A Blazing Little Christmas

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  “So why didn’t you stick with him when you had the chance? Seems like he’s the right guy for you.”

  Rebecca sounded like any number of confused women who wanted security, happiness and a man who she could count on—both in her bed and out. The Brit had driven through a blizzard to get to her. Had to give the guy credit for that. Cory wasn’t the kind of guy to drive through blizzards for any woman.

  “He’s not the right guy,” she announced.

  “At least he doesn’t make you nervous.”

  “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

  “You get an eye-twitch sometimes. Relax, Rebecca. We don’t have to do anything. After all, you’re not into that whole furniture-banging thing,” he said, not meaning to bring it up, but a man’s pride was a sensitive thing.

  “Maybe I like furniture-banging,” she said, just to spite him.

  “Never mind.”

  “Don’t tell me never mind. Maybe I want to do some furniture-banging right now.”

  Cory held up a hand in peace. “Maybe you want to want furniture-banging, but you really want a wedding ring. I’ve seen your type looking through bridal magazines, not trolling the bars looking to pick up men for a one-night stand. Why are you so afraid to admit it?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Maybe I want to try it on. See if it looks good on me. I’m almost thirty, Cory. I don’t know if I want to be me for the rest of my life. What if I’m missing something? Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  “You’re not thirty yet?” he asked. She was on a personal life quest, and he was still doing math.

  “Fine. I’m thirty-one,” she admitted, and she didn’t seem happy about it. “You’re not Mr. Adventure, either, you know.”

  Cory looked at her, shocked. “I am.”

  “Please. You eat healthy. It’s impossible.”

  “You make my life sound boring.”

  “Your life is everything you make it.”

  Once again she was leading the conversation into shark-infested waters, where the jaws of emotional trappings were snapping all around him. “Let’s watch TV.”

  “Chicken-shit.”

  “Bwak, bwak, bwak,” he answered, not meeting her eyes, and then powered on the TV. Television was much safer.

  * * *

  Problem was, Cory spent nearly fifteen minutes trying to watch the movie, but he wasn’t interested. He’d replayed their sex video over and over in his head, and although he’d had one of the best orgasms in his life, she wasn’t happy. It pricked at every bit of male pride he possessed.

  Ha. She’d had a great time, but she didn’t want to admit it because it didn’t fit into her neat dollhouse existence.

  He leaned over and began to unbutton her blouse. This was what she wanted, so damn it, he’d give it to her.

  She looked at him, eyes wide and twitching. “Now?”

  “Why not?” he asked because this was supposed to be a one-night stand. She was willing, he was ready. All he had to do was prove it to her. In fact—he took a handful of cotton and ripped—he wasn’t close to boring.

  Buttons flew across the room, and he saw the spark of adventure in her eyes.

  He freed one breast from the pointless bra she wore and fastened his mouth around it.

  She smelled like apple cider and something flowery and sweet, but her skin tasted like spice. Lush, potent, spice. His mouth sucked harder and he heard a low, feminine moan.

  Success.

  Cory lowered her back on the bed, slowly drawing down her pants. She shouldn’t have dressed. He shouldn’t have dressed, not when there was all this—

  His hand reached down.

  Moist heat.

  Rebecca bucked when he touched her, but he hadn’t even started. Not really. Determinedly his hand skimmed back and forth, and he watched her face. She had no idea what she kept bottled inside her. The eyes were a sensible gray until she got turned on. And then the devils came there, banking the silver with low fires. Her hair fell in a straight line, until her head listed to one side, the pale silk falling in her eyes like a wanton. And the mouth. No disguising the plump mouth and its intended uses. But they’d save that for later.

  Later. Cory cursed himself, drawing down her panties more roughly than he intended, but Rebecca didn’t seem to mind. Her fingers were kneading at his shoulder like a kitten.

  This time he drew her legs apart, watching as the sharpened, silvery eyes shifted to his mouth. He knew what she wanted. A kiss. A bond of more than bodies.

