Anne Stuart - Star Light, Star Bright

by Star Light, Star Bright

  “Don’t take too long, Angel,” he said. “And don’t forget to blow out the candle when you go to bed. It’s a fire hazard.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She would, unfortunately. She didn’t need or want him half as much as he needed her. But maybe that would change. It had to.

  SHE WAS OUT of her mind, Angela thought. Totally and completely out of her mind. Brody Jackson wanted her, and he said it had nothing to do with Jeffrey. He even thought he was in love with her, though she had her doubts about that. But there was no doubt at all that he wanted her.

  Almost as much as she wanted him. Which was the danger—she didn’t want to risk that kind of cataclysmic relationship.

  She needed time, she thought. He was right about that. He was right about a lot of things. He had no idea she’d spent seventh grade writing “Mrs. Brody Jackson, Mrs. Angel Jackson, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson” in her math notebook.

  He didn’t know just how pathetic she was when it came to him, and she knew she was going to have to tell him. Sooner or later. Preferably later. It was the night before Christmas Eve, her baking was done, her presents were wrapped, and maybe the safest thing would be to see if she could get a last-minute flight to Hawaii to have Christmas with her vacationing parents.

  It would mean she wouldn’t have to do anything about Brody for at least a week. She could just put him out of her mind, concentrate on the season.

  And pigs could fly. Besides, Hawaii was no place to celebrate Christmas—Vermont was made for the season.

  And if she made it through the night without going to him she was going to be amazed.

  Did she believe him? Was she willing to risk it? There didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter. Sometimes fate handed you a gift so powerful that you were afraid to grab it.

  She went to the door, looking out the frosty pane of glass into the cold night air. It was a clear night, not a stray snowflake in sight. Nothing to keep her from going out, maybe discovering if he really meant what he said.

  Her boots were already on when the phone rang, and she grabbed it, breathless, certain it was Brody.

  “Get your ass over here,” Patsy snarled. “I’m in labor, damn it.”

  And Brody would have to wait.

  IF ANGELA HADN’T BEEN so exhausted she would have been highly amused. Patsy’s manner of dealing with labor was to cuss everything and everybody, and even her husband’s steady demeanor began to fray a little. Angela had had nine months of trying to talk Patsy out of a home delivery, but Patsy had strong opinions about everything, and Merline Kittredge was the best midwife in the Champlain Valley; plus, unbeknownst to the soon-to-be mother, the rescue squad was standing by, ready to whisk her off to Burlington at the first sign of trouble.

  But there was no trouble at all. Harriet Patricia made her appearance after four and a half hours of very efficient labor, and she came out yelling almost as loud as her mother. Even Patsy was silenced by the sight of her perfect, healthy daughter.

  “You’re crying,” Angela said.

  “Am not,” Patsy insisted, staring down in wonder at the tiny creature she’d just managed to deliver. “It just hurt.”

  “Pain’s over, and you didn’t cry during labor. You just cursed,” Angela pointed out.

  “Don’t bother me. Can’t you see I’m bonding like any good mother?”

  “And I’m taking you to the hospital,” Ethan announced. “You got to have your blissful crunchy granola back-to-nature home birth, and everything’s fine, but we’re going to check the two of you out and then we’ll be right back. It won’t take more than a couple of hours. Assuming the storm lets up.”

  “S-s-storm?” Angela stammered.

  “Yup. A Christmas Eve nor’easter. They’re figuring twelve to eighteen inches of snow, maybe more, with high winds and maybe even some freezing rain. If I were you I’d stay right here until we get back. We’ve got an extra bedroom.”

  “You think she’d drive in this stuff?” Patsy emerged from her rapturous examination of her infant for a brief moment. “She’s the all-time wuss of the universe. Besides, she doesn’t have to be anywhere. Her family’s in Hawaii and there’s no one else who matters. Is there?” She looked her calmly in the eyes.

  “I should have never told you anything,” Angela muttered.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ethan demanded.

