by Sarah Morgan
It was important that she looked after herself.
And it was just for one day.
After that, she’d vanish into the sunset and never see him again. And she had no reason to feel guilty about that because he had been the one who’d insisted that she spend the rest of the day with him because he hated Christmas, too.
She frowned and slid deeper under the water. Why would a man like him hate Christmas Day? She would have thought that women would have been lining up at his door, fighting over who was going to help him hang baubles on his tree.
But she knew better than anyone that life didn’t always send you what you deserved. Which was why it was important to make the most of the moment and that was exactly what she was doing right now.
Having justified her actions to herself, she allowed herself to just enjoy the delicious sensation of warmth and hummed softly, luxuriating in the hot, scented water until she felt her eyelids droop. With a determined effort she forced them open again.
Not very sensible to be rescued from a freezing mountain, only to drown in a steaming bath, she thought as she turned off the tap and lifted herself reluctantly from the water. It was the only way to ensure that she stayed awake.
Aware that her rescuer would probably come looking for her if she didn’t reappear soon, she reluctantly stood up and reached for the towel he’d left out for her. It was wonderful to feel warm after being so very, very cold. Vowing to buy some books on safety in the mountains before venturing out again, she dried herself and then examined the pile of clothes he’d given her.
She pulled on a pair of fleecy tracksuit bottoms and the jumper and then sat down on the chair and started to laugh. She looked completely ridiculous. If she’d needed a reminder of the differences between their physiques then she had it now. The trousers were at least a foot too long and the sleeves of the jumper hung several inches past the tips of her fingers.
The clothes acted as a wake-up call.
What on earth was she doing here?
She was behaving like Goldilocks, wandering lost in a forest and seeking shelter.
Why exactly had she decided to accept his invitation? She’d been all ready to refuse but there was something about him that had made it impossible to say no.
He’d rescued her when she’d been lost and, in a way, part of her was still lost.
Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, she stared at her reflection for a moment. She looked more like Snow White than Goldilocks, with her pale skin and the black rings under her eyes. She wasn’t sleeping well and she knew that she had to do something about it. She needed to rest. She needed to think about—
‘Miranda?’
The sound of a deep male voice from the other side of the door made her jump and she turned with a start. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you decent?’
‘Oh, yes, I—’
The door opened and he strolled into the room. Her heart missed a beat. He was a man who would always attract the attention of women, and not just because of the athletic power of his physique. He’d changed into a pair of snug-fitting black jeans and a blue jumper almost the exact colour of his eyes. His damp hair suggested that there was obviously another bathroom somewhere in his house.
His gaze lingered on hers for several long seconds and she felt warmth seep into her cheeks. Suddenly her heart pumped harder and a dangerous, liquid heat uncurled deep inside her. Something happened when she looked at him. Something that she’d never felt before.
Then he ran a hand over the back of his neck and his gaze turned from searching to amused. ‘Not exactly the same size, are we?’
Her heart still pumping, she pushed the sleeves of his jumper up her arms in an attempt to find her hands. ‘They’re great. Perfect.’
They covered everything, which was what she wanted.
She wasn’t in the mood to offer explanations.
‘Turn the legs up or you’ll break your neck on my stairs,’ he advised, reaching for a dry towel from the pile and handing it to her. ‘Come on. There’s a fire in the living room. It’s really cosy. You can dry your hair in there.’
She rolled up the legs of the trousers and followed him, unable to resist the temptation to peep as she walked along the landing and down the stairs.
His house was huge, she thought wistfully. Huge and gorgeous. Polished wood floors, soft rugs and huge windows, it succeeded in being stylish and welcoming at the same time.
He intercepted her glance. ‘My sister’s an interior designer. She can’t resist the temptation to manage my living space. It’s called interfering.’
‘Lucky you.’ What wouldn’t she have given to have a sibling to interfere in her life?
Pushing away the thought, she followed him into the large living room. More huge windows overlooked the garden and the lawn sloped down to the shore of the lake. The mist had lifted, the snow had stopped and in the distance the fells rose, snowy and breathtakingly beautiful.
A crackling log fire formed the focus of the room and Miranda found herself wanting to sink down onto the thick, opulent rug and purr like a cat.
It was hard to believe that people actually lived like this, she mused as she looked at the exquisite painting above the fire. It all seemed a million miles from her real life.
Then her eyes rested on a photograph on the mantelpiece. There was no mistaking the man in the photo. The same wicked blue eyes, the same cropped dark hair and dangerous smile. And he was rolling in the snow with two laughing children.
She picked it up, the warmth draining from her body, her mouth so dry she could hardly form the words. ‘Are they yours? Are you married?’ She almost laughed at herself. Of course he was married! Why would a man like him be single?
‘They’re my nephews—my sister’s children. I’m not married.’ His eyes narrowed and his gaze was suddenly intent. ‘Do you think I’d have invited you back here if I was married with children? Do I look as though I’m married?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’ Hoping that he didn’t notice that her hand was shaking, she put the photograph carefully back on the table.
This was ridiculous.
