Return to Christmas

by Anne Stuart

  It was Christmas Eve, and while there were doubtless revelers in Times Square, the denizens of this elegant residential area were mostly indoors, holding exclusive parties and family gatherings. No New York sidewalk was ever truly empty, no matter what decade or time of day, but Park Avenue on Christmas Eve in 1947 came close.

  She wasn’t cold, she was numb—everywhere, from her silk-shod toes to her mind. Her face was the worst—she was vaguely aware that she was crying, the dampness freezing in the wind as it whipped between the buildings, but she didn’t care. She simply went.

  She recognized the library branch as she passed it, ignored unknown shops with names like Brentano’s and Schraffts, until she came to a sudden stop, looking around her in shock.

  She’d gone home. Of course, she had—she’d lived in the apartment on Sixty-Third Street for three years, long enough for it to be instinct, and she’d headed there like a homing pigeon/lost dog. There was no high rise of soulless condominiums—just a parking lot squeezed between two old buildings. The lot was half full, snow drifting over the big antique cars, drifting over her shoulders as she stared.

  “Hey, girly, you look like you need warming up.”

  She barely heard the drunken voice, and she didn’t turn her head, simply staring at the empty hole where her high-rise condo used to be, numb with misery. She really was lost—out of time, her life vanished with no place to go.

  “Listen, shweetheart.” The man’s voice was slurred. “I got a...” The voice stopped, but she paid no mind to the curses and the scuffling sound, the running footsteps. Paid no mind to anything until Johnny’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against his warm, strong body.

  She turned, moving into him, as he pulled her tight, and the last of her control left her as she wept, loud and ugly and messy...and it didn’t matter, she’d found what she’d needed. She’d found her home.

  Chapter 16

  Goddamn Irene and her stupid games! Johnny had no choice but to go with her when Mollie had stepped away from him, but he’d kept an eye on her until she was swallowed up by the crowds, paying only slight attention to the people Irene was introducing him to. He had no interest in a more prestigious job in retail, no earthly desire to become a vice president or a businessman. He’d gone to school to learn how to create things, and he’d promptly thrown it out the window by learning how to fly a plane and kill people. When he’d come back, he’d taken the first job he could find, but he had no interest in furthering this career or any other. This was a stopgap, nothing more, and when he found what he was looking for, he’d know it.

  He nodded politely to the vice president who had buttonholed him, his eyes searching for Mollie’s half-naked figure. That fucking dress—there was no other word for it. A man could stand only so much, and that dress, the way it hugged her body, had crossed the line. She’d crossed the line. He could barely keep his hands off her when she was dressed in work clothes and had her hair pulled back—dressed to kill, she was doing just that, killing any common sense and decency he had left.

  She was as crazy as a loon—he knew that. Her story of having come from the future was the stuff of science fiction, stories he’d loved when he was a kid, but they had no connection to reality, and she’d refused to answer any more questions, or give him any hint that might have helped him figure out where she really belonged.

  If he knew, he’d get her there, pronto, safe in the hands of people who knew what they were dealing with. Except he wouldn’t, he knew he wouldn’t. He’d ignored numerous opportunities to turn her in to some authority that could force the answers, and even now he couldn’t see himself sending her to the police or Bellevue. She was fierce and she was fragile, and she needed someone to look after her, and his usually creative mind refused to imagine anyone else would could do as good a job as he could.

  He jerked as he caught a glimpse of her, over at the far end of the ballroom by the rows of French doors leading to the balcony. He knew it well—six months ago, Irene had groped him there, and he’d almost vaulted over the parapet to get away from her clumsy, greedy hands. He could have done it, and so could Mollie, even in that dress. What was she doing?

  “Excuse me,” he said to the old man mid-sentence, starting to pull away, but he hadn’t counted on the self-importance of people who thought they owned him.

  “Not so fast, young man.” Mr. Macy’s half-brother and head of marketing grabbed his arm. “I want to hear about your hopes and dreams.”