  “Angie’s in love.”

  “I am not!”

  “With who?” Ethan asked, clearly bewildered.

  “The same person she’s been in love with since we were kids. Brody Jackson. The problem is, the only way she’s going to get to him is through a blizzard, and she barely drives on cloudy days. And here it is, Christmas Eve, and there’s never been a better time to admit it and be with him.”

  “Go to the hospital and get checked out,” Angela snapped. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Patsy smiled a catlike smile. “Sure you will.”

  They went off in the ambulance, driving slowly, the red lights flashing. They disappeared into the swirling snow almost immediately, and Angela closed the door behind them, leaning her forehead against the cold window.

  Spending Christmas Eve with Patsy and Ethan and the brand-new baby was a perfect way to celebrate. It was safe and warm here, and people loved her, and there wasn’t any risk of getting her heart broken, or driving off a cliff, or…

  It was Christmas Eve, and she was too much of a Christmas slut to ignore it. She shoved her feet into her boots, pulled her coat around her and stepped out onto the porch. The icy snow whipped against her face like a cold slap, and the wind was howling down the main street, obliterating the lights and the town Christmas decorations. She walked down the steps, through the thick snow—they’d had almost a foot of snow since she’d first come to help Patsy, and it wasn’t about to let up any time soon from the looks of things. The snow was mixing with pellets of ice, the kind that would probably cover every available surface and send her sliding into the lake. If she tried to drive in this stuff she’d die. It was that simple.

  She managed to open one of the car doors, letting snow fall onto the seat, and grab the snow brush. She started at the front, moving around the car, brushing off the thick, wet stuff, and by the time she reached the windshield again another inch had piled up. She was going to die.

  Maybe the car wouldn’t start. She climbed behind the wheel, knocking the snow off her boots before closing the door, and turned the key. The damn thing started like a charm.

  She took a deep breath. “You can do this,” she said. “All you have to do is drive very, very slowly. You can do this.”

  Unfortunately, no one was listening, especially not her subconscious. She shoved the car into gear, put the four-wheel-drive in low, flicked on the lights and began to inch forward.

  She could barely see five feet ahead of her. Visibility was slightly easier with the lights on dim, and when she tested the brakes she only slid for a moment before the reassuring chunk-chunk sound of the antilock brake system kicked in. She had her seat belt on, and she was clutching the steering wheel so hard her fingers were growing numb. She turned on the radio—there were nothing but Christmas carols playing on Christmas Eve and she figured that might help her to breathe. Or at the very least she’d die in a state of grace.

  “‘Sleep in heavenly peace,’” she sang under her breath, an octave lower than the thundering choir on the radio. They didn’t sound as if they knew much about heavenly peace or sleeping, but at least she could sing all the verses, and it was a holy night, a silent night, no sound penetrating the thick blanket of snow.

  She missed the turn onto Black’s Point Road. Well, not actually missed it—she just failed to put the brakes on in time and went sliding past it, off into the ditch at the side of the road.

  “Near enough,” she muttered, turning off the engine and the lights, leaving the keys where they were. If someone wanted to steal the car they were welcome to it. After tonight she
might never drive again.

  Except that her hands weren’t shaking, and she no longer had that sick feeling of panic deep inside her belly. It was almost a sense of elation.

  She was afraid she might get lost in the snow—on foot the visibility was even worse, the snow lashing at her eyes in the inky darkness. Her sense of time, of direction, was shot to hell. What usually took her five minutes to drive had taken her close to forty-five minutes. Her house wasn’t far from the main road, but with her luck she’d stumble right past it and into the lake.

  She hadn’t left any lights on, not even her Christmas tree, but the faint glow was unmistakable. She knew what it was, and that it would lead her safely back home, and she no longer even thought to question it. When she stumbled in her front door the Christmas candle sat in the darkness, its warm glow filling the space.

