Christmas Getaway

by Anne Stuart, Tina Leonard

  “We’re waiting for you.”

  “Molly’s come all the way from the U.S.,” he told them, reprovingly. “She gets a drink before she swims. It’s in the rules.”

  Rules. He saw how the word resonated.

  This was how these kids had been brought up, he thought. Molly had twigged it. What he’d been doing for the last few days—giving them choices, leaving the rules up to them—must have seemed an extension of the chaos their lives had become since their parents had died. Molly had it right. He had it wrong.

  He didn’t do kids. He was dumb with kids. What was he doing even trying?

  “I want you to test out the water,” Molly was telling them. “I want you to try it out and see if it’s suitable for me to come in. Charlie, look after Zoe.”

  Right. The three little figures almost visibly relaxed. They knew the rules now. They slid into the water.

  “You’re not allowed to go past the curvy bit,” Charlie said firmly to Zoe, clearly taking the take-care-of-Zoe rule to heart. “It’s too deep.” He looked up at Joe. “We know how to float. You want to see us?”

  “Yes, please,” Joe said weakly. He hadn’t been able to get these kids in the water. He was feeling about as useful as a gnat.

  But at least he’d made Molly a drink. He crossed to the sumptuous poolside bar and fetched his concoction, bringing it back to her as he watched the floating.

  She accepted it with care and eyed it in astonishment. “What the…”

  “It’s Sex on the Beach,” he told her with a certain amount of pride.

  Her jaw sort of sagged. She stared down at the drink like it might contain arsenic. “Um…what?”

  “Sex on the Beach,” he repeated and grinned. “Peach schnapps, rum, banana liqueur, coconut cream, orange juice and ice.”

  “It’s what you give all the girls,” she said faintly. “Instead of a nice cup of tea.”

  “I’m working my way through a recipe book. Erica and Vincent had every form of alcohol known to man stocked in this bar. Half the liqueurs are open. If they’re not used they’ll go off, and there’s a book called Seduction by the Glass. It’s a hundred cocktail recipes. I’m up to number four.” He motioned to his beer. “One a day’s my limit before I swap to this. You, however, are not in charge. You can have as many as you want.”

  Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. She rearranged her facial muscles from disapproving to downright judgmental. Black cap judgmental. “This is no seduction scene,” she said flatly.

  “Get real. With three kids?” He raised his glass in a gesture of toasting her. “I’m drinking light beer. And the cocktail I made me was a Virgin Grasshopper. Nonalcoholic.”

  “How very noble.”

  “I hoped you might think that.”

  MAYBE HE WASN’T too bad. Maybe she should relax a bit.

  Sex on the Beach? Virgin Grasshoppers? She stared down into her salt-rimmed glass with the gay little parasol and even managed a smile. She put her nose into her cocktail glass and took a cautious sip. It was strong and sweet and…

  And not that bad. It sent the odd bit of fire into her solar plexus. She hadn’t been aware she needed a bit of fire down there but now that it had happened…

  It was sort of comforting, she thought. Or was it the man watching her as she sipped.

  “Awful?” he asked.

  “Not bad.”

  “But not good?”

  “I wouldn’t want two.” She smiled again. These were her first smiles since the wedding chaos and they felt strange. Almost a betrayal.

  A betrayal of what? Connor?

  Right.

  “I might try what’s next on the list,” she said, hugely daring. “But later,” she added hastily, as he reached for his book with obvious enthusiasm. “With a meal in between. The last thing you need is a tipsy bride.”

  “The last thing I need is any sort of bride,” he said before he could help himself.

  She thought about that. She sipped again. She turned to the pool, where splashing competitions were being held, and watched the kids for a while.

  “So domesticity’s not your scene?” she said at last, attempting lightness. This situation felt awkward and weird and she was out of her comfort zone. She wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more about the man she’d just decided to spend Christmas with.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Your sister was hardly a family woman, either,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Our parents were dysfunctional, to say the least,” he confessed. “Dad disappeared when we were two. By five we were in the first of a series of foster homes, and we were split up for much of our childhood. We learned pretty early that attachment hurts.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You, too?” He frowned.

