Return to Christmas

by Anne Stuart

  What would they do if they found her? Johnny had warned her about Benny, and he sounded just as bad as he’d said. She needed a place to hide, pronto!

  Pronto? That was an odd phrase to pop into her mind. She couldn’t afford to waste time worrying about it—they were moving closer, between her and the closed-off kitchen, so there was no way out there.

  She looked around her and saw the hideous Mediterranean-style bedroom across the way, with its heavy mahogany furniture set that came complete with a huge armoire. She could fit, assuming the darn thing wasn’t filled with plywood as well, but it wasn’t a sure thing.

  She hesitated for just a moment longer, then scrabbled like a crab to the adjoining bedroom with its heavy draperies and muddy colors, yanking open the armoire door. At least Macy’s carried quality furniture—the piece was solid and well-built and oh-my-God-thank-you-Jesus it was empty. A moment later she was safely inside, curled up on the solid floor of the piece, thanking God it wasn’t 2020 with cardboard furniture construction that would have collapsed beneath her. And then she held her breath.

  “You see,” came the second man’s voice. “No one around. You’re too spooked, Benny. Let’s go get coffee—you’ll stop seeing things and hearing things that aren’t there.”

  There was no response to that ingenuous comment, but she knew that suggestion hadn’t gone over well. Benny wasn’t giving up—she could hear them just outside the partitioned-off fake bedroom, and she winced. She was going to look like absolute fool if they found her hiding out.

  “I ain’t hearing things,” Benny said finally. “And I don’t let nobody get away with nothing. Bad enough I can’t do nothing about Larsen yet—but I ain’t gonna stand still for anyone else who thinks they can just stay here. They’re gonna pay.”

  “Benny, you can’t go around beating the crap out of people. It don’t matter that Ratchett’s got your back—you still gotta play by the rules. You should never oughtta beat up that guy from shipping. You do something like that again, and even Ratchett can’t protect you.” He shuddered. “I tell you, I never seen so much blood when you finished with him.”

  “You weren’t in the war.” Benny’s contempt was obvious.

  “Can’t help it if I’ve got a tricky heart. I tried to get them to take me, but they told me I’d die.”

  “Lots of people died,” Benny said flatly. “It was over too soon—I coulda kept on for years.”

  A nervous laughter was the only reply. They were so damned close, she could probably spit on them. “You check that room,” Benny ordered. “Look under the bed and in that big closet thing.”

  “It’s an armoire.”

  “I don’t give a shit what it’s called. You check there, I’ll try this weird one that Larsen did.”

  “Okay, Benny,” the man said agreeably. “But that reminds me, whatever happened to that guy that got stuck here? I thought you took him to the hospital, but no one’s ever seen him since.”

  “They ain’t gonna. Get going.”

  Had he killed the man, she wondered with a chill, or had her already compromised imagination gone haywire? She could hear the other man moving closer—it sounded as if he was looking under the bed now.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Benny called from a greater distance. “I got no plans to spend all day here. I got things to do.”

  She heard the hand on the knob of the armoire, watched with horror as the light grew, shafting into her hiding place, exposing her. The man jumped, looking down at her in shock. He was a small man in a uniform that was a little too big for him, and he was carrying a big, old-fashioned flashlight.

  He shone it in her face. There was nothing she could do—she was outed, and what would his friend do about it? Where the hell was Johnny when she desperately needed him?

  “You find anything?” Benny’s voice was closer now—he was clearly faster and more efficient than his companion.

  The bright light was switched off, and the door closed in her face. “Absolutely nothing, Benny.” The man’s voice was bland. “I told ya. We’re done here.”

  There was a long wait, and Madison could feel her heart hammering against her chest. “Okay,” Benny said finally. “But I don’t trust that Larsen. If it were up to him, he’d bring in a whole bunch of spics and dagos and coloreds. It ain’t decent. You know, there are times when I think all of Hitler’s ideas weren’t that bad.”

  “Jeez, Benny,” the man said nervously. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say something like that. Other people don’t know you as well as I do—they might not think you were kidding.”

  Benny made no response. She knew they’d finally left, but she still didn’t move, her arms wrapped around her legs in the standing coffin, shivering even in the stuffy space. She needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

  It was one thing to have an expanded dream of being able to play in the world’s biggest store, but that dream didn’t include predators. She was trying to think of this as an adventure, not a hijacking of her life...but fantasies shouldn’t have a dark side. She could thank Johnny’s cynicism for that. Things would be a lot simpler if he were like the little man who’d stared right at her and didn’t say a word.

  Not that she’d ever let herself be distracted by a handsome man. It was unfair, but she had an innate prejudice against attractive men—they seemed to think their good looks gave them the right to any female they chose, who were supposed to be pathetically grateful.

  That certainly couldn’t be said of Johnny, and he was a hell of a lot more than simply attractive. If he paid any attention to his clothes or his looks, it would shock her, and he was too damned smart for her peace of mind. She liked brains over looks, creativity over brains, and Johnny Larsen seemed packed with all those attributes, minus a certain charm of manner. She was sick and tired of men who smiled and flirted and never took “no” for an answer when “no” was her default setting.

