THE NIGHTS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

by Vicky Lewis Thompson

  "You don't have to tell me anything, Greg," she added. "But I want you to know that how you've chosen to make your living is not a problem for me. Not even slightly."

  "You're absolutely sure about that?" He still didn't seem inclined to believe it.

  "Absolutely." Then she snuggled against him again. "Your place or mine?"

  * * *

  "Mine." Greg wasn't about to mess up what promised to be a wonderful end to the evening by demanding they get into a big discussion. He lowered his voice. "I'm the only one with condoms," he reminded her.

  "Oh, right."

  Greg was happy that they'd settled the issue of his employment so easily. Or rather, he ought to be happy. Mostly he was confused. He'd expected at least some hassle from Suzanne about his handyman job. At the very least, he'd thought she'd want him to explain his reasoning for staying with it. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that she'd accept his job without question.

  The bus driver automatically pulled over at the stop nearest Greg and Suzanne's apartment building. Stan had been bringing Greg home from Jerry's for the better part of a year, and he didn't need a signal from Greg.

  "Let's go," Greg said softly, hugging Suzanne close as they stood and prepared to exit from the rear doors. "Thanks, Stan," he called up to the front. "Happy holidays."

  "Same to you," Stan called back.

  Wind and snow swirled around them as they stepped down to the sidewalk. Greg made sure Suzanne's hood was up, and he kept his arm around her shoulders as they hurried toward the apartment-house entrance. It was too cold and windy to make small talk.

  Between the late hour and the weather, he didn't expect anybody to be hanging around the lobby and notice them together. He'd been a little worried about that on the way out, but they hadn't met anyone in the elevator or the lobby. Of course they'd walked out nonchalantly, not even holding hands, so their being together could have seemed like an accident.

  But with her tucked inside his arm this way, nobody would believe they'd met by accident. They were obviously coming in from a date. He wasn't quite sure what might happen if somebody did see them. Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps a tenant would start gossiping and word would get back to his employers.

  At this point he didn't much care. If Suzanne truly accepted his lifestyle, there was a good chance that his place of employment was about to change anyway. If they became a couple, they'd probably choose a different place to live, which would mean he'd have to find another handyman position.

  Or maybe they wouldn't become a couple, after all. He could think of two reasons why Suzanne didn't care what he did for a living. Either she was the kind of person who believed in letting people do whatever made them happy, or this relationship wasn't important enough for her to worry about the type of job he had.

  An optimist would go for the first scenario, a pessimist the second. When he was a younger man he'd been an incurable optimist, but Amelia had taken a big chunk of that optimism with her when she'd left. He knew what he wanted to believe about Suzanne, but he wasn't sure that he could.

  They arrived at the apartment's front entrance, and he used his key to get them in. They bustled into the lobby, stomping snow from their boots.

  Suzanne threw back her hood and pulled off her gloves. Her teeth were chattering. "The w-wind must be coming off the l-lake."

  "Must be." He could hardly wait to get her someplace where he could help her warm up. Really warm up. "Do you need to go up to your apartment for anything?"

  "Nope." Her eyes glowed with barely contained excitement.

  "Good. Then let's take the stairs down. It's faster, and besides—"

  The lobby doors opened again, bringing in a rush of snowy air and a burst of female chatter. Greg turned, figuring there was no way he and Suzanne would be able to sneak down those stairs now. Might as well brave it out. Just his luck, Jennifer and Carolyn, two of the women he'd counseled about their love lives, were standing there looking extremely curious.

  Maybe this was a good thing. He'd let Suzanne decide how to handle this. If she wanted to be open about their relationship, so much the better. In fact, he'd take that as a very good sign, if she was willing to go public with the news that they were seeing each other.

  Suzanne remained silent.

  "Hi, Jennifer, Carolyn," Greg said, to break the tension. "Pretty cold out there, huh?"

  "Sure is." Jennifer spoke and bobbed her head in agreement, but Carolyn appeared to be struck speechless.