  “Same deal, only with rich parents,” she said. “Like these kids, my brother and I were raised by nannies and with rules. We’re ten years apart in age so we hardly knew each other, much less our parents. Love sucks.”

  “Says the bride.”

  “Says the ex-bride,” she said bitterly. “I figured it out on the plane over here. Connor and I were good together because we didn’t need each other. We were independent. Then we broke the rules by trying to get married.”

  “You’re not blaming what happened on a decision to get married?” he demanded.

  “No, but it was dumb.” Her sarong came loose and she tossed it onto the sun lounge. Whatever Sex on the Beach had in it, her need for protection suddenly seemed a little less.

  “Character assessments aren’t your thing?” he queried.

  “You know, I would have said they were.” Her tone was bitter. “Do you know what Jean heard the night of the rehearsal?”

  “I got the gist. Have you seen Jean since the wedding?”

  “Briefly. What she heard is important so she’s being taken care of by the police. She wasn’t specific but I gather she heard enough to terrify her.”

  “I know that much, too,” he said gently. “The cops rang me yesterday, just confirming the kids are safe. They told me about the threats, but they’ve decided while there’s a nationwide search out for Connor, the last thing he or any of his henchmen will want to do is stick round to kill the kids for further revenge against a dead Vincent. The cops think the kids will be safe here.”

  “If you didn’t hear about the threats until yesterday…why did you come?”

  “I came because the kids were miserable with their grandparents, they know this place, the media attention meant I could get the authorities in the U.S. to cut red tape to get them here…and they need a Christmas.”

  “You know, I think you’re a very nice man,” she said suddenly, decisively, and put her now-empty glass down on the table with a determined clink. “A very nice man.” And before he could figure what she intended—before she thought about it herself—she stepped forward, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  It was a feather touch of a kiss but it met his lips and it burned.

  She stepped back, her eyes widening. Whoops. Where had that come from? He looked…stunned.

  “That’s what you get for feeding me Sex on the Beach when I’m jet-lagged,” she said a trifle unsteadily. “I…thank you. I’m going in now.”

  “Into the water?”

  “Where else would I be going. Don’t give me any more of those cocktails.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And don’t think I meant anything by that kiss,” she said, a trifle desperately. “I have a feeling I shouldn’t have done it but I needed to, though just for the moment I can’t exactly figure out why.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said again.

  She couldn’t think what else to say. There was nothing else to say.

  She walked to the deep end of the pool, businesslike and efficient, and dived neatly in.

  HE DIDN’T GET into the pool. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know what to do if he did.

  Molly had found a be
ach ball. She and Zoe were playing a version of water polo with Lily and Charlie. Molly’s height made up for Zoe’s lack of inches so the teams were evenly matched.

  The change in the kids was extraordinary. It was like the cork had popped out of a bottle of fizz. They whooped and giggled and shrieked and they forgot all about being the miserable waifs they’d been for the last few days.

  Maybe it was a combination of things, he decided, trying not to believe it was just him being insensitive that had caused the kids’ misery. He and Vincent hadn’t got on; therefore he’d hardly seen the kids. Even when he was in the States he’d made excuses not to visit his sister, and every time he did visit… He thought back to those few occasions and remembered the kids in the background with a nanny as Vincent and Erica ushered him out of their magnificent home to eat at an equally magnificent restaurant. Vincent felt the need to show him how successful he was in life. All he’d succeeded in doing was make Joe feel uneasy in his presence.

  At least the kids had felt they knew him enough to phone him and ask him to rescue them from their appalling grandparents. But that didn’t qualify as close.

  They knew Molly. Maybe they saw her as a link to the past.

  “Why aren’t you swimming?” Charlie called out to him, and he shook his head at his nephew and smiled down at the four of them wallowing in the shallows. How to say it felt too intimate? Too close? Too much fun for the likes of him?

