THE NIGHTS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

by Vicky Lewis Thompson

  He walked over and gave her the mouse, lightly brushing her hand in the process. Oh, man. Contact. The effect was like touching a live wire, and yet he was determined to take it easy. Obviously she wanted to trim the tree. They'd trim the tree.

  He watched as she dangled the mouse by the tail, teasing and playing with Matilda until she finally relented and gave the cat her toy. Matilda immediately rolled on the floor in ecstasy, the mouse between her paws.

  Greg understood Matilda's reaction. He had the urge to react the same way.

  Suzanne's playfulness with the cat was definitely giving him ideas. Playfulness was a good sign. A very good sign. He could build all kinds of fantasies on playfulness.

  She stood. "There's one last thing in the bag."

  "Yeah?" Grinning, he fished in the bag once more. "This is turning out to be like those miniature cars in the circus with all the clowns piling out." His fingers closed around something plastic, and he pulled it out. Fake mistletoe.

  His gaze found hers, and his pulse quickened.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. "I didn't want to take a chance on the real kind, because of Matilda."

  His chest tightened in anticipation. "I've wanted to kiss you ever since I opened the door."

  Her voice was husky. "Well, now you have an excuse."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  Suzanne had decided to take more initiative for what happened in this love affair. With Greg she was going to be the kind of woman who did the unexpected, the kind of woman she'd never been before. So she'd put mistletoe in the bottom of the bag. Judging from the way he dropped the bag and pulled her into his arms, it had been a welcome idea.

  He held her close with one arm tight around her waist, while he dangled the mistletoe over her head with his free hand. "Do you realize we've only had one kiss?"

  She slid her arms around his neck, her heart thumping so loud she could barely hear him or the mellow Christmas music on the CD player. But she was good at reading lips, and she loved reading his. "And it was quite a kiss," she said in that breathy voice that came upon her at moments like this with Greg.

  "It was in the dark." He traced the sprig of mistletoe over her eyebrows and feathered kisses there before leaning back to study her, as if trying to decide where to place the mistletoe next.

  She had a sudden image of all the private places he could dangle that mistletoe. She'd never had thoughts like that with a man. "I … I needed the darkness last night."

  "I know," he said gently. "Darkness can be sexy, too." He trailed the mistletoe over her cheekbones and followed it with more light kisses.

  "I might still need it … later."

  "Whatever you want, you get." He looked into her eyes as he stroked the mistletoe along the line of her jaw.

  She trembled, thinking of what would happen before the night was over, and she wondered how bold she might become in the heat of his loving. For now, she savored seeing herself reflected in his green eyes. He truly could make a woman feel beautiful with such intensity.

  Then his eyes fluttered closed as he leaned down and placed kisses all along her jaw. Every time his velvet lips brushed her skin, her heart beat a little faster and the throbbing between her thighs became more insistent.

  When he opened his eyes again, he seemed to be studying her the way an artist would judge a work in progress. "I'm glad you don't need darkness right now," he said, his voice roughened by emotion. "This way I can watch your eyes. The more you become aroused, the softer they are, like blue velvet. I love knowing that you want me."

  "As if there could be any doubt." She was surprised that a man who attracted women so easily, a man who had a reputation for being an amazing lover, would need that kind of validation.

  At last he brushed the mistletoe over her mouth. "In the beginning, there's always doubt." Then he closed those incredible eyes, and his lips found hers.

  No doubt. None whatsoever. His mouth fit hers perfectly. Everything that had ever been wrong with kissing other men was right with Greg. He knew how to breathe, how to tease, how to coax her to deepen the kiss until she was quivering and ready for more, so much more.

  Warmth flooded her and she snuggled close, seeking his heat. He moaned softly against her mouth, shifted the angle and carried the pleasure to greater heights. He was a virtuoso, and she would love to spend the rest of her life kissing him. The rest of her life. Unnerved by that thought, she drew back, gulping for air.

  "Suzanne?" He struggled for breath. "Did I … did I do something … wrong?"

  "No," she said in a throaty murmur. She searched his face and wondered how many women had been kissed thoroughly by Greg and had yearned for those kisses to last forever. "You're doing … everything right."

  "Then why did you pull away?"

  She could hardly tell him that his passionate kiss had fooled her into thinking that she actually meant something to him. That wasn't the way the game was played with a man like Greg. She'd been about to put too much of her heart on the line with that kiss, and she needed time to regroup.

  Giving him a quick smile, she moved reluctantly out of his arms. "My fault. I shouldn't have told you about the mistletoe until after we'd trimmed the tree. You said you wanted to do that first—I mean, before we—" She wasn't brave enough to say it, and her face grew even warmer than the rest of her.

  "Before we made love." His voice was tight with sexual tension. "I did say that. But I'm willing to change the order of things."

  She could tell by the bulge in his jeans that he was more than ready to change the order of things. She wasn't. Decorating the tree would give her time to remember why she was here. She'd chosen to become Greg's lover because she needed to increase her self-confidence, especially in the bedroom. She wasn't here to fall in love with him, no matter how beautifully he kissed.

  "Let's decorate your tree," she said, "and save the mistletoe for … afterward."