  "We, um, went to a concert," Jennifer added.

  Beside him, Suzanne cleared her throat. Here it came. If she implied that they'd had an honest-to-goodness date, then he could believe she was in this relationship for real.

  "Greg was telling me about this darts tournament he plays in every week," she said. "I love darts, so he took me over there so I could get into it."

  Disappointment knifed through him. "Yeah, and she kicked butt, too." He turned to her. "Well, see you around, Suzanne."

  "See you, Greg."

  Her eyes were trying to tell him something, but he wasn't sure what. And maybe it didn't matter. Maybe this was how it would end. Pasting a smile on his face, he turned away and walked toward the door that opened onto the building's stairwell. Maybe, once she was safely inside her apartment, she'd call him. Or maybe she would never call him again.

  * * *

  Suzanne's heart wrenched as Greg walked away. She had the feeling she'd said the wrong thing, but she'd only been trying to protect his job. Besides, the situation had been extremely awkward, standing there with Jennifer and Carolyn. Carolyn was probably another of Greg's "projects," judging from the way she'd been struck dumb by seeing Suzanne obviously coming in from some type of evening activity with Greg.

  Suzanne's first thought had been that he'd want her to minimize what they'd shared, considering he was facing two of his former lovers. Yet he hadn't seemed very happy about her comment. Or maybe she was reading too much into the way he'd reacted.

  "Well, I'm ready to head upstairs," Jennifer said. "I have to get up early and do some Christmas shopping."

  "I'm not done, either," Suzanne said, heading for the elevator. For one thing, she had to decide whether a gift for Greg was appropriate. She wanted to get him something, but if she gave him a present and he didn't reciprocate, that could be a clumsy moment.

  Carolyn, a petite redhead, spoke for the first time as the three women walked toward the elevator. "So you and Greg are spending some time together?"

  Suzanne punched the elevator button before turning toward Carolyn. "Sort of."

  Carolyn gazed at her with obvious envy in her eyes. "I didn't know he played darts."

  "I didn't, either," Jennifer said. "I'll bet that was fun."

  "It was okay." Suzanne wanted nothing more than to get away from these two. Being with them only reminded her of the carefree love life Greg had indulged in before now and that might continue once she was old news.

  "He's a great guy," Carolyn said. "Terrific listener."

  "Isn't he, though?" Jennifer agreed. "You feel as if you could tell that man simply anything."

  But he didn't tell them much at all, Suzanne thought. He had a whole other life full of friends and family, and she'd bet these two women knew nothing more about Greg than his abilities in bed. Unfortunately, that was more knowledge than Suzanne thought either of them should have.

  If they didn't care enough about the guy to find out who he was, then they didn't deserve what he had to offer. Terri might think Greg was living in some kind of bachelor paradise, but Suzanne saw it differently. These women were taking advantage of him, using him to make themselves feel better and giving very little back.

  "Don't you agree, Suzanne?" Jennifer asked. "Isn't Greg just so easy to talk to?"

  "Yeah," she said. "Greg's the best." Mercifully, at that moment the elevator arrived at hers and Jennifer's floor. "Gotta run," she said to Jennifer, to forestall any more conversation. "I drank too many beers
at the pub, if you know what I mean." She dashed to her door, opened it and escaped inside.

  Once there, she threw off her coat and walked over to the phone. But once the receiver was in her hand, she began to rethink calling him. No, she needed to look into his eyes while she explained herself. He needed to know that she wasn't just using him for sex, like all the other women in this building. And maybe, just maybe, she'd find the courage to tell him how much she cared.

  * * *

  "Matilda, I guess I struck out again." Greg had calculated how much time it would take Suzanne to ride the elevator to her apartment, pick up the phone and call him. Even allowing for some obligatory conversation with Jennifer and Carolyn, she'd had more than enough time by now. Apparently she wasn't going to call.

