“Not a problem for me,” said Rebecca. “I took the train. Mass transit is my friend.” Rebecca lifted her suitcase and the older woman waved it back down.
“Let Roland take care of that.”
“Roland?”
“He’s our doorman, as well as my husband.”
Rebecca envisioned a ninety-year-old man trying to lug her four-ton suitcase up three flights of stairs and frowned. “I can do it.”
Helen took the suitcase in her feeble, birdlike hand. “But you’re a guest.”
Rebecca reached out, ready to protest, but Mr. Lean, Mean and Bentley-Less stepped in between them. “Where’s it going?”
Mrs. Krause smiled nicely, obviously not a devotee of the women’s movement. “Follow me. Aren’t you a dear man to help?”
The man grumbled something that sounded vaguely obscene, but fell into line behind the old woman. Rebecca followed, watching him move up the winding wooden staircase. Okay, there was more ogling, but he moved with an easy, athletic grace that was fun to watch, and filled her with a marvelous tingling sensation. What harm was there in that?
They went up three flights, down a hallway, around a corner, around another corner and then down another long hallway. Finally Mrs. Krause stopped outside a room and the man dropped the suitcase with a loud thud. Rebecca winced at the echoing noise. Yes, she should have packed lighter, but a woman needed her accessories.
Mrs. Krause beamed at the man. “You’re staying with Miss Neumann then?” She turned to Rebecca. “I thought you’d be traveling alone.”
“She is,” the man answered. “I’m waiting for the snow to let up. Do you have a restaurant or place I could sit for a few hours? A bar would be great.”
Mrs. Krause looked out the bank of windows, shaking her head. “The dining room will be open for tea shortly, but I’m not sure the snow will be stopping anytime soon.”
“I’ll be fine. You tell me where I can wait and be out of the way.”
“The library’s as nice a place as any. And there’s hot cider and gingerbread cookies.”
His eyes didn’t look happy, but he didn’t say anything, merely headed downstairs. The old woman watched him curiously, before turning her attention back to Rebecca. “You know, I’m not sure your room is ready. I asked the maid to put the portable foot spa in your room, and I don’t think she’s got to it yet. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library, too? I’m afraid this weather has thrown everyone for a loop. The second shift maid couldn’t make it in and we’re a bit shorthanded.”
Rebecca didn’t mind at all. For a portable foot spa, she’d walk through hot coals. She smiled easily. “Not a problem, Mrs. Krause.”
“Please call me Helen.”
“Helen, then. And I’m Rebecca.”
Chapter 3
The library was a cheery place, if one could be swayed by such sentimental trappings. Rebecca could. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and a freshly cut spruce had been decorated with ornaments and tinsel, a lighted star topping it off. Everywhere was pine greenery, red velvet ribbon and mistletoe.
Any other time it would have been relaxing. Now it wasn’t, because of him. Rebecca folded her hands in her lap and stared into the flames. The man sat on the stuffed sofa on the other side of the room, but she could feel him looking, breathing, emoting. Unrestrained tension rolled off him in huge waves—he didn’t want to be here.
However, Rebecca was undeterred. She had coaxed first-year pledges into teasing conversations, she had bribed six-year-olds into confessing that they’d rocketed pencils into the ceiling tiles. And best of all, there wasn’t a man she couldn’t handle. Maybe a weekend flirtation was the best way to get the old Rebecca back.
“Nasty weather, yes?”
“Um,” he answered, more of a grunt than actual vocal articulation. She almost corrected him, but then thought better. Not in the classroom anymore.
“Where were you going? Family for the holidays?” Judging by the worn black cowboy boots, he didn’t look like the “family for the holidays” type, but then, she was the poster child for the “family for the holidays” look, and she was no fan of the experience. That’s what happened when you trapped twenty-three Neumanns into a two-bedroom house. Actually it would have been okay except for Uncle Edgar, who never quite seemed all there, and talked twenty decibels too loud for average human ears.
“I’m heading to Canada.”
“French, as a language, is severely overrated. You should consider Spanish instead. Not only more practical, but the climate is warmer, too.”
