"Are you cold?” He glanced over at her again in inquiry.
"No, I'm fine.” She curled into his jacket with a contented sigh. What an evening. She'd had a wonderful time, brawl or no brawl. Luke had a great family. Wendy was fast becoming a friend and she sincerely hoped the relationship could survive once she and Luke either came clean or announced a break-up—whatever he had planned.
Maybe a break-up would be best. She'd certainly given him enough reason. They'd had enough quarrels to convince any rational person that the match was made in hell.
Too bad she'd never been especially rational. The thing about a match made in a fiery place was that it really warmed a person, Jordan thought wistfully. Heat glowed, like embers banked to last the night, whenever Luke was around. And whenever something happened to stoke the blaze, it went from wonderfully warm to scorching hot. It certainly made things exciting.
She suspected glumly that a match made in heaven would be terribly pale and boring in comparison. Luke wasn't boring and, for Jordan, that was a universal first. Well, whatever the outcome, she had plenty of excitement guaranteed for the rest of the holidays. She suspected that Luke was enjoying the excitement himself. Her outrageous antics might infuriate him, but he was also demonstrably entertained.
A good thing, because even if he gave her an ultimatum such as behave or lose her fake fiancé, she'd never be able to keep it. A leopard couldn't change its spots and she would never be able to stay out of trouble.
Jordan yawned and curled more deeply into her corner. Lulled by the motion of the car, she dozed. She barely stirred when the motion stopped and someone called her name.
"Jordan. We're here.” Luke looked over at her face in the moonlight and saw the face of a sleeping angel. White blond hair above soft lashes laying against the curve of an innocent cheek. Pink lips parted in sleep.
How in the world could someone who looked so utterly peaceful in sleep be the same restless sprite out to destroy all peace while awake? It was as wonderfully incongruous as everything else about her.
She looked too peaceful to disturb and he didn't have the heart to wake her. Even wicked fairies needed their rest for another day's work making trouble for mortals, Luke decided. Even knowing he was the mortal who'd suffer for it tomorrow, he was going to let her sleep.
Luke scooped up a cuddly, fragrant armful of trouble and carried her inside, after a brief skirmish with the door. He now knew where to find her bedroom, so he made for it in easy strides. She was as light as a child.
Unfortunately, she didn't have the body of a child—a fact he was confronted with when he removed his jacket from her and considered how to put her to bed.
That cursed camisole. It didn't hide nearly enough. It clung like a second skin and revealed the lack of any other undergarment.
He might have known that a confirmed rebel would refuse to wear a bra. She'd probably burned hers in protest. He had a sinking sense of horror that underneath the silky pants there'd be nothing but an endless expanse of silky skin, too.
While he debated, Jordan shifted and the camisole went from bad to worse. It was twisted on her small frame and one small globe lay revealed to his hungry eyes, complete with pert, pink nipple.
"Lord,” Luke breathed in a pained whisper, “I do expect to be nominated for sainthood. I am a damned saint."
He closed his eyes and reminded himself that for all her free-spirited, free-thinking lifestyle, she was possibly the most innocent and untouched creature he'd ever encountered. He suspected that only a pure heart allowed the sprite to dance through life unharmed and able to abandon herself so completely to joy. It was her innocence that charmed everyone around her.
For all her wicked ways, Jordan was all that was good. He doubted that she'd ever deliberately hurt anyone in her life. She couldn't even bring herself to deceive his Aunt Cora, whom she didn't even know. She was going on with the masquerade only because he'd promised to take care of everything, and she trusted him to keep his word.
She trusted him. That was the important thing to remember right now. He'd put the little minx safely to bed and then he'd go lie in the snow until he recovered from the experience.
He slipped off her shoes and then decided that only moving very quickly was going to get him through this torture. The pants slipped easily over her small hips and he hung them over a chair so they wouldn't wrinkle. On impulse, he picked up the velvet jacket still lying on the floor, smoothed it and laid it over the chair, too.
