The box of ornaments was very organized, the white lights wrapped neatly around spools instead of thrown into the box in a jumbled mess the way the ones Sydney’s family used always were. I’d been at their house once or twice for their tree-decorating, mostly because Aunt Rachel never got a tree and I felt like I wanted to participate in the holiday at least a little bit. Also, a plate of her holiday cookies was usually all I needed to bribe my way into the Hodges’ family tree tradition.
Connor plugged the lights in. A whole section was dark, and I shook my head, wondering how long they’d been kept in storage. At least twenty years, probably, if everything had been packed up after his mother died.
“No worries,” he said, and touched the wire connecting the lights. At once the whole thing lit up.
“That’s handy. My friend Sydney’s family would love to have you around when they’re decorating their tree. I swear, every year they have to stop the whole process and have someone run off to Walmart to buy a new set of lights.”
“They probably don’t put them away properly. It looks like my father is the one who boxed all this up. He always was anal about keeping things organized.”
Connor sounded casual enough when he mentioned his father, so I thought maybe I could try asking a question or two. “From what you said about him, he didn’t exactly sound like the Christmas type.”
“He wasn’t. The tree was something my mother wanted. It’s one of my earliest memories, actually…reaching out to try to touch the ornaments on the tree and my father yelling at me about it.” His expression darkened, and I wished I hadn’t said anything. “Since that was before things got bad, I’m guessing I must have been around two. Anyway, all this stuff went into storage after she died. No more Christmas trees in the Wilcox household.”
As he said this, he was studiously looking away from me, intent on winding the lights around the pretty little tree. It wasn’t very big; he stood several inches taller than it did.
“We never had a tree, either,” I said, hurrying in to break the silence. “My aunt was fine with other people in the clan celebrating the holiday if they wanted to, but she always said she certainly wasn’t going to bother, since she wasn’t Christian. I did get one this year, since it was my own house and I could do what I wanted, but….”
This time he did pause. His eyes met mine, and I felt a little shiver go through me. There was something naked in those green depths, worry and regret, and something more. Longing?
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I’m sorry we took you away from your home, from your family.”
The words it’s all right rose to my lips, but I didn’t say them. As much as I felt myself softening toward him, what his brother had done was definitely not all right.
“Well, we have a tree now. I don’t care if it’s commercial and Christian and not what witches are supposed to do — I like Christmas trees.”
“I had a feeling. That’s why I got it.”
Once again our eyes locked, and I could almost feel the flow of energy between us, the pull of the bond so strong that I took a half-step forward before I realized what I was doing. I froze, then forced myself to drag my gaze away from his and made myself look up at the clock.
After clearing my throat, I said, “I need to get back in the kitchen.”
He blinked. “Sure. I’ll just finish with these lights and then come open the wine. We’ll do the ornaments after we eat.”
“Sounds good.”
Pulse racing, I went back to check on the duck. Bending down to peer inside the oven gave me a chance to at least attempt to pull myself together. I’d known this would be hard, but I hadn’t realized how hard. It was easy for Sydney to tell me to ignore all the “Montague and Capulet stuff,” as she put it. She hadn’t been raised to think of the Wilcoxes as the big bad. I wanted Connor; I wasn’t going to deny that. But I knew what a break it would be with everything I’d been taught if I gave myself to him. I could only wonder what cruel fate had determined that he should be the bond of my blood, the consort to make me complete.
I took a deep breath, then another. The fate of the clans did not have to be decided tonight. I just needed to pull myself together and get this dinner finished.
Which I did, letting my training with Aunt Rachel kick in so that I managed to get the duck, the cherry sauce, the wild rice, the salad, and the rolls all to the table more or less when they were supposed to. Connor had turned down the lights and lit the candles at the table, and the fairy lights on the tree and the warm flicker of the fireplace in the living room only enhanced the feeling of quiet, of intimacy. We were in a little island of warmth and comfort. Just the two of us.
That was the problem.
We both sat down, and Connor paused. “I suppose this is where people are supposed to say grace or something.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “But I wouldn’t exactly call this a normal Christmas dinner, so….”
“You’re right, of course.” He picked up his napkin and put it in his lap. “Even so….” After stopping for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, he said, “I’d just like to say thank you for what you’ve done since you came here. These dinners, and….” Once again his words trailed off. He seemed almost nervous, which for him felt out of character to me. I’d seen him diffident, closed off, quiet, but never nervous. “‘Grace’ is actually a good word for it. You’ve shown a lot of grace these past few days. So thank you for that.”
I stared at him, words seeming to flee my mind as I tried to think of a way to respond. Never had anyone said anything like that to me. Finally I managed, “Well, you have, too. You’ve made this all…bearable.”
There went the eyebrow again. “Bearable?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. It could have been horrible, but it’s been…all right.”
“All right?”
Now I could tell he was teasing me. “I am not going to say that I’ve had a wonderful time being locked in your apartment away from my family, Connor Wilcox.” As I said this, I kept my tone light so he’d — hopefully — know I was teasing him right back.
His face went still, though, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. “If I could have sent you back, I would have.”
