Mick slipped two strong arms around her waist and pulled her close again. “Silly,” he said as he kissed her forehead. “Don’t you know? Of course there’s an angel in this story. It’s you.”
~ The End ~
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BOOK 6
CHRISTMAS in STILETTOS
Red Stilettos Series: Book Four
By
Rebecca J. Clark
Second edition COPYRIGHT © 2017 Rebecca J. Clark
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Steven Novak
A marriage of convenience…
Francie and Dylan Maguire married for practical reasons, not love. Once he gets home from deployment, they’ve decided to go their separate ways. There’s just one little problem—his family thinks they’re happily married…and his parents and siblings are expecting the couple home for Christmas.
A temporary husband…
Francie tries her best to get through three days of family dinners, holiday traditions, and sharing a bed with her husband—a very cozy double bed. But the more she pretends, the more she realizes it’s no longer a charade for her. Unfortunately, Dylan’s made it very clear that their marriage is temporary.
Christmas…a time for miracles…
Dedication
To anyone battling hard times during this holiday season (or whenever)… I hope this story brings you a spot of happiness and laughter while you’re reading it.
Chapter One
Twenty-three-year-old Francesca Maguire stood in the terminal of the Boise airport next to the windows, while her twin daughters pressed their hands and noses to the glass, their excitement at seeing all the big airplanes barely containable. Molly was the more expressive of the two, telling anyone who walked by that her daddy was coming home on an airplane. Macy was more reserved. She was excited about the planes, but ambivalent about seeing her father for the first time in nine months.
Francie knew exactly how Macy felt.
Her phone beeped, alerting her to a text. She pulled the phone from her purse and glanced down at the small screen. Dylan. Getting off plane. See u at luggage.
Her gut clenched with excitement and nerves as she squatted down beside the girls. “Guess what? Daddy’s plane is here. He’s going to be coming down those stairs in just a few minutes.” She pointed to the escalators.
Molly jumped up and down and clapped her chubby hands. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
Macy turned her face away from the window, but didn’t smile like her sister did. Francie reached for their hands. “Come on, girls. Let’s go wait over here.”
Molly tugged ahead and Macy dragged behind as they joined the small crowd waiting for the passengers. Francie unrolled the ‘Welcome Home, Daddy!’ signs they’d painted this morning, and handed them to the girls.
She breathed in and out of her nose as a group of passengers appeared at the top of the escalators.
She’d taken extra care with her appearance, even though it really didn’t matter how she looked to him. She wore a new silver sweater over jeans and red stiletto ankle boots. Instead of her normal ponytail that she wore to work at the gym or to teach dance, she’d left her red hair long and loose around her shoulders, the way Dylan liked it. Not that it mattered. Not really.
There he was.
Her heart fluttered and her breathing sped up when she spotted him, head and shoulders above his fellow passengers. Safe, on American soil, and apparently healthy. Thank God. He hadn’t seen them yet, so she was free to check him out. His hair was buzz cut and he was tanner than she remembered. But of course he’d just spent much of a year in the Afghan desert. He wasn’t wearing his fatigues as she’d expected, but Levis jeans and a Seattle Seahawks hoodie stretched taut over his broad chest.
Butterflies danced through her stomach. He was bigger than he used to be. In one of his emails, he’d said there was little to do in his downtime except work out. Well, it showed.
He glanced their way and his pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners in recognition and pleasure. God. Her knees actually trembled. “There’s Daddy,” she said, pointing and nudging the twins forward when Dylan reached the ground floor.
Francie had shown them photos of him every day, and he’d spoken to them via Facetime whenever he could; the girls had been so young when he’d left, they wouldn’t remember him otherwise.
Molly squealed, dropped her sign, and ran to him as fast as her chubby legs would carry her. Dylan lowered all six foot three inches of himself to a kneeling position and wrapped her into his big arms. “Hey, pretty girl,” he said, hugging her tight.
“Daddy, miss you!” Molly said, pressing her face into his chest.
Francesca picked up the sign and walked toward them, Macy clinging onto her legs.
Dylan looked up and met Francie’s eyes. “Hey.” His gaze traveled appreciatively over her body, and back down again.
She ignored the unexpected throbbing between her legs. Not gonna happen. “Hey,” she said to him. She rubbed Macy’s head. “Macy’s a little shy, sorry.” She would use the girls’ names for a while, in case he couldn’t tell them apart. Both were strawberry blond and brown eyed, so it might take him a few days to know who was who. But for today, she’d dressed them in colorful sweatshirts—Molly, who was first born by five minutes, wore a pink sweatshirt that said “One.” Macy’s yellow shirt said “Two.”
“It’s okay. She doesn’t know me.” His words conveyed his understanding, but disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Cute shirts. Those’ll help.” He stood, lifting Molly with him and shifting her into one arm, and Francie imagined his muscles flexing and bulging beneath the fleece. She remembered very clearly what those arms felt like around her, and pushed those thoughts away.