To his vast relief, she wasn't completely bare beneath the silk. Still, sweat beaded on his forehead when he picked her up, clad in the briefest briefs he'd ever seen and the camisole which revealed her lack of need for embellishing. He pulled the covers back and placed her under them. For a moment his arms refused to release her. He reminded himself sternly that he was a saint. Then he pulled the covers up to her pointy little chin.
Jordan made up for in sheer trouble what she lacked in size and that was the truth. Even in sleep she tormented him with the ingenuity of an experienced imp in a special chamber of hell. But Luke was smiling when he brushed a light kiss on her rosebud lips.
As the saying went, some did like it hot. He'd roast over her coals any day. She tormented him mercilessly but he found it oddly exciting. Being on pins and needles let him know with certainty that he was alive. Alive and suffering, maybe, but alive—and he found the awareness exhilarating.
So much so that he'd already determined to turn her little plot back on her and trap her in her own snare. She couldn't bear to disappoint his family or hers. By the time Christmas rolled around, there would be a white wedding, one way or another. And by then he hoped to have convinced her that, however it started out, their engagement was very real. As real as the powerful attraction between them and the even rarer bond of friendship and trust.
This was one time when she wouldn't go dancing on her merry way, Luke vowed. He'd make her face the music. The wedding march, to be specific. He smiled just thinking about it. He didn't care if she wore black and went barefoot and braless ... and, knowing her, she probably would. It was too much to expect any kind of conventional behavior from her, especially on a solemn occasion.
In fact, he suspected that the more solemn the occasion, the more outrageous he could depend on her behavior to be. He thought it just might be her way of coping with stress. As a coping mechanism, it was more interesting than watching tropical fish or playing new age music—two things he couldn't imagine her being still long enough to enjoy.
Thinking of Jordan trying to be still led to thinking about the fun of posing with her for Wendy to immortalize in a painting. Another good reason for her to follow through. She was joining the family gallery and by golly she'd have to join the family, too.
His gaze fell on the vintage dress then. Luke walked over to it and held it up to take a closer look. Only Jordan would have something like this, he thought with a smile. She'd probably ransacked somebody's attic to find it. Then he scowled as he considered the almost absent bodice and hoped she didn't plan to make it worse by ripping it, too. As it was, the man in black was going to need rescuing more than the supposedly distressed damsel.
Also, it looked like she was going to get her wish. She couldn't help spilling voluptuously over the top. Luke sighed in resignation. No doubt Wendy would happily paint in the sweat beads on his brow and the look of torture on his face at the sight. But what a sight it would be.
He put the dress back down and saw that something had fallen loose. When he bent to investigate, an unwilling smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The little scamp. She'd planned to wear those practically nonexistent bloomers? Luke was sorely tempted to foil her plans by stealing them, but if he did she'd probably go one worse and wear nothing at all underneath.
If she did that, the man in black would just keel over in a dead faint at the very thought. There was no way he could sit in front of his sister knowing the temptation in front of him was wearing nothing under her volumin
ous skirt.
He wouldn't rescue her to ride off with her on his horse. He'd capture her and steal her away to become his pleasure slave instead; and no matter how many times she batted her eyes at him and called him her hero, it wouldn't save her too-tempting hide.
Luke let out a wicked laugh. “I'm going to have my way with you,” he threatened her sleeping form, “but my way includes a few little formalities which you'll have to accommodate. You're going to have to do this the Foster way."
It was a very good thing that he outweighed her by at least three times her slight mass. He'd need every advantage in the fight to make an honest woman of the world's biggest liar.
* * * *
My dear damsel,
If you dare rip this bodice and try to wear it in front of me, you will find yourself in real distress. I'll be sufficiently paralyzed knowing what your bloomers look like. And you'd better keep your skirt down.
The Man in Black
Jordan laughed out loud at the outrageous note he'd left her. As if she'd flash him a look at her peek-a-boo underwear. Well, okay, so the thought had occurred to her—but she wasn't sure his heart could take it and that was the only thing stopping her, not his macho threats.