  “Some other time,” Johnny shot back, uninterested.

  Mollie had disappeared again, but the closing French door told him where she’d gone, and he tried to fight his sense of unease. She’d never shown any sign of wanting to end her life—in fact, she was too vibrant, too sassy, too much a pain in his behind to want to take the easy way out. That didn’t matter—he was still going to her.

  Shaking off the older man’s restraining hand, he started after her, but the crowds ebbed and flowed like waves along the shore, and the more he struggled, the more entangled he got, even as he saw Benny Morelli, of all people, dressed in an ill-fitting tux that made him look like a gorilla, follow her out the door.

  He panicked, like a goddamned baby when he’d never flinched in the face of almost certain death. He pushed, and a tray of champagne glasses went flying, landing at his feet while he tried to get to the balcony. There were shrieks of dismay, giggles, even a couple of polite curses, and Mollie emerged from the balcony, a stunned expression in her eyes that he could see even from a distance. He tried to lunge toward her, but the shifting crowd blocked him. He pushed away, almost breaking free, when Irene stopped him, her lowcut dress showcasing her flat chest, the expression on her face unbearably smug.

  “Are you causing trouble again, Johnny?” she said playfully. “Honestly, I think there are times when one can’t take you anywhere. Clearly, you need me to navigate the social waters if you’re going to have the career you deserve.”

  He’d learned a lot of filthy phrases in France, and he pulled out the rudest he could think of. Irene wouldn’t know the words with her schoolgirl French, but she’d know enough of the language to figure it out by context, and her face whitened. She tried a weak laugh, but that trailed off, and she said absolutely nothing when he unceremoniously shoved her out of his way and took off after his lost lamb.

  He’d been lucky enough to catch sight of her, two blocks away, on the sparsely crowded sidewalks. Shoving his cold hands in his pockets, he kept her in sight, ignoring the icy breeze that blasted between the buildings. If he was cold, she must be freezing, and with a short sprint he could catch up with her, force her to put on his coat.

  And then what? He knew what he wanted—book a room at the Plaza and take her there, spread her out naked on the double bed and show her all the things he’d learned in France. It would shock her, it would horrify her, it would make her scream with pleasure.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t shock her at all. She’d told him she was experienced, and she was self-possessed enough that he believed her. He was so damned sick of being a good guy—he wanted to kick his self-control to the curb and do everything he’d been dreaming of with her.

  But taking her to a hotel for sex felt crude, sleazy. She deserved better—a long, slow seduction on a canopy bed, worshipful sex beneath the covers on a double mattress. He wanted to give her everything, and he would probably terrify her if he tried. Maybe.

  What she needed most, at that moment, was a coat. She was shivering, her arms wrapped around her body, walking at a pace fast enough that most men would have a hard time keeping up with her. He wasn’t most men.

  If she was heading back to the store, she would have turned right instead of left, but he didn’t think she had any idea where she was going. He quickened his pace so he was less than a block behind her. There was no hesitation in her stride—she was almost running, and he had to see what was calling her. It could only be her home, the place she’d left, and he knew he was going to have to
give her up when she got there, let her go to safety and the help he couldn’t give her. She needed her own people to take look after her.

  To hell with that. She needed him. He’d fought the good fight long enough. Tonight, on a snowy Christmas Eve, he officially surrendered. When he turned the corner on Sixty-Third Street, he saw her at the end of the block, just staring into an empty parking lot, absolutely still as the snow drifted around her. As the weaving drunk closed in on her.

  It was easy enough to pluck the man away from her, dumping him on the sidewalk before reaching her. Mollie didn’t even hear him—she just kept staring into that empty parking lot, tears streaming down her beautiful face, and he didn’t hesitate, pulling her against him, wrapping his arms around her, until she turned to him, and he felt the latch, the drop, as everything finally settled into place, and finally, finally he stopped fighting.