“Welcome home, soldier,” she muttered, leaning in to give him a one-armed hug. She pulled him tight against her. “I’m glad you’re back safe and sound.” She held onto him a bit longer than she probably should have, then glanced up at him and tried to read his expression.
His blue eyes darkened and he lowered his head to kiss her. She turned her face at the last minute and his lips brushed her cheek instead. He gave a sharp intake of breath at her rejection as she stepped out of the embrace.
He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to be back on American soil. You look really good, Francie.” He glanced down. “I especially like the shoes.” One of his eyebrows rose as he met her eyes again.
Oh, shit. Her stiletto ankle boots. She hadn’t even thought—“These aren’t, um…” She knew her face must be fifty shades of red. “These are technically boots not really shoes.” The explanation was lame, but how in the world had she forgotten? She just hadn’t been thinking. Obviously.
Back when their relationship was hot and heavy, before reality and life got in the way—aka two unexpected bundles of joy—Dylan had loved it when she’d worn stiletto heels during sex. He’d told her once that all she needed to do to let him know she was horny was put on a pair of high heels. So she used to wear stilettos just to tease him. Drove him crazy. And she always ended up naked.
She couldn’t read Dylan’s expression. Was that disappointment she saw? Well, of course it had to be. He’d been in a horrible place for almost a year. He’d probably love to get laid tonight. But she knew he didn’t expect to.
Dylan squatted and set Molly down, then cocked his head toward Macy. “Hey, baby girl,” he said softly. “That’s a really nice sign you made.” She turned her face into Francie’s thigh. “Can you give Daddy a hug? I sure miss
ed you.”
“Not baby!” Macy moved farther behind Francie’s legs and squeezed her eyes shut as if thinking if she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her.
Francie reached behind her and rubbed Macy’s soft curls—the exact color mix between her red hair and Dylan’s light brown hair. “It takes her a while to warm up around—” She’d been about to say “strangers” but caught herself. To an almost two-year-old, it was true. Dylan was a stranger to his girls, but it’s not like he had a choice. When the Air Force tells you you’re being deployed to Afghanistan, you can’t exactly say “no.”
Of course, he didn’t have to enlist in the first place. But doing so had given him the out he’d apparently wanted with her and the girls.
With a sigh, Dylan stood up, towering over all of them. His height was one of the first things that had attracted her to him. At five foot seven, Francie wasn’t a small woman. But being around him made her feel petite for the first time in her life.
He grabbed a large duffel bag from the luggage carousel and they headed out of the terminal, toward the parking garage. “Did I mention you look good?” he muttered, close enough to flutter the hair at her ear.
She ignored the answering flutter between her legs. “So do you,” she said.
Mutual attraction had never been their problem.
* * * *
Molly chattered all the way home from her car seat in the back of the CRV. Dylan wanted to drive, telling Francie he’d been looking forward to driving a normal vehicle on normal roads. Little snowflakes splatted against the windshield, but not enough to warrant the windshield wipers. Yet. Weather in Boise could change faster than a toddler’s moods. Just a few days ago, a storm had dumped a couple of inches of rain. Today, it was snowing.
Francie fiddled with her wedding band, staring straight ahead as they drove the few short miles to her house. Her ring wasn’t anything fancy—she didn’t even know if it was real gold—but she liked wearing it. Would Dylan want it back? Maybe she wouldn’t give it back.
“I can’t believe how big the girls are,” he said, glancing at her over the console.
God, it was good to see him. And he looked wonderful. As in healthy, strong and able. Just the type of man she’d want for a permanent husband. “It seems like every time I turn around, they’ve outgrown a size,” she said, happy to focus on something other than her tangled feelings.
They spoke a bit about the girls, with Molly interrupting constantly with her nonstop toddler babble, most of the words indecipherable. Oh, to be two again, where thoughts of puppies, dollies, and butterflies were the center of your happiness.
“Turn right at the next light,” she told him as they approached her neighborhood.
“I know where you live, Francie.” His tone was sharp. He must still be annoyed that she’d insisted on staying in Boise and getting her own place after they’d married, rather than move to Fairchild Air Force Base with him. She had nothing against Spokane—her college roommate lived there and she’d visited once—but Boise was home. She’d grown up here. Her mom was here. Well, her mom’s grave was.
Besides, it wasn’t like she and Dylan were “married” married. If they were, she’d be living in the state of Washington. With him.
They turned onto her street and assorted Christmas lights and tacky decorations blinked at them. Every house on the small block but hers had brightly colored lights on the eaves, porches and landscape.
She’d loved this little house at first sight—a rambler with the tiny front porch barely big enough for a pot of flowers, fenced yard, sidewalk in front. A family house on a family street. Just like she’d always wanted as a little girl—to live in a normal neighborhood with a bunch of other families and kids. Rather than with her mom in a little apartment over the laundromat.