His face was set like granite. An even bigger challenge. She cocked her head, smiled and she saw something flicker in the granite.
“You have family around here?” he finally asked.
“In Stafford Hill, Connecticut. This is a chance to get away for a while. Do some thinking. Maybe skiing,” she lied. Everything sounded better than “I just got fired from the only job I’ve ever wanted, and actually I’m hoping to meet someone new.”
He looked around the library. “Nice.”
“I thought it sounded like an adventure,” she answered, as if she were an adventurous soul. Oh, she, who brought eight pairs of shoes, all with three-inch heels (designed to show her short legs off to best advantage).
“Some adventure,” he muttered.
“You don’t want to be here?” she asked, going for the obvious. Better to understand the hostility and embrace it. Resolving conflict was a key job requirement when handling six-year-olds, and apparently surly men.
“Stuck.”
“There are worse places to be stuck,” she answered.
“Name one.”
“Siberia.”
This time he almost cracked a smile, not much more than a quirk of his lips, but mentally she cheered. Okay, the old Rebecca was coming back. She wasn’t beaten down. She could feel it.
Normally she didn’t try so hard, but the dark, somber eyes struck a raw place inside her. They were eyes like Pepper Buckley’s, hollow and ancient. The pain there was like a loud ringing inside her head. Not that there was anything she could do, but she couldn’t leave it alone.The silence grew longer until a couple wandered into the room. Newlyweds, by the way they were ignoring the rest of the world. Hand in hand, eyes glued to each other. Until they spotted the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. Mistletoe made Rebecca happy, no question, because she was a world-champion kisser, and had parlayed an “accidental” mistletoe kiss into a full-blown relationship more times than she could count. However, watching others in the midst of moonstruck happiness wasn’t really her thing. She was way too competitive.
The woman looked up at her lover, quirked a brow in invitation and then they kissed. Long, longer, endlessly, everlastingly, infinitely, skin-flayingly long. Thankfully no tongues looked to be involved. Rebecca felt her face bloom in uncharacteristic hotness.
She sneaked a peek at the room’s other occupant, to see if he noticed, to see if he was uncomfortable, to see if he was getting turned on. He wasn’t looking at her, he was staring fixedly at the fire, which was somehow worse. He was ignoring her.
Quickly Rebecca looked away before he saw her staring at him, and then he would think that she was the desperate type—which she wasn’t normally.
The couple broke apart, took a cup of cider (which they shared) and wandered out, leaving Rebecca in an interminably fidgety state. She crossed her legs together and tried to look casual. Nearly an impossibility, but four summers of charm school training made every impossibility a possibility.
Rebecca got up and wandered to the bookshelves, looking for conversational diversions. There were a million diversions on the bookshelves. A collection of classical literature, thrillers, historical fiction and science fiction. She moved from row to row, trying to determine which one suited him best.
“They have a nice collection of Westerns here. McMurtry, Zane Gray. Do you like Westerns?”
He didn’t even loo
k up. “No.”
Rebecca heaved a loud sigh, which, if he were a more sensitive type, would have been seen as a subtle rebuke. “Cup of cider?”
“With rum?” he asked hopefully, turning in her direction.
She scanned the table. “No, sorry.”
“I’ll pass.”
She poured a cup for herself, took a sip and then leaned gracefully against the old antique table. “Where did you come from?”
He looked at her closely. “Curious, aren’t you?”
“Simply making conversation. I love to talk to people, make new friends.”
“I don’t.”
A second couple wandered in. A tall, modelesque woman, with her very own Adirondack Ken, complete with red-wool plaid shirt. Of course, it took them less than a minute to find the mistletoe. Rebecca clocked it. After seven minutes of R-rated tongue action, Rebecca made discreet choking sounds.
The man met her eyes, and laughed.
“Nice weather we’re having. Warm enough for you?” she hollered to him.
The model pulled away from Ken, thankfully, and flashed a photogenic pout.
Rebecca wasn’t cowed. “Do I know you? Didn’t we do rehab together? Susie? Shirley? Or was it a ‘J’ name?”