  "All right." His hand trembled slightly as he tucked the sprig in the pocket of his burgundy T-shirt. Then he cleared his throat. "Can I get you anything? Something to drink?"

  "I'm fine, thanks. But go ahead, if you want something." The way she was still shaking from his kiss, she might choke or spill if she had a glass of anything liquid in her hands. She made a mental note to use extreme care with his ornaments to make sure she didn't break any.

  "No, I'm okay." Some of the tightness was gone from his voice, and he sent her a gentle smile. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't being a bad host."

  His comment made her wonder again if she'd broken some unwritten rule by coming to his apartment. "I didn't really mean for you to treat me like a guest or put you to any trouble."

  He chuckled. "Believe me, you're no trouble. Any man would count himself lucky to have a visitor like you."

  She drank up his compliment like a woman dying of thirst. She had trouble remembering that he probably said such things to all the women he'd become involved within the apartment complex. "Even so, maybe I should have invited you to come up to my place tonight, instead."

  His gaze sharpened. "Why? Would you be more comfortable there?"

  "No, I really like it here," she answered honestly. His apartment felt like a safe harbor from which to set out on a journey of the sexual unknown. She glanced over at Matilda, who had abandoned her catnip toy to go curl up in the overstuffed chair for a nap. "Besides, I enjoy your cat."

  * * *

  She liked his cat. That was something, he supposed. He'd give anything to know why she'd pulled away from his kiss. She'd been into it, and then something had scared her.

  He hoped it wasn't the fact that she was responding so enthusiastically to the kiss of a guy who worked as a janitor. So far he hadn't detected any snobbery in her, but it could be lurking there, ready to come out about the time he let down his guard and allowed himself to start believing she was different from the rest.

  "Where I come from, we start with the lights." He
leaned down and picked up one of the boxes he'd bought today.

  "Is there any other way? But you have to test them first."

  "Absolutely." He pulled out the slotted cardboard holder and crouched down behind his reading chair, where the nearest outlet was tucked behind his bookshelves. He had to move a couple of volumes of an encyclopedia to get to it. "If you'll open the other box, I'll test them both at the same time."

  "Sure."

  Unwinding the plug, he stuck it in the outlet and a hundred tiny lights winked on. "This one's good to go." He unplugged it and turned to exchange it for the second strand. He caught her staring at him with the saddest expression. She wasn't quite in tears, but close to it.

  Instantly she brightened and handed him the untested lights. "Don't you love the multicolored kind best? Terri thought I should get all white for mine, to go with my decor, but—"

  "Suzanne, what's the matter?" He was an idiot. She'd probably decorated a tree with Jared last year, and doing it with him was stirring up memories she'd rather forget. Way to go, bozo.

  "The matter? Why do you think something's the matter?"

  "The way you looked just now." He stood. "We don't have to do this. I should have realized you spent last Christmas with Jared, so trimming this tree with me is probably the last thing in the world you want to do. Let's forget it, okay?"

  She gazed up at him, and in that moment she looked about twelve years old. "It's not about Jared. I guess you could technically say we decorated a tree together, but I mostly did it and he mostly watched football and gave directions. It wasn't what you'd call a tender memory."

  He was beginning to wonder if Jared had created any tender memories with Suzanne, a woman who would probably thrive on a steady diet of them. So would most women, but Suzanne seemed to need them more than air. "Then what made you so sad?" he asked.

  She looked down at the package of lights she held and ran a finger along the edge of the cardboard holder. "Something about seeing you crouched there, with your face in the glow of those Christmas lights, reminded me of my dad testing the lights when I was a kid."

  His heart squeezed as he recognized the sound of loss in her voice. He hoped nothing terrible had happened to her father, but this was exactly why he'd wanted to decorate the tree with her, he reminded himself. He wanted to learn more about her so that he could figure out if his instincts could be trusted or if they were merely the product of his lust.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  She glanced up at him. "There's no need to be. I had no idea I'd have that reaction. My parents have been divorced for years, so I don't know why it hit me now."

  At least her father was alive, he thought. But a divorce brought its own kind of grief. "There's not always a good explanation for emotions," he said. "They just are."

  He could come up with a possible reason why she might be feeling the effects of that long-ago breakup of her family, but he wasn't about to offer his explanation. Their relationship was too new for him to start speculating about her state of mind.

  But he thought she might be starting to yearn for a family of her own. That was pure conjecture on his part, but somehow he believed it. If he was right, this season was sure to make that yearning greater. He should know. Watching the little kids on Santa's lap today had made him long for a child of his own—a sturdy toddler he'd carry on his shoulders when they went to visit Santa on a snowy afternoon

  She took a deep breath. "Well, we're not making much progress on this tree, are we?"

  "Are we on a time clock?"

  "I guess not."

  He held her gaze, revealing his desires. He wanted to make sure she kept his intentions in mind. That would build the excitement between them and make the ultimate joining that much sweeter. "I don't know about you, but I have all night," he said.

  God, how he loved the sound of that. All night with Suzanne. Of course, he wanted to spend a good part of it in bed, but he couldn't have a bad time no matter what they did, so long as she was with him.