And would I have wanted to go? A few days ago I would have known exactly how to answer that question. Now, though….
“I know you would have, Connor.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I know this isn’t your fault. I just wish I knew what you expect me to do.”
“I don’t expect you to do anything.” Finally he reached out for the bottle of wine and poured some into my glass. To my surprise, it was a soft, deep pink. “Anything more than you already have. Actually, I didn’t even expect that.”
“I haven’t done that much,” I said. “I made some tamales.”
He shot me a sideways glance. “You’ve done more than that, and you know it. But those tamales have definitely been appreciated.”
“Good.” After I’d packaged them all up, Connor had taken most of them over to his cousin Marie’s house as his contribution to the Wilcox potluck. Of course he still said he wouldn’t go, that he wouldn’t leave me alone on Christmas Day, even though I’d told him I really didn’t mind. Maybe I did, a little; sitting here alone while he was off at a get-together didn’t sound all that appealing. But I didn’t want to be the reason he avoided going. Truthfully, I sort of wished I could go, too, if only for the anthropological curiosity of seeing a bunch of Wilcoxes in their natural habitat.
Even as I thought this, though, he said, “This all looks too good to let it get cold. So I’ll just say thank you to the universe for everything we have, and leave it at that. Sound like a plan?”
“Sounds like a great plan,” I replied, relieved that he wasn’t going to push things any more on that front.
For a while we were quiet as we ate our salads. After that came the duck carving, which Connor did a decent enough job of. Good thing, because it was a skill I definitely lacke
d. I just wanted to cook the birds, not have to cut them up afterward.
He took a bite and let out a sigh. “This is incredible. Better than anything I’ve ever had in a restaurant.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. It shouldn’t be that hard to accept a compliment, should it? Especially since I didn’t feel as if I’d done anything that special. Aunt Rachel had done most of the heavy lifting in teaching me how to cook, and after that it was really a matter of following directions more than anything else.
We ate and drank, and again talked of anything except the Wilcox clan and Damon’s plots. The gallery, and how he was preparing to set up a new installation of an artist who worked in bronze and fused glass, and how he was excited about that. That led into my talking a bit more about jewelry making, and how I’d tried working with dichroic glass once but found it very difficult. And so on.
Through it all, however, I couldn’t help but be conscious of his gaze on me, the way he watched me. Something in that direct green stare made the heat within me flare up again, and I had to fight to keep my hand from shaking as I lifted my fork to my mouth or reached out to grasp the stem of my wine glass.
I want you, that stare said.
And Goddess, how I wanted him. For the first time I had the barest inkling of what it must feel like to be an addict, to have that need ache along every vein, every artery, through every cell in your body until you feel as if you’re going to cramp up forever because of it. But I couldn’t let myself give in to it. I couldn’t betray my family that way.
On the other hand, since Connor was my consort, wouldn’t I be betraying the very forces of fate by trying to ignore the bond between us? There had to be a reason why he was the one…didn’t there?
“Any more?”
I blinked. “What?”
A faint trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he might have guessed why my thoughts were wandering so much. “I was asking if you wanted any more duck.”
“No, thank you. I’m getting full, and I made cranberry tarts for dessert.”
That trace of a smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “Well, in that case, I think I’ll stop, too. Cranberry tarts? When did you squeeze that in?”
“They’re easier than they look,” I replied, which they were. Quickie cheesecake on graham cracker crusts and topped with a sweeter version of cranberry sauce. Easy peasy.
“I’ll have to take your word for that. As you know, I don’t cook.”
“I kind of got that impression.” This time it was my turn to shoot him a sideways look. “Which makes me wonder why you bothered with all those top-of-the-line appliances.”
He shrugged. “They’re the best.”
I didn’t really have an answer for that. Maybe I shook my head slightly. But since we were done, I just gathered up my plate and Connor’s, and took them into the kitchen, while he picked up the remaining serving pieces and set them down on the counter.
When I reached out to turn on the water to start rinsing off the dishes, though, he said, “Just leave them. I’ll clean up later. It’s the least I can do. Besides, we’ve got a tree waiting for us.”
Fine by me. Cleaning up afterward was always my least favorite part of cooking. I followed him into the living room, where he went back to the box of ornaments and started pulling out smaller boxes filled with beautiful decorated glass balls and what looked like icicles of hand-blown glass, and so many other things — drops of mirror and brass, jingling bells in red and green and gold, strands of tinsel. Everything looked almost brand-new, and carefully chosen to coordinate well.
Connor’s mother obviously had very good taste. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that had led her to choose these things, so different from the cheerful chaos of eclectic ornaments that decorated Sydney’s family’s Christmas tree.
By some unspoken agreement, Connor and I started hanging up the larger glass balls first, using them to create a sort of framework that we could fill in later with the smaller pieces. We worked without talking, focusing on the task at hand. Earlier he’d put on what sounded like a New Age holiday station, and the music played quietly in the background, mingling with the crackling of the fire.