  He wandered into the bedroom, his socks whispering on the carpet. Earlier today he'd put new votives in the candleholders and fresh sheets on the bed. He'd even made a quick trip to the florist to pick up a single red rose and a bud vase to put it in.

  Matilda followed him into the bedroom.

  "I hope you like the rose, Matilda. Looks like you're going to be the only female here to appreciate it." He reached down and picked her up, taking comfort in her reassuring warmth and the steady rumble of her purr as he cradled her in his arms.

  She kneaded her claws against his shoulder.

  "I thought I had a shot this time, kitty-cat," he said, looking into her yellow eyes. "It could be my fault for not telling Suzanne about Amelia when I had the chance. Or maybe nothing would have made a difference." He leaned down and rubbed his cheek against Matilda's soft fur, his throat tight with disappointment. "At any rate, it looks like she's gone."

  The doorbell buzzed and Matilda launched herself from his arms, digging through the flannel shirt in her startled haste. He hardly noticed the prick of pain from her claws. He could only imagine one person who would be ringing his doorbell at this hour of the night.

  Heart racing, he walked to the door and opened it to find Suzanne standing there wearing her long wool coat and snow boots. The coat was unbuttoned, but she was holding it together as if she felt cold. It was chilly in the basement, but not that chilly. He couldn't imagine why she hadn't left her coat and boots upstairs, unless they were part of her plan to confuse people.

  He was certainly confused. "Are we going somewhere?" he asked.

  "I hope not. I was feeling a little stiff, and I wondered if you knew where I could get a good massage." With a smile, she opened the coat.

  He'd visited the Art Institute of Chicago, had seen some classical nudes there, statues that were supposed to represent the ideal woman. Not a single one compared with the sight of Suzanne's rosy, naked body. His chest tightened with admiration. And gratitude. He was so thankful that she was really here, offering herself to him.

  Maybe she hadn't been willing to acknowledge him as her date in front of the other women. Maybe she would spend only a few more fantastic nights with him and call it quits. He didn't care. He'd take what he could get.

  He cleared the huskiness from his throat. "I might be able to take care of that massage request, if you'd like to step inside."

  "I would."

  He moved back to let her walk in. "I'm not a professional, but my price is reasonable."

  "That's good to know."

  By the time he'd closed the door, locked it and turned around to face her, she'd stepped out of her boots and discarded her coat.

  His throat closed with longing. She was so damn beautiful, and now at last she knew it. She stood in the middle of his living room wearing nothing but a smile. Not a trace of embarrassment lingered in her blue eyes. Instead, she looked provocative and … proud. Yes, that was the emotion that shone in those eyes, one he hadn't seen there before. She was proud of this gift she had brought him.

  "You're magnificent," he murmured.

  "Thank you." Her gaze flickered downward, to where she's dropped her coat.

  Matilda was sniffing it with great interest. Then she turned around twice and curled up in its folds.

  "I think your cat prefers my coat to me," she said.

  "Silly cat." Greg held out his hand. "Come with me, fair lady." Working hard to breathe normally, he led her toward the bedroom, where he'd left the bedside lamp burning instead of the candles. "Candlelight? Or do you want—"

  "The lamp is perfect." Releasing his hand, she threw back the covers and stretched out on the sheets. "So we can see each other."

  He quivered with anticipation as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Yes."

  Her gaze grew serious. "Greg, I was only frying to protect your job back there in the lobby."

  "I don't care about the job," he said gently. "You don't? But I thought—"

  "You know what? It doesn't matter." He was prepared to live in the present. For now, she was here, waiting for him to love her.

  "I just … well, it seemed as if what I said bothered you."

  "What is said or done outside this room isn't important." He tossed aside his jeans and socks and left on his briefs. Whether she knew it or not, she really was going to get a massage. First.

  "It is important if it makes you feel used." He smiled at that. "Used for what?"

  "You know. For … for sex."

  He thought of all they'd shared in the past few days. "I don't feel used, Suzanne. I feel privileged."