  “I need to get dinner going.”

  “It doesn’t take long,” Charlie said. “Three minutes each in the microwave.”

  Whoops. His secret was out.

  “What takes three minutes in the microwave?” Molly asked.

  “Macaroni and cheese,” Lily said, grabbing the ball while Molly’s attention was diverted. “We went to the supermarket yesterday and bought twenty boxes of macaroni and cheese. That’s five suppers for us.”

  “Yeah, but we had it for lunch today, too,” Charlie said. “So that means we have to go back to the supermarket the day after tomorrow.”

  “Is that all you eat?” Molly asked.

  “Yes,” they said as one.

  “Wow.”

  Joe winced. Ouch. And he hadn’t been going to cook macaroni tonight. Not now that Molly was here. He’d been planning on opening the refrigerator and finding inspiration in its depths.

  Okay, maybe that wasn’t going to happen. “Any suggestions?” he said, trying not to sound hopeful.

  “I like macaroni and cheese,” she said cautiously.

  “Then you’re in luck. I can have it on the table in three minutes times five boxes.”

  “But it’s not my first choice. What are you intending to do for Christmas dinner?”

  “You did say…”

  “That we needed the trimmings,” she said, fielding the ball and tossing it to Zoe. Zoe missed, the ball went long, and Charlie and Lily whooped after it. “I did. It’s what I want but that doesn’t mean you guys have to eat what I do. If you’re hung up on your macaroni thing… Maybe I can get a frozen Christmas dinner for one.”

  “That’s silly,” Zoe said, grabbing fruitlessly for the ball.

  “Why?” The older kids paused to take part in the conversation. Taking advantage of the distraction Molly did a neat, seal-like dive under the water, came back up and seized the beach ball and raised it high, out of reach of any of them. “Why is it silly?”

  “You can’t eat Christmas dinner on your own,” Lily told her, staring at the dripping Molly as if a mermaid had appeared from the depths.

  “I’m not eating macaroni for Christmas dinner. You guys didn’t eat macaroni last Christmas.”

  “We didn’t like the stuff at the hotel much,” Lily said.

  “So what do you like?”

  “Strawberries,” Zoe said.

  “Hot dogs,” Charlie said.

  “Meringues,” Lily added.

  Molly nodded, serious. But still holding the ball out of reach. “Okay, we have a start. Are you really, really committed to macaroni?”

  “What’s committed?” asked Zoe.

  “If you don’t have macaroni, will you cry?”

  “Not if I can have strawberries,” Zoe said, her baby eyes filled with hope.

  “Good girl,” she said while Joe looked on with astonishment. “Okay, how’s this for a plan? Let’s see how many yummy things we can eat between now and the day after Christmas. If we get out of the pool now, we could probably go to the supermarket and get the makings of hot dogs and strawberries and meringues for tonight.”

  “How do you make meringues?” Lily asked, awed.

  “I don’t know,” Molly confessed. “But if your uncle Joe can make Sex on the Beach cocktails I’m willing to bet he can whip up a meringue or two. Do we have the Internet?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, flummoxed.

  “There you go then,” she said smugly. “If you’re not swimming, then in you go and surf the Net until you find a recipe for meringues. Zoe and I will beat the pants off these two at water polo and then we’ll get dressed and all go supermarket shopping for ingredients. Oh, and we’ll find a Christmas tree while we’re at it. How’s that for a plan?”

  “Macaroni and cheese sounds easier,” Joe said.

  “Macaroni and cheese is so last night’s news,” she said in such a drawly, over-the-top voice that the kids giggled. “Tonight the menu consists of hot dogs, strawberries and meringues.” Then, when he kept staring at her, she put her hands on her hips and fixed him with a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, buster. Hop to it.”

  WHEN HE’D FIRST BROUGHT the kids to Australia, Joe had reluctantly left his sweet little Alfa Romeo in the airport garage and rented a family wagon for the duration. He surely needed it. They drove into town, he and Molly in the front, the kids in the back.

