Harry wore a tolerant smile as she dressed him in a Santa suit. "Behave while Mom's here, okay?" She stuffed his hard plastic doll manhood into the red pants and pulled the hem of the coat down for more camouflage. By two o'clock she had hung garlands from every surface, set luminaries in her windows, removed the turkey from the oven, and had begun baking the walls for the gingerbread house they would build together. Just looking over the ingredients sent a little tremor of happiness through her chest—gumdrops and sugar cubes and squeeze tubes of colored icing. Nothing said Christmas like the gingerbread houses she and her mother used to make when Lana was little.
While the gingerbread baked, she showered and changed into a black velvet jumpsuit, then dabbed perfume behind her ears. Janet had sent her a rhinestone candy-cane pin for Christmas last year from the Bahamas, and it showed up well against the dark fabric. The gingerbread came out more perfectly than she'd ever seen it. A good omen, she thought, smiling to herself while keeping one eye on the clock. One more hour. She let the slabs cool on the breakfast bar while she put together the rest of their feast.
The phone rang, and she picked it up while sliding the asparagus into the oven. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Alex. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas to you, too."
"I just called to check in. I hear Elvis in the background, so your mom must be there."
She glanced at the clock—3:45. "Not yet, but she should be here any minute."
"Okay." Her friend was trying hard to sound casual, bless her. "Jack and I are spending the night at Dad's, if you need anything."
"I won't, but thanks."
"Sure. And don't forget about our New Year's Eve party next Sunday."
"Are you sure you want to have a party in your new house after you've just moved in?"
"It'll be fun. And it's shaping up to be a good-size crowd. Jack's brother will be there, and his wife. You'll like them."
"If it's all couples, maybe I should pass."
"Don't be silly. Derek's wife has a friend in from Atlanta, and some of the people I work with are coming. Don't forget to invite your roommate. Oh, and Annette and her new beau, of course."
Lana waited as two seconds passed, then three, four, five.
"And you can invite a date if you like."
She smiled into the phone. "Really? Whoever would I ask?"
"Anyone," Alex said in her most innocent voice. "Hey, since Greg Healey's brother is coming with Annette, why don't you ask him? I know Jack would like to see him again."
A smirk pulled back one side of Lana's mouth. "Hmm. I'll probably just ride with Rich, if he can come. But thanks for offering."
"Okay. Well, have a good time with your mother," Alex said.
"I will," Lana said. "I'll call you later in the week."
She hung up and snacked on a celery stick dipped in peanut butter while she put the finishing touches on the decorations. She lit all the candles and lowered the lights to show off the masterpiece of a Christmas tree that was leaning ever so slightly. And she rearranged her mother's gifts so that the bows were perky. At the last minute she remembered the two disposable cameras she'd bought and put them on the counter so she could take pictures as soon as Janet arrived.
And she tried not to check the clock too often. Four-ten. Four-seventeen. Four-twenty-four. At four-thirty she considered blowing out some of the wilting candles, and turned off all the warming burners for the food.
At five-fifteen the phone rang again. Lana snapped it up. "Hello?"
The crackly noise of a cellular phone with bad reception sounded over the line. "Lana, darling, it's Mother."
Her heart raced. Janet only called herself "Mother" under dire circumstances. "Mom? Is something wrong?" Her father's Christmas card had been returned. Was he okay?
"No, nothing's wrong. You're such a worrywart."
A by-product of growing up fast. "Are you held up in traffic?"
"Darling, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to make it this year."
Lana swallowed hard and blinked back sudden hot tears. "Oh?" was all she could manage to say.
"Yes, dear. At the last minute, Larry got this fabulous deal on a cruise to Cancún, and we're getting ready to set sail."
"Set sail?" She cleared her throat of the emotion that lodged there. "I wish you had called. I…wish you had called."
"I'm sorry, darling. We had to leave in a rush, and this is the first chance I've had to ring you. I hope you didn't go to any trouble."
Lana looked around the sparkly, glittery apartment, awash with holiday magic, with Elvis crooning in the background, and savory scents coming from the kitchen. "No. No trouble."
"Oh, there's our boarding call, dear. I have to go. I'll send you a nice blanket or something from Mexico."
Or something.
"Lana, are you there?"
"I'm here," she croaked. "Have a good time."
"We will—"
The line went dead. Lana stared at the phone until a piercing tone sounded and a voice informed her that if she would like to make a call, please hang up and try again. She dropped the phone on the love seat, then slowly walked around the room. The cooling gingerbread house walls had developed half-inch wide cracks. How fitting.
She tore off the chimney and chewed on it as she wandered around, blowing out candles. She attributed the haze and the smoky odor to the extinguished candles, until she realized the asparagus was burning. When she opened the oven, the green spears were black—and on fire. Lana shrieked, then yanked a mitt from the counter, pulled out the flaming dish and carried it to the sliding glass door. The balcony was antique wrought iron—fireproof. She set the casserole dish on the floor and jerked her hand away, sucking on a burned thumb.