  His fingers moved higher inside her, deeper, and she gasped. Her gaze moved off his mouth.

  He bent his head, his mouth feasted on her other breast, pulling and laving.

  Her back arched into him, her hips tilting in invitation. Her pelvis rubbing against the fly of his jeans. Rebecca was a fast learner, fast learning which things would drive him out of his mind. The jeans were gone, and then his cock was inside her.

  Maybe it was nothing but furniture-banging, but it’d be the best furniture-banging she’d ever get. When he felt that slick glove surround him he felt a thousand devils burn within.

  He had meant to screw her hard and fast. To show the perky tight-ass cheerleader that she wasn’t the perfect angel she wanted to be. But that face…

  It was as if it was yesterday, and he was back in high school. He felt that same pull. That same desire to make those angel’s eyes look at him. See him.

  Cory thrust inside her slow, smooth. She noticed the change, and watched him warily. Again he went inside her, deeper this time. Dark lashes fell against her cheeks, her eyes hidden. He sank into her again, willing her to look at him.

  She did.

  The wanton, cloudy gaze hit on his mouth, plump lips open, waiting, inviting. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

  There was a sick throbbing in his gut as he lowered his mouth, feeling her warm breath on his skin. He didn’t listen to the voice inside him, instead he lunged into the kiss like a drowning man. There were many things that Cory feared, and this was one. Losing himself inside someone else.

  He kissed her again and again, tasting the sweetness in her, plundering her mouth, drawing her light into his darkness.

  It didn’t work—the darkness was still there, but God, he kept trying. He pounded her. He wanted to own her. Wanted to…wanted to do so many things. But in the end, he knew he couldn’t. The heat in his blood cooled, reminding him that when you trusted people, they could turn on you, pull you into the shadows and do despicable things that no person should endure. He wasn’t going back there. Ever again.

  He wanted to pull away from her, but she felt too good. Instead he thrust even deeper. Telling himself that he was only fucking her. And that if he said it enough, he’d believe it.

  Over and over he moved inside her, feeling her move with him. Feeling her muscles, feeling her blood, feeling her.

  It felt so pure.

  Then her muscles stiffened around him, and he saw her eyes glaze over. When he watched her come, the punch in his gut was a thousand times worse than he’d ever expected. Instinctively his body reacted, tightened and he spilled himself inside her.

  The innocent eyes stared up at him, seeing things, good things in him that weren’t there. She, who’d never seen the darkness in humanity. He, who couldn’t escape it.

  No. No. No. No. No.

  Quickly Cory withdrew from her and began to dress. He needed to leave, he needed to leave now. Rebecca watched him from the bed, and he didn’t want to meet her eyes, but his eyes didn’t obey. His gaze kept wandering over her, seeing the places where he’d touched that slight body, where he’d trod. Red marks marred her arms where his hands had gripped too tightly. There was a purple bruise on her breast where his stubble had been. She had the look of a woman well used.

  For the second time that evening, he put on his boots, ready to go. He waited for her to stop him, but there was a new look in her eyes. She wouldn’t stop him anymore. Rebecca Neumann had finally wised up. He wasn’t th
e kind of guy who was going to stick around, not for anyone.

  “Not bad furniture-banging there, huh?” she asked, her mouth still swollen from his kiss.

  Damn her. Cory stood, taking one inopportune step toward the bed. “I’ll leave now,” he stated stupidly because he still thought she’d stop him. Instead she stretched like a cat, and Cory felt the tortured urge to pounce.

  Her eyes dared him to pounce.

  It was the challenge that did him in. Cory’d never been one for a challenge. He walked out before he’d do something she’d regret for a very long time.

  Chapter 6

  Rebecca fired A pillow at the door, which accomplished nothing, but proved her foolishness. As if the previous ten hours hadn’t.