  Johnny had already proven to be tactless and critical—he’d pay attention if someone said “no.” The only problem was her real disinterest in saying it.

  She had no idea how long she stayed in that oversized broom closet, but when she finally pushed open the door, the entire floor was still in shadows. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d seen daylight—even when she’d been stuck in the window with Johnny and Rosa, there’d been paper covering the glass. If she ended up in another one, she was going to rip it open, maybe even bang on the window for help. Those windows wouldn’t break easily, even if she tried to throw Johnny through it, an unlikely proposition in the first place. But maybe if she could get someone’s attention...

  And what would it be, out there beyond the heavy pane glass? 2020 or 1947? In fact, the entire question creeped her out. What if it was the twenty-first century beyond this building, and she was trapped in a prison of the past? Why?

  She gave herself a brisk shake, like a wet dog. She’d learned one thing during the last few days in another century—if she overthought it, she’d lose it for sure. As it was, it was a Sunday in New York, she was alone in the greatest store in the world, and the main threat to her had clocked out for the day. It was like being stuck alone in the Metropolitan Museum of Art after hours. She could do anything she wanted.

  For some reason, the first thing she wanted to do was find Johnny, but she ignored that ridiculous need. If he was making himself scarce, that was his choice.

  She was getting used to tromping up and down the stalled escalators in her sturdy leather pumps which were, at least, marginally more comfortable than the stilettos she’d felt obliged to wear at work, and she didn’t think twice about moving up the old wooden slats to the eighth floor in search of her reluctant guardian. No sign of him anywhere, and if he’d spent the last night on the sofa, there was no sign of it. It wasn’t that she was actively looking for him, she told herself as she combed through floor after floor, working her way down to the basement. She was simply exploring the place while she kept her eye out for an over
sized, over-gorgeous man who could have been her great-grandfather. Uh, no. She absolutely wasn’t going to go there.

  She didn’t need to return to the only hint of daylight on the ground floor to know that it was already growing dark outside. She simply climbed back to the eighth floor, the shadowy workshop and the break room that had been her home base from the beginning of this trip over the rainbow. She must have harbored a faint hope that Johnny would be there, because the feeling in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the empty couch had to have come from somewhere, and her eyes began to burn.

  God, no more tears! She’d cried more in the past couple of days than she had in the last ten years, and that simply wasn’t her, not now, not then, not ever.

  Maybe she’d been hit by a taxi and was lying in a New York hospital in the new millennium, hovering between life and death while all this was going on. Anything was possible, except what seemed to be happening to her, and now, Johnny, the one constant in her new life, the one person she trusted, had disappeared along with the twenty-first century, and she had no idea whether he was coming back.

  He’d kissed her. Just once, before Rosa had walked in on them. But he’d wanted to kiss her again, last night as she’d stood in front of him. He hadn’t said anything, done anything, but she could feel it in her bones, in tandem with her own crazy longing.

  Kicking off her shoes, she curled up in the corner of the threadbare sofa. There was a blanket lying over the back, something new, and she didn’t hesitate, wrapping it around her shoulders. Every time she fell asleep, she’d wake up hoping the world had returned to normal, and every time it was still in this bizarre landscape.

  Her head hurt, her empty stomach cramped, and she knew she should go back up to the kitchen and make something to eat, maybe lie down on one of the comfortable beds for a while. She wasn’t going anywhere. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and snuggled deeper, wanting it all to go away, and eventually it did.

  She was warm, safe and warm and loved. She didn’t have to move, to open her eyes, to think or to wonder. She only knew she was where she wanted to be. She lay very still, cataloging the sensations, the hand stroking her loose hair, the hard thigh beneath her head, the blanket wrapped around her. He was asleep—she could tell by his breathing, and she liked it. She liked sleeping with him, their even breathing moving in tandem, and she really wanted to turn her head, bury her face against him, when she realized she was not in the best position to do so.

  He also couldn’t be stroking her hair if he was asleep—he had to be very relaxed, nothing more. She didn’t tense, didn’t do a thing to signify that she’d woken up surrounded by him, and when she spoke it was low and caustic.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” she growled in a soft voice, and she felt rather than heard his soft laughter.

  “Miss me, sweetheart? You may never want to leave this place, but every now and then I like to get a bit of fresh air. Besides, I was out of cigarettes and Macy’s doesn’t carry my brand.”

  She should sit up, not stay with her head in his lap, but she didn’t move, and his strong hand didn’t falter. “Cigarettes will kill you,” she muttered.

  “Says who?”

  “The surgeon general.”

  “And just who is that?”

  “Hell if I know,” Madison murmured, letting her face press against his hard thigh, just imperceptibly. “I don’t even know who’s got the job in this time period.”