She ought to leave, she thought to herself, suddenly unsettled by the feelings she was having.
But then she thought of the small, freezing bedroom with the bare walls and peeling paintwork that awaited her. She was in no hurry to go home.
If he wasn’t married, what harm could it do to stay? She wasn’t hurting anyone.
Just for the rest of the day, she promised herself, and then she’d go back to the harsh reality of her life.
She sank down onto the sofa. It was deep and squashy and comfortable and suddenly she just wanted to curl up and sleep. ‘This is a lovely room.’
‘Thanks. What can I get you to drink?’ He stood by the fire, fingers hooked into the pockets of his jeans as he watched her. ‘Wine? Champagne?’
‘Oh.’ She brushed her damp hair away from her face. ‘Something non-alcoholic, please. Juice? Tonic?’
‘It’s Christmas. Don’t you fancy anything stronger?’
‘No, thanks. I have to cycle home later. I don’t want to be drunk in charge of a heap of rust.’
He smiled and handed her a glass. ‘So where’s home, Miranda? And why were you avoiding Christmas Day?’
‘It’s just not my favourite time,’ she said evasively, and he gave a wry smile of understanding.
‘Too much of the media portrayal of happy families?’
‘Oh, no. That’s all nonsense.’
His blue eyes lingered on hers. ‘Is it?’
‘Of course.’ She curled her legs under her and grinned at him. ‘It’s an image created by advertisers would have you believe that the perfect family exists, but it doesn’t. At least, only on the surface. Underneath, it’s all very different.’
‘Different in what way?’
‘Things are never as they appear on the surface. All families have secrets.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘Take the fa
mily in that yoghurt advert on television.’
He smiled. ‘I know the one you mean. Healthy, happy and smiling. Two children and a dog. The sun is shining and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.’
‘That’s the one.’ She put her drink down on the small table next to the sofa, laughter in her eyes. ‘But do you want to know the truth? The father is probably having an affair with his wife’s best friend and the wife doesn’t know yet but wouldn’t care anyway because she has a secret life as a high-class escort whenever her husband is away on business. It actually suits her that he isn’t around much because she doesn’t particularly enjoy his company except when they’re eating yoghurt in front of a film crew.’
Amusement flickered in his gaze and he tilted his head to one side as he listened. ‘And the children?’
She nestled more deeply in the sofa, wondering why he was so easy to talk to. ‘The girl has been so damaged by the lack of attention from her parents that she’s now shoplifting regularly with her friends and has already started smoking and taking drugs behind the toilets at school, and the little boy is being badly bullied but hasn’t told anyone and no one has noticed because they don’t show enough interest in each other as individuals.’ She stopped and took a breath and he lifted a dark eyebrow in question. The amusement in his eyes had been replaced by speculation.
‘And the dog? Looked like a perfectly good-natured Labrador to me. No vices. Are you about to tell me that he’s bitten the neighbour and needs a doggy psychiatrist?’
She laughed. ‘They’ve received an official warning from the police because he regularly fouls the pavement and barks so loudly that he wakes the neighbours. So far he hasn’t actually bitten anyone but don’t think that just because he looks friendly he can’t have a bad side. Dogs and people have a way of surprising you.’
‘That’s right. They do.’ He studied her closely. ‘Sounds like the family from hell.’
Her smile faded. ‘A pretty normal family, actually. I’m just making the point that the picture presented by the media falls short of the real thing. Families are full of imperfections.’
‘Is that your experience?’
She realised suddenly that she’d said too much. Revealed more than she’d intended. ‘It’s the truth.’
He swirled the last of his drink around his glass. ‘I agree that families are complicated,’ he said slowly, ‘and I agree that it’s pretty hard to find the right person and make it all work in today’s fast-paced, driven, consumer-orientated environment. And I think happiness is probably something different for each person. The important thing is to find someone like-minded and then live your own definition of happiness together.’
She stared at him. ‘You really believe that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because it’s a romantic view of relationships.’
‘I disagree. I think it’s a realistic view.’
‘Believing that a family can be truly happy isn’t realistic.’
His gaze was searching. ‘Clearly you’ve never met anyone in a good relationship.’
‘Neither have you.’ She lifted her drink. ‘You can’t judge a family by watching from the outside. You have to be on the inside to know the truth. You probably have friends who you think are happy…’
A slight frown touched his brows and something flickered across his face. ‘I have friends who I know are happy,’ he said softly, and she shook her head.
‘How do you know? Are you there when the door closes and they’re left alone together? Do you know anything about the rows that they have in private?’
‘No, but I know a lot about the rows they have in public,’ he said dryly, reaching for the bottle and topping up his drink. ‘He’s Spanish and she’s Irish and to call their relationship volatile would probably be to risk accusations of understatement but, believe me, they’re happy. It might not work for everyone, but it works for them. And that’s what I mean when I say you have to find someone who wants what you want. One person’s happy marriage is another person’s living hell.’
Miranda felt the cold trickle down her spine. She knew everything there was to know about hell.