As I moved I was far too conscious of him only a few feet away. We took care to maintain a safe distance between us, as if we both knew that a single touch would cause us to flare up hotter than the fire blazing in the hearth on the other side of the room.
I’d just reached up to hang one of those glittering mirrored ornaments from a high branch when a flicker of movement outside the window caught my eye. Lowering my hand, I squinted into the darkness outside. There it was again, a pale splotch against the black night. Then another, and another.
“It’s snowing!” I cried, and ran to the window, ornament still dangling from my fingers.
“You sound like a kid hoping for a snow day,” Connor said, hanging up the bell he held before coming to stand next to me and peer outside. “It’s just snow. We get a lot of it around here.”
“Well, we don’t in Jerome,” I replied, watching as the white flakes drifted down, swirling in a wind I couldn’t feel. It wasn’t entirely dark outside, of course; there were street lamps at regular intervals, and occasionally a car would go past, presumably running late to some Christmas Eve get-together or another. “It snows every once in a while, but it doesn’t last long. And Adam — that is, our weather-worker tries not to meddle with it too much. A couple of years ago, he tried to give us a white Yule, and the snow piled up so high it actually broke some basement windows.”
Connor’s lips twitched. “Well, it definitely snows here. Tomorrow morning you’ll get to see it piled up on every street corner.”
“You sound so jaded.”
“I was born here.” He shook his head. “Come on — we’re almost done with the tree. And then there are those tarts to eat.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t see as much as I would if it were daylight, so I let myself be persuaded to go back to the tree decorating. A few more minutes, and then it was pretty much done, except for the star to go on top.
That was a beautiful piece, made of cunningly twisted brass wire in delicate filigree designs, the sort of thing that looked as if it had been purchased from a local artisan. You didn’t see ornaments like that at your local big-box store. Connor had pulled the star out of the box earlier and set it aside. It was sitting on the coffee table, waiting to be set on the top of the tree.
We both reached for it. Maybe I could have pulled my hand back in time…maybe not. It was as if some part of me didn’t want to stop…wanted this to happen.
Our fingers touched. That same heat rushed over me, flooded every limb, every vein, sent the pulsing desire into raging life right in the center of me, into that emptiness I wanted filled. Filled with him.
For a second our eyes met. His seemed to glow almost as bright green as mine, and then we were falling to the rug, his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine. I opened to him, let him taste me, tasted the faint sweetness of cherry sauce and rosé wine on his tongue. My arms tightened around him, and I felt his hand drift up my waist, cup my breast, his touch so warm, even through my bra and camisole and sweater.
And then he paused, gaze locked on mine. His breath came harsh and ragged, just as it had that first night he had kissed me and awakened our bond. “Angela…are you sure?”
I didn’t have the power of speech in that moment. I only knew that I needed him, wanted him, and I didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore. Moving away from him then was as impossible as escaping the pull of a black hole.
Wordlessly, I nodded.
“Then I don’t want to do this here.” He let go of me, but only briefly, just so he could scoop me up in his arms and lift me from the floor, carry me up the stairs to his room.
It was colder there, away from the fire, but that didn’t matter, as the heat was still pounding in my veins, seeming to burn me from the inside. He set me down on the bed, and then he was
on me again, mouth so sweet against mine, hands moving down my body so he could pull off the cardigan and lift the camisole over my head, unhook the fastener on the front of my bra.
His mouth closed on my nipple, and I cried out then, arching against him, feeling the heat and the need build even further. He reached down and fumbled with the heavy concho belt, trying to get it undone.
“I’m regretting buying you this thing,” he muttered.
I laughed and unerringly found the latch on the buckle, let the belt drop away and fall with a metallic thud to the rug-covered floor. He let out a little growl, and undid the button and zipper of my jeans, pulled them down, taking my underwear with them.
Then I was naked beneath him, no embarrassment at being completely exposed to him like this, nothing at all except the need to have him be as naked as I was. I reached up and grabbed his sweater and the T-shirt he wore underneath it, and pulled them over his head. His body was as beautiful as I’d imagined it must be, firm with muscle, stomach flat, skin smooth and warm-toned, a gift from that long-ago Navajo ancestor, perhaps.
But I didn’t have any more of a chance to admire him, because he lowered himself to me, trailed kisses down my neck, swirled his tongue around one nipple, then the other. I gasped, burying my hands in his heavy hair, holding him against me, even as I felt his fingers trace their way up the inside of my thigh, caressing me, coming closer, closer….
There. A groan forced its way from my throat as he stroked me, touched the heat in my core and made it flare up higher, higher….
Even with the response he was able to evoke from my body, I hadn’t expected I would come that fast. But I did, wordlessly crying into the darkness as he gave me the release I’d been denied for so long.
And he didn’t stop there, but moved slowly down my stomach, kissing his way over my flesh, until his tongue found the dampness between my legs, kissed and suckled me there, as I whimpered and gasped and felt the pulsing need build in me again, heat rising, until yet another orgasm rocked its way through me. My fingers tightened in his hair, holding him there until the last little ripples had finally worked their way through to my fingers and toes.
Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) Page 8