  “It is this time period.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “You’re not going to start in on that time travel crap, are you?” He sounded no more than lazily curious, so she ignored him. His trousers were probably wool, she’d end up with a red rash on her face, but she couldn’t help herself, she let her face rub against him. He smelled like clean linen and skin and chocolate...

  Chocolate? She started to sit up, but he simply pushed her back down again. “Stay put,” he said.

  “There’s chocolate somewhere.” Her voice was accusing.

  “I made myself some cocoa.”

  She sighed, sinking further into the couch, further into him. “What about me?” she said plaintively. “Did you make me some?”

  “I didn’t know if you liked chocolate.”

  “There’s not a woman alive who doesn’t like chocolate.”

  “Not true. My mother hates the stuff.”

  “Your mother’s unnatural. After all, she gave birth to you.”

  A moment’s silence, and she realized what an awful thing she’d said. You did not, absolutely not, insult someone’s mother. But to her astonishment he laughed, his long fingers threading through her hair, caressing her scalp. “Believe it or not, my mother would appreciate that. You’re her kind of woman.”

  “She’s gay?” she joked.

  “Not particularly—she’s a hard-headed Norwegian,” he said, reminding her that gay only seemed to have one meaning in the 1940s. “But she’s a strong woman, and she appreciates other strong women.”

  “What about you?”

  “What are you asking, Mollie?” His voice was soft, almost meditative, as his hand stroked through her hair, and she wanted to whimper in pleasure. “I’m not afraid of strong women, if that’s what you’re wondering. If you want to know whether I appreciate you, then I’m afraid you’re just going to have to make an educated guess.”

  His fingers were kneading the nape of her neck now, smoothing away any lingering tension, and her headache had disappeared completely. “Stop talking,” she said sleepily. “You’re keeping me awake.” She gave into temptation one more time, rubbing her cheek against his hard thigh, until she heard a choking sound above her, and those long fingers froze against her skin.

  “Don’t,” he said, “do that again.” The warning was sharp and clear, and she finally rolled onto her back, her head in his lap, staring up at him.

  “Why not?” She was playing with fire, but she didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, for the first time in what seemed like her entire life, she was almost faint with longing. Her breasts were sensitized against the stupid underwear, she was wet between her thighs, and if he were any other man, this were any other time, she’d rip off her boxy underwear and straddle him. She closed her eyes, closing out the sight of his shadowed face, his cheekbones, his faintly saturnine expression. The need was in her breath, in her bones, crushing her.

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” he whispered, smoothing the hair back from her forehead.

  She looked up at him, no longer veiling her expression. “Why don’t you show me?” A second later, he’d hauled her up into his arms.

  Chapter 9

  He shouldn’t have kissed her before, he sure as hell shouldn’t be kissing her again, he thought. Mrs. Larsen’s little boy Johnny had more brains that that, but those brains seemed to have gone directly below his belt. One moment she was lying right next to his stiffening dick, and the next she was in his lap, his arms around her, his mouth on hers, and she was kissing him back. She was tall enough, but still a lot smaller than he was, and it would have been a simple thing to pull her astride him, reach up under her skirt and yank her panties out of the way. He could unzip himself and shove into her...

  He dumped her off his lap unceremoniously, standing up and moving out of reach before she’d even landed back on the cushions. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Mollie/Madison was looking a little dazed. Then she gave herself a tiny but noticeable shake, and her gaze sharpened as she yanked her skirt down. “Sorry for what?” she asked in a calm tone that he didn’t quite believe. He could see the flush on her cheeks, he’d felt her heartbeat against his chest, and while she was trying to control her breathing, he could see the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck.

  “I don’t take advantage of troubled young women.” It sounded very noble, stuffily so, but it was also true. He stayed clear of vulnerable females, for their sakes and for his. He couldn’t offer an
ything but a roll in the hay, and he didn’t need the bother of some woman making demands. Whether she knew it or not, Mollie was a forever after kind of girl—marriage, babies, the whole nine yards. There was no room for any of that in his life, and he doubted there ever would be. Some men came back from the war and immersed themselves in their old lives with little problem. Others were not so lucky.

  She was staring at him, momentarily confused. “Troubled young woman?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him clearly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Look, doll, you have no money, no identification, no family as far as I can tell, and you’re living in a department store with a man you just met and who doesn’t want you here. If that’s not trouble, then I don’t know what is. Whatever’s bothering you, you should just get over it. Go back home, get some help.”

  Her mouth, that soft, sweet mouth that had clung to his, closed in a quick snap. “I hate to shatter your illusions, buddy, but I’m not living with you. I’m stuck in this gigantic prison and I have nowhere else to go, because, believe me, if I had any other choice I’d be long gone. You’re a grumpy, miserable bastard who resents everything you’ve done for me, but you’re forgetting that I never asked for your help. For some strange reason, you don’t seem to have a home outside this place either, which I fail to understand, since you’d be making more than enough money to get by, and clearly you have no problem with coming and going.” She was furious, her eyes dark and flashing, and he curled his hands into fists to keep from going to her. “And don’t call me ‘doll.’”