  Some Christmas present. Four orgasms, one hickey and a bad case of stubble burn. And those were only the physical symptoms. Still, she’d known exactly what she was getting into.

  A one-night stand.

  She got up and stood near the window, watching the late-night sky light up with stars. The whole scene was like something from a fairy tale, a Normal Rockwell painting come to life. But right now, it sucked eggs. Big eggs.

  The fire was crackling happily, uncaring of her foul mood. It was 2:00 a.m. and she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. This was Christmas, this was her vacation. Why couldn’t something go right for a change? Was it too much to ask?

  Five minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. This time Rebecca grabbed a robe from the bathroom and went and opened the door.

  Cory—not that he looked happy to be there.

  “Road’s still blocked?” she asked, trying to be casual.

  He nodded curtly. “Nobody was at the front desk—guess everybody’s down for the night. If it’s all right with you, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  And somehow they’d moved beyond the one-night stand to the no-night stand. “The chair might be more comfortable.”

  His eyes cut from hers to the stuffed chair. “I’m used to the floor.”

  In the top of the closet she found some blankets and an extra pillow. She tossed them in his general direction. “I’m going to soak my feet. I hope the noise won’t keep you awake.”

  Actually she hoped it would keep him awake for hours upon hours, but that wouldn’t gain her points on the sophistication scale, so she turned on her heel and went off into the bathroom. As far as she was concerned, Cory Bell was on his own.

  * * *

  The whirring sound kept him awake. She said she was soaking her feet, but she’d been at it way too long.

  The floor was hard, but Cory wasn’t a stranger to hard floors. When you slept on the floor, it was easier to get away fast.

  Some habits died hard, some habits never died at all.

  He stared up at the ceiling, wishing for anything that would numb the damned knot deep in his gut. Everything irked him. The holidays, the trees, even the twinkly lights. If it wasn’t for her—no, scratch that—if it wasn’t for the snow, he wouldn’t be here at all.

  Cory pulled the blanket up tight and closed his eyes. He might not be able to sleep tonight, but he’d be sure that she would never know.

  * * *

  Rebecca raised her feet from the bubbles, but even the soothing scent of cucumber and melon didn’t help. What the heck was wrong with her? Was she deficient in some way? Never. Except for fallen arches, she was absolutely perfect.

  Okay, he was right. She wasn’t cut out for one-night stands. Maybe that was why she was sitting here giving herself a pedicure at 3:00 a.m., wondering what was wrong with her? Darn it, did he have to be so cold, so uncaring, so…one-night-standish?

  Arg. She picked out the pale mauve nail polish, but forgot about the metal towel rack overhead. She hit it. Hard.

  “Ow.”

  “You okay?” Cory called from the other room.

  So now there was care and concern for her well-being? She glared at the closed door. “Lovely.”

  “Don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Oh, no. No hurt here.”

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “No sarcasm.”

  “It sounded sarcastic.”

  She gathered the robe around her and flung open the door. “There. Was. No. Sarcasm.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “No, I’m painting my toenails and unless you have a secret desire for a career in the beauty industry, you’ll leave me alone.”

  He sat up, pushed the blanket aside. She was both relieved and disappointed to see that Cory had gone to bed in his clothes. “I’ll help.”

  Rebecca took a step back, hiding her feet under the robe. Her feet were the reason she never wore sandals, never wore flip-flops, never exposed her naked feet to men—ever. They were ugly. “You can’t paint toes.”

  “I do great interior and exterior work. How hard can a toe be?”

  “Ten.”

  He scoffed. “How hard can ten toes be?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, giving him a suspicious once-over. When she’d walked in, his face was paler than earlier, and his eyes, well, his eyes looked nervy.

  “I couldn’t sleep. You’re pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed,” she stated for the record.

  “Whatever,” he said, not quite listening.

  Rebecca was used to regaining lost attention. That, and she wanted his eyes less nervy. “I’m a little pissed.”

  Some of the color returned to his face. “A little?”

