by Renee Roszel
She reflexively shot up a knee, but her target deftly moved, and her hands were clutched in a tight grasp. “Whoa,” came a sleepy, but familiar, male voice. “What’s this? Surprise attacks at night, now?”
When she realized the man who held her wasn’t a murderer or rapist, but another lowlife she had on her hands, she fell against him in an effort to push him toward the exit. “Somebody’s breaking into my room,” she wheezed. “We have to get out of here!”
“Somebody’s breaking into your room?” he asked, this time in a concerned whisper. She had a feeling he was frowning, but it was too dark to be sure. “Hell.” Releasing her, he headed for her bedroom.
“No!” She yanked on the back of his shorts. “Are you crazy?”
Brushing away her hand he opened the door slightly. “Any self-respecting robber would be long gone by now, once he heard that door bang shut.”
She scurried up behind him, needing the security of a strong human being nearby. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders and held on. Through her fingertips she could feel taut muscle, and knew he was tensed for a fight. She peered around him. “See anything?”
“No.” He started to step into the room, and she grasped his upper arm. “Don’t go in there, he might have a gun.”
The lights flashed on. A scream of tenor rose to Elissa’s lips, but died there, as she realized it had been Alex’s doing, not a night-blind gunman.
When Alex stepped inside the room, she did, too, preferring his nearness to the basement parlor teeming with shadows. She was ashamed of herself for acting like a child. This was completely unlike her. Apparently the threatening letters had spooked her more than she realized.
She’d taken the second letter to the police yesterday, and was assured they would do their best to find the culprit. But she knew that Christmas time in Branson was a busy one for everybody, including the police. She doubted that two crank letters would get top priority. She’d also taken in a list of past legal clients who might have a grudge against her. Once again, she was assured they would do everything possible to get to the bottom of it.
Alex stepped up on her bed and examined the window. “It hasn’t been opened. This window’s painted shut.”
“I-I did that last summer.”
He turned to look down at her as she huddled near the foot of the bed. Towering there, all California tan and muscle, he seemed like a Greek god, come to earth. She wondered what the name of the Greek god of mattresses might be, because if there wasn’t one, she certainly had a candidate standing in front of her. Hopping off the bed, he scanned her, his expression concerned. “You’re pale. Are you going to faint?”
She felt a twinge of shame at the question and straightened her shoulders. “No, I’m not going to faint” Gulping in a breath to fight her light-headedness, she manufactured a calm facade. “I was startled, that’s all.” She backpedaled, trying to sound unruffled. “Being awakened out of a sound sleep can be frightening.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Alex asked, concern etching his features.
She felt stupid and shook her head. “No—no, I’m not sure.” Suddenly she felt very silly. “I guess I’m just goosey about the—” She bit off her statement, wincing at what she’d almost let slip. “I mean-sometimes dreams can seem very real. That’s all.”
His features didn’t exhibit much faith in her story about a dream, and he turned to confront her. “Do you have dreams of people breaking into your room often?”
His sarcasm irritated her. “My dreams are none of your business.”
“Except when you come screaming into my arms. That makes them my business.”
She looked away, embarrassed, and counted to ten. She didn’t want to fight and she was sure the more fuss she made, the more suspicious Alex would get. After all, she probably had been dreaming. What she heard—or thought she heard—was very likely a fabrication of her overstressed mind. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin Christmas for her family.
When she looked at Alex again, she shrugged, working to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry about overreacting, Mr. D’Amour. Let’s just forget the whole thing, okay? At worst, a possum was trying to get in out of the cold.”
His steady interrogator’s gaze was too intent for her peace of mind and she had to force herself not to fidget. She toyed with the idea of giving the police a quick call later. But because she’d brandished a letter opener, accusing Alex of attacking her—in front of three shocked policemen—she would probably need concrete proof that something was amiss this time, or they might decide to label her as a kook and stop taking her case seriously. She didn’t want to chance that.
Cocking his head in a gesture that said he didn’t buy her story, Alex prodded, “What are you hiding? First that letter that frightened the wits out of you the other day and now, people breaking into your room?”
“Nobody broke into my room!” she snapped. “Get off that!” Stalking away from him, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over her dresser and stumbled to a halt. She was actually prancing around in front of this man in nothing but an oversize green T-shirt.
Tugging at the garment in a vain effort to magically make it longer, she watched her face color with embarrassment. Swiping nervous hands through her hair, she turned her back on him. “Look, don’t you think it’s possible I might be upset because of your attempt to pirate my property?” Improvising, she hurried on, “Maybe the break-in nightmare was about you and your attempt to steal my inn, did you ever think of that?” She whirled on him, a triumphant surge going through her. That should shut him up.
His features were drawn in a provoked frown. “The property was stolen from me, Miss Crosby.” His jaws worked and Elissa had a feeling that, this time, he was counting to ten. Visibly perturbed, he looked away, mumbling, “I told you I’d reimburse you for any improvements you’ve made. You know I’m not legally bound to do so. What more do you expect of me?”
His glance met hers again and she was struck by the eerie beauty of his silver eyes, his temper transforming them into a force of nature all their own. “The eighth wonder of the world” flitted through her mind, but she swept the thought away as quickly as it came.