Dylan, on the other hand, had hated her house the first time he’d seen it. She wasn’t sure if he hated it on principle, or if cute little houses in cul-de-sacs just rubbed him the wrong way for whatever reason.
As if reading her mind, as they waited for the garage door to open, he said, “You know I hated this house.”
“Yeah. You were very clear about that.” On more than one occasion.
“But you know what I thought about while I was in the hell hole that is the Afghan desert? This little blue house with the white shutters.”
“Seriously?”
They pulled into the cluttered garage. Most of the boxes lining the walls held her mom’s things. She really needed to go through them. She just hadn’t been able to bring herself to do that yet. Even almost a year later, it was too soon.
“Every time I went back to my living quarters, I’d think of you and the girls in this safe little house, in this safe neighborhood, in this safe city… and I would sleep just a little bit better knowing you all were okay.”
Francie blinked. She supposed it made sense he would’ve worried about them from over there. He loved his girls. She didn’t need to read anything more into his words than that. She forced a flippant comment. “Well, the streets of Chicago at three a.m. would be safer than where you were.”
His brows rose. “True.” He shut off the engine. “Home sweet home,” he muttered.
Francie shot him a sideways look, unsure if he was being a smart ass, because this wasn’t really his house, or if it was simply a figure of speech. She couldn’t tell from his even expression.
Macy’s car seat was on Dylan’s side, so he opened the back door and reached toward her before Francie could warn him off. The toddler immediately started screaming and kicking her legs. “No Daddy! No Daddy! Want Mommy!”
Francie met Dylan’s eyes over the blue hood of the vehicle. “Sorry. She’ll come around soon, I’m sure.”
“I get it. She doesn’t know me. That’ll change.”
She unbuckled Molly’s seat. “Wait for Daddy. He’ll help you get out.”
Macy stopped screaming the minute Dylan backed off. Francie’s arm brushed his as they switched places. They got the girls out of the car and Dylan grabbed his bag from the hatch back.
Entering the house through the laundry room, which was stacked with folded toddler clothes and towels, Dylan took a visible breath through his nose. “God, that smells amazing. What are you making?” He set Molly down in the kitchen.
Francie grinned and let go of Macy’s hand. “It’s just spaghetti and meatballs in the crockpot. But I suppose any home-cooked meal would smell amazing to you, eh?”
The girls shrieked through the house toward the bedrooms. She and Dylan were alone. She crossed her arms, then let them hang by her sides. Then crossed them again.
He was looking at her like he wanted to yank her into his arms and kiss her senseless. And she knew that’s exactly what he would do if she gave him any indication she was interested.
He clenched his fists as if to keep from reaching out to her.
It would be so easy to forget their agreement. So easy to just push that all aside and forget about everything else except being in his arms again. Her body swayed slightly.
Catching herself before she did something really stupid, she said, “Dinner will be ready as soon as I warm up the bread. You’re probably hungry.”
His gaze traveled from the top of her hair down to the stiletto boots. “Starving,” he muttered.
Oh, my. He hadn’t even touched her and her body already quivered with need. Holy crap. Her face and neck flushed, and she turned away from him to preheat the oven.
“I missed you, Francie,” he said, his voice deep and soft.
Her hands paused. If only he’d missed her in the way she wanted to be missed. She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans before grabbing some foil from the bottom drawer. When she straightened, Dylan touched her shoulder. She froze a moment, then tugged a length of foil from its box and wrapped the bread.
His arms slid around her waist from behind, and he buried his face in her hair. She’d used the shampoo he’d always loved—the one that smelled of
vanilla and lavender. Probably not a good idea if she wanted him to keep his distance.
“Mm, you smell amazing,” he muttered against her ear, his warm breath fluttering her hair.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was all breathy and sexy sounding. Dammit. Why couldn’t she be immune to him? Or at least act like she was?
His fingers splayed against her belly over her jeans and he tugged her back against him. She gasped when she felt a particularly hard part of his body pressing into her. “I missed touching you.”
There it was. He didn’t miss her. He missed this. “Dylan. This isn’t a good idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea.” He pushed aside her hair and nibbled the side of her neck and behind her ear.
She shivered despite her frustration. “You know what I meant.”
“You don’t like it when I do this?” His hand slid under her sweater and kneaded her breast over her bra. Her nipples immediately pebbled.
“Dylan, stop it.” But her words lacked conviction and she arched her neck, dropping her head back against his shoulder. She loved being in his arms like this. Loved it when he touched her.
“Stop what?” he teased, and dipped his hand into the waistband of her jeans.
His fingers were just about to slip between her legs—and she would’ve let them—when the girls charged into the room.
“We hungwy!” Molly announced, planting herself at their feet and tugging on Francie’s sweater.
“Saved by the bell,” Dylan muttered as he backed off and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
She ignored the disappointment ping ponging through her. She hated how her traitorous body ached for his touch. Clearing her throat, she told the girls, “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you show Daddy your room while we wait for the bread to get warm?”
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