer Pipe perspective. "If you do," she said, "keep the receipt. You can take it back if I think of an alternative."

  "What time is it?" he said abruptly.

  She glanced at her watch, realizing she hadn't looked at her watch since…

  …since six-fifty-five the evening before when she waited for Sam. Since then, life had been timeless, without boundaries. Tomorrow was Monday, a return to the real world for Sam and for her. She didn't like the feeling that hit the pit of her stomach at the thought, which was odd, because she usually looked forward to Monday morni
ng.

  "Seven. Are you hungry? I've got tons of leftovers."

  He tipped up her chin with one hand. "Truth time."

  "Okay."

  "If you want me to leave, we're at a good stopping place."

  The words stumbled out of her. "Well, no, I…"

  "I said be honest."

  She gazed into his eyes. She didn't think she could stand it if he left. "No," she whispered, "I don't want you to leave, but if you have things to do, I understand."

  "Of course I have things to do. I always have things to do. Now I have even more things to do. I just don't feel like doing them right this minute. I've got a lid on them."

  She nodded.

  "You have things to do, too," he said. She noticed the glint of amusement start up in his eyes. "It's Sunday night, the night, as I recall, to put on the masque."

  And condition her hair and manicure and pedicure. She glanced at her fingernails. She'd shredded a couple of them on the tree and the others just looked … used. "It can wait."

  He smiled, flashed white teeth at her and crystal glints from his eyes. "In that case, I'm going out to run a couple of errands."

  "Well, okay, I…"

  He could spring into action faster than anyone she'd ever known. "Put out the leftovers," he said, sliding his arms into his overcoat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes. Need anything while I'm out?"

  She was no slowpoke herself. "Yes. If you just happen to run into a Styrofoam ball about—oh, about this big—and some of that fake gold-leaf paint, that would help."

  He gazed at her for a long, slow minute. "Where would I run into them?"

  "I'd try a drug store."

  "Gotcha." A quick smile and he was gone.

  Forty-five minutes. She had no time to waste. Into the dishwasher, out with the clean dishes from the night before. Into the refrigerator and out with the ribs, baby lamb chops, the Chinese chicken wings they still hadn't touched. Salads. Cheeses. Desserts.

  Into the bathroom—nail file, polish remover, clear polish. Cuticles would have to wait. She put her supplies on the night table nearest the telephone and sat down on the bed. Cotton square in hand, she dialed.

  "Hey!" said the familiar voice.

  "Maybelle, it's me. Hope." She tipped the polish remover bottle over the cotton square and began to swipe at her fingernails.

  "How you doing, hon?" Maybelle said.

  "Fine. Thanks for the flowers. They're gorgeous."

  "Did the passion flowers last?"

  Hope smiled inside. "They're still hanging in there. Anyway," she hurried on, seeing dangerous territory ahead, "I wondered if you could come by Tuesday night and we could, well, finalize things." She tossed the cotton square into the wastebasket and picked up the file.

  "Well, sure." Maybelle paused. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Absolutely," she said, filing madly. Why she felt this sudden need to talk to Maybelle she couldn't imagine. How could Maybelle help her with the tangle she saw herself getting into?

  Her thoughts went back to the tidy, organized closet. Everything with lids on it. Because Maybelle did more than decorate. She untangled people's lives.

  Hope slapped clear polish on the nails of her right hand, the receiver tucked up under her chin. "So I'll see you Tuesday. We can discuss what else you'd like to do here. Maybe you could get my bill together between now and then."

  A low cackle came from the receiver, but it wasn't an unkind sound. "Sure," Maybelle said. "Now you keep puttin' water in them flowers, hon, and they'll last forever."

  "Even the passion flowers?" All her movements slowed.

  Maybelle's voice softened. "Maybe not as long as the others, but plenty long enough."

  After she hung up Hope sat on the bed for a moment, feeling thoughtful. Then, with one last stroke of polish to the little finger of her left hand, she scurried out of the bedroom, wiggling her fingertips in the air.

  When Sam returned she'd covered the little round table in newspaper and had laid out several dozen pieces of slender pipe in varying lengths. She'd changed clothes, too, and was wearing a long purple velvet lounging dress. She was naked beneath it, which she hoped would come as a nice surprise to him when he discovered it.

  He eyed her first, then the display set out on the table. Wordlessly he hauled a Styrofoam ball and a can of gold spray paint out of one of the bags he carried. "Why am I so sure that's going to be a star when you finish it?"

  "E.S.P.?" Hope asked, smiling brightly at him.

  * * *

  It was unfortunate that the telephone rang. It was even more unfortunate that she answered it.

  "You can't do this to us, Hope," Faith said. She sounded tearful.