Then the tears came. She hugged the oven mitt to her aching chest and wept as she looked out over a glittery Lexington, where normal people were tucked in their warm houses having dinner and exchanging gifts with loved ones. How big a loser was she if even her parents didn't want to be with her on Christmas Eve?
In the light of day, she could nonchalantly announce she was happy living alone. But at this forlorn moment, she felt as if she were being paid a courtesy visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future: a vision of her at eighty-five, living alone save for Harry and seventeen cats.
She'd trained herself to believe, especially over the past few years, that she could only truly rely on herself. But her tears were tangible proof that she needed someone else to share her life, to fill the void in her heart that in rare moments of despair seemed bottomless.
She wasn't sure how long she stood there in the cold. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. The next stimulus she was aware of was a buzzing noise inside her apartment. Afraid she might have set something else on fire and triggered an alarm, Lana rushed back inside to the tune of her doorbell ringing. Puzzled, she pressed a watery eye to the peephole.
Greg stood in the hallway. Her breath froze in her chest. What was he doing here?
He knocked on the door sharply. "Lana? It's Greg. Are you okay? Lana?"
She swung open the door.
Greg had his hand raised, poised to knock again. He looked out of place in the musty hallway, tall and broad and sexy, wearing dark slacks and a white shirt and a black leather jacket, smelling like a man and sporting a tentative smile. He was the most welcome sight imaginable.
"Wh-what are you doing here?"
His brown eyes narrowed. "You've been crying."
She swiped at her eyes. "I, uh, burned something in the oven and the smoke got in my eyes. What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, and shifted foot to foot. "Did your mother arrive?"
"Um, no, she had a change in plans—" Lana stopped, then looked to the sliding glass door and back to Greg. "You saw me on the balcony, didn't you."
"By accident."
"Your eye fell against your telescope that just happened to be trained on my balcony?"
A flush climbed his face. "You were st
anding outside in the cold for over an hour. I called, but your phone is off the hook."
She glanced to her couch where the phone lay, emitting a fast busy signal.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked.
A hysterical little laugh bubbled out. At the moment there was more wrong in her life than was right, and this man was responsible for at least half of it. Suddenly bombarded with the concern in his eyes, the disappointment of her mother's call, and the melancholy strains of Jim Reeves crooning "Silver Bells" in the background, Lana burst into tears.
22
GREG STOOD STOCK-STILL, watching the sudden display of waterworks, at a complete loss. How did women do that? He fumbled in his back pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to her. She was really boo-hooing now, and at least two neighbors stuck their heads into the hall to stare at him. "May I come in?" he asked.
She nodded and stepped aside, her shoulders heaving with the great mouthfuls of air she gulped.
Greg walked in and carefully closed the door, his pupils dilating in response to the wonderland of decorations. The air was hazy, probably from all the half-burned candles sitting around the room. His nostrils flared at the aroma of food—burned and otherwise—emanating from the kitchen. From the surroundings and Lana's dressy outfit and her tears, it was clear that she had been stood up. Stood up by her mother on Christmas Eve. His heart squeezed for her, and he resisted the urge to fold her into his arms.
Just a little while ago he'd been pacing in his room, agonizing over how to tell Lana that his response to the council would be uncompromising—pass the rezoning proposal as is, or he would be forced to hike the shop owners' rents to offset his company's losses. Higher rents would force some merchants out of business—a no-win situation. The city council would pass the rezoning plan, but he'd be painted as the bad guy. Still, it would be worth the intense unpopularity if the deal put him one step closer to that job Charlie had promised him.
Lana, of course, would hate him.
He'd been drawn to the window, to the telescope. Absurdly, looking at her apartment building made him feel closer to her. He'd even practiced telling her, trying to put a good spin on his words: You're an accountant, Lana. You know this is a simple case of sacrificing the needs of a few to satisfy the needs of many.
Yes, she would say. You're right, Greg. Now make love to me.
He'd laughed at his own foolishness. And when she'd emerged from the sliding glass door, he'd nearly knocked over the telescope. Then she'd remained on the balcony, in the cold and without that ridiculous dalmation coat, and he'd known something was wrong.
But he hadn't counted on an emotional dilemma. Now, powerless to stem her tears, Greg bit down on the inside of his cheek and waited for her to take a breath. "If you don't have other plans, come back to the house with me for Christmas Eve dinner."
She stopped crying and hiccuped, then blew her nose heartily into his handkerchief. She was considering his question—knowing her, spinning through the ramifications, looking for an ulterior motive.
"Annette is already there," he cajoled. "And you can meet Yvonne and her brother."
She dabbed at her eyes and sniffed mightily.
"And besides," he added. "I'd like it very much if you'd come."
At the widening of her tear-streaked eyes, he thought he'd gone too far, almost admitted something he didn't even want to admit to himself—that he had grown attached to her violet eyes and her quick wit and her funky clothes.
"Otherwise, I'm going to feel like a fifth wheel at the table," he continued with a little laugh.