Incensed that she allowed herself to be drawn to him, she jabbed a finger toward her bedroom door. “Would you leave? I have to get dressed.”
His expression grew puzzled. “Dressed?” He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. Even Bella doesn’t arrive for another hour and a half.”
She moved to the door and pointedly held it wide. “I have to start the Christmas turkey. Dad always smoked it on the charcoaler, and I intend to carry on the tradition—if it’s any of your business.”
Alex’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. “A Renaissance woman. Is there anything you can’t do?”
She was taken aback by the compliment but refused to be affected. He’d probably been mocking her, anyway. “Apparently I can’t get men out of my bedroom,” she countered.
His lips quirked for a split second before his expression turned serious. “I can see where that could become troubling.” With a nod that was almost courtly, he left her to her privacy.
Once the door clicked shut she breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t made a more insulting joke out of her badly worded retort. Such as, “You’re lucky you can get any men in your bedroom,” or something equally cutting—since he’d made it clear that he thought of her as a love-starved old maid.
Sinking to her bed, she put her hands over her face. She had more serious problems than Alex D’Amour’s opinion of her love life. Her mind churned. Had what she’d thought she’d heard really been a bad dream brought on by Alex’s threat to take away her inn, or had somebody actually tried to break in?
She didn’t want to think about it. Of course, if it had been a break-in attempt, it might have been unrelated to the letters. After all, it was a well-known fact that thieves loved to break in at Christmas time to steal all the goo
dies from under the tree. If that were the case, then her scream and the slamming of the door had foiled the plan and it was all over.
She decided to let it go, this time, and not bother the police. Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred, the sound she’d heard had been nothing even remotely ominous. After all, it was Christmas. Dawn was coming. Why make a fool of herself by crying wolf, again? This was a joyous holiday and shouldn’t be spoiled with irrational worries.
Glancing at her bedside clock she realized that if she didn’t get that turkey on, they’d be eating raw bird for their Christmas dinner instead of a juicy, smoked turkey. Hustling into a pair of black wool slacks and an oversize red sweater Lucy had knitted for her birthday, Elissa headed out of the basement and up into the kitchen only to find the lights on and Alex standing there, looking yummy in jeans and a dove gray cashmere pullover.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She shifted her glance from his bothersome eyes to his neck. He exuded a sexy power that attracted her, and she fought it with a prickly attitude.
He shrugged. “I figured since I’m going to be a gentleman land owner, I should learn to charcoal meal I hear it’s a popular pastime in the Midwest.”
She met his gaze with resentment. “And you think I’ll teach you?”
Those wide shoulders lifted and fell again. “I thought you might.” His lips crooked in a wily grin, revealing unsettling dimples. “Especially since it’s dark outside and that—possum could still be around.”
She experienced an inner shudder at the reminder of what had sent her barreling into his arms not long before. She hated to admit it, but Alex D’Amour’s massive presence might be advantageous. Swallowing, she spun toward the cabinet where she kept the lighter fluid and matches. “Uh, the bag of charcoal’s in the pantry storeroom.”
Without looking directly into those astute eyes, she led him through to the front of the inn. They grabbed their coats from the closet under the stairs, then went out the front door and around to the side veranda where the charcoal grill was kept. “All right,” she muttered grudgingly, “stack the charcoal in the grill.”
“Okay, professor,” he murmured, very near.
As he poured and stacked the coals, Elissa noticed twinkling flakes of snow in the light that spilled from the porch into the darkness. It was snowing. Moving to the rail, she watched the flakes drift down, silent and lovely.
“What do you see?” Alex asked, sounding wary.
She grinned into the darkness. “It’s okay. It’s just snowing.”
She heard his footfalls as he joined her at the railing. “Growing up in California, I never saw snow except when we went skiing in Colorado over Christmas.”
“We?” She peered at him, finding herself needing to know about his family. “That sounds like a nice way to spend the holidays. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
He looked at her, his features suddenly grim. “No.” Abruptly he turned away, stomping back to scan the charcoals, still blazing and far from ready for the turkey.
Elissa faced him, leaning on the rail. “Did your parents take you skiing every Christmas?”
He grinned, but there was no humor in the show of teeth. “My parents? No, Miss Crosby, they didn’t.” When he lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes revealed a flame that Elissa sensed was from an inner vehemence rather than the burning charcoal. “Let’s just say we weren’t close.”
Clearly he didn’t intend to expand on the subject, and Elissa tried to convince herself that she didn’t care one way or the other. But she couldn’t quite manage it. For a fraction of a second she’d seen something vulnerable in his eyes, and the memory haunted her.
The snow was coming harder, now, and it was evident they would have a white Christmas. Though Elissa was standing out on her veranda with her worst enemy, her spirits lifted a notch. What could be more picture-perfect than a snowy Christmas with lots of good food and a close family sharing the joys of the holiday? She smiled wistfully at the vision, struggling to push away her fear.
“It’s really coming down,” Alex said, bringing her back. She was surprised to see that he was beside her again, his hands resting on the railing as he watched the snow twirl and dance, thicker, ever thicker, a ballet of heavenly scraps of lace.