  Neither of them said a word. She shook in his arms, her face buried against his shoulder, and she was icy cold. It was as if she was burrowing against him, trying to be absorbed into his strength and heat, and he wanted that too. He waited as long as he dared, then set her back for a moment as he stripped off his dinner coat and wrapped it around her. She stood there, unmoving, looking so damned pathetic, so damned beautiful, that it hurt.

  He was acting on instinct, just as he suspected she had, and he scooped her up in his arms, holding her tight against him. He was strong from years of hauling wood around, and he’d carried heavier loads for longer. There was no way he’d get a taxi on Christmas Eve, and they were thirty blocks north and three long blocks east of the only place that felt safe. He took off, holding her as close as he could, willing his body heat into her.

  But there were miracles after all. A green checkered cab pulled up beside them on Fifty-Eighth Street, and the cabbie rolled down the window. “Want a lift?”

  Johnny couldn’t do much more than nod, and he slid into the back seat of the cab, still holding Mollie tight against him. “Herald Square,” he said, his voice surprising him in its roughness.

  The cabbie, an older man with a snowy white beard, chuckled. He looked like one of the Santas who crowded the front of the store. It was funny—without the cheap velvet suit he looked even more authentic. “It’s too late for last-minute shopping.”

  Johnny growled. Mollie was still shaking from the cold, and he wasn’t much better, when the cabbie turned up the radio, “Angels We Have Heard on High” billowing forth. For some reason, it wasn’t annoying.

  “Feel like stopping by at St. Pat’s for midnight Mass?” the driver suggested. “It’s just about time.”

  “Herald Square.” Johnny controlled his urge to snap, and added, “Thanks,” grudgingly.

  “You got it.” They were making good time—anyone going to midnight Mass was going by bus, subway or foot, and the radio switched to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” The cabbie peered in the mirror again. “Is your wife okay?”

  “She’s just cold.” He didn’t bother denying the relationship, and Mollie wasn’t paying any attention.,

  “I can take care of that,” the man said, and a few moments later heat began billowing into the taxi, wrapping them in warmth.

  Johnny looked at the man in shock. “What kind of heater do you have in this thing?” Cars were always cold; the only advantage during this particularly icy winter was shelter from the wind.

  “Newest model,” the man chuckled, turning left at Thirty-Fourth Street, and began whistling along with the Christmas carol.

  The bright lights shone from the top of the huge old building—he could see them from blocks away. Mollie’s shaking had slowed—now only a stray shiver danced across her body, wrapped so tightly in his dinner jacket and his arms. Johnny breathed a sigh of relief, looking down at her pale face, the splotches of tears, the closed eyes. Her makeup had run from the tears and the snow—she looked like a raccoon, pale and adorable, and any trace of resistance vanished as he stared down at her.

  The cab pulled to a stop, and he looked up with a frown. They were parked by the side entrance he used to get in late at night, and Johnny couldn’t remember telling the old man exactly where to drop them. Then again, he had a lot on his mind at the moment, and taxi drivers were low on that list. “Great,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

  The bearded old man hadn’t set the meter and he waved an airy hand. “No charge, buddy. Have a merry Christmas and take care of your girl, there. You don’t want to lose her.”

  It was an odd turn of phrase—why would he lose Mollie? Only if he gave her back to the people who loved her. But, goddamn it, he loved her, and they hadn’t kept her safe. He would.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you.” He tended to avoid that greeting, finding all the holiday merriment a bit too forced, but for once, he felt like it.

  “Oh, I’ve got a busy night,” the driver said with a grin. “But tomorrow I can rest. Take care of her,” he said again. “And let me give you a piece of advice, no charge, man to man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sometimes it’s better to believe.”

  What the hell was the man talking about? Still, the sidewalk Santa meant well, and Johnny nodded. “Thanks.” He slid from the cab, his bundle still safe in his arms, and headed toward the recessed door.

  He had no choice but to set her down while he fiddled with the jerry-rigged lock, and she leaned against the brick, her eyes closed, as he worked. A moment later, the door popped, and she looked at him, a long, steady gaze as she pressed her back against the building in sudden reluctance.

