Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas)

by Maggie Robinson, Elyssa Patrick

  She caught the box he tossed at her. So, Little League had not been a total waste of time.

  All right. She could do this. She’d practiced on bananas at bachelorette parties. Griffin was a lot firmer than a banana, and there was no reason she had to do it with her teeth this time. Honestly, who thought up these lame party games anyway? She opened the box, took out a packet and peeled it open.

  Her hands didn’t shake too much. Griffin’s eyes were half-closed and he grunted in affirmation at her technique. Then he pulled her down and kissed her, a desperate, hot blend of tongues.

  Man, could he kiss. He’d come off as kind of reserved and cold in the beginning, but he’d warmed right up. The calm, controlled Griffin was entirely absent. In his place was a wilder, freer man, whose hands were everywhere his mouth wasn’t. Carrie was so glad the ferry hadn’t run, for if it had, she’d probably be up in her room right now watching the Rudolph special while Griffin and his aunt and cousin sipped an after-dinner drink.

  This was so much better than red-nosed reindeers.

  She cupped his cheek, her thumb sliding down Griffin’s own high-bridged aristocratic nose. That nose had probably come over with the Conqueror. Carrie smiled inwardly, imagining a nose rowing over the Channel and just stopped herself from giggling and spoiling this toe-curling kiss. She knew what she had to do.

  She disentangled herself ever so slowly and raised herself up on her knees. Griffin gave her an extremely hopeful look, and she centered herself over his penis. Cock. Manhood. All sorts of romance words for it bumped into her head, but nothing was adequate, and quite frankly she didn’t want to think anymore. He fisted himself and guided her thigh down, palm flat against her.

  O.M.G.

  Carrie couldn’t move. She was pinned in place, filled completely. Things were actually throbbing and slippery and perfect. She looked down at Griffin. His eyes were bright and unblinking—it felt as if he were staring straight into her soul. She stared back.

  And then he thrust up, and she shut her eyes and forgot to look.

  Even though she was on top, he controlled the rhythm somehow—she wouldn’t argue for it had never felt so good. He coaxed her body, brushing against her nipples, toying with her clitoris until she flared and flamed. A rolling wave caught her and she went with the current, riding out her orgasm, reaching for more. Griffin delivered, then spent himself in an unmistakable burst of dominance. He stilled Carrie’s hips and took total control, rocking and touching her in places she didn’t know she had, a look of pure possession on his golden face.

  She’d opened her eyes—it was too tempting not to.

  Double O.M.G. He was beautiful.

  And then the lights above fluttered and died with a loud popping sound. The carriage house was cloaked in blackness.

  “Was it something I did?” Griffin gasped, stroking her left breast.

  “D-don’t flatter yourself. Though the earth did move.”

  “I’ll say it did. Good God.” He pulled her down and held her close, as though he was afraid she was cold already. “That was . . . extraordinary,” he said against her temple. “Thank you.” He did a delicious little twisty thing inside her and her breath hitched.

  She swatted feebly at his chest. “Stop showing off.”

  “I can’t help it. You bring out the best in me, Caroline Moore.”

  “Carrie. We’re friends, remember?” More than friends.

  “So, friend . . . the power’s out.”

  “Uh huh.” The carriage house didn’t have a generator or woodstove.

  “I suppose we should get dressed.” Griffin made no effort to get her off him. In fact, he held her even tighter.

  “What’s in your bag? We may have to layer up if the heat doesn’t come back on. Poor us.”

  “Poor Jaguar.” There it was again. Jag-u-ar. Carrie could listen to him read the phone book. She’d fallen for a pretty face and foreign accent. Somehow she wasn’t one bit ashamed.

  Of course, she couldn’t see the pretty face at the moment. It was pitch black in and outside.

  “I didn’t really bring much. I planned on leaving day after tomorrow.”

  “On Boxing Day?”

  He tapped her nose. “What do you know of Boxing Day, my little American beauty?”

  She tapped back. She wasn’t beautiful, but wouldn’t argue. “It’s tradition for people like you to give Christmas boxes to servants like me. The poor, too.”