In a self-protective move, she leaned away from him. Resting her shoulder against a support pole, she peeked at his profile. The veranda light emphasized his prominent cheekbones and bore witness to his skin, attractively rosy with the cold. On his wind-mussed hair a few wayward snowflakes had made their home, twinkling as if they were fallen stars. Uneasy with the way the sight made her go all fluttery inside, she shifted away, lifting her hands to her own curls. She could feel the damp, coldness of snowflakes that had settled there. Shaking her head, she smoothed her hair back.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, startling her, for she hadn’t realized he’d been watching. “Your hair’s amazing with snow gleaming in it. Like red coral, just under the surface of a sunlit sea.”
She felt a foolish tingle at his hushed remark and lowered her gaze. If he thought she’d give up her fight for her property because of a few pretty words, he was crazy. “Enough snow in your hair and you catch pneumonia.” Plodding to the grill, she glared down at the glowing coals.
“You have so much stubborn pride, Elissa, you can’t even take a compliment from me?” he asked as he joined her.
She glared at him. “It’s an ugly flaw, I know.” The Christmas spirit draining from her, she bit out the words, “Imagine me not swooning under such praise about my hair—when all you want from me is my entire life!”
“That’s not fair—”
“Turkey!” she blurted, needing to change the subject.
His expression grew wry. “Is it time to cook the bird, or are you talking about me?”
She wheeled away, heading for the front door, the hollow thud of her footsteps loud in the morning stillness.
Elissa watched Alex with reluctant fascination. He was a wildly successful, sophisticated lawyer, yet he’d obviously never been involved in a family Christmas. He’d never seen children playing before a wood fire, never opened Christmas packages at dawn, or watched football while women laughed and cooked in the next room—every so often calling for one of the men to “check the turkey and turn down the TV.”
She couldn’t help laughing at him when he checked his watch at one o‘clock, suggesting they should have put the turkey on earlier, since lunch was already an hour late. She didn’t know why she took such delight in telling him that, “noon” on Christmas day really meant about three o’clock. He’d actually been surprised with the news. Alex D’Amour was like an alien dropped down from Planet Humbug, where holidays were not celebrated. Or maybe he was more like some recently manufactured android with no knowledge of kin or customs.
His surprise about so many things they took for granted touched something in her, and that shocked her. She found herself wondering where this man had spent his formative Christmases? She was even more stunned to realize she was harboring some uncharitable thoughts for the people who hadn’t taught him about rising at dawn full of expectation, of eating homemade cinnamon rolls and drinking eggnog for breakfast. Of sitting around a roaring fire, eating turkey and dressing off paper plates, while watching toddlers ignore their gifts to play with the boxes.
Several of the inn’s guests had opted to stay in out of the snow and eat Christmas Dinner at the inn, so there was lots of clamor and laughter. By five o’clock things had quieted down. Bella and Ramona had cleaned away the Christmas meal debris and left for celebrations of their own. Even the least adventuresome guests had braved the snow to go into town to see much anticipated Christmas shows, featuring America’s biggest music stars.
The twins were asleep, exhausted. Christmas music played softly in the background and the scent of wood smoke and Christmas tree pine filled the air. Lucy was curled up on the parlor couch, knitting something tiny and yellow.
Her glanc
e drifted to Glory who was sound asleep, stretched out on a blanket before the fire, her head half inside the box her Barbie Pet Doctor doll had come in. The Veterinarian Barbie’s toes were pressed against her cherubic mouth. With a rush of tenderness, Elissa decided her niece looked like a little doll herself.
Her gaze roamed to the chair opposite her own, where Alex sat. His eyes were closed and one arm was wrapped around Gilly, who seemed to have decided that Alex and his cashmere chest was just about the greatest napping spot in the world. The toddler was dribbling all over the expensive sweater. She twitched in her sleep, her little fist grabbing another wad of cashmere. As she readjusted her backside, cuddled in Alex’s big hand, his long fingers moved, shifted to better accommodate her. Elissa’s lips twitched at the toddler’s assumption that she was right at home on this stranger’s lap. She decided she’d have to keep an eye on that young lady—a natural coquette.
Elissa scanned Alex’s hand, cupping Gilly’s hips. His nails were neatly trimmed, his fingers graceful, gentle. Ringless. She winced, wondering where that thought had come from. She had absolutely no interest in his romantic attachments. Her gaze trailing up to his face, she worked to repair her thinking—reminding herself that this man was an ogre as far as she was concerned.
Watching him, she found herself wondering if he was sleeping or simply resting his eyes. For a man who had never had anything to do with babies, he was being a pretty good sport about Gilly. Facing that difficult fact put a small rip in the fabric of her dislike for him.
She gritted her teeth, trying to shake off the resurgence of soft emotion. What was it about this man who could allow himself to be a mattress for a tiny little thing like Gilly, and at the same time so heartlessly try to take away everything she’d worked for these last four years? She lowered her glance to her fisted hands, her emotions suddenly conflicted. She didn’t like this irreconcilable mix of feelings. She preferred harboring pure, unadulterated loathing for the man.