  He didn’t push her, didn’t try to force her out of the biting wind. He simply held out his hand to her, patient, steady, and she came to him, some inner question answered as he scooped her up and carried her through the massive dark halls of the deserted store.

  There would be a skeleton crew of guards on tonight, but he already knew Benny wouldn’t be among them. The others tended to sit in the break room and play poker—he’d joined in on numerous occasions, being accepted without question. Even Ratchett had been at Irene’s overcrowded, God-awful party—no one was going to interfere with them as he headed toward the frozen escalator with his bundle. She made some token move to fight him, but he ignored it. While he liked the idea of her making her own decisions, she could have that autonomy later. Right now, she needed someone to take care of her.

  He’d left the workshop unlocked, and he pushed through with his shoulder, moving past the shrouded construction, the machinery, into the break room with its battered old sofa.

  There were no lights on. He’d avoided this room like the plague in the last few days—ever since he’d lashed out at her, he’d been keeping as far away from her as he could. He looked at the place he’d slept for the past two years, the wide, lumpy sofa that had cradled his body, that had been cradling hers with the same comfort. The rickety table had a pathetic-looking artificial Christmas tree—one of his rejects from the store windows—and a couple of candles, but he didn’t bother lighting them. The city lights provided enough illumination while he figured out what to do with her. He was in no doubt what he wanted, and he was a royal bastard enough to do it, but some nascent stroke of decency was fighting against his overwhelming need to have her. It wasn’t pure lust, though God knew that was practically making his hands shake. It was even more strongly emotional, the need to claim and own and join and be.

  He hated emotions. He hated caring, he hated vulnerability, and she made him vulnerable. He wished he could say he hated her, but he had given up lying to himself.

  Still holding her against him, he sank down on the sofa, and she curled against him like a nursing kitten. He had to figure out what to do—first, to keep her safe, and second, to salvage whatever he had left of his tattered good intentions.

  “Are you warm now?” His voice rumbled low in his chest, and she rubbed her face against him, as if she were soaking up the vibrations. She nodded, he could feel the movement against him, and her arms slid arou
nd his waist as he sat back on the sofa, content to just hold her for the moment.

  “Good,” he said.

  A stray shudder shook her body, a remnant from her tears, and he tightened his hold. Every soldier knew more cuss words in more languages than he knew plain English, even with his classy education, and mentally he started in on them, a litany of frustration, anger and acceptance. There was no way he could back out now.

  Slowly, the last bit of tension drained from her body, and he brushed his mouth against her forehead, his voice soft and unthreatening. He could try one more time.

  “You want to tell me what happened tonight? You want to tell me why you were standing in the middle of Sixty-Third Street, sobbing?”

  Another shudder ran through her body. “No.”

  Such a lost, pathetic sound, he thought, steeling his heart. “Where are your people?”

  “Dead,” she said. “Or not yet born.”

  He fought down his frustration. “Can’t you just tell the truth for once? Who are you, where did you come from? I only want to help you—you know that.”

  “Do I?” It wasn’t much more than a murmur. “I’ve told you, and you don’t believe me. I come from the future.”

  “You and Ming the Merciless,” he muttered.

  “Who?”

  “You’ve seen Flash Gordon. Everyone has.”

  “Not me.” She snuggled closer, clearly not bothered by their disagreement. “Believe what you want. It doesn’t matter.”

  He wanted to tell her that it did. That she needed to get better, to see things clearly, to remember her real past if, in fact, she’d forgotten it. She couldn’t keep living in her dream world—there was no room for the both of them in that delusion.

  But right then, he was past caring. It was midnight on Christmas Eve, and she was curled up against him with trusting innocence and he had to stop thinking with his dick, stop thinking about the smooth skin that the wicked dress had exposed, the curves, her breasts. He’d die happy if he could just see her breasts. Touch them. Taste them.