  “Don’t forget tradesmen for outstanding service. In the olden days, they’d come round with their hands out.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. Like your grocer or tailor?”

  “Precisely. And what do you mean, ‘people like me?’ One might say I’m a tradesman.” He was playing with the tufts of her hair and for once Carrie wished she had long and flowing romance heroine locks.

  “Remember, you’re a viscount, too, with a huge house and responsibilities.”

  Griffin withdrew his fingers from her hair. “How can I forget?” The playfulness had gone out of his voice, and Carrie knew she’d made a mistake.

  Mrs. Stephens talked about Archer Hall all the time, even if she did complain about the cold there. Carrie would love to see it herself before it all fell in.

  “I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have so many worries,” Carrie said softly, smoothing his cheek.

  He caught her fingers, brought them to his mouth and gave them a brief kiss. “We’ll have none of that, now. Stiff upper lips, Holly Jolly Christmas, etcetera. With any luck, we will not freeze to death or get arrested tonight and it all will look brighter in the morning. I wish I’d thought to set up some sort of sleeping arrangement when we still had power.”

  “You Boy Scout you,” Carrie teased. “Your computer screen will light up for another six hours, and I’ve got my phone.” Griffin was slipping out of her body now. Maybe they’d make love again later to keep themselves warm.

  Make love. Perhaps she was being overly optimistic with her terminology.

  Griffin squeezed her shoulder. “I know one thing for sure—we’re not sleeping in the car. I saw a tent up above when I got our bar stools, and some canoe cushions. Maybe there are even sleeping bags. Let me up and I’ll get dressed and find out.”

  With the greatest reluctance, Carrie rolled off and sat on the wrinkled blanket. She hoped the old building was well-insulated. Patting around for her purse, she grabbed the phone out of its pocket. Her clothes were in their neat pile; Griffin’s were more tossed about. He turned arse to, and dealt with the condom, dropping it into a trashcan a few feet away. Welcome home, inn owners!

  They both dressed quickly in the phone’s beam, Carrie leaving off her bra and boots. No way was she going to try to sleep with those constricting items on her body. How did people manage corsets in the olden days?

  Sleep. Was it even possible? Her whole body was thrumming. Tingling. Her lips were puffy from the best kisses ever and even her toes felt boneless.

  Speaking of toes, she hoped Griffin had an extra pair of socks he could loan her. Her coat was filled with goose down and rated for below zero temperatures, but she sure hoped it wouldn’t get that cold inside.

  Griffin took the phone, climbed the stairs again and rummaged around the loft. Something whizzed by her ear and bounced on the floor.

  “Sorry! It was only a pillow. I didn’t hit you, did I?”

  Carrie’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness and she bent to pick up the square white canvas cushion. “No, I’m still conscious.” And kind of wished she wasn’t. Wouldn’t it be cozy to be lying in Griffin’s arms now instead of going all Survivor? At least they wouldn’t have to roast bugs for breakfast—there were leftovers from their Christmas Eve feast.

  Griffin clambered down with a folded pop-up tent, another cushion and a child’s Scooby-Do sleeping bag, looking for all the world as if he were Robinson Crusoe. “We should do splendidly. All the comforts of home.” He handed Carrie the phone and placed the tent over the blanket like a
champion camper. “This should hold some of our body heat. There were no proper sleeping bags, though. We’ll have to make do with this remarkably stupid-looking dog thing.”

  “Um, I know I’m short, but even I won’t fit in that.”

  “Who said it’s for you?”

  Carrie tried to imagine Griffin’s long body tucked inside and failed. But he unzipped it, arranging it inside the tent as an extra layer to sleep on. He threw the boat cushions in and grinned. “Just like the Ritz. Now let’s see what I’ve got in my duffel.”

  Two sweaters, both soft and cashmere. They must have cost a pretty penny, and then suddenly Carrie knew they had been presents from the wretched Lady Alice. Even in the less-than-stellar light, Carrie could tell his ex had a good eye for color. One was a buttery yellow that matched Griffin’s hair and the other a marine blue that would showcase his eyes beautifully. She reached for the yellow, thinking it would go best over her apparently boring beige sweater.