The woman pulled at Ken’s hands and the two left the room, off in search of new and more unusual public displays of affection.
“Little punchy there, aren’t you?” the man asked. “I thought you’d be making new friends.”
“Very nice,” she answered, sounding punchy.
“Rehab, huh?”
“It just came out. Sorry.”
“You could’ve left the room.”
“So could you.”
“Maybe I like to watch,” he said, and Rebecca swallowed. Hard.
She met his eyes and shrugged. “Maybe I do, too.”
“Where’s your Romeo?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you here alone? Somebody stand you up?”
“Christmas gift.”
“A solo pass to a couples joint? Does this person like you?”
“This isn’t a couples joint,” she insisted, just as another couple entered the room. Again.
Rebecca turned to the stranger, her face contorted with misery. “I didn’t mean to get pregnant. It was an accident. You have to believe me.”
The couple wheeled around and left. Problem solved.
“You an actress?” he asked, his arms folded over his chest. Somewhere along the way, she had moved from mouthy pest to curiosity. Progress. Definite progress.
“Seventeen years of watching General Hospital. I teach school. What about you?”
“I build things.”
“Big, officey things, or smaller, residential-type things?” she asked, curious. He looked like a builder. Probably drove a pickup. American made. Six-cylinder, possibly an extended bed. Nothing remotely sleek, or Italian. She really wanted to move him up on her scale, but he kept inserting barriers.
“Home renovation stuff. You teach really young kids, don’t you?”
She’d heard that tone before, the easy dismissal. “Why do you think that?”
“You’re too short.”
“It’s not nice to pick on a person’s shortcomings.”
“You said it, honey, not me.” He got up, walked around the room, pacing. A man who didn’t like being confined. No white-collar worker here.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“No,” he said, still pacing. “I’m not used to sitting. Don’t like all the holiday stuff.” As he walked in circles, the room grew smaller. She was about to ask him to stop, but then another couple strolled into the room. The woman was pretty enough, but the man was wearing a cashmere sweater, Burberry, four-ply, and would have rated an A-on the Eligibility Scale if he wasn’t wearing a redhead on his arm, too.
Crap. She’d been hoping for the Alaska Gold Rush, and instead she was stuck on the Love Boat.
Rebecca closed her eyes because this wasn’t the way Christmas was supposed to be. You weren’t supposed to lose your job. You weren’t supposed to be alone. When she opened them again, she didn’t bother to be polite. “I’m sorry. This mistletoe is taken. Find a room of your own.”
The woman stared, slack-jawed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Then Rebecca turned to the stranger, and kissed him.
It was graceless, classless and screamed of desperation. And wasn’t that the truth? But as she kissed him under the mistletoe, the sounds of the lodge fell away, the scents taking over. The smell of burning wood, spiced cider, fresh pine and man. Rough, heady man. Rebecca knew Play-Doh, wax crayons and hand sanitizers, but this new and tantalizing aroma made her mind spin in circles, faster and faster. It carried her away, far away from the places she knew. This wasn’t Ivy League, white-collar man. This was someone more seductive. More earthy. More basic.
It was exactly what she needed.
Eagerly she kissed him with everything she had, her mouth open and slack, inviting him to explore. She heard a groan, felt a hand at her waist, pressing her away, but then, glory be, he pulled her closer.
Her hand crept to his chest, finding a heartbeat under her palm. Strong and fast, even under the heavy wool. This time she moved into him, so that she could feel more than his heart. She wanted it all. The breadth of the shoulders, the safety of his chest, the heat of his hips. She’d never known what spontaneous sex felt like, had never felt the tingles in her spine, the ache between her legs.
Passion. This was passion. She could feel it in him as well. In the thrust of his tongue, in the urgent press of his mouth. Such a lovely mouth. She was going to have that mouth. She was going to have that man. She would ask him to her room. For a few hours. For a night. A decadent moan escaped from her lips, and it didn’t matter what he rated on her scale. It didn’t matter if he was stealing her away from her search for Mr. Right. Honestly, she didn’t care.