  “I’m a little more than pissed, but this isn’t that bad, comparatively.”

  “You fall into rages often?”

  “You haven’t met some of the kids I teach.”

  “Monsters?”

  “I got fired,” she said, her toes peeking out from under the robe.

  That got his attention. “From your job? Was this recent?”

  “Two days ago,” she admitted, though it seemed like four lifetimes ago. Still, it felt good to say it aloud.

  “Then I think you should really let me paint your toes.” His face wasn’t filled with sympathy and his eyes held their normal flat darkness, but the air turned. The night was softer, warmer. Some of the old ghosts had left the room.

  Maybe it was time. Out of all the men she’d ever lain with, Cory Bell was the man least likely to run screaming from her feet.

  She settled herself on the bed, her feet tucked safely under her, and he took the nail polish from her hand. She watched, waiting for him to admit defeat and hand it back. He didn’t. For the first time she noticed the deep scars on his right hand. Four neat half-moons scored in the middle of his palm.

  He saw her look and closed his fingers over the marks. Then he unscrewed the lid and pulled out the brush, and she laughed.

  “You have to shake it first.”

  And he shook it all wrong. Rebecca took the bottle, shook it correctly, then handed it to him.

  “I bet you were hell in the classroom.”

  “I was a sweetheart. Except when they deserved it. And then—”

  “You want me to paint your toes or not?” he asked patiently, waiting for her to produce her feet from the safety of white terry cloth. He was going to see her fallen arches.

  It’s not that they were huge banana boats. They weren’t. A tiny, trim size six. Everything about her she could live with, except for her arches. Flat feet. Done in after eight years of gymnastics and cheerleading. It wasn’t a big flaw, and somehow that made it worse. It wasn’t an elaborate stretchmark, or an extra pound of flesh that she could exercise away. It was prosaic, and ordinary, a physical characteristic that couldn’t be hidden under full-coverage concealer. And she hated it.

  Suddenly his eyes were too knowing, too aware. She couldn’t do this. She held out her hand for the polish. “Here. I’m not going to make you do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I changed my mind. I don’t need to paint my toes.”r />
  “Why not? You’ve got somewhere else to go?”

  “I just don’t want to.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I want to do something for you. In the big scheme of things, painting your toes seems like a wise choice.”

  It was her moment of truth, to finally show someone her flaw. He was waiting, watching her expectantly. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, and they weren’t ever going to see each other again. So what if he laughed? First she pulled out one foot, then the other.

  There was no laughing.

  Silently he took the brush from the bottle and started painting her little toe.

  It was an amazingly anticlimactic moment after a lifetime of apprehension. Rebecca studied his bent head and wondered at the thoughts there.

  She didn’t talk while he worked, just watched him with cautious eyes. He concentrated so carefully, his hands not shaking, and every now and again, he’d bite his lip. In high school, she’d heard rumors, and as an adult, she’d seen that rigid, disciplined demeanor before. The first time, it was a small boy in her class. Eventually he’d been taken away from his father, yet Rebecca never knew the details.

  She longed to put the life back in Cory’s eyes, longed to stroke his hair, longed to hold him close and keep him safe, but she realized she was about twenty years too late. So she began to talk, simple things at first, the story about how she ruined her mother’s garden by using hair spray on the roses, the time she thought she could sing and how she decided to run away to Juilliard, until her father said she had a voice like a wounded hyena. Cory laughed at that, she saw it. He started to talk, too, not like her confessions, but stories about the renovations that he’d done for people, stories about his trips to Canada, never sharing anything about his childhood at all.

  After a while, she stopped talking and merely watched him, silently, jealously, wishing for Christmas miracles that never would occur.

  * * *

  Saturday, December 21

  At first light, Cory rose and dressed, keeping the promise to himself. It was easier to escape in the dawn, when most everyone slept like the dead. Rebecca was a restless sleeper, a cover-stealer and a clinger. He hadn’t slept that well in years.