  “I’m just going to use the bathroom. Don’t worry, I won’t flush.”

  “Take your phone. Maybe there’s a flashlight or a lantern on the shelves. I’ll turn my laptop on and try to find out.”

  They’d gone from passionate to practical, and Carrie was feeling a trifle depressed. Let down. But it wouldn’t be sensible to remain naked in a blackout. She pulled the sweater on over her head and smoothed her hair down as best she could. Her legs had worked well enough to get her into the little cubby of a bathroom, but she really wanted to be back on the blanket, skin to skin with Griffin whispering sweet nothings in her ear in his fabulous accent.

  Instead they’d be separated by goose feathers and cashmere. Bummer.

  The raging storm outside was nothing to the swirling confusion inside her. Carrie had broken all sorts of cardinal rules. Sleeping with strangers. Sleeping with strangers that were related to her boss. She knew Griffin was a consummate gentleman, but what if he somehow slipped and his aunt found out how they’d spent the night? Would she get fired?

  It would almost be worth it.

  Sighing deeply like the drama queen she usually wasn’t, she pulled herself together. It was late. She was tired. Best if she fell asleep in the lingering warmth of the carriage house.

  And Griffin’s touch. She could still feel where his hands and lips had brought fire to her skin.

  There was a glow under the tent, so Carrie turned off her phone to conserve its battery. She ducked under the zipper to find Griffin sitting cross-legged, a battery-operated lantern by his elbow.

  “I could read if I had my Kindle,” Carrie said.

  Griffin lifted an eyebrow. “I plan to keep you much too busy to read.”

  He was already wearing his jacket and orange cap, so he must not plan on ravishing her any further. It was hard to be sexy in hunter orange, though Griffin came close.

  “Oh?”

  “Put your coat on like a good girl. I’m going to turn this off and we are going to talk until we fall asleep. I’ve set my watch for six. That should give us plenty of time to get dressed and clean up the place before we catch the ferry.”

  Carrie did as instructed and tried to sit gracefully in her swaddling. “What if it’s not running?”

  “It will run.”

  “But if the power doesn’t come back on, it may not.”

  “We will think positively. Lie down and relax. I’ll be right back.”

  It was very difficult to relax when ordered to, and the truth was Carrie was still pretty enervated by the best sex of her life. It seemed unlikely she was going to have any more of it, which was a shame. She found an extra pair of socks—argyle—in Griffin’s bag and put them over the ridiculously thin hose she’d started her day in. The weather reports had been less than truthful. Carrie had known there would be snow but thought it would hold off until she’d safely delivered the turkey.

  She put her head on the cushion. It was meant for bottoms, not brains, and Carrie immediately rejected it. Her fake-fur trimmed hood would give her a little protection beyond the blanket and Scooby, so she flipped it up and lay back down.

  This was all so very odd. A few hours ago, Lord Griffin Archer was just a face in a silver photo frame. Now she’d seen him naked. Tonight she’d be sleeping by his side.

  And tomorrow she’d have to pretend that they were still strangers. The day after that he’d be gone and she’d probably never see him again. Carrie’s eyes welled up a little, which was silly. She was a young professional woman, a problem-solver. She didn’t have time to moon over any man, viscount or not.

  Maybe she should contact the agency that had placed her with Mrs. Stephens. It might be time for a change. When she’d been hired, she expected to live in New York City after the summer. It was damned boring living on the island in the winter. Even the lobstermen went to Florida. The only night-time activity was the weekly high school basketball game. Carrie had no vested interest in who won, though she did have an Eagles sweatshirt she’d bought at a rummage sale. Then there was the women’s sewing circle, but Carrie was about four decades too young for it and couldn’t sew a straight seam anyway.

  “Goodness, what’s that sigh for?”

  She was doing it again. Feeling world-weary and sorry for herself. That was a total waste of the few private hours she had left with Griffin.

  “Just breathing. Are you ready to tell me a bedtime story?”

  He scooched under the flap and sat down. “I might be.

  “No monsters. Nothing scary. And you’re not going to zip us in, are you? I may have to get up again.”