  Her cheeks turned pink. "I suppose … I suppose I should get some sleep sometime tonight. Tomorrow's a workday, and—"

  He grinned at her. Her determined practical streak was adorable, and so doomed. "Are you trying to tell me to get a move on? I've already told you we can skip the free trimming."

  Her blush deepened. "No, no, let's trim the tree." She thrust the lights at him. "You test these, and I'll start putting that strand on."

  "All right," he said softly, continuing to smile at her. "You're the boss." He thought she might have a slight case of the jitters, but another kiss would fix that and make her forget all about the time.

  Still, he wouldn't insist they go straight to the bedroom, even if he thought he could convince her to do it. He wanted to talk to her, and once they entered the bedroom, they wouldn't be talking.

  Turning, he crouched beside the outlet and plugged in the second set of lights. "Do you see much of your dad?" he asked.

  "Not much. He remarried, had two more kids. So—"

  When she paused and let the silence lengthen, he prompted her. "So?" He unplugged the lights and glanced over his shoulder.

  Although she'd nestled a few of the lights in the top branches, she'd stopped working and was looking at him. "Fair is fair," she said. "If I tell you about my father, you have to promise to tell me about yours."

  Now there was a shocker. She was curious about his family. If all she wanted was a brief affair, he couldn't imagine why she'd want to know something like that. He filed the information away.

  "Okay," he said slowly. "I promise." He stood. "What were you going to say about your dad?"

  She shrugged and went back to stringing the lights on the tree. "Just that I've always felt sort of like an outsider at his house."

  He couldn't believe anyone wouldn't welcome this beautiful woman into their home. As she lifted her arms to arrange the lights, the soft material of her sweater hugged her breasts and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

  "And besides, my mom never really recovered from the divorce," she continued. "She hasn't remarried, and I'm sure whenever I spend time at my dad's, it's hard for her."

  "Sounds like a tough situation." And he wanted to help soothe the hurt. He didn't think making love to her would be enough for that, though. She'd been effectively cut off from her father, both by his new family and her mother's subtle pressure. That might explain why she'd let a dope like Jared dominate her, if she craved a solid male presence in her life.

  "Oh, it could be worse." She sounded unwilling to pity herself. "And now it's your turn." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Last night in my apartment, when I asked you about following in your father's footsteps, you didn't finish telling me about that."

  He gave her the short version of the story. "He died."

  "Oh, Greg." She lowered her arms and turned toward him. "Was it sudden?"

  "Yeah." The phone call from his mother had ended his innocence. He'd never thought about death before then. "Heart attack. He was only forty-five."

  "That's terrible." Sympathy shone in her eyes. "That certainly puts my situation in perspective."

  "Neither one of them is any damn good," he said easily. In the years since that day, he'd worked through his grief and anger, but there was still a sore spot in his heart, one that might never heal completely.

  "No, I guess they're not," she agreed.

  As he gazed at her, he longed to hold her so much he could taste it. He could hardly wait to offer her both pleasure and comfort. And, to be honest with himself, he wanted comfort from her, as well. Time to get the tree trimmed so they could move on to more important things.

  "I really didn't mean for the tree decorating to take this long." He handed her the second strand of lights. "And I sure hope there's a female connection at the end of that strand you just put on."

  "A what?"

  He'd used the term without thinking, but he enjoyed the color seeping into her cheeks. He held up the plug he'd pu
t into the outlet. "Male connection," he said. Then he reached for the end of the strand that she'd been putting on the tree. "Female connection." He plugged them firmly together.

  She studied the connection. Eyes sparkling, she glanced at him. "Looks to me like that one you just plugged into mine is set up to be both."

  "Well, yeah." He grinned. "Christmas-tree lights usually are made that way, now that you mention it. They swing both ways, I guess."

  Although she was blushing, she didn't back down from the topic of conversation. "You know, I never understood the appeal of that."

  "Me, neither." But he understood the appeal of a naked man and woman in the same room. He understood that very well right now, and he thought she did, too. He could kiss her and end the tree decoration activities. He was so tempted. "I say leave that bisexual stuff to the mollusks," he added.

  Her gaze turned speculative. "Would you, now?"

  Then he realized he'd just slipped and said something that didn't usually tumble out of an uneducated guy's mouth. He shrugged. "Learned that in the Reader's Digest."

  "Sure you did." Taking a deep breath, she broke eye contact in order to survey the bookshelves behind him. "Exactly how many of those have you read?"

  So it would start now, he thought with a feeling of resignation. Him and his big mouth. She'd find out how thoroughly he'd educated himself and then she'd begin to urge him to better his circumstances. Well, he might as well get it over with. "I've read nearly all of them," he said, admitting it the way a hardened criminal might confess to all the jobs he'd pulled. "Except for the volumes of Dickens I picked up last month. I'm still—"

  "All of them?" Walking past him and over to the shelves, she began reading off names. "Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Dickinson." She glanced back at him before turning back to the shelves. "And this looks like the complete works of Shakespeare."

  "It is."

  "And my God, here are all the volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and Plato's Republic and the Kama Sutra…" She gazed at that book a little longer than necessary.