  "Not return a call for hours and hours," Charity said, sounding officious.

  "We called Mom and Dad and told them we thought you might be dead," Faith snuffled.

  "You did not!" My sisters, she mouthed at Sam. She lifted her eyebrows to indicate her exasperation, then laid a shushing finger across her lips.

  "We were about to," Charity assured her. After a short silence, she said, "What's that I hear in the background?"

  "Christmas carols," Hope muttered.

  "'Joy to the World', Faith, I hear 'Joy to the World.'" Charity spoke in tones of wonder.

  Sam trailed a finger across her cheek, then lifted a cup of eggnog to her lips. She wondered if her sisters could hear eggnog. "Well, it is the season," she informed them.

  "But you've never sat around listening to Christmas carols before."

  "Are we calling at a bad time?" Charity said suddenly.

  They were psychic. They could hear eggnog. For all she knew, they could hear her breath quicken as Sam licked a drop of eggnog from the corner of her mouth and set down the cup to pull her back against him, into his arms. When he buried his mouth at her nape, she shivered with the delicious sensation.

  "Well, it is my grooming night," she said. Her voice went up the scale and back down. Sam's low chuckle vibrated the full length of her spine. "Let's talk tomorrow."

  After she'd hung up she just let herself sink back into his embrace. "I have an idea," he murmured into her hair.

  She had little doubt what sort of idea he'd just had. Up tight against him, she discovered that parts of him other than his brain had their own ideas. "You're full of ideas this evening," she said. "What now?"

  "This is your grooming night." As he mimicked her, his voice grew husky. "I'll help you with your grooming."

  "What a lovely idea." She turned a little in his arms. "Where shall we start?"

  "You choose. Toes or fingers." His tone was languid, his eyes heavy-lidded.

  "I usually start by soaking my toes," she said, brushing some light kisses across his chin for punctuation. She gasped when she felt him spin her around, resting her head on one arm of the sofa and his own on the other. "Sam, what are you… Sam, I said soaking my toes, not…"

  He'd pulled off her velvet slipper and taken her toe into his mouth, where he surrounded it with more velvet as he circled his tongue around it, sucked gently at it while he caressed the rest of her toes, her ankle, her calf. Fingers of flame leaped upward through her veins, stabbing at her core, dissolving her into a jelly of pure desire. His fingertips traveled up her calf, then retreated.

  He drew her toe slowly out of his mouth to trace a path up and over each of the other toes, then down between them, up and down, with the tip of his tongue. She groaned, arching toward him. Her toes felt wonderful, but the rest of her felt deeply deprived. Her mouth felt swollen, her nipples were so taut and hard that her breasts ached, and the even harder ache between her thighs was growing in intensity, becoming more demanding.

  She would have more of him. She had to. She dug her other foot down between his legs, inching forward, forcing them apart, feeling his jolt of response and hearing the animal sound in his throat as her foot finally reached its mark, resting fully against the length of his hardness.

>   She could feel him losing interest in her toes. His eyelashes fluttered down to his cheeks, his breathing was labored.

  "That's one foot," he murmured hoarsely, reaching for the one that was giving him such torture.

  She gave it willingly, merely replacing it with the other. He began to move against her as he suckled the toes of the one foot and she wriggled the toes of the other against him.

  It took more concentration than she could manage at the moment. The heaviness between her thighs had become more uncomfortable. She had to do something about it, she really had to. She had to get control of this situation and…

  "This would be more fun," she panted, "if you were naked."

  "How could it be any more fun?" He could barely speak. His caresses were becoming more random as his own need grew, his fingers stroking the skin of her thigh, coming closer to her heat.

  "I'll show you." She arched forward and grasped at his belt buckle, his zipper. He abandoned his attack on her toes to help, letting her slide his clothes away from him and toss them on the floor. She pulled his sweater over his head, cursing when it tangled, trapping him.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity she darted quickly into the bedroom and returned, where she found Sam just where she wanted him, sitting up on the sofa, naked and struggling out of the wrists of the sweater.

  She pulled one wrist free and held it tightly as she grasped the other wrist, stretched his arms out as far as they would go and pinned him to the sofa, relishing his gasp of surprise. Slowly she parted her legs, straddling him, letting the skirt of the velvet dress ride up a bit at a time as she inched along his thighs, teasing him, coming closer and closer until at last her moist, needy center connected with his hot hardness. He groaned.

  "Gotcha," she whispered in his ear, then lightly darted her tongue into it, feeling him jolt beneath her, growing even hotter as he instinctively arched into her. "Isn't this more fun?" she'd meant to say, but it was hard to speak, hard to think, hard to do anything but focus on satisfying that one part of her body. She was giving way. She couldn't play her game much longer.