  “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked in concern.

  Hurt was not the right word, but she had to admit she felt tender. Fragile. Her body was not used to such delicious invasion.

  “No, not at all. It was . . . pretty wonderful. I’m just not very experienced lately.”

  Griffin lay down next to her and took her hand. “Neither, as it happens, am I. I’m glad I didn’t forget what to do.”

  The aristocratic Griffin had disappeared in a drift of snow. He was just as vulnerable as she was. Maybe more so. Guys didn’t go around talking about their broken hearts. Carrie squeezed his hand. “Thank you. You’ve made this the nicest Christmas Eve I’ve had since I was a little kid.”

  “You shook the packages and peeled the tape off to peek, didn’t you?”

  “I did not! Well, sometimes. The year Cabbage Patch dolls were so scarce, I was desperate to see if my mom had snagged one, and I may have examined suspicious-looking boxes rather carefully.” Carrie could still remember the thrill of discovering she was the proud owner of Brigitte Marie. Her mother was fond of telling Carrie how she’d waited in line with a bunch of other frantic mothers at Toys R Us for half a day to get her only child the only present she wanted from Santa.

  Griffin tugged her a little closer. “What on earth is a Cabbage Patch doll?”

  “Don’t tell me they didn’t have them in England!”

  “If we did, I certainly hadn’t signed up for one. Boys do not play with dolls.” He sounded quite scandalized at the thought.

  “What about G.I. Joe?”

  “Who?”

  Carrie put her head on his shoulder. “Never mind. Cabbage Patch dolls had yarn hair and smooshed faces and came with birth certificates. They were already named.”

  “Not naming your own doll? That goes against the independent spirit of America. I’m surprised you stood for it.”

  “Well, I was like five. I hadn’t discovered my independent spirit yet. What did you play with as a kid?”

  “Mechanno, of course. Even as a child I was prescient. Into building and tearing down. It’s what I get paid to do every day now.”

  Though the concrete was hard, it was so comfortable lying here in the lantern’s glow, curled up against Griffin even if they did have an unconscionable amount of clothing on. Carrie stifled a yawn and stretched a little.

  “Tired?” Griffin asked.

  “I am. It was kind of
a crazy day.” Kind of an understatement, too.

  “Shall I switch off the lantern? I have no idea how old the battery in it is, and we may need it for the morning.”

  She nodded, and he reached over to shut it off. It would be dark when they woke up, but maybe the power would be on by then. Carrie wasn’t sure how the ferry would run if power was out on both sides of the bay.

  Maybe it wouldn’t.

  Christmas Day in the carriage house? No, the roads would be mostly cleared. She’d heard plows and sand trucks rumble by over the whine of the wind. Tomorrow they could go to a motel and grab something from McDonalds. Mickey D never closed, not even on Christmas.

  It wouldn’t be the same between them if they had two double beds and cable TV to keep them apart. Carrie snuggled closer and tried to enjoy this last bit of quiet companionship.

  They were cocooned in the hush of the storm, safe and warm and satisfied. This time she didn’t even try to cover her yawn.

  “No bedtime story then?” Griffin asked.

  “Nope. Not necessary.”

  “How about a good-night kiss?”

  “You really don’t want me to fall asleep, do you?”

  “Just a kiss. I promise not to take any further liberties.”

  Which was somewhat disappointing when you got right down to it. Carrie turned her face, expectant.

  Contact. Oh, so sweet. Soft. Just the perfect amount of pressure and promise. Carrie could get used to being kissed like this.

  But this was it. If they ever got out to the island, she wasn’t going to sneak around Mrs. Stephens’s house playing musical beds. It would be disrespectful to her employer and put Griffin in a terrible position.

  He was a viscount. She was the help. There would be no fairy tale or romance novel happy ending in her future.

  Chapter 6

  GRIFFIN HANDED OVER his ferry ticket and took a breath of arctic air before he closed the car window. He watched as Carrie’s Jeep was waved to the right side of the boat, her taillights flashing as she braked down the steep ramp. He was directed to the left, with a whole row of cars parked in the middle row between them.