  “We’re just like a family,” Lily said from the backseat.

  “Yeah,” Joe said dryly, and glanced across at Molly. He was expecting to see her smiling. For an abandoned bride she’d been really upbeat. Apart from her initial shock, she’d launched herself into these plans with enthusiasm.

  But she wasn’t smiling now. Her smile had slipped, replaced by something he didn’t understand.

  Bleakness? Desperation?

  She’d been jilted less than a week ago, he reminded himself. She’d be raw.

  “He’s not worth looking like that,” he said gently, and she flinched and looked away, out the passenger window at the rain forest they were traveling through.

  “Of course he isn’t.”

  “You’ll meet someone else.”

  “Sure.”

  “Molly…”

  “Leave it,” she said roughly.

  So she’d loved the scumbag. That made it a whole lot worse.

  But why had he thought she wouldn’t? Why was the thought of anyone loving Connor O’Bannion inconceivable?

  No. Why was the thought of Molly loving O’Bannion inconceivable?

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently, and she cast him a look that was almost scared.

  “Let’s have some music,” he said, and flicked on the radio. Cricket. Cricket! He cheered up. Christmas in Australia was all about cricket. Men in white, leather on willow, yells of “howz that?” as cricketers appealed for umpires to rule the batsmen out.

  “Australia is four for twenty-seven against the West Indies,” the announcer said, and Joe groaned.

  “Is that bad?” Molly asked, surfacing again.

  “Awful.”

  “Four for twenty-seven what?”

  “Four wickets for twenty-seven runs. A good inning is a hundred runs. Four for four hundred would be great. Four for twenty-seven is almost take-your-bat-and-go-home territory. Do you kids know about cricket?”

  There was deathly silence from the backseat.

  “Well,” he said. “Well.” He cast a surreptitious glance at Molly and thought she was doing her best to forget her pain by throwing herself into Christmas. He
could do worse than to help her. “Here’s my plan.”

  “What?” Charlie asked.

  “Supermarket followed by sports store,” he said. “We need a bat and ball, a wicket and a set of pads for the keeper. You guys are having an Australian Christmas. That means cricket in the backyard.”

  “I don’t think I like cricket,” Zoe announced.

  “Like doesn’t come into it,” he said in solemn tones. “It’s your heritage. Your mother was Australian, therefore you’re bred to play cricket.”

  “What about me?” Molly asked.

  “You’re a jilted bride,” he told her. “You need distraction.”

  “From what I’ve ever seen of cricket, it’s the sport least likely to distract in the known world.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said expansively. “You’re all so wrong. Molly. You’re in charge of Christmas eating. I’m in charge of Christmas education.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS AN ENORMOUS, comprehensive shop. The supermarket manager must have thought all his Christmas shoppers had come at once, for Molly was in a buying mood. The deep sadness Joe had glimpsed in the car had been put aside with a vengeance.

  “Of course you can have chocolate ice cream,” she told Zoe. “But I like strawberry. We’ll have both. You like caramel, Charlie? Of course we can have that, too.”

  They gave up on the one trolley. She gave the kids a trolley each and let them do what they wished with it.

  For the first few minutes the kids were as hornswoggled as Joe. An empty trolley each. “But it’s too much?” Lily whispered.

  “Nonsense,” Molly said firmly. “Nothing’s too much at Christmas. If you think you’d like to eat it, let’s buy it. That’s the rule.”

  These kids’ lives had been carefully controlled. They’d never shopped. Joe watched in awe as realization hit each of them that the rule here was no rule.

  Zoe headed to the confectionary aisle. He groaned inwardly, imagining a trolley loaded to the brim with candy. But he needn’t have worried.

  “Zoe, there’s little baby sausages in the fridge,” Lily told her sister excitedly, as Zoe loaded her fifth box of chocolates into the trolley. “And there’s grapes. And watermelon. And cherries. And there’s party hats over in the last aisle. And party poppers.”