Her fiancé was so much fun to tease. He reacted so beautifully, so violently to her pushing his buttons. How was she supposed to resist that kind of temptation? If he merely yawned, she'd be able to pass up an opportunity now and then. As it was, he ought to be glad she was resisting the temptation to kiss him breathless. For that alone she was bound to get on Santa's “Nice” list. It was a Herculean feat of goodness and it certainly ought to outweigh quite a bit of minor little naughtiness.
Feeling distinctly self-righteous at the thought, Jordan put the note down and vowed to leave the bodice un-ripped and her skirt down. But she would go barefoot and shimmy and wiggle as the mood struck her. She wasn't a saint, after all.
And it wasn't as if Luke was completely unacquainted with her body, after undressing her and putting her to bed last night. She smiled dreamily at the thought. He was so nice. So thoughtful and concerned. Well, at least he was when he wasn't being high-handed and passing down edicts, such as telling her what to wear and dragging her to parties when she didn't want to go and from them when she didn't want to leave.
She started to laugh again at the sweet memory of his comeuppance last night. Try to make her wear what he wanted, would he? Force a big, hairy sweater on her unwilling person? He'd seen where that would get him.
Worse off than before, that was where. Instead of the jacket she'd planned to wear modestly over it, the camisole had appeared in all its glory. Or all her glory. Whatever.
It certainly had been a glorious moment, any way she looked at it. The sounds of gasps, shouts and breaking glass were music to her ears, but the sweetest music of all was Luke's raging, roaring voice. Or maybe his laugh. He hadn't been able to stay mad for long ... proof of his overall niceness.
He'd actually put her to bed and tucked her in. Jordan found that almost unbearably sweet. It sent little warm shivers down her spine and happy tingles from head to toe. It made her smile. It made her sigh. It made her curse the sneaky, deceitful subterfuge that prevented her from enjoying all the privileges of an engaged person.
Well, she couldn't have everything, and she certainly did have a lot—specifically, Luke's delightful companionship and the security of knowing no awful Mr. Never Never Never In a Million Years would show up on her doorstep. Imagine the freedom to walk out her door instead of fleeing through a window!
And she owed it all to Luke. She'd be nice to him from now on, she vowed. Well, as nice as she could stand. No, come to think of it, she wouldn't bother. Luke didn't like nice. Nice bored him to tears, luckily for her.
Instead, she'd be herself and make him sing carols, which he would do while scowling so enticingly at her that she'd have to resist with all her strength. He had a scowl to die for. A frown to faint at. A yell to make her shiver and sigh. Fighting with Luke was her Christmas bonus, no doubt about it.
She wondered what to give her favorite fiancé for Christmas. A gun sprang to mind—but he might be tempted to use it on her, so she dismissed that idea. Cowboy boots? A tin star to go on his black hat, symbolizing the disorderly lawman?
It was definitely going to take some thought. Fortunately, finding the perfect gift was a talent of hers. She'd come up with something guaranteed to make him shout with rage first and then laughter.
Since Wendy wanted to give the new addition to the family gallery to her parents for Christmas, she and Luke would be posing for her, starting tonight, which did complicate Jordan's already complicated schedule. Which meant, Jordan concluded with a wince, that she'd better quit gloating over past triumphs and anticipating future debacles and get to work.
She had jokes to tell. Endings to twist. Words to play on. She picked up her notebook and went at it with a will.
* * * *
"Jordan, hold still."
"I can't. I am in distress,” she replied indignantly. It was hard to be distressed and indignant while swooning in the arms of the lethal man in black, but she managed it. It was too much to also expect her to be still.
"Well, if you move your hip again, I may never be able to have children,” Luke retorted.
Jordan added laughing to her repertoire and ruined the distress with deep dimples and the sparkle of humor in her eyes.