He was the best Christmas present ever. Not a foot spa, not a hand-crayoned picture of Santa. This was better. This was a man.
A hot, hunky man.
Her way, her terms.
A noise disturbed her thoughts, and he lifted his head. The black pitch of his eyes gave nothing away, but under her hand, she felt the ragged breathing, felt the speeding heart.
There, under the shadow of the mistletoe, Rebecca smiled at him, a lurid invitation waiting on her tongue. She opened her mouth, but the voice behind her interrupted.
“Rebecca?”
No one knew her name except for Mrs. Krause. The deep voice wasn’t old, wasn’t feeble, wasn’t even female.
Rebecca closed her mouth, and turned.
Alec Trevayne.
Chapter 4
“Rebecca Neumann?” Cory wiped his mouth and sized up the gent who had so inconveniently interrupted. Cold, hard cash. The guy reeked of it, from the cashmere coat to the tailored trousers, to the Italian wingtips. Cory took a step farther away from the woman, the name echoing in his mind. So familiar…
Not that it mattered. He knew what money could do. He knew how this situation would play out.
However, the woman surprised him. She stared at the dandy, then stared back at Cory, her light gray eyes wide with confusion. Cory wasn’t used to playing the gentleman, but it was obvious the dandy wasn’t as welcome as Cory had assumed, so he took a step closer to Rebecca, and reached out to her—like a boyfriend would. Before he could touch her, she flew out of the room like—well, hell, like a neurotic woman.
God. “That was Rebecca Neumann, wasn’t it?” asked City Boy, in a voice that dripped of fancy-ass England. Blimey.
“Who’s Rebecca Neumann?” Cory asked, dodging the question with a question. Rebecca Neumann?
“I was expecting to meet her here.”
“And you don’t know what she looks like?” Cory folded his arms across his chest. London Boy might be broader in the pecs, but Cory didn’t fight fair. Never had.
“It was su
pposed to be a surprise,” the man finished lamely.
“Maybe she’s not here yet. You know, the weather’s really nasty. Got stuck myself.”
The man didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t going to argue, either. Not that Cory blamed him. Meeting a woman for the weekend, not knowing who she was, didn’t say much for the guy. Unless this Rebecca was a hooker?
Cory shook his head. Nope. She was a kindergarten teacher, cheerleader, princess. No hooker blood there.
Cheerleader. That’s where he recognized the name. The same girl? That same tight ass? Definitely. Would she remember him? Hopefully not.
Cory smiled and stuck out his hand. “Cory Bell. And you’re?”
“Alec Trevayne. I’m sorry. This is quite embarrassing.”
“Yeah, glad I’m not you.”
“Was that your lady friend I walked in on? Sorry.”
Cory coughed. “Mistletoe always gets to me. You know?” It was a vague answer, and enough to swing either way, depending on why Rebecca was running away from this guy.
The old woman who owned the place hurried into the room, getting Cory off the hook. “Mr. Trevayne? Is that you? We had a leak in the laundry room, so I’m afraid everything is upside down today. Did you find Miss Neumann?”
“Not yet,” answered Alec, and Cory began to feel really sorry for the guy. Maybe he should tell him, ease some of the embarrassment. Nope. Cory knew how to keep his mouth shut and he had almost no sympathy for the human condition. Let him suffer.
Besides, his loyalty lay with Rebecca at the moment, mainly because she kissed him like it was her last day on earth. It’s not that he had planned on getting laid today, but damn…he hadn’t expected to find her tongue in his mouth, either. Cory wasn’t a big believer in kissing, mouth to mouth was too personal for his sex life, but a woman’s tongue, well, he wasn’t stupid, either.
“I’ll keep my eyes open for you. Good luck with the hunt,” offered Cory, then he left the room. He should get out of this place. Snow or no snow. Leave Rebecca Neumann alone. But what if she needed him? protested his cock. What if she was avoiding the Brit for a good reason? Cory studied the snow falling steadily outside and swore. Then he and his cock took off, heading up the stairs to Rebecca’s room.
Dear Santa (A Blazing Little Christmas) Page 3