For a moment she sat in frozen silence and then felt the sofa dip as he sat down next to her.
‘Tell me about yourself. Tell me what you’re thinking about.’
She shook the shadows away from her mind. ‘Nothing.’ She’d already said far too much. She smiled at him and handed him her empty glass. ‘So—given that you’re such a romantic, why aren’t you married?’
He pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure that I’m particularly romantic. And I don’t have a wife because I happen to be picky about who I spend the rest of my life with.’ The gleam in his blue eyes made her heart skip and dance and she gave herself a sharp talking-to. It wasn’t so long ago she’d fallen for a charming smile and smooth patter. She wasn’t about to do it again in a hurry.
He put her empty glass down on the table. ‘If you ask me, the biggest problem with relationships is the reality gap.’
‘Reality gap?’
‘The gap between reality and expectations. People are basically flawed. If you expect families to be perfect then you’re doomed to disappointment.’
‘Maybe.’ She was suddenly very aware of him. ‘Do you realise that I haven’t even asked your name?’
He smiled. ‘It’s Jake. Jake Blackwell.’
She nodded. The name fitted the man, she decided, leaning her head back against the sofa. Strong. Masculine. ‘Well, Jake Blackwell, I haven’t thanked you properly for rescuing me today.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ His gaze lingered on her face. ‘It’s good to have company on Christmas Day. But promise me you won’t go out in the mountains again without the proper equipment and experienced company.’
She lifted her head. ‘I’ll do something about the equipment but the company is outside my control. I’ve only just moved to the area. I don’t know anyone.’
‘You know me.’ His quiet statement hovered in the air between them and there was something in his eyes that made her stomach flip.
She gave herself a mental shake and looked away, determined to ignore all the signals that her body was sending her. Mind over matter. Common sense over chemistry.
‘I’m sure you have better things to do than walk with a complete beginner who thinks that a whiteout is something you can achieve with a good washing powder.’
He laughed. ‘Not really. Any time you want to walk in the hills, I’ll be happy to act as escort.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was husky and she still didn’t dare meet his eyes. Neither did she think it worth telling him that, after today, she wouldn’t be seeing him again.
How could she?
It just wasn’t possible. Her life was already more complicated than she would ever have believed possible and so far she hadn’t begun to work out how she was going to unravel it all. And, anyway, he probably wasn’t interested in tomorrow either. Hadn’t he been honest about the fact that he just didn’t want to spend Christmas Day on his own?
‘You ought to eat something. I’ll go and raid the kitchen and then we can sprawl on the sofa and watch agonisingly awful Christmas television. We can spend the afternoon guessing what’s really happening behind the happy families.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
He brought out a selection of food and switched on the television but, in the end, they talked more than they watched and it was dark by the time Miranda glanced at her watch and realised how late it was.
She really ought to be going, she thought reluctantly, but somehow couldn’t find the enthusiasm or motivation necessary to move. And was that surprising? All that awaited her was a cold, cheerless bedroom in an equally cheerless flat. But at least it was cheap, which was the important thing. At the moment she just needed to save her money.
Jake had retreated to the kitchen in search of more food and she flicked idly through the channels, stopping at the picture of a sad-loo
king child. The narrator informed her in low, mournful tones that the little girl was just one of many children waiting for adoption who would be without parents this year.
Miranda felt tears prick her eyes and blinked furiously. What on earth was the matter with her? Then she gave a sigh. She knew exactly why she was feeling so emotional, but it didn’t make it any easier to cope with!
Strolling back into the room with a plate full of warm mince pies, Jake deposited them on the nearest table and sat down next to her on the sofa. ‘You look really sad. What’s the matter? Are you crying?’
Horrified at her uncharacteristic lack of control, she summoned up a smile, wishing he hadn’t chosen that precise moment to come back into the room. ‘Of course I’m not crying. Just a bit tired, I think.’ It was a partial truth. ‘Just ignore me. I need to go home and go to bed.’
‘Not until you’ve sampled these gorgeous mince pies. And if you think I’m going to let you go home when you’re upset, you don’t know me. It’s still early. There’s no hurry.’ His expression was concerned. ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s the matter. Is it the whole Christmas thing?’
‘No. I’m just being stupid.’ Despite her best efforts, her eyes filled again. She heard him give a soft curse and then she was pulled into his arms.
He was all hard muscle and masculine strength and for a long, indulgent moment she closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of leaning on someone. Just for a moment, she promised herself. What harm could it do?
Then he released her slightly and slipped his fingers under her chin, tilting her face to look at him. ‘You’re very beautiful, do you know that?’ His voice was low and husky and she felt her heart bang hard against her ribs as she stared into those, blue, blue eyes.
Pull away now, Miranda, a voice said inside her head, but she suddenly found that she couldn’t move.
His gaze lingered on hers, dropped to her mouth and then his head lowered.
And he kissed her. Gently at first, his mouth brushing over hers, his gaze holding her trapped. Then he coaxed her lips apart with the tip of his tongue and slid both hands into her hair, holding her head steady while he took the kiss several stages further.