"Oh," she croaked, then blew her nose again. "Well, it's nice of you to include me, but—" she gestured vaguely toward the kitchen "—I have so much food here, and I don't think I'd be very good company."
"No one should be alone on Christmas Eve."
She laughed, a strained, high-pitched sound. "I don't suppose you'd consider staying and having dinner with me? Overcooked turkey and asparagus flambé?"
He blinked. Dining together alone on Christmas Eve smacked of…intimacy. "Well, I'm expected back at home. Will and Annette—"
"I forgot," she cut in with a little wave. "You're chaperoning."
He smirked at her teasing tone, but was glad beyond comprehension that her mood had lightened. "I'm not chaperoning. I'm just…keeping an eye on them."
She leaned toward him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Do you know how much sex they could be having right now?"
His body leapt to rapt attention at her words and her proximity. Every muscle strained toward her, pulled by some invisible force that baffled him. "How much?" he murmured, no longer able to resist touching her.
He opened his arms, and she came into them with a little groan. Greg wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her—fruit and…smoke? The burned food, of course. He smiled into her hair while his chest swelled with a firestorm of emotion, including sympathy for her. How could a mother not appreciate having this beautiful, intelligent creature for a daughter? Overcome with the urge to protect her, he kissed her hard and kneaded her back. The fuzzy nap of her jumpsuit felt luxurious under his fingers, smooth and sexy and inviting. His sex hardened and ached for release.
Days of pent-up desire and near misses hurried their movements. He didn't know how they made it to her bedroom, but he knew he would forever remember the way they'd tumbled onto her bed, tugging at clothes, wordless in their need and urgency to have each other. Within seconds, they were stripped to their underwear—Lana hadn't been wearing a bra.
He pulled away long enough to take in the sight of her, lying on her side, the curve of her hip rising above the dip of her waist, the fullness of her breasts rising and falling in her breathlessness. Black bikini panties were a perfect contrast to the pale, flat plane of her stomach. Her legs extended long and lean and limber. Greg's erection, already straining painfully, surged anew, prompting him to shed his boxers. Speechless with need, he turned his mind and body over to automatic, kissing and massaging her exposed skin. He acknowledged on a subconscious level that one of the emotions driving him to please her was regret—regret that he would be the next person who would disappoint her. He poured all his energy into lavishing on her body the attention she deserved. An advance apology, of sorts. With a groan, he slipped his hand inside the scrap of black fabric between her legs.
Already near the point of sensory overload, Lana cried out in response to his gentle probing and opened her legs to accommodate one, then two long fingers. Moving with his slow rhythm, she felt an intense orgasm flowering, blooming deep in her womb. Part of her wanted him to prolong the deft exploration, but part of her wanted him to take her quickly to end the sensual torture. Then without warning, her muscles contracted around his muscular fingers, unleashing a tide of pleasure so fierce, she dug her fingernails into his shoulders. "Greg…Greg…oh, Greg." Bright spots of light swirled behind her eyes, and her body convulsed as the orgasm claimed her, wave by wave.
When the world righted itself, she was primed for his remarkable body to join hers. He was the personification of Adam—tall, broad, lean and equipped. Every movement displaced toned muscle. Lana watched, fascinated, engrossed, thrilled.
While he rolled a condom onto his raging erection, she lifted her hips and shimmied out of the panties, her inhibitions long gone. She reached for him, pulling at his shoulders, levering her hips beneath his.
His back was moist with perspiration, as was his brow. His breath escaped in staccato bursts as he gathered her beneath him, vying for the best angle. His erection, hard and thick with want, prodded her folds. She waited for his sensual invasion, her breath caught in her thudding chest. Then he entered her with one deliberate thrust.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the incredible fullness his body added to hers. Strange, but in those few seconds of intense physical union, Lana was struck by her participation in this ritual that had made the world go around since the dawn of mankind. Never had she felt such a con
nection with nature and with her base emotions. She kneaded his back, adopting his slow, thorough rhythm, meeting his hip thrusts with her own.
"Amazing," he whispered, his breathing compromised. "So…good."
Age-old female satisfaction curled in her chest. "Love me, Greg…harder."
He slid his hands under her hips, cradling her bottom with his large hands, and obliged, plunging in and out like a piston, faster and harder, until his body went rigid and a sharp guttural moan tore from his mouth. Triumph flooded her limbs as the ragged sighs of his release filled her ears. At last he quieted, sagging against her, raining exhausted kisses on her throat before he rolled away to lie beside her on the rumpled comforter.
Amazing, she seconded silently, sinking deeper into the softness at her back. Her body hummed with fulfillment and discovery, and other sensations too complicated to delve into. Their lovemaking was a result of unrealized chemistry and loneliness—no need to overanalyze the obvious. Keep it casual, she told herself. He was probably already regretting what had happened.
"Are you hungry?" she whispered to the ceiling, then braced for his excuse to leave as soon as possible.
"Starved."
She rolled over on her side to study his profile—strong brow, jutting nose, square jaw. How easy it would be to fall for this man.
"Greg, do you have plans for New Year's Eve?" she asked.
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