  If she had even half a brain at all she’d strip off her frozen clothes, build up the stove and get into bed. But she hadn’t risked life and limb out on the roads because she had sense, or because she wanted to sleep alone. She picked up the candle and started back out into the stormy night.

  The snow should have dowsed the flame. The wind should have blown it out. But it stayed, straight and true, leading her through the snow-filled woods to Brody Jackson.

  The house was dark as she climbed up onto the front deck. He hadn’t shoveled since the latest storm had begun, and she had a sudden awful feeling. He hadn’t said he was going to be there for Christmas, had he? And she’d pretty much told him she didn’t trust him and never would. Why would she think he’d be there that night?

  It was too late now. The candle had led her there, through the storm, and this was where she was meant to be.

  She pushed the door open, and the wind blew drifts of snow onto the floor. She shoved it shut behind her, then turned to look at the room.

  He was lying in the bed by the woodstove, sound asleep. The covers were at his waist, exposing the long, beautiful back that she still remembered.

  It would have helped if he’d woken up, said something, but he slept on, the rat. She set the candle down on the table. The only other light in the room came from the small white lights on the Christmas tree he’d brought in. There were no ornaments on it, but it was surprisingly beautiful.

  She was soaking, weighted down with melting snow, and she’d come this far. And only good things can happen on Christmas Eve, right?

  She pulled off her jacket and boots and left them by the woodstove. Her jeans were soaked halfway up her thighs, and they were cold, clammy and uncomfortable, when she took them off. She was shivering, but she stripped off her turtleneck and her sweater, too.

  Colder still. She needed covers and a warm body. She peeled off her wool socks, but at the last minute couldn’t bring herself to remove her bra and panties. She tiptoed over to the bed, but he slept on. She picked up the covers and slid underneath them, close to him but not quite touching, holding her breath to see if he’d wake up.

  He needed a shave. His long hair fell over his face, his mouth had a stubborn, sexy look even in sleep, and she put her head down on the pillow, feeling suddenly, unaccountably peaceful. She should be nervous, climbing into bed with a man when she wasn’t sure she was welcome, but she felt very calm. Safe. Home.

  “It took you long enough.” He didn’t open his eyes, but reached out his arm and pulled her up against his warm, muscled body. “Your feet are cold.”

  “Everything about me is cold,” she said with a little shiver.

  “Not for long.”

  It wasn’t perfect. Sex wasn’t meant to be perfect, graceful, elegant. But it was gloriously right. His hands knew just how to touch her, how hard, how gentle, how long. He did things with his mouth that she hadn’t even imagined, and when he pushed inside her she climaxed immediately, unable to help herself.

  He held her tightly as the spasms racked her body, an unending shimmer of delight, and when they finally slowed he whispered in her ear, “Hey, I’m not that good.”

  She cupped his face with her hands and smiled up at him dizzily. “But I am,” she said with a mischievous smile. And she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in deeper.

  The night was too short, yet endless. They made love, slept, made love again, ate Christmas cookies and drank eggnog, then made love once more, and the light from the Christmas candle spread a soft, magical glow around the cavernous room.

  When she awoke it was near daylight and she was sprawled across his body in a haze of total well-being. She could tell by the change in his breathing that he was awake, too, and when he spoke she lifted her head to see him.

  “What the hell is this?” he said, holding up her discarded underwear. “Are there Christmas trees on your bra?”

  She smiled at him. “Of course.”

  He groaned. “Oh, God. You’re going to make me wear Christmas boxers next year, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” She put her head back down on his warm chest, closing her eyes as he stroked her shoulder. The early light of dawn had filled the room with a warm glow, almost like the candle. And then she opened her eyes, to see if it was still burning.

  It was gone. The candleholder was still there, but the candle had burned to nothingness, not even a trace of wax left behind. Only the faint scent of cinnamon and cranberry lingered to remind her.

  She closed her eyes again, letting out a deep, satisfied smile. “Merry Christmas, Brody,” she whispered.

  He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” he said. “And a happy new life.”