"If you two can't behave, I'll send you both into different corners,” Wendy threatened. She waved a vicious-looking palette knife at them for emphasis and Jordan quailed.
"She's going to get me, Luke. Help. Save me!"
"I've already saved you. Shut up and look grateful before I shove you off my saddle,” Luke answered with a stern look.
Jordan rolled her eyes at that. “Oh, a fall of—what, three feet? It might do permanent damage. It might make my skirt fly up.” She said the last in a dramatic whisper designed to remind Luke of who would get damaged in that event.
That earned her a killing look. It should rightfully have singed her eyebrows, at the very least. Luke secured his hold on her and balanced them both in the saddle that was perched atop a prop horse. The real black steed would be painted in later. Good thing, too, because a real horse would have reared up to unseat and trample the twitching, fidgeting Jordan a dozen times by now.
Luke was perilously close to it himself. She was killing him by inches, wiggling around on his lap in that outfit designed to inspire ravishment in even the mildest male heart.
If she spilled out any further from the inadequate bodice, he'd be able to see her belly button. Her dangerous curves surged up and out as if trying to escape the confining boned corset. Knowing Jordan, they probably were. Her tiny waist rose above the padded bustle and draping skirt that were all that protected him from the curvy hips that lay across his lap and nestled into his groin.
And her bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem of the skirt made him want to run his hands over that tempting arch, then keep right on going ... up, up satin limbs that beckoned, warm and curving, begging to be touched. Up to diabolical black lace. Up to heaven worth the hell she was putting him through.
He was sweating, and it wasn't from the heat of Wendy's lights that created the illusion of midday sun against the painted backdrop. What they needed was a distraction. What he needed was a distraction.
"How about if I tell you a story?” he offered hopefully.
Jordan brightened. “I didn't know you could tell stories. What kind of story?"
Wendy interrupted archly. “How about the story about the painter who killed her models so rigor mortis would set in and they'd have to stay in position?"
Jordan gave her a pitiful look. “I'm trying, Wendy. These whalebones are pinching and poking me and I can't breathe. I am in real distress. Tell me a story, Luke,” she finished pleadingly. “Anything to take my mind off this ancient torture device."
Luke was un-chivalrously glad that the dress was t
orturing her, too. It seemed only fair. Still, the sight of Jordan in that dress was definitely worth a little torture. And she was looking uncomfortable. Luke shifted her a little more to relieve the pressure on her ribs and she looked grateful enough to make up for Wendy's strident remark that he'd just ruined the angle.
He smiled at Jordan and wondered what kind of story would please her. There were hundreds of local legends involving Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain boys, the alleged sea monster in Lake Champlain, and historical tales weird enough to qualify as fiction of the wildest kind. But he thought he could come up with something original just for her.
"You know that Vermont produces most of the nation's marble, don't you? A lot of it is visible in the rock throughout the Champlain valley."
Jordan nodded and earned another frown from Wendy. She looked apologetic. “Sorry, I forgot. I'll keep still. Yes,” she added in answer to Luke's question.
"Well, do you know how the marble got there?"
"Sure, heat and pressure from the fault lines under the mountain ranges,” Jordan answered readily.
Luke sighed. “You have no romance in your soul, do you? I'm telling you a legend. A romantic legend. Start swooning."
"Oh. Okay.” She swooned and waited eagerly. Wendy growled.
"Long ago, an Algonquin Indian princess lived in the valley. She was beautiful. So beautiful that it was said that her eyes were made from the stars of heaven and her hair from moonbeams. The tribe knew when she was born with the white hair of the moon that it was a sign—but what the sign meant they didn't know. They loved the princess, but they feared her, too, and so the princess grew more beautiful every year, and more alone."
Luke paused and Jordan held her breath until he continued.
"She was always one of the tribe and yet a person apart. Then one day, over the lake came a strange boat of a kind they had never seen before. It was a long boat with a sea serpent's head and a sail, which the Algonquin had never seen. The white sail moving across the lake concerned the people. They watched to see what would happen."
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