  She gazed at him for a long time, and a sheen of moisture sparkled in her eyes. She swallowed. "You always know exactly what to say."

  Except when it counted, like during the bus ride when she'd wanted him to open up about Amelia and he hadn't been able to step over the barriers he'd been erecting for years. "I don't always know," he murmured. "Now close your eyes, pretty lady." He picked up the bottle of massage oil. "I'm going to make you feel good all over."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  «^»

  Suzanne closed her eyes and abandoned herself to Greg with a kind of surrender she'd never allowed herself with any man. When he lifted her and positioned her closer to the end of the bed, she went limp in his arms, as if she were a rag doll.

  The mattress moved under his weight, and she was vaguely aware that he'd moved the pillows out of the way so he could kneel at her head. Then the scent of almonds swirled around her as he stroked her forehead, her cheeks and the line of her jaw.

  "Let go, Suzanne." He circled his fingers lightly over her mouth until all the tiny muscles loosened and her lips parted. "Like that." Cupping her chin, he slid both hands slowly toward her ears and paused there to massage the lobes.

  Then he cradled her head in his hands. "Relax your neck. Let me hold you," he whispered.

  She did, and it was the most incredible feeling to lie with her head resting there, supported by his strong fingers. Trust flowed between them in smooth, unbroken waves, and she sighed with pleasure.

  His voice was soft, almost as if he were speaking from inside her mind. "They say that making love can be … spiritual."

  "Mmm." She believed Greg could take her to that place where making love would be like that.

  "I always wondered what they meant." He leaned over her, brushing her lips with his as he tucked a pillow under her head. "I think we're going to find out."

  She thought so, too. She felt liquid and heavy with promise, like a dark, rich plum ready to be plucked. Yearning to be plucked … and savored.

  Beneath Greg's oiled hands, her shoulders lost all rigidity as she seemed to sink deeper into the mattress. Then he shifted again, and she opened her eyes to find him astride her, sitting back on his heels, careful not to rest his weight on her. He picked up her hand and began a slow massage of each finger.

  Her gaze drifted to his briefs, where his erection jutted beneath the navy cotton. Then she looked into his eyes again.

  His mouth curved in response to her unspoken question. "I'm afraid your masseur has trouble maintaining his cool."

  Her vocal cords felt rusty, but she managed a single word. "Good."
r />   "Now just close your eyes," he said gently.

  She obeyed, so mesmerized by his sensual touch that she wouldn't dream of resisting. As he kneaded the muscles in her arms, his clever hands found erogenous zones no one had ever discovered. Or perhaps she was ultra-sensitive, her body charged with the knowledge that she'd given him permission to stroke every inch of her with those almond-scented fingertips.

  She felt the blood racing through her veins and her nerves tingling in reaction. Yet even so, she grew more languid and incapable of movement. Like ripening fruit, she waited for the moment when he would nudge the branch and she would fall, juicy and warm, into his outstretched hands.

  A drop of oil landed softly on her breast and rolled slowly toward her cleavage. Another drop followed, and another. Moisture pooled in her mouth. Oil dripped on her other breast, followed by the click of the bottle being set back on the nightstand. Anticipation curled in her stomach.

  With firm strokes he spread the oil over her breasts—creating ever-tighter circles, closing in on her taut nipples. At last he stroked upward, as if creating those quivering peaks, squeezing and coaxing them into tight buds. She had become his work of art.

  His touch remained steady and rhythmic, but his breathing had changed, becoming rougher, louder. She smiled, knowing that he'd caught himself in his own net.

  "That's right," he murmured. "I can't turn you on without turning myself on, too."

  "Do you…" She paused and ran her tongue over her lips. "Do you want to … make love to me … now?"

  "I am making love to you." There was amusement in his voice.

  "I mean—"

  "I know. Not yet."

  Unconsciously she arched upward. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." He pressed on her shoulders, guiding her back to the mattress. "Lie still."

  "I don't know if I can."